avers all dead or
in no shape to fight. Here comes Daniel Boone himself," the hunter
exclaimed suddenly, "and I reckon you boys will have to explain to him
what you meant by your shots back yonder."

CHAPTER III

THE HUNT FOR GAME

At the words of the hunter the boys looked up and saw the scout
approaching. He was a tall, lean man, quiet in his bearing, in the prime
of middle life, and with every indication of self-control, as well as of
strength, stamped upon his face and form. His expression showed that he
was anxious concerning the shots which had been fired, but as he drew
near the boys he was not the first to speak. Peleg's admiration was
manifest in the manner in which the young pioneer looked up to the great
leader, though the boy, like others of his day and age, seldom spoke to
his elders unless first they had spoken to him.

In response to the question which was expressed in the eyes of Daniel
Boone, rather than in words, Sam Oliver said quietly, "The boys shot a
painter."

There was a slight smile on the face of Daniel Boone as he said, "Did
they? Was it necessary?" he added, as he turned to his son.

"Yes, sir," replied young Boone. "The varmint was just ready to spring
on Peleg. He was crouching on the branch of a tree directly over him,
and if I had not fired he would have had him."

"It must be right. You know," added Boone quietly, smiling again as he
spoke, "I am one of those who believe that whatever happens is right."

"And yet," suggested the hunter, "you don't stop tryin' for yourself,
nor for others, either."

"Not at all," answered the scout. "A man must follow the best light he
can get and then, beyond that, where he cannot go, he must believe that
things do not 'happen.' I have heard some men blame their 'luck' for
what befell them. I have never thought there was any such thing as
'luck.' The trouble is we do not always see the connection in events,
and in our ignorance we say a thing 'happens.' I am sorry the boys had
to shoot the painter."

"I never knew," laughed the loquacious Sam, "that you had any sympathy
to waste on those critters."

"I haven't," replied Daniel Boone, a trace of a smile again appearing on
his face as he spoke. "I am not sorry that the painter was shot. I am
sorry that the boys had to shoot it. Just now I am more afraid of their
rifles than I am of painters."

The trio looked quickly into the face of the leader, but his quiet
expression was unchange