LITTLE RIFLE;
OR,
THE YOUNG FUR HUNTERS.

BY CAPT. “BRUIN” ADAMS,
AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POCKET NOVELS:
No. 9. Lightning Jo. No. 78. Old Ruff, the Trapper.

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
FRANK STARR & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

LITTLE RIFLE,
THE BOY TRAPPER.

CHAPTER I.
ON THE UPPER COLUMBIA.

Along the shores of one of the branches of the Upper Columbia, a lad was making his way with a care and stealth that showed he was on the alert for danger, let it come in whatsoever form it chose.

A casual glance at the boy would have led one to pronounce him about fifteen or sixteen years of age. He was prepossessing and handsome to a remarkable degree. The cheeks glowed with the hue of health, the rose-tint being as fine as that of the sea-shell; the features were almost classical in their regularity; the teeth small and clear as pearls, the eyes large and lustrous, and the hair dark and wavy, but cut quite short. The hands and feet were small and shapely, and a certain careless grace of movement, shown even in his cautious gait, proved that “Little Rifle,” as the lad was called, possessed a rare activity, and an extraordinary command of his bodily powers.

His dress was thoroughly backwoods in every respect, consisting of the buck-skin leggings rather gaudily fringed and ornamented, the moccasins embroidered with beads, the skirt descending to the knees, and clasped at the waist by a broad belt, into which was thrust a knife, the horn handle only being visible. Within the bosom of the skirt, and out of sight, was a small revolver, intended only to be used when necessity compelled it. A string passing over one and under the other shoulder, sustained a powder-flask and bullet-pouch; but there was no game-bag visible, for the reason that the game the hunters bring down in that latitude can not be carried very conveniently, especially when the hunter is a boy in his teens.

In the left hand Little Rifle carried a beaver-trap, while a small, silver-mounted rifle rested upon his right shoulder, and was held in place by his other hand.

The day was drawing to a close, and there was a mellowed subdued quiet resting upon wood and stream that made the hour and the place one of the most attractive imaginable. The branch of the Columbia, at this point, flowed quite swiftly but with a steady, unruffled sweep, that was in perfect keeping with silence and solitude. The banks on either hand were varied by rock, wood and prairie, the country itself being of the most romantic nature.

Looking off to the east and south, the eye caught a glimpse of distant mountain peaks, standing out white and clear against the blue horizon, like a snowy conical cloud, and the intervening stretch of country was broken by hills, ravines, gorges, wood, stream, rocks and prairie, in an interminable jungle, making a country that was the chosen roaming-ground of the fiercest wild animals, the most valuable game, and the wild Indian, and the equally wild hunter and trapper.

Turning the eye to the westward, it was greeted with a vision of magnificence and grandeur. In this clear, brilliant air, which makes the climate of Oregon rival that of Italy, there was a sharp, clear distinctness to the Cascade Range, fifty miles away, that would have made any one believe that the distance was scarcely a quarter. Some of the loftiest peaks shone white against the sky, but as they towered aloft, their immense slopes could be seen to be covered with verdure, that was tinged with a misty blue, when viewed through the half a hundred miles of atmosphere.

Little Rifle was moving up the left bank of the stream, with his face turned toward the Cascade Range, except when he darted his quick, wide-awake glances in the direction of the river’s bank on his right hand, varied now and then by an equally inquisitive look at the wood and rocks in front and on his left.

“Uncle Ruff told me yesterday that there were plenty signs of beaver further up the stream,” mused the lad, as he walked along, “and I know that they have been thinned out down below, so that I haven’t had a bite in this trap for three days. I’ll set it a mile or two further up, where it will pay to make it a visit early in the morning.” And he held up the trap and turned it around before his eyes, as if it were a new thing altogether. It resembled the ordinary “steel-trap,” except that it was considerably larger.

The ease with which the lad carried the cumbersome load, attested the strength which this manner of living had given him. Like all little chaps, he was given to conversing with himself, when walking alone, and to-day he seemed in quite a chatty vein.

“Old Ruff went off on a hunt yesterday, and told me he would not be back for several days, and I’m to keep the old cabin till he shows himself again. I’ve done that often enough to understand it; but I wish he was home to-night.”

Something like a shade of sadness passed over the boy’s face as he uttered these words. It may be that it was only a natural feeling of loneliness; an evidence of that longing for companionship, which, at times, comes over us all, and is scarcely ever absent from youth.

“I wonder whether Uncle Ruff knows any more of my life than he has told me,” he added, following up the vein of thought. “That is little enough, at any rate. Years ago, when I was very young, he found me, and hasn’t any more idea than have I of who my parents are, and how it was I came to be in this part of the world.”

Little Rifle might have continued in this reverie for hours, even after the sun had disappeared, but for the fact that his surroundings prevented. That veteran of the Oregon woods, known as Old Ruff Robsart, had not kept him under his special training for years, without accomplishing something. One of his lessons was that when a hunter was outside of his cabin, or place of retreat, he should never go to sleep; which in more intelligible language meant that ‘day-dreaming’ or reverie, of all things was to be avoided, and the true hunter or trapper never failed to keep every faculty wide awake, on the alert for insidious danger liable at any moment to leap out upon him.

The lad had cast his glance several times toward the other bank, and the result in each case appeared to be unsatisfactory. There was something there which caused him considerable speculation and misgiving.

If we had been there, it is hardly possible that we should have noticed it, but it could not escape the eye of the boy trapper, who, walking more slowly each moment, finally came to a dead halt, dropping the trap to the ground, and wheeling about so as to face the suspicious point.

The stream to which we have alluded was about two hundred yards in width. There were scarcely any trees at all growing upon the opposite side at this particular position, but there was an abundance of undergrowth and a species of long high grass peculiar to the spot.

That which had arrested the reverie of Little Rifle was not the suspicion, but the certainty that something was moving along the bank, beneath the clustering grass. What it was even he was unable to say. It had caught his eye, or rather the indications of it had, when he was a short distance further down-stream. An unnatural agitation of the grass was the sign that caused him to scrutinize it with unwonted sharpness, until, as we have already shown, he paused in his walk and faced directly about.

It would seem, even with what he had learned, that there was little cause for alarm, for there were many ways in which the appearance could be explained. In the first place, as it moved with the current, it might be that it was a log or piece of driftwood that moved tardily, on account of its proximity to shore, and the obstruction of the grass.

And then, if not an inanimate object, what more probable than that it was some beast of prey stealing along in quest of its victim?

Both of these considerations were in the mind of Little Rifle, but were rejected after a moment’s thought. His life had taught him to think quickly, and he was not long in making up his mind that there was good cause for alarm.

“Neither logs nor animals travel in that style,” he muttered, carefully following the agitated grass and undergrowth, and watching intently for the chance when some inadvertence would give him a more satisfactory glimpse of the object. “It is either a white man or Indian, with the chances altogether in favor of its being the Indian. We are too far up in the mountains for white folks to give us much trouble, and I remember that Uncle Ruff told me to be unusually careful, for he had seen signs of Blackfeet both up and down-stream, and if they have been hunting in these parts we can make up our minds that they have found our traps, and are on a hunt for us. I think that one of the Blackfeet is now in the grass yonder.”

The wish of Little Rifle was gratified. He had stood but a minute, when a mass of tall grass swayed to one side, and, at the same instant, he saw the prow of a birch canoe stealing as insidiously along as a panther approaches its prey.

“Just what I thought!” exclaimed the lad. “It is one of those Blackfeet, that Old Ruff says will follow a man a thousand miles to get his scalp. I’ll bet he is after mine.”

Whoever occupied the canoe—friend or foe—showed that he was aware of the scrutiny to which he was subjected; for the boat, which up to this time had progressed with unvarying steadiness, now abruptly stood still.

This attempt to remove suspicion was too evident for the lad to mistake it; and with a tact which proved not only his remarkable training, but his native keenness, he took advantage of the “situation,” with scarcely a second’s pause.

Picking up his trap, he wheeled half-way round, and walked directly on among the undergrowth and rocks, and almost immediately vanished from view. His action was precisely that of one who was satisfied that nothing was wrong, and who had resumed the quiet tenor of his way.

But exactly the opposite was the case. He was resolved before venturing further up the stream to find out precisely the nature of the danger that impended. It was one of the maxims of old Robsart never to leave the presence of danger until he had learned all about it.

This stealthy movement of the Blackfoot very probably had a deep significance, which Little Rifle was determined to penetrate, if such a thing were possible.

