“I forgot that. I wonder if I couldn’t load it, say?” he indignantly demanded.
“Yes, in course, if the reds waited fur yer.”
Nat made no reply to this, except that of instantly proceeding to load his piece. As it was near noon, the meal was prepared—this time from the beaver’s body. The hair was singed off from a piece, which was then cooked in the usual manner. This, although very palatable, was not equal to the tail of the animal, the meat being more tough and oily.
Shortly after, the trapper departed for the purpose of visiting his traps, and setting new ones. When alone with Nat, I determined to impart to him my morning’s experience.
“Nat, I have seen Indians,” I remarked, in a quiet tone.
“You hain’t!” he exclaimed, starting up from his bed of skins with such suddenness as to break the remains of his pipe.
“I have; and, what is considerably more, they have seen me.”
“I should think it was considerably more, umph! What did you do to them? I didn’t hear you shoot. Why didn’t you tell me before? Why didn’t you—why, it seems to me you’re very cool about it.”
“There is no occasion for excitement at all. Just remain quiet, and I will tell you how it all happened.”
And thereupon I related the particulars of the incident already known to the reader. Nat’s wonder, excitement, and apprehension were roused to the highest pitch at the narration. Springing to his feet, he pulled his flattened hat violently over his forehead, and striding about a moment, demanded: