of the way,
and, blinded by the sun, it sat there on the bough, mourning and
mourning.

Henry laughed. He had laughed many times the night before and he could
not keep from laughing that morning. The owl was quite the saddest
spectacle the woods could afford, and he had no mind to disturb it.

"Stay there and grieve, my solemn friend," he said. "Truly, with the sun
on you, your eyes closed and your heart sunk you'll be silent, but
tonight you'll give forth your melancholy hoot, although I won't be here
to hear it."

He looked to his ammunition, and stepped forth into a new and refreshed
world, filled with cool drying airs and the appealing odor of leaf and
grass. He descended into the ravine, the water falling in beads from the
leaves as he brushed by, and followed for a little distance in the bare
trail left by the fire. A mile farther on and a pair of great red eyes
peering at him from a thicket saw in him a terrible beast that even the
master of the wolves should avoid.

The huge leader gave a yelp, and as Henry turned suddenly, he saw the
great wolf flitting away up the ravine, followed by the twenty gaunt
figures of his pack. He could have dropped the big wolf with a bullet,
but there was no need to do so, and he merely watched them until they
disappeared in the forest, concluding that his companions of the night
were as much afraid of him in the day as in the dark. All of them, save
one band, had come back in a frightened way, but he knew that the
Indians would not return. He was sure that they were still on their
terrified flight toward the Ohio, and he followed in the path of the
fire, until he came to the prairie where it had burned itself out.

It was only a little prairie, about two miles across, no other kind
having been found in Kentucky, and, on the far side, he picked up the
trail of the Indian band. He did not see any footsteps that turned out,
and he wondered at their absence. What had become of Braxton Wyatt? His
body had not been found in the path of the flames, and certainly he had
not perished. Henry, after some thought, came to the right conclusion,
namely, that he was being carried. But his hurt could not be any wound
received in battle, and probably he would recover soon, another correct
surmise, as a short distance farther on the trail of toes that turned
out appeared.

All the steps seemed to be long, and Henry judged hence that the band
was going fast, terror still stabbing at their hea