After walking a hundred yards, and reaching a point where he felt secure from observation, he once more laid the trap upon the ground, and examined his rifle. The latter was a perfect weapon in its way, fitted to carry a ball a great distance with accuracy and was just suited to the strength of the lad. He handled it, too, like one who understood its use, as indeed he did.

Every thing seemed to be satisfactory, and in as perfect order as he could desire.

“The gun is reliable,” was his satisfied exclamation, as he threw it over his shoulder again; “now, if I ain’t mistaken, there’s going to be trouble between a boy about my size, and a Blackfoot Indian a good deal bigger!”

CHAPTER II.
LITTLE RIFLE AND “BIG INJIN.”

The sun had long since passed down out of sight, behind the Cascade Range, and a sort of twilight gloom rested upon wood and river. Not a sound reached the ear, except the faint hollow roar of the forest, and the distant rush of the waterfall, where the river poured over the rocks on the way to the ocean.

Little Rifle moved along with the careless stride of the free easy-going hunter, who knows precisely where his footsteps are leading him, and what he may expect when he gets there. It was curious too to note the silence with which he advanced. The most skillful trailer among the Blackfeet could not have guided his moccasins with a softer rustle that seemed more like the creeping of the reptile than the motion of the human foot.

The boy did not approach the stream until he had reached a point fully an eighth of a mile from where he had left it, and then it was upon his hands and knees.

Reaching a spot that afforded him the view he was seeking, he peered out from his concealment, directing his eyes at once toward the place where he had last seen the canoe. The distance was so great that even his young keen eyes were unable to see any thing unusual for a moment. Suddenly, however, he exclaimed in an excited whisper:

“There goes the old chap, as sure as the world, and he thinks he is going to git me.”

As he spoke, the canoe which had caused him so much uneasiness, shot out from the opposite side, and headed directly across stream, the boat, as far as he was able to judge, aiming for the spot where he had been standing.

Little Rifle waited hardly a minute after the canoe came in sight, when he crawled hastily back for a rod or so, then plunged into the protection of the shrubbery and undergrowth, and retraced the very ground over which he had passed but a few minutes before.

This time he went at all speed, for his object was to reach the point ahead of the red-skin. He ran like a regular hunter, with a long, loping trot, his feet sounding like the stealthy tread of a beast of prey, while he kept glancing from side to side in that fashion which seemed to characterize him at all times during his waking hours.

Little Rifle was in good luck this afternoon, for he reached his destination at the very second that he wished to do so.

He heard the dip of the paddle, as the canoe made its way through the swift current, and a moment later the Blackfoot’s head came to view, as he propelled the canoe swiftly forward. Entirely unsuspicious of danger, he ran the prow of the boat hard against the shore and almost at the same instant leaped out.

As Little Rifle was thus afforded a full view of the red-skin, he was sure that he had never seen a more repulsive creature on two legs. A dirty blanket lay in the bottom of the canoe, and the hair, instead of being gathered in the ornamented tuft or topknot, hung entirely loose and straggling about his shoulders. The face itself was daubed and plastered with differently colored clay, mixed with grease and some other compound that made the copper-skin the very acme of filth and ugliness. The countenance by nature was as hideous as possible, being seamed with small-pox, while the nose was of enormous size, flattened out to an immense width, by the process which has given this tribe their distinctive name among the hunters and trappers of the West.

There was the imprint of a villainous nature upon this same countenance. It was stamped so clearly, that it could be seen and read through all the dirt and grease that was smeared over it.

As Little Rifle looked upon the Blackfoot, he felt also that he was gazing upon the face of a murderer, one who would bury his tomahawk into his brain with as little compunction as if he were a wild animal.

The lad had concealed himself behind a rock, and held his rifle cocked, aimed and at his shoulder, so that the body of the red-skin was covered, and our hero had but to pull the trigger to send the dark soul into eternity.

But he did not do so, for he would have felt that he too committed a crime, in thus shooting down a human being like a dog.

The Blackfoot, after stepping out of his boat, turned about to draw it further up the bank, and, as he did so, he laid his rifle upon the ground so as to permit him to use his arms with greater facility.

This was the opportunity for which Little Rifle was waiting. Taking one step from behind the rock, so as to bring his body in full view, he called out:

“Ki! yi!”

Like a flash of lightning, the red-skin turned so as to face the sound, and doing so, saw the rifle not more than twenty feet distant, pointed straight at his breast, and with the finger resting upon the trigger. It was, indeed, only a hair’s breadth between him and eternity.

Accustomed as was the savage to the most desperate emergencies, he was completely taken off his guard by this unexpected turn of events, and for a moment he stood like one transfixed.

Then he began, almost imperceptibly, to lean his left side over, preparatory to making a sudden snatch for his gun; but Little Rifle was too thorough a scout to lose the advantage he had gained by his superior wit.

He had learned considerable of the Blackfoot tongue from old Ruff Robsart, and he now made the best use of it. Detecting the purpose of the red-skin on the instant, he called out:

“Stir a foot before I tell you, and I will shoot!”

Such a command was not to be mistaken, and the savage straightened himself with a suddenness that made him appear ridiculous. Men like him have too much dread of death to invite it by any direct means, and treacherous and vindictive as he was, he comprehended his danger in all its fullness.

“Now, get,” added Little Rifle, still holding his piece at a dead level, and closing one eye, as if to convince his enemy that he was determined to make no mistake in the aim.

This peculiarly American expression, naturally enough, was not very clear to the red-skin, who stood motionless and undecided as to what was expected of him.

“Move off; go away from the canoe!” said the boy, accompanying the order by a swaying motion to the left, that did not lessen his command of aim, and, at the same time, made his meaning perfectly intelligible.

It went against the grain to obey the order, but there was no question but that Little Rifle was master of the situation, and he had the nerve to hold his vantage-ground. Noting the hesitation of his captive, he made a shifting motion, as if he had decided to fire. This was enough, and the Blackfoot, with one sidelong bound, landed nearly a dozen feet to the right of his canoe, and kept on walking, as if he had concluded to leave such an uncongenial neighborhood altogether, but our hero was not quite ready to give his permission.

“Hold on!” he commanded, in the same authoritative voice, and the Blackfoot did hold on, wheeling about and staring at his master, with an angry, defiant expression, which said, as plainly as the words:

“What in thunder do you want now?”

Keeping his body covered by the muzzle of the deadly little weapon, the boy now advanced a half-dozen steps, so as to bring him far nearer to the canoe and rifle than was his foe, then halted. Feeling himself undisputed master of the field, he showed a boyish propensity to use his authority.

“How are you on a walk, old chap? You look greasy and dirty enough to slip along without any trouble. Now turn your face to the Cascade Range, and travel. I’ve heard some of your chiefs say that their home is in the setting sun, and now you can go hunt for it.”

As there was no need of such extreme caution, now that the Blackfoot was deprived of his weapon, Little Rifle lowered his gun, and emphasized his words by appropriate gestures.

“Your face is toward the sun, and now travel; keep it up for a month or two. If you look back, I’ll pull the trigger without waiting to give you a chance to sing your death-song. Go!”

Not Weston himself could have surpassed the gait of the red-skin, as he obeyed this peremptory order. Turning his broad, flat face to the Cascade Range, he started off like a hen-pecked husband, who suddenly discovers that it is a little past the hour when he promised to be in the bosom of his family, and he has good cause to dread the consequences of his forgetfulness.

Little Rifle stood smiling and amused, never once removing his eyes from the dusky scamp, until he disappeared from view in the wild, rocky ground that made the bank of the river.

“Now, as he has left, I will do the same,” concluded Little Rifle, and placing his gun and that of the Indian in the canoe, he shoved it into the water, sprung in and took the paddle.

And, as he did so, he proved himself as much at home as when setting his beaver-traps and pursuing the game through the fastnesses of Oregon.

Turning the head of the boat toward the other shore, he sent it skimming over the swift current with as much speed and skill as the Blackfoot Indian himself had displayed.

“If I could only feel that he would keep on walking for a week or two, I wouldn’t think any more about the red-skin,” he mused, as he glanced back toward the shore he was leaving so rapidly behind; “but I don’t think he will forgive me for what I did.”

It was the purpose of Little Rifle to throw the Indian entirely off the scent, so that when he reached his cabin he could rest and sleep in peace. The gathering darkness was in his favor, as it made the task of giving him the slip so much the easier.

When the lad was about the middle of the current, he turned the prow down-stream, and the little boat sped like an arrow, seeming to skim over, without touching, the surface, resembling the sea-fowl in its flight.

