OLD RUFF, THE TRAPPER;
                                  OR,
                         THE YOUNG FUR-HUNTERS.


                      A SEQUEL TO “LITTLE RIFLE.”


                        BY CAPT. “BRUIN” ADAMS,
                 AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POCKET NOVELS:

                          No. 9. Lightning Jo.
                         No. 74. Little Rifle.


                               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.




                                CONTENTS


  I “Give Us Your Hand on That”                                        9
  II Doubt and Perplexity                                             14
  III The Reds                                                        20
  IV Between Two Fires                                                25
  V A Wonderful Animal                                                30
  VI What the Telescope Revealed                                      35
  VII Down the River                                                  40
  VIII “Speckled Beauty” in Camp                                      45
  IX Through the Cascade Range                                        50
  X A Brute’s Sacrifice                                               55
  XI Unwelcome Visitors                                               60
  XII The Revelation of Maquesa                                       66
  XIII Counterplotting                                                71
  XIV Down the Columbia                                               76
  XV The Sea Trail                                                    79
  XVI The Wind That Blew No Good                                      81
  XVII What of the Night?                                             85
  XVIII Waiting for the End                                           87
  XIX The Leap for Life                                               92
  XX Conclusion                                                       95




                         OLD RUFF, THE TRAPPER;
                                  OR,
                         THE YOUNG FUR-HUNTERS.




                               CHAPTER I.
                      “GIVE US YOUR HAND ON THAT.”


Young Harry Northend remained by his lonely camp-fire in the wilderness,
long after the dull, dismal day had dawned, in the hope that Little
Rifle, his promised bride of the wilderness, as he loved to look upon
her, would return.[1]

Now and then he ventured to call to her, although he well knew the risk
he incurred in doing so; for he had learned by his previous experience
that the dreaded Blackfeet Indians were to be expected at any time, when
beyond gun-shot of the fort.

The snow had stopped falling, but it lay to the depth of several inches
upon the ground, and seemed to have extended over a wide area of
country. He walked round and round the camp several times, searching for
the imprint of her delicate moccasin; but the keenest search he could
make failed to reveal the slightest trace of her footsteps.

This proved, that whatever might be the cause of her disappearance, it
had operated before the fall of the snow—so that, at the least, she had
already been absent several hours.

But whither had she gone? What was the cause of her disappearing so
suddenly? Had she departed alone and unattended, or was some one else
concerned in it?

These were questions which, without exaggeration, it is safe to say, the
lad asked himself a hundred times, and which still remained unanswered.

There was but one conjecture that he could make, which seemed to bear
the least shadow of reason, and that was that she had voluntarily
returned to the lodge of her guardian and friend, old Ruff Robsart, the
old mountaineer and hunter—not with the intention of remaining there,
but with the purpose of consulting with him before taking the
all-important step which she had decided to take, in leaving that Oregon
wilderness.

“It is no great distance there,” he mused, as he turned this thought
over in his mind, “and seeing me asleep in the early part of the
evening, she may have thought she could go and return before I would
awake; for she can traverse these woods as well in the dark as in the
daytime, and she might easily have made such a journey, but I suppose
old Robsart has kept her, and I must go there after her.”

Settling down to this conclusion, he decided first to go on to the fort,
as he could make the distance in a few hours. He had been absent several
days, and his return would set at rest any uneasiness that his friends
might feel, and possibly avert the awkward consequences of a search for
him by several of the hunters at the post.

Accordingly, when he had made up his mind that it was useless to wait
any longer by the camp-fire, he slung his rifle over his shoulder, and
started at a brisk walk for his headquarters at Fort Abercrombie, which
was safely reached within a couple of hours after.

He found every thing here as when he had left, a few days before, and
after partaking of breakfast, and remaining a short time, he started on
his return to the lodge of Old Ruff, on the Columbia river, below. On
the route, he visited the scene of their encampment in the ravine, the
night before, thinking it barely possible that Little Rifle had visited
it during her absence, but there were no indications of her having done
so, and he resumed his walk in an eastward direction.

Harry set great value by his field telescope, which he constantly bore
with him, and whenever he reached a point a little more elevated than
usual, he acted like a General who was reconnoitering a hostile
territory—making as careful a survey as was possible, in the limited
time which his impatience would permit him to use.

Scarcely once did the glass fail to show him the presence of Indians.
They seemed to be here, there and everywhere in this part of Oregon, and
the adjoining territory of Washington. Indeed, more than once he paused
and scrutinized more closely his immediate surroundings, for it seemed
that there must be more still nearer him; but happily he seemed to be
free from that danger, and he took care to conceal his trail as much as
possible, by using rocks and flinty surfaces, wherever he could turn
them to account.

In this fashion he finally reached a ridge, upon which Little Rifle had
slain an antelope, on the preceding day. Here he made another survey of
the territory, in every direction, wondering all the time whether any of
the numerous “signs” which he encountered indicated the presence of
Little Rifle; for despite the theory into which he had settled, he could
not free himself of the doubt that, after all, he might have failed in
his supposition.

This naturally increased his eagerness to hurry forward, and end the
suspense as soon as possible; and so, lingering but a short time upon
the ridge, he descended the eastern slope, and carefully following the
route taken the morning before, being compelled on his way to ford
several streams, he succeeded in reaching his destination at last.

It was very near the hour of noon when he did so, and the mild warm sun
had completely dissipated the snow that had fallen the previous night.
Here and there the leaves were wet, and on the shady side of a rock he
occasionally detected a white tuft of the cold feathery snow, but it may
be said, that if unaware of the fact, no one would have believed what a
fierce flurry had occurred but a few hours before.

As Harry entered the ravine, in which the odd, fantastic home of old
Robsart was located, while gathering peltries, he found his heart
beating violently and his face flushing, as is the case when one walks
forward to hear his doom pronounced by the stern and inflexible judge.

“Suppose she has not returned,” he repeated to himself, “what will he
say? What will he do? What will I do?”

The next moment the little compact dwelling-house—if such it may be
termed—was in sight, and before the entrance he saw the old mountaineer,
engaged in cleaning the skins of several animals, preparatory to
stretching them out on sticks in the sun to prepare them for packing.

He merely glanced up as he heard him coming, and then, without speaking
or making any salutation, continued his work. Harry advanced resolutely
forward, and, determined to know the worst at once, said:

“Good-day, Uncle Ruff. Has Little Rifle returned?”

The trapper, seemingly suspecting that something was wrong, suddenly
started and looked up with a sharp, inquiring glance. Next moment came
his answer, too clear and direct for any mistake:

“I haven’t sot eyes on him sense you and him went away yesterday.”

“Then Heaven only knows what has become of _her_!” exclaimed Harry, in
the very wretchedness of despair, as he sat down upon a log and covered
his face with his hands. “She went away in the night, and I can not tell
why it was she left.”

The sharp-eared trapper noticed the peculiar way in which the lad
referred to Little Rifle, and, ceasing his work and walking to where he
was seated, he demanded:

“What do you mean, younker, by calling Little Rifle _her_? What are yer
thinking ’bout?”

It had not been the intention of Harry Northend to reveal the
revelations of last night in this fashion; indeed he had not settled in
his mind that he was going to reveal it at all; but now, as he had given
the all-important hint in his ill-guarded speech, there was nothing left
for him to do except to make a clean breast of it.

And this was done. He told the story from beginning to end, even to the
declaration of love that he had made to Little Rifle, and her partial
confession of the same; he referred particularly to her tender regard
for Uncle Ruff, and her determination to consult him before leaving the
wilderness for a civilized life, which declaration caused him to believe
that she had absented herself for that purpose. He related, too, their
conversation and plans regarding the future, especially the project he
had framed of her being taken in charge by his father and educated.

Harry saw from the first that Robsart was to be the main character in
rescuing Little Rifle; that scarcely any thing could be done without his
assistance, and so he told the whole truth, keeping back nothing that
came into his mind.

And it was a wise thing upon his part. Old Ruff had liked the lad from
the first, and his rather annoying _surveillance_ of him during the
preceding day was merely an attempt to satisfy himself as to whether the
lad suspected any thing of the secret of the sex of his _protege_. Such
was his course toward any one who was accidentally thrown into their
company, and his greater regard for his charge, naturally made him
willing to see any one depart after he had spent a little time with
them.

But what a tale was it that the lad told him! Here was a clew, or a
partial one, to the very mystery which he had vainly sought to unravel
for a dozen years.

He had learned her true name—the name of her father—the fact that she
had no mother living, and the name of the chief in whose charge she had
been placed, and that a few years ago would have been sufficient for him
to have learned all, for he knew her earliest protector, Maquesa, the
Blackfoot, very well, and had encountered him more than once, without
suspecting that he ever had any thing to do with the little waif, which
was taken from a lodge far up in the country.

“Now, Uncle Ruff,” said Harry, after he had completed the narration, “I
have told you every thing I know, and I have come to you for help. How
do you feel about it?”

The old, hairy-faced bear-tamer stretched out his broad, horny palm and
grasped that of the lad with a warm and almost crushing grip.

“I liked you the fust time I seen you, and you’ve come to me in such a
squar’ fashion that I like you more than ever—so give us your hand on
it.

“Heaven only knows what has become of Little Rifle—I don’t; but we do
know that she is somewhar above ground, and you and me are going to
diskiver her—so give us your hand on it.

“I’ve been puzzling my head fur the last six months to try and lay out
some course to take with that little pet of mine but it was mighty hard
to fix on any thing. As I see’d her growing up without civilized ways, I
felt I warn’t doing right, but I kept putting things off, ’cause I
didn’t know what I orter to do. Of course it war my place to take her
into the settlements somewhar and give her a fair start: _that_ I could
see plain enough, but the trouble war that I hadn’t any of the sort of
acquaintances that I wanted to put her among. You can see she’s purty,
and she’s getting purtier every week, and the fear that haunted me was
that if I took her down to Fr’isco or Sacramento, or some of them other
places, she might be ruined, and I’d rather keep her here till she died,
than to feel that I’d had any thing to do in bringing about that sort of
business.

“But the plan that you’ve got up, in that smart head of yours, is jist
the thing, and Providence put it there! Nothin’ on airth could have
pleased me more; if the little pet war only here I’d give a war-whoop
and dance. We’re going to set out to find her, and we’re going to find
her, and when she’s found she’s going East with you and your father, and
when you both get old enough she’s going to be your wife, and I’m going
to be your grandmother—no your grandaddy I mean—so give us your hand on
it ag’in!”




                              CHAPTER II.
                         DOUBT AND PERPLEXITY.


Thus the compact was sealed, and Harry Northend already felt a renewal
of hope at this hearty manifestation of confidence in him by the man who
was to be the all-important auxiliary in the work of searching out his
lost bride of the wilderness.

But he was naturally desirous of hearing from the experienced trapper
and mountaineer his theory to account for the mysterious disappearance
of Little Rifle, as they both preferred to call her in preference to the
new and correct name of Hagar. As yet he had offered no conjecture, and
indeed so far as Harry could perceive had not even given it a thought.
He now ventured to ask the question.

“_It was the ’arthquake!_” was the astounding reply.

But for the seriousness of the occasion, and the perfect solemness of
the bear-tamer’s manner, Harry would have taken this as a specimen of
his waggery, but it was any thing but that, and the lad stared in blank
amazement.

“Don’t you know what I mean?” asked the old hunter, observing his
wonderment.

“I haven’t the remotest idea,” was the reply.

“Wal, you know what an ’arthquake is, don’t you? I s’pose you’ve read
about ’em, hain’t you?”

“Of course I have; every school-boy has read of terrible earthquakes,
but what do you mean by saying that the loss of Little Rifle has been
caused by such a thing as that?”

“I s’pose you slept so healthy last night that you didn’t hear it, nor
know nothing ’bout it; but just afore the snow begun fallin’, the ground
shook; I felt the old lodge of mine rock like a cradle, and I made a
dive out-doors so sudden-like that I hit my head ag’in the log thar and
split it, so it’s almost sp’iled. I knowed the ’arth was off on a waltz,
and I done a little dancing, too.”

“How strange that I knew nothing of it,” exclaimed the awed lad; “I
never even suspected such a thing could have happened, although I heard
them say something at the fort about an earthquake, and I have heard it
said that they have felt a shock once or twice in California, but I
hardly thought it could be real. But how, Uncle Ruff, could that have
caused Little Rifle to leave?”

“Wal, you see it must have took something extronnery to get her away
from you and me—nothin’ else would have done it, and I think an
’arthquake is about the most extronnery thing that could have come—so it
must have been _that_.”

“I can admit all that,” returned Harry, as much perplexed as ever, “but
still I can not see in what particular way the earthquake caused her to
desert us. You don’t mean that it caused her death?”

“No; I don’t believe it caused the death of _any_ one, and I don’t know
how it affected her; but here the whole thing is: Little Rifle is gone,
and it’s a mighty strange thing—her going. About as near as we can
figure thar’s a mighty big ’arthquake that come along ’bout that time—so
it’s just as plain as the nose on your face that the two are mixed.
’Zactly how it is I don’t pretend to say, but we’ll go up to your
camping-ground and cypher round and try and find out.”

This looked like “business,” and it was a great relief to Harry, who
chafed at the delay, feeling that every hour was lessening the chances
of discovering the lost one.

There was little cause for tardiness and the old trapper made none. When
he had finished the words just given, he threw his long, deadly rifle
over his shoulder, and moved with sweeping strides up the ravine, Harry
being obliged to keep up a sort of dog-trot to prevent himself from
falling in the rear. As he emerged into the more open country he cast a
hasty glance around, as if in obedience to an instinctive caution; but
nothing of an alarming nature was to be seen.

The lad judged from the manner of old Robsart that he was speculating in
his mind as to the probable cause of the disappearance of Little Rifle,
and so he did not vex him with questions which he knew he was unable to
answer.

“Do you know thar’s one thing that I think is mighty lucky?” said the
trapper, suddenly turning his head toward the lad, and speaking as if
the idea had been in his mind for some time.

“I don’t know what it is,” said the boy, “but I hope it is something
big, for we need it.”

“I was thinkin’ of that ’ere glass of yourn. I’ve seen ’em at the fort
and down at Fr’isco, and of course knowed what they war used for, and
yet I was always such a fool that I never knowed enough to bring ’em
’long with me. You can see how mighty handy a telescope would be on the
perarie, where you could tell the varmints a long time before they could
see you. Hold on to that tight, for I’ve an idee that it’s going to be
of some use to us.”

“I think there is little danger of my losing it, for you know I carried
it over the falls with me, where I lost nearly every thing except that
and my life. But, Robsart, didn’t I hear you say that you knew this
Indian chief, Maquesa, who had charge of Little Rifle in her earlier
years?”

“Yes,” replied the trapper, “I knowed him several years ago, on the
other side of the Cascade Range. I never met him on this side, and that
’ere puzzled me a little. You see when I picked up the little pet, it
was on this side the range, and some distance further north, and it
seems that here is whar I orter find the old rip.”

“His tribe is on both sides, so that mystery may not be a very deep one
after all. But, how is it that he comes to be an acquaintance of yours?
Do you class him as a friendly Indian?” asked Harry, naturally enough
deeply interested in any matter that bore any relation to Little Rifle.

“It was rather qu’ar,” replied the grizzled old hunter, as he recalled
some reminiscence. “I was going down one of the forks of Willamette
River, just over the mountain. I was just then hunting bears, and didn’t
understand ’em as well as I do now. One arternoon I spied a feller full
as big as Old Adams’ Samson. I seen him come down to the edge of the
river and start to swim across, and I put out in a canoe to head him
off. I wanted to drive him back among the rocks on the side whar he was
leavin’, as I had a smashin’ big trap set there, that I thought would
hold him—but the critter wouldn’t turn, and when I got a little too
close with my boat he just give it a slap with his paw, and away it went
all to shivers, and me heels over head.

“I wa’n’t much afraid of the varmint in the water, as I knowed I could
dodge him, but I was thundering mad ’cause I lost my gun, cap and one of
my moccasins, and the bear wouldn’t turn back for me arter all. So I had
to paddle ashore and when I got thar, with nothing but my knife, who
should I see pop out from behind the rocks but a Blackfoot. He let drive
his tomahawk, just to let me know he was coming, and when I dodged that
he came with his knife, leaving his gun somewhar behind him.

“Wal, you can make up your mind that thar was some music about then. We
had just the same weapons, and we sailed in, cutting and slashin’ each
other like a couple of wild-cats. Wal, he war a little the toughest
varmint I ever got hold on. We clawed awhile, and then I knocked his
knife out of his hand, and dropped mine at the same time. Arter that we
kept it up in Yankee Sullivan style, until we both got so tired that we
couldn’t strike a blow hard enough to make a musketer wink.

“Wal, to make a long story short,” added the old fellow, with a grin,
“it turned out that me and Maquesa war exactly even matched. I wasn’t a
ha’r stronger than him, nor was he a ha’r stronger, and arter we laid
back and rested and kept it up fur three full hours, he got upon his
feet and said, ‘_White man is too much fur Maquesa_,’ and offered me his
hand. That rather took me down, but I shook his paw, and we parted. That
sorter made us friends you know, and I’ve met the old varmint three or
four times since, and he always acts as though he thought a mighty heap
of me.”

“I didn’t know as the Indians ever showed such chivalry as that,” said
Harry; “it sounds like a romance to hear that you met as such bitter
enemies, and then parted such friends.”

“I’ve run afoul of him several times, when he had a pack of warriors at
his back, and could have raised my ha’r as easy as say so, but he never
offered to do any thing of the kind. And now think,” continued the
bear-tamer, in a voice of inexpressible disgust, “that at that time I
war looking up something that could give me a clew to the little pet
that I had found, and that I hadn’t ’nough sense to ax Maquesa a single
word, when he could talk English purty well, and was the very man of all
others that could have answered my questions. You see I found the gal on
this side the mountains and met him on t’other, and so it never got
through my thick skull that that all might be, and so I’ve gone on ever
since without l’arning a single thing, till you come down here and told
me.”

“Then your first proceeding, I suppose, will be to seek out Maquesa, in
case we fail to find any trace of Little Rifle before.”

“But hang it!” exclaimed old Robsart, “whar shall I go to find him? I
haven’t seen him for two, three years, and don’t know whether he’s alive
or dead, or whether he’s within ten or five hundred miles, and who shall
I ax? It’ll just be my luck to go tramping over Californy, Washington
and Oregon for the next ten years.”

“But can’t you inquire of such Indians as you see?”

The old trapper indulged in a hearty laugh.

“One Blackfoot in a thousand can talk English, and you’d have to catch
’em and tie ’em up afore you could get an answer out of ’em.”

“Provided she is a captive among the Indians, we have an almost hopeless
task before us,” said Harry, somewhat dispirited by the sweeping
declaration of the trapper, who instantly added:

“But I don’t think she is in the hands of the varmints; we’ve got a
different kind of work to do than that, and here we are close to the
place where you camped.”

Picking their way through the ravine, they speedily stood upon the very
spot where the last glimpse of Little Rifle had been given Harry
Northend. Old Ruff paused, and placing his feet upon the dead ashes of
the camp-fire, looked with a keen, searching glance about him. He was
apparently examining the minutest objects, determined that not the
slightest clew should escape his scrutiny.

“Have you found out any thing?” asked Harry, when he saw that he was
through.

“Not a blamed thing,” was the reply; “stand whar you are for a time,
till I take a look at the ground.”

This, the young lad supposed was the real test of the whole business,
and he watched the actions of the old trapper, with an interest which it
would be impossible to describe.

