Such a command was not to be mistaken, and the savage straightened himself with a suddenness that made him appear ridiculous. Men like him have too much dread of death to invite it by any direct means, and treacherous and vindictive as he was, he comprehended his danger in all its fullness. “Now, get,” added Little Rifle, still holding his piece at a dead level, and closing one eye, as if to convince his enemy that he was determined to make no mistake in the aim. This peculiarly American expression, naturally enough, was not very clear to the red-skin, who stood motionless and undecided as to what was expected of him. “Move off; go away from the canoe!” said the boy, accompanying the order by a swaying motion to the left, that did not lessen his command of aim, and, at the same time, made his meaning perfectly intelligible. It went against the grain to obey the order, but there was no question but that Little Rifle was master of the situation, and he had the nerve to hold his vantage-ground. Noting the hesitation of his captive, he made a shifting motion, as if he had decided to fire. This was enough, and the Blackfoot, with one sidelong bound, landed nearly a dozen feet to the right of his canoe, and kept on walking, as if he had concluded to leave such an uncongenial neighborhood altogether, but our hero was not quite ready to give his permission. “Hold on!” he commanded, in the same authoritative voice, and the Blackfoot did hold on, wheeling about and staring at his master, with an angry, defiant expression, which said, as plainly as the words: “What in thunder do you want now?” Keeping his body covered by the muzzle of the deadly little weapon, the boy now advanced a half-dozen steps, so as to bring him far nearer to the canoe and rifle than was his foe, then halted. Feeling himself undisputed master of the field, he showed a boyish propensity to use his authority. “How are you on a walk, old chap? You look greasy and dirty enough to slip along without any trouble. Now turn your face to the Cascade Range, and travel. I’ve heard some of your chiefs say that their home is in the setting sun, and now you can go hunt for it.” As there was no need of such extreme caution, now that the Blackfoot was deprived of his weapon, Little Rifle lowered his gun, and emphasized his words by appropriate gestures. “Your face is toward the sun, and now travel; keep it up for a month or two. If you look back, I’ll pull the trigger without waiting to give you a chance to sing your death-song. _Go!_” Not Weston himself could have surpassed the gait of the red-skin, as he obeyed this peremptory order. Turning his broad, flat face to the Cascade Range, he started off like a hen-pecked husband, who suddenly discovers that it is a little past the hour when he promised to be in the bosom of his family, and he has good cause to dread the consequences of his forgetfulness.