Silver Lake, R. M. Ballantyne [book series to read TXT] 📗

“True for ye, Stiff, it was the fav’rite tipple o’ me owld mother, an’ I’m fond of it on that score, not to mention other raisins of a private natur’.”

“Couldn’t ye make these reasons public?” said Walter.

“Unpossible!” said Larry, with much gravity, as he helped himself to another can of tea.

“Come, time’s up,” said Robin abruptly, as he rose to put on his snow-shoes.

Larry swallowed the tea at a draught, the others rose promptly, and in a few minutes more they were again on the march.

Towards noon they issued out of the woods upon a wide undulating country, which extended, as far as the eye could see, to faint blue mountains in the distance. This region was varied in character and extremely beautiful. The undulations of the land resembled in some places the waves of the sea. In other places there were clumps of trees like islets. Elsewhere there were hollows in which lakelets and ponds evidently existed, but the deep snow covered all these with a uniform carpet. In some parts the ground was irregular and broken by miniature hills, where there were numerous abrupt and high precipices.

The party were approaching one of the latter in the afternoon, when Robin suddenly paused and pointed to a projecting ledge on the face of one of the cliffs.

“What would ye say yonder objic’ was?” he inquired of Slugs.

The hunter shaded his eyes with his hand, and remained silent for a few seconds.

“It looks like a sled,” said he, dropping his hand, “but how it got thar’ would puzzle even a redskin to tell, for there’s no track up to that ledge.”

“It is a sled,” said Black Swan, curtly.

“An’ how came it there?” asked Robin.

“It fell from the top,” replied the Indian.

“Right, lad, yer right!” said Slugs, who had taken another long look at the object in question; “I see somethin’ like a broken tree near the top o’ the precipice. I hope Wapaw hain’t gone an’ tumbled over that cliff.”

This supposition was received in silence and with grave looks, for all felt that the thing was not impossible, but the Indian shook his head.

“Come, Black Swan,” said Walter, “you don’t agree with us—what think ye?”

“Wapaw had no sled with him,” replied the Indian.

“Right again!” cried Slugs; “I do believe my sense is forsakin’ me; an Injun baby might have thought of that, for his tracks are plain enough. Hows’ever, let’s go see, for it’s o’ no use standin’ here guessin’.”

The party at once advanced to the foot of the precipice, and for nearly an hour they did their utmost to ascend to the ledge on which the sledge lay, but their efforts were in vain. The rock was everywhere too steep and smooth to afford foot-hold.

“It won’t do,” said Larry, wiping the perspiration from his brow; “av we had wings we might, but we hain’t got ’em, so it’s o’ no manner o’ use tryin’.”

“We shall try from the top now,” said Robin. “If anybody has tumbled over, the poor crittur may be alive yet, for all we know.”

They found their efforts to descend from the top of the precipice equally fruitless and much more dangerous, and although they spent a long time in the attempt, and taxed their wits to the utmost, they were ultimately compelled to leave the place and continue their journey without attaining their object.

One discovery was made, however. It was ascertained by the old marks in the snow at the edge of the precipice that, whatever members of the party who owned the sledge had tumbled over, at least two of them had escaped, for their track—faint and scarcely discernible—was traced for some distance. It was found, also, that Wapaw’s track joined this old one. The wounded Indian had fallen upon it not far from the precipice, and, supposing, no doubt, that it would lead him to some encampment, he had followed it up. Robin and his men also followed it—increasing their speed as much as possible.

Night began to descend again, but Wapaw was not overtaken, despite the Black Swan’s prophecy. This, however, was not so much owing to the miscalculation of the Indian, as to the fact that a great deal of time had been lost in their futile endeavour to reach the sledge that had fallen over the precipice.

About sunset they came to a place where the track turned suddenly at a right angle and entered the bushes.

“Ha! the first travellers must have camped here, and Wapaw has followed their example,” said Robin, as he pushed aside the bushes. “Just so, here’s the place, but the ashes are cold, so I fear we are not so near our Injun friend as we could wish.”

“Well, it can’t be helped,” cried Stiff, throwing down his bundle; “we’ve had plenty o’ walkin’ for one day, so I vote for supper right off.”