“I find tracks of yourn and hern here,” he said, straightening up after
a long search, “but that snow has played the mischief. It fell arter she
left, so as to hide her trail.”

“But it has melted again.”

“And that don’t help any; its melting has just shet out the prints of
her moccasins, so that there is no use in trying to look for ’em. This
s’arch has got to be made on general principles.”

The general principles of the hunter meant that, without seeking to
follow, and find their friend by means of palpable evidence that she had
left behind her, it only remained for them to reason out or conjecture,
as to the course she had taken, and to pursue that.

He gave it as his belief now that the nearest stream, of size, had been
used by her, and that a portion of her flight had been made upon that.

This meant that the hunt was to be an indefinite one, and like a prudent
man, Old Ruff resolved to make his arrangements, so that if necessary,
he could continue it for several months. He meant to go into this
business to win.




                              CHAPTER III.
                               THE REDS.


The first proceeding of old Robsart was to _cache_—that is bury—his
peltries so that they would be safe from molestation from Indians and
meddlers, and he could return in his own good time and remove them.

Then he made the round of his traps, and sprung them all, carefully
concealing them where they, too, could be found when he should require
them, after which he was ready to take up the work.

Having failed entirely in discovering any traces of the means by which
Little Rifle had disappeared, the trapper was now disposed to believe
that the Blackfeet had had something to do with it, and that his search
must be made partly among them.

“You know she is purty cute,” he added, “but the smartest man in these
parts is likely to run his head in trouble any time, and she may have
done it afore she knowed. I s’pose you want to jine me in this
excursion?”

Harry, as a matter of course, declared that he did, and the trapper
added:

“Wal, we’ll work up toward the fort, for you’ll have to see the old
gentleman, so that if you’re gone a month or two, he’ll know where you
ar’, and won’t blame me for keepin’ away so long.”

This was all prudent, and the lad had no wish to make any objection to
the arrangement. They shouldered their rifles, and turning their faces
toward the Cascade Range, started on what was destined to prove the most
memorable venture of their lives.

The old hunter having announced his theory of Little Rifle’s
disappearance, it behooved them both to maintain as sharp a scrutiny as
possible upon the different parties of Blackfeet that were in the
neighborhood.

“I can tell you,” he muttered, with a compressing of the lips that
attested his earnestness, “if the varmints have got the gal, they’ve got
to keep a mighty close watch on her or she’ll give ’em the slip. Let her
have a few hundred yards the start, and old Maquesa himself couldn’t
catch her. She can run like an antelope, and knows how to dodge and
double on herself and hide her own trail, so that a bloodhound would
give up the hunt in disgust, and go to watchin’ sheep for the rest of
his life.”

“But in this case, it seems to me she would have taken every pains to
make her footprints visible, knowing that we would be on the hunt for
her.”

“How could she know that?” asked the old man, in return; “it ain’t
likely that she got into trouble till she war a good ways off from camp,
and it wouldn’t be till then that she would think of such a thing.
Yonder is a purty high hill, and we’ll climb up to the top of that, and
take a look around.”

The elevation alluded to was considerably out of their way, lying more
to the southward; but, as there was a prospect that it might be of some
use to them, they made all haste toward it.

It was very much of the nature of the ridge where Little Rifle and Harry
had made their morning meal on the previous day, except that it was
higher, and consequently the view was much more extensive.

When at last they reached the top, the boy was charmed with the scenery
spread out before him. It was indeed one of the finest views with which
he had been favored since coming to the North-west.

Looking to the east, he saw hundreds of square miles of forest, prairie,
ravines, gorges and mountain-peaks spread out before him, crossed in
every direction by rivers, creeks, torrents, cañons and waterfalls,
while the deep emerald tinge of the vegetation, as seen in the spring
and early summer, gave a soft splendor to the whole scene that never
could have been equaled at any other season of the year.

This view was much the same to the north and south, while in the west it
was backed up by that vast snowy range, whose peaks, in many places,
were hid from sight among the very clouds.

The same alternation of forest, ravine and prairie encountered the eye
in this view, and the soft, mellow haze that enfolded the distant
Cascade Range, gave the landscape a peculiarly American appearance, such
as rarely meets the eye of the traveler in other parts of the world.

The majestic loneliness of the vast solitude was deepened and made more
impressive by the faint view of Fort Abercrombie in the distance. It was
many miles away, standing in a small elevated clearing. The stockades by
which it was surrounded, and the compact log building itself, resembled
some tiny toy, as they were revealed to the eye.

From a tall flag-staff the Stars and Stripes floated in the breeze, and
the naked eye was just able to detect the evolutions of the banner as it
folded in and out, stretching for an instant to full length, and then
flapping about the staff again.

It was a sight to kindle the heart of the patriot, as he looked upon
this most beautiful emblem of his country floating to the breeze in this
far-away wilderness, proclaiming to all the protection they could find
beneath its ægis, and that while they trod this vast domain, it could be
with the consciousness that they were still upon the soil of their own
dear native land, although perhaps thousands of miles from the spot of
their birth.

The feeling of desolation and loneliness which came upon one when he
looked for the first time upon this immense landscape of silence was
made still greater by the faint signs of the presence of human beings
that were here and there discernible. The very insignificance and
paucity of their number, as compared with the enormous extent of
territory, was what made the contrast the more impressive.

Several miles to the south, a thin blue column of smoke indicated the
camp-fire of some party; further to the north, a similar sign showed
where another company were gathered, and between and around these two
little halting-places for human beings, stretched mile after mile and
league after league of unbroken wilderness, in which crouched the bloody
minded Blackfoot and the savage bear.

Of some such a nature as this were the emotions of Harry Northend, as he
stood on the elevation and permitted his eyes to wander off in the
direction of the great Cascade Range. Young, romantic and imaginative,
the grand scene produced a powerful impression upon him, and he stood
for several minutes, forgetful of the grief and anxiety of heart that
had been his when he made his way to this point. His soul was filled
with solemnity and awe, such as come over it in the presence of the
Infinite, and at that moment he felt a pride in the thought that this
was a portion of his country, and a devout thankfulness that God had
thus far protected him from the dangers and perils that threaten all who
venture into these wilds.

But if the old mountaineer possessed any poetry in his nature, he had
too much on his mind to give any heed to it at present. Perhaps his
familiarity with the sublime scenery of the grandest portion of our
continent had dulled the edge of his appreciation, or it may be that his
mind was so intent on discovering something tangible by which to
continue his hunt for Little Rifle, that he had no room for any other
thought but be that as it may, his feelings were very different from
those of the lad beside him, as with the field glass in his hand, he
carefully roved over the immense expanse of vision, on the look-out for
some sign that might tell him something of the loved and lost one.

It was successively turned toward the two camp fires which we have
mentioned, but the survey of neither was very satisfactory. He learned
nothing that could afford him any grounds for hope, and he withdrew his
attention from them, and pointed the instrument to a broad stream of
water that flowed westward and southward, until it was hid among the
cañons of the Snowy Range, from which it finally made its way, and
continued onward toward the great Pacific.

On every foot of all that sinuous line of the distant water-course had
Ruff tramped and trapped; over all these hills had he ranged in his
forty years of hill and hunting-life, and, after Little Rifle came to
his lodge, often had the blithe, beautiful child been his companion in
these deeply-enjoyed wanderings.

Carefully his eye roved along the banks of this stream, wherever they
were visible, while the broad silver current did not escape his survey.

Harry, who had recovered in a degree from the awe that had accompanied
his first view, now watched the countenance and actions of the old
trapper. He remarked his slow, steady shifting of the glass from point
to point, until, as his view ranged along the river for a time, it
suddenly paused, and he gave a slight start.

The lad took this as an indication that his friend had discovered
something, at last, and he was right in his supposition.

Harry carefully avoided speaking, while he saw the trapper thus engaged,
knowing that he would make known, in his own good time, whatever
discovery might reward his search.

After awhile he handed the glass to the lad, and, pointing toward the
point at which he had been directing it, said:

“Take a squint out that way and tell me whether you can’t see nothin’,
or whether you can’t see any thing.”

Harry gladly did as requested, and, as soon as he had the instrument
directed toward the proper point, he saw a party of half a dozen
Indians, who appeared to have just effected a landing, as a couple of
canoes could be seen lying against the bank. Their motions indicated
that they had halted to kindle a fire, most probably for the purpose of
preparing a meal.

After watching them a few minutes, the boy stated this to the trapper,
who said:

“That’s the idee; you’re right; them canoes show that the varmints are
on the travel. Most likely they’ve come from t’other side the mountains
and are going back ag’in.”

“Perhaps they’re the same ones whose lodges I saw the other day, and
from whom I had such a narrow escape.”

“Like enough, and it’s my opine that they’ve had something to do with
the taking off of little pet.”

Harry started and stared at the hunter in amazement.

“Can it be possible? She is then a prisoner in their lands?”

“Mind I didn’t say _that_,” replied Old Ruff, in his cautious fashion,
“but there be some things which I can’t tell you just now that make me
think them varmints are mixed up in this business, some way or other,
and it’ll pay to take a look around thar camp, even if we don’t l’arn
nothin’.”

And with characteristic promptness, when he had fully settled in his
mind upon the proper course to pursue, old Robsart started off at a
rapid walk in the direction of the camp of hostile Blackfeet,
determined, no matter at what risk, to learn whether there was any thing
to be picked up among these savage foes.




                              CHAPTER IV.
                           BETWEEN TWO FIRES.


Two hours from the time of starting, Old Ruff and Harry Northend were
within a hundred yards of the Blackfoot camp.

Fortunately for them, they halted in the midst of a dense growth of
pines, where they had plenty of opportunity to maneuver and keep
themselves invisible.

They were so close to the camp that the voices of the red-skins could be
heard, and Harry even caught the smell of burning meat, proving that, as
the trapper had said, they had come ashore for the purpose of preparing
their meal. Such being the case, they were not likely to remain in camp
for a very long time.

Robsart had brought the boy closer to this congregation of red-skins
than was prudent, and he expressed regret at doing so, but the young
fellow was so brave and eager that it was hard to refuse him such a
request. But he was determined that he should not advance another step.

“Stay right here where you are,” he added, in an impressive whisper,
“and keep mighty shady.”

It may be supposed that the lad scarcely needed these instructions, as
his own sense would have taught him their importance.

Although he felt equal to the task of reconnoitering the camp himself,
yet he dare not propose such a wild scheme to the old hunter, whose
especial province it was to attend to such perilous enterprises himself.

Leaving the latter to carry out the dangerous reconnoissance upon which
he had started, we must take the space to describe the strange adventure
that befell the lad, who, it would seem, was placed in much the lesser
peril.

His situation was interesting and exciting from its proximity to camp,
as he could hear the jingle and mumble and guttural hum of the
Blackfeet, as they gathered around the fire, eating and smoking in the
very _abandon_ of enjoyment.

“I don’t think there is much chance of Little Rifle being there,” mused
Harry, when he found himself alone. “If she were among them we would
have seen something of her with the telescope, but Old Ruff sees a
chance or he wouldn’t have undertaken it.”

It was comparatively an easy matter for Harry to content himself for a
short time, lying down among the bushes, listening to the noise of the
red-skins; but, when a half-hour had passed, and the noise decreased,
and he saw nothing of old Robsart, he began to feel impatient. He could
not understand why it was that the old hunter should remain away so
long, when he seemed to accomplish nothing thereby. It seemed to him
that the red-skins had all gone asleep or taken their departure, and he
and his friend were wasting valuable time.

But the half-hour was doubled and trebled, and then the lad made the
exceedingly imprudent resolution to steal a little ways toward the
camp—just far enough to get the slightest glimpse, and find out for
himself the meaning of this strange silence and delay. He deemed it
necessary only to crawl forward a short distance, confident that he
could detect the presence of danger in time to withdraw, if indeed there
was any possibility of encountering any such thing.

It was with some twitchings and misgivings that Harry began creeping
forward, knowing that it was in direct violation of the commands of the
old hunter, who would not be apt to look lightly upon such an offense
should he discover it.

This caused him to hesitate a few minutes, but hearing and seeing
nothing more, he began stealing forward on his hands and knees,
advancing inch by inch, frequently pausing and listening, and peering
round in the undergrowth, so as to guard against any danger stealing
upon him from any direction.

Two or three times he was on the eve of retreating, and he looked
furtively back over the course he had come—but the continued silence,
and his impatience prevented, and he pressed on, until he judged that he
had passed fully one-half the distance that intervened between him and
his starting-point.

Thus far he had carried his rifle with him, and it had proved no little
impediment, besides incurring the constant danger of being discharged
from the hammer catching in some of the bushes and undergrowth.

The lad had now reached a point perilously near the Blackfoot camp, and
although he could no longer hear any sounds of the savages, he felt that
a dozen feet further must reveal them to him, and in all probability
solve the question as to the delay of Robsart.

“I will lay my gun down,” he reflected, “so that I can crawl a few steps
further, in perfect quiet, and with that much less risk of being
discovered.”

Harry was not the simpleton to separate himself voluntarily from his
weapon, when he believed there was the remotest possibility of his
needing it, nor, were the circumstances all in his favor, would he leave
it beyond his reach.

But, it will be remembered that it was a heavy gun, and that it
seriously interfered with his progress; so he laid it carefully down,
pointing the muzzle a little to the right, so that, in case of accident,
no harm could come to him.

Satisfied, then, that he had done no imprudent thing, he resumed his
progress upon his hands and knees, moving slowly, cautiously and
stealthily, eyes and ears on the alert for the slightest indication of
danger.

All was still—nothing being heard but the soft flow of the river, and
softly drawing the undergrowth aside, he crept onward, until he was
fully a dozen feet from where his gun lay.

Still he was unable to catch the coveted glimpse of the camp, and he
paused, thinking that there was already too great a distance between him
and his weapon, and resolved to return and bring it back and place it
nearer to him.

But the path which he had made in his panther-like progress was clear
and open, and he could dart backward in an instant and seize it; and so,
hesitating but a few seconds, he resumed his advance, with the
determination that, at the most, he should not go more than a yard
further—just enough to pass through an unusually matted mass of
vegetation, that feebly barred in his progress.

One step further, and both hands sunk into a cavity in the ground, a
couple of feet in depth—so suddenly and unexpectedly that he pitched
head-foremost, making a terrible breaking and threshing of the
shrubbery.

Harry was not hurt in the least, but he was almost paralyzed with
terror; for he was certain that the whole camp must be alarmed, and the
Blackfeet would be swarming around his head before he could rise or make
any attempt to retreat.

He did not seek to do so, but lay still, listening with a throbbing
heart, and conjuring all manner of dreadful consequences that were sure
to follow this mishap upon his part. As a matter of course he lamented
his rashness, with the most bitter feelings, but it was all useless now,
and he lay still, with a grim resolve to take the punishment
unflinchingly.

A few seconds only had passed, when he heard footsteps, but to his
surprise, instead of being in front, they were in the rear. Some one was
approaching from that direction!

Like a flash he thought of his gun, and of the supremely silly thing he
had done in placing it beyond his reach. As he was about to scramble
forth in an attempt to reach it before his enemy, it occurred to him
that it might be Old Ruff, who was searching for him. He would have
preferred almost to have seen a Blackfoot, rather than be caught in this
dilemma by the trapper, for the latter, discovering his foolhardiness
this early in the business, would be certain to lose all patience with
him, and send him on to the fort, while he continued the hunt alone.

The poor lad was in a sad predicament, not daring to move from where he
was, in either direction; for to retreat would only bring him face to
face with the Blackfoot, if such he were, and to advance would be to
throw himself into the hands of the whole party.

“And if he catches me here,” he reflected, in the intensity of his
chagrin, “he will find me without any weapon except the knife and
telescope,” and he added, with something of his natural drollery, “there
is no need of my looking through the glass to bring the danger any
nearer, or to make it appear any bigger; for it is too near and too big
already.”

The extreme slowness of the party approaching him satisfied Harry that
it must be an Indian scout, who may have been on the look-out for just
such interlopers as he.

At the same time he thought the red-skin was making an unusual racket,
for such a proceeding. He could hear the motion of the feet—soft and
heavy—and the bending and breaking of the shrubbery beneath his passage,
as though he was taking no pains to hide his approach.

“What’s the use of it?” he reflected; “he knows he’s got a sure thing of
it.”

By this time he gave up all hope or fear of its being old Robsart, and
was certain that it was one of the dreaded Indians, who, knowing that
there was no escape for the lad, was toying and trifling with him, as a
cat toys with a mouse before devouring it.

In the intensity of his fear in this direction, Harry forgot all about
the camp in front, and had no time to wonder at the continued silence in
that direction, a circumstance which would have struck him as very
strange, under the circumstances.

The crackling and treading of the undergrowth continued, and the
suspense soon became greater than the actual coming of the danger itself
would be.

“As I don’t see any way out of the scrape,” he thought, “I may as well
end it one way or the other, and so I will meet it.”

He had a faint hope, too, that by stealing along on the ground, he might
secure his rifle in time to make a fight for his life.

Accordingly he started with the same care and caution that had marked
his approach to the camp.

A half-dozen feet were passed in this manner, and then he paused,
stupefied with wonder, amazement and absolute terror!

For of all the strange sights and experiences that he had encountered in
this country, of all that had been his during his past life, he never
had seen any thing that could compare with that which now greeted his
vision!




                               CHAPTER V.
                          A WONDERFUL ANIMAL.


As Harry Northend crept out from beneath the matted undergrowth, that
surrounded the Blackfoot camp, and came in view of his rifle, where he
had left it lying upon the ground, he saw not Old Ruff Robsart, nor a
repulsive Indian, but a grizzly bear.

And not such a bear as naturalists and hunters tell us about, of a black
or tawny color, but something _sui generis_—something such as he was
sure no mortal had ever heard of before, or was ever to hear of again.

For, instead of being of the midnight hue that universally characterizes
his species, this one was striped with green and blue and red from head
to tail!

As soon as the lad had recovered in a degree his self-possession, he
rubbed his eyes and looked again, doubting whether he had seen aright.

Yes; there was no mistake about it. There was the creature, the
conformation of his head and body proving that he was a genuine grizzly
bear beyond all question, and the only remarkable thing about him was
his color, and that surely was remarkable enough.

“I have heard of men seeing such things as that,” he mused, as,
crouching on his hands and knees, he riveted his eyes upon it, “but it
was always when they were drunk, and I am sure I have never been in that
condition, and never shall be.”

The bear was of rather large size, but not unusually so, but the lad
judged from his appearance that he was very fierce and savage, and, in
his way, was probably as dangerous as a half-dozen red-skins.

His alarm would have been somewhat less had the position of the creature
been such as to afford him a hope of securing his gun; but, as matters
stood, that was clearly out of the question.

For the mottled grizzly was snuffing and clawing the weapon as if he had
some curiosity to find out its use.

“I wonder whether he thinks he knows how to use it,” muttered Harry, as
he slowly sunk down upon his face, in the hope of escaping his eye. “If
he did know how to handle a rifle, I couldn’t be more astonished than I
am at the color of his coat. He _does_ act as if he understood what it
is for.”

The bear poked the barrel and stock around with his nose, then rattled
his long claws over it, as though he was not exactly satisfied with its
appearance. When Harry saw that it lay so that the muzzle pointed
directly at him, he concluded that the danger was getting too serious
and complicated for him to remain idle.

Indians between him and the river, a grizzly bear before his face, and a
loaded rifle pointed straight at his head, with very strong chances of
its being discharged by the clumsy clawing and scratching of the brute.

