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!”