As he approached near to the Shawnee village, he could hear the sound of the Indian drums and the war-cries of the warriors.
From the sounds Boone easily guessed that the Indians were preparing for the war-path.
Boone reached the edge of the timber. Before him lay the village of his deadly foes.
A huge fire was burning before the council-lodge in the center of the village, and the warriors were dancing around it.
“Look at the red devils!” muttered Boone, who from the convenient shelter afforded by a fallen tree, just on the edge of the timber, could easily watch the scene before him. “They’re pantin’ to redden their knives in the blood of the whites.”
Then the scout counted the Indians who were dancing around the fire, and the others who were either watching the scalp-dance, or lounging leisurely around the village. The number of the red-men astonished the borderer.
“Jerusalem!” he muttered, “thar’s a tarnal heap of them. I judge they’ll take the war-path soon.”
Then a squaw, with a gourd in her hand, evidently going to the river for water, left the village and came directly toward the spot where Boone was concealed.
The alarm of the hunter was great.
“Dod rot the luck!” he muttered, in disgust, “why on yearth don’t she go straight to the drink, cuss her! She’ll come plumb down on me if she keeps on, an’ then she’ll raise the village with her squalls.”