It was Rollo, the Boy Ranger.
Old Tumult placed his hat upon the muzzle of his gun and waved it above his head, shouting at the top of his lungs.
The young ranger drew rein and answered the scout’s shout by a blast from his horn and a waving of his scarlet cap.
“Ay, Rollo, my lad,” called the scout, “it’s rather a cramped condition we’re in, and all fur want o’ help.”
The young ranger was not over two hundred yards away, and had no difficulty in catching the scout’s words.
“Then you shall want no longer, old friend,” replied the ranger; “I will assist you at once.”
“But how kin ye, my lad?” asked the scout.
“I will hasten up the river to King’s Ford and get the old ferryman’s boat,” returned the youth.
“That’ll do, my gallant boy; jist run the boat under this ’ere tree and we’ll be ready to drop down into it.”
With a wave of his scarlet cap, the ranger dashed away on his mission. It was about three miles to what was known as King’s Ford, where an old half-breed by the name of King had built a ferry-boat, for the purpose of transferring the loaded teams of settlers from one side to the other during high waters.