Читать книгу Little Rifle; or, The Young Fur Hunters онлайн

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The sun had long since passed down out of sight, behind the Cascade Range, and a sort of twilight gloom rested upon wood and river. Not a sound reached the ear, except the faint hollow roar of the forest, and the distant rush of the waterfall, where the river poured over the rocks on the way to the ocean.

Little Rifle moved along with the careless stride of the free easy-going hunter, who knows precisely where his footsteps are leading him, and what he may expect when he gets there. It was curious too to note the silence with which he advanced. The most skillful trailer among the Blackfeet could not have guided his moccasins with a softer rustle that seemed more like the creeping of the reptile than the motion of the human foot.

The boy did not approach the stream until he had reached a point fully an eighth of a mile from where he had left it, and then it was upon his hands and knees.

Reaching a spot that afforded him the view he was seeking, he peered out from his concealment, directing his eyes at once toward the place where he had last seen the canoe. The distance was so great that even his young keen eyes were unable to see any thing unusual for a moment. Suddenly, however, he exclaimed in an excited whisper: