Bill Biddon, Trapper Part 11

"If it's a laughing matter to know that there are Injins all about you, why you must laugh."

"Your adventure with the Indian, Nat, and the singular load in your rifle appears to me to be a funny matter, and I trust you will pardon me if----"

"Didn't I tell you I didn't put it in there? It was the Injin's work."

And to this day Nat cannot be made to believe that he was instrumental in introducing the pipe into his gun.

After a few more unimportant remarks, the conversation ceased. Nat's adventure began to appear to me in a different light from that in which I had viewed it at first. I doubted not but that he was perfectly honest and truthful in what he said. But why, when exposed to the will of the savage, did he escape unscathed? Why did the latter stand fearless and harmless before him? And what meant these strange signs, these "footprints," which were becoming visible around us?

Matters were a.s.suming a puzzling form. We were being environed by Indians without any evidence of hostility upon their part. What meant it? Surely there was a meaning too deep and hidden for us to divine as yet.

Suddenly Nat spoke.

"Don't you remember the canoe? We were going to hunt for that to-day!"

"Ah! how did I forget that? But had we not better wait till Biddon returns?"

"No; let us go at once. Hark! what's that?"

I held my breath, as the distant report of a rifle reached our ears.

The next instant came a sound, faint and far away yet clear and distinct--a horrid, unearthly sound, as the cry of a being in mortal agony!

CHAPTER VI.

STILL IN THE DARK--THE CANOE AGAIN.

For a moment we stood breathless, paralyzed and speechless. Then our eyes sought each other with a look of fearful inquiry.

"Was that Biddon's voice?" I asked, in a faint whisper.

"I don't know. There it is again!"

And again came that wild, howling shriek of such agony as made our blood curdle within us.

"_It is his voice!_ Let us hasten to his aid," I exclaimed, catching my rifle, and springing out. Nat followed closely, his gun having been reloaded. The cry came from up the river and toward it we dashed, scrambling and tearing through the brush and undergrowth, like two maddened animals, heedless of what the consequence might be. Several times we halted and listened, but heard nothing save our own panting b.r.e.a.s.t.s and leaping hearts. On again we dashed, looking hurriedly about us, until I knew we had ascended as high as could be the author of that startling cry. Here we paused and listened. No one was to be seen. I turned toward Nat, standing behind me, and directly behind him I saw Biddon slowly approaching.

"What are you doin' here?" he asked, as he came up.

"Was not that your voice which I just heard?"

"I rather reckon it wan't. When you hear Bill Biddon bawl out in that way, jist let me know, will yer?"

"What under the sun was it?" I asked then, greatly relieved.

"That's more nor me can tell; but shoot and skin me, if I can't tell you one thing;" he approached closely and whispered, "there's sunkthin else nor reds about yer."

"What do you mean?" I asked, although I understood well enough what he meant.

"I's here once afore, as I told yer, and I never heerd sich goin's on then. I've seed the tracks of moccasins all about the traps, but can't draw bead on the shadder of a redskin."

"You heard that horrid howl, didn't you?"

"Heerd it! I should think I did."

"Was it you who shot?"

"Yes; the way on it was this: I got on a purty plain trail and follered it up hereabouts, when I cotched the glimpse of a Blackfoot's feather goin' down through the bushes there, and blazed away at him. I never missed a red in my life, and I didn't miss him. Howsumever, he didn't mind it, but kept on and got away, and jist as he went out of sight that orful yell come. It didn't seem that he made it, but sounded like as though 'twas all about me, above and under the ground, and around and behind me."

"Anywhere near us?" asked Nat.

"It sounded jist under your feet about."

"Jerusha!" exclaimed the affrighted Nat, as he sprang nervously toward me.

"It must have been the Indian, surely, who made that yell," said I.

"In course; though things are beginnin' to look qua'rish to me."

The same look of uneasiness again pa.s.sed over the trapper's face; and I saw that although he strove to hide it, he was by no means at rest.

Matters were beginning to put on an unusual aspect, and that was the reason. Give the trapper of the northwest flesh and blood to contend against, let him know that nothing supernatural is arrayed against him, and he is the last man in the world to yield an inch. But the moment he sees something unexplainable to his simple mind, (and the trapper is a credulous being), his courage deserts him. He believes that other spirits than those of men visit this earth, and they are his greatest horror.

"Les' go home; there's Injins all around us," pleaded Nat.

"How'd you know?"

"Because I _seen_ one myself."

Biddon looked inquiringly at me, and, deeming it best, I related the incident given in the preceding chapter. I saw at once his uneasiness was increased.

"Why didn't you shoot the redskin?" he angrily asked of Nat.

"Why didn't _you_ shoot the redskin?" queried Nat, in turn.

"I did--hit him fair and square as I ever hit anything."

"But didn't do any more good than I did."

"I made the infarnal imp howl."

"And I made mine _grunt_," added Nat, triumphantly.

"There is no need of words," I interposed. "Each of you did your best, Nat included. You, Bill, I believe, hit your man and mortally wounded him. That yell was of agony, though I can't conceive how we came to mistake it for yours. The dead or dying body of that Indian, I believe, is near at hand. See! what does that mean?" I asked, as I detected some red fluid dripping from the limb of a bush to the earth.

The trapper stepped forward and looked at it.

"That's the blood of a Blackfoot, or I'm a skinned beaver!" he remarked, with a glow of relief at having those strange apprehensions of his removed.