“Oh I let me only breathe the air,
  The blessed air that’s breathed by thee;
  And, whether on its wings it bear
  Healing or death, ’tis sweet to me.”

At the close of a windy, blustering day in 1821, two men were seated by a camp-fire in the depths of the wilderness of the northwest.  The wind howled through the branches with a moaning sound such as often heralds the approach of bitter cold weather; and a few feathery flakes of snow that sailed along on the wind, proved that the season of storms was close at hand.

The fire was built down deep in a sort of gorge, where its cheery, crackling blaze could not be seen by any one until he was nearly upon it.  The men sat with their pipes in their mouths, their rifles beside them and their feet toward the fire.  From appearances they were on the best of terms.  One of them needs no introduction, as he is our old friend Teddy, who evidently feels at home in his new situation.  The other is a man of much the same build although somewhat older.  His face, where it is not concealed by a heavy, grizzly beard, is covered by numerous scars, and the border of one eye is disfigured from the same cause.  His dress and accouterments betray the hunter and trapper.

“And so, Teddy, ye’re sayin’ it war a white man that took away the missionary’s wife, and hain’t been heard on since.  Let me see, you said it war nigh onto three months ago, warn’t it?”

“Three months, come day after to-morrow.  Begorrah, but it’s not I that’ll forgit that same date to my dying day, if, indade, I forgit it at all, at all, even whin somebody else will be wearin’ me clothes.”

“It was a dirty trick, freeze me if it wasn’t; but you can allers find a white man to do a mean trick, when you can’t a copperskin; that you may set down as a p’inted fact, Teddy.”

“I belaves ye, Mister Tim.  An Indian is a poor mean thing at the bist, an’ their squaws ­kah! they are the dirtiest beasts that iver jabbered human lingo; an’ their babies, I raaly belaves, is caught with a hook an’ line in the muddy creeks where the catfish breed; but, fur all that, I don’t think they could have been equal to this piece of wickedness.  May the divil git howld of his soul.  Blazes, but won’t there be a big squeal in purgatory when the divil gits howld of him!” And Teddy seemed to contemplate the imaginary scene in Hades with a sense of intense satisfaction.

“But it’s powerful strange you could never git on the trail.  I don’t boast of my own powers, but I’ll lay if I’d been in the neighborhood, I’d ’ve found it and stuck to it like a bloodhound, till I’d ’ve throttled that thievin’ wretch.”

“The Sioux spent the bitter part of the day in the s’arch, an’ meself an’ siveral other savages has been looking iver since, and none of us have got so much as a scint of his shoe, bad luck to him.”

“But, Teddy, what made him do it?” asked the trapper, turning his keen, searching eyes full upon him.

“There’s where I can’t answer yees.”

“There be some men, I allow, so infarnal mean they’ll do a mean thing just ’cause they like to do it, and it might be he’s one of them.”

“It’s meself that belaves he howlds some spite agin Mister Harvey for something done in years agone, and has taken this means of revinging himself upon the good man, as I am sure niver did one of his fellow-creatures any harm.”

“It may be there’s been ill-blood a long time atween ’em, but the missionary couldn’t a done nothin’ to give the rapscallion cause to run off with his wife, ’less he’d run off with this hunter’s old woman before, and the hunter was paying him for it.”

“Git out wid yer nonsense!” said Teddy, impatiently.  “It couldn’t been a great deal, or if it was, it couldn’t been done purposely, for I’ve growed up wid Mister Harvey, and knowed him ever since he was knee high to a duck, and he was always a boy that did more praying than fighting.  The idea of his harming anyone, is pre-pos-te-trous. After the haythen had fired at us, the good man actilly made me promise not to do the wretch hurt if the chance was given me; and a mighty foolish thing, for all it was Master Harvey who towld me, fur I’ve had a chance or two at the spalpaan since.  Oh blissed Virgin, why didn’t I cut his wizzen for him whin I could have done it ­that is, if I could!”

“And you’ve been huntin’ ’im these three or four months be you?”

“The same, yer honor, huntin’ constantly, niver losing a day rain or shine, wid Indians an’ widout ’em, cold, hungry and tired, but not a day of rist.”

