“By Gosh, you’re right, Rube!—it’s uncommon like. But whar do you think this trail’s goin? Surely the hoss hain’t been caught in the fire?”
I bent forward in the saddle, and listened with acute eagerness. To my great relief, the answer of the old trapper was in the negative.
“He hain’t,” said he; “ne’er a bit o’ it. His trail, do ee see, runs in a bee-line, or clost on a bee-line: now, ef the fire hed ’a begun afore he wur acrosst this paraira, he wud long since ’a doubled ’bout, an tuk the back track; but ’ee see he hain’t did so; thurfor, I conclude he’s safe through it, an the grass must ’a been sot afire ahint ’im.”
I breathed freely after listening to these words. A load seemed lifted from my breast—for up to this moment I had been vainly endeavouring to combat the fearful apprehension that had shaped itself in my imagination. From the moment that we had entered the burning prairie, my eyes constantly, and almost mechanically, had sought the ground in front of our course, had wandered over it, with uneasy glance, in dread of beholding forms—lifeless—burned and charred—
The words of the trapper gave relief—almost an assurance that the steed and his rider were still safe—and under the inspiration of renewed hope, I rode forward with lighter heart.
Chapter Seventy Two.
“Injun Sign.”
After a pause, the guides resumed their conversation, and I continued to listen.