ide by side,
everyone silent and motionless, and everyone holding by the muzzle a long,
slender-barreled rifle, its stock upon the ground, as he gazed at the
train.

A deep breath ran through the crowd of emigrants, and all--men, women, and
children--moved forward for a better look. There was something mysterious
and uncanny in this sudden apparition of the five there in the blazing
light of the setting sun, which outlined their figures in every detail and
raised them to gigantic proportions. On those hills only was light;
everywhere else the mighty curving wilderness, full of unknown terrors,
was already dark with the coming night.

"It is our omen of danger. I feel it, I feel it In every bone of me,"
murmured Daniel Poe into his great black beard.

"We must find out what this means, that's shore," said Dick Salter.

But as he spoke, the first figure, that of the great, splendid youth,
stepped right out of the eye of the sun, and he was followed in single
file by the four others, all stepping in unison. They came down the hill,
and directly toward the travelers. Again that deep breath ran through the
crowd of emigrants, and the chief note of it was admiration, mingled with
an intense curiosity.

All the five figures were strange and wild, sinewy, powerful, almost as
dark as Indians, their eyes watchful and wary and roving from side to
side, their clothing wholly of skins and furs, singular and picturesque.
They seemed almost to have come from another world. But Daniel Poe was
never lacking either in the qualities of hospitality or leadership.

"Friends," he said, "as white men--for such I take you to be--you are
welcome to our camp."

The first of the five, the great, tall youth with the magnificent
shoulders, smiled, and it seemed to Daniel Poe that the smile was
wonderfully frank and winning.

"Yes, we are white, though we may not look it," he said in a clear, deep
voice, "and we have come near a thousand miles to meet you."

"To meet us?" repeated Daniel Poe, in surprise, while Dick Salter, beside
him, was saying to himself, as he looked at one of the five: "Ef that
ain't Tom Ross, then I'll eat my cap."

"Yes," repeated Henry Ware, with the most convincing emphasis, "it's you
that we've come to meet. We belong at Wareville, although we've been far
in the North throughout the winter. My name is Henry Ware, this is Paul
Cotter, and these are Tom Ross, Sol Hyde, and Jim Hart. We must have a
word with you a