“I think I’ll back a little nearer the camp,” he concluded, “for if I
can get down in that hollow again, the bullet will pass over my head,
and the monster may miss seeing me altogether, until I can get further
out the way, if that nose of his don’t scent me out, or if his brains
don’t tell him that when he comes upon a gun like that, in these parts,
the owner isn’t apt to be far off.”

But the movement made by Harry caught the ear of the bear, who raised
his head as quick as a flash, and, catching sight of him, he “went for
him.”

The boy was only fairly ensconced in the cavity alluded to, and had
turned to see whether he could maintain his invisibility, when he saw
the frightful monster almost upon him.

In the presence of this threatened immediate death, it was natural that
the boy should run into the other danger, and with a howl of terror, he
sprung up from the ground and struck straight for the Blackfoot camp,
preferring in the flurry of the moment to run into their embrace than to
remain and take a hug from the bear.

Only a few leaps, and he landed directly in the open space, where the
red-skins, a short time before, had partaken of their meal.

But, not one was to be seen. The fire was still burning, but all had
departed.

Harry paused a single instant, looking about with an inquiring stare,
and then, hearing the bear directly behind him, he made a dash forward,
and catching up one of the sticks that was still burning, he circled it
swiftly over his head, fanning it into a blaze, and with this potent
weapon he turned about to face his foe.

It was a fortunate thought in the young man, for the bravest wild animal
can never screw up his courage to the point of advancing straight upon
fire; but for all that such a precaution was unnecessary.

Harry had scarcely placed himself upon the defensive, when he heard
something very much like a laugh, immediately behind him; but he did not
dare turn his head in the presence of this horrible creature.

The bear instead of halting before the blazing brand, seemed to be on
the point of advancing straight upon the boy, when the latter, holding
the flaming brand before him, turned the tables, by moving directly
toward him.

This checked the bear, and at the same instant that familiar laugh
struck upon the ear of Harry, followed by the words:

“Throw down yer candle! He won’t hurt you! Ain’t he a booty?”

That was the voice of Old Ruff Robsart and no mistake. The boy hardly
dared to turn his head to see, but the trapper made it unnecessary, by
walking forward and placing himself directly beside him.

As he did so, he reached out, and taking the torch from his hand flung
it away, and then gave out a peculiar whistle.

Instantly the bear came forward, lumbering awkwardly, but with many
indications of pleasure at the sound of the hunter’s voice, who
continued addressing him by pet names until he was within reach, when he
patted him familiarly upon his head, and at another signal or command,
the mottled phenomenon rose upon its haunches, moving its fore-legs like
the flippers of a turtle, while its large hazel eyes were fixed upon Old
Ruff, with an expression almost human in its intelligence.

By this time Harry Northend had gotten the suspicion that the trapper
and this speckled wonder were old acquaintances. They surely met as
such, and their conduct continued to give color to the suspicion.

“Bless your old heart!” exclaimed the trapper, advancing and throwing
his arms about the hairy neck of the bear, “next to my little pet, I’d
rather meet you than any other critter that tramps the woods. You look
as though you’d got along purty well sence I gave you a leave of
absence, last fall.”

While the two old friends were engaged in their fraternal
demonstrations, Harry concluded to slip around and secure his gun. That
would be only prudent, while he had great fear that old Robsart would
discover his inexcusably defenseless condition.

He saw that strange and unnatural as the animal looked, there was
nothing to be feared from it, and he passed within arm’s length of it,
into the wood from which it had emerged but a few minutes before, and a
few steps brought him to his gun, lying unharmed upon the ground.

Hastily catching this up, he lost no time in rejoining the two
friends—human and brute—that were fraternizing upon the deserted
camp-ground.

“Where in the name of the Seven Wonders did that creature come from?” he
asked, as he saw the old hunter leaning on his rifle contemplating what
was evidently a great pet. The face of the trapper was expanded with a
fearful grin, while he occasionally shook in a way that showed he was
stirred by mirth.

“That ’ere critter is what I call Speckled Beauty! I cotched him five
years ago, when he war a little cub. He allers had a good temper, and I
fotched him up and made him one of the best-tamed critters I ever saw.
Old Griz’ Adams never had a neater critter, and Little Rifle—why she and
that b’ar war great cronies, I tell you.”

“But that color!” exclaimed Harry, “surely that is not natural! If it
is, he is worth a very fortune to you!”

“No, in course not; hair don’t grow green and blue even on a grizzly
bear. I had that critter so well-tamed that he was just like a dog. He
used to go off on a hunt for three or four days at a time, but was
always sure to come back ag’in. He wa’n’t of much use to me, and so I
let him go and come as he chose, and when I hadn’t nothin’ better to do,
I used to wrastle and tumble with him and teach him tricks.”

“But, I am anxious to hear how he gained such a coat as that?”

Old Ruff laughed as he replied:

“Last summer I was in at the fort, to take ’em some antelope-meat, that
I had promised, when one of these long-nosed, genuine Yankees come in.
He was on the look-out for something to make money of, no matter what it
was, and when he see’d my b’ar prancing around, he proposed that we
should go into partnership, and show him around through the States; but
I told him one b’ar wasn’t enough to travel on, and then he said that
he’d fix him. He had a lot of dyes and paints with him that he said he
had got up on a patent of his own, and was going to sell to the Injins,
and he painted up the b’ar in high style. The dye was the genuine stuff,
for though the b’ar was as black as jet it took hold, and made him a
purtier color than you see him now, ’cause you know he has shed a good
deal of his coat sence then.

“The idee of this chap was to take him round the country showing him off
as a phenomenon, but I see’d that he thought it was such a big spec’
that he wanted to have the whole job in his own hands—so I told him to
take him and go.

“He promised to send me half his profits, but I knowed that if he got
away with the b’ar I’d never see either of ’em ag’in.

“But, I reckon he didn’t get fur away, fur the next day the Speckled
Beauty come back lookin’ fur me and Little Rifle. He had the seat of the
Yankee’s trowsers in his mouth, and so I made up my mind that they’d had
a falling out. I left the fort that day, but I l’arned that the Yankee
come in the next day to get a new seat to his breeches, and left for
Fr’isco, swearin’ thar wa’n’t any chance for an honest man to make a
living in these parts. Since that time, Speckled Beauty has been
trampin’ the woods as he pleases, but he seems to have got weaned away.
I s’pose ’cause he’s come arter us so often, without findin’ me or
Little Pet at home.”




                              CHAPTER VI.
                      WHAT THE TELESCOPE REVEALED.


All this was very entertaining, especially when “Speckled Beauty,” the
hero of the tale, was before the listener, prancing and cavorting, as
though he appreciated the compliments of the old mountaineer, but Harry
could not forget the fact that their errand was to discover Little
Rifle, of whose fate as yet they had not gained the slightest inkling.

“But, Uncle Ruff, what of _her_? Have you no good news to tell me?”

He sobered on the instant the question was asked, and shook his head.

“I’m afeard not. You see I had an idee that Maquesa was at the head of
this party, and, as soon as I got in good range of ’em, I laid down and
watched. I counted ’em over a half-dozen times, and found thar war just
eight. But the old codger wasn’t among ’em. To make sarten, I waited in
the bushes till they all got aboard and shoved off, thinkin’ p’raps
Maquesa was somewhar out of sight; but he warn’t, and then I started to
hunt you up, and found you and Speckled Beauty, waltzin’ ’round the
camp-ground.”

“Suppose you had seen the Blackfoot chief,” inquired Harry, “suppose you
had discovered that he was at the head of this little party, what clew
would that have given you? What would such a fact have told you about
Little Rifle?”

“I had an idee that if I seen him, I’d see the gal too. If them varmints
hadn’t looked so mighty ugly, I’d gone in among ’em, and axed about the
health of Maquesa, and l’arned whether he’d been seen in these parts
lately, but it didn’t look as though thar war much show fur me. Still I
believe that that varmint is at the bottom of this business, and the
fust thing I’m going to l’arn is whether he’s been seen in this
neighborhood. If he has he’s the roo-ter we’re going fur.”

“Uncle Ruff,” said Harry, as a bright idea struck him, “isn’t there some
way in which we can turn this bear to account? It seems to me that such
a strange, wonderful-looking animal would scare any Indian out of his
wits.”

“That’s what I’ve used him fur,” replied the bear-tamer. “These
Blackfeet don’t know much about hair-dye and such stuff, though they can
paint up their faces, and when they see Speckled Beauty they’re apt to
think he’s something of a spirit. Ef he’ll only scare _them_ as much as
he does these younkers that go snoopin’ ’round Injin camps, they’ll
never git over it, as long as they live.”

Harry could but “acknowledge the corn,” pleading as an excuse that any
one unacquainted with Speckled Beauty could not look upon him without
agitation.

Old Ruff then announced his intention of continuing the pursuit of these
red-skins toward the Cascade Range, as he had strong reason to suspect
that they would be joined by Maquesa before they advanced much further.

Harry was unable to understand what his reasons were for this persistent
belief, but he knew he was too clear-headed to follow any phantom, and
that there was good cause to expect tangible results from such a course.

But, there remained the trifling difficulty already alluded to. This
course was taking them further and further away from the fort, and the
old hunter could not consent that the lad should accompany him, until he
had received the permission of his father.

This necessitated quite a _detour_, and the loss of much valuable time;
but happily this necessity was averted by the unexpected appearance of
Mr. Northend himself.

While the two were talking, they heard voices, and the next moment three
men emerged to view. All were mounted upon horses, and one was a hunter
and guide well known to old Robsart, who instantly went forward to greet
him, while Harry hurried up to salute his parent.

Considerable time was passed before a full understanding all round was
reached. Mr. Northend, under the guidance of Matt Muggs, a noted scout,
was making a sort of tour with a friend through this part of Oregon, in
the interests of the Missouri Fur Company, and was now on his way back
to Fort Abercrombie, with the intention of soon leaving there for home
by way of San Francisco.

It required considerable persuasion before he would give his consent for
his son to go off on what he termed this “wild-goose expedition,” but he
finally gave in, and, after some further exchange of friendly converse,
and the acceptance of quite a sum of money upon the part of the boy, in
order to defray all possible expenses, the two parties were about
separating to go their respective ways, when old Robsart, noticing that
the trio had come by a route that must have given them a view of the
river, asked Matt whether he had seen any thing of a party of Blackfeet
within the last hour.

“I reckon,” was the instant response; “thar’s a party of ’em less nor a
mile off in thar boats, steerin’ straight for the kenyon in the
mountains. As they was a-comin’ from this way you must have see’d the
same skunks, Ruff?”

“So we did,” replied the hunter; “them’s the coves we’re follerin’. Did
you count ’em, Matt?”

“Allers does that, when I kin git a fair squint at ’em. They war in two
canoes, and thar war just ten of ’em—”

“What?” demanded old Robsart in great excitement, “sure of that, Matt?”

“I reckon I kin count ten, ef I can’t count any more, and I ciphered up
them skunks twice, as I had an all-fired notion of takin’ a crack at one
of ’em. Howsumever, you can ax Mr. Farrell, or Northend here, ’cause
they seen ’em too.”

“Yes,” replied the latter gentleman, “I remember distinctly that Matt
remarked that there were ten, upon which I counted them and found that
he was right. But, why are you so deeply interested in this particular
party?” asked Northend, as he reined up his horse.

“’Cause I think that little pet that I’m arter is among ’em, that’s all.
I don’t s’pose you noticed, Matt, if the old chief Maquesa was with
’em?”

“No,” answered the hunter, “they war just fur enough off for me to see
fairly, and I wa’n’t thinkin’ ’bout nothin’ of the kind, or I’d tuk a
little closer peep on your account. If you think the little gal is among
’em you’d better be off with your Speckled Beauty.”

The three horsemen paused for some time to watch the curiously colored
animal, as it went prancing and lumbering after its master, and when it
was out of sight, they resumed their progress toward the fort.

“Just what I thought,” exclaimed Old Ruff, in some excitement, as soon
as they were alone; “the pet is thar, and she and Maquesa make up the
extra two, that Matt spoke about.”

“But, where did they join the party?”

“Somewhar further ’long, and I b’lieve now,” continued the mountaineer
in his emphatic way, “that the whole caboodle of ’em have come over here
after Little Rifle. Maquesa has l’arned somethin’ that has made him
s’pect the gal that was left in his charge is the same one that I’ve
been bringin’ up, and he’s come over the mountains in s’arch of her.”

“All that looks reasonable,” replied Harry, “but I haven’t heard or
thought of any thing yet that can make me understand the course of
Little Rifle in the business. _That_ is the mystery which passes my
comprehension.”

A troubled look crossed the face of the hunter, and he stared earnestly
in the countenance of the lad for a moment, and then asked in a low
voice:

“Shall I tell you what it means?”

“If you can?” replied Harry, intensely eager to hear his explanation.

“Wal, I can—I can see it all; I know more ’bout the pet than you do, and
it all come to me why she left you in that style, when you war asleep by
the camp-fire.”

Harry Northend stared wonderingly at the hunter, as if he doubted his
sanity. But the old man was never in clearer mood, and he was in dead
earnest. But now, when the very words seemed trembling upon his tongue,
he hesitated, as if unwilling to pronounce them. He appeared indeed to
control his emotions only by the strongest effort.

Harry waited, wondering what the words would be; but they came not, and
the trapper, who had partly paused in his walk, now walked faster, as if
seeking to get away from some exceedingly painful recollection.

Under any other circumstances, the lad would have respected this
embarrassment upon the part of his friend; but, where Little Rifle was
concerned, he was unwilling to do so, and he put the question direct.

“What is it that you were going to say about our lost friend? You have
raised my curiosity, and I hope it wasn’t merely for the purpose of
tantalizing it by a refusal to reveal what it is you know.”

Robsart was silent a moment, and then he spoke briefly but with much
feeling.

“No; I didn’t do it fur that, younker, fur I think too much of you—but I
was in too much of a hurry when I spoke; I can’t tell you yit; the time
will come after awhile; wait till then; I won’t forgit.”

There was no refusing such a request as this, much as it distressed
Harry to do so. He resolved that he would make no further reference to
the matter until the trapper, in his own good time, should see fit to
make clear the mysterious references that had escaped his lips.

The great purpose now was to overhaul the Blackfoot party before they
got beyond their reach. This seemed easy enough, as they had no cause to
fear pursuit, and their quite lengthy halt for dinner looked as if they
intended to continue their journey in a very leisurely manner.

True they had their canoes, and if they chose they could easily maintain
a speed that would carry them much more swiftly than their pursuers, but
they were not likely to do so, for the simple reason, that there was no
occasion (at least in their estimation) for such haste, and Maquesa was
not a chief who was accustomed to run away from an enemy, even when he
was more powerful than he.

And so, making all haste, the two continued down the banks of the river,
moving almost due westward, until they struck another elevation which
gave them an extended view of the river flowing away before them. And to
their delight they saw the two canoes about half a mile distant,
paddling along with a tardy deliberation, that showed they thought and
cared little for all who might choose to follow them.

In an instant, Old Ruff had Harry’s telescope to his eye. In a moment
his face lit up and he passed it back again with:

“Take a squint at that front canoe, and tell me what you see.”

And the boy looked and saw beyond all mistake, that Little Rifle was
sitting in the forward canoe!




                              CHAPTER VII.
                            DOWN THE RIVER.


The vision as told by the field-glass could but inspire both Old Ruff
and Harry Northend with the liveliest hope and enthusiasm.

Again and again they looked through the instrument, although the first
glance had shown them Little Rifle’s identity beyond all question.

Her size and dress, and general appearance, so distinct from that of the
Blackfeet by which she was surrounded, made it impossible to mistake
her. The trapper was almost equally positive, that the form immediately
next to her was that of the chief Maquesa—although in this, his
conclusion was hardly based upon what the glass revealed, but upon his
own knowledge and previous supposition of the Indian’s part in the
abduction of the girl.

Passing the telescope back to Harry, the two instantly resumed their
pursuit of the canoes, the mottled grizzly following them with the same
dog-like fondness and obedience, now and then lumbering out of sight,
but never for any length of time.

The hopeful enthusiasm of the two friends was somewhat modified by the
fact that the afternoon was almost gone, and the Blackfeet appeared to
be paddling with greater speed than they had used heretofore.

Unless they came ashore to encamp for the night, there was indeed little
probability of their being overtaken. Old Robsart, who had horses at the
fort, was more than once inclined to procure them for use in the
pursuit. He would not have hesitated to do so, had the Blackfeet
themselves been mounted, or had he believed there was any prospect of
his being permitted to choose his own route.

But his purpose was to keep close upon the trail of Maquesa, in case he
should secure it, and this could only be done by traveling afoot or by
using a boat.

A good many miles still intervened between where they stood and the
kenyon of the river, and nothing just now would have been more welcome
than a canoe, with which he could not only proceed much faster, but
which would also give the legs of himself and Harry a good rest—a
desirable thing, so far at least as the latter was concerned.

Believing there was good prospect of finding one, he kept close to the
river, on the alert, cautioning the boy to do the same. The latter was
afraid that by this means they would become hopelessly separated from
the bear, but the old man showed his confidence in the sagacity of the
creature, by declaring that he would not permit himself to be lost by
such means.

As they came down from their elevated position, they naturally lost
sight of the canoes, and Harry could hardly repress his impatience lest
they should fail altogether in finding them again; but the trapper, as
he moved on with his long, loping strides, seemed as cool and confident
of the issue as if he were only making a round of his traps.

The nature of the ground compelled them to leave the river at intervals,
but never long enough to make them feel that there was any danger of
their passing on beyond the Blackfeet without discovering them.

The sun went down, and twilight told of the coming of darkness, but
still, although our friends were close upon the margin of the swiftly
flowing stream, nothing was to be seen either of the canoes or of their
camp-fire.

Despite the excitement that had kept up the spirits of Harry, it was
impossible that he should maintain this gait without growing weary. He
felt that he could not maintain it much longer, but still he hurried
forward, determined not to give up so long as he could keep his legs,
and prevent himself from falling behind his tireless companion.

“Helloa! here it is!” suddenly exclaimed Old Ruff, as he abruptly
halted. “Just the thing I’ve been looking fur all the arternoon. Now, my
boy, you can rest them pegs of yourn, fur I know they can’t stand this
sort of thing much longer.”

As he spoke, he stooped down, and lifted from the ground directly before
him, one of those small, delicately framed Indian canoes, which are
intended to carry but a single person, but which, in case of emergency,
are capable of floating a couple.

Glad enough was the boy to ensconce himself in the stern, where,
nestling down in as comfortable a position as he could assume, he felt
that he could remain a week at least, before he would long to indulge in
pedestrianism again.

Robsart flung him the heavy Indian blanket, which he always carried with
him when on his travels, and told him to rest while he could, for there
was no telling how long the opportunity would be his, and then taking
the long, flat paddle in hand, he made ready to turn to the best account
the chance that was given him.

Speckled Beauty stood on the edge of the shore as they pushed off, and
gave utterance to a whine or rather growl like the mastiff, who is
begging his master to take him along. The trapper replied in a language
which, if not understood by Harry Northend, seemed to be comprehended by
the brute—who instantly began following them down-stream, until he was
hid by the intervening gloom.

“He won’t give it up so,” laughed Old Ruff, “but I’ll warrant you when
we land, he’ll be close by and won’t wait long afore showing himself.”

The trapper felt the need of haste, and he now used the paddle with all
the power and skill of which he was master. The current was quite rapid,
the stream being narrow and deep, and the light canoe seemed to speed
over the surface like a swallow.

There was a chilliness in the air, and gathering the thick blanket about
him, Harry lay back, too tired to sleep, but so utterly used up, that he
wished the Blackfeet would keep up their rowing for several hours yet,
so that by the time they halted, he would be in a better condition to do
something. He was sure that he was useless for the present.

