"There has been a fight," he said, as Uriah Risley came closer. "See how they struggled. There is blood on the tree and there is a bit of cloth torn from Henry's jacket—or rather, the jacket I left him." Dave gave a deep shudder. "I—I wonder if Henry is dead?"
"My wife, my poor, poor Caddy!" moaned Uriah Risley, and for a moment covered his face with his hands. "Oh, lad, this is monstrous, monstrous! Heaven help her if she is in the power of such savages!"
"Yes, heaven help them both," returned Dave.
Torch in hand, the youth followed a bloody trail through the forest until it ended abruptly by the side of one of the numerous streams in that vicinity. Here he came to a halt, and as Risley rejoined him both stared vacantly at each other.
"Well?" said the Englishman.
"They went up or down the stream," answered Dave. "But which way I can't say. But one thing is certain-neither of them was killed."
"How do you know that?"
"If they were we should have found their bodies. The Indians wouldn't bother to carry 'em off. They'd simply scalp 'em and let it go at that."
"Perhaps they threw the—the bodies into the water."
