Old Robsart sat on the outside of his humble cabin for fully two hours more, wrapped in deep thought. “Qua’r,” he muttered, after awhile, “but when I was huntin’ to-day, the same feelin’ come over me. I know I’m going to lose Little Rifle, in some way or other. It’ll go hard with me--but I hope it will be for the best.” And with this conclusion, he rose to his feet, passed into the cabin and retired to slumber. CHAPTER IV. THE VENGEFUL BLACKFOOT. A beautiful spring morning dawned upon the Northwestern solitudes, in which the two characters of whom we have made mention had their home. Scarcely a cloud flecked the sky, that looked like the deep, brilliant azure of Italy, and the soft murmur of the distant waterfalls, and the songs of thousands of birds made the scene one of gladness and joy. The day would have been warm and sultry but for the breeze that came stealing down from the snowy peaks of the Cascade Range, diffusing coolness through thousands of square miles of adjoining territory. By the time the sun was fairly above the horizon, old Robsart and Little Rifle emerged from their humble quarters, and moving down the narrow passage between the rocks, debouched upon the shore of the stream which has already been mentioned. Here a small canoe was found, into which both entered, the old hunter taking the long ashen paddle in hand, and sending the little vessel up the turbid current with as much ease as if it were upon still water. Few words passed between the two, for the communings and dreams of the previous evening were still with them. The appearance of Little Rifle was of one who had slept very little during the night, and the old hunter, understanding the cause of his reverie, forbore to intrude upon it. This excursion was to visit their traps, their practice being always to do so before partaking of breakfast. Several hundred yards’ steady pull, and the boat came to a rest against the grassy beach, and old Ruff stepped out, drawing the prow of the boat up after him. As he did so, the boy made a motion as if to follow him, seeing which he waved him back. “Stay whar you be, Little Rifle, for I won’t be gone long.” He paused and looked up questioningly in his face. “Don’t you want me to help you, Uncle Ruff?” “I’d like to have you along, but I guess you’d better stay thar. You know thar be only three traps fur me to visit. When we halt further up, thar’ll be a half-dozen and you can help.” “All right,” replied the lad, settling back in the stern of the canoe, ready and willing to wait.