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

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“No matter what may happen in the future,” said Little Rifle, in an affectionate tone, “no matter where the rest of my life may be cast, or what good or evil fortune may befall me, I can never forget you, who rescued me from the savages, and have always been more than a father to me.”

“That’s all right,” said the old hunter, hastily, and speaking as if he were swallowing something that kept rising in his throat, “that’s all right, and don’t say nothin’ more about it.”

For a long time they conversed in this familiar manner, and then Little Rifle, as was always his practice, when with the hunter, kissed him affectionately, bade him good-night, and withdrew to his own apartment, which, it will be remembered, was at the other end of the lodge or cabin, where he was never disturbed or molested, during his sleeping hours.

Old Robsart sat on the outside of his humble cabin for fully two hours more, wrapped in deep thought.

“Qua’r,” he muttered, after awhile, “but when I was huntin’ to-day, the same feelin’ come over me. I know I’m going to lose Little Rifle, in some way or other. It’ll go hard with me—but I hope it will be for the best.”