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

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“There goes the old chap, as sure as the world, and he thinks he is going to git me.”

As he spoke, the canoe which had caused him so much uneasiness, shot out from the opposite side, and headed directly across stream, the boat, as far as he was able to judge, aiming for the spot where he had been standing.

Little Rifle waited hardly a minute after the canoe came in sight, when he crawled hastily back for a rod or so, then plunged into the protection of the shrubbery and undergrowth, and retraced the very ground over which he had passed but a few minutes before.

This time he went at all speed, for his object was to reach the point ahead of the red-skin. He ran like a regular hunter, with a long, loping trot, his feet sounding like the stealthy tread of a beast of prey, while he kept glancing from side to side in that fashion which seemed to characterize him at all times during his waking hours.

Little Rifle was in good luck this afternoon, for he reached his destination at the very second that he wished to do so.