CHAPTER VI.

THE STRANGE CANOE.

Little Rifle uttered this exclamation in the voice of one who is certain of what he says, as well he might be; for, as he fixed his eyes upon the swiftly-flowing stream, as it swept onward toward the thunderous falls, his vision also roved along the bank toward its source, far up in the mountains.

The stream was a little less than a mile from where he stood, and quite a distance above the falls alluded to, were visible three Indian lodges. They stood upon an open piece of land, immediately back of which were rocks and ravines, and were close to the edge of the river, flowing by their very base. They were of the usual character, made of barks and skins, supported upon poles that were stacked like muskets, the lower ends being a dozen feet apart, while they interlocked at the top, where an open space was left.

From the top of one of these lodges issued a thin, shadowy column of smoke, so faint and vapory that it could only be seen when the eye was directed fairly toward it.

This was the only evidence or sign of life that met the gaze of the boy, and it seemed rather to add to the loneliness of the immense solitude spread out before his eyes. The smoke showed that there was some one, out of sight, in _one_ of the lodges, at least; but in the distance, the river had a solemn, quiet flow, and the roar of the waterfall below, mellowed and subdued by the distance, was in perfect keeping with the scene.

“Yes, there are the Indians,” he added, as, perched in the tree, he gazed long and searchingly on the scene; “they are there, though my eye can not see them, for those _signs_ are too plain for any one to mistake.”

Reasoning upon his knowledge of red-men, he concluded that one of those marauding bands of Blackfeet, that are still encountered in the Far West, had halted here for a few days to engage in hunting, and most probably in salmon-fishing; for, as is well known, the Columbia and its tributaries abound with this fish, which is eagerly sought by both white and red men.

The danger to be feared was, that these Indians, hunting and fishing in the vicinity, would discover signs of the proximity of the two trappers and hunters, and, to use a common expression, would “go for them.” As bad luck would have it, also, they were directly between the present trapping-grounds of Old Ruff and Little Rifle, and those to which they had concluded to move their traps. Consequently, they would be pretty certain to encounter “Indian” in uncomfortable profusion, wheresoever they might choose to locate.

The lad, from his perch in the top of the oak, looked down upon the scene for fully a half-hour, in the expectation of seeing some movement upon the part of the Blackfeet. All that time the thin, light-colored smoke crept up through the funnel-like opening, but not a solitary red-skin showed himself.

“It must be that they are off on a hunt,” concluded Little Rifle, as his patience at last gave out; “and if they have left their squaws behind, they are asleep. Anyway, I must learn more about them.”

And acting upon this resolve, he descended the tree and struck off in a direct line toward the river. He knew well enough that if he should return to the old hunter with no more knowledge than he now possessed, he would be chided for performing only a part of his duty, his maxim being that a reconnoissance that was incomplete was worse than none at all, as it created all manner of doubt and distrust, without suggesting the remedy. The intervening distance was traversed without difficulty, Little Rifle not forgetting to exercise great care in his movements, as always became a person in the presence of danger.

The point where he struck the stream was without any wood at all, but was lined with broken, jagged and irregular rocks, among which he managed to pick his way without exposing himself to any suspicious eye that might be on the alert upon the opposite side.

He had kept his bearings so well that he found himself directly opposite the three lodges, which were thus scarcely a hundred yards distant, and in the best view he could possibly desire.

“They must be a sleepy set over there,” he concluded, as he ensconced himself in a position to keep ward and watch; “that is, if any one is there, for I don’t think a soul has stirred outside since I first saw them. Hello!”

His curiosity was suddenly and unexpectedly gratified, although, as it speedily proved, in a way that was not entirely satisfactory.

A single Blackfoot Indian, that looked like the twin brother of the one who had met his doom a few hours before, walked out of the lodge from which the smoke was issuing, stretched and yawned, and walking to the edge of the stream, looked up and down for a moment, as though expecting some one or something, and then deliberately walked back again, and disappeared from view.

“That looks as if he had come out to wash his face, and had become disgusted,” laughed Little Rifle. “I think a good scrubbing would be sure to kill him. I suppose, now, he will go to sleep for the rest of the day.”

One of the essentials of a good scout, both in civilized and savage warfare, is a patience that can bear the test of hours. The Esquimaux, who sits by the air-hole in the ice without stirring a muscle, even if the seal does not thrust out his nose, is the beau ideal of a patient scout, although he is too much of a porpoise himself to get impatient.

Young as was Little Rifle, he was the possessor of this quality, and had displayed it to a remarkable degree on more than one occasion; but it will be remembered that the circumstances were exceptional to-day, and he was in that feverish, uneasy condition of mind which at times made him, as it were, another person.

At any other time he would have centered his attention on the three lodges across the stream, and kept it there until the sun went down, despite hunger, cold and discomfort; but he could not do so now. It required such an effort upon his part to withdraw his mind from that tempting reverie, or day-dreaming, which had so nearly proved his death, that he was dissatisfied, and felt that he must be moving, and that he must do something or the burden would become unbearable.

