CHAPTER XVI.

THE HAND OF FATE.

The lodge of old Robsart and Little Rifle has been already sufficiently described in these pages, without requiring any further reference from us. It was near mid-day when it was reached, and the three decided to spend several hours where they were, as there was no necessity of setting their traps until nightfall.

Little Rifle passed to his apartment in the rear of the lodge, and Harry felt a little hurt that he was not invited to accompany him. However, he carefully concealed his feelings, and sitting down in a lazy attitude proceeded to examine the rifle which had been presented to him.

He found it to be an excellent one, well made and finely ornamented. It had doubtless been given to the Blackfoot by some kind-hearted Peace Commissioner, who most likely formed the first target upon which the red-skin had tried his skill. As he was also furnished with an abundance of ammunition, Harry was ready to start on his return to the fort.

The reserve of Little Rifle and the suspicions of the old trapper almost decided him to go at once, with a mere formal good-by. While he was examining his weapon, he could feel that the eyes of the old trapper were upon him, and it nettled him not a little to think that any white man should entertain any distrust regarding him.

Unable to conjecture the cause, he concluded that the best thing he could do was to relieve them of his presence.

All at once he sprung to his feet, and slung the rifle over his shoulder.

“I guess I’ll go now,” he said, in his off-hand manner; “they will begin to wonder at my absence from the fort. I can reach there by night, if I make good use of my time.”

Old Ruff, who was carefully arranging some sticks so as to prepare a fire, looked up at him, without the least appearance of surprise. Indeed, Harry fancied that there was something in his looks which said plainly enough that he was pleased to hear his words.

“It’s gettin’ purty well on into the day, younker, and you’d better wait till mornin’ afore you start on such a tramp.”

Regarding this invitation as insincere, Harry paid no heed to it, and had actually taken several steps on his way, when Little Rifle unexpectedly put in an appearance.

“If you must go, Harry,” said he, as he stepped forth into the open air, “I’ll go with you until you’re within sight of the fort. It is a good ways from here, and you know what danger there is to pass through. I should never forgive myself if any thing should happen to you.”

Harry was touched at this generous offer, and he felt all his resentment vanish on the instant, to be succeeded by his tender, loving affection for the lad who had already so generously risked his life for him.

He looked toward old Robsart, who he expected would object to any such proceeding, but he seemed to be as willing to this arrangement as to any thing else. Indeed he showed that he looked upon it with favor, for he said:

“Take the straightest course you can foller, younkers, for you will need all your time. But see here, Little Rifle, I want to say a word or two to you afore you go.”

There could be no legitimate objection to this, but it disturbed Harry, as he saw the two walk away, side by side, for a rod or two, and then, standing with their backs to him, engage in a cautious but earnest conversation.

He did not hear a word, but, as he looked that way, he could see both gesticulating, the old trapper being much more excited than the younger, who from appearances was mildly expostulating against some of his utterances.

“It is none of my concern,” muttered Harry, “what secrets they may have between themselves. I never saw either until yesterday, and may never see them again, but they have had no cause to show any suspicion toward me. I _do_ feel drawn toward Little Rifle by an irresistible emotion. There is so much true nobility in his nature, he is so wonderfully handsome, and he has such rare mental powers that it is a sin to keep him away here in these solitudes, away from all creation. I’ll have a good talk with him on the way to the fort, and if he has got any ambition in his nature I’ll rouse it, and make him go back East with me. I will get father to adopt and educate him, and we’ll make a man of him in a few years-- Helloa! here he comes, walking as if he was in a great hurry.”

Old Ruff came forward too, and taking the hand of the boy said:

“I expect to be over to the fort in a few days, arter hosses to take my peltries away, so I won’t say good-by to you, only I wish you good luck, and keep your eye open for varmints.”

Harry returned the salutation, in his pleasant manner, and then, as both he and Little Rifle waved the old man farewell, they turned their faces westward and started on their memorable journey to Fort Abercrombie, neither party, in his wildest dreamings, suspecting what a passing strange adventure should befall them ere they were to catch sight of the Stars and Stripes, that waved from the flagstaff of this frontier post.

When they had reached a point about a mile distant, a very perceptible change in the sky became apparent. The sun was hid by clouds that swiftly drifted up from the Cascade Range, and the air which had been mild and balmy, rapidly grew colder, until the lads were compelled to walk quite briskly to keep up the circulation and warmth of the body. The wind blew strongly, whistling and moaning among the trees like the blasts of winter, and there was every indication of a great elemental disturbance.

“There is a storm coming, as sure as fate,” said Harry, looking up at the threatening sky.

“And I shouldn’t wonder if it were a snow storm,” added Little Rifle. “I have seen them come up as suddenly as this before. Hadn’t we better go back, and stay in our lodge over night?”

“I would rather go on,” replied Harry, who dreaded the annoyance of being covertly watched by the old trapper, for an indefinite number of hours. “If the storm becomes too severe, why we can go into camp and wait until it blows over. Do you think it will amount to much?”

Little Rifle looked up to the sky, with the air and manner of a weather prophet, and replied:

“No; I think it is a sudden flurry, or a squall that will be over in an hour; but you notice how chilly it is; we ought to be provided with blankets, at any rate.”

“I can stand it if you can.”

“I only spoke on your account,” said Little Rifle as they started forward. “We can walk fast, and that will keep us warm, and if it gets too cold for us to stand it, we will crawl in among the rocks somewhere and build a rousing fire.”

Harry found the walk brisk enough to suit the most enthusiastic pedestrian, and it speedily sent a glow of warmth all through his system.

A moment after several feathery flakes of snow drifted against their faces, and then scarcely five minutes had elapsed when the air was full. Millions and billions of the white flakes, some of them of large size, were eddying and whirling all about them. When they looked up, they could barely keep their eyes open, and they were literally blinded by them.

“Jingo! this is rather sudden,” shouted Harry with a laugh. “I guess the Coast Range has blowed up, and sent the pieces this way.”

The snow drove against them and filled the air so entirely that the boys could not see a rod ahead of them. Little Rifle, however, was able to recall where they were, and he groped forward, until they reached the shelter of some rocks, where they could remain until the snow-squall should terminate.

As they stood there, looking out upon the beautiful snow, Little Rifle reached out and took the gun of Harry for the purpose of making a more minute examination of it than he had yet done.

“While you’re doing that I’ll take a look at that handsome little piece of yours. Helloa!”

As Harry took it in his hand, he grasped the stock in a peculiar manner--very differently from what he would have done at any other time, and, as he did so, he pressed something or other that caused a little lid beneath the trigger-guard to fly open.

And while Little Rifle was staring wonderingly at this hitherto unknown contrivance, Harry reached one thumb and finger in, and drew out a small twist of paper. On it, he saw written a few words, in faded ink.

_And these words told the secret of Little Rifle’s birth, history and life!_