Although the old hunter said little, he understood the condition of the
lad, and he hoped very much the same as he did. He let him alone,
wishing that he would fall asleep, for he very justly mistrusted his
ability to cope with the physical requirements before him.

The sky was clear, and the moon was not likely to rise until later. The
trapper continued his powerful sweeps of the paddle, his purpose being
to make the distance between himself and the Blackfeet as small as was
prudent, when he could slacken his gait, and prolong the pursuit all
through the night if necessary.

Fully five miles were passed in this manner, the stream frequently
making such short curves that he held up, fearful that he might betray
himself to his foes. As yet he had seen and heard nothing of them, when
as he rounded a rocky headland, he abruptly paused and listened.

“Do you hear any thing, younker?” he asked, holding the paddle suspended
in hand.

There was no answer, even after he had repeated the question.

“Poor chap, he’s asleep!” concluded the trapper, “and I’m glad of it. I
shan’t wake him till I have to. He’s full of pluck and nerve, but he
ain’t used to this business; he’s got to get older afore he kin stand it
as well as me. I don’t know much ’bout such things, but I think he loves
that gal, and she feels sorter the same toward him. I don’t know what
he’d think if I’d tell him why she left his camp the other night. He’s
got to find it out some time, and I won’t distress him by tellin’ him
until I can’t put it off any longer. ’Sh!”

As he listened, he heard faintly but distinctly the sound of paddles.
His experienced ear enabled him to tell that two canoes were only a
short distance ahead, so there could be no reasonable doubt but that he
was close in the rear of the Blackfeet party.

“I wonder ef they’re going to keep it up all night?” was the next
thought of Old Ruff; “ef they are, I kin paddle as well as them, but
then it ain’t going to give me much chance to get a word with Little
Rifle, and it will sorter bother the brains of Speckled Beauty to keep
the hang of things. But he’s smart, and has done ’cuter things than
that, in his time.”

He did not forget to handle his own paddle with all the care possible,
for the most awkward consequences might follow a discovery upon the part
of Maquesa that some one was following him.

In the still, calm night, sound was conveyed some distance with
wonderful distinctness. To the casual ear, the red-skins were no more
than a hundred yards distant, but he knew that triple that breadth of
water separated them, and he was enabled to judge also the exact speed
with which they were progressing.

The trapper had no wish to lessen this space, and he took good care not
to do so. His wish was that they would land, and give him a chance to
bring things to an issue.

Once he was filled with misgiving, when, as he paused to listen, he was
unable to catch the slightest sound of their paddles. He concluded at
once that he had betrayed himself, and Maquesa had given the word for
his warriors to halt until their pursuer should come up and place
himself in their power.

Old Robsart was not the man to do this, and he halted, too, holding his
paddle ready to send his boat back again with its arrow-like speed.

“Ef they want a race, I’m ready,” he concluded, “and I’ll make a present
of my scalp to any red-skin kin cotch me in a fair canoe-chase.”

But it was apparently some other cause that had produced this temporary
cessation in their paddling, for the next minute it was resumed with the
same regular sweep as before.

The trapper permitted his boat to remain stationary until the distance
had been greatly increased, when he resumed his pursuit, with a caution
and silence that made it impossible for the trained and listening ear to
detect his coming. He appreciated the position too keenly to make any
mistake at such a critical time.

He did not speak again, but, lifting the paddle, pushed the shoulder of
Harry vigorously; but he was in too sound a slumber to awake.

“Sleep on,” muttered Old Ruff, as he cautiously impelled the canoe. “You
ain’t of any account now, and you’re safe till morning any way. If
there’s any ticklish business to be done to-night, I’d rather have you
asleep than awake. I left you up the river, and gave you orders not to
stir; but you couldn’t wait till I come back, and ef the varmints hadn’t
left jist when they did, you’d had us both in the ugliest scrape of our
lives. I’ll pay him for that, yet,” added Old Ruff, with a shake of his
head; “when I take younkers to train, they’ve got to obey orders. Ah!
what does that mean?”

The Blackfeet ahead had ceased paddling again. Certain that they had
heard nothing of him, old Robsart was naturally curious to know the
cause, and he ceased, too, permitting his canoe to float with the
current.

For several seconds every thing remained as silent as the tomb, and then
he detected a sound which he understood too well.

“Good!” he growled, with a grin of delight. “The varmints have landed to
go into camp, and now the fun will begin!”




                             CHAPTER VIII.
                       “SPECKLED BEAUTY” IN CAMP.


The old hunter kept his canoe motionless in the current until he was
certain that every one of the Blackfeet had left their boats, and had
pulled them up on the shore, beyond danger of being swept away by the
current.

Even then he waited until no doubt could remain of their intention to
kindle a fire and to make a prolonged halt. As soon as he caught the
first twinkle of their camp-fire, he shot his boat swiftly to the bank,
and stepping softly out, drew the prow clean up out of the water,
beneath some overhanging bushes, where it could not be seen by any one
who might accidentally pass near.

Not the slightest movement indicated that there was any danger of
awakening on the part of the lad, and confident that there was not, he
only paused long enough to gather the bushes a little more compactly
about the boat, so as to make the concealment as perfect as possible.

Old Ruff then, with rifle in hand, straightened up and looked off in the
darkness, turning his gaze up instead of down the river.

“I don’t hear any thing of Speckled Beauty,” he mused; “but I s’pose
I’ve traveled a little too fast in the darkness for him to keep track of
us all the way; but he’ll be along arter awhile.”

With this confident conclusion, he moved off in the direction of the
camp-fire, which was now burning brightly and cheerily, and the bustle
and activity of the red-skins about the blaze made the scene interesting
if not cheerful to the ordinary looker-on.

It was an easy matter for the trapper to reconnoiter the camp of a foe
at night, and he moved leisurely along until he reached a point from
which he was afforded the best view possible of the congregated
Blackfeet.

The latter had brought a haunch of venison with them, which was being
cooked over the fire, most of the Indians moving hither and thither,
while one or two were lazily stretched out upon the ground, smoking
their pipes.

Upon a fallen tree, near the blaze, sat Little Rifle. Her head was bent,
and an Indian blanket was gathered about her, so that her face could not
be seen by the trapper, although he stood directly in front of her.

But it needed not the sight of the beautiful little weapon lying at her
feet, for the old man to identify her. If he was enabled to do so when
half a mile distant, there was no mistaking now, when no more than a
hundred feet separated.

After watching her intently for a minute or two, in the hope that she
would raise her eyes, the trapper turned his gaze upon Maquesa, who,
lounging at her feet, was looking up in her face and talking. Old Ruff
could catch the mumble of his voice now and then, when there was a lull
in the racket made by the others, and he could see from his manner that
he was deeply in earnest about something, though unable to catch a
syllable that he uttered.

“I think I know what that means,” growled the hunter, as he fairly
glared upon the red-skin. “I was afeard of it. Ef it hadn’t been fur
that desprit fight that me and Maquesa had, and the consequent love
atween us, I’d put a bullet _spang_ through him, from whar I stand,
though I s’pose the red-skin does mean well enough—”

At this moment the watcher heard a crackling off to the right, and
turning his head, he saw, to his dismay, Speckled Beauty, the gorgeous
grizzly bear, emerge from the gloom, and without a moment’s hesitation,
walk directly toward the camp-fire.

Robsart would have prevented this had it been possible; but he had
forgotten all about the animal for the time, and he could not have
signaled to him, or crossed his path, without betraying himself to the
group of savages. So, with no little chagrin, he stood where he was and
watched the antics of his pet.

Speckled Beauty, coming to the camp-fire under the impression that it
was kindled by his friends, and descrying Little Rifle, had turned his
steps toward her, as the best he could do under the circumstances.

The moment he came within the circle of light, there was a furious
uproar, and nearly every red-skin sprung for his rifle. Maquesa leaped
to his feet, greatly startled by this tumult; but before any one could
discharge their pieces, he recognized the brute and forbade them firing.

Little Rifle also raised her head for an instant, looked steadily at the
bear, and then, without changing her position, looked down again,
drawing the blanket about her shoulders, and seemingly indifferent to
what was going on about her.

The tumult and confusion created by the Blackfeet alarmed Speckled
Beauty, and caused him to pause in his walk toward the girl. He glared
at the red-skins, and then apparently scenting danger in the sight of so
many guns, turned squarely about and lumbered off in the darkness again.

“He’s done all the mischief he can, out thar,” growled Old Ruff,
impatiently, “and now he’ll nose around till he finds the Yankee or me,
and make every thing ten times worse.”

He began to suspect that he had made a blunder in bringing the curiosity
along; for Maquesa, knowing to whom he belonged, would be very apt to
suspect that his master was somewhere in the neighborhood, and placed
thus upon his guard, the labor that Robsart had laid out for himself,
would be increased ten-fold.

This was the mischief that undoubtedly had been already committed; but
fearful that Harry Northend would also betray his position, when
suddenly aroused from his slumber by the snout of the bear, thrust
against his face, the trapper cautiously withdrew from his advanced
position, and circling around, came to the river-bank, a short distance
above where he had left the boat.

He was none too soon, for at the same instant he saw the outlines of the
dark, cumbrous body of his pet bear, which gave a growl of pleasure, as
he recognized his master, and hurried forward to receive his caress.

It was not withheld, the bulky brute cavorting and tumbling about his
master, with the playful affection of a kitten. It took fully a
half-hour before he could be quieted down into any thing like
tractability, during all of which Harry was sound asleep, and happily
unconscious of what was going on so near him.

It was the wish of the bear-tamer to prevent the lad from being
awakened, and when he had shown the bear where he was, and permitted him
to nose around for a short time, he concluded that the danger was past,
and impressing upon the sagacious brute the importance of remaining
where he was, he returned to his reconnoissance of the camp.

Here another surprise and a bitter disappointment awaited him. The huge
fire was burning as brightly as ever, but not an Indian was to be seen!

As silently as shadows, they had launched their canoes again, and
floated away in the gloom of the night!

And so abruptly had all this been done, that Old Ruff had no suspicion
until he saw the evidence before his eyes.

“That’s it!” he exclaimed, in his anger. “Maquesa is sharp-witted, and
if he’d been a fool, he’d knowed what the sign of Speckled Beauty was.
He has tramped a good many miles of the woods alone, but I don’t s’pose
he’s been see’d by any one who knows him, that they haven’t made up thar
minds that I was close by. That’s jist what the chief has understood,
and he and his varmints has slipped off ag’in.”

He stood a moment, fairly gnashing his teeth in his chagrin, and feeling
any thing but particularly friendly toward the bear that had been the
cause of the mishap.

“Confound him!” he growled, “I wish that that Yankee that dyed him up,
had made him die himself or had took him along with him; fur Maquesa
isn’t goin’ to be cotched nappin’ ag’in. Howsomever, if rowin’s the
word, I’m in!”

Roused to action, he strode rapidly back to where the canoe was
concealed, and pulling it from its concealment, seated himself in it,
and shoved out from shore, paying no heed to Speckled Beauty, who
lingered on shore, expecting an affectionate farewell.

Reaching the center of the current, he permitted his boat to float with
it for a short time, while he listened.

No sound of paddling reached his ear—naught but the soft flow of the
river, and the soughing of the night-wind.

But for all that he knew the Blackfeet were paddling swiftly down the
river. They were simply using due caution in the handling of their
paddles, so as not to afford _him_ the clew that had already guided him
so far.

When he resumed the use of the paddle, the impetus of the boat aroused
Harry, who, rousing up, looked around for a moment in bewilderment.
Then, recalling his situation, he muttered:

“Paddling yet, Uncle Ruff. It was last night, it seems to me, that I
went asleep, so that you must have kept it up for twenty-four hours.
Don’t you feel a little stiff in the joints?”

“I think I would if I had been paddling as long as all that, but I think
you’re a little ahead of the right number—say an hour or two.”

“But what about the Indians? What about Little Rifle? Have you seen
nothing of her? Have we lost all trace of Maquesa and his men?”

And then the trapper proceeded to tell, in his characteristic manner,
all that had happened since his young friend had closed his eyes in
slumber.

As may be supposed, Harry listened with the most absorbing interest. It
was aggravating to reflect that they had been thus nigh Little Rifle,
without opening any communication, and with the only result of placing
matters in a much more favorable light than before; but such was the
irresistible fact.

All this time the man was busy at the paddle, occasionally pausing to
tell whether he could catch any sound from those ahead, but failing as
yet to do so.

“How easy it would be for them to land,” said Harry, in a cautious
voice, “and allow us to pass them in the gloom, and so get entirely off
the track.”

“They could do it, I allow,” replied the hunter, “but they won’t.
Maquesa is aiming for t’other side the mountains, whar his village is,
and he won’t stop ’g’in, for any time, till he gets thar, as he thinks
he’s got a sure thing of it.”

Notwithstanding the confident tone of the trapper, it began to look as
if the supposition made by the lad was correct; for as the night passed,
not the slightest sound of paddles in front or rear could be heard. The
rising of the moon made the course of the river visible for a greater
distance, but the eye roamed along the stream and bank in vain.

All night long old Robsart continued at work with the paddle, passing
from side to side, halting, listening and watching, and Harry assisted
him to the best of his ability, but it resulted in naught.




                              CHAPTER IX.
                       THROUGH THE CASCADE RANGE.


The scene now changes to the western slope of the Cascade Range.

The spot is hundreds of miles from where we last saw Old Ruff Robsart
and Harry Northend. Long days and nights have passed since then, and
during that time these two, who have become deeply attached to each
other, have followed the river to its kenyon in the mountains, and
taking advantage of a pass well known to the trapper, they have safely
worked their way through the immense snowy chain, and are now upon the
western slope, facing the Pacific.

It was a daring feat for these two to attempt, and many a time and oft
they have been in the most imminent peril of their lives. Snow, biting
arctic winds, fierce Indians, savage wild beasts and hunger—these were
the enemies that man and boy were compelled to encounter again and
again, and only the matchless skill of the great bear-tamer, his
coolness and self-possession under all circumstances, his wonderful
knowledge of the mountain solitudes and fastnesses, and the superb
physical condition of both, enabled them to come forth from this
tremendous labyrinth of snow-crowned peaks, roaring kenyons, dizzying
ravines, gorges and chasms, not merely in as good condition as they
entered, but (notably in the case of the lad) stronger, more rugged and
better prepared to face the remaining difficulties to be overcome.

Although, as we have stated above, many days have passed since Maquesa
and his little party gave them the slip on the river, yet despite the
most determined exertions upon the part of the trapper, the trail had
never been recovered.

Maquesa was one of the most cunning of a proverbially cunning race, and
the lesson taught him by the sudden appearance of the mottled grizzly
had not been taught in vain. He knew at once that his old adversary and
friend was after him and his charge, and he “sloped” in such a decidedly
French style that his pursuer with all his remarkable skill had not
again caught sight or sound of him.

Finding that the trail was irrecoverably lost, the trapper gave up the
attempt entirely, and believing that Maquesa’s ultimate destination was
a village upon the other side of the Cascade, he made his way through by
the shortest and most expeditious route, intending, if possible, to head
him off.

That curiously colored bear seemed to have given up as hopeless the
attempt to keep up with the two, as they slowly worked their way through
the vast mountain-chain, and he had not been seen since their encampment
several nights before in the pass.

Harry was alone in a glen where he had kindled a fire secure from the
observation of any and all who did not pass too close. He had learned a
great deal since he and his friend had left the river, and there was
little danger of his committing the rash mistake that had marked his
first essay in hunting a party of Blackfeet Indians.

Old Robsart carefully noted the rapid improvement of the lad, and he had
come to trust him far more than he would have done a week before.

Harry was sitting alone with his blanket thrown over his shoulders, for
there was a chilliness in the air that seemed to come from the snowy
mountains on the east. His rifle was between his knees, and he sat upon
a bowlder looking down in the embers, thinking and speculating upon the
future.

“Here we are on the other side of the mountains from Fort Abercombie,”
he thought, “and who shall tell whether we are ever to see Little Rifle
again. Old Ruff seems to lose no heart, and yet he is silent and
thoughtful, and I think he must feel at times as though all hope was
about over. He has taken the telescope and gone off to hunt a Blackfoot
village. I went yesterday with him to find the village where Maquesa
reigned a few years ago; and when we got there, not a sign of a lodge
was to be seen.”

Such was the fact. Confident of discovering the chief, the trapper in
company with the lad had made his way directly to the spot where he and
a portion of his people had had their homes for years; but only to find,
that, like the Bedouins of the desert, that they had departed—months
before—no one could tell, and there was no means of learning, whither.

This was a damper, and for a time he was completely nonplused. But,
declaring his belief that the village was somewhere in the neighborhood,
he had returned, and from an elevated point, carefully surveyed the vast
area that was spread before him toward the Pacific.

Finally he had detected the appearance of an Indian town many miles to
the west and south; and, as Harry had been constantly on the watch and
tramp for several days, it was arranged that he should go into camp in a
secure spot and await the return of the trapper, who expected to put his
own powers of endurance to the severest test.

He had no misgivings in doing this, as there were no signs of the
immediate presence of Indians, and, as for wild animals, they were to be
met with at all times, and he had an abundance of ammunition, with which
to defend himself.

Harry was also furnished with enough meat, cooked and prepared, to last
several days—it having been their prudent custom, when among the
mountains, to guard against any emergency in the way of food, by
carrying at all times a supply with them.

The lad had secured a comfortable little nook in which the fire was
kindled, and had gathered enough fuel, as he supposed, to last until
daylight.

“It is strange,” he continued, as he sat gazing absently into the fire,
“that Robsart makes no explanation of the reason why Little Rifle
deserted me on that night. I shall never ask him again if I never learn;
I have puzzled my brains over it a hundred times, but all to no use.

“And now, if he fails to find Maquesa, what is to be done? Among these
thousands of miles of wilderness, ten thousand Blackfeet may hide for
their lifetime, and no one can find them. But for that mishap of the
bear, it might have been ended long ago. Now the chief has been warned
of what is afoot, and he is too sharp to be caught—”

He paused suddenly in his meditations, as he heard the sound of
something moving near him, and looking up, caught the outlines of some
huge dark animal as it moved back out of the range of the fire.

There was nothing particularly alarming in this, as he had become
accustomed to such creatures; but, as he sat alone, miles from any
friend, in a mournful reverie, it was a rather startling awaking, and he
caught up and cocked his rifle, as though he expected a charge from it.

His second thought was that it was “Speckled Beauty,” still faithful to
his friends; but the action of the brute proved the contrary, as he
remained in the background.

Harry caught the phosphorescent glare of his eyes, and heard a deep,
guttural growl, which proved that if he belonged to the bear species, he
was not the one which had been so well trained by Adams, and so
skillfully but unprofitably ornamented by the Yankee speculator.

The young man was somewhat loth to fire his gun, as the trapper had
cautioned him never to do so unless compelled, as the report was
frequently more dangerous to the one discharging it than the bullet was
to the one at whom it was aimed.

But Harry had to choose between the horns of a dilemma. If he did not
give the brute his quietus, he would probably prowl around all night and
keep him continually on the alert to save his own life. The
probabilities, too, were that additional fuel would be required to keep
the fire up to the requisite point, and in the end he would be obliged
to kill the creature in self-defense.

“And such being the case,” he concluded, after turning the matter over
in his mind, “I may as well dispose of my visitor at once.”

But the brute, although he was growling and nosing around the camp-fire,
as though seeking an unguarded point where he could seize his prey,
still remained too much in the background to afford the fair aim that
was desirable.

