LITTLE RIFLE; OR, THE YOUNG FUR HUNTERS.

BY CAPT. “BRUIN” ADAMS, AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POCKET NOVELS: No. 9. Lightning Jo. No. 78. Old Ruff, the Trapper.

NEW YORK: BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS, 98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by FRANK STARR & CO., In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

LITTLE RIFLE, THE BOY TRAPPER.

CHAPTER I. ON THE UPPER COLUMBIA.

Along the shores of one of the branches of the Upper Columbia, a lad was making his way with a care and stealth that showed he was on the alert for danger, let it come in whatsoever form it chose.

A casual glance at the boy would have led one to pronounce him about fifteen or sixteen years of age. He was prepossessing and handsome to a remarkable degree. The cheeks glowed with the hue of health, the rose-tint being as fine as that of the sea-shell; the features were almost classical in their regularity; the teeth small and clear as pearls, the eyes large and lustrous, and the hair dark and wavy, but cut quite short. The hands and feet were small and shapely, and a certain careless grace of movement, shown even in his cautious gait, proved that “Little Rifle,” as the lad was called, possessed a rare activity, and an extraordinary command of his bodily powers.

His dress was thoroughly backwoods in every respect, consisting of the buck-skin leggings rather gaudily fringed and ornamented, the moccasins embroidered with beads, the skirt descending to the knees, and clasped at the waist by a broad belt, into which was thrust a knife, the horn handle only being visible. Within the bosom of the skirt, and out of sight, was a small revolver, intended only to be used when necessity compelled it. A string passing over one and under the other shoulder, sustained a powder-flask and bullet-pouch; but there was no game-bag visible, for the reason that the game the hunters bring down in that latitude can not be carried very conveniently, especially when the hunter is a boy in his teens.

In the left hand Little Rifle carried a beaver-trap, while a[10] small, silver-mounted rifle rested upon his right shoulder, and was held in place by his other hand.

The day was drawing to a close, and there was a mellowed subdued quiet resting upon wood and stream that made the hour and the place one of the most attractive imaginable. The branch of the Columbia, at this point, flowed quite swiftly but with a steady, unruffled sweep, that was in perfect keeping with silence and solitude. The banks on either hand were varied by rock, wood and prairie, the country itself being of the most romantic nature.

Looking off to the east and south, the eye caught a glimpse of distant mountain peaks, standing out white and clear against the blue horizon, like a snowy conical cloud, and the intervening stretch of country was broken by hills, ravines, gorges, wood, stream, rocks and prairie, in an interminable jungle, making a country that was the chosen roaming-ground of the fiercest wild animals, the most valuable game, and the wild Indian, and the equally wild hunter and trapper.

Turning the eye to the westward, it was greeted with a vision of magnificence and grandeur. In this clear, brilliant air, which makes the climate of Oregon rival that of Italy, there was a sharp, clear distinctness to the Cascade Range, fifty miles away, that would have made any one believe that the distance was scarcely a quarter. Some of the loftiest peaks shone white against the sky, but as they towered aloft, their immense slopes could be seen to be covered with verdure, that was tinged with a misty blue, when viewed through the half a hundred miles of atmosphere.

Little Rifle was moving up the left bank of the stream, with his face turned toward the Cascade Range, except when he darted his quick, wide-awake glances in the direction of the river’s bank on his right hand, varied now and then by an equally inquisitive look at the wood and rocks in front and on his left.

“Uncle Ruff told me yesterday that there were plenty signs of beaver further up the stream,” mused the lad, as he walked along, “and I know that they have been thinned out down below, so that I haven’t had a bite in this trap for three days. I’ll set it a mile or two further up, where it will pay to make[11] it a visit early in the morning.” And he held up the trap and turned it around before his eyes, as if it were a new thing altogether. It resembled the ordinary “steel-trap,” except that it was considerably larger.

The ease with which the lad carried the cumbersome load, attested the strength which this manner of living had given him. Like all little chaps, he was given to conversing with himself, when walking alone, and to-day he seemed in quite a chatty vein.