Not doubting but that the Indian was on the watch, the boy had recourse to this simple stratagem to get rid of him. The little river was very winding and rapid, and the canoe went spinning around these curves with a bewildering velocity that was enough to drive any red-skin mad who attempted to follow.

When this was done, and scarcely any twilight remained, he shied the boat toward the other bank, at a point where a solid rock offered firm footing. Springing nimbly out with the two guns in his grasp, he kicked the boat out into the stream again, and it went dancing onward like an egg-shell.

“There, if that red-skin wants to chase that canoe, he is welcome to do so,” he muttered to himself, as he saw the tiny vessel vanish from view in the gloom; “and if he finds out that I have jumped ashore, let him hunt my trail.”

And with this satisfied conclusion, he turned about and deliberately left the river behind. He felt that he had very cleverly outwitted the Blackfoot Indian, and that he had scarcely any occasion to give him further thought.

“At any rate, there is no need of holding him in mind between now and sunrise,” he mentally added. “I have come a good long tramp from the old cabin, and the moon will be well up in the sky before I can make it. I only hope that Uncle Ruff has got back from his hunt and is awaiting me there, with a good steaming supper, over which we’ll forget all about Indians.”

Ay, that were well, if the Indians would only forget all about them!

CHAPTER III.
FLITTING SHADOWS.

Little Rifle struck off homeward, like one who feels that he has little time at his disposal. After walking full a mile, he struck another stream smaller than the first and which was a tributary to the one he had just left. The banks were made up principally of rocks and gravel, over which it was very easy to pass, without leaving any trail behind. The lad made his way over these, with the care of a veteran hunter and at length stepped down between two rocks, that towered fully twenty feet from the ground. Between them was a passage of about a rod in width, which gradually narrowed as he advanced, until he was checked by what seemed an insuperable obstruction; but this in reality was the cabin, the “home,” toward which he had been journeying.

It was made with very little regard to “style;” the rocks themselves afforded the rear, and two sides. The roof was constructed by laying saplings and branches across the top and covering them with leaves and twigs to such a depth that they afforded an impervious protection against the inclemency of the weather. The interior was divided into two apartments, the partition being formed, mainly like the front, of buffalo and bear-skins, firmly fastened to poles.

Thus a secure and comfortable retreat was afforded, no matter how great the cold might be. Within were piles of the richest and choicest furs, including those of the beaver, otter, fox, marten, bear and buffalo. Some of these were exceedingly valuable, being rich, glossy and of velvety softness; for Old Robsart was as thorough a trapper as he was a hunter, and he had a collection of peltries already secured, that, when put in the market at San Francisco, would bring him a little fortune in its way. The furs were all the best of their kind, for he was too good a connoisseur to accept any of a second-rate quality. Many a time, he took the beaver out of the trap, examined him a moment, and then let him go in peace, until he could get in better condition, by which time, also, the sagacious animal was sure to be cute enough to keep clear of all contrivances intended to entrap him, all of which Old Robsart could not fail to know, but which did not affect his line of conduct, as there were surely a thousand times more fur bearing creatures in the North-west, than a regiment of trappers like him could hope to capture.

No fire was ever kindled within this primitive home; for these downy furs kept so much of the natural heat of the body that the most cold-blooded need not be uncomfortable. The fire needed for cooking purposes was always made somewhere else.

Little Rifle’s anxiety now was to see whether his friend and patron was at home before him. Knowing that there was always a possibility of some treacherous red-skin lying in wait, in the cabin, he paused when some distance away, and gave utterance to a sort of whistle that was always used as a signal between him and his friend.

To his delight, this signal was instantly answered from within the cabin.

“He is there!” he exclaimed, running forward, along the gorge. “Hello, Uncle Ruff!”

The round full moon was shining from an unclouded sky, so that objects were seen quite distinctly for a considerable distance. As he spoke, the form of a man of goodly size, with immense flowing beard, drew the buffalo-skin that answered for a door aside, and stepped outside. His dress was somewhat similar to that worn by the lad, except that instead of his jaunty hat, he wore a close-fitting cap of fur. He was a man of great strength and activity, and seemed to be in the very prime of vigorous manhood, although evidently verging on his sixty years.

“Wal, my little pet, you’re back again,” he said, as he looked kindly down upon the lad, and reached out both his hands to grasp his. “Hello! You’ve got two guns have you? What does that mean? Have you been assassinating some traveling gunsmith?”

“No, Uncle Ruff, I took that from a Blackfoot Indian.”

“Found him asleep, I s’pose, with that ’ere piece hung up at the head of his bed.”

“No I didn’t, either,” continued Little Rifle, parrying the taunts of the grim old hunter, who always delighted in quizzing him. “I took it away from a red-skin that was wide awake as you are.”

“Oh, that’s it; I s’pose he’d been eating green persimmon or tough babies, that give him the chollywobbles so as to double him up with pain, and make him not care whether you took his gun, or his head. Why didn’t you bring his scalp? ’Cause he wouldn’t let you, I s’pose. Let me take a look at the gun and see whether it’s good for any thing.”

After turning it over very deliberately in his hands for several minutes, trying the lock and seeing that it was loaded, he pronounced it a “tollyble weapon.” And then, throwing aside his jesting words, he asked Little Rifle to give him the particulars of his encounter with the red-skin, and listened with great attention until he had finished.

“You behaved like a hero,” was the comment of old Robsart, when he had finished, “and I think have fairly ’arned your supper. Ef you keep on improving at this rate, I’ll make a hunter of you in the course of seventy-five or eighty, or ninety or a hundred years. Come in to the banquet.”

Little Rifle was as “hungry as a bear,” and he accepted the invitation on the instant. Drawing the buffalo-robe aside, he saw a tempting, luscious supper awaiting him upon a ledge of rock, about a foot from the ground, on the center of which sat a lamp, giving out quite a clear light from the oil that the old hunter himself had extracted from some of the animals he had captured in his traps. Without loss of time, the two sat down, and began devouring the meal, chatting in the meanwhile, like old friends who had not seen each other for many days.

“I’ve been on quite a tramp sence yesterday,” said Old Ruff, with his cheeks swelling out with the juicy meat. “I went a good many miles up the stream, and I used my eyes.”

“Did you find the beavers any more plenty, than they are here?”

“Yes; ten thousand times, that is figgertively speakin’, as the preachers down in the settlements say. Peltries is plenty, but as is ginerally the case, the red-skins are as thick as grasshoppers, and they kept me dodgin’ round like a bull in fly time. We’ve got to send down to Fr’isco, for a lot of lamps to carry ’round at night, so as to keep from tumbling over ’em, and when we ride our hosses toward the fort, we’ve got to set a lamp on each ear to keep ’em from stepping onto ’em. I think I mashed a dozen or two of ’em, without knowing it, ’cause I mind me now that I stepped onto something, two or three times, that felt kind of soft.”

“They are strange creatures, Uncle Ruff, and I can’t understand why they should hate the whites worse than they hate the rattlesnake under their feet.”

“I s’pose ’cause the whites feel just as lovely toward them. You see it’s a squar’ deal all round.”

“I know but I can’t see any reason in it. There was that Blackfoot to-day. He must have seen me when I climbed up on a high rock to take a look at the surrounding country, and the very minute he saw me, that very minute he went to work to get my scalp. They are a strange people.”

The scarred face of Old Ruff expanded into a quaint smile, as he looked fondly down in the countenance of the lad, and listened to his words. Then, laying the long, bony finger of his right hand into the palm of his left, as if to call special attention to his utterances, he said:

“Yas, younker, you’re right. I’ve hunted wild animiles, and fit Injins for a good many years, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the red-skin is a qu’ar critter, and it takes a good while afore a feller understands him. Some chaps come out here fur a few weeks, and think they’ve got the hang of things, when they don’t know no more about copper-skins, than my grandmother does about tannin’ grizzly b’ars. You know they ginerally call the Injin red, but when he gits on the war-path, he’s allers a ‘yeller.’ They believe in spooks, and when the spirit moves ’em, they move the spirits. They don’t like crooked paths, and generally take every thing straight; they are very hospitable, and often treat their captives to a hot stake. This is very touching, ’specially to the captive. They’re purty good shots, as you know yourself, Little Rifle, ’cause you’ve see’d ’em shoot the rapids; they are good on drawing a long bow, but often take an arrow view of things, and I knowed an old chief once that lived half the time upon arrow-root. Some younkers like you think an Injin is the very beau ideal of a man, as they say down in the settlements; but sence they’ve larned the use of guns, they’ve hung up the fiddle and the bow, which must harrow the feelin’s of the varmints a powerful heap. My nephew that knows how to read books, calls him ‘Lo, the poor Injin,’ and I agree with him, for ef thar’s any lower critters in all creation, I’ve never see’d ’em. Sometimes you can tame an Injin, and sometimes you can’t. They say an Injin never forgits a kindness, and I s’pose they don’t, fur if you’re kind to one of ’em he’ll hunt you for a week, and never give up till he gets a lock of your ha’r to remember you by. The only trouble is that when he takes the lock he’s mighty sartin to take all thar is on your head.”

