Chapter Twenty Two.
The Trapper Trapped.
“Well, then,” began Redwood, “the thing I’m agoin’ to tell you about, happened to me when I war a younker, long afore I ever thought I was a coming out hyar upon the parairas. I wan’t quite growed at the time, though I was a good chunk for my age.
“It war up thar among the mountains in East Tennessee, whar this child war raised, upon the head waters of the Tennessee River.
“I war fond o’ huntin’ from the time that I war knee high to a duck, an’ I can jest remember killin’ a black bar afore I war twelve yeer old. As I growed up, the bar had become scacer in them parts, and it wan’t every day you could scare up such a varmint, but now and then one ud turn up.
“Well, one day as I war poking about the crik bottom (for the shanty whar my ole mother lived war not on the Tennessee, but on a crik that runs into it), I diskivered bar sign. There war tracks o’ the bar’s paws in this mud, an’ I follered them along the water edge for nearly a mile—then the trail turned into about as thickety a bottom as I ever seed anywhar. It would a baffled a cat to crawl through it.
“After the trail went out from the crik and towards the edge o’ this thicket, I lost all hopes of follerin’ it further, as the ground was hard, and covered with donicks, and I couldn’t make the tracks out no how. I had my idea that the bar had tuk the thicket, so I went round the edge of it to see if I could find whar he had entered.
“For a long time I couldn’t see a spot whar any critter as big as a bar could a-got in without makin’ some sort o’ a hole, and then I begun to think the bar had gone some other way, either across the crik or further down it.