“In what direction?”
“Up-river. See ’im gallop off wi’ Bill Williams an’ Ned Spence—desprit keen upon somethin’ they ’peered.”
A painful suspicion flashed across my mind.
“Hickman,” I asked, “will you lend me your horse for an hour?”
“My old critter? Sartin sure will I: a day, if you wants him. But, Geordy, boy, you can’t ride wi’ your arm that way?”
“O yes; only help me into the saddle.”
The old hunter did as desired; and after exchanging another word or two, I rode off in the up-river direction.
Up the river was a ferry; and at its landing it was most likely the young Indian had left his canoe. In that direction, therefore, he should go to get back to his home, and in that direction Ringgold should not go to return to his, for the path to the Ringgold plantation led in a course altogether opposite. Hence the suspicion that occurred to me on hearing that the latter had gone up the river. At such a time it did not look well, and in such company, still worse; for I recognised in the names that Hickman had mentioned, two of the most worthless boys in the settlement. I knew them to be associates, or rather creatures, of Ringgold.
My suspicion was that they had gone after the Indian, and of course with an ill intent. It was hardly a conjecture; I was almost sure of it; and as I advanced along the river road, I became confirmed in the belief. I saw the tracks of their horses along the path that led to the ferry, and now and again I could make out the print of the Indian moccasin where it left its wet mark in the dust. I knew that his dress had not yet dried upon him, and the moccasins would still be saturated with water.
I put the old horse to his speed. As I approached the landing, I could see no one, for there were trees all around it; but the conflict of angry voices proved that I had conjectured aright.