Crazy Snake knew, too, that this old trapper was the friend and pard of the wonderful Long Hair, so feared by all the Western Indians.
When he had determined the direction that Nomad would take, Crazy Snake slipped away with several of his best warriors, and hastened to put himself and them in front of the trapper, in an endeavor to ambush him.
Nomad, however, turned around, as if he smelled the trap that was laid for him; and, after jogging along a short distance, disappeared from sight of the Blackfeet.
He had struck a trail that excited his curiosity. It was the plain trail of a white man, and the white man seemed to be wounded, or suffering. The tracks wavered here and there.
“Got an Injun arrer in him, I’m guessin’,” was Nomad’s opinion. “’Tain’t Buffler’s trail, ner Pawnee’s; and I dunno who it kin be. But whoever he aire, he aire white; and I’ll see what’s the meanin’ of it.”
The trail was fresh and plain, and he followed it rapidly.
It did not take him long to come in sight of a small hut half hidden under a projecting ledge. The door was open, and the wavering trail led through the grass straight up to it.
“Some fool miner’s camped down hyar, and didn’t know thet ther cussed Blackfeet aire threatenin’ all white men’s ha’r!” was Nomad’s conclusion, as he left the trail, dismounted, and then approached the house carefully from the rear, looking into the hut through the one small rear window.
A man lay on the floor by the door, seeming to have fallen there through sheer weakness.
Nomad immediately went around to the door.