Wild joyous cries escaped from men and horses, as their eyes rested upon the limpid stream.
The men galloped over the bank, leaped out of their saddles, and without a thought of drowning, plunged breast-deep into the water. Some lifted the crystal liquid in their palms; others, more impatient, bent down, and ducking their faces in the flood, drank à la mode du cheval.
I noticed that the trappers behaved less recklessly than the rest; before going down to drink, the eyes of both were directed, with instinctive caution, along the banks, and into the timber.
Close to where we had halted, I observed a crossing, where numerous tracks of animals formed in the soil a deep, well-beaten path. Rube’s eyes were upon it, and I saw that they were glistening with unusual excitement.
“Told ’ee so!” cried he, after a short survey: “yanner’s thur trail—war-trail, by the Eturnal!”
Chapter Seventy Five.
The “Indios Bravos.”
You may be asking, what the trapper meant by a war-trail? It has been a phrase of frequent occurrence with us. It is a phrase of the frontier. Even at the eleventh hour, let me offer its explanation.