I listened. I heard distinctly the sound of running water, as of a small stream carried down a rough rocky channel.
“Yes—I hear it, but how should the water guide you?”
“Wal,” continued the trapper, “it ur a branch made by the rain: we’re a follerin it down; an’ thurfor must kum to the river jest whur we want to git. Oncest thur, we’ll soon find our way, I reck’n. Wagh! how the durned rain kums down! It ’ud drown a muss-rat. Wagh!”
The result proved the trapper’s reasoning correct. The road-water was running in the direction we had taken; and shortly after, the brawling branch shot out from among the bushes, and crossed our path, diverging from it at an acute angle. We could see, however, as we plunged through the now swollen streamlet, that the current, in its general direction, was the same with our road: it would certainly guide us to the river.
It did so. Half a mile farther on we came out upon its banks, and struck the main road leading to the rancheria.
A few minutes’ brisk travelling carried us to the outskirts of the village, and we expected soon to be under shelter, when we were all three brought to a sudden halt by the sharp hail of the sentry, who called out the usual interrogatory—
“Who goes there?”
“Friends!” I replied; “’tis you, Quackenboss?”
I had recognised the voice of the soldier-botanist, and under the lightning saw him standing by the trunk of a tree.
“Halt! Give the countersign!” was the response in a firm, determined tone.