“We’ll have to hunt up something,” replied Tom; “we’re out of ven’son, and thar don’t seem to be any fish handy.”
“Do yees go ahead, and make yerselves aisy,” instantly added Teddy. “I’ll make a sarcuit around the hill yonder, jist as I used to sarcle around Bridget O’Moghlogoh’s cabin, when I went a-coortin’, to decide whether to go down the chimney or through the pig-stye in the parlor. Do yees rest aisy, I say, and I’ll bring the sooper to yees.”
And with this merry good-by, he struck his wearied pony into a gallop, and speedily disappeared over the ridge to which reference has been already made, and the trappers passed on to the grove, where we must spend a few minutes with them, before following the fortunes of the Irishman, who speedily dove, head foremost, into the most singular and astounding adventure of his life.
The hunters listened some time for a return-shot or shout to the gun, but none was heard.
“It was Teddy’s bull-dog,” said old Stebbins. “I know the sound of that critter, for I’ve fired it often ’nough.”
“Wal, thar hain’t been any answer to it, as I guess it was p’inted at some animile instead of red-skin.”
This seemed to be the conclusion of both, as they gave no further thought to the absent member of their party.
It was a mild day in late summer, before the vegetation had given any indication of the approaching cold season. The hunters had ventured thus early into the trapping-grounds for two reasons: one was to mislead the Blackfeet, who would be looking for their coming a month or two later, and the other reason will become apparent hereafter.
“To-morrow we’ll strike the trapping-grounds,” said old Stebbins, in his careless manner, as he lazily whiffed his pipe.