My reverie was broken. Some expressions that reached my ear told me that at least two of my followers had not yet yielded to weariness or despair. Two of them were in conversation; and I easily recognised the voices of the trappers.
Tireless, used to stern struggles—to constant warfare with the elements—with nature herself—these true men never thought of giving up, until the last effort of human ingenuity had failed. From their conversation, I gathered that they had not yet lost hope of finding the trail, but were meditating on some plan for recovering and following it.
With renewed eagerness I faced towards them and listened. Both talked in a low voice. Garey was speaking, as I turned to them.
“I guess you’re right, Rube. The hoss must a gone thar, an if so, we’re boun’ to fetch his tracks. Thar’s mud, if I remember right, all roun’ the pool. We can carry the cannel under Dutch’s sombrera.”
“Ye-es,” drawled Rube in reply; “an ef this niggur don’t miskalk’late, we ain’t a gwine to need eyther cannel or sombrairay. Lookee yander!”—the speaker pointed to a break in the clouds—“I’ll stake high, I kin mizyure this hyur shower wi’ the tail o’ a goat. Wagh! we’ll hev the moon agin, clur as iver in the inside o’ ten minnits—see ef we haint.”
“So much the better, old hoss; but hadn’t we best first try for the tracks; time’s precious, Rube—”
“In coorse it ur; git the cannel an the sombrairay, an le’s be off then. The rest o’ these fellurs hed better stay hyur, an snore it out; thu’ll only bamfoozle us.”
“Lige!” called out Garey, addressing himself to Quackenboss—“Lige! gi’ us yur hat a bit.”
A loud snore was the only reply. The ranger, seated with his back against the rock, and his head drooping over his breast, was sound asleep.
“Durned sleepy-head!” exclaimed Rube, in a tone of peevish impatience. “Prod ’im wi’ the point o’ yur bowie, Bill! Rib-roast ’im wi’ yur wipin’-stick! Lam ’im wi’ yur laryette!—gi’ ’im a kick i’ the guts!—roust ’im up, durn ’im!”