The Boy Hunters, Mayne Reid [best love novels of all time .TXT] 📗

prolonged for a considerable time. The bird, at length, became completely exhausted; and squatting down, thrust his head and long neck among the weeds, like the ostrich, thinking himself thus hidden from his pursuer. Basil now drew his horse’s rein, raised his long rifle, and the next moment a bullet passed through the gobbler, and stretched him dead upon the grass.

Basil then dismounted; and, taking up the turkey, tied its legs to the cantle of his saddle. This required all Basil’s strength, for the bird was one of the largest size—a forty-pounder.

As soon as the hunter had made all fast, he leaped back into his saddle, and commenced riding—Where? Ay, that was the question which he asked himself before his horse had advanced three lengths of his body—where was he going? All at once the thought came into his mind that he was lost! Groves of timber were on all sides of him. They were like each other; or, if they differed, he had not in his wild gallop noted that difference, and it could not serve to direct him now. He had not the slightest idea of the point whence he had come, and therefore knew not in what direction to go. He saw and felt that he was lost!

My young reader, you cannot conceive the thoughts that come over one who is lost upon the prairies. Such a situation has appalled the stoutest hearts ere now. Strong men have trembled at feeling themselves thus alone in the wilderness; and well might they, for they knew that the consequence has often been death. The shipwrecked mariner in his open boat is scarcely worse off than the lost traveller upon the prairie-sea; and many, under the circumstances, have gone mad! Fancy then the feelings of the boy Basil.

I have already said, he was a cool and courageous lad. He was so, and proved it now. He did not lose presence of mind. He reined in his horse, and surveyed the prairie around him with an intelligent eye. It was all to no purpose. He saw nothing that would give him a clue to the spot where he had separated from his brothers. He shouted aloud, but there was neither echo nor answer. He fired off his rifle, and listened—thinking Lucien or François might reply by a similar signal; but no such signal gratified his ear. He reloaded, and sat for a while in his saddle, buried in thought.

“Ha! I have it!” he exclaimed, suddenly raising himself in his stirrups, “Why was I so stupid? Come, Black Hawk! we are not lost yet!”

Basil had not been all his life a hunter for nothing; and although he had but little experience upon the prairies, his wood craft now stood him in stead. The thought which had so suddenly occurred to him was a good one, the only one that could with certainty save him. He had resolved to return upon his own tracks.

He wheeled his horse; and, with eyes bent upon the ground, rode slowly along. The turf was firm, and the hoof-marks were not deep; but Basil had a hunter’s eye, and could follow the track of a fawn. In a few minutes he arrived on the spot where he had killed the turkey. The blood and feathers upon the grass made him sure of this. Here he halted a moment, until he could determine the direction in which he had approached this spot. That was at length resolved to his satisfaction; and he rode slowly in the back-track. After a few lengths of his horse had been passed over, the trail doubled. Basil followed the double, and came back, passing almost over the same ground again. Again it doubled as before, and again and again, without going a hundred yards from the place where the bird had been shot. All these turnings the young hunter retraced with the greatest care and patience. In this he showed his judgment and his knowledge of hunter-craft; for, had he grown impatient and taken a wider range to find the trail, he might have fallen upon his last-made tracks, and thus have brought himself into a regular maze.

After a while the circles in which he travelled became larger; and, to his great joy, he at length found himself advancing in a straight line. Many horse-tracks crossed his trail; some of them nearly as fresh as his own. These did not baffle him. They were the tracks of mustangs; and although Black Hawk was not shod any more than they, his rider knew the print of the latter’s hoof as well as he knew the appearance of his own rifle. The Arab’s track was considerably larger than those of the wild horses.

After following the trail backward for nearly an hour,—his eyes all the time bent upon the ground,—he was suddenly startled by a voice calling him by name. He looked up, and beheld Lucien by the edge of the woods. With a shout of joy he plied the spur and rode forward. As he drew near, however, his feeling of joy became one of painful apprehension. There was Lucien,—there were Jeanette and Marengo,—but where was François?

“Where is François?” inquired Lucien, as Basil rode up.

The latter could hardly speak, so strong were his emotions.

“O brother!” he faltered out at length, “has François not returned?”

“No,” answered Lucien, “I was thinking he was with you, and you would come back together. I have been wondering what could have detained you so long.”

“O God, he is lost!” cried Basil, breaking into an agony of grief. “Lucien! Lucien! our brother is lost!”

“Lost! what mean you?” asked Lucien, half believing that François had been attacked by Indians, or some wild animal, and that that was what Basil meant. “Has anything happened to him? Speak, Basil!”

“No, no!” replied Basil, still speaking wildly, “lost on the prairie! O brother, you know not what it is—it is a fearful thing. I have been lost,—I have got back; but François, poor little François! there is no hope for him! he is lost—lost!”