“Then I suppose, Uncle Ruff, that the fellow I started off on a walk won’t be likely to forget me very soon?”

“Not much; and while you’re ’bout it, you might jist as well hold him in remembrance. You see, Little Rifle,” continued Old Ruff, resuming his supper, “I never b’l’eve in murder—not at all; but when you’ve got your gun p’inted at a red-skin, and don’t feel like pulling the trigger, it’s a good idee to shet your eyes, hold your gun steady, and sneeze. When a man has his finger on the trigger, and onexpectedly sneezes, the gun is purty sartin to go off. I found that out when I was a little younker, and had a bow and arrer sighted at my dear old grandmother, wondering how near I could come to the end of her nose without hitting it, and not intendin’ to shoot at all. The old lady jist then had her snuffbox out, and I s’pose some of it got into my norsetrils; fur I fetched a sneeze that like to have blowed my nose off, and when I got over the a’rthquake that had shook me to pieces, I see’d my grandmother picking up the only three teeth that she had left, from the floor. Afore I could ax her pardon, the old man come in. I remember he had been digging in the garden, and carried a spade in his hand. Wal,” added the old joker, with a sigh, “I won’t describe the incidents that follered; suffice it to say that I warn’t able to set down for two weeks, and I don’t s’pose I’ll forgit that little episode as long as I live.”

“Perhaps if I live all my life in these woods,” said Little Rifle, in a voice of unconscious sadness, “I may come to look upon life as you do; but I can not do so just yet.”

“You ain’t going to live here all your life,” said the hunter, with such abruptness that the lad looked up inquiringly into his face, as if he failed to get the full import of his words. “You’re getting to be quite a likely-sized youngster, and it’s time that you see’d something more of the world than you can see in these parts, though a chap can see a powerful sight when he looks toward the mountains. I’m going on East arter the summer is over, and I’ll take you with me. You’ll see sights then that I reckon will make you open your eyes.”

“There is one sight which I often wonder whether I shall ever be given to look upon.”

“What’s that?”

“My parents—my brothers and sisters—if I have any, and something seems to tell me that I have. I tell you, Uncle Ruff, that strange dreams often come to me, not by night only, but by daytime. Sometimes when I am gliding over the stream in my canoe, or following the windings of the river, I forget your caution about keeping my wits about me, and I fall to thinking of the past, and of the future. I have done it of late very frequently, and a feeling comes over me that I can hardly describe. It has settled down into the belief that something strange is going to happen—something which is to change the whole course of my life, and make me really another person.”

“What is it going to be?” asked the old hunter, looking at the lad, with a scared look, as if he dreaded to reply.

“I have no more idea of its nature than have you, but I know it’s coming, for all that. And then too,” he added, with more animation, “by my trying so much to think of the past. I have succeeded at last.”

“What!” exclaimed the astonished hunter, moving away from the table, “what can you call to mind?”

“I remember when you found me. I was lying asleep upon some furs in an Indian lodge, when I opened my eyes, and saw a man dressed in a hunter’s dress, leaning over me. I remember that I was so frightened that I cried, and you took me up in your arms to quiet me, and you carried me away with you.”

“That’s it exactly,” replied the hunter; “and the qu’arest thing about that business was that when I come to that lodge, standing by itself, there wasn’t a red-skin to be seen anywhar near. I walked in, picked you up, and walked away ag’in, and never cotched so much as a glimpse of a copper-skin. I went back arter a month or so to see if I could l’arn any thing, and found the lodge burned to the ground.”

“How far was that from here?”

“Hundreds of miles up along the Saskatchewan, on the trapping-grounds of the Hudson Bay Company. You see arter I got hold of you, I took such a fancy to you that I was afeard some of the red-skins would make a hunt fur you, so I emigrated, and come down into Oregon. Arter I got here, I felt troubled thinking maybe your parents or friends might be up in them parts. So I left you with some friends at Fort Abercrombie, and went up there to find out.”

“And learned nothing?”

“Nothing at all; I spent a month in trampin’ over the grounds. You know that part of the country isn’t very thick with white folks, and such as they be are hunters or trappers. I went to the forts, and every place, where I could find any of ’em, but never a word did I l’arn. When I fotched you away, I see’d that little rifle of yours hung up over your head, and knowin’ as it was meant for you, I fotched that too. I expected to l’arn something from that, ’cause you know thar ar’ two letters carved onto the stock—the letters ‘H. R.’, and I s’posed by that means I’d git some track of the owner—but it wa’n’t any use, and I give it up at last. But what I want to ask my pet, is whether you can’t call up any thing afore I come into the Injin lodge and took you away?”

“You know how hard I’ve tried, and once or twice, it seems to me that I have succeeded. It is a dim picture of riding over a deep broad river, with a good many people in the boat, and it seems to me that some of them were of my own color, and I think, though you know that it is all guesswork, that my father and mother were among them; but the picture is so dim and faint that when I try to fix it in my mind it slips away again, and all is dark.”

“Can’t you think of any thing else?—somethin’ different from that?” asked old Robsart, with the most intense interest.

“Nothing beyond that; all is blank. Of course, I remember the several times that you left me at the fort, and the kind men there, who taught me how to read and a great many other things, but my memory is able to do no more. Sometime it may succeed better.”

“Wal, I hope it will,” said Old Ruff, with a sigh; “it ’ud go hard with me to part with you, and I’d only do it fur your own good; but these woods ain’t the place to fetch up a younker like you. You’re smart ’nough, and handsome ’nough to desarve better things. Old Ruff has got a little pile of money stored away in one of the banks down in Fr’isco, and if your friends don’t turn up, afore the summer’s over, we’ll see what that can do fur you, my little pet.”

“No matter what may happen in the future,” said Little Rifle, in an affectionate tone, “no matter where the rest of my life may be cast, or what good or evil fortune may befall me, I can never forget you, who rescued me from the savages, and have always been more than a father to me.”

“That’s all right,” said the old hunter, hastily, and speaking as if he were swallowing something that kept rising in his throat, “that’s all right, and don’t say nothin’ more about it.”

For a long time they conversed in this familiar manner, and then Little Rifle, as was always his practice, when with the hunter, kissed him affectionately, bade him good-night, and withdrew to his own apartment, which, it will be remembered, was at the other end of the lodge or cabin, where he was never disturbed or molested, during his sleeping hours.

Old Robsart sat on the outside of his humble cabin for fully two hours more, wrapped in deep thought.

“Qua’r,” he muttered, after awhile, “but when I was huntin’ to-day, the same feelin’ come over me. I know I’m going to lose Little Rifle, in some way or other. It’ll go hard with me—but I hope it will be for the best.”

And with this conclusion, he rose to his feet, passed into the cabin and retired to slumber.

CHAPTER IV.
THE VENGEFUL BLACKFOOT.

A beautiful spring morning dawned upon the Northwestern solitudes, in which the two characters of whom we have made mention had their home. Scarcely a cloud flecked the sky, that looked like the deep, brilliant azure of Italy, and the soft murmur of the distant waterfalls, and the songs of thousands of birds made the scene one of gladness and joy. The day would have been warm and sultry but for the breeze that came stealing down from the snowy peaks of the Cascade Range, diffusing coolness through thousands of square miles of adjoining territory.

By the time the sun was fairly above the horizon, old Robsart and Little Rifle emerged from their humble quarters, and moving down the narrow passage between the rocks, debouched upon the shore of the stream which has already been mentioned. Here a small canoe was found, into which both entered, the old hunter taking the long ashen paddle in hand, and sending the little vessel up the turbid current with as much ease as if it were upon still water.

Few words passed between the two, for the communings and dreams of the previous evening were still with them. The appearance of Little Rifle was of one who had slept very little during the night, and the old hunter, understanding the cause of his reverie, forbore to intrude upon it.

This excursion was to visit their traps, their practice being always to do so before partaking of breakfast.

Several hundred yards’ steady pull, and the boat came to a rest against the grassy beach, and old Ruff stepped out, drawing the prow of the boat up after him. As he did so, the boy made a motion as if to follow him, seeing which he waved him back.

