“But can’t you inquire of such Indians as you see?”
The old trapper indulged in a hearty laugh.
“One Blackfoot in a thousand can talk English, and you’d have to catch ’em and tie ’em up afore you could get an answer out of ’em.”
“Provided she is a captive among the Indians, we have an almost hopeless task before us,” said Harry, somewhat dispirited by the sweeping declaration of the trapper, who instantly added:
“But I don’t think she is in the hands of the varmints; we’ve got a different kind of work to do than that, and here we are close to the place where you camped.”
Picking their way through the ravine, they speedily stood upon the very spot where the last glimpse of Little Rifle had been given Harry Northend. Old Ruff paused, and placing his feet upon the dead ashes of the camp-fire, looked with a keen, searching glance about him. He was apparently examining the minutest objects, determined that not the slightest clew should escape his scrutiny.
“Have you found out any thing?” asked Harry, when he saw that he was through.
“Not a blamed thing,” was the reply; “stand whar you are for a time, till I take a look at the ground.”
This, the young lad supposed was the real test of the whole business, and he watched the actions of the old trapper, with an interest which it would be impossible to describe.
“I find tracks of yourn and hern here,” he said, straightening up after a long search, “but that snow has played the mischief. It fell arter she left, so as to hide her trail.”