Simon lay still. He could not afford to start. He did not know who touched him, but he did know that while he kept silence there was still hope in that darkness.
Slowly and noiselessly he turned his head, and felt a thrill of relief as he distinguished the black outline of Boone’s coon-skin cap. He knew that his friend had followed him, and wanted to say something.
The position was now frightfully dangerous. Within a few yards were twenty Indian warriors listening for them.
Within three feet was one more, with his back turned to them.
Could the scouts communicate without being heard?
Kenton thought not, but he lay still, trusting to Boone’s sagacity. In a moment more, the hand was removed, and the form of Boone glided forward with no more apparent effort than if he had been floating in water.
He said not a word, but he raised his left hand, and laid a finger on the back of Kenton’s neck at the base of the skull, then pointed to the Indian and tapped his knife.
Simon nodded his head in token of comprehension, and slowly drew up, first one knee; then the other, till he was crouching behind a tree not two feet from the Indian. Boone lay quite still, while his comrade rose.
Then Kenton, holding his great knife-blade upwards, made a single step forward, and lunged out at the back of the Indian’s neck, dividing the spinal marrow with the skill of a matador.
The head of the sentry fell forward on his breast, and he slowly rolled over on his side, as if he had been dropping off to sleep. He was stone dead.