The Lost Trail | Page 5

burns the soul," answered the minister.
"Arrah, that it does; for I well remimbers the last swig I took a'most
burnt a hole in me shirt, over the bosom, and they say that is where the
soul is located."
"Ah, Teddy, you are a sad sinner, I fear," laughingly observed Mrs.
Richter, at this extravagant allusion.
"A sad sinner! Divil a bit of it. I haven't saan the day for twinty year
whin I couldn't dance at me grandmother's wake, or couldn't use a
shillalah at me father's fourteenth weddin'. Teddy sad? Well, that is
a--is a--a mistake," and the injured fellow further expressed his feelings
by piling on the fuel until he had a fire large enough to have roasted a
battalion of prize beeves, had they been spitted before it.
Darkness at length fairly settled upon the wood and stream; the gloom
around became deep and impressive. The inevitable haunch of venison
was roasting before the roaring fire, Teddy watching and attending it
with all the skill of an experienced cook. While thus engaged, the
missionary and his wife were occupied in tracing the course of the
Mississippi and its tributaries upon a pocket map, which was the chief
guide in that wilderness of streams and "tributaries." Who could deny
the vastness of the field, and the loud call for laborers, when such an
immense extent then bore only the name of "Unexplored Region!" And
yet, this same headwater territory was teeming with human beings, as
rude and uncultivated as the South Sea Islanders. What were the
feelings of the faithful couple as their eyes wandered to the left of the
map, where these huge letters confronted them, we can only surmise.
That they felt that ten thousand self-sacrificing men could be employed
in this portion of the country we may well imagine.
As the evening meal was not yet ready, the missionary folded the map
and fell to musing--musing of the future he had marked out for himself;
enjoying the sweet approval of his conscience, higher and purer than
any enjoyment of earth. All at once came back the occurrence of the
afternoon, which had been absent from his thoughts for the hour past.
But, now that it was recalled, it engaged his mind with redoubled force.

Could he be assured that it was a red-man who had fired the shot, the
most unpleasant apprehension would be dissipated; but a suspicion
would haunt him, in spite of himself, that it was not a red-man, but a
white, who had thus signified his hostility. The rolling of the stones
must have been simply to call his attention, and the rifle-shot was
intended for nothing more than to signify that he was an enemy.
And who could this enemy be? If a hunter or an adventurer, would he
not naturally have looked upon any of his own race, whom he
encountered in the wilderness, as his friends, and have hastened to
welcome them? What could have been more desirable than to unite
with them in a country where whites were so scarce, and almost
unknown? Was it not contrary to all reason to suppose that a hermit or
misanthrope would have penetrated thus far to avoid his brother man,
and would have broken his own solitude by thus betraying his
presence?
Such and similar were the questions Harvey Richter asked himself
again and again, and to all he was able to return an answer. He had
decided who this strange being might possibly be. If it was the person
suspected, it was one whom he had met more frequently than he wished,
and he prayed that he might never encounter him again in this world.
The certainty that the man had dogged him to this remote spot in the
West; that he had patiently plodded after the travelers for many a day
and night; that even the trackless river had not sufficed to place
distance between them; that, undoubtedly, like some wild beast in his
lair, he had watched Richter and his companions as they sat or
slumbered near their camp-fire--these, we may well surmise, served to
render the missionary for the moment excessively uncomfortable, and
to dull the roseate hues in which he had drawn the future.
The termination of this train of thought was the sudden suspicion that
this very being was at that moment in close proximity. Unconsciously,
Harvey rose to the sitting position and looked around, half expecting to
descry the too well remembered figure.
"Supper is waiting, and so is our appetites, be the same token in your
stomachs that is in mine. How bees it with yourself, Mistress Cora?"

The young wife had risen to her feet, and the husband was in the act of
doing the same, when the sharp crack of a rifle