Harry had called Joe while launching the canoe, and now the latter joined him and the two carried the unknown one to the shelter under the rocks. He was suffering from a wound in the shoulder, and from another in the left leg, and both of these were bound up by Mrs. Parsons, who in her younger days had been a famous nurse for the sick and wounded.
It was noon of the next day before the unknown man opened his eyes and attempted to sit up.
“You—you are kind to me,” he gasped—“very kind, madam, and I will not forget you for it.”
“How came you in such a situation?” questioned Harry.
“Nay, nay, my son, do not question so sick a mortal,” interposed Mrs. Parsons. “Time enough when he is stronger.”
“The story is soon told,” said the wounded man with an effort. “I was on my way from Fort Boone, with Daniel Boone and three others, to join a party which is expected there soon by a man there named Peter Parsons——”
“My husband!” ejaculated Mrs. Parsons.
“Then you are of that party?”
“Yes.”
“’Tis a strange place for you, madam.” The wounded man looked at the rocks. “But as I was saying, I was with Boone and the others, when we became separated in the heavy rainstorm. The Indians tracked me, and I was wounded and captured. But some time ago I escaped and fled to the river. Then I swam to a tree that was floating by, and crawled on it more dead than alive. And now I am here, thanks——”