“Well, devil or not, it saved me from the hands of the Shawnees,” said Boone. “The Injuns meant to roast me in the morning. But if this thing is the devil, thar’s some substance to it, ’cos I felt its arm, and it’s as hairy as a bear-skin. Besides, it’s got claws.”
“Of course; it’s the devil in the shape of a wolf.”
“Yes, but why should he trouble himself to save me from the Shawnees?” asked Boone.
“Well, thar’s whar you’ve got me,” replied Kenton, scratching his head, reflectively.
“He’s death on the Injuns, anyway,” said Boone. “Why, the feller he killed so easy would have given any man a hard tussle, ef he had half a chance.”
“It’s plain that he don’t want white blood, ’cos he wouldn’t have saved you.”
“Yes, that’s true. I don’t wonder that the red-skins are afeard of him; why, it makes my blood fairly run cold when I think about it.” And the sober look of the old scout told plainly that he spoke the truth.
“Have you seen Lark?” asked Kenton, suddenly.
“No, hain’t he come back?”
“Not yet.”