CHAPTER XII.

THE REVELATION OF MAQUESA.

The interference, this time, came in the shape of Old Ruff Robsart himself, who strode forward out of the gloom, and advancing straight to the chief, extended his hand, and said:

“How do you do, Maquesa? I have been huntin’ fur yer for a long time.”

The Blackfoot returned the salutation with every appearance of cordiality, much to the surprise of the other two red-skins, who were hardly prepared for the exhibition of any thing like friendship between a white man and one of their race.

Having paid his respects to him, the trapper turned to his young friend with one of his huge grins, that moved his beard clean back to his ears.

“I don’t s’pose you war lookin’ fur me; but the way on it was—while I was huntin’ round fur that Injin village that had strayed off somewhar and got lost, I found thar was a little clump of lodges closer by, and I made up my mind to pay them a visit fust. Wal, I was trampin’ ’long when I heard your gun go off, and purty soon I heard it go agin, and then I knowed you war in some row, so I struck a bee-line fur you, and here I is. Hello!” he exclaimed, noticing the bodies of the two wild animals for the first time, “that war the trouble, eh? And as sure as I’m alive, thar’s old Speckled Beauty gone under at last. Tell me how it all came about.”

As the Blackfeet showed no disposition to interfere, or prevent this conversation, Harry related, as briefly as possible what the reader has already learned of his adventure with the strange animal, from whose clutches he was hardly saved by the timely coming to his assistance of the tame grizzly bear.

“He always war a plucky critter,” said the mountaineer, when the recital was finished, and speaking us though he had no particular regrets at his death; “I thought that ever since the time when he war a cub, and come mighty near chawin’ me up; but what sort of critter was it that he lit on?” he asked, as he walked forward to examine it.

The trapper poked the carcass with his foot and gun, for some minutes, stooping down and peering at it with no little curiosity. Finally he seemed to give up the conundrum as past his ability.

“See here, Maquesa,” said he, turning to the chief, “you was born and raised in the woods. Come and tell me what sort of a critter this is.”

The Blackfoot thus appealed to walked forward, and made the same examination as did his white friend, but seemingly with very little more success.

“Hooh!” he grunted, “he no bear—he debbel!”

“P’r’aps he is,” was the comment of Old Ruff, as he walked back and resumed his seat, “but I didn’t know the Old Boy was killed as easy as that.”

This piece of badinage being finished, the party arranged themselves for more serious business. The two red-skins, who had acted the part of dummies thus far, lit their pipes and stretched out in a lazy posture upon the ground, ready and willing to wait their master’s orders, no matter how long they might be deferred.

Maquesa and Old Ruff seated themselves near each other, and Harry assumed a position where he could be certain of hearing every word that passed between them. Great, therefore, was his disappointment, when they began talking, to find that it was in the Blackfoot tongue!

“Confound it!” he exclaimed, desperately, “if I had known that _that_ was the trick they were going to play, I would have learned the gibberish myself.”

But there seemed to be no help for it, and he concluded to take the matter philosophically. So he gathered his blanket about him, and, nestling down by the rocks, went to sleep.

It was well he did so, for thereby he escaped a weary waiting. Maquesa and Robsart must have entered into the discussion of political questions, for, although it was not very late in the evening when they began, yet they never finished until nearly daylight.

Finally there seemed to be no more for either to say, and the Blackfoot rose, shook the hand of the trapper, in token of amity, and then speaking to his warriors, they too arose, and the three moved off in the gloom and were seen no more.

The fire had burned very low, the two speakers paying no heed to it in the earnestness of their conversation. The old hunter cast on a few more sticks, and then rising and yawning he looked off at the sky.

It was still dark, but in the east were signs of the coming sun. His experienced eye told him that day was close at hand.

“Skulp me!” he growled, “ef I thought our confab had lasted as long as that. Thar’s the younker curled up and snoozin’ like a sensible chap. I seen him curl down here thinkin’ he was goin’ to hear every word and l’arn a good deal; but I nipped that by opening the ball in Blackfoot rigmarole, ’cause I knowed thar war some things which it wouldn’t do fur him to hear just yit. He’ll l’arn it all in good time, and bein’ it’s so late I guess thar ain’t no use in my layin’ down. I grabbed a couple of salmon out of an eddy in the water, down yender, and dressed ’em, and laid ’em away ’mong the leaves, ’cause thar wasn’t ’nough for these red varmints, and they kin catch thar fish as well as me. I’ll get ’em and cook ’em for breakfast, and I guess when they begin to smoke and fry, and he gets a sniff, he’ll wake.”

