We were passing the border of a small wood, when Pat gave a shout.
“It’s my belafe there’s the remains of a camp-fire,” he exclaimed, pointing to a spot a little distance off.
We hurried towards it. There was a black spot round which the snow had been scraped away, and near it was a pile of sticks, but none of the embers remained, the ashes having apparently been blown away by the wind. There were marks of several feet around, in all directions, which made us suppose that the party had been a numerous one.
I was looking about when my eye fell on a small object, almost covered by the snow.
I ran towards it. It was a powder-flask!
Eagerly I pulled out the cork. It was almost full.
“Here’s a prize, Pat!” I exclaimed, holding it up.
“Thank Heaven for it,” cried Pat. “We shall now be able to shoot any bird or baste we catch sight of, but it is a bad lookout for whoever left it behind.”
“I think it tells a tale,” I answered. “The party, whoever they were, must have hurried away—perhaps from the appearance of a body of Indians, or they might have gone off in chase of some deer or buffaloes.”
“If that was so, no one would have left his powder-horn behind,” observed Pat. “It’s my belafe they took to flight to escape from Indians. It must have been in the daytime, for there are no pieces of bark about, or any signs of a night encampment; but how the Indians came to miss the powder-flask is more than I can say. Let me look at it.” He examined the flask carefully, as I had been doing.