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

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“Now, get,” added Little Rifle, still holding his piece at a dead level, and closing one eye, as if to convince his enemy that he was determined to make no mistake in the aim.

This peculiarly American expression, naturally enough, was not very clear to the red-skin, who stood motionless and undecided as to what was expected of him.

“Move off; go away from the canoe!” said the boy, accompanying the order by a swaying motion to the left, that did not lessen his command of aim, and, at the same time, made his meaning perfectly intelligible.

It went against the grain to obey the order, but there was no question but that Little Rifle was master of the situation, and he had the nerve to hold his vantage-ground. Noting the hesitation of his captive, he made a shifting motion, as if he had decided to fire. This was enough, and the Blackfoot, with one sidelong bound, landed nearly a dozen feet to the right of his canoe, and kept on walking, as if he had concluded to leave such an uncongenial neighborhood altogether, but our hero was not quite ready to give his permission.