ther, and it was impossible to tell for a
time who it was that was gaining.

"There's got to be an end to this race _some time_," muttered Tim, "or
I'll chase you up the north pole. You've stole my dinner, and tried to
steal my topknot, and now you shall have it or I shall have yours."

For some time this race (which in many respects resembled that of
Teddy and the strange hunter) continued, until the trapper found it
was himself that was really losing ground, and he sullenly came down
to a walk again. Still, he held to the trail with the unremitting
perseverance of the bloodhound, confident that, sooner or later, he
must come up with the fugitive.

All at once, something upon the ground caught his eye. It was the
ptarmigan, and he sprung exultingly forward and picked it up. It was
unharmed by the Indian, and he looked upon it as a tacit surrender, on
the part of his adversary, of the matter of dispute between them.

At first Tim was disposed to keep up the pursuit; but, on second
thought, he concluded to partake of his dinner, and then continue
his search for his human game. In order to enjoy his dinner it was
necessary to have it cooked, and he busied himself for a few moments
in collecting a few dried sticks, and plucking the feathers from the
fowl and dressing it.

While thus occupied, he did not forget to keep his eyes about him, and
to be prepared for the Indian in case he chose to come back. He
discovered nothing suspicious, however, and came to believe there was
no danger at all.

At length, when the afternoon was well advanced, the trapper's dinner
was prepared. He took the fowl from the blaze, and cutting a piece
with his hunting-knife, was in the very act of placing it in his
mouth, when the sharp crack of a rifle broke the stillness, and he
fell backward, pierced through the body by the bullet of the Indian
whom he had been pursuing.

"It's all up!" muttered the dying man. "I am wiped out at last, and
must go under!"

[Illustration: "It's all up!" muttered the dying man. "I am wiped out
at last, and must go under!"]

The Lost Trail had been the means of Tim, the trapper, discovering
what proved to him _the trail of death!_

CHAPTER IX.

THE DEAD SHOT.

And now 'tis still I no sound to wake
The primal forest's awful shade;
And breathless lies the covert brake,
Where many an ambushed form is laid.
I see the red-man's gleaming eye,
Yet all so hushed, the gloom pro