“He wants us for to git in and cross the ‘drink’ with him,” said Boone, in a voice that showed plainly the feeling of horror that had taken possession of the old Indian-fighter.
“Shall we go?” asked Kenton, scarcely speaking above his breath.
“Yes; it’s our duty as Christian men to see that this madman comes to no harm. I’m afeard that we are a-goin’ to see something terrible,” Boone answered.
Again, and with a gesture of command, Lark pointed to the frail boat, that was dancing like an eggshell on the bosom of the surging tide.
The two obeyed the gesture and entered the canoe.
Then Lark seized the paddle, and the little craft, with its human freight, sped rapidly across the river.
The white-capped billows—the children of the wind—surged and dashed against the sides of the canoe as if eager to tear from their frail shelter the mortals that dared to risk their lives amid the turbid waves of the Ohio.
The rising wind whistled and surged through the frail forest trees; the waves were turbid and angry; the moon, a ray of lurid light, was darting lambent fires through the dark cloud-banks.
The scouts looked around them and shuddered. A terrible depression was upon their feelings. The very air they breathed seemed full of evil.
The bow of the canoe touched the bank.