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

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No fire was ever kindled within this primitive home; for these downy furs kept so much of the natural heat of the body that the most cold-blooded need not be uncomfortable. The fire needed for cooking purposes was always made somewhere else.

Little Rifle’s anxiety now was to see whether his friend and patron was at home before him. Knowing that there was always a possibility of some treacherous red-skin lying in wait, in the cabin, he paused when some distance away, and gave utterance to a sort of whistle that was always used as a signal between him and his friend.

To his delight, this signal was instantly answered from within the cabin.

“He is there!” he exclaimed, running forward, along the gorge. “Hello, Uncle Ruff!”

The round full moon was shining from an unclouded sky, so that objects were seen quite distinctly for a considerable distance. As he spoke, the form of a man of goodly size, with immense flowing beard, drew the buffalo-skin that answered for a door aside, and stepped outside. His dress was somewhat similar to that worn by the lad, except that instead of his jaunty hat, he wore a close-fitting cap of fur. He was a man of great strength and activity, and seemed to be in the very prime of vigorous manhood, although evidently verging on his sixty years.