“The Indians must not be allowed to go too far,” said Daniel Boone.
“But with even my father and Frost we will number but eight,” said Joe.
“True, lad; but I calculate that a good white hunter is worth four or five redskins,” answered Boone.
The well-known old hunter was dressed in the typical garb of that period—loose hunting shirt, or frock, of dressed deer skins, leggings of leather, fringed on the outer seam, and a coonskin cap, in which was stuck a curled feather or two, and on the feet a pair of coarse, heavy moccasins. Around his waist the hunter wore a substantial belt, with a tomahawk at his right side, and on the left his long hunting knife, powder horn, bullet pouch, and small metal case containing extra flints and tinder.
All were seated around a tiny camp-fire at about eight o’clock that evening, when Boone suddenly arose.
“Somebody is coming,” he said.
Neither of the boys had heard a sound out of the ordinary, nor had some of the others for that matter. But Daniel Boone’s ears were trained to woodcraft, and he had caught the cracking of some brushwood a good distance away. He picked up his rifle and moved out of the circle of light, and several of the other men followed his example.
It was soon seen that Ezra Winship and Pep Frost were approaching, followed by two men and several women and children—all members of that ill-fated band that had suffered so much but a short while before. One of the men was wounded in the shoulder, and one of the children had been partly scalped.
It can well be imagined that Ezra Winship was glad to meet Daniel Boone, whom he knew so well by reputation, if not personally.
“We need your assistance sorely,” said Mr. Winship. “Our whole party has been either killed, taken prisoners, or scattered, and I must say that I hardly know what to do.”