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

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“If I could only feel that he would keep on walking for a week or two, I wouldn’t think any more about the red-skin,” he mused, as he glanced back toward the shore he was leaving so rapidly behind; “but I don’t think he will forgive me for what I did.”

It was the purpose of Little Rifle to throw the Indian entirely off the scent, so that when he reached his cabin he could rest and sleep in peace. The gathering darkness was in his favor, as it made the task of giving him the slip so much the easier.

When the lad was about the middle of the current, he turned the prow down-stream, and the little boat sped like an arrow, seeming to skim over, without touching, the surface, resembling the sea-fowl in its flight.

Not doubting but that the Indian was on the watch, the boy had recourse to this simple stratagem to get rid of him. The little river was very winding and rapid, and the canoe went spinning around these curves with a bewildering velocity that was enough to drive any red-skin mad who attempted to follow.