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

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Little Rifle was moving up the left bank of the stream, with his face turned toward the Cascade Range, except when he darted his quick, wide-awake glances in the direction of the river’s bank on his right hand, varied now and then by an equally inquisitive look at the wood and rocks in front and on his left.

“Uncle Ruff told me yesterday that there were plenty signs of beaver further up the stream,” mused the lad, as he walked along, “and I know that they have been thinned out down below, so that I haven’t had a bite in this trap for three days. I’ll set it a mile or two further up, where it will pay to make it a visit early in the morning.” And he held up the trap and turned it around before his eyes, as if it were a new thing altogether. It resembled the ordinary “steel-trap,” except that it was considerably larger.

The ease with which the lad carried the cumbersome load, attested the strength which this manner of living had given him. Like all little chaps, he was given to conversing with himself, when walking alone, and to-day he seemed in quite a chatty vein.