This discovery led me into a train of reflection. What could he—an Indian—want on the other side? If Osceola, as I still believed, what could he be doing there? In the excited state of the country, it would have been risking his life for an Indian to have approached the settlement—and to have been discovered and captured would have been certain death. This Indian, then, whoever he was, must have some powerful-motive for seeking the other side. What motive? If Osceola, what motive?
I was puzzled—and reflected; I could think of no motive, unless that the young chief had been playing the spy—no dishonourable act on the part of an Indian.
The supposition was not improbable, but the contrary; and yet I could not bring myself to believe it true. A cloud had swept suddenly over my soul, a presentiment scarcely defined or definable was in my thoughts, a demon seemed to whisper in my ears: It is not that.
Certainly had the horseman been across the river? Let us see!
We rode rapidly along the trail, tracing it backwards.
In a few minutes it guided us to the bank, where the tracks led out from the water’s edge. No corresponding trail entered near. Yes, he had been across.
I plied the spur, and plunging in, swam for the opposite shore. My companion followed without asking any questions.
Once more out of the river, I rode up the bank. I soon discovered the hoof-marks of the black horse where he had sprung off into the stream.
Without pausing, I continued to trace them backwards, still followed by Gallagher and Jake.
The former wondered at my eagerness, and put some questions, which I scarcely answered coherently. My presentiment was each moment growing darker—my heart throbbed in my bosom with a strange indescribable pain.