“I, too, have been unsuccessful; but I am impressed with the belief that my dear child is somewhere in this wood.”
“Very likely, sir. It would be nat’ral for an Indian to make for the woods; that is, if he’s got her.”
“I am afraid there is no doubt of that,” sighed Mr. Taylor. “Do you think he would hurt her, Abner?” he asked, anxiously.
“No, I reckon not. He’d keep her to get money out of you.”
“I would rather give half my fortune than lose my darling.”
“It won’t be necessary to go as high as that, Mr. Taylor. Most likely he’s got her in here somewhere.{191} If we go together, we’ll be too much for the red rascal.”
“Come on, then, and may God speed us.”
So they entered the wood, and plunged deeper and deeper into its gloom. By and by Abner’s attention was drawn to a white fragment of paper, half concealed in the grass. Elsewhere it would not have been noticed, but in the woods it must evidently have been dropped by some one.
He picked it up, and glanced at it.
“Hurrah!” he shouted. “It’s the boy’s hand-writing.”