“Freeze me then, if you haven’t got grit.  Thar ain’t many that would track through the woods that ar long.  And ye haven’t caught a glimpse of the gal nor heard nothin’ of her?”

“Not a thing yet; but it’s meself that ’xpacts to ivery day.”

“In course, or ye wouldn’ keep at the business.  But s’pose, my friend, you go on this way for a year more ­what then?”

“As long as I can thravel over the airth and Miss Cora isn’t found, me faat shall niver find rest.”

The trapper indulged in an incredulous smile.

“You’d be doing the same, Tim, if yees had iver laid eyes on Miss Cora or had iver heard her speak,” said Teddy, as his eyes filled with tears.  “God bliss her! she was worth a thousand such lives as mine ­”

“Don’t say nothin’” interrupted the trapper, endeavoring to conceal his agitation; “I’ve l’arned years ago what that business is.  The copperskins robbed me of a prize I’ll never git agin, long afore you’d ever seen one of the infarnal beings.”

“Was she a swateheart?”

“Never mind ­never mind; it’ll do no good to speak of it now.  She’s gone ­that’s enough.”

“How do you know she can’t be got agin, whin ­”

“She was tomahawked afore my eyes ­ain’t that enough?” demanded the trapper, indignantly.

“I axes pardon, but I was under the impression they had run away with her as they did with Miss Cora.”

“Hang ’em, no!  If they’d have done that I’d have chased ’em to the Pacific ocean and back agin afore I’d give ’em up.”

“And that’s what meself intends to do regarding Miss Cora.”

“Yer see, yer don’t know much about red-skins and their devilments, and therefore, it’s my private opine, instead of getting the gal, they’ll git you, and there’ll be the end on’t.”

“Tim, couldn’t yees make the s’arch wid me?” asked Teddy, in a deeply earnest voice.  The trapper shook his head.

“Like to do’t, but can’t.  It’s time I was up to the beaver runs this night and had my traps set.  Yer see I’m compelled to be in St. Louey at the end of six months and hain’t got a day to spare.”

“Mister Harvey has money, or, if he hasn’t, he has friends in St. Louis, be the same token, that has abundance of it, and you’d find it paid you bitter in the ind than catching poor, innocent beavers, that niver did yees harm.”

“I don’t foller sich business for money, but I’ve agreed to be in St. Louey at the time I was tellin’ you, and it’s allers a p’int of honor with me to keep my agreements.”

“Couldn’t yees be doing that, and this same thing, too?”

“Can’t do’t.  S’pose I should git on the trail that is lost, can yer tell me how fur I’d have to foller it?  Yer see I’ve been in that business afore, and know what it is.  Me and three others once chased a band of Blackfeet, that had carried off an old man, till we could see the peaks of the Rocky Mountains, and git a taste of the breath of wind that comes down from their ice and snow in middle summer.”

“Didn’t yees pursue the subjact any further?”

“We went fur enough to find that the nimble-footed dogs had got into the mountains, and that if we wanted to keep our ha’r, we’d only got to undertake to foller ’em thar.  So we just tramped back agin, havin’ our trouble for nothin’.”

“Wasn’t that about as poor a business, for yees, as this be for me, barring yees was hunting for an old man and I’m hunting for a young woman?”

“It warn’t as foolish by a long shot, ’cause we war on the trail all the time, and kept it, while you’ve lost yours, and never’ll be able to find it agin.  We war so close more nor once that we reached their camp-fires afore the embers had died out and from the tops of two, three hills we got a glimpse on ’em on thar horses.  We traveled all night a good many times, but it done no good as they done the same thing, and we found we war further away, if anything, next morning than we war at sundown.  If we’d ever lost the trail so as not to find it we’d guv up and come home, but we never done that nor never lost more nor an hour in lookin’ for it.  You see,” added the trapper, impressively, “you never have found the trail, and, therefore, there ain’t the shadder of a chance.”

“Begorrah, yees can’t blame us whin we tried to the bist of our indeavor to find it and wasn’t able.”

“Yer done the best yer knowed, I s’pose; but why didn’t four on ’em divide so as to let one go up one side the river and one t’other, and the same way down-stream.  Yer don’t s’pose that feller was able to keep paddlin’ forever in the river, do yer? and jist so soon as he landed, jist so sure would one of them Sioux find the spot where he touched land, and foller him to his hole.”

