THE TRAIL OF DEATH.
These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence;
Therefore, I pray you, stay not to discourse,
But mount you presently.--SHAKESPEARE.
The trapper, after separating from the Irishman, pursued his way
through the woods with a slow tread, as if he were deliberating some
matter with himself. Occasionally he muttered and shook his head, in a
manner that showed his conscience was getting the better of the
debate, whatever it might be. Finally he paused.
"Yas, sir; it's a mean piece of business in me. 'Cause I want to cotch
a few beavers I must let this gal be, when she has been lost to her
husband already for three months. It's ongenerous, and _can't be
done_!" he exclaimed, emphatically. "What if I does lose a few
peltries when they're bringing such a good price down in St. Louey?
Can't I afford to do it, when there's a gal in the matter?"
He resumed his walk as slowly and thoughtfully as before, muttering to
himself.
"If I go, I goes alone; least I don't go with that Teddy, for he'd be
sartin to lose my ha'r as sure as we got onto a trail. There's no
calc'latin' the blunders of _such_ a man. How he has saved his own
scalp to this time is more nor I can tell, or himself neither, for
that matter, I guess. I've been on many a trail-hunt alone, and if I
goes--if I goes, why, _in course_ I does!" he added, impetuously.
The resolution once taken seemed to afford him unusual pleasure, as it
does with us all when the voice of conscience is a monitor that is
heeded. He was tramping toward the west, and now that the matter was
decided in his own mind, he paused again, as if he could better debate
other matters that must in the circumstances necessarily present
themselves.
"In the first place, there's no use of going any further on _this_
track, for I ain't gettin' any nigher the gal, that's pretty sartin.
From what that Teddy told me of his travels, it can't be that she's
anywhere in these parts, for if she war, he couldn't have helped
l'arning something of her in all this time. There's a tribe up north
that I've heard was great on gettin' hold of white gals, and I think
I'll make a s'arch in that direction afore I does anything else."
Nothing more remained for Tim but to carry out the resolution he had
made, and it was characteristic of the man that he did it at once.
Five minutes after the above words had been muttered, he was walking
rapidly along in a northern direction, his rifle thrown over his arm,
and a beaming expression of countenance that showed there were no
regrets at the part he was acting. He had a habit of talking with
himself, especially when some weighty or unusual matter obtruded
itself. It is scarcely to be wondered, therefore, that he became quite
talkative at the present time.
"I allers admire such adventur's as this, if they don't bring in
anything more nor thanks. The style in which I've received them is
allers worth more money nor I ever made trapping beavers. The time I
cotched that little gal down on the Osage, that had been lost all
summer, I thought her mother would eat me up afore she'd let me go. I
believe I grinned all day and all night for a week after that, it made
me think I was such a nice feller. Maybe it'll be the same way with
this. Hello!"
The trapper paused abruptly, for on the ground before him he saw the
unmistakable imprint of a moccasin. A single glance of his experienced
eye assured him upon that point.
"That there are Injins in these parts is a settled p'int with me, and
that red and white blood don't agree is another p'int that is settled.
That track wasn't made there more nor two hours ago, and it's pretty
sartin the one that made it ain't fur away at this time. It happens it
leads to the north'ard, and it'll be a little divarsion to foller it,
minding at the same time that there's an Injin in it."
For the present the trapper was on a trail, and he kept it with the
skill and certainty of a hound. Over the dry leaves, the pebbly earth,
the fresh grass, the swampy hollow--everywhere, he followed it with
unerring skill.
"That Injin has been on a hunt," he muttered, "and is going back home
agin. If it keeps in this direction much longer, I'll believe he's
from the very village I'm hunting after. Heigh! there's something else
up!"
He suddenly checked himself and began snuffing the air, as though it
was tainted with something suspicious.
"I hope I may be shot if there ain't a camp-fire within two hundred
yards of where I am standing."
He looked sharply around in every direction, but saw nothing of the
camp, although positive that his olfactories could not have deceived
him.
"Whether it belongs to white or red can't be said, _sartin_; but it's
a great deal most likely that it's red, and it's just about as sartin
that that Injin ahead of me has gone pretty close to the camp, so I'll
keep on follering him."
A short distance further he became assured that he was in close
proximity to the fire, and he began to use extreme caution in his
movements. He knew very well how slight an inadvertence would betray
his approach, and a betrayal was almost fatal. Advancing some distance
further, he suddenly came in full view of the camp-fire. He saw three
Indians seated around it, smoking, and appearing as if they had just
finished their morning meal. It seemed, also, as if they were
discussing some matter that deeply interested all. The mumbling of
their voices could be heard, and one of them gesticulated quite
freely, as though he were excited over the conference. There was not
even the most remote possibility that what they were saying was of the
least concern to the trapper; and so, after watching them a few
moments, he moved cautiously by.
It was rarely that Tim ever had a mishap at such perilous times as
these, but to his dismay something caught his foot so dextrously, that
in spite of himself he was thrown flat upon his face. There was a dull
thump, not very loud, it is true, but he feared it had reached the
ears of the savages. He lay motionless, listening for a while, but
hearing nothing of their voices or footsteps, he judged that either
they had no suspicion of the true cause, or else had not heard him at
all. He therefore rose to his feet and moved on, occasionally glancing
back, to be sure he was not pursued.
The trapper proceeded in this manner until noon. Had the case been
urgent, he would not have paused until nightfall, as his indurated
muscles demanded no rest; he could go a couple of days without
nourishment, and experience little inconvenience. But there was no
call for haste. He therefore paused at noon, on the banks of a small
stream, in quest of some water-fowl.
Tim gazed up and down-stream, but saw nothing that would serve as a
dinner. He could have enticed a fish or two from their element, but he
had set his heart upon partaking of a bird, and was not willing to
accept anything else. Accordingly, he began walking down the bank of
the creek in search of one.