What precise form this relief would have taken, it is hard to conjecture, but most probably the lad would have ventured to cross the stream at a point further up, so as to get still nearer the lodges; but this perilous proceeding was happily prevented by a most unlooked-for diversion.

While keeping his attention, as a general thing, fixed upon the most suspicious part of his view, he remembered that some of the owners of these lodges were away, and there was no telling by what route they might return. So he bestowed an occasional glance up and down stream, not forgetting that he might be lying in their very path.

It was something like fifteen minutes after the disappearance of the Blackfoot, when Little Rifle chanced to look up-stream, and saw a small Indian canoe suddenly shoot to view.

There was nothing particularly striking in this, but there was something extraordinary in what he discovered the next moment. A single person was holding the guiding-paddle, and instead of being a Blackfoot Indian, as he had expected, it proved to be a white boy, apparently his own age, or but slightly older.

He gave but little motion to the oar, as the current was rapid enough to make it unnecessary, and his principal occupation was in guiding the frail bark.

The appearance of this stranger, as may well be supposed, filled Little Rifle with the most profound amazement, as it was the first time in all his life that he had seen a boy in this section of the country, and coming to view so near to where the Indians were, caused no little inquiry and speculation as to what it all meant.

He supposed of course that the lad was on good terms with the Indians, else he would not have shown himself so near them; but this belief was speedily dispelled by the actions of the lad himself.

While yet some distance up-stream, he suddenly caught sight of the lodges, and instantly showed the greatest consternation--seizing the paddle, and dipping it deep into the water, as he made furious efforts to cause it to ascend the stream again, as though he hoped to pass out of sight around the curve above.

But he was utterly unable to overcome the current, and only succeeded in slightly checking his speed, the manner in which he handled the paddle showing that he was quite a novice, with a skill that could not compare with that of Little Rifle.

When the boat had drifted down to a point nearly opposite the lodges, its inmate seemed to discover that he was wasting his strength, and he turned about again so as to face the dwelling-places of the dreaded red-skins.

Not one of them showed his face, and the boy pausing a moment to regain breath, headed the canoe directly toward the point where the excited Little Rifle was watching his actions; but this seemed to give no more satisfaction than the other course, for in case he succeeded, it would compel him to land directly opposite the lodges, where the chances of his being seen would be doubly increased.

As the best thing that could be done, he resorted to a rather curious artifice. One hurried glance toward the Blackfoot dwellings showed him that he still remained undiscovered, whereupon he instantly lay flat down, so that he could not be seen by any one upon the bank, and in this posture he let the canoe go, trusting to good fortune to carry him by in safety.

Little Rifle was on the point of calling to him, and volunteering his assistance, when he concluded that his voice would be pretty certain to attract the attention of the keen-eared savages in the lodges, and thus endanger the safety of both. Accordingly he remained quiet.

There is something in solitude that attracts one human heart to another, and when Little Rifle saw the canoe gliding by, he determined to learn something of its occupant. He reasoned that he was not likely to be alone in this wilderness, and that strange, dim, vague feeling came over him, that caused the expression of his thought.

“It may be that _he_ is the one sent by Heaven to lead me through the gate that now shuts out the great wide world. I will yield to the impulse that leads me toward him.”

And, at the same time a shy, bashful emotion restrained him from moving away at once.

“I will wait and see whether he is fortunate enough to get beyond sight of the lodges without discovery.”

And he again crouched down behind the rocks, and with an anxiously beating heart waited to see what the result of this perilous mishap was to be.

The strange canoe had something like a half-mile to pass, before a curve in the river would shut it from view of any one who stood upon the shore, where the Blackfoot had shown himself. The probability was that the boy, after getting fairly below the lodges, would work his boat in to shore, so as to get out of the dangerous range as speedily as possible.

The little boat kept in the middle of the current, the occupant persistently remaining out of sight, and Little Rifle, after watching it for a few moments, would look directly across the stream, dreading to see the painted Blackfoot issue forth, and repent his survey.

Further and further drifted the little boat, until it looked like a duck floating at will upon the water. But, if the Indian sees it, he will recognize it on the instant, and then there will be trouble. The lad does not intend to land, and must remain in view for some time longer.

The minutes dragged slowly by, and it appeared as if the tiny vessel remained absolutely stationary upon the surface of the water, although Little Rifle knew that it was still going forward rapidly. At the distance, he could not identify the lad, even if his head was above the gunwale, and our hero was beginning to wonder what his conduct could mean, when he observed that the canoe was gradually edging to one side, as if it were creeping in toward the land.

“But it is not,” he added, as he carefully scrutinized it, “it is passing around the bend in the river, and will now be lost to view in a few minutes, and then all danger will be over--Heaven save him!”