More then once during that long night he could hear the cat-like footsteps of the savages, as they prowled about hoping to light upon some trace of their enemy. But then all grew still, save the dull, monotonous patter of the rain-drops upon the already saturated leaves.
Gradually the old hunter yielded to his fatigue, and leaning back against the gnarled tree-trunk, slept on peacefully and calmly as though in a bed beneath a hospitable roof. And when he awoke, the new day had dawned, the sun-rays were just tinging the crests of the tallest trees.
The storm was over, and the fresh-washed face of Nature appeared doubly beautiful. The feathered denizens of the forest were in full voice, and for a moment the Wood King lay listening, half-dreamily, for the moment forgetful of the dread events of the past night.
But then he remembered all; once more he was the stern wood-ranger. Listening intently, his keen eyes roved over every foot of ground visible from his perch. A rapidly-flitting bird—a pair of playful gray squirrels met his gaze; nothing human—nothing of the savages who had hunted him so hard the night just past.
Noiselessly he turned and forced the wiping-stick into his rifle. The barrel had dried during the night. Then he loaded it carefully, packing powder into the vent, priming it and then scraping the flint. He knew that his life might depend upon the fidelity of his rifle.
With the lightness of the velvet-footed panther, Boone dropped to the ground, thumb upon hammer, finger touching the trigger, and glared around. But his suspicions were unfounded. No enemy was near. They had abandoned the search in despair, knowing that, their blows begun, there could be no rest for them while a single pale-face drew breath in the Osage country. Night and day they must labor, or a fearful retribution would overtake them.
Cautiously, with ready rifle, Boone retraced his steps toward the opening that had been the scene of death. He had no hope of finding any of his friends alive, yet he could not restrain the impulse that urged him on.
He stood upon the edge of the opening. The scene of the massacre was marked by the snarling, scuffling forms of half a dozen wolves. As the hunter strode forward, they slunk away, howling lugubriously.
Stout-hearted, iron-willed though he was, Boone felt a thrill of horror creep over his frame as he gazed down upon the torn and trampled ground. A few tattered fragments of clothing—a number of bare, dismembered bones, nothing more. The four-footed scavengers had completed the work of their brother wolves in human form. This was all that was left of the true-hearted settler and his wife. The hunter turned pale even through the deep sun-dye, and fierce words gritted through his tight-clenched teeth.
"May God's curse rest upon the black-hearted devils, until every mother's son o' them is like these poor critters! To think that only yest'day they was all well an' hearty, an' little Edith—ha!"