In such a country as was Minnesota forty years ago, the difficult
matter would have been to _avoid_ game rather than to find it. The
trapper had searched but a short distance, when he caught sight of a
single ptarmigan under the opposite bank. In a twinkling Tim's rifle
was raised, and, as it flashed forth its deadly messenger, the bird
made a single struggle, and then floated, a dead object, down the
current.
Although rather anxious for his prize, the trapper, like many a hunter
since that day, was not willing to receive a wet skin so long as it
was possible to avoid it. The creek could be only of inconsiderable
depth, yet, on such a blustering day, he felt a distaste toward
exposing himself to its chilling clasp. Some distance below he noticed
the creek narrowed and made a curve. At this point he hoped to draw it
in shore with a stick, and he lost no time in hurrying to the point.
Arrived there, the trapper stood on the very margin of the water,
with a long stick in hand, waiting for the opportune moment. He
naturally kept his eye upon the floating bird, as any animal watches
the prey that he is confident is coming directly into his clutches.
From the opposite bank projected a large, overhanging bush, and such
was the bird's position in the water, that it was compelled to float
within a foot, at least, of this. Tim's eyes happened to be fixed
intently upon it at this moment, and, at the very instant it was at
the point named, he saw a person's hand flash out, seize the ptarmigan
by the neck, and bring it in to shore in a twinkling.
Indignation upon the part of the trapper was perhaps as great as his
surprise. He raised his rifle, and had it already sighted at the point
where he was confident the body of the thief must be concealed, when a
second thought caused him to lower his piece, and hurry up-stream, to
a spot directly opposite where the bird had disappeared.
Here he searched the shore narrowly, but could detect no sign of the
presence of any person. That there was, or had at least been, one
there, needed no further confirmation. The trapper was in no mood to
put up with the loss of his dinner, and he considered it rather a
point of honor that he should bring the offending savage to justice.
That it was an Indian he did not doubt, but he never once suspected,
what was true, that it was the identical one he had been following,
and who had passed his camp-fire.
In a few moments he found a shallow portion of the creek across which
he immediately waded and made his way down the bank, to where the
Indian had first manifested his presence. Here the keen eye of Tim at
once detected moccasin prints, and he saw that the savage had departed
with his prize.
There was no difficulty in following the trail, and the trapper did
so, with his long, loping, rapid walk. It happened to lead straight to
the northward, so that he felt it was no loss of time for him to do
so.
It was morally certain the savage could be at no great distance; hence
the pursuer was cautious in his advance. The American Indian would
rather seek than avoid an encounter, and he was no foe to be despised
in a hand-to-hand contest. The trapper was in that mood that he would
not have hesitated to encounter two of them in deadly combat for the
possession of the bird which was properly his own, and which he was
not willing to yield until compelled to do so by physical force.
About a hundred rods brought the trapper to a second creek of larger
size than the first. The trail led directly into this, so he followed
without hesitation. Before doing so, he took the precaution to sling
his rifle to his back, so that his arms should be disencumbered in any
sudden emergency.
The creek proved to be of considerable depth, but not sufficient to
cause him to swim. Near the center, when it was up to his armpits, and
he was feeling every foot of the way as he advanced, he chanced by
accident to raise his head. As he did so, he caught a movement among
the undergrowth, and more from habit than anything else, dodged his
head.
The involuntary movement allowed the bullet that was discharged at
that moment to pass harmlessly over his crown and bury itself in the
bank beyond. The next instant the trapper dashed through the water,
reaching the shore before the savage could reload. To his
disappointment and chagrin, the Indian was gone.
Tim, however, was not to be baffled in this manner, and dashed on as
impetuously as before. He was so close that he could hear the
fugitive as he fled, but the nature of the ground prevented rapid
progress upon the part of either, and it was impossible to tell for a
time who it was that was gaining.
"There's got to be an end to this race _some time_," muttered Tim, "or
I'll chase you up the north pole. You've stole my dinner, and tried to
steal my topknot, and now you shall have it or I shall have yours."
For some time this race (which in many respects resembled that of
Teddy and the strange hunter) continued, until the trapper found it
was himself that was really losing ground, and he sullenly came down
to a walk again. Still, he held to the trail with the unremitting
perseverance of the bloodhound, confident that, sooner or later, he
must come up with the fugitive.
All at once, something upon the ground caught his eye. It was the
ptarmigan, and he sprung exultingly forward and picked it up. It was
unharmed by the Indian, and he looked upon it as a tacit surrender, on
the part of his adversary, of the matter of dispute between them.
At first Tim was disposed to keep up the pursuit; but, on second
thought, he concluded to partake of his dinner, and then continue
his search for his human game. In order to enjoy his dinner it was
necessary to have it cooked, and he busied himself for a few moments
in collecting a few dried sticks, and plucking the feathers from the
fowl and dressing it.
While thus occupied, he did not forget to keep his eyes about him, and
to be prepared for the Indian in case he chose to come back. He
discovered nothing suspicious, however, and came to believe there was
no danger at all.
At length, when the afternoon was well advanced, the trapper's dinner
was prepared. He took the fowl from the blaze, and cutting a piece
with his hunting-knife, was in the very act of placing it in his
mouth, when the sharp crack of a rifle broke the stillness, and he
fell backward, pierced through the body by the bullet of the Indian
whom he had been pursuing.
"It's all up!" muttered the dying man. "I am wiped out at last, and
must go under!"
[Illustration: "It's all up!" muttered the dying man. "I am wiped out
at last, and must go under!"]
The Lost Trail had been the means of Tim, the trapper, discovering
what proved to him _the trail of death!_