Now and then the glassy glitter of its eyes could be discerned, but they
flashed in and out of view before a fair aim could be settled upon, and
the boy had no disposition to throw away a shot.

The agility displayed by the beast, as it appeared here and there in the
gloom, caused Harry more than once to suspect that it was some other
kind of creature than a bear, while its cat-like stealth of movement
made him fearful that it would make some sudden, treacherous spring that
would take him off his guard.

He sat with his gun at his shoulder, waiting for the coveted chance,
when all at once it advanced into full view, and taking a quick aim, he
fired.

There was a fearful snarling howl, and the brute made a tremendous bound
directly backward in the gloom, that carried him entirely out of sight.

“There! it’s my opinion that that pill will have a good effect upon your
system,” exclaimed Harry, as he proceeded to reload his piece. “I think
it struck you somewhere about the head, and will make it ache, to say
the least.”

He confidently expected to hear it roll over on the ground, clawing and
clutching the earth in its death-struggles; but the howl and leap were
succeeded by a profound silence.

“He has subsided without making any extra fuss,” was his conclusion, as
he placed the cap upon the tube of his gun. “That is, perhaps, the plan
most to be commended, for he might have rolled over in the fire and
burned himself—”

A soft, stealthy movement just then caught the listening ear of Harry,
and turning his gaze as quick as thought to the opposite side of the
fire, he saw, to his amazement, the beast that he had just pronounced
dead, stealing toward him on its belly.

The sight that met the eye of the young adventurer was enough to startle
a man of stronger nerve. The animal was as black as midnight, quite
large, with a long neck, and a snout that resembled that of a wolf or
fox, only much larger and fiercer. Stretched out, as it stole along in
the manner mentioned, it seemed unnaturally prolonged, while the
almond-shaped eyes seemed to emit fire, as they were fixed with the most
deadly intent upon the one who had already lodged a bullet in its body.

This horrid head and front were covered with blood, that trickled upon
the ground, showing that if the shot had not killed, it had certainly
inflicted a grievous wound. To what species the animal belonged, it was
impossible to say; but most probably it was a cross of some kind,
combining in itself the activity and fierceness of the panther, and the
treacherous cunning of the wolf.

Whatever it was, it was bent upon the life of the boy, and would have
had it in another moment but for its soft, gliding movement over the
ground, which providentially revealed its approach before its sharp
claws could be buried in his body.




                               CHAPTER X.
                          A BRUTE’S SACRIFICE.


This sudden and unexpected appearance of the wild beast caused Harry to
fire without taking the careful aim that he would have done had the case
been different; but he made sure that his rifle was pointed straight at
the brute, and that the discharged bullet would be certain to enter his
body.

And so it did, but missing the head, buried itself in the flesh
somewhere along the back, the result being another serious wound and the
maddening of the wild animal to such a degree that he became perfectly
frantic in his rage.

Forgetting his habitual cunning and treachery, he rose to his feet,
giving utterance to a savage growl, and with his head lowered, like a
bull when about to use his horns, he advanced directly upon the lad.

The latter had no time to reload, and reading the deadly intent of his
foe, he ran round to the opposite side of the fire, so as to interpose
it between them. The brute, still glaring and growling, trotted after
him.

It would not venture through the fire; but as it was more nimble of foot
than the lad, he could gain nothing by this course.

Still, as it seemed to be the only thing that he could do, Harry threw
down his gun and snatched up his blanket, and made a dash for liberty.
His hope lay in the belief that the brute was so badly injured that he
would soon become disabled, and that he would not venture as near the
blaze as did his intended victim.

Disappointed in both of these respects, Harry made a hasty grab and
caught up one of the burning embers of wood, which, as he walked
backward, he whirled about his head as a guard to keep the brute away.

This was a partial success, as all animals naturally have a terror of
fire, and the one in question fell back growling and glaring, as if
deliberating with himself as to the best method of circumventing this
obstacle.

He showed no disposition to give up his scheme, but continued stealing
forward inch by inch, as a cat is sometimes seen to do when about to
leap upon its prey. Harry halted, expecting, of course, it would do the
same. For a moment he thought it had, but, as he fixed his eyes upon it,
he observed that it was still advancing, almost imperceptibly, but none
the less surely, for all that.

“Confound him!” exclaimed Harry as he became conscious of this insidious
movement. “I never heard of such a creature; if he wants a taste of
fire, I’ll give it to him.”

The beast was now less than a dozen feet distant, when the boy took a
step toward him and then dashed the blazing brand full in his face,
muttering, as he did so:

“There! take that, if you want it.”

It was enough to daze and terrify any thing, and the brute, with a howl
such as he gave when struck by the first bullet, recoiled on himself,
reared on his hind-legs, and pawed madly as if to fight off the torch,
which had struck his black head, and then glanced off in the darkness.

This bewilderment lasted but a second or two, when it moved toward the
lad more determinedly than ever. The latter had made a snatch at a
brand, but in his hurry it had slipped from his hand after he had risen
to his feet, and retreated a step or two.

Before he could recover it, the brute was not only nearer to him than
that, but had actually interposed between him and the fire!

Thus in a twinkling, as it were, the lad found that he had been totally
disarmed—not only deprived of the use of his gun, through the denial of
opportunity to reload it, but he was shut off from his _dernier
resort_—the chance of using the fire to fight off the determined advance
of his enemy.

Harry had now his blanket thrown over his left arm, and his
hunting-knife at his waist; but he knew that if he was forced to a
hand-to-hand fight with the furious beast, he would be torn to shreds
before he could do any execution with his weapon. His case looked
exceedingly desperate, for the snarling animal having intruded himself
between him and the fire, was too knowing to permit him to recover his
place again.

It was useless to attempt to flee, and Harry Northend stood his ground,
looking down with a fascinated gaze upon the horrid-looking brute, as
creeping along for a foot or two more, it began gathering its paws
beneath its body, to make its leap.

With a courage born almost of despair, he saw all this and never
stirred, standing like the bird that is charmed by the rattlesnake, that
knows it sees certain death, but has neither the power nor the will to
escape.

But it was not entirely thus with the lad. He possessed rare courage and
pluck, and had decided his own course of action. It was a desperate
resort, but it was all that remained to him, and he held his nerves with
a will of iron until the critical moment was upon him.

It came with the next breath. There was a sudden quickening of the legs
as they were gathered beneath the belly of the animal, and then it made
its fearful leap.

For one instant the dark, panther-shaped body was visible in the air,
and then, as Harry saw it descending upon him, he gave the blanket a
flirt so as to throw it directly over the head of the snarling beast,
leaping aside at the same instant, and making another attempt to recover
his position by the fire.

He succeeded in doing this, although he fell upon his hands and knees,
and before he could scramble to his feet again, the brute had pawed the
blanket from his eyes, and glancing around for an instant, discovered
where his slippery victim was.

There can be but little doubt of the ultimate result of this strange
contest, for every advantage was upon the side of the beast, which gave
no evidence of suffering the least exhaustion from the wounds it had
received.

But at this critical juncture a third party appeared upon the scene, not
in the shape of Old Ruff or an Indian, but in that of another wild
brute.

As Harry rose to his feet, torch in hand, and stood confronting his
enemy, he heard a growl from his right hand, and concluded that it was
all over with him beyond a question, if he was to be called upon to
combat two such enemies.

The wounded animal heard the ominous sound, and also turned his head,
sending back a defiant growl, as if to warn all outside parties that
there was to be no interference here.

The thunderous growl was still rumbling in the throat of the brute when
Harry saw a huge dark body pass like an arrow through the air, coming
down from the rock over his head, and speeding as straight and truly as
if fired from the mouth of a giant columbiad, directly at the defiant
beast, which was not given time to prepare for the charge.

The attacking brute landed directly upon the shoulder of the other, and
at the same instant the two closed in a deadly, fearful encounter.

With the quickness of lightning the fight assumed the fiercest
character, the two wild beasts going at each other with the
determination to do or die. Snarling, growling, clawing, scratching,
gouging, biting, snapping, tearing and rending, they rolled over and
over upon the ground, the hair flying in every direction.

Harry Northend stood transfixed, for the time, by the terrible scene
before him. The fight was of that furious nature which showed that it
would never terminate until one or both were dead, and that the
consummation was sure to take place very speedily.

And reflecting that whichever party was the victor would be certain to
turn upon him, the young hunter was too prudent to throw away the
opportunity thus providentially placed in his hands, and he hurriedly
caught up his rifle and began reloading it, with the intention of taking
a position from which he could watch the fight, and when it should
terminate, could lodge a bullet in the brain of the victor and leave
himself master of the situation.

The act of loading his weapon naturally drew away his attention from the
combatants for the time; but when he had placed the percussion upon the
tube, he turned his gaze upon the struggling beasts again.

Just then they rolled closer to the fire than they were before, and were
consequently brought into closer view, and as the lad withdrew from
beyond their reach, and looked down upon them, he saw, with feelings
that may be imagined, that the one making the attack was his old friend
and acquaintance, “Speckled Beauty.”

One look at his hide, now crimsoned with a deeper dye than the art of
the showman could give it, showed this, and the whilom resentment that
he had felt for the mishap caused by him, was now turned to gratitude
and admiration for the part he was playing in his defense.

“Fight away, my friend!” he exclaimed. “Neither Old Ruff nor I shall
ever say or think ill of you again, for you meant well, and but for your
coming now, I should have been in your place. Good luck to you, and I
will give you what help I can.”

His purpose now was to lodge another bullet in the other beast in such a
way as to “lay him out,” and leave Speckled Beauty the master, for it
looked as if he had undertaken a job which he was unable to carry
through, his foe showing not only the greatest tenacity of life, but
also displaying a strength and activity almost incredible.

The mottled bear possessed enormous strength, but in quickness of
movement he was far inferior to his foe, whose long, sharp claws, were
tearing and pounding at his vitals with blows like the piston-rod of a
steam engine; but the Beauty was game, and he stuck to his antagonist to
the last, never intending to give up the fight so long as the strength
remained to continue it.

Harry held his rifle cocked for several minutes, waiting and unable to
get the chance to fire; for the two rolled over so rapidly—first one
under and then on top again, that he was fearful he might wound his
friend instead of his enemy.

Leaping back and forth around the two dark bodies, now upon one side and
then upon the other, and once or twice narrowly escaping being thrown
beneath them, with the blood and hair flying all over his clothes—Harry
at last saw his chance.

There was a momentary lull in the fight, the bear was under, and the
head of the other was in full view. Quick as thought the muzzle of the
rifle was thrust into his ear, and the trigger pulled.

The shot told, and the bullet went crashing and tearing through the
skull and brain of the beast, who lay motionless for a moment, and then
with a spasmodic quiver rolled over upon the ground without a spark of
life in his body.

“My poor, brave friend,” said Harry, bending over the grizzly bear, “you
have done me a service for which I can never pay you.”

He stooped lower and looked more closely at him. The animal never
stirred. A groan of anguish escaped him, and it was his last. Speckled
Beauty was as dead as his foe!




                              CHAPTER XI.
                          UNWELCOME VISITORS.


As Harry looked upon the dead body of his brute friend, he could but
feel saddened and pitiful. It had followed him and Robsart for hundreds
of miles, in obedience to that emotion of affection, which is a
characteristic of the entire animal creation, and now it had given up
its life to save him, who for days past had felt little but resentment
toward it, for the mistake it had unwittingly made.

But little time was given the lad for indulgence in the finer emotions
of his nature; for, while he stood leaning on his rifle, and looking
down upon the mangled carcass, his ear, trained to unusual acuteness,
detected the approach of something else, and he immediately raised his
weapon and stood on the defensive.

“Another of those brutes,” he thought, “but there is no Speckled Beauty
to help me this time, and I can not throw away a shot— Helloa!”

Well might he start with alarm, for just then the figure of an Indian
warrior came out of the gloom, and walked directly toward him. Harry
turned his head to see what chance there was to dart back in the
darkness upon that side, but only to encounter two other red-skins fully
as near as the first!

He felt that he was fairly caught, and he could do nothing but submit to
the inevitable with the best grace possible under the circumstances.

The two red-skins halted but a few feet distant, and remained standing
and motionless, as if to shut off any attempt to escape, while they left
to the third the part of chief actor and spokesman in the business.

As Harry turned again and looked fully in the face of the latter, it
struck him that he had seen him before. He was tall and well-formed,
with a gaudily-colored blanket covering his shoulders, and which thrown
partly back from his front, showed a large hunting knife at his girdle.
In his left hand he carried a rifle, while the right left free was
extended in greeting toward the lad.

“How you do, white pappoose?” he asked with a grim smile, and a
perfection of accent that amazed the boy.

The latter could do nothing less than accept the proffered hand,
although he did so with no little misgiving, fearing that it was only a
prelude to some treachery upon his part.

But the Indian relinquished it the next moment, and then seemed disposed
to act the part of an attorney conducting a cross-examination.

“Where you come from?” he demanded.

“From the fort, the other side of the mountains,” replied the boy,
extending his hand toward the north-east in which direction the frontier
post lay.

“You come all alone—come away here—nobody with you?”

“Nobody is with me now excepting you and your warriors,” said Harry.

“You come alone—who bring white pappoose from fort, away ’cross
mountain?”

“The great hunter has been my guide and companion all the way.”

“Which his name?”

The lad hesitated a moment, not knowing whether it was prudent or not to
use deception under the circumstances, but his questioner manifested
some impatience at the attempt already made to parry his queries, and he
concluded it best to reply truthfully.

“He is known as Old Ruff the mountaineer, although he has been more in
the trapping business lately; there lies one of the animals that he
tamed to be his dog.”

He noticed a slight manifestation of surprise upon the part of the
Indian as he made this reply, and just then the impression came with
renewed force that he had seen him before. Where could it be? Ah! now he
recalled. He was one of the Blackfeet that he and Old Ruff had seen in
the canoe, when scrutinizing Little Rifle through the field-glass.

_Could it be Maquesa?_ was the next question that came to the mind of
Harry, when he took occasion at the same instant to throw a sidelong
glance at the other two, in the hope that possibly he could recognize
one of them as the chief.

But the scrutiny through the glass had not been complete enough to
enable him to do this. He believed that all three of his visitors had
been in the canoes at that time, but whether either of them was the
Blackfoot for whom he and the old hunter had been so persistently
searching for many days, and for whom the trapper was hunting this very
moment, whether he was one of the three, he could only conjecture.

When the red-skin received the reply recorded, he was silent a moment or
two, looking sharply down in the face of the boy, who felt somewhat
embarrassed by the keen scrutiny.

“Where he be now?” he asked, lowering his voice, but keeping his eyes
fixed upon him.

“He is gone—he went away to-day—he is down yonder at the foot of the
mountain somewhere.”

“Why he go—why he leave white pappoose all alone for big bear to eat him
up?”

Harry became uneasy under these pointed questions—the object of which he
could not divine. He was unwilling to be more explicit in his replies,
until he could be certain of what the result of such a revelation was
likely to be. So he rather ingeniously took up the appellation the
Indian had applied to him, resenting it with an assumption of
indignation.

“Why do you call me a pappoose?” he demanded, straightening up. “I am no
more a babe than are your warriors. I am a hunter and a man!”

This grandiloquent reply caused a very perceptible grin upon the faces
of all three Blackfeet, who seemed to admire the spirit of the lad; but
it did not divert the leader from the “line” of questioning which he had
laid out.

“Where old hunter go—why he leave little brave white man?”

“He has gone off on a hunt, and when he gets through, I suppose he will
return.”

Such a reply as this, it would seem, ought to have satisfied any
ordinary mortal, and it would have done so, but for the fact that the
red-skin was unquestionably upon the scent of something, and most
probably knew a great deal more than he pretended.

“What he look for—big bear or big Injin?”

“He is looking for Maquesa, the great Blackfoot chief,” replied Harry,
feeling there was no avoiding the issue; “he and I have been hunting for
him for weeks, but have not been able to see him. Old Ruff thought to
find him in his village, where he met him a long time ago, but the
village is gone, and he knows not where he is.”

“Why he look for big Injin chief?”

“Because he stole Little Rifle, and has run away with him,” answered
Harry, purposely using the masculine reference.

At this the Indian flared up, and replied in a quick, angry voice.

“You lie! Ruff steal pappoose from Maquesa—Maquesa take pappoose back
from him.”

That solved the question that had been puzzling Harry during the last
few minutes. He knew now that he was talking to Maquesa himself.

After following him for days and weeks in vain, and when about ready to
give up the search as hopeless, the chief had come forward from his
hiding-place and shown himself.

The lad still felt himself in a dangerously delicate position, and he
never longed so much for the presence of Old Ruff as he did now that he
had discovered the identity of his interlocutor.

What was the object of these three men coming from the gloom and
surrounding him in the manner that they had done? What did Maquesa mean
by questioning him so closely? And what was their purpose regarding the
boy whom they had so completely in their power?

These were the questions which the lad put to himself, and whose answers
caused him no little trouble and anxiety.

Maquesa, upon making the foregoing reply, gave some signal to the other
warriors, and all three seated themselves upon the ground, as if they
had concluded to spend the night with him. Without waiting for an
invitation, Harry followed suit, and he played the part of a host by
drawing the cooked meat from beneath the stone, where he had hid it from
prying animals, and offering it to his guests. But all declined
accepting it, and he placed it back again.

As the chief remained silent for some time, Harry concluded to put some
questions to him, on his own account, hoping to gain a little
information, but somewhat distrustful of the result.

“Old Ruff found Little Rifle asleep, and no one was near; he thought the
pappoose would die, and he brought it away to save its life.”

“Old Ruff tell big lie! Pappoose in lodge—Maquesa close by—he come back,
no find pappoose; get mad—burn down his lodge, and den go ’way. One,
two, t’ree, good many moons, and he neber see her—t’ink she dead; den he
hear Old Hunter hab Little Rifle—Maquesa t’ink _him_ de squaw pappoose,
and he come ober mountain arter her—she go ’way wid him—Old Hunter try
catch ’em, but he paddle too slow—can’t find Little Rifle—and _neber see
her again_!”

It would be impossible to describe the intensity of interest with which
Harry Northend listened to these broken utterances of the chief, and the
closing declaration that Little Rifle would never be seen again brought
him to his feet in the greatest excitement.

“Why do you say that Little Rifle will never be seen again? What have
you done with her? Is she dead? What has become of her?”

Maquesa and the other Indians looked quietly at the excited lad, as if
rather amused than otherwise at his flurry; but the chief showed no
disposition to be as explicit in his replies as Harry himself had been.
It was not until the question had been repeated that he answered:

“Little Rifle gone—Old Hunter and white pappoose neber see her ’gin!”

Had Harry Northend been certain that Maquesa had been the cause of the
girl’s death, he would have sprung upon him as the mottled bear sprung
upon the savage beast; but, by this time, he had managed to think a
little, and his own common sense taught him that it was extremely
improbable that the Blackfoot had done her any personal harm. Her
history, as revealed by the slip of paper, pointed to a different
conclusion altogether.

It was useless to attempt to question Maquesa, when he was not disposed
to reply; but Harry took a different course, in the hope of reaching the
truth in another way.

“Do you hunt for Big Hunter?”

The wily Blackfoot was fully authorized to grin, as he did, when he
said:

“When Maquesa look for Big Hunter, _Maquesa can find him_!”

Suddenly the boy recalled the mystery which had puzzled him so long, and
it seemed to him that the means of solving it might be now placed in his
hands.

“Can you tell me, Maquesa, why it was that Little Rifle left me, as she
did, and went away with you? You did not steal her, and why should she
go without awaking from her sleep and saying good-by to me?”

