There came no answer, and Wilson repeated the inquiry, in wondering alarm. Tobe Castor sprung forward with a cry, and stood beside the horse.
It was dark and gloomy there, in the forest depths, where the thickly-crested tree-tops effectually prevented the moon's rays from falling on the earth, and nothing could be seen. The sense of feeling must be depended upon, merely.
Castor reached out and touched the snorting horse. It trembled like a leaf. He called aloud on Annie's name, but she did not answer.
His hands fell upon the saddle. It was empty—Annie was gone!
The old scout uttered a low cry and staggered back. The blow was a fearful one, and he felt it as though the lost one had been his own child.
"My God! Castor, what is it?" gasped Wilson, alarmed at the tone of the hunter, and bending forward in the saddle as though he would pierce the dense obscurity with his distended eyeballs.
"The gal is gone!"
Mrs. Wilson uttered a low, gasping groan, and reeled in her seat. Tobe sprung forward and caught her sinking form lowering her gently to the ground. In a moment Wilson was beside her, half-distracted by the terrible events that pressed so closely upon them.
"Give her a sup o' this," gloomily said Castor, producing a small flask of whisky. "'Tain't no time fer faintin' now. We've got our hands full 'thout thet."
"What must we—what can we do?" cried the father, chokingly, as he strove to revive the fainting woman.