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

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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: