Читать книгу Trail and Trading Post; or, The Young Hunters of the Ohio онлайн

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“Here’s a fine kettle of fish!” he muttered, as he stopped to catch his breath. “Everything is going wrong to-day. First we lost the buffalo, then Henry sprained his ankle, and now here am I, trying to get away from a redskin who wants to take my life and who has robbed me of my rifle and hunting knife! I wonder what will happen next?”

He listened intently, but could hear nothing of his red foe, nor could he see anything to alarm him. It was more gloomy than ever under the trees, the sun having gone under a cloud. The breeze sighed mournfully through the tallest branches, and only the occasional note of a bird, or the distant bark of a fox, broke the stillness.

Dave did not dare to linger long in one spot, fearing that the Indian might be sneaking over his trail with the slyness of a fox. He pushed forward, hoping to come to a series of rocks, or a deep stream, where the trail might be hidden.

His search was at last rewarded. Some flat rocks appeared, forming something of a cliff. He walked over these, taking care to avoid every accumulation of dirt or trailing vines. Then, coming to the end of the stones, he leaped down into a gully, where flowed a stream of water several feet wide and more than a foot deep. He followed this stream a long distance, until it was lost among some rugged rocks, where his further progress appeared to be barred.