“The rope must have come undone,” cried Dallas.
“Don’t look like it, my son. It’s left part of itself behind.”
“Broken—snapped?” cried Abel.
“Sawed through with a knife,” said one of the men.
“Injuns. Come in the night; lucky they didn’t use their knives to us,” growled the Cornishman fiercely, as he looked searchingly round.
“Look,” cried Dallas, excited; “these are not Indian traces;” and he pointed down at the sandy shore.
“Indian? No,” cried Abel, going down on his knees; “the marks of navigators’ boots, with nails;” and he looked wildly across and down the lake.
But the raft, their two days’ hard work, had gone.