Taking counsel from my reason, I advised a different course of action; and my comrade—whose head for his age was a cool one—agreed to follow my advice. Indeed, he had far less motive for haste than I. Revenge would keep, and could be slept upon; while with emotions such as mine, a quiet heart was out of the question. She whom I loved was not only in danger of being lost to me for ever, but in danger of becoming the victim of a dastard coquin—diabolic as dastard! Suffering under the sting of such a fearful apprehension, it required me to exert all the self-restraining power of which I was possessed. Had I but known where to go, I should have rushed to horse, and ridden on upon the instant. Not knowing, I was fortunately possessed of sufficient prudence to restrain myself from the idle attempt.
That Holt and his daughter were gone, and in company with the Mormon, we knew: the letter told that. That they had left the cabin was equally known; but whether they were yet clear off from the neighbourhood, was still uncertain; and to ascertain this, was the first thing to be accomplished. If still within the boundaries of the settlement, or upon any of the roads leading from it, there would be a chance of overtaking them. But what after that? Ah! beyond that I did not trust myself to speculate. I dared not discuss the future. I refrained from casting even a glance into its horoscope—so dark did it appear. I had but little hope that they were anywhere within reach. That phrase of fatal prophecy, “You will be too late—too late!” still rang in my ears. It had a fuller meaning than might appear, from a hasty interpretation of it. Had not it also a figurative application? and did it not signify I should be too late in every sense?
At what time had they taken their departure? By what route? and upon what road? These were the points to be ascertained; and our only hope of obtaining a clue to them was by proceeding to the place of departure itself—the deserted dwelling. Thither we hied in all haste—prepared, if need be, for a more distant expedition. On entering the enclosure, we dismounted, and at once set about examining the “sign.” My companion passed to and fro, like a pointer in pursuit of a partridge. I had hoped we might trace them by the tracks; but this hope was abandoned, on perceiving that the rain had obliterated every index of this kind. Even the hoof-prints of my own horse—made but an hour before—were washed full of mud, and scarcely traceable.
Had they gone upon horseback? It was not probable: the house-utensils could hardly have been transported that way? Nor yet could they have removed them in a wagon? No road for wheels ran within miles of the clearing—that to Swampville, as already stated, being no more than a bridle-path; while the other “traces,” leading up and down the creek, were equally unavailable for the passage of a wheeled vehicle.
There was but one conclusion to which we could come; and indeed we arrived at it without much delay: they had gone off in a canoe. It was clear as words or eye-witnesses could have made it. Wingrove well knew the craft. It was known as Holt’s “dug-out;” and was occasionally used as a ferry-boat, to transport across the creek such stray travellers as passed that way. It was sufficiently large to carry several at once—large enough for the purpose of a removal. The mode of their departure was the worst feature in the case; for, although we had been already suspecting it, we had still some doubts. Had they gone off in any other way, there would have been a possibility of tracking them. But a congé in a canoe was a very different affair: man’s presence leaves no token upon the water: like a bubble or a drop of rain, his traces vanish from the surface, or sink into the depths of the subtle element—an emblem of his own vain nothingness!