It had been long—alas! too long—a branch of his peculiar calling; and the footpad’s experience now enabled him to perceive, that such was the occupation in which Oriole was engaged.
He saw the footprints which the Indian was following up,—not now as before in a backward direction; but in that by which they who had made them must have gone.
All at once a new light flashed into the brain of the retired robber. He no longer suspected the Indian of being a spy; but, on the contrary, perceived that he was in the act of tracking some individual, or individuals, more amenable to this suspicion. He remembered certain circumstances that had transpired during the night: odd expressions and actions that had signalised the behaviour of his fellow-helper, Walford. He had remarked the absence of the latter at a particular time; and also on the occasion of Walford’s taking two horses from the stable—the first led out—that he had used some arguments, to dissuade both Dancey and himself from giving him assistance.
Garth supposed at the time, that Walford had been actuated simply by a desire to secure the perquisites; but now, that he looked upon the tracks—which Oriole was in the act of scrutinising—a new thought rushed into his mind: a suspicion that, during that eventful night, treason had been stalking around the dwelling of Stone Dean.
Excited by this thought, the ex-footpad threw himself alongside the Indian, and endeavoured by signs to convey the intelligence he had obtained by conjecture—as well as to possess himself of that which the redskin might have arrived at, by some more trustworthy process of reasoning.
Unfortunately Gregory Garth was but a poor pantomimist. His grimaces and gestures were rather ludicrous, than explanatory of his thoughts; so much so, that the Indian, after vainly endeavouring to comprehend them, answered with an ambiguous shake of the head. Then, gliding silently past, he ascended the steps, and hurried on towards the apartment—in which he proposed to hold more intelligible communion with his master.
Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.
On the departure of his fellow conspirators—patriots we should rather call them—Holtspur, as we have already said, had passed the remainder of the night engaged at his writing table.