He understood from what direction the deadly missile had come, although he could not tell how far away the Indian stood that had fired it. The Irishman was now enveloped in the gloom of the woods, and his self confidence returned. The experience which had been his with the veteran prairie-men had taught him to move over the ground with the stealth and silence of the Blackfoot himself, and were he so fortunate as to be approaching his treacherous foe, he was certain there was no danger of his betraying himself.
“I’m moving as silent as a fairy,” he reflected; “it’s a handy thrick fur a chap in my sitooation—bad luck to it!”
In the darkness his foot caught in a projecting root, and the consequence was, Teddy was thrown forward flat upon his face.
“Bad luck to it!” he repeated, as he hastily scrambled to his feet, “hilloa, there! hold on I say!”
He heard a hurried tramp, and in the gloom caught a flitting glance of an Indian speeding rapidly away from him.
“Howld on, ye dirty coward!” called out the irate Teddy, dashing after him, “howld on, I say, or I’ll bate ye, and I’ll bate yees if ye do.”
It is hardly worth while to say that the Irishman’s command was unheeded. The red-skin whisked away, like a flitting phantom, and almost instantly vanished. Teddy pursued him for a short distance, but he was not much of a runner, and his pursuit could not result in any thing but a complete failure.
He was not given time to aim and fire his gun. His “short and decisive campaign” against the Blackfeet was a defeat!
“Bad luck to that rut!” he muttered, as he made his way back to it; “it was all through that!”
He groped around until he discovered the scene of his mishap, when he revenged himself by tearing and ripping the mute offender to pieces.