“Yes, yes, gentlemen,” said Mr. Clitheroe in feeble echo, “I want my daughter.”
Brent ignored the Mormon. He turned to the father, and questioned eagerly.
“What is this, dear sir? Is Miss Ellen missing? She is not here. Speak, sir! Tell us at once how she was lost. We must be on her track instantly. Wade, shift the saddles to Fulano and Pumps, while I make up our packs. Speak, sir! Speak!”
Brent’s manner carried conviction, even to Sizzum.
“I did not like to suspect you, gentlemen,” said Mr. Clitheroe, “after our pleasant evening and your kindness; but Brother Sizzum said it could not be any one else.”
“Get the facts, Wade,” said Brent, “I cannot trust myself to ask.”
Sizzum smiled a base, triumphant smile over the agony of my friend.
“Tell us quick,” said I, taking Mr. Clitheroe firmly by the arm, and fixing his eye.
“In the night, an hour or more after you left us, I was waked up by two men creeping into the wagon. They whispered they would shoot, if I breathed. They passed behind the curtain. My daughter had sunk on the floor, tired out, poor child! without undressing. They threw a blanket over her head, and stifled her so that she could not utter a sound. They tied me and gagged me. Then they dragged her off. God forgive me, gentlemen, for suspecting you of such brutality! I lay in the wagon almost strangled to death until the teamster came to put to the oxen for our journey. That is all I know.”
“The two gamblers, murderers, have carried her off,” said I; “but we’ll save her yet, please God!”