Grable had made his mark, deep and bloody, on the pages of Missouri's border history. With Indian blood in his veins—some say a half-breed—he united the worst passions of both races, without the slightest of their virtues. Yet, with at least half a dozen Indian squaws, he had demanded the hand of Edith Mordaunt, as the price of his protection and friendship. Losing sight of prudence, the settler administered a thorough thrashing, ending by kicking the half-breed off his clearing.
"True, old man—but what are your plans?"
"First, we'll strike out for Caughlands. With them we kin hold our own ag'in' the varmints, bein' as the cabin is strong. 'Twon't be long afore my boy, Nathan, 'll hear of the fuss, an' then the varmints 'll have to hunt their holes."
"They suspect nothing. Abel was here this evening."
"Oh, boys will be boys, 'specially when there's gals in the same box. But, never mind, Edith," and Boone turned to the blushing maiden, "Abie's a good lad, an' you might go further an' fare wuss."
"Too much talk," sharply interposed Lightfoot, who had been fidgeting uneasily for several moments.
"Right, chief. You know the trail—lead the way. Ed an' I'll see to the women."
First extinguishing the dim light, the party cautiously emerged from the cabin, closing the door behind them. Gliding across the clearing, they entered the forest. The trail led over a tolerably level tract of ground, densely wooded, the hills being small and widely scattered.
The storm threatened to break at any moment. The leaden masses of clouds had united, shutting out the stars and moon. All below was dark—an intense, almost palpable gloom. As the fugitives threaded the forest in single file along the narrow trail, though keeping within arm's-length, the keenest eye could do no more than dimly distinguish the figure immediately before it.
As though endowed with cat-like vision, Lightfoot led the way, without faltering or once seeming at a loss. Even Boone felt a sense of wonder at his skill.