It was altogether too dark to trail, and both concluded to wait till morning for the purpose. Meantime a fire was kindled in the midst of a dense thicket in the middle of the island, screened on all sides by brushwood, and made of dry punk gathered from a rotten fallen tree. Then, by the side of the glowing embers, the wearied hunters dried clothes and arms, cleaned their guns, and consulted on their future movements, after detailing to each other the results of their separate scouts through the Shawnee hunting-grounds, up to the time when they had so unexpectedly met on the banks of the Kentucky.
It took but a little time to exchange news, and then both composed themselves to slumber, with their feet to the fire, and slept till the first streaks of dawn appeared in the eastern sky.
CHAPTER IV.
RUBY ROLAND.
Simon Kenton was the first to wake in the morning. Instead of experiencing the usual feeling of chilliness which assails the camper-out in the early hours by a dying fire, he was sensible of a glowing and comfortable warmth at his feet, and his eyes opened on the leaping white flames of a pleasant fire, the brands crackling merrily, as if lately put on.
“By the holy poker, cunnel,” quoth the borderer, rubbing his eyes and stretching, “you’re ahead of me this hyar mornin’. Wal, let’s get up and make tracks.”
As he spoke, he yawned portentously, and sat up, only to fall back the next moment with a loud exclamation of:
“Who in the Old Scratch be you, anyhow?”
Boone lay fast asleep opposite, and by the fire, between them, sat a young girl, looking intently at Kenton.
“I am Ruby Roland,” said one of the sweetest voices he had ever heard; and the girl smiled in his face, fearlessly.