“Begorrah, if wees had only thought of that!”

“A Sioux is as cunning a red-skin as I ever found, and it’s jist my opine every one of ’em did think of that same thing, but they didn’t try it for fear they might catch the varmint!  They knew their man, rest assured o’ that.”

Teddy looked up as if he did not comprehend the meaning of the last remark.

“‘Cordin’ to yer own showin’, one of them infarnal copper-gals was at the bottom of the hull business, and it’s like as not the men knowed about it, too, and didn’t want to catch the gal!”

“There’s where yees are mightily mistook, as Pat McGuire said whin his landlord called him honest, for ivery one of them same chocolate-colored gintlemen would have done their bist for Master Harvey.  They would have cut that thaif’s wizzen wid a mighty good will, I knows.”

“Mebbe so, but I don’t believe it!” said the hunter, with an incredulous shake of his head.

“Would ye have me give up the s’arch altogether?”

“Can’t say that I would; howsumever, the chance is small, and ye’d better go west with me, and spend the winter in l’arning how to trap fur beaver and otter.”

“What good might result from that?”

“None, as I knows on.”

“Then it’s meself that thanks yees for the offer and respectfully declines to accept the nomination.  I’ll jist elict meself to the office of sheriff an’ go about these regions wid a s’arch-warrint in my shoes that’ll niver let me rist until Miss Cora is found.”

“Wal, I ‘spose we’ll part in the mornin’ then.  As yer say this are the first time you’ve got as fur north, I’ll say I think you’re nearer the trail than yer ever war yit.”

“What might be the reason for that?” eagerly asked Teddy.

“I can’t say what it is, only I kind o’ feel it in my bones.  Thar’s a tribe of copperskins about a hundred miles to the north’ard, that I’ll lay can tell yer somethin’ about the gal.”

“Indians?  An’ be what token would they be acquaint with her?”

“They’re up near the Hudson Bay Territory line, and be a harmless kind of people.  I stayed among ’em two winters and found ’em a harmless lot o’ simpletons that wouldn’t hurt a hair o’ yer head.  Thar’s allers a lot of white people staying among ’em.”

“I fails yit to see what they could be doing with Miss Cora.”

“Mind I tells yer only what I thinks ­not what I knows.  It’s my private opine, then, that that hunter has took the gal up among them Injins, and they’re both living thar.  If that be so, you needn’t be afeard to go right among ’em, for the only thing yer’ll have to look out fur will be the same old hunter himself.”

This remark made a deep impression upon Teddy.  He sat smoking his pipe, and gazing into the glowing embers, as if he could there trace out the devious, and thus far invisible, trail that had baffled him so long.  It must be confessed that the search of the Hibernian thus far had been carried on in a manner that could hardly be expected to insure success.  He had spent weeks in wandering through the woods, sleeping upon the ground or in the branches of some tree, fishing for awhile in some stream, or hunting for game ­impelled onward all the time by his unconquerable resolve to find Cora Richter and return her to her husband.  On the night that the five Sioux returned to the village, and announced their abandonment of the pursuit, Teddy told the missionary that he should never see him again, until he had gained some tidings of his beloved mistress, or had become assured that there could be no hope of her recovery.  How long this peculiar means of hunting would have gone on, it is impossible to tell, but most probably until Teddy himself had perished, for there was not the shadow of a chance of his gaining any information of the lost one.  His meeting with the trapper was purely accidental, and the hint thrown out by the latter was the reason of setting the fellow to work in the proper way.

The conversation was carried on for an hour or so longer, during which the trapper gave Teddy more advice, and told him the best manner of reaching the tribe to which he referred.  He cautioned him especially against delaying his visit any longer, as the northern winter was almost upon them, and should he be locked in the wilderness by it, it would be almost impossible for him to survive its rigor; but if he should be among the tribe, he could rest in security and comfort until the opening of spring.  Teddy concluded to do as his companion advised, and, after more unimportant conversation, both stretched themselves out by the camp-fire and slept.

