"He has done better," replied Turner; "for one of the rascals in the cabin out there had the impudence to thrust forth his painted face in plain sight; and when Jo drew bead on him and fired, he dropped out of view and has not been seen since."
"I hope it was the one who flung his tomahawk at me, and which is still sticking in the door," said Ned Preston.
"It couldn't have been," said the hunter, with an expressive shrug, "for if it had been, I would have missed him. I never made such a mess in all my life as I did a while ago."
"Accidents will happen," laughed the Colonel; "and we have every reason to congratulate ourselves that no one has been harmed, though we have been exposed to great danger. It was a most providential thing that I learned of the coming of the war party, before they were ready for the attack."
"Have you any idea of the number in the woods?" asked Jo Stinger.
"My nephew Ned tells me that Deerfoot the Shawanoe, who ought to be the best authority, says there are certainly fifty, for he saw nearly that many, and he thinks it more than likely there are twice that number."
"I have no doubt there are all of a hundred," observed Jo Stinger, "judging from the way they sent in the shots a few minutes ago; but they have stopped, because they must see that nothing can be gained by such wild firing."
The hunter was right in his last remark, the stillness being as profound as if no living person was within miles of them.
Colonel Preston told all that had been learned through his nephew of the doings of Deerfoot the Shawanoe.
"He has put himself in a bad fix," said Stinger, with another shake of the head: "I know he is one of the cutest varmints in the wilds of Kentucky, but there are some things which he can't do, and I believe he has undertook one of 'em now."