"He had the diamonds on him. That half-breed may have murdered him, and then fled in a hurry. Things look like it," said Maurice aside to Peter.
"Yes, but then Horace's body would be here," the Scotchman returned. "I don't understand it."
"They can't have both died, either, or they'd both be here. So they must both have gone. But no trapper would have left these valuable pelts, any more than Horace would have left his notes."
"There's something mysterious here," said Fred, getting up resolutely, and wiping the tears from his eyes. "Horace has been here. Something's happened to him, and we've got to find out what it is."
"And we'll find out—if it takes all winter!" Macgregor assured him.
They searched the hut afresh, but found no clues. They now regretted having burned the heap of rubbish, which perhaps had contained something to throw light on the problem.
During the rest of that afternoon they searched and searched again throughout the cabin, and prowled about its neighborhood. They dug into the snowdrifts, poked into the brushwood, scouted into the forest in the faint hope of finding something that would cast light on Horace's fate. All they found was the trapper's birch canoe, laid up ashore, and buried in snow.
At dusk they got supper, and ate it in a rather gloomy silence.
"We've nothing to go on," said Macgregor. "I can't believe that Horace is dead, though, and we must stay on the spot till we know something more definite."
"Of course we must," Maurice agreed.