Майн Рид
The Boy Hunters
The brothers rode quietly onward, observing them with attention. No, buffaloes they were not. The rough shaggy bodies of these would not shine so, for they glittered in the sun as they moved about. Buffaloes they could not be.
“That they are not,” said Lucien, after a deliberate look through his fingers.
“What are they then?” inquired François.
“Listen!” replied Lucien; “do you hear that?”
All three had drawn bridle. A loud “gobble—obble—obble,” proceeded from the animals, evidently uttered by some one of the three.
“As I live,” exclaimed François, “that’s the gobble of an old turkey-cock!”
“Neither more nor less,” replied Lucien, with a smile. “They are turkeys!”
“Turkeys!” echoed Basil, “turkeys taken for buffaloes! What a grand deception!”
And all three at first looked very blank at each other, and then commenced laughing heartily at the mistake they had made.
“We must never tell of this,” said Basil, “we should be laughed at, I reckon.”
“Not a bit of it,” rejoined Lucien, “such mistakes are often made, even by old travellers on the prairies. It is an atmospheric illusion very common. I have heard of a worse case than ours – of a raven having been taken for a buffalo!”
“When we meet the buffaloes then, I suppose we shall mistake them for mammoths,” remarked François; and the disappointed hunters now turned their attention to the capturing of birds instead of buffaloes.
Chapter Fourteen.
A Wild-Turkey Hunt
“Come on!” cried Basil, putting the spur to his horse, and riding forward. “Come on! It isn’t so bad a case after all – a good fat turkey for dinner, eh? Come on!”
“Stay, brother,” said Lucien, “how are we to get near them? They are out on the open ground – there is no cover.”
“We don’t want cover. We can ‘run’ them as we were about to do had they been buffaloes.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed François; “run a turkey! Why it will fly off at once. What nonsense you talk, brother!”
“I tell you, no,” replied Basil. “It is not nonsense – it can be done – I have often heard so from the trappers, – now let us try it ourselves.”
“Agreed, then,” said François and Lucien at once; and all three rode forward together.
When they had got near enough to distinguish the forms of the birds, they saw they were two old “gobblers” and a hen. The gobblers were strutting about with their tails spread like fans, and their wings trailing along the grass. Every now and then they uttered their loud “gobble – obble – obble,” and by their attitude and actions it was evidently an affair of rivalry likely to end in a battle. The female stalked over the grass, in a quiet but coquettish way – no doubt fully aware of the warm interest she was exciting in the breasts of the belligerent gobblers. She was much smaller than either of these, and far less brilliant in plumage. The males appeared very bright indeed – almost equal to a pair of peacocks – and as their glossy backs glanced in the sun with metallic lustre, our hunters thought they had never before seen such beautiful birds.
Taken up with their own quarrel, they would no doubt have allowed the hunters to get within shooting distance of them. The female, however, was upon the alert; and seeing these draw near, she raised her head with a loud “tweet!” which attracted the attention of her companions. In a moment their spread tails closed and came to the ground, their wings were shut up, and their long necks stretched into the air. Their forms underwent a complete change, and they now stood erect upon the prairie, Each of them full five feet in height!
“Beautiful creatures!” exclaimed Lucien.
“Yes,” muttered Basil. “They will not give us much longer time though. We had best make a dash. Take you the hen, Luce, your horse is the slowest. Now for it. For-ward!”
All three spurred their horses, and dashed forward together, Marengo leading the chase. In a moment they were within a hundred yards or so of the turkeys. The latter, thus suddenly set upon, ran a few paces, and then rose into the air, with a loud flapping of their wings. They took different directions, confused by being sprung in such haste. Each of the boys had selected the one he intended pursuing; and upon that one alone his eyes became fixed. Basil and François followed the gobblers, while Lucien rode at a quiet gallop after the hen.
Marengo, of course, took part in the chase, joining in with Lucien – whether because he deemed the hen to be “sweeter meat,” or that she was likely to be the easiest caught of the three.
She did not fly far before coming to the ground again; when she ran with all her might for the nearest clump of timber. Hither Lucien followed, Marengo leading the way, and occasionally uttering a sonorous yelp as he ran. As Lucien entered the timber, he saw the dog standing by the root of a large oak. He had “treed” the turkey, and was looking upward with glancing eyes, barking and wagging his tail. Lucien rode cautiously under the tree, where he perceived the turkey crouching among the moss, upon one of its highest branches. His rifle was up to his shoulder in a moment; and after the crack, the bird was heard tumbling and fluttering through the leaves. Marengo sprang upon it as it came to the ground; but his master, leaping from his horse, scolded him off, and took up the game which was found to be quite dead.
