Kenton laughed heartily and slapped his companion on the back, as he said:
“You know better now than to aim at the crest-feathers of a redskin and then throw your tomahawk at him, eh, young ’un?”
It was a beautiful country through which the travellers passed in their two days’ journey. On every hand stretched timbered prairie, over which roamed herds of buffalo, deer, and other game. Every few miles brought them to a little settlement surrounded by orchards and standing crops. Many of the inhabitants were Americans. In fact, three-fifths of the population of Upper Louisiana were immigrants from the States at the time of annexation.
On the evening of the second day, the friends learned that they were within a few miles of their destination. They determined to defer their arrival until the next morning, and spent the interval before bedtime in securing the two fat bucks that they had proposed to take to their old leader as a humble testimony of respect.
Early the next morning Kenton and Hardy, laboring under their heavy burdens, approached a cabin, to which they had been directed, on the outskirts of a settlement in St. Charles County, Missouri. It was a small, two-roomed, structure of hewn logs and shingle roof. Well-fenced fields and a large orchard lay behind the building.
On a tree-stump near the cabin sat an old man, with snow-white hair falling over his shoulders. He was repairing the lock of a gun, whilst a hound crouched at his feet and looked up in eager expectation, hoping that a hunt was in prospect.
The travellers hurried forward as well as they could with their loads, shouting greetings as they came:
“Hallo, Colonel!”
“Hallo, dad!”
The old man rose, displaying surprising activity and erectness of carriage. He shaded his eyes with his hand and in a moment recognized his visitors.