The Lost Trail | Page 6

broke the stillness, and
Harvey plainly heard and felt the whiz of the bullet as it passed before
his eyes.
"To the devil wid yer nonsense!" shouted Teddy, furiously springing
forward, and glaring around him in search of the author of the
well-nigh fatal shot. Deciding upon the quarter whence it came, he
seized his ever-ready rifle, which he had learned to manage with much
skill, dashed off at the top of his speed, not heeding the commands of
his master, nor the appeals of Mrs. Richter to return.
Guided only by his blind rage, it happened, in this instance, that the
Irishman proceeded directly toward the spot where the hunter had
concealed himself, and came so very near that the latter was compelled
to rise to his feet to escape being trampled upon. Teddy caught the
outlines of a tall form tearing hurriedly through the wood, as if in terror
of being caught, and he bent all his energies toward overtaking him.
The gloom of the night, that had now fairly descended, and the peculiar
topography of the ground, made it an exceedingly difficult matter for
both to keep their feet. The fugitive, catching in some obstruction, was
thrown flat upon his face, but quickly recovered himself. Teddy, with a
shout of exultation, sprung forward, confident that he had secured their
persecutor at last, but the Irishman was caught by the same obstacle and
"floored" even more completely than his enemy.
"Bad luck to it!" he exclaimed, frantically scrambling to his feet, "but it
has knocked me deaf and dumb. I'll have ye, owld haythen, yit, or me
name isn't Teddy McFadden, from Limerick downs."
Teddy's fall had given the fugitive quite an advantage, and as he was
fully as fleet of foot as the Irishman, the latter was unable to regain his
lost ground. Still, it wasn't in his nature to give in, and he dashed
forward as determinedly as ever. To his unutterable chagrin, however,
it was not long before he realized that the footsteps of his enemy were
gradually becoming more distant. His rage grew with his adversary's
gradual escape, and he would have pursued had he been certain of
rushing into destruction itself. All at once he made a second fall, and,

instead of recovering, went headlong down into a gully, fully a dozen
feet in depth.
Teddy, stunned by his heavy fall, lay insensible for some fifteen or
twenty minutes. He returned to consciousness with a ringing sensation
in his ears, and it was some time before he could recall all the
circumstances of his predicament. Gradually the facts dawned upon
him, and he listened. Everything was oppressively still. He heard not
the voice of his master, and not even the sound of any of the denizens
of the wood.
His first movement was to feel for his rifle, which he had brought with
him in his descent, and which he found close at hand. In the act of
rising, he caught the sound of a footstep, and saw, at the same instant,
the outlines of a person that he knew at once could be no other than the
man whom he had been pursuing. The hunter was about a dozen feet
distant, and seemed perfectly aware of the Irishman's presence, for he
stood with folded arms, facing his pursuer. The darkness prevented
Teddy's discovering anything more than his enemy's outline But this
was enough for a shot to do its work. Teddy cautiously brought his rifle
to his shoulder, and lifted the hammer. Pointing it at the breast of his
adversary, so as to be sure of his aim, he pulled the trigger, but there
was no response. The gun either was unloaded, or had been injured by
its rough usage. The dull click of the lock reached the ear of the target,
who asked, in a low, gruff voice:
"Why do you seek me? You and I have no quarrel."
"A purty question, ye murtherin' haythen! I'll settle with yees, if yees
only come down here like a man. Jist play the wolf and belave me a
sheep, and come down here for your supper."
[Illustration: "A purty question, ye murtherin haythen!"]
"My quarrel is not with you, I tell you, but with your psalm-singing
master--"
"And ain't that meself?" interrupted Teddy. "What's mine is his, and

what's his is mine, and what's me is both, and what's both is me, barring
neither one is my own, but all belong to Master Harvey, and Miss Cora,
God bless their souls. Don't talk of quarreling wid him and being
friendly to me, ye murtherin' spalpeen! Jist come down here a bit, I say,
if ye's got a spick of honor in yer rusty shirt."
"My ill-will is not toward you, although, I repeat, if you