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!