Just as the earliest light was breaking through the trees, the trapper was on his feet, rekindling the fire.  Finding, after this was completed, that Teddy still slumbered, he brought him to his senses by several forcible applications of his foot.

“Begorrah, it’s meself that’s thinking yees ’av a mighty gintle way of coming upon one unawares, barring it’s the same as a kick from a wild horse.  I was dr’aming jist thin of a blast of powder in a stone quarry, which exploded under me feet, an’ sint me up in the ship’s rigging, an’ there I hung by the eaves until a lovely girl pulled me in at the front door and shut it so hard that the chinking all fell out of the logs, and woke me out of me pleasint delusions.”

The trapper stared at the Irishman incredulously, thinking him demented.  Teddy’s gaping and rubbing of his eyes with his fists, and, finally, his stretching of arms and legs, reassured Tim of the fellow’s sanity, and he added: 

“If yer hadn’t woke just now, I’d tried ef lammin’ yer over the head would’ve done any good.”

“Yees might have done that, as long as ye plaised, fur me sconce got used to being cracked at the fairs in the owld country.”

“I thought yer allers lived in this country.”

“Not always, or how could I be an Irishman?  God plaise I may niver live here long enough to forgit owld Ireland, the Gim of the Sea.  What’s the matter with yees now?”

The trapper having wandered a few yards from the camp-fire, had paused suddenly and stood gazing at the ground.  Teddy was obliged to repeat his question.

“What is it yees have diskivered?”

“Sign, or ye may shoot me.”

“Sign o’ what?”

“Injins, ye wood-head!  What else could I mean?”

Teddy now approached and narrowly examined the ground.  His knowledge of wood-craft had been considerably increased during the past month or two, and he had no difficulty in distinguishing the imprint of a moccasin.

“Look at the infarnal thing!” exclaimed the trapper, in disgust.  “Who’d a thort there’d ’ve been any of the warmints about, whin we took sich pains with our fire.  Why the chap didn’t send a piece of cold lead into each of our bread-baskets is more nor I can tell.  It would’ve sarved us both right.”

“P’raps thim tracks there was made fornenst the night, and that it’s ourselves that was not here first.”

“Don’t yer s’pose I know all about that?” demanded the trapper, savagely.  “Them tracks was made not more’n three or four hours ago.”

As he spoke.  Tim turned and followed it a rod or two, and then, as he came back, said: 

“If I had the time I’d foller it; but it goes just t’other way from what I want to go.  I think like ’nough it leads to the village that you want to find; so if yer’d like one of ’em to introduce yer to the rest on ’em, drive ahead and make his acquaintance.  Maybe he kin tell yer something about the gal.”

Teddy determined to follow the trail by all means.  He partook of the morning meal with the trapper, exchanged a pleasant farewell, and then the two parted never to meet again.

The footprints were distinct and easily followed.  Teddy advanced with long, loping strides, at a gait considerably more rapid than his usual one.  He indulged in curious reveries as he followed it, fancying it to be an unfriendly Indian with whom a desperate collision must inevitably take place, or some friendly member of the tribe, of whom the trapper had told him, that would prove a boon companion to him.  All at once he reached a small, marshy tract, where the trail was much more palpable; and it was here that he either saw or fancied the toes of the footprints turned outward, thus demonstrating that, instead of an Indian, he was following a white man.

The Hibernian’s heart throbbed at the thought that he was upon the track of the strange hunter, with all probability of overtaking him.  It caused his heart to throb violently to reflect how close he was upon the critical moment.  Drawing a deep breath and closing his lips tightly, he pressed on ready for the conflict.

The trail continued as distinct as ever, and the pursuit suffered no interruption until it entered a deep swamp into which Teddy hesitated to enter, its appearance was so dark and forbidding.  As he gazed into its gloomy depths, he was almost certain that he had discovered the home of the hunter.  That at that moment the criminal was within its confines, where perhaps the beloved Cora was imprisoned, a miserable and pining captive.  The thought maddened him, and he pressed forward so rashly that he soon found himself completely entrapped in a network of briers and brambles.  Carefully withdrawing into the open wood, it suddenly occurred to him, that if the hunter had passed through the thicket, there was no earthly necessity of his doing it.  He could pass around, and, if the footprints were seen upon the opposite side, it only remained to follow them, while, if they were not visible, it certified that he was still within the thicket and he could therefore shape his actions accordingly.

