The two Indians sat down side by side, and proceeded to hold a short conversation in low tones, the scout seeing every motion. The outline of one of them was that of an old chief, for Kenton could distinguish the eagle-feathers, only worn by chiefs.

This warrior seemed to be gravely lecturing his heedless companion on his folly in firing, and the young one seemed to be excusing himself, although Kenton did not fully understand their words.

The conversation did not last long, for the old chief finally stole away to the left along the line, as if on a tour of inspection, and, covered by his rustling, for he moved carelessly, the borderer crept forward.

It was evident that the old chief, astute as he was, did not suspect that his enemies were anywhere in the immediate vicinity, or he would not have made so much noise.

[32]

He was simply going “grand rounds,” to keep his sentries on the alert for a possible contingency.

Simon Kenton, leaving his rifle at about four feet from his enemy, drew his knife, and prepared to spring on the young Indian, who sat looking at the fort, with his back to the Kentuckian.

Just at that moment the blood rushed to the ranger’s heart with a terrible throb, for he felt a hand laid on his extended foot!

Most men, at such a time, would have started.

Simon lay still. He could not afford to start. He did not know who touched him, but he did know that while he kept silence there was still hope in that darkness.

Slowly and noiselessly he turned his head, and felt a thrill of relief as he distinguished the black outline of Boone’s coon-skin cap. He knew that his friend had followed him, and wanted to say something.

The position was now frightfully dangerous. Within a few yards were twenty Indian warriors listening for them.

Within three feet was one more, with his back turned to them.

Could the scouts communicate without being heard?

Kenton thought not, but he lay still, trusting to Boone’s sagacity. In a moment more, the hand was removed, and the form of Boone glided forward with no more apparent effort than if he had been floating in water.

He said not a word, but he raised his left hand, and laid a finger on the back of Kenton’s neck at the base of the skull, then pointed to the Indian and tapped his knife.

Simon nodded his head in token of comprehension, and slowly drew up, first one knee; then the other, till he was crouching behind a tree not two feet from the Indian. Boone lay quite still, while his comrade rose.

Then Kenton, holding his great knife-blade upwards, made a single step forward, and lunged out at the back of the Indian’s neck, dividing the spinal marrow with the skill of a matador.

The head of the sentry fell forward on his breast, and he slowly rolled over on his side, as if he had been dropping off to sleep. He was stone dead.

[33]

Boone, listening intently, heard nothing but the low thud of the knife as it cut through the soft bone and cartilage of the spine, and the rustle in the dry grass as the Indian rolled over.

As for Kenton, he was down on one knee the moment the blow was struck, picking up the rifle that Boone had pushed up to him, and glaring fiercely round through the darkness.

For fully a minute there was a dead silence, both rangers with their senses keenly on the alert for the slightest noise.

Then there was a rustle in the grass not far off, and the low owl-hoot again broke the stillness.

Kenton himself answered it, and all was still again.

He knew well what it all meant. The nearest Indian on the line had heard the plunge of the knife!

Doubtless he had suspected something, and called to his neighbor.

The answer must have reassured him, for there were no more signals for some time.

Then the ranger crept forward, and softly withdrew the knife from where it stuck in the neck of the unhappy wretch, replacing it in his own belt.

As he did so, Boone touched his foot once more, and he looked back. Both the borderer and Ruby Roland were close behind him crouching to the earth, and Boone silently pointed to the fort, as if to urge a sudden dash forward.

Kenton beckoned them forward, and whispered:

“Run! both of ye. I’ll cover the rear and sculp this hyar varmint.”

Boone nodded softly, and took Ruby by the hand.

From where they were, they could distinctly see the sharp outlines of the pointed palisades that surrounded the fort, for as Kenton had guessed, the line had been drawn in very close during the darkness.

The only question that remained was whether there were a second line of Indians close in or not.

If not, they were almost out of danger. If there were, there was much yet to be done.

Daniel Boone and Ruby Roland crept toward the fort, not[34] without some little noise, but crouching low and making the best speed they could.

The moment they started Kenton knew they were heard. He heard a quick rustle of dry grass and dead leaves, a heavy rushing through the brushwood, and a score of dark forms leaped up and dashed toward the fort, yelling furiously. He heard Boone utter the Shawnee war-whoop, to confuse his enemies, and saw him and Ruby go flying among the stumps that surrounded the fort, just as a ring of spitting red flashes lighted up the woods, followed by a rattling volley of rifles. Covered by the racket, and himself unobserved, the reckless borderer passed his knife round the head of the slain sentry and scalped him without more ado.

Then he picked up the slain man’s rifle, and rushed forward into the melee, whooping louder than any of them, and so far unrecognized in the thick darkness.

But now, on a sudden, the people of the fort opened a warm fire on the Indians outside, and the bullets began to fly very unpleasantly near our three friends.

Kenton bounded forward, and beheld a confused group of dark figures close under the walls, which he recognized in a moment as Boone and Ruby surrounded by foes.

“Hooroar for ole Kaintuck!” shouted the ranger, throwing all disguise to the winds, and exerting his powerful voice to the utmost. “Go it, cunnel! Give ’em fits! Knock the daylights out of the painted imps! So now!”

As he spoke, he leveled the Indian’s rifle at the thickest of the Indian group, fired, dropped it, leveled his own at a chief who was rushing at him, and shot him dead, just as Boone himself fired for the first time.

Then the two renowned Indian-fighters clubbed their heavy rifles and fought like ten men to drive off the enemy and protect little Ruby.

The girl was crouched on the ground between them, the guns of the whole party were empty, and the conflict between the two muscular borderers and the confused Indians was by no means so unequal as might seem.

Suddenly a clear, commanding voice from the fort shouted:

“White men, drop, quick!”

[35]

Like lightning both scouts obeyed, and a rattling volley was fired, the bullets tearing through the Indians, and sending the whole crowd to cover in a moment.

“To the gate, quick!” shouted the same voice.

“Ay, ay, cunnel, here we come!” cried Kenton.

As he spoke he snatched up Ruby like a child, and dashed away with her, followed by Boone.

A moment later the open gate of the fort was before them.