The Blackfeet ahead had ceased paddling again. Certain that they had heard nothing of him, old Robsart was naturally curious to know the cause, and he ceased, too, permitting his canoe to float with the current.
For several seconds every thing remained as silent as the tomb, and then he detected a sound which he understood too well.
“Good!” he growled, with a grin of delight. “The varmints have landed to go into camp, and now the fun will begin!”
CHAPTER VIII.
“SPECKLED BEAUTY” IN CAMP.
The old hunter kept his canoe motionless in the current until he was certain that every one of the Blackfeet had left their boats, and had pulled them up on the shore, beyond danger of being swept away by the current.
Even then he waited until no doubt could remain of their intention to kindle a fire and to make a prolonged halt. As soon as he caught the first twinkle of their camp-fire, he shot his boat swiftly to the bank, and stepping softly out, drew the prow clean up out of the water, beneath some overhanging bushes, where it could not be seen by any one who might accidentally pass near.
Not the slightest movement indicated that there was any danger of awakening on the part of the lad, and confident that there was not, he only paused long enough to gather the bushes a little more compactly about the boat, so as to make the concealment as perfect as possible.
Old Ruff then, with rifle in hand, straightened up and looked off in the darkness, turning his gaze up instead of down the river.
“I don’t hear any thing of Speckled Beauty,” he mused; “but I s’pose I’ve traveled a little too fast in the darkness for him to keep track of us all the way; but he’ll be along arter awhile.”
With this confident conclusion, he moved off in the direction of the camp-fire, which was now burning brightly and cheerily, and the bustle and activity of the red-skins about the blaze made the scene interesting if not cheerful to the ordinary looker-on.