LITTLE RIFLE AND “BIG INJIN.” The sun had long since passed down out of sight, behind the Cascade Range, and a sort of twilight gloom rested upon wood and river. Not a sound reached the ear, except the faint hollow roar of the forest, and the distant rush of the waterfall, where the river poured over the rocks on the way to the ocean. Little Rifle moved along with the careless stride of the free easy-going hunter, who knows precisely where his footsteps are leading him, and what he may expect when he gets there. It was curious too to note the silence with which he advanced. The most skillful trailer among the Blackfeet could not have guided his moccasins with a softer rustle that seemed more like the creeping of the reptile than the motion of the human foot. The boy did not approach the stream until he had reached a point fully an eighth of a mile from where he had left it, and then it was upon his hands and knees. Reaching a spot that afforded him the view he was seeking, he peered out from his concealment, directing his eyes at once toward the place where he had last seen the canoe. The distance was so great that even his young keen eyes were unable to see any thing unusual for a moment. Suddenly, however, he exclaimed in an excited whisper: “There goes the old chap, as sure as the world, and he thinks he is going to git _me_.” As he spoke, the canoe which had caused him so much uneasiness, shot out from the opposite side, and headed directly across stream, the boat, as far as he was able to judge, aiming for the spot where he had been standing. Little Rifle waited hardly a minute after the canoe came in sight, when he crawled hastily back for a rod or so, then plunged into the protection of the shrubbery and undergrowth, and retraced the very ground over which he had passed but a few minutes before. This time he went at all speed, for his object was to reach the point ahead of the red-skin. He ran like a regular hunter, with a long, loping trot, his feet sounding like the stealthy tread of a beast of prey, while he kept glancing from side to side in that fashion which seemed to characterize him at all times during his waking hours. Little Rifle was in good luck this afternoon, for he reached his destination at the very second that he wished to do so. He heard the dip of the paddle, as the canoe made its way through the swift current, and a moment later the Blackfoot’s head came to view, as he propelled the canoe swiftly forward. Entirely unsuspicious of danger, he ran the prow of the boat hard against the shore and almost at the same instant leaped out.