Young Harry Northend remained by his lonely camp-fire in the wilderness, long after the dull, dismal day had dawned, in the hope that Little Rifle, his promised bride of the wilderness, as he loved to look upon her, would return.[1] Now and then he ventured to call to her, although he well knew the risk he incurred in doing so; for he had learned by his previous experience that the dreaded Blackfeet Indians were to be expected at any time, when beyond gun-shot of the fort.…
Your support pays for translating these classics into more languages.
Support for $12/month DonateSubscribers read with instant translation, without waiting for the free daily limit.