"Dan'l," said Kenton, in that low, musical voice which was one of his most marked characteristics, "this 'ere bus'ness has took the qu'arest shape of anything that you or me have been mixed up in."
"I haven't been mixed up in it, Simon," corrected Boone, turning his somewhat narrow, but clean-shaven face upon the other, and smiling gently in a way that brought the wrinkles around a pair of eyes as blue as those of Kenton himself.
"Not yet, but you're powerful sartin to be afore them folks reach the block-house."
Boone nodded his head to signify that he agreed with his friend.
"You wasn't at the block-house, Dan'l, when the flatboat stopped there?"
"No."
"Neither was I; I was tramping through the woods on my way to make a call on Mr. Ashbridge."
"That's the man who put up the cabin a mile back down the river?"
"Yes; you see Norman Ashbridge or his son George—and the same is a powerful likely younker—come down the Ohio last spring in their flatboat, and stopped at the clearing a mile below us, where they put up a tidy cabin. A few weeks ago the father started east to bring down his family in another flatboat. George, the younker, got tired of waiting and set out to meet 'em; him and me come together in the woods, and had a scrimmage with the varmints afore we got on the boat with 'em. Things were purty warm on the way down the river, for The Panther made matters warm for us."
"The Panther!" repeated Boone, turning toward his friend; "I was afraid he was mixed up in this."