“The attack was made in the night. I had been unable to sleep, and I got up and went for a walk in the woods, hoping to become fatigued and drowsy. I was absent for an hour and a half, as well as I can estimate. When I returned to the camp, what was my dismay when I saw that my friends had been surprised, their goods confiscated, and a scene of violence enacted.”
“Were all killed?”
“I don’t know, but on the ground, by the dismantled tent, I saw a human arm which had been lopped from the shoulder.”
“Do you know whose it was?” asked Tom.
“Yes, it was the arm of a young man about your age, who doubtless had excited the anger of the Indians by resistance.”
Mr. Silverthorn put his red handkerchief to his eyes and sobbed, or appeared to do so, convulsively.
“Excuse these tears,” he said. “They are a tribute to my murdered friends.”
“Did you follow the Indians? Did you try to find out where they had carried your companions?”
“No. It would have been no good. I was single-handed.”
“I would have done it!” said Tom resolutely.