The chief was about to answer this query fully and explicitly (a
half-dozen words would have done it), when perverse fate interfered and
closed his mouth again, with the all-important words upon his very
tongue.




                              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.”




                             CHAPTER XIII.
                            COUNTERPLOTTING.


Harry Northend sat astounded and stupefied at the answer of Old Ruff,
and when he had partly regained his self-poise he repeated the words.

“Maquesa says he has not seen her for several days, and never expects to
see her again. Is that what the chief said?”

“Them’s almost his words ’zactly—leastways, that’s ’zactly what he
meant.”

“In the name of Heaven, what does he mean?”

“He says that he has met the father of Little Rifle—that he met him a
couple of weeks ago, and that it was on his account he came through the
mountains arter her. Her father waited somewhere for him—down toward the
Willamette, I b’l’eve, at one of the forts. Thar Maquesa met him, and
thar he turned over Little Rifle to him, and both have started for
Astoria, whar they’re going to take ship for San Francisco.”

Here was a revelation indeed, and for several minutes Harry sat with
open mouth, hardly able to realize all that had been said. Before he
could make any comment the trapper added, in a significant tone:

“That’s a big story to tell, and it may all be true, but somehow or
other I think old Maquesa was lying to me, and tryin’ to throw me off
the right track.”

“What is it you suspect, Uncle Ruff?”

“I don’t know as I kin tell ’zactly,” he answered, with a puzzled air as
he scratched his head, “but he let drop one or two things that made me
think he was very anxious to get you and me off to Astoria, where we’d
be out of his way.”

“You think, then, that that part of his story was a fabrication?”

“Yes; I don’t believe Little Rifle has started for Astoria; but thar’s
some truth, too, in what the varmint said.”

“And how much?”

“That’s hard to tell; but I s’pect he has met the father of Little
Rifle, or else, when he went away a good many years ago, the man
promised to come back ag’in, and the time being ’bout up, Maquesa has
started off to hunt up his little gal for him.”

“That does not seem probable to me,” said Harry, after a moment’s
thought. “No man would go away or remain away voluntarily for years,
knowing that his only daughter was among a tribe of barbarous savages.
No father could willingly leave a child to grow up among them, as your
theory would make Mr. Ravenna do.”

“I guess you’re right,” replied the trapper. “I didn’t think of all
that, but I kin see the reason in it now. It must be, then, that Maquesa
is waiting to see the father, and wishes to get us out the way until
arter he delivers her up.”

“That seems very likely,” said Harry; “there is reason and consistency
in all that.”

“Arter he turns the gal over to the father, then I s’pose he don’t care,
and we kin tramp and hunt all we’re a mind to.”

“Why does he wish us to go to Astoria?”

“Thar ar’ ships sailin’ from thar to Fr’isco. The smart dog thinks when
we git thar, that we’ll just hear of some vessel goin’ down the coast,
and will be sartin the father and gal have gone, and we’ll start arter
’em. That’ll put us out of the way for a couple of months, you see, and
that’ll give the old coon plenty time to get through with his part of
the business, and when we come back mad and tearing, what’ll he care?”

“You suspect, then, that Little Rifle is still in the hands of Maquesa?”

“That’s what I think. As long as he was on the go with her, he didn’t
mind how hard we follered arter, for he could dodge us all the time; but
now he’s settled down for a while, and it’ll take ’bout all his time to
watch the gal, without watchin’ us too.”

“And Little Rifle is probably at Maquesa’s village close at hand?”

“I shouldn’t wonder, and of course I’m going to find out afore I make a
fair start for Fr’isco. I ain’t quite ’nough fool to start off on such a
hunt without something more than the word of Maquesa.”

“But you know how cunning he is, Uncle Ruff; he will be on the watch for
us, and it will be hard for you to reconnoiter the village without his
discovering it; and that will show him that we don’t believe what he has
told us.”

“He’s beat me up to this time,” replied the trapper, with a grin, “but
if he beats me now, I’ll leave the woods and mountains, and open an
oyster saloon in Fr’isco. But come! do you see how high the sun is?
Let’s be off.”

Harry noticed that as they moved away the old man headed for the
Columbia river, which lay off to the south-west, and to reach which by
the present route, would carry them entirely out of the way of the
Indian village in which Maquesa ruled and reigned.

The trapper explained by saying that his intention was to “fool” the
chief into the belief that he had given his words full credence, and was
really on his way for the little trading-post at the head of the
Columbia.

“He’s very kind—oncommonly so,” he added; “he told me where I could find
one of his canoes, which he said was a mighty good thing to shoot the
Dalles with. We’ll take it, and p’r’aps use it for that.”

The river was still a goodly distance away, and it was a couple of hours
before they reached it; but, so explicit had been the instructions of
the Blackfoot, that scarcely fifteen minutes passed, after striking the
stream, before the boat was found, and the two entered, and headed
down-stream, Old Ruff paddling at a leisurely rate, like one who has a
week of labor ahead.

Not until they had rounded a large bend in the river, did he make any
reference to the Blackfoot who had sent them upon this errand. Then it
was to inquire:

“Didn’t notice nothin’ ’ticular when we shoved off, younker?”

Harry replied in the negative, wondering to what he referred.

“Maquesa and another varmint were on t’other side the river, watchin’. I
seen ’em, but they didn’t know it. You see, they wa’n’t sartin whar I
meant to go, and that’s what they war after.”

“Then you are certain they have been deceived as to what you mean to
do?”

“Ain’t sartin yet, and I don’t b’lieve he is. I’m paddlin’ mighty slow,
as you have obsarved, ’cause I’m expecting he’ll take another squint. Ef
he does, it will be from the top of that swell yender. He orter reached
it by this time, ’cause we haven’t traveled fast. Jes’ turn your glass
that way—as careless, like, you know, as you can—and see whether you can
catch sight of any top-knots.”

The boy did as requested, and after a few seconds’ careful survey, he
declared that he saw nothing suspicious. The swell alluded to was upon
the right bank of the river, rising to a hight of a dozen feet or so,
with no trees, but covered with long, luxuriant grass.

“Let me take it,” said Robsart to Harry, and turning it in the direction
indicated, he held it motionless for considerable time, leaving the
canoe to drift with the current.

“Don’t see nothin’ of him,” he said, still holding the instrument to his
eye; “guess he thinks thar ain’t no use of his going to Astoria— Skulp
me! ef I didn’t cotch a glimpse of his top-knot then. He’s a-layin’
flat, and raised his noddle jist high ’nough for me to see it through
the grass. Now its down ag’in.”

Several times this was repeated, until the trapper, convinced that he
was entirely alone, grew weary, and passing the telescope to his
companion, resumed the paddle.

The Columbia, at this part of its course, was quite broad and winding,
and by keeping close to the shore, Robsart managed his boat in such a
way that, while he appeared to be at work all the time, he was in
reality making little progress; for, as will be easily seen, every rod
thus passed over, very likely would have to be tramped back, not once
but twice again.

The experienced eye of the trapper was enabled to discover, almost to a
certainty, the points from which the Blackfoot chief would make his
observations, and after doubling another cape, he directed the glass to
the suspicious point.

But a careful survey, repeated many times, failed to reveal any thing at
all; and the conclusion was inevitable.

Maquesa had been satisfied in his own mind that his statements were
fully credited, and that the two were on their way to the mouth of the
Columbia. Consequently he had withdrawn from watching and following
them.

Another result from all this was the conviction that the chief had been
using deception, and that, in the words of Harry, they had not only
overtaken Little Rifle, but had passed beyond her, and to find her
again, they must turn about and retrace a goodly part of the distance.

Old Ruff Robsart, understanding the tricky nature of Maquesa as he did,
dared not take any thing for granted, and although almost positive that
he was no longer under surveillance, he kept up his semblance of
journeying westward until the sun went down, and darkness wrapped the
forest and stream in its sable mantle.

And then, as soon as assured that he was under the scrutiny of no
prowling red-skin, he shot the canoe under the bank and leaped out.

Every thing had been arranged beforehand, so that no time was now lost
in the exchange of words.

Harry was to remain where he was until his return, no matter if he was
absent a month. This was to be a journey entirely on foot, and the
trapper’s legs had enjoyed such a good rest that they felt capable of
almost any thing. A run of a dozen miles would be no more than enough to
give them a good stretching.

After springing ashore, he merely uttered a word of parting, and then
whisked away like a shadow, leaving Harry Northend alone.

The latter made up his mind for a good long period of waiting, so he ran
the canoe out a short distance into the stream, where he made the stern
fast to a long, outreaching limb, and then, wrapping himself up in his
blanket, went to sleep.

Nothing occurred to interrupt his sleep, and when he awoke, the stream
was sparkling in the sunshine, and the cool, fresh morning air was
crinkling the surface.

The next sensation of which he was aware was one of excessive hunger,
and unfastening the boat, he paddled ashore and sprung out to go on a
hunt after something.

Harry drew the canoe up the bank and entirely out of the water,
remembering the caution that the trapper always took at such a time, not
merely from any sudden rising of the current but to prevent its catching
the eye of any foes who might pass up or down stream.

This done to his own satisfaction, he threw his rifle upon his shoulder
and was just starting off upon his hunt, when the crackling of a branch
told him that some one was approaching!




                              CHAPTER XIV.
                           DOWN THE COLUMBIA.


The next moment the copse parted, and to the surprise and pleasure of
Harry Northend, not an Indian or wild animal, but old Robsart himself
appeared.

The lad was not expecting him before nightfall, but he had strong hopes
that when he did come he would bring Little Rifle with him; when he saw,
therefore, that he was entirely alone, the pleasure of meeting his old
friend again was mingled with a bitter disappointment.

But the trapper did not appear cast down or discouraged, although he,
too, was apparently disappointed in the result of his journey.

After grasping the hand of the lad, he said:

“What do you s’pose, younker? Arter all I’ve said, and arter all we’ve
seen, that Maquesa has been tellin’ me nothin’ but the truth itself.”

“Are you in earnest?” inquired Harry, with no little amazement.

“Never more in ’arnest in my life; I got a look into thar village, and
was mighty lucky in finding the lodge of Maquesa himself. Thar I
listened fur a half-hour, while he talked with his squaw, and what I
heard him say made me sartin that Little Rifle has joined her father,
and with a couple of Injins to guide ’em, they’re gone down the
Columbia, on thar way to Fr’isco. If we ever expect to overhaul ’em,
that’s just what we’ve got to do. The little gal is still ahead of us,
and we’re a good ways behind.”

“How much have they the start of us?” asked Harry.

“I dunno; but I think it can’t be fur from two days, and mebbe a good
deal more.”

“Do you think there is any probability of our overtaking them, before
they reach the mouth of the Columbia?”

“The chances are all ag’in’ it; ’cause it ain’t likely that them two
red-skins have slept much on thar way. You know the old man would be
purty sartin to give ’em good pay and hurry ’em up all he could. I
shouldn’t wonder if they’ve set him and Little Rifle already ashore, and
then our only chance is that the vessel they’re goin’ on don’t sail
afore we git thar.”

“Then let us be off at once.”

Both were so eager to get forward that they took no more time than was
absolutely necessary for taking their dinner. The day was clear and
pleasant, just cool enough to make the exercise of paddling exhilarating
to one of Old Ruff’s powerful, healthy frame.

He worked as untiringly as a steam engine, and aided by the swift
current of the Columbia they made good progress toward the ocean.

All the way along the river the trapper was on the look-out for the
returning canoe, in which Ravenna and Little Rifle had been taken to
Astoria. Having seen nothing of it thus far, he had strong hopes of
reaching the mouth of the Columbia so near behind it as to intercept
their friends before they started for San Francisco.

At the same time there was the possibility, if not the probability, that
the returning Blackfeet had either gone back overland or had avoided
them.

The most vivid reminder that they were out of the woods was the sudden
appearance of a sloop coming up-stream. It was under full sail, and at
first sight of it Harry started and exclaimed that they were now indeed
in a land of civilization.

The Columbia is ascended by large vessels to Fort Vancouver, about a
hundred miles from the mouth, while vessels of very light draught now
reach a point nearly double that distance.

A few miles further, and just as the day was drawing to a close, our
friends came in sight of a schooner anchored close to shore.

Robsart ran the little boat alongside, and finding several of the crew
aboard, made inquiries as to whether they had noticed a canoe going by
at any time during the past few days.

Upon hearing the question the sailors laughed, and declared that they
had seen fully a hundred during the week that they had been ascending
the river; and even when the trapper explained particularly the number
and general appearance of the occupants of the one he was seeking, the
seamen could give no satisfactory answer, and Old Ruff resumed his
journey, rather ill-naturedly remarking that it was no use of making
inquiries of men who knew nothing and never would know any thing.

They had come a long distance during the day and the trapper needed
rest. Accordingly the boat was run ashore, turned over on its face, and
they sought and procured lodgings in a little settlement that stood back
a short distance from the shore.

As may be believed, the sun was scarcely above the horizon when the
canoe was again speeding down the Columbia, which was rapidly expanding
in depth and width as they advanced.

They had now passed the last great bend in this majestic river, and had
almost a due westerly course before them until they should reach the
Pacific. Off to the north-east they could see the massive snow-covered
peak of St. Helen’s, as it towered aloft for fully thirteen thousand
feet. Shortly after they glided by the mouth of a considerable stream
that put in from the north.

Just as the twilight descended upon wood and stream the canoe reached
Astoria, and this portion of their journey was finished.




                              CHAPTER XV.
                             THE SEA TRAIL.


Although, as we have said, the day was drawing to a close when our
friends landed in Astoria, they lost no time in making search for Little
Rifle and her father, directing their steps, naturally enough, to the
old tavern which stands back some distance from the river.

“_Thar they ar’ now!_” suddenly exclaimed Old Robsart.

“Where? where?” asked Harry, starting and looking about in great
excitement.

“Thar! don’t you see ’em? I mean them two red-skins that fotched ’em
here! They’re Blackfeet, both of ’em; they’re the very varmints we’ve
been lookin’ fur.”

As he spoke he pointed out two Indians seated upon the ground, with a
bottle of whisky between them. Sure enough they were the very men that
had brought down Ravenna and his daughter from the Blackfoot village.
Having been well paid for their work they had purchased a few gaudy
ornaments at the fort, and were now fast drinking themselves dead drunk
upon the red-man’s great enemy, “fire-water.”

Indeed they were so far gone now, that there was very little to be got
out of them, and Old Ruff would have succeeded no better than he did
with the sailors up the river, had he not snatched their whisky-bottle
away from them, and sworn that they should not have it again, until they
answered him every question.

After a half-hour’s hard work, he learned that they had reached Astoria
on the preceding day with their charge, that they had seen them sail
away in a “much big canoe” toward the great lake, as they supposed, on a
trip to some happy hunting-ground.

At the tavern or inn, more definite information was gained. They learned
that Mr. Ravenna had arrived there in a ship from San Francisco, several
weeks before, and remaining only a day, had hired a couple of hunters to
take him up the river to meet some Indian chief. On the preceding day he
had returned, in a canoe under the charge of the two Blackfeet, and
having with him, what seemed a boy, attired in Indian dress. He was very
quiet, had scarcely anything to say, and very little was seen of him.

They had taken passage on this same morning for San Francisco, in the
same vessel that had brought the father there, and by this time were
fairly out to sea, on their way thither.

This was to the point, as were the query and answer as to when another
boat left the port for the same destination. The captain of the schooner
Albatross was sitting in the bar-room at the time, and replied that he
should weigh anchor at sunrise on the morrow, when the tide would be in
and the bar could be passed without trouble.

Could he take a couple of passengers who would pay him well for the
accommodation?

Certainly; any thing in the way of business, and to please the
gentlemen.

But just here, the trapper called Harry aside and conveyed the
unexpected startling information that he had decided to go no further.

“What’s the use?” he said, by way of explanation. “I can’t be of no
further help to you; all you’ve got to do, is to go on board the
Albatross, and squat down and wait till she lands you in Fr’isco. When
you git there you kin hunt out the little gal as well without as you kin
with me. I must look after them furs and peltries of mine, and when I go
back I’ll stop at Fort Abercombie, and tell your old man that you’re all
right, and you know that’ll be a great satisfaction to him. You’re on
the right track now, and thar ain’t no Blackfeet in the way to make any
bother. You’ve got plain sailin’, and like ’nough you’ll git into
Fr’isco as soon as the other boat does. Leastways you’ll have no trouble
to find the little critter, and when you do, give her my love, and tell
her I’ll be down that way purty soon, to see her, or I’ll foller her
wherever she goes. Don’t you see, younker, that that’s the true plan and
the best one?”

Harry could not help seeing the force of what the trapper said, and he
admitted it; but as he had not the least thought of such a proceeding
upon his part, it required some time for him to feel perfectly resigned
to it.

The agreement was made that Old Ruff should remain over night with Harry
at the inn and then start on his return to the beaver runs beyond the
Cascade Range, while he should move down the coast toward San Francisco.

And with this understanding the parties retired at a late hour.

The arrangement was carried out almost to the letter, as the trapper
left the inn at an early hour, bidding Harry an affectionate farewell,
with the confident hope that they would soon meet again.

It was nearly noon when the Albatross crossed the bar at the mouth of
the river, ten miles further down, and placed herself fairly on the
Pacific ocean.

As soon as the sloop was fairly out to sea, and sailing northward, Harry
gave himself up to the enjoyment of the scene. Walking to the prow, he
took a station where he was not likely to be in the way and feasted upon
the view, which was a novel and deeply interesting one to him.




                              CHAPTER XVI.
                      THE WIND THAT BLEW NO GOOD.


When Harry Northend finally aroused himself from the fanciful dreams
into which he had fallen, the sun had gone down, and it was already
growing dark. He noticed that the sea was heavier than usual, and the
ship tossed and pitched in a way that was any thing but pleasant to a
landsman.

He had a dread of being sea-sick, but it may be that there was something
in the rough out-door life that he had been leading during the past few
months that acted as a preventive; for now, when the real test had come,
in the tossing and heaving of the sea, he was not sensible of the
slightest disturbance, and, as he descended into the cabin to take his
supper with the captain, that functionary took occasion to congratulate
him upon his good fortune.

“Perhaps I may get sick yet,” timidly returned the boy, “as we are only
fairly started on our trip, I suppose.”

“Perhaps you will,” was the hearty reply of the captain, as he helped
himself to a huge slice of fried pork, “though a chap, if he is going to
have it, is pretty sure to show signs of it by this time. However, we
are going to have rough weather before we get through.”

Harry looked up at the bronzed and bearded face with some apprehension.

“Do you mean that a storm is brewing?”

“Exactly; I can always feel it in that larboard leg of mine—a touch of
the rheumatics, you know—a reg’lar barometer—sure to tell me when
trouble is coming.”

“What sort of a coast have we here?” asked the boy.

“It is one of the infernalest coasts in the whole creation,” was the
reply of Captain Cole. “I was wrecked on it twice, and the last time I
came up, only missed it by a hair’s breadth.”

Harry could not but feel alarmed at the words of the captain; but beyond
his own personal fear, was anxiety about Little Rifle, who, he knew, was
at no great distance ahead, and whose vessel would be caught in the same
tempest, if it should come, and would, in all human probability, share
the same fate.

“Do you know what boat Mr. Ravenna and his daughter sailed upon?” he
asked of the officer.

“Certainly,” was the prompt answer. “It was the North Star, a schooner
belonging to the Smith Brothers, of Fr’isco, engaged in the same trade
with us.”

“Is she a stanch vessel, able to weather such a storm as seems to be
coming?”

