“That we must discover somehow or another, sir,” replied Malachi, “or else we shall not find the trail again; perhaps, however, we shall see to-morrow morning; it is too dark now to attempt to find out, and we may do more harm than good by tracking down the bank. We must bring to for the night. There is a high rock there on the beach farther up; we had better go there, as we can light a fire behind the rock without being discovered by it, supposing the Injuns are on the opposite shore; and to-night we must cook all our provisions if we possibly can, for, depend upon it, we have travelled faster to-day than they can have done with the young lady, and if we can once get well on the trail again we shall soon be up with them.”
“God grant that we may!” exclaimed Captain Sinclair; “the idea of what poor Mary must suffer almost drives me mad.”
“Yes, sir, she will be terribly foot sore, I have no doubt,” replied Malachi; “but the Injuns will not treat her ill, depend upon it.”
Captain Sinclair sighed, but made no reply.
As soon as they had arrived at the mass of rock which Malachi had pointed out they all commenced collecting firewood, and the Strawberry in a few minutes had a sufficient fire for their purpose. They had not any cooking utensils with them, but the pork was cut in slices and stuck upon the ends of small sticks round the fire until it was sufficiently cooked, and then it was packed up again in parcels, with the exception of what was retained for their supper. They had finished their meal, and were sitting round the embers of the fire conversing and calculating the probabilities as to their overtaking the Indians, when Martin sprang up, with his rifle ready to bring to his shoulder.
“What is it?” said Alfred in a low tone, as Martin held up his finger as a sign for silence.
“There’s somebody coming this way—he is behind that large tree,” said Martin; “I see his head now, but it is too dark to make out who it may be.”
As Martin said this a low and singular sort of whistle between the teeth was heard, upon which the Strawberry gently put down Martin’s rifle with her hand, saying—
“It is John.”
“John; impossible!” said Alfred.