Lucien now remounted: and, as he rode out into the open ground, he could see Basil far off upon the prairies. He was going at full gallop; and the gobbler with outspread wings was seen some distance ahead of him, running like an ostrich! Both Basil and gobbler soon disappeared to his view – lost behind one of the timber islets. Lucien looked for François. The latter was nowhere to be seen – having pursued his gobbler in a direction where the groves were more thickly studded over the prairie. Thinking it would be of no use to follow either of them, Lucien rode slowly back to where Jeanette had been left upon the edge of the forest. Here he dismounted, and sat down to await the return of his brothers.
Basil’s chase proved a longer one than he had expected. He had chosen the biggest of the birds; and, no doubt, the strongest and toughest. His gobbler, at the first flight, made a clear stretch of nearly a mile; and, when he alighted again, ran like a scared cat. But Basil was not to be discouraged; and, keeping the spurs well to his horse, soon gained upon him. The turkey again took to his wings, dropping down another half mile in the advance. Again Basil galloped up; and once more the old cock rose into the air – this time flying only about a hundred yards before he alighted. Basil was soon up to him with his fleet horse; but the gobbler was now unable to fly any farther. He could run, however, at a good rate; and where there was an uphill in the prairie he ran faster than the horse. Downhill, the latter gained upon him; and thus they went, until the bird began to double and circle about, showing all the symptoms of weariness. Several times the horse ran over him, the turkey on these occasions turning and taking the back-track.
The chase was prolonged for a considerable time. The bird, at length, became completely exhausted; and squatting down, thrust his head and long neck among the weeds, like the ostrich, thinking himself thus hidden from his pursuer. Basil now drew his horse’s rein, raised his long rifle, and the next moment a bullet passed through the gobbler, and stretched him dead upon the grass.
Basil then dismounted; and, taking up the turkey, tied its legs to the cantle of his saddle. This required all Basil’s strength, for the bird was one of the largest size – a forty-pounder.
As soon as the hunter had made all fast, he leaped back into his saddle, and commenced riding – Where? Ay, that was the question which he asked himself before his horse had advanced three lengths of his body – where was he going? All at once the thought came into his mind that he was lost! Groves of timber were on all sides of him. They were like each other; or, if they differed, he had not in his wild gallop noted that difference, and it could not serve to direct him now. He had not the slightest idea of the point whence he had come, and therefore knew not in what direction to go. He saw and felt that he was lost!
My young reader, you cannot conceive the thoughts that come over one who is lost upon the prairies. Such a situation has appalled the stoutest hearts ere now. Strong men have trembled at feeling themselves thus alone in the wilderness; and well might they, for they knew that the consequence has often been death. The shipwrecked mariner in his open boat is scarcely worse off than the lost traveller upon the prairie-sea; and many, under the circumstances, have gone mad! Fancy then the feelings of the boy Basil.
I have already said, he was a cool and courageous lad. He was so, and proved it now. He did not lose presence of mind. He reined in his horse, and surveyed the prairie around him with an intelligent eye. It was all to no purpose. He saw nothing that would give him a clue to the spot where he had separated from his brothers. He shouted aloud, but there was neither echo nor answer. He fired off his rifle, and listened – thinking Lucien or François might reply by a similar signal; but no such signal gratified his ear. He reloaded, and sat for a while in his saddle, buried in thought.
“Ha! I have it!” he exclaimed, suddenly raising himself in his stirrups, “Why was I so stupid? Come, Black Hawk! we are not lost yet!”
Basil had not been all his life a hunter for nothing; and although he had but little experience upon the prairies, his wood craft now stood him in stead. The thought which had so suddenly occurred to him was a good one, the only one that could with certainty save him. He had resolved to return upon his own tracks.
