Unpleasant as was the incident, it seemed to affect my companion far less than the words that preceded it. The allegorical allusions were but two well understood; and though they added but little to the knowledge already in his possession, that little produced a renewed acerbity of spirit. It affected me equally with my comrade—perhaps more. The figurative revelations of the Indian had put a still darker phase on the affair. The letter of Lilian spoke only of a far country, where gold was dug out of the sand.—California, of course. There was no allusion to the Salt Lake—not one word about a migration to the metropolis of the Mormons. Su-wa-nee’s speech, on the other hand, clearly alluded to this place as the goal of the squatter’s journey! How her information could have been obtained, or whence derived, was a mystery; and, though loth to regard it as oracular, I could not divest myself of a certain degree of conviction that her words were true. The mind, ever prone to give assent to information conveyed by hints and innuendos, too often magnifies this gipsy knowledge; and dwells not upon the means by which it may have been acquired. For this reason gave I weight to the warnings of the brown-skinned sibyl—though uttered only to taunt, and too late to be of service.
The incident altered our design—only so far as to urge us to its more rapid execution; and, without losing time, we turned our attention once more to the pursuit of the fugitives. The first point to be ascertained was the time of their departure.
“If it wan’t for the rain,” said the hunter, “I ked a told it by thar tracks. They must a made some hyar in the mud, while toatin’ thar things to the dug-out. The durned rain’s washed ’em out—every footmark o’ ’em.”
“But the horses? what of them? They could not have gone off in the canoe?”
“I war just thinkin’ o’ them. The one you seed with Stebbins must a been hired, I reck’n; an’ from Kipp’s stables. Belike enuf, the skunk tuk him back the same night, and then come agin ’ithout him; or Kipp might a sent a nigger to fetch him?”
“But Holt’s own horse—the old ‘critter,’ as you call him?”
“That diz need explainin’. He must a left him ahind. He culdn’t a tuk him in the dug-out; besides, he wan’t worth takin’ along. The old thing war clean wore out, an’ wuldn’t a sold for his weight in corn-shucks. Now, what ked they a done wi’ him?”
The speaker cast a glance around, as if seeking for an answer. “Heigh!” he exclaimed, pointing to some object, on which he had fixed his glance. “Yonder we’ll find him! See the buzzarts! The old hoss’s past prayin’ for, I’ll be boun’.”
It was as the hunter had conjectured. A little outside the enclosure, several vultures were seen upon the trees, perched upon the lowest branches, and evidently collected there by some object on the ground. On approaching the spot, the birds flew off with reluctance; and the old horse was seen lying among the weeds, under the shadow of a gigantic sycamore. He was quite dead, though still wearing his skin; and a broad red disc in the dust, opposite a gaping wound in the animal’s throat, showed that he had been slaughtered where he lay!
“He’s killed the crittur!” musingly remarked my companion as he pointed to the gash; “jest like what he’d do! He might a left the old thing to some o’ his neighbours, for all he war worth; but it wudn’t a been Hick Holt to a did it. He wan’t partickler friendly wi’ any o’ us, an’ least o’ all wi’ myself—tho’ I niver knew the adzact reezun o’t, ’ceptin’ that I beat him once shootin’, at a barbecue. He war mighty proud a’ his shootin’, an’ that riled him, I reck’n: he’s been ugly wi’ me iver since.”