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

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When this was done, and scarcely any twilight remained, he shied the boat toward the other bank, at a point where a solid rock offered firm footing. Springing nimbly out with the two guns in his grasp, he kicked the boat out into the stream again, and it went dancing onward like an egg-shell.

“There, if that red-skin wants to chase that canoe, he is welcome to do so,” he muttered to himself, as he saw the tiny vessel vanish from view in the gloom; “and if he finds out that I have jumped ashore, let him hunt my trail.”

And with this satisfied conclusion, he turned about and deliberately left the river behind. He felt that he had very cleverly outwitted the Blackfoot Indian, and that he had scarcely any occasion to give him further thought.

“At any rate, there is no need of holding him in mind between now and sunrise,” he mentally added. “I have come a good long tramp from the old cabin, and the moon will be well up in the sky before I can make it. I only hope that Uncle Ruff has got back from his hunt and is awaiting me there, with a good steaming supper, over which we’ll forget all about Indians.”