They tracked Lark easily, for he crashed through the wood without caution, making fully as much noise as a huge bear.
Lark was heading straight for the Ohio; in fact, retracing the course the three had taken in coming from the Indian village of Chillicothe.
“Ef we should happen to run into a war-party of Shawnees, they’d make mince-meat out of us afore you could say Jack Robingson,” growled Kenton to Boone, as they raced through the tangled mazes of the thicket, in their endeavor to keep up with the madman’s headlong course.
“Yes, it’s lucky that thar ain’t any chance of meetin’ the red heathens this side of the big drink.” Boone was referring to the Ohio.
“Derned ef I ain’t gitting short-winded,” said his companion, breathing heavily.
“Well, I ain’t got any more wind than I want myself,” Boone replied.
Still onward through the forest Lark went, never slacking his headlong speed, stopping not for bush nor brier.
At last he reached the river’s bank.
The shades of night were descending fast upon the earth, covering forest and river with a mantle of inky blackness. Afar off in the eastern sky, the moon, like a sword of fire, was rising above the forest’s dark line.
Calmly on rolled the great river, its turbid waves lashing the banks that bound its pathway with many a dull and sullen moan as though impatient of restraint.