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

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Not Weston himself could have surpassed the gait of the red-skin, as he obeyed this peremptory order. Turning his broad, flat face to the Cascade Range, he started off like a hen-pecked husband, who suddenly discovers that it is a little past the hour when he promised to be in the bosom of his family, and he has good cause to dread the consequences of his forgetfulness.

Little Rifle stood smiling and amused, never once removing his eyes from the dusky scamp, until he disappeared from view in the wild, rocky ground that made the bank of the river.

“Now, as he has left, I will do the same,” concluded Little Rifle, and placing his gun and that of the Indian in the canoe, he shoved it into the water, sprung in and took the paddle.

And, as he did so, he proved himself as much at home as when setting his beaver-traps and pursuing the game through the fastnesses of Oregon.

Turning the head of the boat toward the other shore, he sent it skimming over the swift current with as much speed and skill as the Blackfoot Indian himself had displayed.