“But didn’t do any more good than I did.”
“I made the infarnal imp howl.”
“And I made mine grunt,” added Nat, triumphantly.
“There is no need of words,” I interposed. “Each of you did your best, Nat included. You, Bill, I believe, hit your man and mortally wounded him. That yell was of agony, though I can’t conceive how we came to mistake it for yours. The dead or dying body of that Indian, I believe, is near at hand. See! what does that mean?” I asked, as I detected some red fluid dripping from the limb of a bush to the earth. The trapper stepped forward and looked at it.
“That’s the blood of a Blackfoot, or I’m a skinned beaver!” he remarked, with a glow of relief at having those strange apprehensions of his removed.
“Yes, I’m convinced that’s Injin blood,” added Nat, rubbing it between the tip of his finger and thumb. “The blood of a Blackfoot Injin, too—a man’s about thirty-two years old. Probably a brother to the one I frightened.”
“What do you know about that?” I asked.
“Oh! it’s only a supposition of mine.”
“Biddon, I believe, as I just said, that we will find the body of that savage near at hand. Let us follow it.”
“Jes’ what I’s agoin’ to do,” he replied, starting off at once upon the trail.