“It must have been the Indian, surely, who made that yell,” said I.
“In course; though things are beginnin’ to look qua’rish to me.”
The same look of uneasiness again passed over the trapper’s face; and I saw that although he strove to hide it, he was by no means at rest. Matters were beginning to put on an unusual aspect, and that was the reason. Give the trapper of the northwest flesh and blood to contend against, let him know that nothing supernatural is arrayed against him, and he is the last man in the world to yield an inch. But the moment he sees something unexplainable to his simple mind, (and the trapper is a credulous being), his courage deserts him. He believes that other spirits than those of men visit this earth, and they are his greatest horror.
“Les’ go home; there’s Injins all around us,” pleaded Nat.
“How’d you know?”
“Because I seen one myself.”
Biddon looked inquiringly at me, and, deeming it best, I related the incident given in the preceding chapter. I saw at once his uneasiness was increased.
“Why didn’t you shoot the redskin?” he angrily asked of Nat.
“Why didn’t you shoot the redskin?” queried Nat, in turn.
“I did—hit him fair and square as I ever hit anything.”