“Who calls?” came back, in a thick voice, as though the speaker himself could scarcely use his voice.
“It is I, Joe Winship. I am fast in a sink-hole. Help me!”
“Where are you, Joe?” and now the lad recognized the voice of Daniel Boone.
“Here! Oh, Colonel Boone, save me!”
The form came closer, and presently Joe saw Boone. The young pioneer stretched out his arms eagerly.
“Hullo, this is a bad fix,” murmured Boone, as he took in the situation at a glance.
Coming to the edge of the sink-hole he placed his feet on the firmest spot to be found, and then caught Joe under the arms. A long, hard pull, that made the lad think he was going to be disjointed, followed, and then up he came.
“Can you stand?” asked Daniel Boone, and then as he saw the boy falter, he caught up the body, slung it over his shoulder, and made off amid the smoke and the flying embers.
In another five minutes both Boone and Joe were out of danger. They had reached a spot a fair distance from the burning forest, and each squatted in the brook up to their armpits and washed their flushed and scorched faces and hands in the cool liquid. About half of the party that had gone out after the Indians were doing the same. What had become of the other hunters nobody knew.
It was not until nightfall that Daniel Boone was able to get his men together again. It was found that one had been burnt up by the fire, and half a dozen seriously injured. Three Indians had been shot, but the others had departed for parts unknown.