“I wish he had seen that woman who was a captive.”
“I don’t think it was your mother, Joe. She is probably miles and miles away from here.”
“That is true. But she might have heard something of my mother—through the Indians.”
“’Taint likely—the redskins won’t tell much about their prisoners. They are too afraid of having their captives followed up by friends.”
The march was once more forward, over a stretch of ground thick with thorny underbrush where more than one hunting garb became badly torn. Here Joe took two tumbles, and scratched both his hands and his face. But he did not complain, knowing that many of his companions were in a similar plight.
At the end of the day the hunters found themselves on the bank of a stream that flowed into the main river a dozen miles away. It was an ideal spot for resting, and a long and careful search revealed no Indians in the immediate vicinity.
Nothing came to disturb the camp that night, although a strict watch was kept, and by daybreak the hunters were again on the march. Soon they struck the trail of the Indians, and Daniel Boone calculated that the enemy were not less than two hundred in number. Only a few were on horseback.
As the hunters advanced scouts were sent out ahead, and presently two of these came running back with the information that the Indians were making for a long valley straight ahead.
“That is Bear Valley,” said Daniel Boone. “I know it well. Beyond is a heavy forest. If they reach that they will surely get away. We must try to come up to them before the end of the valley is reached.”
It was a hot, dry day, but a lively breeze was blowing, which made the air seem somewhat cooler than it really was. The breeze had been on the hunters’ backs, but now it began to swerve around until it came almost from their front.