Old Ruff, The Trapper: The Young Fur-Hunters

Young Harry Northend remained by his lonely camp-fire in the wilderness, long after the dull, dismal day had dawned, in the hope that Little Rifle, his promised bride of the wilderness, as he loved to look upon her, would return.

Now and then he ventured to call to her, although he well knew the risk he incurred in doing so; for he had learned by his previous experience that the dreaded Blackfeet Indians were to be expected at any time, when beyond gun-shot of the fort.

The snow had stopped falling, but it lay to the depth of several inches upon the ground, and seemed to have extended over a wide area of country. He walked round and round the camp several times, searching for the imprint of her delicate moccasin; but the keenest search he could make failed to reveal the slightest trace of her footsteps.

This proved, that whatever might be the cause of her disappearance, it had operated before the fall of the snow—so that, at the least, she had already been absent several hours.

But whither had she gone? What was the cause of her disappearing so suddenly? Had she departed alone and unattended, or was some one else concerned in it?

These were questions which, without exaggeration, it is safe to say, the lad asked himself a hundred times, and which still remained unanswered.

There was but one conjecture that he could make, which seemed to bear the least shadow of reason, and that was that she had voluntarily returned to the lodge of her guardian and friend, old Ruff Robsart, the old mountaineer and hunter—not with the intention of remaining there, but with the purpose of consulting with him before taking the all-important step which she had decided to take, in leaving that Oregon wilderness.

“It is no great distance there,” he mused, as he turned this thought over in his mind, “and seeing me asleep in the early part of the evening, she may have thought she could go and return before I would awake; for she can traverse these woods as well in the dark as in the daytime, and she might easily have made such a journey, but I suppose old Robsart has kept her, and I must go there after her.”

Settling down to this conclusion, he decided first to go on to the fort, as he could make the distance in a few hours. He had been absent several days, and his return would set at rest any uneasiness that his friends might feel, and possibly avert the awkward consequences of a search for him by several of the hunters at the post.

Accordingly, when he had made up his mind that it was useless to wait any longer by the camp-fire, he slung his rifle over his shoulder, and started at a brisk walk for his headquarters at Fort Abercrombie, which was safely reached within a couple of hours after.

He found every thing here as when he had left, a few days before, and after partaking of breakfast, and remaining a short time, he started on his return to the lodge of Old Ruff, on the Columbia river, below. On the route, he visited the scene of their encampment in the ravine, the night before, thinking it barely possible that Little Rifle had visited it during her absence, but there were no indications of her having done so, and he resumed his walk in an eastward direction.

Harry set great value by his field telescope, which he constantly bore with him, and whenever he reached a point a little more elevated than usual, he acted like a General who was reconnoitering a hostile territory—making as careful a survey as was possible, in the limited time which his impatience would permit him to use.

Scarcely once did the glass fail to show him the presence of Indians. They seemed to be here, there and everywhere in this part of Oregon, and the adjoining territory of Washington. Indeed, more than once he paused and scrutinized more closely his immediate surroundings, for it seemed that there must be more still nearer him; but happily he seemed to be free from that danger, and he took care to conceal his trail as much as possible, by using rocks and flinty surfaces, wherever he could turn them to account.

In this fashion he finally reached a ridge, upon which Little Rifle had slain an antelope, on the preceding day. Here he made another survey of the territory, in every direction, wondering all the time whether any of the numerous “signs” which he encountered indicated the presence of Little Rifle; for despite the theory into which he had settled, he could not free himself of the doubt that, after all, he might have failed in his supposition.

This naturally increased his eagerness to hurry forward, and end the suspense as soon as possible; and so, lingering but a short time upon the ridge, he descended the eastern slope, and carefully following the route taken the morning before, being compelled on his way to ford several streams, he succeeded in reaching his destination at last.