“She is one of the rottenest, good-for-nothingest old hulks in the
trade. It’s a wonder to me that she hasn’t gone to the bottom before,
for she ain’t any better than an old tub.”

This was very dispiriting tidings, to say the least, and Harry began to
believe that instead of being through with the difficulties and dangers,
the greatest still remained before them.

As if to emphasize the words of the captain, the whistling of the wind
through the cordage at this moment rose so high and shrill, that they
distinctly heard it in the cabin, although the door was closed. At the
same time the vessel made a deep plunge into the sea.

Captain Cole shook his head in a knowing way.

“Oh, I tell you it’s coming, sure; you can make up your mind to that. I
tell you that a _howler_ is coming up!”

The captain arose and went on deck, and Harry followed him, that he
might see for himself the prospect before them.

The change that he encountered was enough to make the strongest man,
unaccustomed to the sea, draw back in terror.

It was of pitchy darkness, and the gale, as it whistled through the
rigging, rose and swelled like the shrieking of spirits in the air, as
they floated high above the mast, or glided over the deck; the wind that
blew against his cheeks brought with it the brine of the ocean, and he
instinctively clapped his hand upon his head to prevent his hat being
carried away.

The sloop was pitching and tossing quite heavily, but still she held her
own. All sail was crowded on, and she seemed to be under capital
control, if it would only last.

The captain speedily vanished in the gloom, as he went to take his place
at the helm, and relieve the mate, who had been stationed there during
his absence.

When Harry found himself out of the cabin and upon the deck, he
staggered to the gunwale, where he caught hold with both hands and held
on, while he listened and looked, and endeavored to gain a fair view of
the situation.

“There is a strong gale of wind,” he thought, as the spray went dashing
over his head; “but I can not see why there should be any great danger.
She has not taken in any sail yet, and so long as the wind keeps as it
is, it will only hurry us on our way.”

Looking aloft, not a star was to be seen. The sky seemed to be wrapped
in the densest, blackest gloom.

Looking off to the southward, Harry fancied, once or twice, that he
detected a bright point of light appear through the night.

Only for an instant was it visible, when it vanished again, and he
supposed it was produced by the phosphorescence of the sea, until he
happened to be gazing directly toward the point where it appeared, when
it struck him that its appearance was different from that. It was more
like the glimmering of a star, that is shut out at intervals by some
dark body coming between it and the observer, to reäppear again in a few
moments.

While Harry was puzzling his brains over the singular appearance of this
light, somebody slapped him upon the shoulder, causing him to turn with
a suddenness that almost threw him off his feet.

In the murky gloom, he was barely able to make out a human figure, which
he suspected was that of the captain.

“Come, my boy, you had better go below!” he called out, in a cheery
voice.

“Can you tell me what that light means?” Harry inquired.

“Where? I don’t see any,” replied the officer, halting by his side.

“It is gone now—there it is again. Look! it seems like a star!”

“Oh, that! Why that’s the binnacle light of another boat.”

“Do you know what one it is?” asked the lad, with a vague but terrible
misgiving freezing his heart.

“Hardly enough light to read her name; wait until morning, and I’ll tell
you what she is, and where she hails from.”

Harry was about to ask more, but the captain moved away in the darkness,
leaving him alone.

He remained on deck, watching the fitful twinkling of the point of
light, as it rose to view on the crest of a wave, and then dipped out of
sight again, and speculating as to what the night and following day
would bring forth.

But, as the night advanced, he thought there was very little if any
increase in the fury of the gale, and he descended into the cabin, where
Captain Cole had placed a hammock at his disposal.

Here he committed his soul in fervent prayer to God, and then lay down
without removing any of his garments; for he had no expectation of
sleep, and had little hope that he would be permitted to remain
undisturbed until the rising of the morrow’s sun.




                             CHAPTER XVII.
                           WHAT OF THE NIGHT?


Harry Northend had been through many perils and trying scenes in the
wilderness of the North-west; but just now he felt more wretched from
physical fear than ever before.

It was useless for him to lie upon his hammock, and he only did so
because he had nothing else to do. Finally he leaped down upon the
floor, and taking a seat upon the bench, concluded to sit out the night.

The lantern swinging from the roof threw a dim, yellow glare through the
cabin, and, as he mechanically looked up, he saw a half-dozen
life-preservers dangling beside it. They were made of cork, and were the
same as he had often seen upon the Mississippi steamers.

Unfastening one of the useful articles, he carefully fastened it beneath
his shoulders, and then resuming his seat, waited as the terrible
moments dragged slowly by.

Harry was sitting with bowed head, his thoughts upon his mother and
home, when he was again brought to his feet by another outburst. This
time it was the heavy boom of thunder, that appeared to burst overhead,
scarcely higher than the masts, and which made the sloop tremble as if
struck by a mountainous surge.

This was the first time since starting that he had heard the noise of
thunder, and somehow or other, whether with or without reason, we can
not say, he had mainly founded his hope upon that fact, persuading
himself that so long as that was absent, there was good reason for
believing the vessel would safely ride out the gale.

The boat was still shivering beneath the shock, when there came another
rattling, reverberating peal, ten times louder than before, and that
paralyzed Harry for the moment with terror.

“The vessel has been struck!” he gasped, as soon as he recovered his
self-possession, and then staggering to the door, he drew it open, and
looked out, expecting to see the boat hissing in flames.

But no; it was still unharmed; but the dense blackness was cut in a
hundred places by the zigzag lightning, that was flaming from every
portion of the heavens, and seemed to be playing about the vessel
preparatory to splitting it into a thousand fragments.

Harry partially ascended from the cabin, and then paused transfixed by
the terrible scene. It was now raining, the drops of water being carried
along almost horizontally by the hurricane, and striking his face like
particles of sand. By the intense brightness of the lightning, he could
catch sight of the towering billows that rushed tumultuously toward the
doomed vessel, each one, as if it were about to overwhelm it, their tops
white with foam, while their concave walls appeared, as momentarily
seen, as if they were of ink.

The wind shrieked and moaned through the cordage, and the captain’s
orders, as he shouted them through his speaking-trumpet, sounded as if
they came from some point miles away. By the same vivid flashes, he
caught sight of him and the seamen, standing like statues, cool,
self-possessed, and ready for whatever the elements should bring them.

Harry was recalled to a more vivid sense of his perilous position by a
tremendous surge, which striking the side of the vessel with all its
force, instead of dashing itself into spray and mist, broke so as to
send an immense volume bodily across the decks, precipitating itself
against him with such violence that he was thrown senseless to the floor
of the cabin.

He had an indistinct recollection of hearing the door slammed to at the
same instant, and concluded, when he recovered his senses, that it had
been done by one of the seamen, as a reminder for him to keep it closed,
so as to prevent the water from entering, the hatches having long since
been fastened down.

The lad did not remain unconscious for any length of time. The sense of
impending danger was too vivid and intense, and the shuddering and
tossing of the vessel too constant for him to continue insensible to it.
Recovering his feet he again sat down, holding on tightly to prevent
himself being tossed upon his head.

And sitting there he could hear the mighty waves sweep over the deck
with a fierce impetuosity that it seemed must rend the vessel asunder.

“How much longer, oh heaven! can this tortured vessel stand this?” he
exclaimed, more than once, as it labored up from the trough of the sea.




                             CHAPTER XVIII.
                          WAITING FOR THE END.


The terrible night wore slowly away. If the sloop Albatross was
unseaworthy she still struggled manfully and bravely with the furious
tempest. It seemed at times as if human ingenuity could not put timbers
together strong enough to withstand the avalanche-like pounding of the
mountain surges; but still she labored on, panting and plunging through
the waves that broke and swept her decks from end to end.

It was near daylight, and Harry was sitting in the manner mentioned,
when he observed that the floor of the cabin was covered with water. Of
course a considerable quantity had been dashed in with him at the time
he was struck by the wave and precipitated to the bottom, but it
appeared that this quantity was increasing.

The constant pitching and tossing made it impossible for him to measure
the hight by any mark upon the side of the cabin, but a few minutes’
careful survey convinced him that he was not mistaken.

Just then the dull thumping of one of the pumps reached his ears, and he
understood that the vessel was leaking.

His little knowledge of a vessel had led him to suppose that in case
they sprung a leak the last place into which the water made its way was
the cabin; but he could well understand how in such a gale as this such
furious wrenching must open the seams in a score of places.

“She is leaking—that’s certain!” he exclaimed, as the sousing and
dashing of the water made his position anything but a pleasant one. “I
believe it will gain upon them too, if the storm continues much longer,
so that the hold will fill with water.”

Scarcely any change was to be noticed in the thunder-claps, which
continually sounded in the ear with a stunning uproar to which Harry was
in a certain respect indifferent. It was not the lightning which he
feared, but the sea, the tempest; it was the shivering ship, the
crashing billows, whose frightful perils he could not drive from his
mind if he desired, which at any moment might consign him to the
merciless ocean.

Finally he concluded to make the attempt to reach the deck again, for he
was convinced from the way that the boat was laboring, and the
increasing water in the cabin, that she was sinking, and he judged that
Captain Cole was too much occupied to leave his post, and perhaps when
the critical moment came would forget him altogether and leave him to
his fate.

At the very moment he placed his hand upon the door it was shoved
violently inward, and the stentorian voice of Captain Cole shouted:

“Come, my boy, time’s up; are you ready to go to Davy Jones’ locker?”

A frightful scene met his gaze as he came upon deck. The night was
passed, but the morning that had succeeded was scarcely less terrible.

The wind, which had been blowing a hurricane, had abated somewhat, but a
rain, mixed with snow, swept horizontally through the air, with a
cutting chilliness; the billows came sweeping tumultuously forward, so
close after each other that they looked like the snowy ridges of
countless mountains; the hold of the vessel was half full of water, and
she plunged and struggled like some dying monster.

No sunlight lit up the dreadful scene, but a gray, horrid mist shut out
all sight for a distance of a hundred yards; the seamen seeing that all
further effort was useless had lashed themselves to the rigging, but the
stern Captain Cole disdained all such assistance, and managed by
herculean strength and skill to keep himself from being washed overboard
by the waves that broke ceaselessly over the deck.

Harry saw it was sure death to venture away, and he crouched down by the
cabin, so as to permit it partly to shield him from the fearful
avalanches of water.

The minutes seemed of eternal length, but he had been here only a few
seconds when he became aware of a dull, booming roar that rose above the
tumult of the tempest. The captain, maintaining a position near him,
seemed to divine his thoughts, and stooping down so as to bring his
mouth close to his ear, shouted:

“It is the breakers you hear! We shall strike in a few minutes! Hang on
till the hulk goes to pieces, and then do what you can to reach shore.
Can you swim?” he asked, noticing the life-preserver.

Harry nodded, for it was useless for him to attempt to speak in this
pandemonium of sound.

“Can’t help each other,” shouted back the strong-lunged Captain Cole;
“if I can, I’ll do all that’s possible for you.”

The Albatross was drifting rapidly toward shore, for at this moment the
bold, rocky headland of the California coast loomed up to view, with the
churning breakers at their base, curling and foaming in their restless
fury.

The rocks looked black, dripping and unutterably cheerless in the misty
morning; but the yearning eyes that peered through the fog could see
also the sand of the beach at their feet, showing standing-room for any
who might be fortunate enough to be cast thither.

But, behold! As Harry looked he saw the dark hull of another vessel
pounding against the shore. It had struck some time before, and while
the bow remained immovably fixed, the stern was rearing and plunging in
a way which showed that it must speedily go to pieces. Not even an
iron-clad could withstand such blows as it was receiving each moment.

Harry Northend forgot his own peril in his interest in the scene. He
could discern several figures clinging to the bow, and one of them as
dimly revealed through the blinding mist and sleet, he was sure was
Little Rifle, while the tall, dark form near her must be that of her
father.

“It’s the North Star!” screeched Captain Cole, who well understood the
anxiety of the lad; “we’re going to strike pretty near her. Hello!”

This exclamation was caused by a sudden thumping jar, followed by
another plunge and then a fearful shock, that threw the captain forward
upon his face, causing him to roll heavily against the gunwale, which he
clutched, barely in time to save himself from going overboard.

Every blow of the waves only drove the prow the more firmly into the
sand, while the stern, still in deep water, worked heavily around, until
that, too, remained fast, and the Albatross thus lay broadside on,
exposed to the full fury of the tempest; but a moment later, from some
unexplained cause, the bow was lifted, and by a strange action of the
waves, swung around, so that it pointed directly out to sea, and the
rudder was the part nearest shore.

This rendered the stern the safest part, especially as the bow began
working down in the sand, and it became necessary for Harry to shift his
position. The seamen, by ascending some distance up the rigging and
lashing themselves fast, had placed themselves above the reach of the
waves, and Captain Cole, feeling that nothing else remained, prepared to
do the same with Harry.

Watching his chance, he dashed forward, and catching the hand of the
boy, had him at the foot of the ladder in a twinkling. Here another
surge caught them, and but for the help of the officer, the boy would
have been shot out on the crest of one of the billows, like an
egg-shell.

But he knew what was required of him, and he went up the ladder as
nimbly as a monkey, the captain at his heels, neither pausing until they
reached a safe point, where they could maintain themselves with
comparatively little difficulty for some time.

The trouble was, that if compelled to remain here very long, the driving
sleet would so benumb their limbs that they would become unable to
maintain their hold. The seamen, although strong and rugged men, had
been on deck for twelve hours, and needed to be lashed to make sure of
their footing.

But every probability was that not a soul would be left on board at the
end of an hour, and this precaution was unnecessary in the case of the
two who had last ascended.

It was not until Harry had been perched here for several minutes that he
was able to take a survey of his surroundings.

As the chief officer had predicted, they had struck the beach very near
the other vessel—less than a hundred feet separated them—and, as the lad
looked off in that direction, he saw among the three figures clustered
at the bow that of Little Rifle.

Most of the crew of the North Star had also lashed themselves to the
rigging, but the bow being much more sheltered than was that of the
Albatross, the three persons mentioned were enabled to maintain
themselves with little exertion.

The tall dark figure, which Harry supposed to be the father, had placed
himself in such a position as to shut off most of the fury of the
tempest from his loved daughter.

And Little Rifle, holding on like a heroine, as she was, looked off in
the rigging of the other ship, and saw Harry Northend, who was also
gazing toward her.

“Does she recognize me?” was the thought in the mind of the lad, as he
gazed wistfully at her.

His heart warmed with delight, even at this awful time, when the next
moment he saw her raise her hand and wave it toward him. Regardless of
his own danger, he returned the salutation, and shouted back, but the
sound scarcely reached the ears of the captain, directly below him.

In that moment what must have been the thoughts of Little Rifle?

She could but have known what the presence of Harry Northend meant at
this time. That one glance must have told the story of his patient,
loving following of her through forest and mountain, and over river and
sea, until finally they were brought face to face again in the midst of
the tempestuous fury of the Pacific.

“Ah! what would I not give for the privilege of exchanging one single
word with her?” thought Harry, as he remained gazing steadfastly across
the short but impassable chasm. “I wonder which of us will have to go
first?”

Soon shall the question be answered.




                              CHAPTER XIX.
                           THE LEAP FOR LIFE.


All this time the eye of Captain Cole was scanning the coast before
them, and he was coolly weighing the chances it offered for an escape
for him and his companions.

He noticed that the high, precipitous bluffs, as we have already
mentioned, directly opposite them, sat back some distance from the
shore. Were it otherwise, not the slightest hope would remain for the
most daring swimmer that ever cleft the wave.

Not a living soul was to be seen upon these bluffs. He knew that further
inland were marauding Indians, who, if they knew of the booty that was
thus offered, would swarm along the shore in myriads, eager and
impatient for the sea to cast the prey into their hands.

If they should appear, one would have little to choose between going
down in the sea at rest, or in being washed ashore in the full
possession of life and strength.

Harry had withdrawn his attention for the moment from the other vessel,
when he felt the captain touch his leg, and, as he looked down at him to
see what it meant, he pointed to the wreck.

One glance showed that it was breaking up. Large fragments could be seen
tossed aloft by the waves, and to several of them, men were clinging.

Only two remained upon the prow and they were Little Rifle and her
father. The other had also plunged into the boiling sea, in his
desperate struggle for life.

“Why do they wait?” was the question that came involuntarily to the lips
of the terrified lad; “they may as well take the leap first as last.”

He had considerable hope of their escaping. He knew that Little Rifle
was a perfect swimmer, and he had heard old Ruff Robsart tell of some of
her wonderful exploits in water. It was to be supposed, of course, that
her father was also an expert.

Instead of watching those upon the wreck, Captain Cole was carefully
observing those who were in the water; for the probability was that
whatever fate befell them would befall those who came after. If they
escaped, so might he; if they failed, the probabilities were that he
would.

He saw them carried swiftly southward, all passing close to his own
boat, and one poor fellow was swept under the bow, bruised and drowned;
but the three others, clinging to the fragments cleared the second
wreck, and by a curious action of the eddying current, were whirled in
so close to shore, that by tremendous and powerful swimming all three
reached land and were seen to wade up the beach, dripping with brine,
and scarcely able to stand.

This was encouraging, for the captain would not acknowledge that his
superior in swimming had yet been born. It was characteristic of the
man, that disclaiming all assistance in the shape of life-preservers or
pieces of the wreck, he should fling himself boldly into the ocean and
begin the struggle single-handed.

The eyes of Harry Northend were naturally fixed upon him, and he watched
his movements with an intensity of interest that can scarcely be
imagined. He observed that as he drifted southward, he aimed directly
for the shore, swimming with a steady and powerful stroke. He made no
attempt to prevent the foam of the breakers from going over his head;
for the simple reason that he knew no mortal man can support himself in
spray and foam. All that he can do, is to hold his breath, and wait for
a chance to get another mouthful of air.

This the sailor did, surely and steadily approaching the shore, until as
tossed high upon the crest of a mighty wave, he made land, and clinging
to the sand, scrambled up out of the baffled waves.

Harry’s eyes were upon the brave captain, and his heart gave a throb of
pleasure as he saw that one at least had escaped, when something dark
caught his eye in the water, and he saw that Little Rifle was in the
water, clinging to a fragment of the wreck, and using might and main to
reach the shore.

One glance at where the other wreck had been, showed that it was gone.
The sea was sweeping over the spot, and the only part that remained
visible was that to which the two were holding fast, and this was
spinning resistlessly in the current.

Harry would have saluted them by way of encouragement, as they passed,
but they were too much engaged with their own work to glance right or
left.

The lad wondered why it was that Little Rifle persisted in clinging to
the plank, when her ability in swimming would enable her to make much
better progress toward the shore; but, as he watched the movements of
the two, he rightly suspected that she did this to assist her father,
who was not her equal in swimming, and who was afraid to trust himself
alone in the waves.

The progress upon a raft is necessarily much slower than that of simply
relying upon one’s muscular power and skill in the water; and so, with a
terrible misgiving, he saw the two sweep on down the coast, without, so
far as he was able to judge, coming any nearer.

It was plain that the exertions of the noble-hearted girl were intended
mainly to benefit her parent. If she should fling herself loose from the
float, and strike out for the shore, she could reach it as certainly as
did Captain Cole, and the seamen of her own vessel.

As if to convince her of the truth of this, the sailors who had been
lashed in the rigging of the Albatross, were now struggling in the water
and steadily making their way to shore.

But certain death itself would not have dissuaded her from the attempt.
With all her bravery and remarkable skill, she worked the craft toward
the land, determined that if saved or lost, it should be in the company
of her parent.

