He paused abruptly in his mutterings and glanced hurriedly around—almost wildly. Could it be? Only two skulls were visible—only two! Then where were the others? Those of Edith and Lightfoot?
"Kin it be they got off? Sure I saw 'em both fall!"
With heart throbbing painfully the old scout reached the vicinity, fearing the worst—scarce daring to hope.
Then he paused, glancing quickly toward the forest. The sound of footsteps rustling among the undergrowth caught his ear, and he crouched down behind a scrubby bush, with rifle cocked in readiness for use.
A human figure stepped into view, followed by another. Boone sprung to his feet, for he recognized them. They were white men—settlers.
"Fosdick—an' you, Kingsley, is all well at the settlements?" eagerly cried Boone, springing forward.
"Yas—but thar's b'en black work 'mong the outlyin' cabins, it seems. So much fer trustin' the red devils too fur—ef all 'd 'a' be'n o' my mind, this wouldn't 'a' happened, fer lack o' hands to do it with," growled the burly borderer.
In cooler blood, though, even Fosdick was forced to admit that all the Indians were not bad, since to timely information given by several, the "Boone's Lick Settlement" was saved from almost entire massacre, and the insurrection nipped in the bud; only a few of the more isolated cabins were destroyed and the settlers killed.
"How did you chaince to hear of this so soon?"
"Abe Dare brung us word—"