“Well, I suppose I ought to. You know what my name is; my father has an interest in the Missouri Fur Company, and has come out prospecting in this part of the world. We came up the Missouri and Yellowstone as far as the boat could travel, and then, with a party of hunters, made the rest of the journey on horseback. So, you see, I got considerable experience in the woods on our way, though I haven’t had much chance to learn how to manage one of these confounded canoes. We reached Fort Abercrombie, which I suppose you’ve heard of, about a week ago.” “Yes, I have been there several times.” “Well, from there father concluded to make a trip up into British America, and gave me the choice of staying where I was, or of going with him and his party. I found out from the men at the fort that there is a great deal better hunting in Oregon than there is further north, so that is how I came to stay behind.” “And is it possible that you are so far away from the fort without some hunter or trapper who knows the country being with you?” asked Little Rifle, staring at him, in amazement. “Why not?” he responded, coolly. “Father didn’t forbid me to go out hunting, but rather encouraged it. I find there are a few more waterfalls and Indians than I thought, but I am getting used to them. Since you’ve told me your name, Little Rifle, I call to mind, too, that I have heard it at the fort. Old Ruff, as you call him, the noted old Hill Trapper, has you in charge. Isn’t that the case?” “You are right,” replied Little Rifle, as they picked their way along over the rocks, in the direction of the falls. “I have lived with him ever since I can remember.” “But he is not your father?” “No; nor can he tell who my parents are. Many years ago, when I was an infant, he took me from a deserted Indian lodge. I was left at the fort, while he made every effort in his power to find out something of my history; but he has never succeeded, and is as ignorant of it to-day as you are.” “It is wonderful,” said Harry, deeply impressed with the romantic narrative; “were you dressed in Indian clothes at the time? Were there no marks by which some trace of your parentage could be gained?” “None at all,” replied the young lad, with a sad shake of his head. “I do not even know my name.” “How is it that they call you Little Rifle?” “When old Ruff Robsart took me out of the Indian lodge, there was a small gun, beautifully mounted, suspended over my head, which he brought away with him, and kept until I was big enough to begin to use it. At the fort they christened me Little Rifle, and the name has stuck to me ever since.” “Where is the gun now?” “I laid it upon the rocks when I jumped into the water to help you out, as I would have been sure to lose it. I am on my way now to recover it.”