with eager haste, boone and kenton followed in the footsteps of lark.
on through the station, without turning to the right or left, but heading straight toward the forest, lark went.
amazed at his strange action, they strove to overtake him, but the madman—for the two borderers had but little doubt that lark had been attacked by sudden madness—entered the shadows of the wood before the others could overtake him.
the two paused on the edge of the timber and looked at each other for a moment in astonishment.
“well, dern my old hide, ef i know what to make of this!” exclaimed boone, breaking the silence.
“shall we follow him?” asked kenton.
“yes,” replied boone, decidedly. “i never see’d anything like this hyer afore, and i feel a nat’ral curiosity to see the end onto it. we were a-goin’ to make a scout, and ef we foller him, why, it’s pretty much the same thing.”
so, without further conversation, the two plunged into the wood.
they tracked lark easily, for he crashed through the wood without caution, making fully as much noise as a huge bear.
lark was heading straight for the ohio; in fact, retracing the course the three had taken in coming from the indian village of chillicothe.
“ef we should happen to run into a war-party of shawnees, they’d make mince-meat out of us afore you could say jack robingson,” growled kenton to boone, as they raced through the tangled mazes of the thicket, in their endeavor to keep up with the madman’s headlong course.
“yes, it’s lucky that thar ain’t any chance of meetin’ the red heathens this side of the big drink.” boone was referring to the ohio.
“derned ef i ain’t gitting short-winded,” said his companion, breathing heavily.
“well, i ain’t got any more wind than i want myself,” boone replied.
still onward through the forest lark went, never slacking his headlong speed, stopping not for bush nor brier.
at last he reached the river’s bank.
the shades of night were descending fast upon the earth, covering forest and river with a mantle of inky blackness. afar off in the eastern sky, the moon, like a sword of fire, was rising above the forest’s dark line.
calmly on rolled the great river, its turbid waves lashing the banks that bound its pathway with many a dull and sullen moan as though impatient of restraint.
when boone and kenton reached the river’s side, lark had just drawn a canoe from its hiding-place in the bushes that ringed the bank. the canoe was the same that the three had used before when they had crossed the stream.
lark dragged the canoe to the river and launched the frail bark on the dark and sullen waters.
the two scouts, profiting by the delay, overtook lark just as he gave the canoe to the embrace of the dark stream.
“hallo, man! what on yearth has got into yer?” cried boone.
for the first time, lark turned and looked upon his pursuers.
one look the hardy bordermen took at the face of their companion, and then they felt that the warm life current in their veins was congealing with horror.
they looked not upon the face of a man, but rather on the face of a corpse, newly risen from its grave.
white as the stainless marble was the face of lark, and his large eyes glared with demoniac fires.
like men inspired with sudden fear, the stout-hearted borderers recoiled.
then, to their amazement, lark raised his hand and pointed to the canoe, that rocked and danced like a thing of life upon the turbid waters.
“he wants us for to git in and cross the ‘drink’ with him,” said boone, in a voice that showed plainly the feeling of horror that had taken possession of the old indian-fighter.
“shall we go?” asked kenton, scarcely speaking above his breath.
“yes; it’s our duty as christian men to see that this madman comes to no harm. i’m afeard that we are a-goin’ to see something terrible,” boone answered.
again, and with a gesture of command, lark pointed to the frail boat, that was dancing like an eggshell on the bosom of the surging tide.
the two obeyed the gesture and entered the canoe.
then lark seized the paddle, and the little craft, with its human freight, sped rapidly across the river.
the white-capped billows—the children of the wind—surged and dashed against the sides of the canoe as if eager to tear from their frail shelter the mortals that dared to risk their lives amid the turbid waves of the ohio.
the rising wind whistled and surged through the frail forest trees; the waves were turbid and angry; the moon, a ray of lurid light, was darting lambent fires through the dark cloud-banks.
the scouts looked around them and shuddered. a terrible depression was upon their feelings. the very air they breathed seemed full of evil.
the bow of the canoe touched the bank.
with a sweep of the broad paddle, lark brought the canoe sideways to shore. boone and kenton at once gained the bank. lark followed slowly.
on the bank lark halted. in his hand he held the “painter” of the canoe, a sprig of grapevine.
a moment he looked at the trail bark and then deliberately drove his foot through the bottom and cast it adrift to the mercy of the swollen waters.
eagerly, like living things, the sullen waves leaped over and around the canoe as it sunk from mortal sight in their chill embraces.
