Chapter XXII.—Life Among the Trappers.
IT is one thing to chase a horse; it is another thing to catch it. Little consideration and less sagacity are required to convince us of the truth of that fact.
The reader may perhaps venture to think this rather a trifling fact. We are not so sure of that. In this world of fancies, to have any fact incontestably proved and established is a comfort, and whatever is a source of comfort to mankind is worthy of notice. Surely our reader won’t deny that. Perhaps he will, so we can only console ourself with the remark that there are people in this world who would deny anything—who would deny that there was a nose on their face if you said there was!
Well, to return to the point, which was the chase of a horse in the abstract; from which we will rapidly diverge to the chase of Dick Varley’s horse in particular. This noble charger, having been ridden by savages until all his old fire and blood and mettle were worked up to a red heat, no sooner discovered that he was pursued than he gave a snort of defiance, which he accompanied with a frantic shake of his mane and a fling of contempt in addition to a magnificent wave of his tail. Then he thundered up the valley at a pace which would speedily have left Joe Blunt and Henri out of sight behind if—ay! that’s the word, if! What a word that if is! what a world of ifs we live in! There never was anything that wouldn’t have been something else if something hadn’t intervened to prevent it! Yes, we repeat, Charlie would have left his two friends miles and miles behind in what is called " no time," if he had not run straight into a gorge which was surrounded by inaccessible precipices, and out of which there was no exit except by the entrance, which was barred by Henri, while Joe advanced to catch the runaway.
For two hours at least did Joe Blunt essay to catch Charlie, and during that space of time he utterly failed.
“It won’t do, Henri,” said Joe, advancing towards his companion, and wiping his forehead with the cuff of his leathern coat; “I can’t catch him. The wind’s a’most blowed out o’ me body.”
“Dat am vexatiable,” replied Henri, in a tone of commiseration. “S’pose I wos make try?”
