was gone.

Two miles below the fort the river curved. No watching canoe would be
likely to be there, and Henry thought it would be a good place to swim
the river. He was about to prepare himself for his task, when by the
moonlight, which was now clear, he saw the print of footsteps in the
soft earth near the shore. There was a trail evidently made by two men.
It ran over the soft earth twenty feet, perhaps, and was then lost among
the bushes.

He examined the footsteps carefully and he was sure that they were made
by white men and within the hour. He crouched among the bushes and
uttered a faint, whining cry like the suppressed howl of a wolf. It was
a cry literally sent into the dark, but he took the chance. A similar
cry came back from a point not very far away, and he moved toward it. He
heard a light rustle among the bushes and leaves and he stopped, lying
down in order that he might be hidden and, at the same time, watch.

Henry was quite convinced that those who made the footprints had also
made the noise, and he was still sure that they were white men. They
might be renegades, but he did not think so. Renegades were few in
number, and they were likely at such a time to stay closely in the
Indian camp. He was puzzled for a little while how to act. He might
stalk these strangers and they might stalk him in the darkness for hours
without either side ascertaining a single fact concerning the identity
of the other. He decided upon a bold policy and called loudly: "Who is
there?"

His was unmistakably a white voice, the voice of a white Anglo-Saxon,
and back came the reply in the same good English of the white man: "Who
are you?"

"A friend from the Kentucky settlements," replied Henry, and stood up.
Two figures, also, rose from the brush, and after a few moments'
inspection advanced.

Henry could scarcely restrain a cry of pleasure as he recognized the
men. They were Daniel Boone and Simon Kenton. Boone laughed in his
quiet, low way as they came forward.

"About to take another night swim in the Ohio, Indians or no Indians?"
he said.

Henry understood at once. It was these two who had saved them; the
timely bullets had come from the rifles of these famous borderers.

"We owe our lives to you and Mr. Kenton, Mr. Boone," he said, grasping
the hand that Daniel Boone held out to him.

Boone laughed again in his quiet fashion. No sound came from his lips,
but his face quivered with mirth.

"You certainly we