“I think I would if I had been paddling as long as all that, but I think you’re a little ahead of the right number—say an hour or two.”
“But what about the Indians? What about Little Rifle? Have you seen nothing of her? Have we lost all trace of Maquesa and his men?”
And then the trapper proceeded to tell, in his characteristic manner, all that had happened since his young friend had closed his eyes in slumber.
As may be supposed, Harry listened with the most absorbing interest. It was aggravating to reflect that they had been thus nigh Little Rifle, without opening any communication, and with the only result of placing matters in a much more favorable light than before; but such was the irresistible fact.
All this time the man was busy at the paddle, occasionally pausing to tell whether he could catch any sound from those ahead, but failing as yet to do so.
“How easy it would be for them to land,” said Harry, in a cautious voice, “and allow us to pass them in the gloom, and so get entirely off the track.”
“They could do it, I allow,” replied the hunter, “but they won’t. Maquesa is aiming for t’other side the mountains, whar his village is, and he won’t stop ’g’in, for any time, till he gets thar, as he thinks he’s got a sure thing of it.”
Notwithstanding the confident tone of the trapper, it began to look as if the supposition made by the lad was correct; for as the night passed, not the slightest sound of paddles in front or rear could be heard. The rising of the moon made the course of the river visible for a greater distance, but the eye roamed along the stream and bank in vain.
All night long old Robsart continued at work with the paddle, passing from side to side, halting, listening and watching, and Harry assisted him to the best of his ability, but it resulted in naught.