Boone, listening intently, heard nothing but the low thud of the knife as it cut through the soft bone and cartilage of the spine, and the rustle in the dry grass as the Indian rolled over.
As for Kenton, he was down on one knee the moment the blow was struck, picking up the rifle that Boone had pushed up to him, and glaring fiercely round through the darkness.
For fully a minute there was a dead silence, both rangers with their senses keenly on the alert for the slightest noise.
Then there was a rustle in the grass not far off, and the low owl-hoot again broke the stillness.
Kenton himself answered it, and all was still again.
He knew well what it all meant. The nearest Indian on the line had heard the plunge of the knife!
Doubtless he had suspected something, and called to his neighbor.
The answer must have reassured him, for there were no more signals for some time.
Then the ranger crept forward, and softly withdrew the knife from where it stuck in the neck of the unhappy wretch, replacing it in his own belt.