"Abe Dare—then the varmints didn't kill him 'th the rest?" echoed Boone, in astonishment.
"No—he's thar by the cabin—or rather what was the cabin, 'th some o' the boys, a-pickin' up the old folks."
Boone hastened to the spot, and found the truth had been told. Here too the four-footed wolves had been at their horrible feast. Around the still smoldering ruins the bones of the ill-fated settlers were scattered.
The hunter found Abel Dare pale and stony—sadly changed by that night's events. Boone wondered if he yet knew all, but feared to put the question that would decide his doubts.
From the talk of the settlers he learned how it came that Dare had escaped the massacre of his adopted parents, for the young man spoke never a word. Pale and icy stern he worked on, hollowing out a rude grave to contain all that remained on earth of his loved ones.
That evening Abel Dare had visited the Mordaunt cabin, for Edith was his promised wife. On his return home he met the little son of a neighbor, going in quest of assistance. By an awkward fall his father had broken a leg. Abel returned with the boy, and by that act of kindness, in all probability escaped death. The fracture was a simple one, and he managed to set it. Scarcely had he succeeded, when the little boy spoke of a bright light over the hill-top. Its position roused Dare's fears—he believed it to be from his own clearing. At top speed he hastened there—but too late. The tragedy was over. His friends had rushed forth from the blazing pile, only to meet death at the hands of the demoniac savages. He could see their ghastly bodies lying in the full glare of the fire, with the yelling, exultant fiends dancing around in mad glee.
His rifle sprung to his shoulder, and the hammer fell; but with a simple click. In his mad race through the forest the flint had fallen out. This discovery recalled his senses. The savages numbered over a score; to attack them now would but insure his own death—and he resolved to live for vengeance. With this thought uppermost in his mind, he turned and hastened at top speed for the settlements, never faltering once on the long trail, his muscles nerved by the sight he had just witnessed. He found the settlement greatly excited. Some friendly Indians had betrayed the plot for its destruction. Yet half a dozen men answered his appeal, for the most part single men, hunters and scouts—the ones who were now with him.
In silence Boone listened to the plans—if such they could be called—of the scouts. They swore vengeance upon the tribe of Pottawatomies in general. An Indian was an Indian to them; whether their hands had shed this blood mattered not. "A life for a life"—true border law—this was their creed.
"An' thar drops number one!" snarled Jim Fosdick, throwing up his rifle, as a dusky form stepped out into the clearing and advanced toward them.
"Stop!" cried Boone, knocking up the weapon, sending the ragged bullet hissing over the tree-tops. "That's a true fri'nd—hurt him, an' you must deal 'th me!"