As there was no cause for remaining longer where they were, they made ready to move on again toward old Robsart’s head-quarters, where Harry expected to obtain a rifle and start upon his return to the fort. “Do you notice that clump of bushes over there?” asked Little Rifle, touching his arm and pointing to some scrubby shrubbery, but a short distance away. “Yes; what of it? Is there another antelope there?” “There is something, for I have noticed a movement, once or twice, while we were eating. Look out! there is an Indian and he is going to fire!” And, grasping the shoulder of the lad, he sprung to one side, dragging him with him. At the same instant there was a flash and a sharp report, as the bullet whizzed toward them! Little Rifle, experienced in the dangers of a hunter’s life, was not caught with an unloaded gun. The thin puff of smoke had hardly begun to curl up from the clump of bushes when his rifle was at his shoulder, and he sent the return bullet crashing among the leaves and twigs. At the same moment both sprung to cover. “You haven’t any gun,” said Little Rifle to his friend, “so keep your head out of sight, and if I haven’t peppered that red-skin I’ll do so next time.” “Maybe there are several of them,” ventured his friend. “No,” replied the young trapper, “if there were they’d have fired when they had the chance. Keep your head down, Harry!” “I hear him groaning and moaning,” persisted Harry. “You must hear it, too. Let’s go forward, for you’ve wounded the poor wretch.” “Pooh! The Blackfoot isn’t hurt at all, and he is making those noises on purpose to draw us out. I beseech you, Harry, to keep quiet.” But now Little Rifle did the very thing against which he had so earnestly cautioned his friend. Looking steadily over the face of the rock for a moment, a strange expression lit up his face, and he slowly rose to his feet, until his whole body above his knees was in full view of their hidden foe. “Well, I declare if it doesn’t beat every thing!” exclaimed Little Rifle, more to himself than any one else, “I thought it was an Indian all the time.” As Harry rose to his feet he saw the explanation of this soliloquy. From behind the all-important clump of bushes came a large, bushy-whiskered white man, clad in hunter’s costume, and apparently in the best of humor. The hunter, shaking all over with laughter, extended his broad palm as he came up and closed it around the small hand of Little Rifle, who, after exchanging a word or two with him, turned and introduced him to Harry as his Uncle Robsart. “Glad to see you, younker,” exclaimed the hairy old hunter, as he gave Harry a hearty shake of the hand. “Scared you a little, I s’pose. I see’d you chawin’ antelope, and I thought I’d wake you up a little.” Little Rifle acquainted the trapper with the principal facts of their meeting and the subsequent adventures. He listened with great interest, especially to their adventure in and escape from the cavern.