He wheeled his horse; and, with eyes bent upon the ground, rode slowly along. The turf was firm, and the hoof-marks were not deep; but Basil had a hunter’s eye, and could follow the track of a fawn. In a few minutes he arrived on the spot where he had killed the turkey. The blood and feathers upon the grass made him sure of this. Here he halted a moment, until he could determine the direction in which he had approached this spot. That was at length resolved to his satisfaction; and he rode slowly in the back-track. After a few lengths of his horse had been passed over, the trail doubled. Basil followed the double, and came back, passing almost over the same ground again. Again it doubled as before, and again and again, without going a hundred yards from the place where the bird had been shot. All these turnings the young hunter retraced with the greatest care and patience. In this he showed his judgment and his knowledge of hunter-craft; for, had he grown impatient and taken a wider range to find the trail, he might have fallen upon his last-made tracks, and thus have brought himself into a regular maze.
After a while the circles in which he travelled became larger; and, to his great joy, he at length found himself advancing in a straight line. Many horse-tracks crossed his trail; some of them nearly as fresh as his own. These did not baffle him. They were the tracks of mustangs; and although Black Hawk was not shod any more than they, his rider knew the print of the latter’s hoof as well as he knew the appearance of his own rifle. The Arab’s track was considerably larger than those of the wild horses.
After following the trail backward for nearly an hour, – his eyes all the time bent upon the ground, – he was suddenly startled by a voice calling him by name. He looked up, and beheld Lucien by the edge of the woods. With a shout of joy he plied the spur and rode forward. As he drew near, however, his feeling of joy became one of painful apprehension. There was Lucien, – there were Jeanette and Marengo, —but where was François?
“Where is François?” inquired Lucien, as Basil rode up.
The latter could hardly speak, so strong were his emotions.
“O brother!” he faltered out at length, “has François not returned?”
“No,” answered Lucien, “I was thinking he was with you, and you would come back together. I have been wondering what could have detained you so long.”
“O God, he is lost!” cried Basil, breaking into an agony of grief. “Lucien! Lucien! our brother is lost!”
“Lost! what mean you?” asked Lucien, half believing that François had been attacked by Indians, or some wild animal, and that that was what Basil meant. “Has anything happened to him? Speak, Basil!”
“No, no!” replied Basil, still speaking wildly, “lost on the prairie! O brother, you know not what it is – it is a fearful thing. I have been lost, – I have got back; but François, poor little François! there is no hope for him! he is lost – lost!”
“But have you not seen him since we all three parted?” inquired Lucien in dismay.
“No, not since we parted. I was myself lost, and have been all this time finding my way. I succeeded by following back my own trail, else we might never have met again. O François! poor brother François! what will become of him?”
Lucien now shared the apprehensions as well as the agony of his brother. Up to this time he had been under the impression that they had got together, and something had detained them – perhaps the breaking of a stirrup-leather or a girth, he knew not what – and he was just beginning to grow uneasy when Basil made his appearance. He knew not what it was to be lost; but Basil’s wild explanations enabled him to conceive what it might be; and he could well appreciate the situation of François. It was no time, however, to indulge in paroxysms of grief. He saw that Basil was half unmanned; the more so because the latter looked upon himself as the cause of the misfortune. It was Basil who had counselled the running of the turkeys and led on to the chase.
Instead of giving way to despair, however, both felt that they must take some steps for the recovery of their lost brother.
“What is to be done?” said Lucien.
Basil now became himself again. The hope of saving François restored him to his wonted energy and courage.
“Is it better we should remain here?” asked Lucien, who knew that his brother’s strong judgment would decide upon the best plan.
“No,” replied the latter; “it is of no use. I could not have found my way back, but for the tracks of my horse. François will not think of that; and even if he did, his horse is a mustang, and the prairie is covered with mustang tracks, running in every direction. No, no, he will never come back here, except by chance; and there are a thousand chances to one against it. No, we must go in search of him; we must go upon his trail; and that I fear will be impossible among so many others. Before we leave this place,” continued Basil, “let us try every chance that is left. Are you loaded?”
“Yes,” replied Lucien.
“Fire, then, a moment or two after I do. The first report may call his attention to the second.”
Basil raised his piece and fired into the air. A few seconds after, Lucien fired also, and both stood to listen, their hearts beating audibly.
For five minutes or more they stood – so that François might have time to load his gun, if empty. There was no response.
Again the brothers loaded their rifles – with powder only – putting in heavy charges and ramming home tightly, in order that the explosions might be the louder. Again they fired as before. The result was the same; there was no answer to their signal.
