Gaut Gurley; Or, the Trappers of Umbagog: A Tale of Border LifeThompson, Daniel P. (Daniel Pierce)
General
Gaut Gurley; Or, the Trappers of Umbagog: A Tale of Border Life
Thompson, Daniel P. (Daniel Pierce)
Frontier and pioneer life -- Fiction; Maine -- Fiction; Trappers -- Fiction
On the return of the company to the tavern, every boat to be found on the
river, from that place to the lake, was immediately put in requisition, for
the service of the night. And by early twilight, eight canoes, each
containing two or three well-armed men, led on by the trapper, in a single
canoe, were seen emerging from the outlet into the broad lake, and slowly
filing off along its western border. Coasting in closely to the shore, so
as to keep within the shadow of the woods, they pursued their noiseless way
up the lake, to a point where the low, marshy land lying between the lower
part of the Umbagog and the Magalloway rises into the gradually-swelling
ridge, which, a mile or two farther on, becomes a rocky, precipitous
mountain, whose beetling cliffs, overhanging the deep, dark waters beneath,
were crowned with their primeval growth of towering pines. Here they paused
long enough to station one of their canoes, near a small point, commanding
a view across the corresponding coves on either side; and then cautiously
proceeded onward, dropping a canoe, in like manner, every five or six
hundred yards, till the extremity of the western coast was reached, the
line efficiently manned, and the trapper left to cruise alone over the
cordon of boats thus stretched along the shore, to carry any needed
intelligence, and make independent observations. It was now dark, and,
being a moonless night, all within the shade of the mountains, especially,
was wrapt in almost impenetrable gloom; so that the ear, rather than the
eye, must now be depended on for whatever discoveries were to be made.
Nothing as yet, to the disappointment and increasing anxiety of the
company, had been seen or heard of the hunter.
"He cannot have been killed, so soon, can he?" whispered the sheriff, in
one of the last-stationed canoes, as the trapper glided alongside, to hold
communication with the officer.
"No," was the low-toned reply; "that could not have happened, if there were
any _fear_ of such a thing, without one or more rifle-shots, which, in this
calm evening, and this favorable locality for conveying sounds to a great
distance, we must have heard, even down to the tavern. No, I will risk him.
I think he must have got on to the fellow's trail, and, if near the lake,
lies in some spot where he can't move away without danger of alarming the
game. We have nothing to do but wait patiently. Phillips knows we are here
in waiting, and he will report himself as soon as he can."
They did not, however, have to wait long. In a few minutes, a small,
shrill, quavering cry, which few could have distinguished from that of a
raccoon, rose from a thicket on the shore, a short distance below.
"Ah! that is he," softly cried the trapper; "I know the thicket he is
hailing from. If you will remain just where you are, I will scull my canoe
down to the spot, take him in with me, if he has not found a boat,--or at
any rate bring him here to make his report."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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