“Stay whar you be, Little Rifle, for I won’t be gone long.”

He paused and looked up questioningly in his face.

“Don’t you want me to help you, Uncle Ruff?”

“I’d like to have you along, but I guess you’d better stay thar. You know thar be only three traps fur me to visit. When we halt further up, thar’ll be a half-dozen and you can help.”

“All right,” replied the lad, settling back in the stern of the canoe, ready and willing to wait.

“It will be better to leave the younker alone, at any rate, till I come back,” muttered the trapper, as he strode away. “Thar ain’t many o’ the varmints in these parts, and the way he got along yesterday shows that he knows how to take care of himself. Let him think, let him dream, and mebbe he’ll be able to work out the mystery that I can’t see head nor tail to. Thar’s a good deal in that handsome head of his’n, and he’ll pitch it out arter awhile.”

Left to himself, the boy reclined in an easy position, with his head lying back upon the stern of the canoe, and his eyes looking directly upward at the sky, across which a few white feathery specks of clouds were now beginning to drift. The soft ripple of the stream, as it washed against the bank and around the little boat, the faint murmur of the forest, and, above all, the thoughts that had haunted him since the talk with the old hunter—all these conspired to throw a languid, dreamy spell over the lad, such as sometimes comes over one, when only partially awake.

“Uncle Ruff tells me that he is going to remove me from this place, before winter comes again, and I can not tell whether his promise gives me most pleasure or pain. I feel that I ought to leave here, for my own nature tells me that this is not the way in which my Creator intends that I shall live. What I have learned at the forts, and what he has told me, has given me some idea of the great world which moves around me; but I shrink back from stepping into it. It must be that while this sort of life gives one a certain kind of courage, it also makes him a coward. I could meet the deadly Blackfoot with more courage than I could step into the streets of that wonderful city of San Francisco—that old Robsart calls Fr’isco. And yet, I suppose I would become accustomed to that, too, in time. If my dream of last night comes true, a change will come very soon. I mustn’t forget to keep my wits about me,” he added, with a sudden start, as if he were going to make amends for his temporary forgetfulness.

Looking at the opposite bank, up and down stream, and off in the direction taken by the old hunter, he saw and heard nothing suspicious. All was as still and undisturbed as if this solitude had never been trod by the foot of man or animal.

“I guess every thing is all right,” he concluded, as he lay back again, and gave way to the fascinating reverie that was continually stealing upon him.

And, lost in these weird dreamings—these vague imaginings, Little Rifle became utterly oblivious to what was going on around him. He forgot that he was reclining in an Indian canoe, with no one standing sentinel over him; the lessons of the old trapper were lost upon him, and his mind was almost in the condition of the opium-taker, who really dwells apart in a world of his own.

And as he reclined thus, with his vacant gaze fixed upon the blue sky above, the undergrowth along the bank, scarcely a rod below him, noiselessly parted, and a figure came to view.

It was the Blackfoot Indian of the day before, whom the lad had conquered and dispossessed of his rifle. He had no gun as yet, but the muscles of the bare right arm were ridged from the pressure of his fingers around the handle of the gleaming tomahawk. The hideous face glowed with the white heat of exultant passion, as he looked upon the lad and realized how completely the tables were turned.

Standing for a moment, with his head craned forward, as if to make certain that he fully comprehended the situation, he began advancing, with the stealthy, silent tread of the cat upon the beautiful bird, never once removing his glittering eyes from his victim.

A dozen feet away, he paused. He stood on the very spot he desired, and from which he could drive the keen-edged tomahawk crashing through the skull of the unconscious lad.

Little Rifle still lay in the same dreamy reverie, his hat having fallen from his head, and the short, curly auburn hair resting on the gunwale, while his clear rose-tinted cheek looked more handsome and attractive than ever.

Can no hand be outstretched to save him? Uncle Ruff is still a half-mile away, attending to his traps, and his arm is powerless to prevent the dreadful tragedy. Who, then, shall interfere?

The Blackfoot is not the one to wait. Slowly he draws back the hand that grasps the tomahawk, and with his eyes fixed upon the marble-like forehead, aims directly at the brain of the dreaming boy!

CHAPTER V.
THE MYSTERIOUS SHOT.

The Blackfoot paused only long enough to make sure of his aim, when he concentrated all his mighty strength in his terrible right arm and hurled his tomahawk with a tremendous force, that would have cloven through the birchen sides of the canoe, and the skull of the boy like so much pasteboard, had the glittering weapon sped true to its aim.

But it went fully a dozen feet over his head, whizzing far out into the stream, into which it fell with a loud splash.

And the reason for this was that at the very instant he threw his power into his single arm, there was a sharp crack from the wood, and a bullet went crashing through his brain. With a howl and spasmodic clutching of his limbs, he staggered forward and fell upon his face, dead.

It was a frightful awakening from Little Rifle’s reverie, and he leaped out of the canoe, landing several feet away upon the shore, with the belief that he himself was mortally wounded. Staring wildly around, he saw the body of the dead savage, and the second glance identified it as the one who had hunted him the day before, and who had been so cleverly outgeneraled.

Walking toward him, the boy saw in what manner he had been slain, and then he understood what it all meant. This treacherous red-skin had attempted to steal upon and kill him, when the saving bullet had averted the fatal blow.

“It is fortunate that I had Uncle Ruff so near at hand,” he concluded, with a feeling of heartfelt gratitude, as he looked about in quest of his friend. “Another moment and it would have been the end of me.”

Little danger of his again falling into the slumber from which he had been so rudely awakened. Holding his rifle in hand, he looked about, ready for the coming of white or red-men; but to his surprise, he saw neither.

“I do not know why Uncle Ruff persists in remaining away so long,” he mused, after he had waited some time in this manner; but, fifteen minutes more passed, when the familiar form of the old trapper debouched from the wood, bearing upon his shoulder the skins of three beavers, which he had taken from his traps. To each was appended the tail, which forms one of the choicest titbits of the hunters of the North-west.

“Didn’t I hear a gun?” asked old Robsart, the moment he came within speaking distance. “It sounded down in these parts and—hello! you fotched the old chap at last did you?” he exclaimed, abruptly pausing and staring at the inanimate form of the Blackfoot.

“It is the same red-skin that I told you about last night.”

“So I reckoned, the minute I looked on him. Don’t it prove what I said? That ’ere chap has been huntin’ ’round arter you ever since you started him toward the setting sun. He’s like a wolf, that you think you’ve got off your trail, when he starts up ag’in arter you’ve forgot all about him. He’s hunted night and day for you, and arter he’s sot eye on you has watched and waited for his chance; but he didn’t make out any thing by the game.”

“No; his career has ended to a certainty. That was a most fortunate shot of yours.”

“What yer talking ’bout?” demanded the trapper, staring savagely at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Why, I mean that rifle-shot of yours that killed the Blackfoot, just in time to save me.”

“Me! hain’t I just got back from visiting the traps, and hain’t pulled trigger this mornin’.”

It was now the turn of Little Rifle to be amazed, and the questions and answers that immediately followed revealed the fact that the bullet that stretched the Blackfoot low had not been fired by the old trapper, nor could he or the boy tell from whose friendly gun it came.

This added a new element of interest to the situation. The old trapper went to the prostrate body, and after examining the wound, and knowing the posture of the red-skin when about to throw his tomahawk, he declared that the ball had come from the other side the stream at a point almost opposite where they stood.

“And let us see if we kin find out who done it,” he exclaimed, flinging the peltries into the canoe; “jump in and we’ll paddle over.”

Only a few seconds were needed to carry them to the other shore, where they made a minute search for their friend, frequently calling out; but they neither saw nor could they find any traces of his presence there.

“It’s a lucky spot, anyway,” said the old man, “so we’ll start a fire, and have our breakfast afore we go any further.”

The fire was started in a few minutes and breakfast made of the beaver tails to which we have alluded. The startling incident afforded them abundant material for conversation, and for the time drove all thoughts of the more important subject from their minds.

But, when the meal was concluded, Old Ruff said:

“Now, Little Rifle, I’m goin’ to make the round of the traps, and will fotch in all the furs and peltries thar’s to bring. It’s gettin’ so close to hot weather, that purty soon the skins won’t be worth the gatherin’. I think we’ll make a move further up-stream to-morrer, fur all the varmints are so thick thar, and we’ll snatch all that we kin. You see, this yer Blackfoot poking round in these parts makes it look as though some more of ’em mought be here and thar.”

“But you know that this one made special search for me, and no doubt is the only one that has ventured so far as this.”

