NEW FRIENDS.
Little Rifle and Harry stood side by side on the margin of the stream
down which the latter had made his frightful plunge, and from which he
had been rescued by the daring young trapper.
“Yes,” repeated Harry, with a meaning laugh, “I have seen you before,
if you haven’t seen me.”
“I am sure you are mistaken,” replied Little Rifle, embarrassed at his
persistency. “I have lived among the mountains and woods ever since I
can remember.”
“And that’s where I saw you,” added Harry, who seemed to recover
his strength and spirits with remarkable celerity. “I wonder, now,
whether you were not lying in the back part of a canoe, this morning,
half-asleep, without suspecting that a big Blackfoot Indian was
creeping up to you with his tomahawk in hand.”
And Harry laughed, as if he had just heard the funniest joke of his
life.
A light began to break in upon the mind of Little Rifle. How could
his new acquaintance know any thing of that incident, which neither
himself nor Ruff Robsart had told to any one?
“_You_ are the one who fired the gun that saved me!” he exclaimed,
reaching out to take the hand of Harry.
“I believe I am,” replied the latter, as he returned the grasp. “I
happened to be hunting along that creek when I caught sight of your
canoe, and I stood trying to make out whether you were an Indian or a
white man. I was going to call to you two or three times, but I thought
you were a red-skin, as the hunters call them; for you know I couldn’t
see your face, and you were dressed very much like one. Just as I was
about to turn away I caught sight of the Blackfoot stealing toward
you--and you know the rest.”
“But why didn’t you wait and speak to us. We crossed over to hunt you
out, but Old Ruff himself couldn’t find your trail, even.”
“I took pains to travel over the rocks and stones as much as I could
so as to keep you from finding my tracks. I didn’t wait to see this
Old Ruff that you are talking about, because I still believed that you
were an Indian belonging to some other tribe, and I couldn’t bear to
see you killed in such a cowardly manner, so I made myself as scarce as
possible.”
“But how, then, do you recognize me _now_?” asked Little Rifle, in
wonder, “when you say you didn’t see my face?”
“By that cap, which I did see, and which isn’t the kind of plug an
Indian sports.”
Little Rifle laughed at the lively, off-hand manner of his new friend,
who seemed to have forgotten entirely his recent terrible experience.
“Well, then, since you would not give me the chance then, I will take
it now, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for the service you
did me, when without it I should have been killed.”
“Of course it was a good turn, but then it can’t compare with your act.
_I_ didn’t run any particular risk, while you knew, when you jumped
into the raging water, that the chances were altogether against your
ever coming out again. However, we won’t fight over such a dispute;
we’re bound to be friends for life, so give us your hand on it.”
And the two shook hands warmly, in a way, too, that showed they meant
it.
“I tell you, Little Rifle, there is something about you that I like,”
in his dashing, captivating style. “You’ve got pluck, and I like to see
that in anybody, and then you’re as modest and backward as a girl; you
haven’t got the brass and style and vices of civilization, and I hope
you never will, and so it won’t spoil you when I tell you that you’ve
got the handsomest face that I ever saw on a pair of shoulders--”
“There! there!” protested Little Rifle, flushing to his temples,
“please don’t go on in that way, but tell me something about yourself.”
“Well, I suppose I ought to. You know what my name is; my father has
an interest in the Missouri Fur Company, and has come out prospecting
in this part of the world. We came up the Missouri and Yellowstone as
far as the boat could travel, and then, with a party of hunters, made
the rest of the journey on horseback. So, you see, I got considerable
experience in the woods on our way, though I haven’t had much chance
to learn how to manage one of these confounded canoes. We reached Fort
Abercrombie, which I suppose you’ve heard of, about a week ago.”
“Yes, I have been there several times.”
“Well, from there father concluded to make a trip up into British
America, and gave me the choice of staying where I was, or of going
with him and his party. I found out from the men at the fort that there
is a great deal better hunting in Oregon than there is further north,
so that is how I came to stay behind.”
“And is it possible that you are so far away from the fort without some
hunter or trapper who knows the country being with you?” asked Little
Rifle, staring at him, in amazement.
“Why not?” he responded, coolly. “Father didn’t forbid me to go
out hunting, but rather encouraged it. I find there are a few more
waterfalls and Indians than I thought, but I am getting used to them.
Since you’ve told me your name, Little Rifle, I call to mind, too, that
I have heard it at the fort. Old Ruff, as you call him, the noted old
Hill Trapper, has you in charge. Isn’t that the case?”
“You are right,” replied Little Rifle, as they picked their way along
over the rocks, in the direction of the falls. “I have lived with him
ever since I can remember.”
“But he is not your father?”
“No; nor can he tell who my parents are. Many years ago, when I was
an infant, he took me from a deserted Indian lodge. I was left at the
fort, while he made every effort in his power to find out something of
my history; but he has never succeeded, and is as ignorant of it to-day
as you are.”