“Old Ruff went off on a hunt yesterday, and told me he would not be back for several days, and I’m to keep the old cabin till he shows himself again. I’ve done that often enough to understand it; but I wish he was home to-night.”

Something like a shade of sadness passed over the boy’s face as he uttered these words. It may be that it was only a natural feeling of loneliness; an evidence of that longing for companionship, which, at times, comes over us all, and is scarcely ever absent from youth.

“I wonder whether Uncle Ruff knows any more of my life than he has told me,” he added, following up the vein of thought. “That is little enough, at any rate. Years ago, when I was very young, he found me, and hasn’t any more idea than have I of who my parents are, and how it was I came to be in this part of the world.”

Little Rifle might have continued in this reverie for hours, even after the sun had disappeared, but for the fact that his surroundings prevented. That veteran of the Oregon woods, known as Old Ruff Robsart, had not kept him under his special training for years, without accomplishing something. One of his lessons was that when a hunter was outside of his cabin, or place of retreat, he should never go to sleep; which in more intelligible language meant that ‘day-dreaming’ or reverie, of all things was to be avoided, and the true hunter or trapper never failed to keep every faculty wide awake, on the alert for insidious danger liable at any moment to leap out upon him.

The lad had cast his glance several times toward the other bank, and the result in each case appeared to be unsatisfactory. There was something there which caused him considerable speculation and misgiving.

[12]If we had been there, it is hardly possible that we should have noticed it, but it could not escape the eye of the boy trapper, who, walking more slowly each moment, finally came to a dead halt, dropping the trap to the ground, and wheeling about so as to face the suspicious point.

The stream to which we have alluded was about two hundred yards in width. There were scarcely any trees at all growing upon the opposite side at this particular position, but there was an abundance of undergrowth and a species of long high grass peculiar to the spot.

That which had arrested the reverie of Little Rifle was not the suspicion, but the certainty that something was moving along the bank, beneath the clustering grass. What it was even he was unable to say. It had caught his eye, or rather the indications of it had, when he was a short distance further down-stream. An unnatural agitation of the grass was the sign that caused him to scrutinize it with unwonted sharpness, until, as we have already shown, he paused in his walk and faced directly about.

It would seem, even with what he had learned, that there was little cause for alarm, for there were many ways in which the appearance could be explained. In the first place, as it moved with the current, it might be that it was a log or piece of driftwood that moved tardily, on account of its proximity to shore, and the obstruction of the grass.

And then, if not an inanimate object, what more probable than that it was some beast of prey stealing along in quest of its victim?

Both of these considerations were in the mind of Little Rifle, but were rejected after a moment’s thought. His life had taught him to think quickly, and he was not long in making up his mind that there was good cause for alarm.

“Neither logs nor animals travel in that style,” he muttered, carefully following the agitated grass and undergrowth, and watching intently for the chance when some inadvertence would give him a more satisfactory glimpse of the object. “It is either a white man or Indian, with the chances altogether in favor of its being the Indian. We are too far up in the mountains for white folks to give us much trouble, and I remember that Uncle Ruff told me to be unusually careful,[13] for he had seen signs of Blackfeet both up and down-stream, and if they have been hunting in these parts we can make up our minds that they have found our traps, and are on a hunt for us. I think that one of the Blackfeet is now in the grass yonder.”

The wish of Little Rifle was gratified. He had stood but a minute, when a mass of tall grass swayed to one side, and, at the same instant, he saw the prow of a birch canoe stealing as insidiously along as a panther approaches its prey.

“Just what I thought!” exclaimed the lad. “It is one of those Blackfeet, that Old Ruff says will follow a man a thousand miles to get his scalp. I’ll bet he is after mine.”

Whoever occupied the canoe—friend or foe—showed that he was aware of the scrutiny to which he was subjected; for the boat, which up to this time had progressed with unvarying steadiness, now abruptly stood still.

This attempt to remove suspicion was too evident for the lad to mistake it; and with a tact which proved not only his remarkable training, but his native keenness, he took advantage of the “situation,” with scarcely a second’s pause.

Picking up his trap, he wheeled half-way round, and walked directly on among the undergrowth and rocks, and almost immediately vanished from view. His action was precisely that of one who was satisfied that nothing was wrong, and who had resumed the quiet tenor of his way.