“Precisely, my boy; but you mus’n’t forgit that when you first cotched sight of him, he was coming down the river, as though he war looking fur you then. What I want to git at is to find out whether any of the varmints are very close. You kin go round by the falls, and make a good search. Take the day fur it, if you need so much time, but make it sure.”

“All right,” replied the lad, springing to his feet. “I’ll try and be back by night, but, if I don’t you’ll understand the reason why.”

And humming a merry tune, the boy struck off into the wood, and almost instantly vanished from view.

Young, strong and in perfect health it was scarcely possible that he should not be in the best of spirits. There is something in the clear, brilliant, pure air of the Far West and North-west, that penetrates a man’s system like the electric current.

Added to this was that strange, vague, fluttering hope that had risen in his breast, and which as yet he could scarcely comprehend, but with the passing of every hour, the conviction grew upon him that he was upon the eve of a great crisis in his life history. It was a verification of the old legend that “Coming events cast their shadows before.”

The day was as beautifully clear as the preceding one, and the lad moved through the solitude, with an elastic step, that proved that there was no unwillingness upon his part to assume this task, which it may be supposed was attended with no inconsiderable danger.

“How strangely I was rescued,” he muttered, as he walked along. “Heaven sent my unknown friend at the very moment; had he delayed his coming a moment longer, I should not have been here. Uncle Ruff is pretty shrewd, but he can not imagine who the man was, except he thinks in a general way that it was some hunter who has happened to stroll down this way; but there is something which he don’t understand in the way he takes himself off after firing his gun, without waiting for so much as a word of thanks from us. I am glad that Uncle Ruff has sent me off on this scout, for it seems as if I were going toward my friend, with a good chance of meeting.”

The dense woods through which the boy had been making his way thus far, now assumed a different character—being much more open and broken, while the ground was rocky and hilly—the face of the country being such as is found in a place where the rivers and streams can only make their way by passing through deep gorges and kenyons.

Pressing forward in this manner, Little Rifle at last found himself upon quite a lofty ridge, which gave him an extensive view in every direction. It was indeed the post of observation, whither he had directed his steps from the first.

With characteristic caution, he screened himself from observation as much as possible by climbing to the top of one of the scrubby oaks, and then making a long and careful survey of the suspicious territory.

Only a single hasty glance was cast back over the region from which he had just come, as that was under the guardianship of old Robsart, who needed no assistance from him, in a work of that kind.

But he looked to the westward, where hundreds of miles of the vast solitude opened before him. It was a scene made up of rock, stream and wood in all their varied beauty, such as would have won the eye, in a loving dream, of any painter.

Here and there he could trace the winding course of the streams, starting on their long journey to the far-away Mexican Gulf. In many cases these streams would be visible for the better part of a mile, and then would be hidden from view by the rocks and woods that interposed—only for a time, however, as they soon shot into sight again, white with bubbles and foam, into which they had been beaten on their furious, plunging way through the gorges. In two places these torrents disappeared into deep, narrow kenyons, above which hung a mist, that threw back a faint prismatic reflection in the bright morning sunlight.

And so the vision extended, the streams diminishing to tiny silver threads, the woods and rocks melting into a dim, smoky haze, until far away toward the magnificent snow-crowned Cascade Range, which to the imaginative boy seemed the wall that shut him in from the world.

“Beyond that lies my future,” he muttered, giving utterance to his romantic imaginings; “when shall some one come to lead me through that gate? Must it be Old Ruff himself who is to start me upon that road, of whose end I can not dream? Away up yonder, on the slope of that mountain-chain, nestles the little fort, that was built many long years ago by the Hudson Bay Company, and there I have spent much of my time, receiving instruction from the kind-hearted men there. I wonder whether any of them ever suspected—’sh!”

He paused suddenly, and placed his finger to his lips, as if to shut back from his own ears the words he came so near uttering. With a deep flush upon his handsome face, he glanced furtively around, as though affrighted, lest the wind should have carried it to some ears.

“I must be careful,” he added, in a whisper, with the same startled look; “they say that trees and rocks have ears. No one knows that secret but old Robsart, and he would sooner be shot and scalped than reveal it. I can not see the fort,” he continued, looking so far as his vision would permit over the vast area of country that intervened, “but I could make my way to it in the night time. Yonder is the river that I am to reconnoiter, and yonder are the falls, where Old Ruff suspects are Indians—and yonder are the Indians, too!”

CHAPTER VI.
THE STRANGE CANOE.

Little Rifle uttered this exclamation in the voice of one who is certain of what he says, as well he might be; for, as he fixed his eyes upon the swiftly-flowing stream, as it swept onward toward the thunderous falls, his vision also roved along the bank toward its source, far up in the mountains.

The stream was a little less than a mile from where he stood, and quite a distance above the falls alluded to, were visible three Indian lodges. They stood upon an open piece of land, immediately back of which were rocks and ravines, and were close to the edge of the river, flowing by their very base. They were of the usual character, made of barks and skins, supported upon poles that were stacked like muskets, the lower ends being a dozen feet apart, while they interlocked at the top, where an open space was left.

From the top of one of these lodges issued a thin, shadowy column of smoke, so faint and vapory that it could only be seen when the eye was directed fairly toward it.

This was the only evidence or sign of life that met the gaze of the boy, and it seemed rather to add to the loneliness of the immense solitude spread out before his eyes. The smoke showed that there was some one, out of sight, in one of the lodges, at least; but in the distance, the river had a solemn, quiet flow, and the roar of the waterfall below, mellowed and subdued by the distance, was in perfect keeping with the scene.

“Yes, there are the Indians,” he added, as, perched in the tree, he gazed long and searchingly on the scene; “they are there, though my eye can not see them, for those signs are too plain for any one to mistake.”

Reasoning upon his knowledge of red-men, he concluded that one of those marauding bands of Blackfeet, that are still encountered in the Far West, had halted here for a few days to engage in hunting, and most probably in salmon-fishing; for, as is well known, the Columbia and its tributaries abound with this fish, which is eagerly sought by both white and red men.

The danger to be feared was, that these Indians, hunting and fishing in the vicinity, would discover signs of the proximity of the two trappers and hunters, and, to use a common expression, would “go for them.” As bad luck would have it, also, they were directly between the present trapping-grounds of Old Ruff and Little Rifle, and those to which they had concluded to move their traps. Consequently, they would be pretty certain to encounter “Indian” in uncomfortable profusion, wheresoever they might choose to locate.

The lad, from his perch in the top of the oak, looked down upon the scene for fully a half-hour, in the expectation of seeing some movement upon the part of the Blackfeet. All that time the thin, light-colored smoke crept up through the funnel-like opening, but not a solitary red-skin showed himself.

“It must be that they are off on a hunt,” concluded Little Rifle, as his patience at last gave out; “and if they have left their squaws behind, they are asleep. Anyway, I must learn more about them.”

And acting upon this resolve, he descended the tree and struck off in a direct line toward the river. He knew well enough that if he should return to the old hunter with no more knowledge than he now possessed, he would be chided for performing only a part of his duty, his maxim being that a reconnoissance that was incomplete was worse than none at all, as it created all manner of doubt and distrust, without suggesting the remedy. The intervening distance was traversed without difficulty, Little Rifle not forgetting to exercise great care in his movements, as always became a person in the presence of danger.

The point where he struck the stream was without any wood at all, but was lined with broken, jagged and irregular rocks, among which he managed to pick his way without exposing himself to any suspicious eye that might be on the alert upon the opposite side.

He had kept his bearings so well that he found himself directly opposite the three lodges, which were thus scarcely a hundred yards distant, and in the best view he could possibly desire.

“They must be a sleepy set over there,” he concluded, as he ensconced himself in a position to keep ward and watch; “that is, if any one is there, for I don’t think a soul has stirred outside since I first saw them. Hello!”

His curiosity was suddenly and unexpectedly gratified, although, as it speedily proved, in a way that was not entirely satisfactory.

A single Blackfoot Indian, that looked like the twin brother of the one who had met his doom a few hours before, walked out of the lodge from which the smoke was issuing, stretched and yawned, and walking to the edge of the stream, looked up and down for a moment, as though expecting some one or something, and then deliberately walked back again, and disappeared from view.

“That looks as if he had come out to wash his face, and had become disgusted,” laughed Little Rifle. “I think a good scrubbing would be sure to kill him. I suppose, now, he will go to sleep for the rest of the day.”

One of the essentials of a good scout, both in civilized and savage warfare, is a patience that can bear the test of hours. The Esquimaux, who sits by the air-hole in the ice without stirring a muscle, even if the seal does not thrust out his nose, is the beau ideal of a patient scout, although he is too much of a porpoise himself to get impatient.

