In the same instant Simon stuck his cap on the end of his rifle and protruded it from behind his tree.
Hardly had he done so when a bullet whizzed through the cap, with an accuracy of aim that surprised even him.
The ranger stepped from behind the tree, and leveled his rifle at the white puff of smoke on the other side of the river. He saw the form of a man vanish as he fired, and was greeted with a derisive whoop of scorn.
Kenton sunk back to his old position to reload, muttering: “By the holy poker, mister, thur bean’t no discount on you fur a warrior. Kurn’t fool that kuss. He must ’a’ seen the cap. That skulp’s wuth hav’in’. Reckon it must be old Blackfish or Otter Lifter hisself. No common brave c’u’d be as smart as that.”
It certainly seemed as if matters were at a dead lock. Two shots had been fired by Simon Kenton, the best marksman of the border, after Boone, and each had brought nothing but a return as close as his own.
Reckless as the nature of the ranger was, he began to think that he couldn’t afford to try any more risks with such a foe. The chances were too evenly balanced. He threw himself down in a place whence he could command a good view of the north bank, and determined to wait. He was well aware that night would surely bring things to a crisis and end the suspense. For darkness he determined to wait, resolved not to give his foe another chance.
For at least an hour all was profoundly still, and not a motion on either bank betrayed the presence of the two wily antagonists. Then Simon Kenton started violently and muttered to himself:
“By the holy poker, what’s that?”
There was a distinct rustling of trees and bushes on the little island in the river.