But exactly the opposite was the case. He was resolved before venturing further up the stream to find out precisely the nature of the danger that impended. It was one of the maxims of old Robsart never to leave the presence of danger until he had learned all about it.

This stealthy movement of the Blackfoot very probably had a deep significance, which Little Rifle was determined to penetrate, if such a thing were possible.

After walking a hundred yards, and reaching a point where he felt secure from observation, he once more laid the trap upon the ground, and examined his rifle. The latter was a perfect weapon in its way, fitted to carry a ball a great distance with accuracy and was just suited to the strength of the lad. He handled it, too, like one who understood its use, as indeed he did.

[14]Every thing seemed to be satisfactory, and in as perfect order as he could desire.

“The gun is reliable,” was his satisfied exclamation, as he threw it over his shoulder again; “now, if I ain’t mistaken, there’s going to be trouble between a boy about my size, and a Blackfoot Indian a good deal bigger!”

CHAPTER II. LITTLE RIFLE AND “BIG INJIN.”

The sun had long since passed down out of sight, behind the Cascade Range, and a sort of twilight gloom rested upon wood and river. Not a sound reached the ear, except the faint hollow roar of the forest, and the distant rush of the waterfall, where the river poured over the rocks on the way to the ocean.

Little Rifle moved along with the careless stride of the free easy-going hunter, who knows precisely where his footsteps are leading him, and what he may expect when he gets there. It was curious too to note the silence with which he advanced. The most skillful trailer among the Blackfeet could not have guided his moccasins with a softer rustle that seemed more like the creeping of the reptile than the motion of the human foot.

The boy did not approach the stream until he had reached a point fully an eighth of a mile from where he had left it, and then it was upon his hands and knees.

Reaching a spot that afforded him the view he was seeking, he peered out from his concealment, directing his eyes at once toward the place where he had last seen the canoe. The distance was so great that even his young keen eyes were unable to see any thing unusual for a moment. Suddenly, however, he exclaimed in an excited whisper:

“There goes the old chap, as sure as the world, and he thinks he is going to git me.”

As he spoke, the canoe which had caused him so much[15] uneasiness, shot out from the opposite side, and headed directly across stream, the boat, as far as he was able to judge, aiming for the spot where he had been standing.

Little Rifle waited hardly a minute after the canoe came in sight, when he crawled hastily back for a rod or so, then plunged into the protection of the shrubbery and undergrowth, and retraced the very ground over which he had passed but a few minutes before.

This time he went at all speed, for his object was to reach the point ahead of the red-skin. He ran like a regular hunter, with a long, loping trot, his feet sounding like the stealthy tread of a beast of prey, while he kept glancing from side to side in that fashion which seemed to characterize him at all times during his waking hours.

Little Rifle was in good luck this afternoon, for he reached his destination at the very second that he wished to do so.

He heard the dip of the paddle, as the canoe made its way through the swift current, and a moment later the Blackfoot’s head came to view, as he propelled the canoe swiftly forward. Entirely unsuspicious of danger, he ran the prow of the boat hard against the shore and almost at the same instant leaped out.

As Little Rifle was thus afforded a full view of the red-skin, he was sure that he had never seen a more repulsive creature on two legs. A dirty blanket lay in the bottom of the canoe, and the hair, instead of being gathered in the ornamented tuft or topknot, hung entirely loose and straggling about his shoulders. The face itself was daubed and plastered with differently colored clay, mixed with grease and some other compound that made the copper-skin the very acme of filth and ugliness. The countenance by nature was as hideous as possible, being seamed with small-pox, while the nose was of enormous size, flattened out to an immense width, by the process which has given this tribe their distinctive name among the hunters and trappers of the West.

There was the imprint of a villainous nature upon this same countenance. It was stamped so clearly, that it could be seen and read through all the dirt and grease that was smeared over it.

[16]As Little Rifle looked upon the Blackfoot, he felt also that he was gazing upon the face of a murderer, one who would bury his tomahawk into his brain with as little compunction as if he were a wild animal.