Young as was Little Rifle, he was the possessor of this quality, and had displayed it to a remarkable degree on more than one occasion; but it will be remembered that the circumstances were exceptional to-day, and he was in that feverish, uneasy condition of mind which at times made him, as it were, another person.

At any other time he would have centered his attention on the three lodges across the stream, and kept it there until the sun went down, despite hunger, cold and discomfort; but he could not do so now. It required such an effort upon his part to withdraw his mind from that tempting reverie, or day-dreaming, which had so nearly proved his death, that he was dissatisfied, and felt that he must be moving, and that he must do something or the burden would become unbearable.

What precise form this relief would have taken, it is hard to conjecture, but most probably the lad would have ventured to cross the stream at a point further up, so as to get still nearer the lodges; but this perilous proceeding was happily prevented by a most unlooked-for diversion.

While keeping his attention, as a general thing, fixed upon the most suspicious part of his view, he remembered that some of the owners of these lodges were away, and there was no telling by what route they might return. So he bestowed an occasional glance up and down stream, not forgetting that he might be lying in their very path.

It was something like fifteen minutes after the disappearance of the Blackfoot, when Little Rifle chanced to look up-stream, and saw a small Indian canoe suddenly shoot to view.

There was nothing particularly striking in this, but there was something extraordinary in what he discovered the next moment. A single person was holding the guiding-paddle, and instead of being a Blackfoot Indian, as he had expected, it proved to be a white boy, apparently his own age, or but slightly older.

He gave but little motion to the oar, as the current was rapid enough to make it unnecessary, and his principal occupation was in guiding the frail bark.

The appearance of this stranger, as may well be supposed, filled Little Rifle with the most profound amazement, as it was the first time in all his life that he had seen a boy in this section of the country, and coming to view so near to where the Indians were, caused no little inquiry and speculation as to what it all meant.

He supposed of course that the lad was on good terms with the Indians, else he would not have shown himself so near them; but this belief was speedily dispelled by the actions of the lad himself.

While yet some distance up-stream, he suddenly caught sight of the lodges, and instantly showed the greatest consternation—seizing the paddle, and dipping it deep into the water, as he made furious efforts to cause it to ascend the stream again, as though he hoped to pass out of sight around the curve above.

But he was utterly unable to overcome the current, and only succeeded in slightly checking his speed, the manner in which he handled the paddle showing that he was quite a novice, with a skill that could not compare with that of Little Rifle.

When the boat had drifted down to a point nearly opposite the lodges, its inmate seemed to discover that he was wasting his strength, and he turned about again so as to face the dwelling-places of the dreaded red-skins.

Not one of them showed his face, and the boy pausing a moment to regain breath, headed the canoe directly toward the point where the excited Little Rifle was watching his actions; but this seemed to give no more satisfaction than the other course, for in case he succeeded, it would compel him to land directly opposite the lodges, where the chances of his being seen would be doubly increased.

As the best thing that could be done, he resorted to a rather curious artifice. One hurried glance toward the Blackfoot dwellings showed him that he still remained undiscovered, whereupon he instantly lay flat down, so that he could not be seen by any one upon the bank, and in this posture he let the canoe go, trusting to good fortune to carry him by in safety.

Little Rifle was on the point of calling to him, and volunteering his assistance, when he concluded that his voice would be pretty certain to attract the attention of the keen-eared savages in the lodges, and thus endanger the safety of both. Accordingly he remained quiet.

There is something in solitude that attracts one human heart to another, and when Little Rifle saw the canoe gliding by, he determined to learn something of its occupant. He reasoned that he was not likely to be alone in this wilderness, and that strange, dim, vague feeling came over him, that caused the expression of his thought.

“It may be that he is the one sent by Heaven to lead me through the gate that now shuts out the great wide world. I will yield to the impulse that leads me toward him.”

And, at the same time a shy, bashful emotion restrained him from moving away at once.

“I will wait and see whether he is fortunate enough to get beyond sight of the lodges without discovery.”

And he again crouched down behind the rocks, and with an anxiously beating heart waited to see what the result of this perilous mishap was to be.

The strange canoe had something like a half-mile to pass, before a curve in the river would shut it from view of any one who stood upon the shore, where the Blackfoot had shown himself. The probability was that the boy, after getting fairly below the lodges, would work his boat in to shore, so as to get out of the dangerous range as speedily as possible.

The little boat kept in the middle of the current, the occupant persistently remaining out of sight, and Little Rifle, after watching it for a few moments, would look directly across the stream, dreading to see the painted Blackfoot issue forth, and repent his survey.

Further and further drifted the little boat, until it looked like a duck floating at will upon the water. But, if the Indian sees it, he will recognize it on the instant, and then there will be trouble. The lad does not intend to land, and must remain in view for some time longer.

The minutes dragged slowly by, and it appeared as if the tiny vessel remained absolutely stationary upon the surface of the water, although Little Rifle knew that it was still going forward rapidly. At the distance, he could not identify the lad, even if his head was above the gunwale, and our hero was beginning to wonder what his conduct could mean, when he observed that the canoe was gradually edging to one side, as if it were creeping in toward the land.

“But it is not,” he added, as he carefully scrutinized it, “it is passing around the bend in the river, and will now be lost to view in a few minutes, and then all danger will be over—Heaven save him!”

CHAPTER VII.
A FEARFUL ADVENTURE.

At this moment, Little Rifle chanced to look across the stream, and instead of one Blackfoot, he saw two come forth from the middle lodge, and sauntering to the edge of the river, pause, and, while gesticulating and conversing earnestly, they first looked up the current, and then down again.

“They will see the canoe! they will discover the lad and he will be lost!” was the agonized thought of the little fellow, who, turning his gaze in the same direction, just managed to descry the boat, as it glided out of sight around the bend in the river.

The Blackfeet indeed acted as if they had discovered something suspicious; for one of them pointed down-stream, and the other following the direction indicated, seemed to be gazing intently as though his keen vision had detected the same thing.

Little Rifle could plainly hear their guttural voices, as they spoke in louder and more excited tones, but he was unable to catch or comprehend a word they uttered. Fortunately they remained in view but a few minutes, when they turned about and strode into their lodge at a much more rapid gait than they had employed in leaving.

The watcher behind the rocks was determined to wait no longer. Extricating himself as carefully and hastily as possible from his station, he placed himself so far away from the stream, that he felt secure from observation in case the Blackfeet should come forth again, and then he hurried down the river with all the speed of which he was capable.

Sinewy and active as was the boy, he made rapid progress, and shortly after came back to the margin opposite the point where he had last seen the canoe, and, as he did so, a sudden terror almost took the breath from his body.

For directly below this bend were the falls of which we have made mention, and of which he would not have thought again, even at this moment, but for the overwhelming roar that broke upon his ear, as he emerged from the forest, where the sound met with no obstruction.

He cast one hurried glance down the stream, and gracious Heaven! what did he see?

There was the canoe, still near the center of the stream, and within a hundred yards of the falls, toward which it was rushing with the speed of a race-horse.

But the occupant was no longer asleep or insensible to the frightful peril of his position. He had evidently awakened to a sense of his dreadful danger, the instant he had passed around the bend in the river, which not only gave the rush and whirl a terrible power, but showed him the surging current, and the mist rising from the churning foam below.

From one danger into a greater, he had striven with the desperation of despair to bring the canoe out of its plunge into destruction; but had either broken his paddle or had lost it; for he was now using his rifle, as a substitute, grasping the barrel and driving the stock through the water, with a fierce rapidity, that proved that he understood that his life depended upon his success.

That one terrified look showed Little Rifle that it was beyond the power of the poor lad to accomplish the task, and that he was only insuring his destruction by continuing the effort.

“Throw your gun down! jump overboard, and swim for land! It is your only hope!”

These words were shouted by our hero, who swung his hat aloft and screeched like a madman. It may be that his clear, musical voice possessed such a penetrating power, that they reached the ear of his strange friend in his extremity; for he ceased his frantic efforts, and turned his white, imploring face toward him, as if to thank him for the warning even though it could aid him naught.

“Jump! jump! I tell you!” called out Little Rifle, rushing into the water to his knees, in his extreme solicitude, “throw your gun aside, and you can do it. Wait a dozen seconds more and you are lost!”

The boy did wait the dozen seconds. He must have understood the words that were shouted to him, for he sat back in the stern of the canoe, folded his arms, and looking intently at Little Rifle, sadly shook his head, and then raising his hand waved it in greeting toward him.

