Boone’s vigil had extended to the gray dawn when his attention was attracted by a dim figure moving on the farther side of the camp. He thought that it was probably one of the settlers suffering from indigestion or, perhaps, walking in his sleep. However, prudence demanded that he should stalk the figure, and he accordingly slipped noiselessly round the back of the shelters in his moccasined feet. The manœuvre brought him suddenly within sight of the person at a few feet distance. The light was just strong enough to enable him to discern the form of a youth who was struggling to suppress the sobs that convulsed his frame at intervals.
Boone took the boy by the arm and gently led him to the fallen tree by his own camp fire.
“Sit down,” he said. “Now, what’s the trouble, young man?” He spoke in a low, soft voice that told the lad that he had fallen in with a friend. “Take your time,” continued the hunter, soothingly; “I know it hurts, whatever it is, and you’re taking it like a man, anyhow.”
He placed an arm across the boy’s shoulders and the youngster felt the touch strengthen and calm him as had not all the comforting words of the sympathetic settlers’ wives. After a while he controlled himself sufficiently to speak.
“My father was killed yesterday,” said the lad, at last, “and—and I didn’t see him.”
“Too bad, too bad,” said Boone, drawing the boy closer to his side. “I wouldn’t worry about not seeing him, though. I saw him—I buried him, and he looked peaceful and I don’t doubt is happier than you or me at this moment. Where’s your mother, young man?”
“Mother died long ago, before we left England.”
“You don’t mean that you’re all alone?”
“Yes, now that father’s dead, I’m all alone.”