“That’s the blood of a Blackfoot, or I’m a skinned beaver!” he remarked, with a glow of relief at having those strange apprehensions of his removed. “Yes, I’m convinced that’s Injin blood,” added Nat, rubbing it between the tip of his finger and thumb. “The blood of a Blackfoot Injin, too--a man’s about thirty-two years old. Probably a brother to the one I frightened.” “What do you know about that?” I asked. “Oh! it’s only a supposition of mine.” “Biddon, I believe, as I just said, that we will find the body of that savage near at hand. Let us follow it.” “Jes’ what I’s agoin’ to do,” he replied, starting off at once upon the trail. It was easy to follow, as every step was marked by blood, which, in many places, was dripping from the bushes to the ground. It was followed but a short distance, however, as it led in a direct line to the river. “It’s as I s’pected,” said Biddon, turning round in disgust. “He must have drowned then.” “Dunno ’bout that. He’s taken to the water to hide his trail, an’ jes’ as like as not some of the other painted heathen have helped him off.” “No doubt about that. I’ve been thinking that some of them helped off that fellow when I was loading my gun.” “We mought as well go back agin,” said Biddon. “I’m tired of huntin’ spirits, and I dunno but what we’d better move traps and leave this plagued place to ’em.” “That’s what I am in favor of--” Nat suddenly paused, for Biddon, with a slight “sh” motioned us down. We both sank quickly and silently to the earth, while he, in a crouching position, gazed stealthily up-stream. “What is it, Bill?” whispered Nat. “_There’s a canoe comin’ down stream!_” We said nothing; and Nat looking meaningly in the water. “Skin me, if there ain’t two reds and a squaw in it,” added Biddon, without changing his position, or removing his gaze. I could not restrain the singular agitation that came over me at this announcement. Fearing to betray myself, I cautiously arose beside Biddon. “Let me take a look,” I whispered. “Be keerful you ain’t seen,” he whispered, in turn, as he stepped back. As I looked, I saw, not more than two hundred yards distant the canoe approaching, heading directly towards us. For this reason, I could only see the foremost Indian, though I was positive another, together with the white captive, were in it. I gazed but a moment and then looked inquiringly at the trapper. He made no reply, but again peered forth. “That ain’t a squaw; it’s a white gal,” said he, looking round upon us with an astounded look. “Shall we rescue her?” I asked. “Ef she wants us to, in course.” “You going to shoot them?” asked Nat, anxiously. “Can’t tell yit. Jest see that yer irons is ready, and we’ll wait till they get out yer. Don’t make no noise till I give the motion.”