“Where?” Farley demanded sharply.
Ere the redman could make reply, the hound saw them and bounded toward them. Dropping upon the ground at their feet, he tragically rolled his blood-rimmed eyes and whined beseechingly. His coat was soiled and roughened, and his muzzle was smeared with blood.
“He’s been in the scrimmage, as sure’s you live!” was Joe’s muttered comment. “You can see that, Injin. Look at his nose—all stained with blood. He’s give some ’tarnal Shawnee ’r other red devil his final sickness—he has, by Caroline! But if he’s here, his master must be here. I never knowed ’em to be far apart, if they could help it. Le’s look ag’in.”
They renewed their search, the dog following them, panting and whining. But they did not find their friend. Joe made numerous inquiries. All the answer he received from anyone was a sad shake of the head. Discouraged at last, he murmured sadly:
“’Tain’t no use, Injin. Ross Douglas is among the missin’. An’ in this case, that means he’s dead; ’cause the whole thing’s been a reg’lar butcher’s job. I wish the dang Winnebagoes had killed me when they had the notion—I do, by Kizzier! I’m sorry I ever lived to see this day. Jest found him to lose him ag’in—an’ ferever. We made an awful mistake, Injin; we ort to ’ave stayed with him, ’stid o’ comin’ back here with Cap’n Oliver.”
Bright Wing nodded sadly.
“Duke, you’re a pow’rful smart animal, in more ways ’n one. I wish to glory I could make you understand what I want to know. Wher’s y’r master, purp? Wher’s Ross Douglas?”
The hound lifted his nose and howled dolefully.
“Jest as I thought—jest as I ’xpected!” Farley said chokingly. “He’s dead. That’s what you mean, ain’t it, purp?”
Duke, as if in reply to the question, started toward the gate he had entered, casting backward glances over his shoulder as he went.