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.
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.
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 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!”
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.