Little Rifle stood smiling and amused, never once removing his eyes from the dusky scamp, until he disappeared from view in the wild, rocky ground that made the bank of the river. “Now, as he has left, I will do the same,” concluded Little Rifle, and placing his gun and that of the Indian in the canoe, he shoved it into the water, sprung in and took the paddle. And, as he did so, he proved himself as much at home as when setting his beaver-traps and pursuing the game through the fastnesses of Oregon. Turning the head of the boat toward the other shore, he sent it skimming over the swift current with as much speed and skill as the Blackfoot Indian himself had displayed. “If I could only feel that he would keep on walking for a week or two, I wouldn’t think any more about the red-skin,” he mused, as he glanced back toward the shore he was leaving so rapidly behind; “but I don’t think he will forgive me for what I did.” It was the purpose of Little Rifle to throw the Indian entirely off the scent, so that when he reached his cabin he could rest and sleep in peace. The gathering darkness was in his favor, as it made the task of giving him the slip so much the easier. When the lad was about the middle of the current, he turned the prow down-stream, and the little boat sped like an arrow, seeming to skim over, without touching, the surface, resembling the sea-fowl in its flight. Not doubting but that the Indian was on the watch, the boy had recourse to this simple stratagem to get rid of him. The little river was very winding and rapid, and the canoe went spinning around these curves with a bewildering velocity that was enough to drive any red-skin mad who attempted to follow. When this was done, and scarcely any twilight remained, he shied the boat toward the other bank, at a point where a solid rock offered firm footing. Springing nimbly out with the two guns in his grasp, he kicked the boat out into the stream again, and it went dancing onward like an egg-shell. “There, if that red-skin wants to chase that canoe, he is welcome to do so,” he muttered to himself, as he saw the tiny vessel vanish from view in the gloom; “and if he finds out that I have jumped ashore, let him hunt my trail.” And with this satisfied conclusion, he turned about and deliberately left the river behind. He felt that he had very cleverly outwitted the Blackfoot Indian, and that he had scarcely any occasion to give him further thought. “At any rate, there is no need of holding him in mind between now and sunrise,” he mentally added. “I have come a good long tramp from the old cabin, and the moon will be well up in the sky before I can make it. I only hope that Uncle Ruff has got back from his hunt and is awaiting me there, with a good steaming supper, over which we’ll forget all about Indians.” Ay, that were well, if the Indians would only forget all about _them_! CHAPTER III. FLITTING SHADOWS.