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

They rode in a direct line to the spot where they had started in pursuit of the turkeys. From this place François had taken to the left; but there were many tracks leading in the same direction—of horses, too, that had galloped.

“As I told you, brother,” remarked Basil, “we could never have followed his trail by the tracks. Even here we are not certain of it. These must be his though—they look a little fresher than the others. Let us try them. Marengo!”

“Stay, brother!” interrupted Lucien. “The last place I saw François was yonder. I caught a glimpse of him passing round that point of timber.”

“Ha! that is better. Perhaps, there his tracks may be separate from the others. Come on!”

They rode about a hundred paces farther, which brought them to the point of timber indicated by Lucien.

“Yes,” exclaimed Basil, “you are right! He has passed here. There are his tracks distinctly.”

Basil dismounted, giving Lucien his rein. He knelt upon the grass, and examined the hoof-prints, one after the other, with extreme care.

“So!” he muttered, as he rose again to his feet, “I shall know you among a thousand.”

“Make yourself ready for a hard ride,” he continued, addressing Lucien. “The dog, no doubt, will lead us in a gallop. Marengo!”

The hound came running up to where the young hunter was stooping over the trail. The latter held a red object in his arms. It was François’ blanket, which he had loosed from his horse’s flank, and flung away when starting on the chase. The dog scented the blanket, uttering as he did so a low whimper, and gazing in his master’s face with a look of intelligence. He seemed to comprehend what was required of him.

Basil now flung the blanket over his own saddle, stooped again, drew his fingers along the grass, and, with a wave of his hand, motioned Marengo to follow its direction. The hound, uttering a single yelp, bent his nose to the ground, and sprang forward upon the trail.

Basil instantly leaped into his saddle; and, snatching up the reins, cried out to his brother,—

“Come, Lucien! we must not lose sight of the dog, though our horses drop dead in their tracks! All depends upon keeping him in view.”

Both plied the spur, and dashed forward at a gallop.

“We must know how to find our way back again,” said Basil, reining up, as they passed the edge of one of the timber clumps. “We must not ourselves get lost;” and, as he said this, he crashed the branch of a tree, until the broken end hung dangling downward. He then resumed his gallop.

For nearly a mile the hound ran in a direct line. It was the first flight of the turkey. His course then altered, although not a great deal, and carried him half a mile or so in a direct line as before.

“The second flight,” remarked Basil to his brother, as both followed at a loose gallop, now with their eyes anxiously watching the dog, and now halting a moment by some conspicuous tree to “blaze” their way, by breaking one of its branches.

The dog at length entered a copse.

“Ha!” exclaimed Basil, “François has killed his turkey there. No,” he continued—as the hound shot out of the copse again, and struck off into the open plain—“no. It has sought shelter there, but it has been run out again, and gone farther.”

Marengo now led in a direct line for several hundred paces; when, all at once, he began to double and run in circling courses over the prairie.

“Draw up, Lucien! draw up!” cried Basil, as he pulled upon his bridle-rein. “I know what that means. Do not ride upon the track—you may baffle him—leave him to himself.”

In a few seconds the hound stopped, uttered a short howl, and appeared to toss a dark object upon the grass with his snout. Basil and Lucien had halted at a considerable distance, but they could see that the object was some loose feathers.

“The spot, beyond doubt, where François has killed the turkey,” muttered Basil. “If Marengo can only catch the trail by which he rode off all may be well; but—that—that—see! he is off again!”

Now was the time that Basil and Lucien watched with beating hearts. They knew that a crisis was at hand. If Marengo, as Basil said, could find François’ departing trail, then he could follow it up almost to a certainty. Of this both the brothers were confident, as they knew the capabilities of the dog. But that was the point to be decided; and both felt for the moment as if the life of their brother hung upon its decision. No wonder, then, that they watched every manoeuvre of the hound with breathless anxiety while they sat, motionless and silent, in their saddles.

The hound after a while ran off from the feathers; and was seen once more to double and circle over the ground. He did not go freely. He was evidently baffled by so many trails approaching and crossing each other. Again he came back to the spot where the turkey had been killed, and there paused with a howl of disappointment!

Basil and his brother uttered a simultaneous exclamation, that betokened painful feelings. They knew that the howl was a bad sign; but neither spoke.

Once more the dog ran off, and as before turned and wheeled about upon the prairie.

“O God!” exclaimed Basil, in agony, “he is coming on the old track!”

It was too true; for the next moment the hound, running on the back-track, bounded in among the feet of their horses. Here he stopped suddenly, throwing up his head, and uttering another howl of disappointment.

Basil waved him back. He struck out again and followed the old trail, but with like success. He then became confused, and ran every way over the ground, evidently baffled. The brothers regarded each other with looks of dismay. The trail was lost!

