The Lost Trail by Edward Sylvester Ellis (small books to read .txt) 📖

fine wild turkey, which, it need not be said, afforded a nourishing and delightful meal for them both.

"Otto," said Jack, springing to his feet like a refreshed giant, "we must hunt again for the horse."

"Dot ishn't vot I don't dinks too—dot ish I does dinks so."

"And you must now try to straighten out your English, so that Deerfoot and I may not be ashamed of you."

Otto nodded his head by way of assent, while he thought hard about the proper manner of expressing himself.

But an almost insurmountable difficulty confronted the boys from the first. It was impossible to make search for the missing animal until his footprints should be found, and the only way in which that could be done was by retracing, to a considerable extent, their own footsteps. Though somewhat disappointed, Jack Carleton was not surprised, when taking his bearings by the sun, he learned they had wandered from the proper path. They had turned to the left, until the course was south of southwest. They had gone far astray indeed.

The weather became more threatening. The sun had been above the horizon less than an hour when its light was obscured by clouds, and the windows of heaven were certain to be opened long before the orb should sink in the west.

Two miles were traveled, when the boys found themselves so close to a large clearing, that they wondered how it escaped their notice the preceding night. It covered more than an acre, and at one time was the site of an Indian village. As a matter of course a small stream ran near, and the red men who at no remote day made their dwelling places there must have numbered fully a hundred.

While wandering over the tract and looking about them, their eyes rested on an elevation no more than a third of a mile distant. It was thickly wooded, but a prodigious rock near the crest resembled a spot that had been burned clear.

"Helloa!" suddenly called out Jack Carleton, while gazing in the direction, "there's someone on that rock."

"I guess it ish a crow or bear—no, it ishn't."

"My gracious! it's Deerfoot."

A moment's scrutiny proved that the individual, beyond all question was an Indian. Furthermore, he was making signals, probably having descried them before they saw him.

"I guess he only means to salute us," said Jack.

Such seemed to be the case. The red man who was Deerfoot, waved his hand in friendly salutation several minutes, then leaped from the rock and vanished. It looked as if he had taken several hours to assure himself the boys were in no danger from the Shawanoes; and, having done so, he now bade them good-bye in his characteristic fashion, giving his whole thought and energy to the business which carried him far into the southwestern portion of the present State of Missouri.

Jack and Otto gazed in the direction of the rock a considerable while, hoping their friend would reappear, or that he had started to join them; but they were compelled to believe he had left, and for a time at least, would be seen no more.

The boys followed the back trail some distance further, when to their delight they came upon the footprints of the missing horse, marked so distinctly in the yielding earth that there could be no mistake as to their identity.

"Now, that's what I call good luck," exclaimed Jack, slapping his friend on the back.

"Dot ish vot I dinks—how ish dot?" asked Otto with a beaming face, alluding to his own diction.

"Capital!—think twice before you speak once, and before long you won't be the worst bungler with your tongue that lives west of the Alleghenies."

'The German gazed at his companion as if on the point of reproving him, but concluded to take time to put his words in proper shape.

An interesting fact was noticed by both: the trail verged toward the elevation where they last saw Deerfoot. Jack Carleton was set to thinking and speculating over the situation. He asked himself whether, when Deerfoot was about to pass out of their sight, his gesticulations did not signify more than his friends supposed.

"I wonder if he did not mean to tell us the horse was not far off: I believe he did."

"I—dinks—ot—ish-likely—vot—he—does," assented Otto, speaking with such deliberation that Jack looked in his face, laughed and nodded his head, approvingly.

"We shall soon find out, for the trail is plain and must be new."

But an unpleasant truth forced itself on their notice. Rain drops were pattering upon the leaves, and the darkening sky presaged a storm.

As the best and indeed the only way to protect themselves against a good drenching, the boys selected a tree whose foliage was particularly abundant, and seated themselves on the ground with their backs against it. Then the blankets were gathered over their heads and around their shoulders, and they felt as secure as if in their own log cabins, miles distant.

The rain fell steadily for nearly two hours, when it gradually ceased, and Jack and Otto quickly made ready to resume their journey. The leaves, twigs and limbs were dripping with moisture, so that, with the utmost care, it was impossible to advance far without their garments becoming saturated. That, however, was not a serious matter, and caused little remark.

For some rods the hoof-prints of the horse were followed, but then came the trouble. The rain had beaten down the leaves on the ground with such force that even the keen eyes of the young Kentuckian began to doubt. Finally the two paused, and Otto, having carefully prepared himself, said:

"I dinks dot ish no use for us to hunt the horse."

"I am sorry to give it up and own we are beaten, but that is what we shall have to do."

"Vy do we does dot?"

"We are trying to follow a Lost Trail."

"If we does dot den we gots lost ourselves."

"More than likely we shall, but I am afraid that if we go home without the colt, your father will punish you."

Otto shrugged his shoulders.

"It vill not be the first times dot he does dot. I can stand it, I dinks."

"It will be a great pity, nevertheless, and shall do my best to shame him if he should be mean enough to hold any such purpose."

"Mebbe after we gots home and stays one while, we start out agin some times more and look for the golt."

"I have been thinking of the same thing," said Jack, who now changed their course with the view of reaching home with the least possible delay.

The boys pushed forward with so much energy that on the next day, before the sun had reached the meridian, they arrived home, where for present we must bid them good-bye.

But what befell them and Deerfoot in the eventful journey which they speedily ventured upon in search of the LOST TRAIL, will be told in Number Two of the Log Cabin Series, entitled "CAMP-FIRE AND WIGWAM."

THE END

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lost Trail, by Edward S. Ellis