“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 passed 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.