“Surround, boys, surround!” cried the Kentuckian, who understood bear-hunting as well as any of the party. “Quick, round and head him;” and, at the same time, the speaker urged his great horse into a gallop. Several others rode off on the opposite side, and in a few seconds we had surrounded the cane-brake.
“Is he in it?” cried one.
“Do you track ’im thur, Mark?” cried Ike to his comrade from the opposite side.
“No,” was the reply, “he hain’t gone out this away.”
“Nor hyur,” responded Ike.
“Nor here,” said the Kentuckian.
“Nor by here,” added the hunter-naturalist.
“Belike, then, he’s still in the timmor,” said Redwood. “Now look out all of yees. Keep your eyes skinned; I’ll hustle him out o’ thar.”
“Hold on, Mark, boy,” cried Ike, “hold on thur. Damn the varmint! hyur’s his track, paddled like a sheep pen. Wagh, his den’s hyur—let me rout ’im.”
“Very wal, then,” replied the other, “go ahead, old fellow—I’ll look to my side—thu’ll no bar pass me ’ithout getting a pill in his guts. Out wi’ ’im!” We all sat in our saddles silent and watchful. Ike had entered the cane, but not a rustle was heard. A snake could not have passed through it with less noise than did the old trapper.