"We must follow them up," continued Kit. "Boy, take Matt's rifle, and follow me."
I bent over the form of the fallen patriarch. I placed my hand upon his heart, but there was no answering throb. He was indeed dead, and my whole frame was shaken with convulsive grief.
"Don't stop there, boy!" called Kit.
"He is dead!" I groaned in bitterness of spirit.
"I know he is, boy; but we can't help it. We can't stop to cry now."
"My best friend!"
"Come, boy!" shouted Kit. "Bring his rifle, powder, and ball."
I wiped the tears from my eyes, but I could not banish the sorrow from my heart. Gently I raised the head of the old hunter, and removed the powder-horn and bullet-pouch which were suspended over his shoulder. Picking up the rifle, which lay near him on the ground, I followed my companions into the forest. I felt then that I could shoot an Indian without any remorse.
CHAPTER VI.