And as he reclined thus, with his vacant gaze fixed upon the blue sky above, the undergrowth along the bank, scarcely a rod below him, noiselessly parted, and a figure came to view. It was the Blackfoot Indian of the day before, whom the lad had conquered and dispossessed of his rifle. He had no gun as yet, but the muscles of the bare right arm were ridged from the pressure of his fingers around the handle of the gleaming tomahawk. The hideous face glowed with the white heat of exultant passion, as he looked upon the lad and realized how completely the tables were turned. Standing for a moment, with his head craned forward, as if to make certain that he fully comprehended the situation, he began advancing, with the stealthy, silent tread of the cat upon the beautiful bird, never once removing his glittering eyes from his victim. A dozen feet away, he paused. He stood on the very spot he desired, and from which he could drive the keen-edged tomahawk crashing through the skull of the unconscious lad. Little Rifle still lay in the same dreamy reverie, his hat having fallen from his head, and the short, curly auburn hair resting on the gunwale, while his clear rose-tinted cheek looked more handsome and attractive than ever. Can no hand be outstretched to save him? Uncle Ruff is still a half-mile away, attending to his traps, and his arm is powerless to prevent the dreadful tragedy. Who, then, shall interfere? The Blackfoot is not the one to wait. Slowly he draws back the hand that grasps the tomahawk, and with his eyes fixed upon the marble-like forehead, aims directly at the brain of the dreaming boy! CHAPTER V. THE MYSTERIOUS SHOT. The Blackfoot paused only long enough to make sure of his aim, when he concentrated all his mighty strength in his terrible right arm and hurled his tomahawk with a tremendous force, that would have cloven through the birchen sides of the canoe, and the skull of the boy like so much pasteboard, had the glittering weapon sped true to its aim. But it went fully a dozen feet over his head, whizzing far out into the stream, into which it fell with a loud splash. And the reason for this was that at the very instant he threw his power into his single arm, there was a sharp crack from the wood, and a bullet went crashing through his brain. With a howl and spasmodic clutching of his limbs, he staggered forward and fell upon his face, dead. It was a frightful awakening from Little Rifle’s reverie, and he leaped out of the canoe, landing several feet away upon the shore, with the belief that he himself was mortally wounded. Staring wildly around, he saw the body of the dead savage, and the second glance identified it as the one who had hunted him the day before, and who had been so cleverly outgeneraled.