Little danger of his again falling into the slumber from which he had been so rudely awakened. Holding his rifle in hand, he looked about, ready for the coming of white or red-men; but to his surprise, he saw neither.
“I do not know why Uncle Ruff persists in remaining away so long,” he mused, after he had waited some time in this manner; but, fifteen minutes more passed, when the familiar form of the old trapper debouched from the wood, bearing upon his shoulder the skins of three beavers, which he had taken from his traps. To each was appended the tail, which forms one of the choicest titbits of the hunters of the North-west.
“Didn’t I hear a gun?” asked old Robsart, the moment he came within speaking distance. “It sounded down in these parts and—hello! you fotched the old chap at last did you?” he exclaimed, abruptly pausing and staring at the inanimate form of the Blackfoot.
“It is the same red-skin that I told you about last night.”
“So I reckoned, the minute I looked on him. Don’t it prove what I said? That ’ere chap has been huntin’ ’round arter you ever since you started him toward the setting sun. He’s like a wolf, that you think you’ve got off your trail, when he starts up ag’in arter you’ve forgot all about him. He’s hunted night and day for you, and arter he’s sot eye on you has watched and waited for his chance; but he didn’t make out any thing by the game.”
“No; his career has ended to a certainty. That was a most fortunate shot of yours.”
“What yer talking ’bout?” demanded the trapper, staring savagely at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Why, I mean that rifle-shot of yours that killed the Blackfoot, just in time to save me.”
“Me! hain’t I just got back from visiting the traps, and hain’t pulled trigger this mornin’.”
It was now the turn of Little Rifle to be amazed, and the questions and answers that immediately followed revealed the fact that the bullet that stretched the Blackfoot low had not been fired by the old trapper, nor could he or the boy tell from whose friendly gun it came.