“I believe I am,” replied the latter, as he returned the grasp. “I happened to be hunting along that creek when I caught sight of your canoe, and I stood trying to make out whether you were an Indian or a white man. I was going to call to you two or three times, but I thought you were a red-skin, as the hunters call them; for you know I couldn’t see your face, and you were dressed very much like one. Just as I was about to turn away I caught sight of the Blackfoot stealing toward you--and you know the rest.” “But why didn’t you wait and speak to us. We crossed over to hunt you out, but Old Ruff himself couldn’t find your trail, even.” “I took pains to travel over the rocks and stones as much as I could so as to keep you from finding my tracks. I didn’t wait to see this Old Ruff that you are talking about, because I still believed that you were an Indian belonging to some other tribe, and I couldn’t bear to see you killed in such a cowardly manner, so I made myself as scarce as possible.” “But how, then, do you recognize me _now_?” asked Little Rifle, in wonder, “when you say you didn’t see my face?” “By that cap, which I did see, and which isn’t the kind of plug an Indian sports.” Little Rifle laughed at the lively, off-hand manner of his new friend, who seemed to have forgotten entirely his recent terrible experience. “Well, then, since you would not give me the chance then, I will take it now, and thank you from the bottom of my heart for the service you did me, when without it I should have been killed.” “Of course it was a good turn, but then it can’t compare with your act. _I_ didn’t run any particular risk, while you knew, when you jumped into the raging water, that the chances were altogether against your ever coming out again. However, we won’t fight over such a dispute; we’re bound to be friends for life, so give us your hand on it.” And the two shook hands warmly, in a way, too, that showed they meant it. “I tell you, Little Rifle, there is something about you that I like,” in his dashing, captivating style. “You’ve got pluck, and I like to see that in anybody, and then you’re as modest and backward as a girl; you haven’t got the brass and style and vices of civilization, and I hope you never will, and so it won’t spoil you when I tell you that you’ve got the handsomest face that I ever saw on a pair of shoulders--” “There! there!” protested Little Rifle, flushing to his temples, “please don’t go on in that way, but tell me something about yourself.”