All that Boone could make out in the darkness was, that, by his side, was standing a stalwart form, even overtopping himself in hight, tall as he was. But the form was wrapped so completely in Indian blankets from the head to the feet, that the hunter could distinguish neither feature nor limb.
“Well, dog-gone my persimmons!” said the hunter, in disgust, “I’d like to see what and who the critter is that I’m owing my life to.”
The stranger listened, intently, for a moment.
In the position the two were standing, the lodge completely hid them from view of the village. In front of them ran the turbid waters of the Scioto.
The stranger moved, slowly and cautiously, to the bank of the river.
Boone noticed that his footfall gave out no sound, and that, too, he moved with a singular motion, unlike the gait of a human. The hunter could see this despite the darkness that surrounded them.
“Jerusalem, what on yearth is this critter, anyway?” muttered the hunter, in amazement. “He stands on his feet like a man, and he walks with the waddle of a b’ar.”
Boone, stout woodman as he was, tried in courage, a man that laughed at danger and faced death coolly and without shrinking, felt a cold shiver come over him as he watched the movements of the mysterious being who was so free in his actions and so sparing of his words.
The old hunter could not understand the peculiar feeling that was so gradually stealing over him. The hair upon his head seemed ready to bristle with fright.
“I feel as if I had jumped into an ice-cold river,” muttered Boone, with a half-shiver.