Teddy therefore made his way with patience and care around one end of the thicket.  He found the distance more considerable than he at first supposed.  It was full an hour before he was fairly upon the opposite side.  Here he made a careful search and was soon rewarded by finding unmistakable footprints, so that he considered it settled that the hunter had passed straight through the thicket.

“It’s a quaar being he is entirely, when it’s meself that could barely git into the thicket, and he might have saved his hide by making a short thramp around, rather than plunging through in this shtyle.”

Teddy pressed on for two hours more, when he began to believe that he was close upon the hunter, who must have traveled without intermission to have eluded him thus far.  He therefore maintained a strict watch, and advanced with more caution.

The woods began to thicken, and the Hibernian was brought to a stand-still by the sound of a rustling in the bushes.  Proceeding some distance further, he came upon the edge of a bank or declivity, where he believed the strange hunter had laid down to rest.  The footprints were visible upon the edge of the bank, and at the bottom of the latter was a mass of heavy undergrowth, so dense as effectually to preclude all observation of what might be concealed within it.

It was in the shrubbery, directly beneath him, that Teddy believed the hunter lay.  He must be wearied and exhausted, and no doubt was in a deep sleep.  Teddy was sure, in his enthusiasm, that he had obtained a glimpse of the hunter’s clothes through the interstices of the leaves, so that he could determine precisely the spot where he lay, and even the position of his body ­so eagerly did the faithful fellow’s wishes keep in advance of his senses.

And now arose the all-important question as to what he should do.  He might shoot him dead as he slept, and there is little question but what Teddy would have done it had he not been restrained by the simple question of expediency.  The hunter was alone, and, if slain, all clue to the whereabouts of Mrs. Richter would be irrecoverably lost.  What tidings that might ever be received regarding her, must come from the lips of him who had abducted her.  If he could desperately wound the man, he might frighten him into a confession, but then Teddy feared instead of wounding him merely with his rifle, he would kill him altogether if he attempted to shoot.

After a full half-hour’s deliberation, Teddy decided upon his course of action.  It was to spring knife in hand directly upon the face of the hunter, pin him to the ground and then force the confession from his lips, under a threat of his life, the Irishman mercifully resolving to slay him at any rate, after he had obtained all that was possible from him.

Teddy did not forget his experience of a few months before when the hunter gave him an involuntary bath in the river.  He therefore held his knife firmly in his right hand.  Now that he had concluded what to do, he lost no time in carrying his plan into execution.

He took a crouching position, such as is assumed by the panther when about to spring upon its prey, and then drawing his breath, he leaped downward.

A yelping howl, an impetuous scratching and struggling of the furious mass that he attempted to inclose in his arms, told Teddy that instead of the hunter, he had pounced down upon an innocent, sleeping bear!

It was well for the Irishman that the bear was peaceably inclined, else his search for the lost trail might have terminated then and there.  The brute, after freeing itself from its incubus, sprung off and made all haste into the woods, leaving Teddy gazing after it in stupefied amazement.  He rose to his feet, stared at the spot where it had last appeared and then drew a deep sigh, and sadly shook his head.

“I say nothing!  Be jabers! it’s meself that can’t do justice to the thame!”

Harvey Richter stood in his cabin-door, about five months after his great loss, gazing off toward the path which led to the Indian village, and which he had traveled so many, many times.  Sad and weary was his countenance, as he stood, at the close of the day, looking into the forest, as if he expected that it would speak and reveal what it knew of his beloved partner, who was somewhere concealed within its gloomy depths.  Ah, how many an hour had he looked, but in vain.  The forest refused to give back the lost, nor did it breathe one word of her, to ease the gloom which hung so heavily upon his soul.

A footfall caught his ear, and turning, he saw Teddy standing before him.  The face of the Irishman was as dejected as his own, and the widowed man knew there was scarce need of the question: 

“Have you heard anything, Teddy?”

“Nothing, sir, saving that nothing is to be learnt.”

“Not my will, but thine, oh God, be done!” exclaimed the missionary, reverently, and yet with a wailing sadness, that proved how unutterable was his woe.