“It proves that he is very distant,” said Lucien, “for sounds can be heard a great way off in this region.”
“Let us try a smoke,” said Basil, putting away his rifle. “Gather some wood, Luce, while I kindle the leaves.”
Basil picked up some pieces of the burning wad; and having taken it out to the open ground, raked together a pile of dry leaves and grass, and ignited it. Meanwhile Lucien collected an armful of sticks, and placed them upon the pile. Others were then thrown on top, with green leaves and boughs broken from the trees, and, over all, several armfuls of Spanish moss which hung plentifully from the oaks. A thick blue smoke soon ascended high into the heavens; and the brothers stood with searching eyes that scrutinised the prairie in all directions.
“He must be far off if he cannot see that,” remarked Lucien. “It should be visible for ten miles around, I should think!”
“At least that much,” answered Basil; “but he would not be long in getting ten miles away. The chase might have carried him a good part; and, finding himself lost, he would soon gallop the rest.”
“Unless,” suggested Lucien, “he may have ridden about, as you did, upon his own trail.”
“No, he would not be likely. Poor little François would not think of it; he has not enough craft for that; and, indeed, I almost hope that he has not done so.”
“Why do you hope so?” inquired Lucien.
“Because we will stand a better chance of making out his trail if he has gone straight forward.”
“True, true,” rejoined Lucien, and both again were silent, and stood watching the prairie openings with anxious eyes.
They remained for a considerable time, but at length turned to each other with countenances that exhibited a disappointed and sad expression.
“He is not coming,” said Lucien, in a sorrowful tone.
“No; he would have been up long since. He would be certain to gallop if he had seen the smoke. We must go after him.”
They turned towards their horses. Basil’s glance fell upon the dog. A gleam of joy shot into his eye, and big whole bearing became suddenly changed.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, “we have been wasting time. Quick, Lucien! – your horse! to your horse!”
“What is it?” asked Lucien in surprise.
“Do not ask me – a good thought strikes me; but we have not a moment to lose – time is precious. Let us be off!”
“But shall we leave Jeanette?”
“By all means. François might come up.”
“If he should, how is he to know where we are gone?”
“True,” answered Basil, reflecting a moment. “Oh!” he continued, “give me your paper and pencil. You tie Jeanette while I write.”
Lucien handed him a small slip of paper with a pencil; and then proceeded to tie the mule securely to one of the branches.
Basil took the paper and wrote: —
“François, we are gone upon your trail. Stay by Jeanette.”
He fastened the paper conspicuously to the trunk of a tree; and then, seizing his rifle and leaping into the saddle, called upon Lucien to follow him.
Lucien mounted, and rode after, while the dog Marengo trotted in the rear.
Chapter Fifteen.
Trailing with a Blood-Hound
They rode in a direct line to the spot where they had started in pursuit of the turkeys. From this place François had taken to the left; but there were many tracks leading in the same direction – of horses, too, that had galloped.
“As I told you, brother,” remarked Basil, “we could never have followed his trail by the tracks. Even here we are not certain of it. These must be his though – they look a little fresher than the others. Let us try them. Marengo!”
“Stay, brother!” interrupted Lucien. “The last place I saw François was yonder. I caught a glimpse of him passing round that point of timber.”
“Ha! that is better. Perhaps, there his tracks may be separate from the others. Come on!”
They rode about a hundred paces farther, which brought them to the point of timber indicated by Lucien.
“Yes,” exclaimed Basil, “you are right! He has passed here. There are his tracks distinctly.”
Basil dismounted, giving Lucien his rein. He knelt upon the grass, and examined the hoof-prints, one after the other, with extreme care.
“So!” he muttered, as he rose again to his feet, “I shall know you among a thousand.”
“Make yourself ready for a hard ride,” he continued, addressing Lucien. “The dog, no doubt, will lead us in a gallop. Marengo!”
The hound came running up to where the young hunter was stooping over the trail. The latter held a red object in his arms. It was François’ blanket, which he had loosed from his horse’s flank, and flung away when starting on the chase. The dog scented the blanket, uttering as he did so a low whimper, and gazing in his master’s face with a look of intelligence. He seemed to comprehend what was required of him.
Basil now flung the blanket over his own saddle, stooped again, drew his fingers along the grass, and, with a wave of his hand, motioned Marengo to follow its direction. The hound, uttering a single yelp, bent his nose to the ground, and sprang forward upon the trail.
