“Simon, is that you? Well, this is a good story.”
The voice of the stranger was deep and powerful; he spoke better English than Kenton, and the latter seemed to recognize the tones in a moment.
The ranger sprung back in the water, with a cry of wonder, and shouted out:
“Gee-Christopher-cricket-and-blue-blazes! Wal, ef we arn’t be’n a couple of durndest jack-mules this side of ole Virginny. By the holy poker, it’s Cunnel Boone!”
Daniel Boone himself indulged in a short laugh, instantly checked, as he quietly said:
“And I took you for a Shawnee scout, Kenton, and thought you wanted to scalp the girl on the island. Well, well.”
Not another word passed between the two famous hunters, so strangely met, for some time. They returned their knives in silence, groped about in the water with their moccasined feet, and discovered their rifles, with which they slowly landed on the island, both buried in curious cogitations.
They ascended the bank together and entered the thick cover of bushes before either of them spoke, and then Kenton, in a sort of sheepish tone, said:
“’Twon’t do to tell this story too permiskus, cunnel, I reckon. I’m clean ashamed o’ myself fur not pluggin’ ye, when ye give me such a chance. I war a-sayin’ to myself, what would cunnel say ef he knowed I’d made sich a show o’ myself to a Injun varmint, leave alone a white man, and sich a white man as you, cunnel.”
Boone again uttered one of his low laughs.