No more than the first gray streaks of dawn had shot up from the eastern horizon, when the disappointed rangers were again astir. Their horses—which had been picketed upon the prairie, each with a long rope, after the ranger fashion of feeding—were first taken to a little stream to drink, and then moved to a fresh place, to graze until their riders were prepared to mount. Such provision as they had made against their own hunger was then dispatched, without delay, and with little preparation. Fortunately, however, the wedding feast had furnished viands enough for more than ten times their number; and with the readiness of the women of those days, each had been provided by wife, sister, or sweetheart—with supplies, ample and well selected.

It was now plain, that the chase before them was a long one; and it was no equivocal augury of their resolution to follow it to the end, that they thus set out with systematic prudence.

By the time they had finished a hasty breakfast, and each taken a deep draught from the stream where they had watered their horses, the gray of the dawn had deepened into red, and the dew-drops upon the bending grass were sparkling like diamonds in the opening light. The birds within the grove were fluttering, full of matin songs, from branch to branch, or floating off—in long and graceful flights—far over the verdant plain: the grouse came out upon the knolls, where the herbage was short and green, and strutting pompously from side to side, clumsily plumed themselves in the morning beams: on the ridges, farther off, the deer stalked out from sheltering hollows, and stamping daintily upon the ground, or tossing proudly up their antlered heads, snuffed vainly at the rising wind. A low, faint sigh, as of a passing spirit, floated—scarcely audible—along the jeweled grass, and shook the jewels gently from the blades. The stars went slowly out, or blended in the brightening hue of heaven; the shadows—that still lingered round the groves—were fading rapidly, or deepening into shade; the red in the east grew yellow, and an arc of white announced the sun’s approach. The day had taken full possession of the earth and sky.

“There is light enough now, boys,” said Edgar, rising to his feet, “to begin the search for the trail. Let us saddle up and be off.”

Time was never wasted by these men: within five minutes all were in the saddle, and extended along the northern and western skirts of the grove, in search of indications left by the enemy. A signal was given by one at the extreme north—the trail was found, and the whole company at once galloped to the place. Edgar sprang to the ground, and examined the track.

“Just as I suspected, boys,” said he, remounting. “There has been but one Red-skin here, and he has been sent this way, to build that fire and attract us from the pursuit.”

“Indian like,” said White; “they have used our own vigilance to circumvent us. But we’ll never give it up so, captain.”

“Never,” was Edgar’s decided answer. “But we have lost the trail, and must recover it. We must separate into small parties, and continue the chase. We are pretty nearly due east from the Portage, for which, I think, they are making—at all events, they will not go south of it. We will meet—in the evening—there; or, if the trail should turn northward, we may come together sooner. Let no one linger on the way—we have lost too much time already.”

The company was soon divided into squads of two and three; Edgar took with him White and George Fielding; and—repeating the injunction not to linger—rode away to the north-west. The three other divisions set out at the same time, upon diverging lines; but all maintaining the same general direction.

For an hour, those in the centre kept all the rest in view; but, at the end of that time, the undulations of the prairie, and the rapidity with which they traveled, had completely separated them. Edgar, and the two companions—whom he had chosen as well for the excellence of their horses, as for their well-known courage and coolness—were upon the extreme right, or northern flank—a post which the young captain had selected, both on account of its danger, and for the advantage it gave him, should the Indians turn to the north. It is with him, that we must continue the chase.

Several hours passed away, during which they had crossed the belts of timber which grew upon the banks of two or three prairie streams; when, on approaching one of the branches of the Cahokia, they suddenly found themselves upon the trail of a single horseman. Keeping away from the timber, it stretched toward the north, parallel with the course of the stream, disdaining the concealment which might have been found in the wood. The three drew up, and Edgar dismounted.

“It is the same Indian who kindled the fire,” he said, after a short scrutiny of the track. “What think you?”

“That if we follow him,” White replied, “we shall be led away from the chase. He takes too much pains to show us which way he has gone.”

“You are right,” said Edgar; “for he has passed here since sunrise, and his horse was as fresh as when he left the grove. The water is all brushed from his tracks, but is not disturbed between. We’ll not follow him.”

And, without further consultation, he sprang again to the saddle, and resumed his original direction—verging, indeed, rather from, than toward, the solitary trail. Those little indications—like circumstantial evidence—more convincing than positive declarations, or more apparent signs, satisfied him that this was an attempt to draw him off. He smiled at the shallowness of the deceit, and rode away. His companions understood his reasoning almost instinctively. [The fact that the grass was dry in the tracks, proved that they had been made since sunrise; because the dew must have ceased to drip from one blade to another, and its being undisturbed between, established the freshness of the Indian’s horse, because every bound was a clear spring from the ground.] Fifteen minutes brought them to the outskirts of Cahokia timber; and, after a rigid examination of this, they issued again upon the prairie toward the West, maintaining the same course.

