Chapter Eighty Eight.
Rube Consulting his Oracle.
He was standing apart from the rest—leaning, I should rather say, for his body was not erect, but diagonal. In this attitude it was propped by his rifle, the butt of which was steadied against the stump of a tree, whilst the muzzle appeared to rest upon the bridge of Rube’s own nose.
As the man and the piece were about of a length, the two just placed in juxtaposition presented the exact figure of an inverted V, and the small close-capped skull of the trapper formed a sufficiently tapering apex to the angle. Both his hands were clasped round the barrel, near its muzzle, his fingers interlocking, while the thumbs lay flat—one upon each side of his nose.
At first glance, it was difficult to tell whether he was gazing into the barrel of the piece, or beyond it upon the Indian camp.
The attitude was not new to him nor to me; it was not the first time I had observed him in a posture precisely similar. I knew it was his favourite pose, when any question of unusual difficulty required all the energy of his “instincts.” He was now, as often of yore, consulting his “divinity,” presumed to dwell far down within the dark tube of “Targuts.”
After a time, all the others ceased to speak, and stood watching him. They knew that no step would be taken before Rube’s advice had been received; and they waited with more or less patience for him to speak.
Full ten minutes passed, and still the old trapper neither stirred nor spoke. Nor lip nor muscle of him was seen to move; the eyes alone could be detected in motion, and these small orbs, scintillating in their deep sockets, were the only signs of life which he showed. Standing rigid and still, he appeared, not a statue, but a scarecrow, propped up by a stick; and the long, brown, weather-washed rifle did not belie the resemblance.