CHAPTER IV.

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!