Читать книгу Little Rifle; or, The Young Fur Hunters - Edward Sylvester Ellis - Страница 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ki! yi!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What in thunder do you want now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, as he did so, he proved himself as much at home as when setting his beaver-traps and pursuing the game through the fastnesses of Oregon.

Turning the head of the boat toward the other shore, he sent it skimming over the swift current with as much speed and skill as the Blackfoot Indian himself had displayed.

“If I could only feel that he would keep on walking for a week or two, I wouldn’t think any more about the red-skin,” he mused, as he glanced back toward the shore he was leaving so rapidly behind; “but I don’t think he will forgive me for what I did.”

It was the purpose of Little Rifle to throw the Indian entirely off the scent, so that when he reached his cabin he could rest and sleep in peace. The gathering darkness was in his favor, as it made the task of giving him the slip so much the easier.

When the lad was about the middle of the current, he turned the prow down-stream, and the little boat sped like an arrow, seeming to skim over, without touching, the surface, resembling the sea-fowl in its flight.

Not doubting but that the Indian was on the watch, the boy had recourse to this simple stratagem to get rid of him. The little river was very winding and rapid, and the canoe went spinning around these curves with a bewildering velocity that was enough to drive any red-skin mad who attempted to follow.

When this was done, and scarcely any twilight remained, he shied the boat toward the other bank, at a point where a solid rock offered firm footing. Springing nimbly out with the two guns in his grasp, he kicked the boat out into the stream again, and it went dancing onward like an egg-shell.

“There, if that red-skin wants to chase that canoe, he is welcome to do so,” he muttered to himself, as he saw the tiny vessel vanish from view in the gloom; “and if he finds out that I have jumped ashore, let him hunt my trail.”

And with this satisfied conclusion, he turned about and deliberately left the river behind. He felt that he had very cleverly outwitted the Blackfoot Indian, and that he had scarcely any occasion to give him further thought.

“At any rate, there is no need of holding him in mind between now and sunrise,” he mentally added. “I have come a good long tramp from the old cabin, and the moon will be well up in the sky before I can make it. I only hope that Uncle Ruff has got back from his hunt and is awaiting me there, with a good steaming supper, over which we’ll forget all about Indians.”

Ay, that were well, if the Indians would only forget all about them!