Harry felt that the time had come for him to make the “leap for life”;
for he was the only one left, and the wreck itself gave signs of
breaking up; but before doing so, he was anxious to see what became of
Little Rifle; for if she escaped, he would be nerved to make greater
exertions for his own safety.

Harry took a look at the father and daughter, but it was not a very
satisfactory one, and convinced that it would not do for him to remain
longer, he came carefully down the ladder, so as to leap into the sea in
such a way as to run no danger of being swept under or against the hull.

He was nearly to the bottom, when there was a fearful swaying, and he
saw that the wreck was turning upon its side.

Not a moment was to be lost, and with a prayer upon his lip, he leaped
as far out in the boiling waves as was possible, and like Captain Cole,
struck straight for shore, with all the strength at his command,
dreading each moment to receive a crushing blow from the mast or one of
the spars.

He escaped this, but he found it almost impossible to prevent himself
from strangling, as he seemed to be under water nearly all the time.

But he struggled bravely as long as power remained. He could see the
black rocks gleaming wet and cheerless near him; dim figures of men upon
the beach—something like a shout—then all was blackness of darkness—and
he knew nothing.

Was this death?




                              CHAPTER XX.
                              CONCLUSION.


As Harry Northend found himself battling with the billows, he struggled
manfully and heroically; for like every young, hopeful boy, he had
everything to live for. His life preserver kept him from sinking, but it
could not prevent the crests from curling over his head, and in this
way, when he was comparatively a short distance from shore, he became
bewildered, confused and strangled, and lost consciousness at the moment
when only a few sturdy strokes were needed to carry him safely to land.

But here were a number who were watching his movements ready to give
what assistance they could, the moment they could gain the opportunity
to do so.

Little Rifle and her father succeeded in reaching land, without
difficulty, and she was little exhausted. The moment she felt the solid
land beneath her, she turned about to see what had become of her friend
Harry Northend. For one moment, she thought he was gone, but the next
instant he rose to view on the crest of a wave, and she saw that he was
struggling for life.

As he was drifting down the coast, the eight or ten persons on the beach
hurried down, so as to keep opposite, and to be ready to lend a hand the
moment it could be done.

“Oh, if we had a rope!” exclaimed Little Rifle, as she saw how vainly
her lover was struggling, “we might save him.”

“But we hain’t got a rope,” growled Captain Cole, “so what’s the use?
But we can form a line ourselves, and maybe get out to him.”

This was no sooner mentioned than it was done, all taking hold of hands,
and while those composing one end of the line stood on the shore, the
others waded out as far as was prudent, the whole line running backward
when it was deemed prudent, or those furthest out to sea did their best
to “ride” the billows, as they came rolling in.

Captain Cole intended to take the outer end or post of danger himself,
but seeing the anxiety of Little Rifle, and noticing her excellence as a
swimmer, he permitted her to go out, while he griped her small hand in
his horny palm, with a power that would have pulled the arm from the
socket before it would have permitted it to be withdrawn from his grasp.

It was well that the captain retained his hold upon the hand or wrist of
Little Rifle; for her anxiety to get out to the assistance of the
despairing Harry Northend was so great, that she would have plunged
directly among the waves, careless of her own fate, in her desire to
save him.

But the sailor would not permit any such vicarious sacrifice as that,
struggle as much as she might. Three separate times Little Rifle
attempted to catch the coat of the boy, as he went up the billow; but he
was too weak to help himself, and she just missed him each time.

Again a giant wave carried him aloft, and, as Captain Cole gave her more
room, she threw herself into it also, with the resolve to secure him
this time, no matter at what cost.

A desperate clutch, as far out as the iron grip of the sailor would
permit, and her hand grasped the sleeve of the boy. She had caught him
at last.

The captain saw it, and giving the signal, the rest of the line ran up
the beach, the half-dozen who were furthest out, tumbling pell mell over
each other, as the wave broke and carried them up the sand.

As soon as she felt that they were safe against being carried back by
the undertow, Little Rifle knelt over the form of Harry, and raising his
head upon her knee, looked longingly down on his face to see whether
life had departed or not. It was hard for her to tell, but while gazing,
the bluff Captain Cole stooped over her shoulder and put his hand upon
his forehead and then upon his chest.

“Oh! he’s all right,” he said; “considerably bruised and half-choked,
but don’t you see he’s breathing?”

“You think, then, he will not die?” she said, just raising her voice
loud enough to be heard in the tumult.

“He’s worth ten thousand dead boys; he’ll come around all right in a few
minutes; but we must get up a fire some way or other or we shall all
perish. Dobbins must have got a crack on his head, some way or other,
for he’s dead as a door-nail. Well, you watch him while I see what can
be done about starting a fire.”

By dint of great effort, sufficient fuel was gathered, and a strong fire
was kindled, around which the miserable shipwrecked sufferers gathered,
and managed to keep themselves from perishing.

No Indians were to be seen, and, as the high cliffs shut out the view
inland, they had strong hopes of escaping this danger.

It was found that two of the seamen had suffered such injuries, that, in
spite of all that could be done, they succumbed and died. Wet, cold and
hungry, the others could not have been much more miserable than they
already were.

The storm rapidly abated, the sun coming out toward noon, and, as they
caught sight of a sail in the distance, every thing was done to attract
their notice. Captain Cole and a couple of his sailors ascended the
cliffs and displayed signals of distress.

Fortunately these attempts succeeded, and about the middle of the
afternoon, the ship came in as close to shore as was prudent, and a boat
was sent in to bring the shipwrecked crew and passengers off.

The sea was still running very high, but by good seamanship, the task
was accomplished without any mishap. The two dead bodies were also
brought off, and given a burial from the ship.

                             * * * * * * *

On the clear, starry night that succeeded the tempestuous one, Harry
Northend and Hagar Ravenna, better known as Little Rifle, sat by
themselves, conversing over the past and speculating as to the future.

Her hand was imprisoned in his, and she no longer attempted to conceal
the love that warmed her heart.

They first conversed of the past, and she made her story full and
complete.

On that night when the two encamped in the Oregon wilderness, she had
not the remotest intention of leaving him in the manner that she did.

But while he slept, the revelation that had been made to her during the
preceding few hours drove all slumber from her eyelids. It so wrought
upon her finally that she was obliged to rise to her feet, and pace back
and forth in the gloom, as a man will do when crushed by some
overwhelming calamity.

And then, fearful of awakening him, she wandered away in the gloom,
expecting to return when she was able to master her emotions.

She wept and cried, and was almost beside herself, until she flung
herself upon the ground, and prayed God to prevent her reason deserting
her.

While lying thus in the gloom of the forest, she felt the distinct shock
of an earthquake, and springing to her feet, was sensible of the ground
swaying beneath. This new terror caused her to fall senseless to the
ground.

When she regained her consciousness she was in a canoe, speeding swiftly
down-stream, and in the dim light of the early dawn, she recognized the
chief Maquesa, who, in answer to her questions, told her that he was
taking her to her father.

All that he said corresponded with what she had learned the previous
day, and sad as she felt at the manner that she had left her dear
friend, she could not refuse to go with him.

She gave the particulars of their journey through the woods and
mountains, saying that never until she caught sight of Harry upon the
wrecked Albatross did she know of a certainty that he was pursuing her.

It was plain now that when Robsart referred to the manner of her
departure, he was convinced that she had temporarily lost her reason—but
he forbore saying so, through fear of needlessly distressing her.

The meeting between father and daughter was singular and pathetic, and
it was a sad, strange story that he told.

Jared Ravenna was one of the early pioneers of California, and in the
year 1846 visited Astoria, where he met Maquesa, the Blackfoot chief,
one day while hunting. A curious concurrence of circumstances caused a
strong friendship to spring up between the two. He roamed the woods for
weeks and months with him, and might have remained for years; but the
discovery of gold in California, caused him, with hundreds of others, to
hurry thither.

Good fortune attended him in the mines, and leaving there he went east,
married the love of his youth, and returned again to California; but the
rugged life he was compelled to lead was too much for his wife, who died
at the birth of Hagar.

California at that time was infested with the scum of the earth, and not
knowing what to do with the infant, he thought of his old friend
Maquesa, and sailing to Astoria, placed her in charge of the chief, who
agreed to give her the best care until she should reach a suitable age
to be taken on the long journey eastward, to receive proper attention
and education.

A whim led the father to purchase the little rifle of a miner, and to
leave that with her, to provide against a contingency which he hoped
would never occur.

It was the intention of Mr. Ravenna to return and claim his child at the
end of two years, he agreeing to pay the chief a handsome sum for the
care she was to receive in the interval at the hands of his squaw,
himself and people.

Only moderate fortune attending Mr. Ravenna’s second venture in the
mines, he entered into a speculation somewhat of a different and
somewhat of the same character. Receiving what they deemed reliable
information of the existence of gold on an almost unknown portion of the
African coast, a party was formed to go thither.

When near their destination their vessel was wrecked, and those of their
company who were not lost fell into the hands of the savages. A half
dozen were kept in confinement for nearly ten years, when three of them
succeeded one dark night in swimming off to a slaver, and by a
roundabout and wearisome route the despairing father at last found his
way back to California, where to his amazement he discovered himself
wealthy from the appreciation of a large quantity of land to which he
possessed a clear title.

But he cared nothing for this. His child was his whole thought, and
without an hour’s unnecessary delay he reached Astoria, where he found
not a soul recognized him, so great had been the personal change in his
appearance during his long years of absence.

With the assistance of a couple of Indians he had little difficulty in
reaching Maquesa, who had long since given him up as dead. The chief
undoubtedly suspected the identity of Little Rifle, but cared not to
interfere between her and Old Ruff Robsart, so long as he believed her
parent would not return to claim her.

So much of the Past.

And now of the Present.

Mr. Ravenna was devotedly attached to his child, who was rapidly
learning to return his love. During his absence San Francisco had become
a great and growing city, and he proposed to settle down there and
devote himself to the education and welfare of his daughter. He received
Harry as his own child, and made him promise to make his home with him
until his own father should come to claim him.

And the future, who should penetrate that?

A couple of months later Mr. Northend appeared in San Francisco, in
company with Old Ruff Robsart, who was almost as wild with delight to
meet his own Little Rifle again as she was to see him. He already noted
a rapid improvement in her manner and appearance, and he was sure she
was going to make the handsomest woman that ever lived. He said, in
course of their many conversations, that one reason he returned to the
wilds of Oregon was to visit the cavern, in which it will be remembered
Harry and Little Rifle had become lost, after the former had gone over
the falls. He expected to find gold there, and so he did, but in too
insignificant quantities to compensate him, and so he left in disgust.

                             * * * * * * *

Five years later, the prosperous merchant, Harry Northend, received his
Bride of the Wilderness, as he still fondly termed her, and wishing them
all happiness we bid them farewell.


                                THE END.




                               FOOTNOTES


[1]See previous issue of this series, “Little Rifle.”




                          DIME POCKET NOVELS.


               PUBLISHED SEMI-MONTHLY, AT TEN CENTS EACH.

  1—Hawkeye Harry. By Oll Coomes.
  2—Dead Shot. By Albert W. Aiken.
  3—The Boy Miners. By Edward S. Ellis.
  4—Blue Dick. By Capt. Mayne Reid.
  5—Nat Wolfe. By Mrs. M. V. Victor.
  6—The White Tracker. Edward S. Ellis.
  7—The Outlaw’s Wife. Mrs. Ann S. Stephens.
  8—The Tall Trapper. By Albert W. Aiken.
  9—Lightning Jo. By Capt. Adams.
  10—The Island Pirate. By Capt. Mayne Reid.
  11—The Boy Ranger. By Oll Coomes.
  12—Bess, the Trapper. By E. S. Ellis.
  13—The French Spy. By W. J. Hamilton.
  14—Long Shot. By Capt. Comstock.
  15—The Gunmaker. By James L. Bowen.
  16—Red Hand. By A. G. Piper.
  17—Ben, the Trapper. By Lewis W. Carson.
  18—Wild Raven. By Oll Coomes.
  19—The Specter Chief. By Seelin Robins.
  20—The B’ar-Killer. By Capt. Comstock.
  21—Wild Nat. By Wm. R. Eyster.
  22—Indian Jo. By Lewis W. Carson.
  23—Old Kent, the Ranger. Edward S. Ellis.
  24—The One-Eyed Trapper. Capt. Comstock.
  25—Godbold, the Spy. By N. C. Iron.
  26—The Black Ship. By John S. Warner.
  27—Single Eye. By Warren St. John.
  28—Indian Jim. By Edward S. Ellis.
  29—The Scout. By Warren St. John.
  30—Eagle Eye. By W. J. Hamilton.
  31—The Mystic Canoe. By Edward S. Ellis.
  32—The Golden Harpoon. By R. Starbuck.
  33—The Scalp King. By Lieut. Ned Hunter.
  34—Old Lute. By E. W. Archer.
  35—Rainbolt, Ranger. By Oll Coomes.
  36—The Boy Pioneer. By Edward S. Ellis.
  37—Carson, the Guide. By J. H. Randolph.
  38—The Heart Eater. By Harry Hazard.
  39—Wetzel, The Scout. By Boynton Belknap.
  40—The Huge Hunter. By Ed. S. Ellis.
  41—Wild Nat, the Trapper. Paul Prescott.
  42—Lynx-cap. By Paul Bibbs.
  43—The White Outlaw. By Harry Hazard.
  44—The Dog Trailer. By Frederick Dewey.
  45—The Elk King. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
  46—Adrian, the Pilot. By Col. P. Ingraham.
  47—The Man-hunter. By Maro O. Rolfe.
  48—The Phantom Tracker. By F. Dewey.
  49—Moccasin Bill. By Paul Bibbs.
  50—The Wolf Queen. By Charles Howard.
  51—Tom Hawk, the Trailer.
  52—The Mad Chief. By Chas. Howard.
  53—The Black Wolf. By Edwin E. Ewing.
  54—Arkansas Jack. By Harry Hazard.
  55—Blackbeard. By Paul Bibbs.
  56—The River Rifles. By Billex Muller.
  57—Hunter Ham. By J. Edgar Iliff.
  58—Cloudwood. By J. M. Merrill.
  59—The Texas Hawks. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  60—Merciless Mat. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
  61—Mad Anthony’s Scouts. By E. Rodman.
  62—The Luckless Trapper. Wm. R. Eyster.
  63—The Florida Scout. Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  64—The Island Trapper. Chas. Howard.
  65—Wolf-Cap. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
  66—Rattling Dick. By Harry Hazard.
  67—Sharp-Eye. By Major Max Martine.
  68—Iron Hand. By Frederick Forest.
  69—The Yellow Hunter. By Chas. Howard.
  70—The Phantom Rider. By Marc O. Rolfe.
  71—Delaware Tom. By Harry Hazard.
  72—Silver Rifle. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
  73—The Skeleton Scout. Maj. L. W. Carson.
  74—Little Rifle. By Capt. “Bruin” Adams.
  75—The Wood Witch. By Edwin Emerson.
  76—Old Ruff, the Trapper. “Bruin” Adams.
  77—The Scarlet Shoulders. Harry Hazard.
  78—The Border Rifleman. L. W. Carson.
  79—Outlaw Jack. By Harry Hazard.
  80—Tiger-Tail, the Seminole. R. Ringwood.
  81—Death-Dealer. By Arthur L. Meserve.
  82—Kenton, the Ranger. By Chas. Howard.
  83—The Specter Horseman. Frank Dewey.
  84—The Three Trappers. Seelin Robbins.
  85—Kaleolah. By T. Benton Shields, U. S. N.
  86—The Hunter Hercules. Harry St. George.
  87—Phil Hunter. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
  88—The Indian Scout. By Harry Hazard.
  89—The Girl Avenger. By Chas. Howard.
  90—The Red Hermitess. By Paul Bibbs.
  91—Star-Face, the Slayer.
  92—The Antelope Boy. By Geo. L. Aiken.
  93—The Phantom Hunter. By E. Emerson.
  94—Tom Pintle, the Pilot. By M. Klapp.
  95—The Red Wizard. By Ned Hunter.
  96—The Rival Trappers. By L. W. Carson.
  97—The Squaw Spy. By Capt. Chas. Howard.
  98—Dusky Dick. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  99—Colonel Crockett. By Chas. E. Lasalle.
  100—Old Bear Paw. By Major Max Martine.
  101—Redlaw. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  102—Wild Rube. By W. J. Hamilton.
  103—The Indian Hunters. By J. L. Bowen.
  104—Scarred Eagle. By Andrew Dearborn.
  105—Nick Doyle. By P. Hamilton Myers.
  106—The Indian Spy. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  107—Job Dean. By Ingoldsby North.
  108—The Wood King. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  109—The Scalped Hunter. By Harry Hazard.
  110—Nick, the Scout. By W. J. Hamilton.
  111—The Texan Tiger. By Edward Willett.
  112—The Crossed Knives. By Hamilton.
  113—Tiger-Heart, the Tracker. By Howard.
  114—The Masked Avenger. By Ingraham.
  115—The Pearl Pirates. By Starbuck.
  116—Black Panther. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  117—Abdiel, the Avenger. By Ed. Willett.
  118—Cato, the Creeper. By Fred. Dewey.
  119—Two-Handed Mat. By Jos. E. Badger.
  120—Mad Trail Hunter. By Harry Hazard.
  121—Black Nick. By Frederick Whittaker.
  122—Kit Bird. By W. J. Hamilton.
  123—The Specter Riders. By Geo. Gleason.
  124—Giant Pete. By W. J. Hamilton.
  125—The Girl Captain. By Jos. E. Badger.
  126—Yankee Eph. By J. R. Worcester.
  127—Silverspur. By Edward Willett.
  128—Squatter Dick. By Jos. E. Badger.
  129—The Child Spy. By George Gleason.
  130—Mink Coat. By Jos. E. Badger.
  131—Red Plume. By J. Stanley Henderson.
  132—Clyde, the Trailer. By Maro O. Rolfe.
  133—The Lost Cache. J. Stanley Henderson.
  134—The Cannibal Chief. Paul J. Prescott.
  135—Karaibo. By J. Stanley Henderson.
  136—Scarlet Moccasin. By Paul Bibbs.
  137—Kidnapped. By J. Stanley Henderson.
  138—Maid of the Mountain. By Hamilton.
  139—The Scioto Scouts. By Ed. Willett.
  140—The Border Renegade. By Badger.
  141—The Mute Chief. By C. D. Clark.
  142—Boone, the Hunter. By Whittaker.
  143—Mountain Kate. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  144—The Red Scalper. By W. J. Hamilton.
  145—The Lone Chief. By Jos. E. Badger, Jr.
  146—The Silver Bugle. Lieut. Col. Hazleton.
  147—Chinga, the Cheyenne. By Edward S. Ellis. Ready Feb. 10th.
  148—The Tangled Trail. By Major Max Martine. Ready Feb. 24th.
  149—The Unseen Hand. By J. Stanley Henderson. Ready March 9th.
  150—The Lone Indian. By Capt. Chas. Howard. Ready March 23d.
  151—The Branded Brave. By Paul Bibbs. Ready April 6th.
  152—Billy Bowlegs, the Seminole Chief. Ready April 20th.
  153—The Valley Scout. By Seelin Robins. Ready May 4.
  154—Red Jacket, the Huron. By Paul Bibbs. Ready May 18th.

       BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers, 98 William Street, New York.




                          Transcriber’s Notes


—Silently corrected a few typos.

—Retained publication information from the printed edition: this eBook
  is public-domain in the country of publication.

—In the text versions only, text in italics is delimited by
  _underscores_.

—Created a Table of Contents based on the chapter headings.