“If the Indians find that they are being pursued, they may murder the girls, and then run for it,” he said. “We must save the girls unharmed if we possibly can.”
It was hard walking through the brake, but Joe was toughened to it, and did not murmur. Boone went in advance, his eyes and ears as keenly on guard as those of any Indian. Thus nearly thirty miles were covered, with only a halt for dinner. No fire was built, Boone being afraid that the enemy might see the smoke.
Nightfall found the hunters in the midst of a timber belt. They had gone on until even Boone was tired out, and so rested, satisfied that they would come up with the Indians sometime on the morrow.
Joe was glad enough to rest, and hardly had his head touched the ground than he sank into slumber, from which he did not awaken until dawn.
A hasty breakfast was prepared and eaten, and the little band of whites pushed forward once more, Daniel Boone again in the lead, his rifle in both hands, and his eyes on the trail.
“It is growing fresher,” he said presently. And a moment later: “Here is where they encamped for the night, and the girls with them.”
He was right, and, satisfied that they were now but two hours behind the Indians on the trail, they went on faster than ever. The route lay along a buffalo path, and in many spots was rough and uncertain.
It was almost noon when Boone, who was still in advance, held up his hand for those behind him to stop. All dropped low in the grass beside the trail, and then the great hunter wormed his way forward on his breast and stomach until he reached the edge of a small opening beside a brook that flowed into the river.
The sight that met his gaze thrilled him to the heart. The Indians were there, having built a tiny fire over which they were cooking their midday meal. Close beside the fire, and sitting on a log weeping bitterly, were the three girls that had been made captives two days before.