“It is wonderful,” said Harry, deeply impressed with the romantic
narrative; “were you dressed in Indian clothes at the time? Were there
no marks by which some trace of your parentage could be gained?”
“None at all,” replied the young lad, with a sad shake of his head. “I
do not even know my name.”
“How is it that they call you Little Rifle?”
“When old Ruff Robsart took me out of the Indian lodge, there was
a small gun, beautifully mounted, suspended over my head, which he
brought away with him, and kept until I was big enough to begin to use
it. At the fort they christened me Little Rifle, and the name has stuck
to me ever since.”
“Where is the gun now?”
“I laid it upon the rocks when I jumped into the water to help you out,
as I would have been sure to lose it. I am on my way now to recover it.”
“It would be hard for me to guess where mine is,” laughed Harry, with
a half-quizzical look at the falls, which were now close at hand. “As
a paddle, it wasn’t much of a success, and I don’t think it fared much
better than the canoe.”
“We have a spare rifle or two at the cabin, and I shall be glad to
present you with one. In fact you have a claim to one of them, for it
belonged to the Blackfoot that you shot this morning and looks like a
good piece; though it is of the regular size.”
“And so was the one I lost. Father bought me a couple of boys’ guns in
St. Louis, and I lost one in the Yellowstone, when I was watching to
get a crack at some wild-fowl.”
“What became of the other?”
“I kept that till we had left the Yellowstone, and were well on our
way over the mountains. I got tired of carrying it slung over my
shoulder, where there wasn’t any chance of getting a crack at any thing
like game--so I had it strapped to the back of a mule, and he took it
into his head one day to roll over without waiting for his load to be
unstrapped. When he had finished, my gun was in seven different pieces.
Then I took an ordinary rifle, such as the men carry, and have gotten
along with that ever since.”
“Yonder is mine,” said Little Rifle, pointing to where his weapon lay;
“wait here until I return, and you can examine it for yourself.”
With these words, the lad bounded forward like a chamois, and picking
up his piece, brought it back to Harry, who took it into his hand to
examine it.
“A splendid gun,” was his comment, as he turned it over and over in his
hand; “but, hello! what does this mean? There are two letters, ‘_H.
R._’, engraven on the stock.”
“They were there when Old Ruff found it. Neither of us know what they
mean.”
“They must be the initials of the man who owned the gun. No doubt
he was your father; I see his surname begins with _R._, but I don’t
suppose it can be Rifle, like yours.”
“No; hardly that,” replied the boy, compelled to laugh at the manner of
his companion. “There must be thousands of names that begin in the same
way, so those letters have been of no help at all to us.”
“Not at present, but when I go back to the fort, I’m going to set out
to find who you are, and where you came from, and I’m never going to go
back East until I do learn.”
As Little Rifle heard these words, the longing, strange yearning came
to him, and he could not avoid asking himself the question, whether
this friend was not the instrument sent by Heaven to introduce him into
the world, and to unlock the mystery that shrouded his history.
His declaration of what he intended to do, stirred Little Rifle’s
hopes, and as he looked furtively at the boy, he saw his lips
compressed and his eyes flashing, in a way that proved how deeply in
earnest he was.
“I would be glad,” said Little Rifle, with a sigh, “to have you clear
up the doubt that covers the past, but I do not believe there is any
chance of success.”
“_You can’t tell about that_,” replied Harry, in a resolute, decided
way! “If a continued search can not find out, we sometimes come upon it
by chance. I know you are anxious to learn, and I shall never give over
my efforts until I find out.”
As he said this, he passed the gun back to the owner, and they turned
off from the falls, where the din and roar prevented them from
conversing without great difficulty.
“I wonder whether any of those Indians saw me,” continued Harry. “I was
out hunting when I found that canoe, and thought I would get in and
practice a little, for canoe-paddling is my weak point, and it is the
hardest thing in the world for me to get the hang of the thing. Before
I knew it, I come right smack in front of those lodges, and finding I
couldn’t paddle up-stream, I just lay down, and trusted to Providence
to take me through all.”
“I saw you,” laughed Little Rifle, “for I was watching the lodges from
the other side the stream, but I didn’t dare call to you, for fear the
Blackfeet would hear me.”
“There were Indians in them then?”
“Yes; I saw them, but they didn’t come out to the water until you were
far down the stream. I could just see your canoe going around the curve
above the falls, when they looked down the river. I can’t say whether
they saw you or not, but they acted to me as though they did.”
“They have wonderfully sharp eyes, and if _you_ could see me, you can
make up your mind that they could and did--so we had better be on the
look-out.”
“And what if they did?” was the reassuring reply of Little Rifle.
“Where will they look for you and the canoe now? If they find you both
went over the falls, will they hunt any further for you?”