The lad had concealed himself behind a rock, and held his rifle cocked, aimed and at his shoulder, so that the body of the red-skin was covered, and our hero had but to pull the trigger to send the dark soul into eternity.

But he did not do so, for he would have felt that he too committed a crime, in thus shooting down a human being like a dog.

The Blackfoot, after stepping out of his boat, turned about to draw it further up the bank, and, as he did so, he laid his rifle upon the ground so as to permit him to use his arms with greater facility.

This was the opportunity for which Little Rifle was waiting. Taking one step from behind the rock, so as to bring his body in full view, he called out:

“Ki! yi!”

Like a flash of lightning, the red-skin turned so as to face the sound, and doing so, saw the rifle not more than twenty feet distant, pointed straight at his breast, and with the finger resting upon the trigger. It was, indeed, only a hair’s breadth between him and eternity.

Accustomed as was the savage to the most desperate emergencies, he was completely taken off his guard by this unexpected turn of events, and for a moment he stood like one transfixed.

Then he began, almost imperceptibly, to lean his left side over, preparatory to making a sudden snatch for his gun; but Little Rifle was too thorough a scout to lose the advantage he had gained by his superior wit.

He had learned considerable of the Blackfoot tongue from old Ruff Robsart, and he now made the best use of it. Detecting the purpose of the red-skin on the instant, he called out:

“Stir a foot before I tell you, and I will shoot!”

Such a command was not to be mistaken, and the savage straightened himself with a suddenness that made him appear ridiculous. Men like him have too much dread of death to[17] invite it by any direct means, and treacherous and vindictive as he was, he comprehended his danger in all its fullness.

“Now, get,” added Little Rifle, still holding his piece at a dead level, and closing one eye, as if to convince his enemy that he was determined to make no mistake in the aim.

This peculiarly American expression, naturally enough, was not very clear to the red-skin, who stood motionless and undecided as to what was expected of him.

“Move off; go away from the canoe!” said the boy, accompanying the order by a swaying motion to the left, that did not lessen his command of aim, and, at the same time, made his meaning perfectly intelligible.

It went against the grain to obey the order, but there was no question but that Little Rifle was master of the situation, and he had the nerve to hold his vantage-ground. Noting the hesitation of his captive, he made a shifting motion, as if he had decided to fire. This was enough, and the Blackfoot, with one sidelong bound, landed nearly a dozen feet to the right of his canoe, and kept on walking, as if he had concluded to leave such an uncongenial neighborhood altogether, but our hero was not quite ready to give his permission.

“Hold on!” he commanded, in the same authoritative voice, and the Blackfoot did hold on, wheeling about and staring at his master, with an angry, defiant expression, which said, as plainly as the words:

“What in thunder do you want now?”

Keeping his body covered by the muzzle of the deadly little weapon, the boy now advanced a half-dozen steps, so as to bring him far nearer to the canoe and rifle than was his foe, then halted. Feeling himself undisputed master of the field, he showed a boyish propensity to use his authority.

“How are you on a walk, old chap? You look greasy and dirty enough to slip along without any trouble. Now turn your face to the Cascade Range, and travel. I’ve heard some of your chiefs say that their home is in the setting sun, and now you can go hunt for it.”

As there was no need of such extreme caution, now that the Blackfoot was deprived of his weapon, Little Rifle lowered his gun, and emphasized his words by appropriate gestures.

[18]“Your face is toward the sun, and now travel; keep it up for a month or two. If you look back, I’ll pull the trigger without waiting to give you a chance to sing your death-song. Go!”

Not Weston himself could have surpassed the gait of the red-skin, as he obeyed this peremptory order. Turning his broad, flat face to the Cascade Range, he started off like a hen-pecked husband, who suddenly discovers that it is a little past the hour when he promised to be in the bosom of his family, and he has good cause to dread the consequences of his forgetfulness.

Little Rifle stood smiling and amused, never once removing his eyes from the dusky scamp, until he disappeared from view in the wild, rocky ground that made the bank of the river.

“Now, as he has left, I will do the same,” concluded Little Rifle, and placing his gun and that of the Indian in the canoe, he shoved it into the water, sprung in and took the paddle.