"Dirty Bob fit well for it," he said, after glancing through the cabin. "Some of the red skunks war hurt, and no mistake. He al'ays had lots o' pluck."
He was unmistakably right. There were marks of blood on the hard soil of the floor. But, whether the soaked in and dead crimson had once run in his veins or those of his Indian enemies, remained to be seen. We almost at once struck their trail, which led through the forest, beyond the spot he had selected for his hunting-ground. This we followed, for something more than six miles. The track was by no means an easy one, rising and falling, broken up by rocks and intersected with the stumps of fallen trees. In short, it was one which none of the delicate nurslings of city civilization would have cared about following, even for the purpose of pulling trigger at their first live venison, and, of necessity, missing it.
Arnold and Painter were in advance.
The fatigue of the past two days and night had kept me somewhat in the rear of the party, with Butch' and "Fatty."
Painter uttered a savage oath.
We ran up to him. He and Arnold were standing close to the body of poor Bob. His knife, smeared with dried or frozen blood, was still clenched in the hands of the corpse, which was frightfully mutilated. It had also been scalped. Evidently, his death had been the result of a vigorous struggle to escape; for the snow on which he was lying was crushed in and trodden down in every direction; while a young tree had been torn from its roots by the force with which some one had fallen against it. Glancing at Ben Painter, I saw that his teeth were set tightly together, and his under lip, which his beard permitted me to see, was rigid and almost blue. I took him by the hand and squeezed it.
"I war thinking of my brother."
This was all he said, as we continued upon the trail.
From this point, it could very readily be followed. The marks of blood were visible enough all along it. One or more of the red-skins had been wounded. In about half a mile further, the road became easier and the trees were more scattered. Arnold, who was still in front with Painter, and Brighton Bill, had sighted what they supposed to be a dead Indian.
"Here's one of them," cried Arnold.