They were now approaching a more densely wooded country. The prairies grew narrower, and were broken, here and there, by groves, and strips of timber, along the banks of numerous little streams. The ground became uneven, in places even hilly; and every thing denoted the approach to the Mississippi. This continued for about three hours, during which they had made scarcely five miles an hour: it was noon, too, and the September sun was pouring upon their heads the overpowering heat of the season. A halt became necessary, both for men and horses. Edgar rode within the shelter of the timber, and dismounted on the bank of a shallow stream—the first they had seen with a gravelly bed.

“We must rest awhile, boys,” he said, “and recruit our horses—or we shall break down before night.”

His companions followed his example; and all led their panting horses to the stream, to drink of its clear sparkling waters. But Edgar drew his back, suddenly, before he had touched the tide; and, arresting the others in the same manner, pointed to the bottom of the rivulet.

“Is not that a horse’s track?” he asked, indicating the spot with his rifle.

“Yes,” said White, “and here are more! And here, to the left, they are plainer, and more numerous. Our visitors must have passed this way, and are not going to the Portage!”

The tracks were but faint prints in the shifting gravel of the stream; and, to the eyes of less observant men, would have been quite void of meaning. It was, however, the peculiar faculty of Western Rangers, never to overlook any thing; and their attention once attracted, but a few moments were consumed in determining that, fifteen or twenty horsemen had ridden along the bed of the stream; that they were Indians, and traveling in haste. It might seem a more difficult matter to fix, even approximately, the length of time which had elapsed since their passage; but the invention of rangers was seldom at fault.

“George,” said the captain to Fielding, “get on your horse, and ride up the stream a few rods—as fast as he can walk—in among those tracks.”

Fielding obeyed; and, turning out of the stream a short distance above, came back and dismounted. The little party now stripped their horses of their harness; and, picketing them upon the sweet herbage, stretched themselves upon the sward at the margin of the stream. As soon as the agitation in the waters had ceased, Edgar fixed his gaze upon the footprints—plainly visible—of Fielding’s horse, and watched the gradual process of their filling up, by the current. Scarcely a pebble, or a grain of sand was washed into one of them, that he did not note—scarcely a minute passed whose influence he did not estimate, in slowly obliterating the trail; and when, at the end of an hour, he rose and walked nearer to the water, but a few moments of scrutiny were sufficient to determine how long it would be before the new tracks were as nearly filled up, as were the old when he saw them first.

“They are quite six hours ahead of us,” he said; “and to-morrow night will see them, before we will.”

“They must be making for the ford^[8], above the Piasan Bluffs,” said White; “and, if so, will not cross the Mississippi.”

“That is rather too far north,” Edgar replied; “but we will follow them, if they go to the Starved Rock.”

So saying, he threw the saddle again upon his horse, and—imitated by his companions—remounted for the pursuit.

“I think, George,” said he, after a minute’s reflection, “you had better ride on to the Portage; the men will all be there by the middle of the afternoon. Tell them to bait their horses for an hour, and then follow us with all speed, so as to join us at the mouth of the Illinois by sunrise to-morrow. Unless the trail should lead us too much out of the way, we will wait for them there. If you do not find us there, look for three columns of smoke, ranging north and south, and make all haste to come up.”

Fielding made no reply; but, putting spurs to his horse, turned his head to the west, and was soon out of sight—while Edgar and White, now left alone, took their way as rapidly as was possible up the banks of the stream. It was a small force with which to attack twenty savages; but, had the odds been ten times greater, Edgar’s eagerness and White’s zeal would have felt no check. What they might not effect by the strong hand, they trusted to stratagem to compass; and even the savage was no match for the ranger, in cunning.

The two adventurers had gone scarcely a mile, when they were brought suddenly to a halt. The trail was about equally divided—one half the party keeping up the bed of the stream, and the other half issuing toward the left, and leading off westward. This was embarrassing. The prisoner could not be with both divisions; and it was extremely difficult to determine which to follow.

“We are at fault,” said Edgar.

“There is a sign which may set us right,” exclaimed White, pointing to a little strip of some white stuff which fluttered upon a bush, but a few paces from the water. “The briars have befriended us at need.”

Edgar rode rapidly to the place. A narrow strip—evidently torn from Jane’s bridal dress—hung fluttering upon a briar, as if caught in passing. He halted at the distance of several yards, and cautiously approached on foot, closely scrutinizing the ground at every step. The horses had passed, without doubt, near enough to brush against the briars; but directly beneath the fragment, a small dry twig was broken, and the leaves about it were flattened to the ground.

“A mocassined foot has been set there,” he muttered. And on directing the examination to the fragment, his suspicion was confirmed—that it was not accident, but design which placed it there. The fabric was not drawn, as it would have been, had it been torn in passing; and it bore marks of a larger hand than Jane’s.

“They are trying to outwit us, White,” said the captain; “but they don’t know with whom they have to deal. This little piece of muslin is a Red-skin lie—though it did come from Jane Fielding’s dress. We must keep up the stream, and let those decoys go on their way.”