Basil instantly leaped into his saddle; and, snatching up the reins, cried out to his brother, —
“Come, Lucien! we must not lose sight of the dog, though our horses drop dead in their tracks! All depends upon keeping him in view.”
Both plied the spur, and dashed forward at a gallop.
“We must know how to find our way back again,” said Basil, reining up, as they passed the edge of one of the timber clumps. “We must not ourselves get lost;” and, as he said this, he crashed the branch of a tree, until the broken end hung dangling downward. He then resumed his gallop.
For nearly a mile the hound ran in a direct line. It was the first flight of the turkey. His course then altered, although not a great deal, and carried him half a mile or so in a direct line as before.
“The second flight,” remarked Basil to his brother, as both followed at a loose gallop, now with their eyes anxiously watching the dog, and now halting a moment by some conspicuous tree to “blaze” their way, by breaking one of its branches.
The dog at length entered a copse.
“Ha!” exclaimed Basil, “François has killed his turkey there. No,” he continued – as the hound shot out of the copse again, and struck off into the open plain – “no. It has sought shelter there, but it has been run out again, and gone farther.”
Marengo now led in a direct line for several hundred paces; when, all at once, he began to double and run in circling courses over the prairie.
“Draw up, Lucien! draw up!” cried Basil, as he pulled upon his bridle-rein. “I know what that means. Do not ride upon the track – you may baffle him – leave him to himself.”
In a few seconds the hound stopped, uttered a short howl, and appeared to toss a dark object upon the grass with his snout. Basil and Lucien had halted at a considerable distance, but they could see that the object was some loose feathers.
“The spot, beyond doubt, where François has killed the turkey,” muttered Basil. “If Marengo can only catch the trail by which he rode off all may be well; but – that – that – see! he is off again!”
Now was the time that Basil and Lucien watched with beating hearts. They knew that a crisis was at hand. If Marengo, as Basil said, could find François’ departing trail, then he could follow it up almost to a certainty. Of this both the brothers were confident, as they knew the capabilities of the dog. But that was the point to be decided; and both felt for the moment as if the life of their brother hung upon its decision. No wonder, then, that they watched every manoeuvre of the hound with breathless anxiety while they sat, motionless and silent, in their saddles.
The hound after a while ran off from the feathers; and was seen once more to double and circle over the ground. He did not go freely. He was evidently baffled by so many trails approaching and crossing each other. Again he came back to the spot where the turkey had been killed, and there paused with a howl of disappointment!
Basil and his brother uttered a simultaneous exclamation, that betokened painful feelings. They knew that the howl was a bad sign; but neither spoke.
Once more the dog ran off, and as before turned and wheeled about upon the prairie.
“O God!” exclaimed Basil, in agony, “he is coming on the old track!”
It was too true; for the next moment the hound, running on the back-track, bounded in among the feet of their horses. Here he stopped suddenly, throwing up his head, and uttering another howl of disappointment.
Basil waved him back. He struck out again and followed the old trail, but with like success. He then became confused, and ran every way over the ground, evidently baffled. The brothers regarded each other with looks of dismay. The trail was lost!
“Hold! There is hope yet,” said Basil. “We may find it by making a wider circuit. Take my bridle,” continued he, throwing himself from his horse. “Marengo! – up, Marengo!”
The dog obeyed the call, uttered in accents of command; and came running up to the feet of his master. The latter, telling Lucien to follow with the horses, struck off over the prairie.
He walked slowly, bent forward and downward, carefully observing the ground as he went. He followed the circumference of an irregular circle, of wide diameter – in order to keep outside the doublings which François had made in his last struggle after the wearied bird, and which had thrown the dog out. He passed several horse-trails leading various ways. All these he examined, but none satisfied him. In this manner he had gone half a mile around the circle, when his eye fell upon some that seemed fresher than the rest. He sprang forward, stooping over them with, a shout of joy, as he recognised the hoof-prints of François’ mustang. He knew them by a mark he had taken – where the dog had been first set upon the trail – a small chip broken from one of the fore hoofs. But Marengo needed not this. He was once more on the right scent; and again started off, nose down, over the prairie.
Basil leaped into his saddle; and, waving his brother to follow, galloped after, riding close upon the heels of the hound.