“Hold! There is hope yet,” said Basil. “We may find it by making a wider circuit. Take my bridle,” continued he, throwing himself from his horse. “Marengo!—up, Marengo!”

The dog obeyed the call, uttered in accents of command; and came running up to the feet of his master. The latter, telling Lucien to follow with the horses, struck off over the prairie.

He walked slowly, bent forward and downward, carefully observing the ground as he went. He followed the circumference of an irregular circle, of wide diameter—in order to keep outside the doublings which François had made in his last struggle after the wearied bird, and which had thrown the dog out. He passed several horse-trails leading various ways. All these he examined, but none satisfied him. In this manner he had gone half a mile around the circle, when his eye fell upon some that seemed fresher than the rest. He sprang forward, stooping over them with, a shout of joy, as he recognised the hoof-prints of François’ mustang. He knew them by a mark he had taken—where the dog had been first set upon the trail—a small chip broken from one of the fore hoofs. But Marengo needed not this. He was once more on the right scent; and again started off, nose down, over the prairie.

Basil leaped into his saddle; and, waving his brother to follow, galloped after, riding close upon the heels of the hound.

The trail did not lead in a direct line. At some places it did so for several hundred yards—then it would turn suddenly to the right or left—then turn again and again in zig-zag lines. Sometimes it described the circumference of a circle and at one or two points it recrossed itself. At these places the dog was once or twice nearly baffled again.

They well knew the reason why the trail thus meandered about. Poor François had been wandering, and knew not which way to go.

Once more the trail ran direct for a distance of two miles or more. No doubt François had there kept up his resolution and ridden straight forward; but, as Basil remarked, he had been travelling all the time with his back to their camp! Over this part, as the trail was fresh, the hound ran rapidly, keeping the hunters at a brisk gallop. At the end of the stretch it again turned to the right and westward.

As they faced in this direction, the attention of the brothers was called to the sky. The sun was setting!

A new feeling of apprehension came over them. They knew there was no twilight, or next to none, on these high southern plateaux. Should it come on a dark night, how were they to follow the dog, going as he was upon a run? He might still keep the trail and come up with François, but what would be the good of that, so long as they were not with him? It would only give François another companion in his misery, but no clue by which he would be enabled to find them, or they him.

These thoughts were communicated between the two as they galloped on side by side. Soon the sun set, and the shades of twilight fell upon the grass. It grew darker, until it was difficult to distinguish the dusky body of the hound passing over the sward. What was to be done? He would soon glide away from them, and leave them without a guide!

“I have it!” suddenly exclaimed Basil; and at the words he spurred his horse forward to overtake Marengo. The next moment he flung himself from the saddle; and, seizing the hound, arrested him in his tracks.

“Alight, brother!” he cried; “alight, and help me. Off with your shirt—it is whiter than mine.”

Lucien, half comprehending his design, immediately pulled off his blouse, and after that his shirt—which was of bleached cotton cloth lightly striped, and in the dim light showed nearly white. Basil took hold of it; and hurriedly tore off the sleeves. He then drew it upon the dog; and having passed the animal’s fore-feet through the arm-holes, tied the collar securely around his throat with a piece of thong, and knotted the skirts over the flanks behind. Thus arrayed, Marengo looked like a street monkey; and was rendered quite visible in the glimmering darkness.

“Now!” cried Basil, exultingly, “we can follow him if it were as dark as pitch.”

“Stay a moment,” said Lucien; “let us make sure. It is clear enough—I can write yet.” As Lucien said this, he took out his note-book, and wrote:—

“François, come back on your own trail. You will find us upon it. If you cannot follow it, let Marengo guide you.”

He tore out the leaf, handing it to Basil, who fastened it securely to the shirt.

Marengo was again set loose, and took to the trail, while both mounted hastily and followed him.

Fortunately the night did not turn out so dark as they had anticipated; and they could see the white covering with sufficient distinctness to enable them to follow it, even at a gallop. And thus they rode for nearly another hour—Basil still blazing their trail as they swept past the timber islets.

All at once, as they rounded a thick grove, a bright object glistened before their eyes. It was a blazing fire under the shadow of some tall trees! Marengo made straight for it. Fearing it might be an encampment of Indians, Basil galloped forward; and, alighting from his horse, intercepted the dog. A halt was made to determine what was best to be done. At that moment the fire blazed up, and a spotted object was seen near it. Hurrah! It was François’ mustang! Basil and Lucien now advanced rapidly; and, to their great joy, beheld François sitting by the fire holding something over the blaze. The next moment the brothers were in each other’s arms, all three weeping with joy as they embraced!

François soon related his adventures. He had killed his turkey, and then lost himself; but instead of going back upon his own trail, as Basil had done, he had wandered about until night-fall, at intervals