“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.”
“It would be hard for me to guess where mine is,” laughed Harry, with a half-quizzical look at the falls, which were now close at hand. “As a paddle, it wasn’t much of a success, and I don’t think it fared much better than the canoe.”
“We have a spare rifle or two at the cabin, and I shall be glad to present you with one. In fact you have a claim to one of them, for it belonged to the Blackfoot that you shot this morning and looks like a good piece; though it is of the regular size.”
“And so was the one I lost. Father bought me a couple of boys’ guns in St. Louis, and I lost one in the Yellowstone, when I was watching to get a crack at some wild-fowl.”
“What became of the other?”
“I kept that till we had left the Yellowstone, and were well on our way over the mountains. I got tired of carrying it slung over my shoulder, where there wasn’t any chance of getting a crack at any thing like game—so I had it strapped to the back of a mule, and he took it into his head one day to roll over without waiting for his load to be unstrapped. When he had finished, my gun was in seven different pieces. Then I took an ordinary rifle, such as the men carry, and have gotten along with that ever since.”