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!”