The scout was right in his thought. The two lovers were in no hurry to bring their love-meeting to a close. It was probably the last chance that they would have of being together, and they were anxious to improve the opportunity. Love is the same the world over, whether it springs in the heart of the savage, beneath the spreading branches of the oak in the forest wilderness, or in the breast of fashion’s votary in the crowded city.
Warmly the warrior pressed his suit and told of the deathless flame that burned within his heart. Coyly listened the girl to the avowal that she loved to hear.
The lover eagerly pleaded for a farewell kiss from the lips that he had ne’er touched. Shyly the Indian maid refused the favor, though in her heart she consented.
The chief clasped the girl in his arms. She, with assumed anger, freed herself from his embrace and pushed him away. The chief, losing his balance in the struggle, tumbled over backward from the log, coming down plump on top of the scout concealed in the bushes behind the tree.
Quick from the throat of the Indian came the note of alarm. He realized instantly that the form concealed in the bushes must be the form of a foe.
With a mighty effort, Boone rolled the chief to one side, then sprung to his feet, prepared to fly for his life.
The Indian girl shrieked with terror when she beheld a pale-face spring up amid the bushes.
Her cry attracted the attention of the Indians in the village, and, with hasty steps, they rushed toward the line of timber, anxious to learn the cause of the alarm.
Boone felt that desperate effort alone would save him. A foot-race through the forest with a score of Shawnees was the only chance, but to escape the vengeance of the Indians would require a fearful effort.
As the scout started, his foot caught in a clinging vine, and over he went on his face. Before he could recover, the young chief, the White Dog, was upon him.