“[My Scalp, I Reckon, Young Fellow]”
The words were spoken in a cheery, musical voice, and before he had finished the utterance the speaker’s knife had secured the prize to which he referred.
Hardy looked up to the handsome beardless face of a young man of extremely attractive presence. The countenance was made up of contradictory features. The sternness suggested by the square jaw and large nose was belied by the smiling lips and the merry glint in the eyes. The careful dress, with its adornment of porcupine quills, the embroidered moccasins, the raccoons’ tails pendent from the back of the cap, the long, curled locks that fell below the shoulders,—all these betokened the backwoods dandy; but the great stature, the erect form, the muscular limbs and the weather-beaten face proclaimed the practiced hunter and fighter.
“Simon Kenton, at your service,” said the newcomer, extending his hand with a smile that instantly won Hardy as it did everyone who came in contact with the young frontiersman.
“My name is Hardy Goodfellow,” replied our friend, who had not yet quite recovered his composure. “I live at Boonesborough.”
“Well, if you’ve nothing to keep you, Hardy, we’ll make tracks for the fort. No telling how many more Indians there may be about, and I’d rather eat than fight just now.”
He threw his rifle over his shoulder and led the way to the beaten path with easy swinging strides, whistling as he went. Hardy presently ranged up alongside of him and immediately proceeded to unburden his mind.
“You saved my life,” he said. “I hope I may do as much for you some day.”