Knight stared stupidly. The man good-naturedly requested: “Don’t waste time. This gun’s gitting heavy.” Then to Kinsty, “Just what you looking for, mister?”
“A red stripe up and down your back, Mister,” growled Kinsty.
The stranger laughed and exclaimed: “Beats all natur’ how every one you meet you sort of think may be that skunk Greeby. Go ahead, younker. My name’s Daniels. Been in the bush so long my back ain’t very clean, mebbe. But you’ll find no red stripe.”
Knight stepped behind the stranger and pulled up the hunting-shirt. The back was that of a very muscular man. Daniels, without being told, slowly turned around, and Kinsty dropped the butt of his gun to the ground and barked—
“All right. But I don’t take no chances with a strange white man this far down the Ohio, on either the Injun or the Kentucky shore.”
Daniels chuckled as if it were a good joke. Then he silently surveyed Knight for a bit and briskly decided:
“Feller’s half starved. Been running his legs off. Hide barked and scratched most tarnal. He oughter eat and sleep.”
“Just what I was telling him,” agreed Kinsty. “He’s most bodacious to be pushing through to Massie’s Station.”
“Safe here for the night as he’d be at Massie’s. What with Greeby and the Girtys and the Shawnees, the station is fair beset.”
“If they ain’t strongly forted he shouldn’t go there,” said Kinsty.