now that I thought about it, why not?  It was no accident, and I wondered that the possibility had never occurred to me before.  The gambler naturally knew all the gossip of the river, and, beyond question, he would be aware of the reported existence of this underground station for runaway slaves.  It was common talk as far down as St. Louis, and his mind would instantly revert to the possibility that the fleeing Rene might seek escape through the assistance of Shrunk.  The mysterious vanishing of the boat would serve to increase that suspicion.  Even if this had not occurred to him at first, the steamer would have brought news that no keel-boat had been seen on the lower river, while the captain of the John B. Glover, or someone else on board, would have been sure to have mentioned the negro-helper and suggest that he might have had a hand in the affair.  To follow that trail was, indeed, the most natural thing for Kirby to do.

And he had promptly accepted the chance; blindly, no doubt, and yet guided by good fortune.  He had not overtaken Rene, because she was not yet there, but he had unexpectedly come upon the other fugitives, and, even though the encounter had cost the life of his henchman, Carver, it also resulted in the death of two men who had come between him and his prey—­the negro, and the abolitionist.  The scene cleared in my brain and became vivid and real.  I could almost picture in detail each act of the grim tragedy.  The two revengeful trackers—­if there were only two engaged, for others might have been recruited on the steamer—­must have crept up to the hut in the night, or early morning.  Possibly Kirby had learned of some other means of approach from the direction of the big river.  Anyway, the fact that Shrunk had been trapped within the cabin would indicate the final attack was a surprise.  The negro might have been asleep outside, and met his death in an attempt at escape, but the old white man, finding flight impossible, had fought desperately to the last and had killed one antagonist before receiving his death blow.  This was all plain enough, but what had become of Kirby, of the two women—­Eloise, and the quadroon mother?

I searched the cabin without uncovering the slightest trace of their presence, or finding a single article which could be associated with them.  Kirby himself must have fled the scene of the tragedy immediately—­without even pausing long enough to turn his companion over to ascertain the nature of his wound.  Had something occurred to frighten him?  Had the fellow fled alone back to a waiting boat at the shore, perchance seriously injured himself in the melee, or had he secured the two women, and, reckless as to all else, driven them along with him to some place of concealment until they could be transported down the river?  Nothing could answer these questions; no discovery enabled me to lift the veil.  Uncertain what to do, or how to act, I could only return to the waiting girl and the negro to tell them what I had found.