“Which his name?”
The lad hesitated a moment, not knowing whether it was prudent or not to use deception under the circumstances, but his questioner manifested some impatience at the attempt already made to parry his queries, and he concluded it best to reply truthfully.
“He is known as Old Ruff the mountaineer, although he has been more in the trapping business lately; there lies one of the animals that he tamed to be his dog.”
He noticed a slight manifestation of surprise upon the part of the Indian as he made this reply, and just then the impression came with renewed force that he had seen him before. Where could it be? Ah! now he recalled. He was one of the Blackfeet that he and Old Ruff had seen in the canoe, when scrutinizing Little Rifle through the field-glass.
Could it be Maquesa? was the next question that came to the mind of Harry, when he took occasion at the same instant to throw a sidelong glance at the other two, in the hope that possibly he could recognize one of them as the chief.
But the scrutiny through the glass had not been complete enough to enable him to do this. He believed that all three of his visitors had been in the canoes at that time, but whether either of them was the Blackfoot for whom he and the old hunter had been so persistently searching for many days, and for whom the trapper was hunting this very moment, whether he was one of the three, he could only conjecture.
When the red-skin received the reply recorded, he was silent a moment or two, looking sharply down in the face of the boy, who felt somewhat embarrassed by the keen scrutiny.
“Where he be now?” he asked, lowering his voice, but keeping his eyes fixed upon him.
“He is gone—he went away to-day—he is down yonder at the foot of the mountain somewhere.”
“Why he go—why he leave white pappoose all alone for big bear to eat him up?”