"'Taint like ther red skinned devils ter kill er handsum' young gal."
"Then do you not think we have good prospect of finding her, and will not the Indians be glad to take a big ransom for her?"
"Thar's some prospects, I reckin', en' ef we find 'er we'll git 'er," was the scout's answer, as he got up and marched off, his skin cap still pulled down over his eyes.
Once during the next two weeks, I had Givens' step-son pointed out to me; his youth, his shyness, and the scout's special watchfulness over him, seemed to have excited a good deal of interest. I, too, felt some curiosity. Givens had said nothing to me of a foster son the day I had visited him, though it is true our conversation was confined to the one topic, and there was no occasion to mention any other. Perhaps he was not then with Givens, or the form I took to be a woman's in the adjoining room was his, the swish of a woman's skirts being added by my imagination. Well, it was no concern of mine, either way, and I had enough to do and to think about.
Thomas Mitchell, who had improved greatly in health and spirits, under the influence of an outdoor, active life, and manly duties, came to me about a week after our arrival at Corn Island, and with an air of mystery led me off down the river some little distance from the camp.
"Do you know, Donald," he said almost in a whisper, "I am convinced the scout, Givens, knows something about Ellen?"
"And why do you think so?"
"I was telling him the story of her disappearance, and our vain search for her, to-day, in the hope of getting him interested, and he seemed already to know everything."
"Well," I laughed, "that is not strange. I also told him a week ago, and for the same reason."
"Oh, did you! Still that does not fully account for his manner, Donald, nor his unwillingness to continue the subject. He's got some clew, I'm sure."