“But have you not seen him since we all three parted?” inquired Lucien in dismay.

“No, not since we parted. I was myself lost, and have been all this time finding my way. I succeeded by following back my own trail, else we might never have met again. O François! poor brother François! what will become of him?”

Lucien now shared the apprehensions as well as the agony of his brother. Up to this time he had been under the impression that they had got together, and something had detained them—perhaps the breaking of a stirrup-leather or a girth, he knew not what—and he was just beginning to grow uneasy when Basil made his appearance. He knew not what it was to be lost; but Basil’s wild explanations enabled him to conceive what it might be; and he could well appreciate the situation of François. It was no time, however, to indulge in paroxysms of grief. He saw that Basil was half unmanned; the more so because the latter looked upon himself as the cause of the misfortune. It was Basil who had counselled the running of the turkeys and led on to the chase.

Instead of giving way to despair, however, both felt that they must take some steps for the recovery of their lost brother.

“What is to be done?” said Lucien.

Basil now became himself again. The hope of saving François restored him to his wonted energy and courage.

“Is it better we should remain here?” asked Lucien, who knew that his brother’s strong judgment would decide upon the best plan.

“No,” replied the latter; “it is of no use. I could not have found my way back, but for the tracks of my horse. François will not think of that; and even if he did, his horse is a mustang, and the prairie is covered with mustang tracks, running in every direction. No, no, he will never come back here, except by chance; and there are a thousand chances to one against it. No, we must go in search of him; we must go upon his trail; and that I fear will be impossible among so many others. Before we leave this place,” continued Basil, “let us try every chance that is left. Are you loaded?”

“Yes,” replied Lucien.

“Fire, then, a moment or two after I do. The first report may call his attention to the second.”

Basil raised his piece and fired into the air. A few seconds after, Lucien fired also, and both stood to listen, their hearts beating audibly.

For five minutes or more they stood—so that François might have time to load his gun, if empty. There was no response.

Again the brothers loaded their rifles—with powder only—putting in heavy charges and ramming home tightly, in order that the explosions might be the louder. Again they fired as before. The result was the same; there was no answer to their signal.

“It proves that he is very distant,” said Lucien, “for sounds can be heard a great way off in this region.”

“Let us try a smoke,” said Basil, putting away his rifle. “Gather some wood, Luce, while I kindle the leaves.”

Basil picked up some pieces of the burning wad; and having taken it out to the open ground, raked together a pile of dry leaves and grass, and ignited it. Meanwhile Lucien collected an armful of sticks, and placed them upon the pile. Others were then thrown on top, with green leaves and boughs broken from the trees, and, over all, several armfuls of Spanish moss which hung plentifully from the oaks. A thick blue smoke soon ascended high into the heavens; and the brothers stood with searching eyes that scrutinised the prairie in all directions.

“He must be far off if he cannot see that,” remarked Lucien. “It should be visible for ten miles around, I should think!”

“At least that much,” answered Basil; “but he would not be long in getting ten miles away. The chase might have carried him a good part; and, finding himself lost, he would soon gallop the rest.”

“Unless,” suggested Lucien, “he may have ridden about, as you did, upon his own trail.”

“No, he would not be likely. Poor little François would not think of it; he has not enough craft for that; and, indeed, I almost hope that he has not done so.”

“Why do you hope so?” inquired Lucien.

“Because we will stand a better chance of making out his trail if he has gone straight forward.”

“True, true,” rejoined Lucien, and both again were silent, and stood watching the prairie openings with anxious eyes.

They remained for a considerable time, but at length turned to each other with countenances that exhibited a disappointed and sad expression.

“He is not coming,” said Lucien, in a sorrowful tone.

“No; he would have been up long since. He would be certain to gallop if he had seen the smoke. We must go after him.”

They turned towards their horses. Basil’s glance fell upon the dog. A gleam of joy shot into his eye, and big whole bearing became suddenly changed.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, “we have been wasting time. Quick, Lucien!—your horse! to your horse!”

“What is it?” asked Lucien in surprise.

“Do not ask me—a good thought strikes me; but we have not a moment to lose—time is precious. Let us be off!”

“But shall we leave Jeanette?”

“By all means. François might come up.”

“If he should, how is he to know where we are gone?”

“True,” answered Basil, reflecting a moment. “Oh!” he continued, “give me your paper and pencil. You tie Jeanette while I write.”

Lucien handed him a small slip of paper with a pencil; and then proceeded to tie the mule securely to one of the branches.

Basil took the paper and wrote:—

“François, we are gone upon your trail. Stay by Jeanette.”

He fastened the paper conspicuously to the trunk of a tree; and then, seizing his rifle and leaping into the saddle, called upon Lucien to follow him.

Lucien mounted, and rode after, while the dog Marengo trotted in the rear.