y, an thinkin' thet we as wolloped 'em wur still i' the
rancherie, they wur afeerd thet on hearing o' thur pilledgin', we mout
be arter 'em."

"An they've burnt the parairy to kiver thur trail?"

"Preezactly so."

"By Gosh, you're right, Rube!--it's uncommon like. But whar do you
think this trail's goin? Surely the hoss hain't been caught in the
fire?"

I bent forward in the saddle, and listened with acute eagerness. To my
great relief, the answer of the old trapper was in the negative.

"He hain't," said he; "ne'er a bit o' it. His trail, do ee see, runs in
a bee-line, or clost on a bee-line: now, ef the fire hed 'a begun afore
he wur acrosst this paraira, he wud long since 'a doubled 'bout, an tuk
the back track; but 'ee see he hain't did so; thurfor, I conclude he's
safe through it, an the grass must 'a been sot afire ahint 'im."

I breathed freely after listening to these words. A load seemed lifted
from my breast--for up to this moment I had been vainly endeavouring to
combat the fearful apprehension that had shaped itself in my
imagination. From the moment that we had entered the burning prairie,
my eyes constantly, and almost mechanically, had sought the ground in
front of our course, had wandered over it, with uneasy glance, in dread
of beholding forms--lifeless--burned and charred--

The words of the trapper gave relief--almost an assurance that the steed
and his rider were still safe--and under the inspiration of renewed
hope, I rode forward with lighter heart.

CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO.

"INJUN SIGN."

After a pause, the guides resumed their conversation, and I continued to
listen.

I had a reason for not mingling in it. If I joined them in their
counsels, they might not express their convictions so freely, and I was
desirous of knowing what they truly thought. By keeping close behind
them, I could hear all--myself unnoticed under the cloud of dust that
ascended around us. On the soft ashes, the hoof-stroke was scarcely
audible--our horses gliding along in a sweeping silent walk.

"By Gosh! then," said Garey, "if Injuns fired the parairy, they must 'a
done it to wind'ard, an we're travellin' right in the teeth o' the wind;
we're goin in a ugly direction, Rube; what do you think o' 't, old
hoss?"

"Jest what you sez, boyee--a cussed ugly direckshun--durnation'd ugly."

"It ain't many hours since the fire begun, an the redskins won't be far
from t'other side, I reckon. If the hoss-tra