It was easily followed, for the murderers had been mounted, and their horses’ tracks betrayed them.
They had gone some distance up the river before crossing, and then swam their horses over to the Indian side. Without hesitation, we did the same.
The place I remembered well. I had crossed there before—two months before—while tracking the steed of Osceola. It was the path that had been taken by the young chief. The coincidence produced upon me a certain impression; and not without pain did I observe it.
It led to reflection. There was time, as the trail was in places less conspicuous, and the finding it delayed our advance. It led to inquiry.
Had any one seen the savages?—or noted to what band they belonged? Who was their leader?
Yes. All these questions were answered in the affirmative. Two men, lying concealed by the road, had seen the Indians passing away—had seen their captives, too; my sister—Viola—with other girls of the plantation. These were on horseback, each clasped in the arms of a savage. The blacks travelled afoot. They were not bound. They appeared to go willingly. The Indians were “Redsticks”—led by Osceola.
Such was the belief of those around me, founded upon the report of the men who had lain in ambush.
It is difficult to describe the impression produced upon me. It was painful in the extreme. I endeavoured not to believe the report. I resolved not to give it credence, until I should have further confirmation of its truthfulness.
Osceola! O heavens! Surely he would not have done this deed? It could not have been he?
The men might have been mistaken. It was before daylight the savages had been seen. The darkness might have deceived them. Every feat performed by the Indians—every foray made—was put down to the credit of Osceola. Osceola was everywhere. Surely he had not been there?