"Made by white men," said Henry at last.
"Shorely," said Tom Ross.
"Now, I wonder who they can be," said Henry. "It's not the renegades, because they would not leave the Indians."
"S'pose we go see," said Tom Ross.
The trail was faint and difficult to follow, but they managed to make it out, and after another half mile they saw two men sitting by a small camp fire under some trees. The fire was so situated that no one could come within rifle shot of it without being discovered by those who built it, and Henry knew that the two men sitting there had noticed him and Ross.
But the strangers did not move. They went on, calmly eating pieces of buffalo steak that they were broiling over the coals. Although nearly as brown as Indians, they were undoubtedly white men. The features in both cases were clearly Caucasian, and, also, in each case they were marked and distinctive.
Henry and Ross approached fearlessly, and when they were near the fire the two men rose in the manner of those who would receive visitors. When they stood erect the distinction of their appearance, a distinction which was not of dress or cultivation but which was a subtle something belonging to the woods and the wilderness, was heightened. They differed greatly in age. One was in middle years, and the other quite young, not more than twenty-two or three. Each was of medium height and spare. The face of the elder, although cut clean and sharp, had a singularly soft and benevolent expression. Henry observed it as the man turned his calm blue eyes upon the two who came to his fire. Both were clad in the typical border costume, raccoon skin cap, belted deerskin hunting shirt, leggings and moccasins of the same material, and each carried the long-barreled Kentucky rifle, hatchet, and knife. Their dress was careful and clean, and their bearing erect and dignified. Their appearance inspired respect.
Henry looked at them with the greatest curiosity. He believed that he knew the name of the elder man, but he was not yet sure.
"My name is Henry Ware," said Henry, "and my friend is Tom Ross. Our home is at Wareville in Kentucky, whenever we happen to be there, which hasn't been often lately."
"I think I've heard of both of you," said the elder man in mild tones that accorded well with his expression. "Mine is Boone, Dan'l Boone, and this young fellow here with me is Simon Kenton. Simon's a good boy, an' he's learnin' a lot."