The trail did not lead in a direct line. At some places it did so for several hundred yards – then it would turn suddenly to the right or left – then turn again and again in zig-zag lines. Sometimes it described the circumference of a circle and at one or two points it recrossed itself. At these places the dog was once or twice nearly baffled again.
They well knew the reason why the trail thus meandered about. Poor François had been wandering, and knew not which way to go.
Once more the trail ran direct for a distance of two miles or more. No doubt François had there kept up his resolution and ridden straight forward; but, as Basil remarked, he had been travelling all the time with his back to their camp! Over this part, as the trail was fresh, the hound ran rapidly, keeping the hunters at a brisk gallop. At the end of the stretch it again turned to the right and westward.
As they faced in this direction, the attention of the brothers was called to the sky. The sun was setting!
A new feeling of apprehension came over them. They knew there was no twilight, or next to none, on these high southern plateaux. Should it come on a dark night, how were they to follow the dog, going as he was upon a run? He might still keep the trail and come up with François, but what would be the good of that, so long as they were not with him? It would only give François another companion in his misery, but no clue by which he would be enabled to find them, or they him.
These thoughts were communicated between the two as they galloped on side by side. Soon the sun set, and the shades of twilight fell upon the grass. It grew darker, until it was difficult to distinguish the dusky body of the hound passing over the sward. What was to be done? He would soon glide away from them, and leave them without a guide!
“I have it!” suddenly exclaimed Basil; and at the words he spurred his horse forward to overtake Marengo. The next moment he flung himself from the saddle; and, seizing the hound, arrested him in his tracks.
“Alight, brother!” he cried; “alight, and help me. Off with your shirt – it is whiter than mine.”
Lucien, half comprehending his design, immediately pulled off his blouse, and after that his shirt – which was of bleached cotton cloth lightly striped, and in the dim light showed nearly white. Basil took hold of it; and hurriedly tore off the sleeves. He then drew it upon the dog; and having passed the animal’s fore-feet through the arm-holes, tied the collar securely around his throat with a piece of thong, and knotted the skirts over the flanks behind. Thus arrayed, Marengo looked like a street monkey; and was rendered quite visible in the glimmering darkness.
“Now!” cried Basil, exultingly, “we can follow him if it were as dark as pitch.”
“Stay a moment,” said Lucien; “let us make sure. It is clear enough – I can write yet.” As Lucien said this, he took out his note-book, and wrote: —
“François, come back on your own trail. You will find us upon it. If you cannot follow it, let Marengo guide you.”
He tore out the leaf, handing it to Basil, who fastened it securely to the shirt.
Marengo was again set loose, and took to the trail, while both mounted hastily and followed him.
Fortunately the night did not turn out so dark as they had anticipated; and they could see the white covering with sufficient distinctness to enable them to follow it, even at a gallop. And thus they rode for nearly another hour – Basil still blazing their trail as they swept past the timber islets.
All at once, as they rounded a thick grove, a bright object glistened before their eyes. It was a blazing fire under the shadow of some tall trees! Marengo made straight for it. Fearing it might be an encampment of Indians, Basil galloped forward; and, alighting from his horse, intercepted the dog. A halt was made to determine what was best to be done. At that moment the fire blazed up, and a spotted object was seen near it. Hurrah! It was François’ mustang! Basil and Lucien now advanced rapidly; and, to their great joy, beheld François sitting by the fire holding something over the blaze. The next moment the brothers were in each other’s arms, all three weeping with joy as they embraced!
François soon related his adventures. He had killed his turkey, and then lost himself; but instead of going back upon his own trail, as Basil had done, he had wandered about until night-fall, at intervals shouting and firing his gun. At times his spirit failed him; and he rode for long stretches without touching the bridle, or in any way guiding his horse. Wearied at length, he dismounted, and tied the animal to a tree. It was night when he did so; and feeling cold and hungry, he took courage and kindled a fire. Fortunately the gobbler still hung from the cantle of his saddle; and he had just singed, and was roasting it over the fire, when so agreeably interrupted by the approach of his brothers. At sight of the fine broiling turkey, Basil and Lucien became as hungry as a pair of wolves – for, in consequence of their anxiety, they had not thought of dining. The roast was soon ready; and, after a plentiful supper – which Marengo shared – the young hunters staked their horses upon the grass, wrapped themselves in their blankets, and went to sleep.
