Doby went on. The horse needed constant petting and coaxing. The crows flapped and cawed, following a hiding something—an evil something moving near the trail. The horse quivered and shied at the unseen peril stalking him.
They reached the end of the ravine and descended into the canebrake of the bottom-land which led to the Kentucky River. Far away on the other side of the river they could see the stockade of Boonesboro.
"Could we signal the stockade?" faltered Doby.
"We'll be made into broth if we do," was the quiet reply.
Some Indians were cannibals. At this reminder, Doby's spine turned to water and he slumped into a heap. But Kenton caught him up and shook him forcibly with the words: "I once felt that-a-way myself. Ye can git used to 't. Keep right on. The cane's full of the pesky redskins."
"I don't see any," gasped Doby, in forlorn hope.
"Nary glimpse. Watch the crows. Show yer passport. They're there," declared Kenton.
When the horse found that he could not hang back, he bolted. Wilder and wilder his pace grew. Fear had seized him past all control.
Ever the canes, before, beside, behind their mad flight wavered for a wicked pursuing foe who peeped and ran.