His gun could not be otherwise than wet, but the charge was dry, and it could be relied upon to do its duty in case of an emergency; and it was well that it was thus, for the danger was at hand.
Seeing that he was backed up by his young friend, Harry withdrew his gaze from him and resumed his scrutiny of the three Blackfeet, still standing in full view upon the rock.
He had no more than turned his head when one of the Indians took a step forward. There was a pause, and then he burst through the thin, glassy sheet, as he made his plunge, his dark body being seen for one instant in mid-air, incased in the transparent setting, and then the crouching body landed almost upon the head of Harry, who hastily drew back to avoid a collision with him.
Moving forward to grapple with the red-skin and to endeavor to throw him over the ledge before he could recover, he saw him with amazement roll over as if in great agony, and then, dropping like a log from the slippery rock, he instantly shot down from sight, vanishing in the seething waters below—gone from human sight forever.
All this took place in such a brief space of time that Harry was completely puzzled to understand what it meant. He could divine no reason why the Blackfoot, after effecting a landing, should take it into his head to commit suicide in that fashion. It was impossible that he should have lost his footing so completely that he was unable to prevent the catastrophe, and yet what else could have done it?
In his perplexity he turned about again to see whether Little Rifle could gesticulate any explanation, and the young trapper did, so effectually that it could not be misunderstood, for, as Harry glanced at him, he was in the act of ramming home another charge in his rifle.
This explained it all. Little Rifle was prepared, and the instant the red-skin broke through the glassy sheet of water, he had fired, giving him an almost instantly fatal wound.
What a vivid realization of the deafening roar of the water, that the gun, although fired directly over his head, and almost within arm’s-length, still failed to give him the slightest report.
Little Rifle now showed a keenness of perception and a fertility of resources which in reality was nothing short of the wonderful. As he stood with his rifle held to his shoulder, and his finger pressing the trigger, his view of the Indian bursting through the sheet of water, like the athlete of the hippodrome leaping through the ring of paper, was sharply distinct, although but for a passing moment of time.
The expression upon the face of the Blackfoot was that of surprise at seeing the two lads before him. He did not expect to see them—was not looking for them, and the red-skins who remained upon the outside were not aware of their being there.