Chapter Sixty One.
The Trail Recovered.
The rangers, after a moment of speculation as to the designs of the trappers, resumed their attitude of repose. Fatigued as they were, even the cold could not keep them awake.
After a pause, the voice of Quackenboss could be heard, in proof that that heavy sleeper was at length aroused; the rain falling upon his half-bald skull had been more effective than the shouts and shaking of Garey.
“Hillo? Where’s my hat?” inquired he in a mystified tone, at the same time stirring himself, and groping about among the rocks. “Where is my hat? Boys, did any o’ ye see anything o’ a hat, did ye?” His shouts again awoke the sleepers.
“What sort of a hat, Lige?” inquired one.
“A black hat—that Mexican sombrera.”
“Oh! a black hat; no—I saw no black hat.”
“You darned Dutchman! who do you expect could see a black hat such a night as this, or a white one eyther? Go to sleep!”
“Come, boys, I don’t want none o’ your nonsense: I want my hat. Who’s tuk my hat?”