The rangers, after a moment of speculation as to the designs of the
trappers, resumed their attitude of repose. Fatigued as they were, even
the cold could not keep them awake.
After a pause, the voice of Quackenboss could be heard, in proof that
that heavy sleeper was at length aroused; the rain falling upon his
half-bald skull had been more effective than the shouts and shaking of
Garey.
"Hillo? Where's my hat?" inquired he in a mystified tone, at the same
time stirring himself, and groping about among the rocks. "Where _is_
my hat? Boys, did any o' ye see anything o' a hat, did ye?" His shouts
again awoke the sleepers.
"What sort of a hat, Lige?" inquired one.
"A black hat--that Mexican sombrera."
"Oh! a black hat; no--I saw no black hat."
"You darned Dutchman! who do you expect could see a black hat such a
night as this, or a white one eyther? Go to sleep!"
"Come, boys, I don't want none o' your nonsense: I want my hat. Who's
tuk my hat?"
"Are you sure it was a black hat?"
"Bah! the wind has carried it away."
"Pe gar! Monsieur Quack'bosh--votre chapeau grand--you great beeg 'at--
est-il perdu?--is loss?--c'est vrai? Pardieu! les loups--ze wolfs have
it carr'd avay--have it mange--eat? c'est vrai?"
"None o' your gibberish, Frenchy. Have _you_ tuk my hat?"
"Moi! votre chapeau grand! No, Monsieur Quack'bosh--vraiment je ne l'ai
pas; pe gar, no!"
"Have _you_ got it, Stanfield?" asked the botanist, addressing himself
to a Kentucky backwoodsman of that name.
"Dang yar hat! What shed I do wi' yar hat? I've got my own hat, and
that's hat enough for me."
"Have _you_ my hat, Bill Black?"
"No," was the prompt reply; "I've got neery hat but my own, and that
ain't black, I reckon, 'cept on sich a night as this."
"I tell you what, Lige, old fellow! you lost your hat while you were a
ridin' the mustang just now: the hoss kicked it off o' your head."
A chorus of laughter followed this sally, in the midst of which
Quackenboss could be heard apostrophising both his hat and his comrades
in no very respectful terms, while he commenced scrambling over the
ground in vain search after the lost sombrero, amidst the jokes and
laughter uttered at his expense.
To this merriment of my followers I gave but little heed: my thoughts
were intent on other things. My eyes were fixed upon that bright spot
in the sky, that had been pointed out by Rube; and my heart gladdened,
as I perceived that it was every moment growing brighter and bigger.
The rain still fell thick and fast; but the edge of the cloud-curtain
was slowly rising above the eastern horizon, as though drawn up by some
invisible hand.
Should the movement continue, I felt confident that in a few minutes--as
Rube had predicted--the sky would be clear again, and the moon shining
brightly as ever. These were joyous anticipations.
At intervals I glanced towards the prairie, and listened to catch some
sound--either the voices of the trappers, or the tread of their
returning footsteps. No such sounds could be heard.
I was becoming impatient, when I perceived a sudden waif of light far
out upon the plain. It seemed to be again extinguished; but in the same
place, and the moment after, appeared a small, steady flame, twinkling
like a solitary star through the bluish mist of the rain. For a few
seconds it remained fixed, and then commenced moving--as if carried low
down along the surface of the ground.
There was nothing mysterious about this lone light. To Quackenboss only
it remained an unexplained apparition; and he might have mistaken it for
the _fata morgana_. The others had been awake when Rube and Garey took
their departure, and easily recognised the lighted candle in the hands
of the trappers.
For some time the light appeared to move backwards and forwards, turning
at short distances, as if borne in irregular circles, or in zig-zag
lines. We could perceive the sheen of water between us and the flame--
as though there was a pond, or perhaps a portion of the prairie, flooded
by the rain.
After a while the light became fixed, and a sharp exclamation was heard
across the plain, which all of us recognised as being in the voice of
the trapper Rube.
Again the light was in motion--now flitting along more rapidly, and as
if carried in a straight line over the prairie.
We followed it with eager eyes. We saw it was moving further and
further away; and my companions hazarded the conjecture that the
trappers had recovered the trail.
This was soon verified by one of themselves--Garey--whose huge form,
looming through the mist, was seen approaching the spot; and though the
expression of his face could not be noted in the darkness, his bearing
betokened that he brought cheerful tidings.
"Rube's struck the trail, capt'n," said he in a quiet voice as he came
up: "yonder he goes, whar you see the bleeze o' the cannel! He'll soon
be out o' sight, if we don't make haste, an follow."
Without another word, we seized the reins, sprang once more into our
saddles, and rode off after the twinkling star, that beaconed us across
the plain.
Rube was soon overtaken; and we perceived that despite the storm, he was
rapidly progressing along the trail, his candle sheltered from the rain
under the ample sombrero.
In answer to numerous queries, the old trapper vouchsafed only an
occasional "Wagh!" evidently proud of this new exhibition of his skill.
With Garey, the curious succeeded better; and as we continued on, the
latter explained to them how the trail had been recovered by his
comrade--for to Rube, it appeared, was the credit due.
Rube remembered the mesa spring. It was the water in its branch that we
had seen gleaming under the light. The thoughtful trapper conjectured,
and rightly as it proved, that the steed would stop there to drink. He
had passed along the stony shingle by the mound--simply because around
the cliff lay his nearest way to the water--and had followed a dry ridge
that led directly from the mesa to the spring-branch. Along this ridge,
going gently at the time, his hoof had left no marks--at least none that
could be distinguished by torch-light--and this was why the trail had
been for the moment lost. Rube, however, remembered that around the
spring there was a tract of soft boggy ground; and he anticipated that
in this the hoof-prints would leave a deep impression. To find them he
needed only a "kiver" for the candle, and the huge hat of Quackenboss
served the purpose well. An umbrella would scarcely have been better.
As the trappers had conjectured, they found the tracks in the muddy
margin of the spring-branch. The steed had drunk at the pool; but
immediately after had resumed his wild flight, going westward from the
mound.
Why had he gone off at a gallop? Had he been alarmed by aught? Or had
he taken fresh affright, at the strange rider upon his back?
I questioned Garey. I saw that he knew why. He needed pressing for the
answer.
He gave it at length, but with evident reluctance. These were his words
of explanation--
"Thar are wolf-tracks on the trail!"