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_!