“Neither logs nor animals travel in that style,” he muttered, carefully following the agitated grass and undergrowth, and watching intently for the chance when some inadvertence would give him a more satisfactory glimpse of the object. “It is either a white man or Indian, with the chances altogether in favor of its being the Indian. We are too far up in the mountains for white folks to give us much trouble, and I remember that Uncle Ruff told me to be unusually careful, for he had seen signs of Blackfeet both up and down-stream, and if they have been hunting in these parts we can make up our minds that they have found our traps, and are on a hunt for us. I think that one of the Blackfeet is now in the grass yonder.” The wish of Little Rifle was gratified. He had stood but a minute, when a mass of tall grass swayed to one side, and, at the same instant, he saw the prow of a birch canoe stealing as insidiously along as a panther approaches its prey. “Just what I thought!” exclaimed the lad. “It is one of those Blackfeet, that Old Ruff says will follow a man a thousand miles to get his scalp. I’ll bet he is after _mine_.” Whoever occupied the canoe--friend or foe--showed that he was aware of the scrutiny to which he was subjected; for the boat, which up to this time had progressed with unvarying steadiness, now abruptly stood still. This attempt to remove suspicion was too evident for the lad to mistake it; and with a tact which proved not only his remarkable training, but his native keenness, he took advantage of the “situation,” with scarcely a second’s pause. Picking up his trap, he wheeled half-way round, and walked directly on among the undergrowth and rocks, and almost immediately vanished from view. His action was precisely that of one who was satisfied that nothing was wrong, and who had resumed the quiet tenor of his way. But exactly the opposite was the case. He was resolved before venturing further up the stream to find out precisely the nature of the danger that impended. It was one of the maxims of old Robsart never to leave the presence of danger until he had learned all about it. This stealthy movement of the Blackfoot very probably had a deep significance, which Little Rifle was determined to penetrate, if such a thing were possible. After walking a hundred yards, and reaching a point where he felt secure from observation, he once more laid the trap upon the ground, and examined his rifle. The latter was a perfect weapon in its way, fitted to carry a ball a great distance with accuracy and was just suited to the strength of the lad. He handled it, too, like one who understood its use, as indeed he did. Every thing seemed to be satisfactory, and in as perfect order as he could desire. “The gun is reliable,” was his satisfied exclamation, as he threw it over his shoulder again; “now, if I ain’t mistaken, there’s going to be trouble between a boy about my size, and a Blackfoot Indian a good deal bigger!” CHAPTER II.