“jerusalem! how on yearth are we a-goin’ to git across the drink ag’in?” muttered boone, in dismay.
kenton did not reply, for he was watching lark eagerly.
the stalwart borderer, who was acting so strangely, watched the canoe until the dark waters hid it from his sight. then, without paying any more attention to the two who stood by his side on the bank, than if they had been sticks or stones, he plunged into the thicket that fringed the river’s side.
utterly dumbfounded at his unaccountable actions, boone and kenton again followed on his track.
this time, however, lark did not proceed carelessly and without caution, as before, but, on the contrary, crept through the tangled underwood with all the care of a wild beast stealing upon its prey.
the two woodmen had but little difficulty in following their strange companion.
seconds lengthened into minutes, minutes into hours. the great moon, rising slowly up, no longer flecked the sky with swords of fire, but beamed a flood of soft, silvery light, save when the flying clouds crossed her path, and, like agents of evil, hid her rays from sight.
“we must be near ke-ne-ha-ha’s village,” muttered kenton to boone, after a weary tramp through the pathless wilderness, trailing lark’s erratic course.
“putty near,” replied boone.
hardly had the words left the lips of the old woodman when, as suddenly as if he had sunk into the earth lark disappeared from sight.
the woodmen stood aghast. they had followed lark easily. he had not seemed to notice that the two were near him, and had not attempted to evade them.
“where on yearth has he gone to?” muttered boone, in astonishment, and rubbing his eyes as if he doubted the evidence of his own senses.
“down into the yearth or up into the air,” answered kenton, who was as much astonished as his companion at the sudden and mysterious disappearance.
then the two advanced to the spot whereon lark had stood when they had seen him last.
it was too dark for them to attempt to follow his trail, if he had left one, and so, defeated in their pursuit, they halted to counsel what their next move should be.
“let’s go on a little way; maybe we’ll find some trace of him ahead,” said boone, thoughtfully.
then the two proceeded onward till they came to a little open glade, whereon the moonbeams shone.
as the two reached the glade and stood within the timber that fringed its edge, a slight noise fell upon their ears.
“hush!” cried boone, in a cautious whisper, and he laid his hand lightly upon kenton’s arm as he spoke.
stout sim hardly needed the caution, for his quick ear had caught the sound.
“it’s some one coming through the forest,” said kenton, in a whisper.
“yes,” replied boone, listening intently.
“can it be lark?”
“no, i think not,” said the old woodman; “it’s more likely to be an injun. we must be mighty nigh to the injun village.”
“maybe we’ve run into a hornet’s nest,” said kenton, coolly.
“we’ll have to git out, then,” observed boone, nothing terrified.
“whoever it is, he don’t seem to be afeard of any thing, for he’s marching right along as if he owned the hull wood.”
“let’s to timber,” said boone, curtly.
a second more and the stalwart forms of the two scouts had disappeared. like snakes they nestled in the grass and waited for the man who walked through the wood so carelessly.
the two did not have long to wait, for the sound of the steps grew louder and louder, and then an indian warrior, decked in the gaudy war-paint and prepared for battle, stepped into the little glade whereon the moonbeams shone.
in his hand the warrior carried a tomahawk. the moonbeams danced upon the edge of the steel.
the warrior paused in the center of the glade and looked around him as though expecting some one. then he spoke, defiantly:
“i am the white dog, a great brave of the shawnee nation. i seek the wolf demon in the forest. if he has a heart as big as a weasel’s, he will come from his lair and face me.”