He disappeared for a short time, and when he returned he carried two large spotted fish in his hand. They were plump and luscious, and all prepared for the coals.

The fire, having been burning and smoldering for so many hours, was in the best condition possible. The coals were raked out into a glowing bed, free from dirt and ashes, and the two fish laid thereon.

Instantly scorching crisp, they gave out a smoke and savor enough to drive a hungry person frantic. The trapper carefully watched and turned them for several minutes, by which time they were thoroughly prepared for the palate.

By this time it was fairly light, and Harry not having awaked, Old Ruff having lifted one of the hot, smoking fish upon some fresh green leaves, and, kneeling softly beside the lad, held the morsel so that the odor was sure to reach the nostrils.

One good sniff was enough. The boy moved uneasily, flung the blanket from his shoulders, opened his eyes, and called out:

“Quick! give me something to eat before I starve!”

“All right, you shall have it,” replied Old Ruff, “only sit up like a Christian and eat it.”

A few minutes sufficed to make matters clear, and as Harry began to eat the tempting fish he looked around for the Blackfeet, and seeing them not, made inquiry.

“That ’ere Maquesa is the cunningest varmint I ever run afoul of,” said the trapper, after answering the question; “of course he knowed that I was arter him, ever since that night Speckled Beauty walked into camp and told him so. He never stopped to see me, but he just tramped ahead, and arter fixing things to suit him, he then turned ’bout to meet me. He must have seen us when I left you yesterday, and, waitin’ till I had got out of sight, he went in to plague you a little, for the old greaser ain’t above a joke now and then.”

“But he showed no disposition to hurt me,” said Harry.

“’Cause I come up in time to sp’ile thar game, but ef I’d stayed away a couple of hours longer they’d put you through a course of sprouts, and made you b’l’eve sartin you war goin’ to be skulped and burnt at the stake. That was all them varmints come fur—just for the sake of having a little fun out of you.”

“Then I’m very glad you put in an appearance when you did, for I don’t fancy these red-skins, and I don’t understand all the little tricks they’re up to. If they had begun that business I’d been certain they were in dead earnest, and would have done my best to use my gun or rifle upon them, and then I suppose the fun would have turned to dead earnest.”

“You may bet on that; _that_ ain’t the kind of fun they fancy, and them other two chaps with him are a couple of bloody dogs that would have been glad of the chance to split your head open.”

“But what about Little Rifle?” asked Harry, unable longer to conceal his impatience. “I noticed that you talked Indian, so you must have given Maquesa a chance to do most of the talking.”

“He speaks English purty well, but of course it ain’t like his own woshy-boshy, so I steered ahead in _that_.”

“And what did you learn?”

“It was a mighty strange story that he told,” said the trapper, seriously, “and it’s nothin’ more nor less than this. He said that a couple of moons ago, he l’arned that the little gal that had been left in his charge was the Little Rifle that I had, and so he came across the mountains arter her.”

“How was it that he found out?” asked Harry. “Who could have told him the secret, when, at that time, even you and Little Rifle herself did not know it?”

“That’s the question I put to him, and he wouldn’t answer, but I don’t b’l’eve any one told him, but that he thought it out for himself. Of course it took him a long time, for he has known for a good many years that Little Rifle has been with me, but the old chap has got brains enough to cipher out a thing like that, without any help.”

“How does his story correspond with that told by the slip of paper?”

“’Zactly; he says the babe was left in his charge by a great white man, who thought all the world of him, and that he seen him write something on a slip of paper, and put it in the handle of the gun. He and his squaw took it to their lodge on the other side the mountains, and war keepin’ it thar. They often left it alone, and it happened at one of these times that I slipped in and went away with it, and I’ve had it ever since.”

“Then it was Maquesa who succeeded in getting her away from us. Did he tell you why it was that she came to leave me so willingly?”

“No; he didn’t tell me that, ’cause thar warn’t no need of it. I knowed it already.”

Harry had hoped to catch the trapper off his guard, and secure the coveted answer, but Robsart saw through the trick in time to escape.

“But what is he doing with Little Rifle? Why does he keep her?”

“He says he hasn’t got her at all—that he hasn’t seen her for several days—and that he never expects to see her again.”