Gathering their spoil into a bundle, they sought their horses, which
they had left tied under cover of the timber on the banks of the creek;
and, mounting, took the back trail, to pick up their traps and remove
from so dangerous a neighbourhood. They were approaching the spot where
the first trap was set, a thick growth of ash and quaking-ash concealing
the stream, when Markhead, who was riding ahead, observed the bushes
agitated, as if some animal was making its way through them. He
instantly stopped his horse, and his companion rode to his side, to
inquire the cause of this abrupt halt. They were within a few yards of
the belt of shrubs which skirted the stream; and before Markhead had
time to reply, a dozen swarthy heads and shoulders suddenly protruded
from the leafy screen, and as many rifle barrels and arrows were
pointing at their breasts. Before the trappers had time to turn their
horses and fly, a cloud of smoke burst from the thicket almost in their
faces. Batiste, pierced with several balls, fell dead from his horse,
and Markhead felt himself severely wounded. However, he struck the spurs
into his horse; and as some half-score Blackfeet jumped with loud cries
from their cover, he discharged his rifle amongst them, and galloped
off, a volley of balls and arrows whistling after him. He drew no bit
until he reined up at the camp-fire, where he found Bill quietly
dressing a deer-skin. That worthy looked up from his work; and seeing
Markhead’s face streaming with blood, and the very unequivocal evidence
of an Indian rencontre in the shape of an arrow sticking in his back, he
asked,—“Do’ee feel bad now, boy? Whar away you see them darned
Blackfoot?”
“Well, pull this arrow out of my back, and may be I’ll feel like
telling,” answered Markhead.
“Do ’ee hyar now! hold on till I’ve grained this cussed skin, will ’ee!
Did ’ee ever see sich a darned pelt, now? it won’t take the smoke any
how I fix it.” And Markhead was fain to wait the leisure of the
imperturbable old trapper, before he was eased of his annoying
companion.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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