Harry found the walk brisk enough to suit the most enthusiastic pedestrian, and it speedily sent a glow of warmth all through his system.
A moment after several feathery flakes of snow drifted against their faces, and then scarcely five minutes had elapsed when the air was full. Millions and billions of the white flakes, some of them of large size, were eddying and whirling all about them. When they looked up, they could barely keep their eyes open, and they were literally blinded by them.
“Jingo! this is rather sudden,” shouted Harry with a laugh. “I guess the Coast Range has blowed up, and sent the pieces this way.”
The snow drove against them and filled the air so entirely that the boys could not see a rod ahead of them. Little Rifle, however, was able to recall where they were, and he groped forward, until they reached the shelter of some rocks, where they could remain until the snow-squall should terminate.
As they stood there, looking out upon the beautiful snow, Little Rifle reached out and took the gun of Harry for the purpose of making a more minute examination of it than he had yet done.
“While you’re doing that I’ll take a look at that handsome little piece of yours. Helloa!”
As Harry took it in his hand, he grasped the stock in a peculiar manner—very differently from what he would have done at any other time, and, as he did so, he pressed something or other that caused a little lid beneath the trigger-guard to fly open.
And while Little Rifle was staring wonderingly at this hitherto unknown contrivance, Harry reached one thumb and finger in, and drew out a small twist of paper. On it, he saw written a few words, in faded ink.
And these words told the secret of Little Rifle’s birth, history and life!