The men who had been chasing Long-Hair, presently came straggling
back with their stories--each had a distinct one--of how the
fugitive escaped. They were wild looking fellows, most of them
somewhat intoxicated, all profusely liberal with their stock of
picturesque profanity. They represented the roughest element of
the well-nigh lawless post.

"I'm positive that he's wounded," said one. "Jacques and I shot at
him together, so that our pistols sounded just as if only one had
been fired--bang! that way--and he leaped sideways for all the
world like a bird with a broken leg. I thought he'd fall; but ve!
he ran faster'n ever, and all at once he was gone; just
disappeared."

"Well, to-morrow we'll get him," said another. "You and I and
Jacques, we'll take up his trail, the thief, and follow him till
we find him. He can't get off so easy."

"I don't know so well about that," said another; "it's Long-Hair,
you must remember, and Long-Hair is no common buck that just
anybody can find asleep. You know what Long-Hair is. Nobody's ever
got even with 'im yet. That's so, ain't it? Just ask Oncle Jazon,
if you don't believe it!"

The next morning Long-Hair was tracked to the edge. He had been
wounded, but whether seriously or not could only be conjectured. A
sprinkle of blood, here and there quite a dash of it, reddened the
grass and clumps of weeds he had run through, and ended close to
the water into which it looked as if he had plunged with a view to