He ceased speaking suddenly as if having said more than he intended, and again my tongue was an unruly member.
"Haven't you any kin who would mourn because of your absence?" I asked, and Simon Kenton's face grew pale, bronzed though it was by the weather.
"The less that's said about me the better," he replied curtly, and then, the canoe being alongside the bank, he sprang out to make her fast, thus putting an end to further words.
He was absent no more than half an hour, during which time Paul and I sat motionless and silent, hidden by the foliage, from the view of any who might pass either by land or water.
When he returned we knew he had seen no signs of danger, although not a word was spoken until we were a mile or more from the halting place. Then he said quietly:
"I reckon we've already met all the reptiles who are roamin' hereabout, an' that we shan't run our noses into any more fights this side of the Tennessee River. We'll keep a sharp lookout just the same, though, an' pull up to-night so's not to get too far ahead of the volunteers."
As he said so we did. During the day we drifted with the current seeing naught of danger, and at nightfall pulled the canoe up under the overhanging foliage to enjoy a good night's rest.
The story of this day's journey was that of the days which followed until we were come to the rendezvous, arriving, as we believed, not more than four and twenty hours in advance of Major Clarke's force.
Since the day when Simon Kenton was made prisoner we had seen no signs of the foe, and it seemed certain that then we had come upon the only warlike band outside the British outposts.
When we stepped from the canoe at the mouth of the Tennessee River I drew in a long breath of relief, for at that moment I was nearer exhaustion than I ever believed would be possible when one has done nothing more than remain inactive.