CHAPTER VII.
OUR CHRISTMAS TURKEYS.
In less than two hours after Mark reached home, three large canoes loaded with settlers swept down the bayou and landed at the bluffs above Dead Man’s Elbow.
The place was found to be deserted. There were plenty of footprints in the mud on the top of the cliff, and that was all that remained to tell of the thrilling incidents that had happened there but a short time before.
The skiff and the valise had disappeared, and the tree in which Luke Redman had taken refuge was empty. How he managed to escape from his perilous situation—whether he imitated Mark’s example, and swam over the falls, or the Swamp Dragoons succeeded in pulling him up the bluff—we had no means of judging. He was gone, and the next thing was to find him.
During the next few days the settlement was in great commotion. In company with the planters, our fellows explored the county from one end to the other, but without finding the slightest trace of Luke Redman and the Swamp Dragoons. They had disappeared as completely as though they had never existed at all.
At the end of a week, however, the excitement began to abate, and our attention was called to other matters. Christmas was near at hand, and that was a great day with us. From the time we were old enough to be trusted with horses and guns, we had made it a point to spend the day hunting in the woods, winding up our sports about four o’clock in the afternoon by eating a wild turkey which had been roasted over our camp-fire.
We had begun as early as the first of the month to make preparations for this all-important occasion, but our chances for securing the necessary game grew less promising as the day drew near. Wild turkeys were not only exceedingly scarce that year, but the few we saw during our rambles were so shy that it was next to an impossibility to shoot one; and as we were resolved that we would not miss our accustomed dinner, we were obliged to resort to something that every true sportsman holds in supreme contempt—namely, traps.
We built several among the beech ridges in the swamp, but scarcely had we completed them before we became aware that somebody was interfering with our arrangements. He visited the traps as regularly as we visited them ourselves, and took all the game out of them.
We knew as well as though we had seen him in the act that Tom Mason was the culprit, but for a long time our efforts to fasten the guilt upon him were unsuccessful. We came up with the gentleman at last, however, and took a little satisfaction out of him for the disappointment and vexation he had occasioned us, although before the day was over he paid me for it in a way I did not like.
On the morning of the day before Christmas, Mark burst into headquarters, where I was sitting in company with the rest of our fellows, his clothes all covered with mud that had been splashed over them by his horse’s feet, and his face red with anger. He had started out at daylight to visit the traps, and his looks showed plainly that he had met with no better success than usual.