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!”