The squaw, who was quite a young girl, and very handsome, came directly on toward the ambush of the spy.
Then Boone saw that she was followed by one of the Indian braves.
The great hunter began to feel extremely nervous. In truth, unless the squaw changed her course, his position was one of real peril.
“They’ll lift my ha’r if that blamed squaw diskivers me, sure,” he muttered, in consternation.
The girl paused for a moment.
The heart of the hunter beat quick with hope.
“Now go to the river, you durned red-skin,” he said. It is hardly necessary to remark that the observation was not intended to reach the ears of the girl.
But the squaw hadn’t any intention of going to the river. The gourd carried in her hand was simply an excuse to leave her wigwam.
When the girl found that the young brave—whom in reality she had stolen forth to meet—was following her, she continued on her course, which led directly to the fallen tree, behind which Boone was concealed.
“Oh, cuss the luck!” he muttered, in despair. “I wish she was at the bottom of the Scioto. If she diskivers me thar’ll be a row. I’m in for it like a treed coon.”