Seton-Thompson, Grace Gallatin / 2008-09-17 00:00:00
Forcing our tired horses onward, we again found a trail, supposedly the
right one, but there was that haunting fear that it was not. For the only
signs were the bending of the grass and the occasional rubbing of the
trees where the animals had passed. And these might have been done by a
band of elk.
It was growing dusk and still no pack train in sight. No criminal on
trial for his life could have felt more wretchedly apprehensive than I.
At last we came to a stream. Nimrod, who had dismounted to examine more
closely, said:
"The trail turns off here, but it is very dim in the grass."
"Where?" I asked, anxiously.
He pointed to the ground. I could make out nothing. "Oh, let us hurry!
They must have gone on."
"I think it would be safer to follow these tracks for a time at least, to
see where they come out. There are some tracks across the stream there,
but they are older and dimmer and might have been made by elk."
"Oh, do go on! Surely the tracks across the stream must be the ones." To
go on, on, and hurry, was my one thought, my one cry.
Nimrod yielded. Thus I and my wild fear betrayed the hunter's instinct.
We went on for many weary minutes. We lost all tracks. Then Nimrod fired
a shot into the air. He would not do it before, because he said we were
not lost, and that there was no need for worry--worry, when for hours
blind fear had held me in torture!
There was no answer to the shot.
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