And as he did so, he could not have spoken more plainly, had he used the word.

“I understand your advice; but it is too late! I must go over the falls to my death, and good-by!”

It was a strange and impressive sight to see this mere boy, after fighting so bravely against fate, meet his doom with the stoicism of an Indian war-chief. There was no wailing or outcry, no frenzied flinging of himself in the boat, as it might be expected that such a one would do, when he saw himself gliding so swiftly and irresistibly toward death; but he sat back in the position we have described, and after his salutation to Little Rifle, turned his face away, and looked at the waterfall before him.

The action of the doomed lad awed and thrilled the heart of Little Rifle, who felt that it was no ordinary character that he saw before him; for not one boy in a thousand could meet death with such heroism. For one instant, the agonized watcher closed his eyes to shut out the dreadful sight, and then yielding to an overmastering attraction, he leaped back out of the water, and dashed at headlong speed, down the bank, over rocks and through undergrowth, until he reached a point directly below the falls, from which he could look up and see the vast sheet of water, as it poured over the ledge into the seething, furious hell of foam and froth below. Here he paused and gazed upward.

The river just before making its final plunge was compressed into a kenyon-like passage not more than one-half its width a hundred yards further up. This deepened and gave it far greater velocity, the current shooting forward like a mill-race, the surface being covered with little eddying waves, as if they were sensible of the awful caldron into which they were so soon to make their boiling plunge. But the entire volume, sweeping forward with an indescribable grandeur and majesty, moved over the ledge in a solid, compact body, fully a dozen feet in depth and without a break. Descending perhaps a rod, in the same solid volume of a deep green color, it could be seen the outer surface of this mass began to assume, here and there, a white, feathery appearance, which rapidly increased, until, something less than a hundred feet below, it resembled an Alpine avalanche—all of a glistening, snowy white. Here where the water was arrested, there was a perfect pandemonium; the billows turning and rolling over each other, throwing the blinding spray far up on both banks, while a thousand currents and counter-currents struggled and fought with each other with such desperate fierceness, that it was not until the stream had reached a point several hundred yards away, and had expanded into its usual breadth, that it assumed any thing like its natural appearance.

The din that filled the ears of Little Rifle, as he stood on a flat, projecting slab of rock, where his clothing was speedily saturated, was enough to drive an ordinary person frantic, although it scarcely affected one who had spent such a portion of his life in the wilderness as had he.

But here he might have shouted his voice away, and not the slightest sound would have been heard even by himself. He could do nothing but stand and watch and wait, with that freezing terror all through his nerves that made him feel as if he must forever remain rooted to the spot.

“But where is the canoe?” he thought, when it seemed to him that he had been waiting an interminable period, while, from the very nature of the case, he had been there only a few seconds. “Could it have gone over while I was making my way to the spot? No, that can not be, for I almost flew. Oh! is there no hand to save him?”

At that instant Little Rifle caught sight of the canoe, as it glided swiftly out to view, seeming to poise itself for a moment in mid-air, like an eagle balancing himself for his earthward sweep, and then the boat, with its brave occupant, shot downward, with a velocity that seemed almost to baffle the eye.

It appeared as if the water as it swept over the ledge of rocks was of unusual density, for the canoe rested on the surface, like a feather, as though it had lost all weight.

Little Rifle saw the prow, following the curve of the river, turn downward, so that it stood perfectly perpendicular, the white-faced but resolute lad who occupied it grasping the sides with his hands so as to maintain his place.

In this way it made the descent, for, perhaps, fifty feet, when the stern, probably retaining the momentum longer than the lighter bow, advanced so much further that the canoe turned a complete sommersault, both it and the boy shooting from view in the roaring, plunging and churning hell of waters at the bottom of the falls.

“Lost! lost! gone to his last account!” gasped Little Rifle, recovering from the paralysis in which he stood up to this instant. “He showed that he was a brave lad, and he deserved a better fate— There! can it be?”

Although, as we have shown, the efforts of the poor boy to work his canoe in to shore and out of the frightful current failed, yet it resulted, despite the appearance to the contrary, in getting quite a distance toward the bank whereon Little Rifle stood, and he noted the fact, with some surprise, as it came over the falls.

As he stood on the wet rock, looking at the foaming abyss before him, something dark shot up to view almost at his feet. Looking downward, he had just time to see that it was a part of the canoe—about a half—when it drove out of sight again, in the resistless grasp of the current.

And the same glance that showed him this, showed also the face of the boy who had made the fearful plunge, only for an instant, like his view of the canoe. The face, white and motionless, rose from the water, and then sunk out of view, as it sped down the current, with scarcely less speed than the river possessed directly above the falls themselves.

That one look was sufficient for Little Rifle. A sudden hope came to his heart that the lad might still have the breath of life in his body, and placing his gun upon the rock at his feet, he concentrated all his strength and made a leap directly toward the spot where he had seen the face, shouting at the same time, with all the strength of which he was capable, in the hope of arousing him to do something for himself.

The most skillful swimmer can not fight his way through froth and foam, its specific gravity being too slight for it to support his weight, while the danger is that he will be strangled before he can reach the water that will support him. Little Rifle fully understood this before he made his daring plunge, but the glimpse that he had obtained of the boy had proved that he had something in his favor that fully counterbalanced this. The very violence of the foamy waters was such that it drove all foreign bodies to the surface for a second or two, without any effort upon their part.

Little Rifle kept his senses about him, as he felt himself sinking downward, downward, in the resistless grasp of the current. He had taken a deep inspiration during the instant he was making his flight through the air, and he now held his breath until he could gain the chance to renew it.

The crash and roar, the blinding mist and spinning eddies, the arrow-like descent, these were enough to drive all the wits from a man’s brain, and the boy had hardly thrown himself into the vortex when the conviction flashed upon him, that the strange boy was not only past all hope but that he had put himself in the same position by his mad plunge into the water, in the hope of rescuing him.

But Little Rifle was too brave a lad to yield up his life without a struggle, and, with all the strength and skill of which he was master, he made a desperate effort to get his face to the surface only for a second—a single instant—that he might gain a single breath of the all-revivifying air.

CHAPTER VIII.
OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH.

At this instant, while Little Rifle was making such a tremendous effort to save himself, his shoulder struck something. He supposed that it was the canoe, or that he had grazed a rock in his meteor-like passage through the water; but, the wild hope that it was neither of these, caused him to throw out his arm and clutch at it.

As he did so, he found that he had grasped the arm of the boy, for whose sake he had made this desperately perilous attempt.

Having got it in his grasp, Little Rifle did not let it go again, but held to it, as though his own life depended upon the result, while, with the other arm and his feet, he redoubled his efforts to make the surface of the turbulent current.

The very velocity of the sorely-pressed stream was in favor of the lads, as it carried them speedily into water heavy enough to afford a swimmer support; but, before this was done, and when the brave rescuer felt that he could hold out no longer, he brought himself and his burden to the top of the water.

Even in this critical, this fearful moment, when it seemed that his own body would burst with agony, Little Rifle made certain that his companion was given the same blessed privilege before he availed himself of it. He saw him start and gasp, he felt the arm which was in his grasp feebly start or struggle, and then, with the lungs of both filled with the delicious life-giving air, they went down again.

In that momentary sight that Little Rifle had gained of the face of the boy, during the single instant that it remained above the water, he caught sight of a red spot of blood upon the forehead, which showed that he was hurt and bleeding very fast, else the crimson current could not have shown itself so quickly.

In a shorter period than before, the two came to the top of the water again, and Little Rifle, with a thrill of hope, found that they were beyond the light, fleecy foam, and were speeding downward through water in which he was able to support both himself and his charge.

The skill of the young trapper was as great in the handling of himself while in the water as it was in hunting or trailing through the woods, and now his confidence came back to him, when he felt certain that he could accomplish something by that same skill and strength.

Still retaining his hold upon the arm of the boy, he managed to bring his head above the surface once more, while with the other arm he impelled both through the water, toward the bank, from which he had made his leap.

The current was still so swift that he could hardly hope to effect a landing until they should reach a point further down, but it was prudent to put himself in a position where he could avail himself of the first turn in his favor.

Looking again at the countenance by his shoulder, he saw that the eyes were closed, and there was blood flowing over his face.

The sight convinced Little Rifle that he must speedily be gotten out of the water, if he expected to preserve his life at all, and he now bent all his efforts toward reaching the shore with him.

A few vigorous strokes brought him within a dozen feet of land, but the bank was so rocky and precipitous that it was idle to attempt to come out, and he drifted, unresisting, still further.