“It has been ascertained,” says Chateaubriand, “that the white man, in America, is capable of enduring more hardships and privations than the Indian, and is decidedly his superior even in his own mode of warfare:” and thence he deduces sundry propositions about differences in race, and other unprofitable speculations. But the facts, about which there is no dispute, instead of being the result of generic distinctions, are the effects of a much later cause—superior intellectual culture. Not that the rangers of those days were highly educated men, in the ordinary acceptation of the term; but any degree in the scale of civilization, by the providence of God, possesses measureless advantages—in all the pursuits of life—over every lower grade. And, though these were decidedly ignorant men, their evident superiority over their enemies—without contradiction in terms—was the fruit of their intelligence.

We cannot linger to detail the minute and, to other men, imperceptible signs, or the acute and logical reasonings upon these, which led the adventurers unerringly upon their way: though all would illustrate, so clearly, the principle above. They followed the trail, after it left the stream, several miles toward the north; when, on entering the broken country on the head waters of the Piasan, it verged suddenly to the left, and led, almost “as the bird flies,” directly toward the Illinois river. A little before sunset, they reached the banks of this tranquil stream; and but a moment’s examination was sufficient to determine that the fugitives had crossed here some hours before.

But this was not the only inference that Edgar drew from the signs of their halt. The footprints of several horses led off from the river, in different directions; but it was in that uncertain, winding way which animals take while grazing—and from the extent of these paths, it was evident that a halt of some duration had been made. While minutely examining the ground, the captain suddenly discovered the print of a small shoe, and following it a little aside, he approached the river bank, and discovered the impress of both Jane’s feet in the soft loam. Directly over these, upon a willow branch, hung a small shell comb—evidently placed there as a signal for him. Beside her footprints were those of two savages, who had sought her, and dragged her roughly back to the halting point. Edgar noted these things with the coolness, but also with the fierceness of the ranger; and—grasping his rifle tighter in his hand—walked back to his companion.

“They must have halted here two or three hours,” said the latter.

“They think they outwitted us, and are safe,” replied Edgar. “But they cannot be more than three hours ahead of us, and I think we may overhaul them to-night.”

“They are twenty to two,” said White. “We must wait for the men.”

“We can cross the river,” Edgar answered, “and ride on as long as we have light. By that time we can see which direction the Indians have taken; you can then return here and hasten up the men, who must reach this point before midnight.”

It required but few minutes to cross the river, which at this season is always low. Upon the western bank the trail was still more apparent than upon the eastern. Here, also, there had been a halt, though not so long. “Three hours of daylight, now,” thought Edgar, “and we should overhaul them:” he forgot that his force was but one to ten—that he was more than a hundred miles from any settlement, in the midst of a vast solitude, where he could meet none but enemies. Nor would the reflection have disturbed him, had it occurred. He saw but one image—the helpless captive in the hands of his most hated foes; and, cool and considerate as he usually was, he would not have hesitated to encounter the whole band, with his single strong arm. Fortunately, perhaps, no such opportunity seemed likely to be offered him; for, after winding about for a few miles among the bluffs, the trail ascended the ridge which divides the two rivers, and here turning again toward the north, the fugitives had evidently increased their speed. The long twilight, too, was deepening into night, and the fear of again going astray would compel a halt, so soon as the tracks became invisible.

They followed, however, with all practicable speed, for an hour longer—dismounting at every offshoot from the main ridge, to ascertain their direction; but, at the end of that time, it was no longer safe to proceed, and Edgar reluctantly drew up.

“You had better return to the river now, White,” said he, “and bring the men up as fast as possible. I will expect you before daybreak.”

“If they do not come up, I’ll return myself,” said White; and, turning about, he rode away to the south.

The hardy ranger was now left alone, in the midst of the wilderness. Night had closed in, moonless—and the stars twinkled but faintly down through the woods. The wind—as is usual in this country—had subsided toward evening, and sunset had been followed by a dead calm. When the footsteps of White’s horse died away in the distance, the silence of the grave added depth and awe to the solitude. Not a branch waved—scarcely a leaf stirred; and even the trickling of a little spring, in a ravine near him, only served to make the stillness audible—as a glimmering light but renders darkness visible.

Edgar dismounted, and led his tired horse in the direction of the sound; and, having allowed him to drink, divested him of his harness, and picketed him on a slope of green grass near the spring. His own thirst satisfied, he then seated himself at the foot of a tree; and, drawing his blanket up over him, endeavored to sleep. The stillness was broken only by his horse, eagerly cropping the sweet grass; and the monotony of the dripping fountain, combined with his fatigue, soon brought on that half-dreamy state which precedes oblivion. Indeed, his head was thrown back against the tree, and his eyes were closed, when he suddenly sprung to his feet, and standing as motionless as the trees about him, assumed the attitude of profound listening.

——