Old Ruff, the Trapper; or, The Young Fur-Hunters

by Edward Sylvester Ellis

The scene now changes to the western slope of the Cascade Range.

The spot is hundreds of miles from where we last saw Old Ruff Robsart and Harry Northend. Long days and nights have passed since then, and during that time these two, who have become deeply attached to each other, have followed the river to its kenyon in the mountains, and taking advantage of a pass well known to the trapper, they have safely worked their way through the immense snowy chain, and are now upon the western slope, facing the Pacific.

It was a daring feat for these two to attempt, and many a time and oft they have been in the most imminent peril of their lives. Snow, biting arctic winds, fierce Indians, savage wild beasts and hunger—these were the enemies that man and boy were compelled to encounter again and again, and only the matchless skill of the great bear-tamer, his coolness and self-possession under all circumstances, his wonderful knowledge of the mountain solitudes and fastnesses, and the superb physical condition of both, enabled them to come forth from this tremendous labyrinth of snow-crowned peaks, roaring kenyons, dizzying ravines, gorges and chasms, not merely in as good condition as they entered, but (notably in the case of the lad) stronger, more rugged and better prepared to face the remaining difficulties to be overcome.

Although, as we have stated above, many days have passed since Maquesa and his little party gave them the slip on the river, yet despite the most determined exertions upon the part of the trapper, the trail had never been recovered.

Maquesa was one of the most cunning of a proverbially cunning race, and the lesson taught him by the sudden appearance of the mottled grizzly had not been taught in vain. He knew at once that his old adversary and friend was after him and his charge, and he “sloped” in such a decidedly French style that his pursuer with all his remarkable skill had not again caught sight or sound of him.

Finding that the trail was irrecoverably lost, the trapper gave up the attempt entirely, and believing that Maquesa’s ultimate destination was a village upon the other side of the Cascade, he made his way through by the shortest and most expeditious route, intending, if possible, to head him off.

That curiously colored bear seemed to have given up as hopeless the attempt to keep up with the two, as they slowly worked their way through the vast mountain-chain, and he had not been seen since their encampment several nights before in the pass.

Harry was alone in a glen where he had kindled a fire secure from the observation of any and all who did not pass too close. He had learned a great deal since he and his friend had left the river, and there was little danger of his committing the rash mistake that had marked his first essay in hunting a party of Blackfeet Indians.

Old Robsart carefully noted the rapid improvement of the lad, and he had come to trust him far more than he would have done a week before.

Harry was sitting alone with his blanket thrown over his shoulders, for there was a chilliness in the air that seemed to come from the snowy mountains on the east. His rifle was between his knees, and he sat upon a bowlder looking down in the embers, thinking and speculating upon the future.