“I second the motion,” said Walter, seizing his axe, “seein’ that the camp is ready made to hand. Now, Larry, get your pot ready.”

“Sure it’s stuffed full a’ready—an’ I only wish I was in the same state,” said the Irishman, as he pressed the snow tightly into a tin kettle, and hung it over the fire, which Slugs had just kindled.

The supper scene of the previous night was, in most of its details, enacted over again; but it was resolved that each of the party should keep watch for an hour, as, if the Indians had followed, there was a possibility of their having gained on them during the delay at the precipice.

Before the watch was set, however, and while all the party were enjoying their pipes after supper, the Black Swan suddenly exclaimed, “Ho!” and pointed with his finger to something which peeped out of the snow at Larry’s elbow, that volatile individual having uncovered it during some of his eccentric movements.

“It’s only an owld mocassin,” said Larry, plucking the object from the snow as he spoke; “some Injun lad has throw’d it away for useless.”

“Hand it here,” said Robin, re-lighting his pipe, which had gone out.

Larry tossed the mocassin to his leader, who eyed it carelessly for a moment. Suddenly he started, and, turning the mocassin over, examined it with close and earnest attention. Then he smiled, as if at his passing anxiety, and dropped it on the ground.

“It reminded me,” said he to Walter, “of my Nelly, for it has something of the same shape that she was fond of, an’ for a moment I was foolish enough to think it might ha’ belonged to the dear child, but—. Come, Larry, have ’ee got any more tea there?”

“Is it tay ye want? faix, then, it’s little more nor laves that’s remainin’,” said Larry, draining the last drops into a pannikin; “well, there’s about half a mug-full, afther all; it’s wonderful what can be got out o’ it sometimes by squaazin’ the pot.”

“Hand it over, that’s enough,” said Robin, “thank ’ee, lad—here’s luck.”

He drained the pannikin as though it had been a glass of rum, and, smacking his lips, proceeded leisurely to refill his pipe.

“Are ye sure it’s not one of Nelly’s old mocassins?” asked Walter, as he eyed the little shoe earnestly.

“Sure enough, nephy, I would know her mother’s make among ten thousand, an’ although that one is oncommon like it in some respec’s, it ain’t one o’ hers.”

“But Nelly might have made it herself,” suggested Walter, “and that would account for its bein’ like her mother’s in the make.”

Robin shook his head. “Not likely,” said he. “The child didn’t use to make mocassins. I’m not sure if she could do it at all; besides she was last heard of miles and miles away from here in another direction. No, no, Walter lad, we mustn’t let foolish fancies bother us. However, the sight o’ this has fixed me to push on to-morrow as hard as I can lay my legs to it, for if Wapaw’s alive we can’t fail to come up wi’ him afore sundown; and I’m keen to turn about an’ go after my children. I’ll push on by myself if ye don’t care to keep up wi me.”

This latter remark was made to Stiff, whose countenance indicated that he had no desire to undertake a harder day’s march than usual. The effect of the remark was to stir up all the Yankee’s pride.

“I’ll tell ’ee what it is, Mister Gore,” said he, tartly; “you may think yourself an oncommon hard walker, but Obadiah Stiff is not the man to cave in to any white man alive. I don’t care to go trampin’ over the country day after day, like the Wandering Jew, after a redskin, as, I’ll go bound, ain’t no better than the rest o’ his kind; but if ye want to see which of our legs is the best pair o’ compasses, I’ll walk with ye from here to hereafter, I guess, or anywhar else ye choose; if I don’t, then my name ain’t Stiff.”

“It would be well av it worn’t Stiff, for ye’ve no reason to be proud o’t,” observed Larry O’Dowd, with a grin; “don’t spake so loud, man, but shut up yer potatie trap and go to roost. Ye’ll need it all if ye wouldn’t like to fall behind to-morrow. There now, don’t reply; ye’ve no call to make me yer father confessor, and apologise for boastin’; good night, an’ go to slape!”

The rest of the party, who had lain down, laughed at this sally, and Stiff, on consideration, thought it best to laugh too. In a few minutes every one in the encampment was sound asleep, with the exception of Robin Gore, who took the first hour of watching, and who sat beside the sinking fire like a Indian in earnest meditation, with his eyes resting dreamily on the worn-out mocassin.