s justice. A cloud had
come over his cheerful soul. "If only I knowed about Jim," he muttered
"I wonder if I'll ever clap eyes or his old face again." Never before
had he known such acute anxiety. Pioneers are wont to trust each other
and in their wild risks assume that the odd chance is on their side.
But now black forebodings possessed him, born not of reasoning but of
instinct. His comrade somewhere just ahead of him was in deadly peril.

And then came the drums.

The sound broke into the still dawn with a harsh challenge. They were
war drums, beaten as he remembered them in Montgomery's campaign. He
quickened his steady hunter's lope into a run, and left the trail for
the thickets of the hill-side. The camp was less than a mile off and he
was taking no chances.

As he climbed the hill the drums grew louder, till it seemed that the
whole world rocked with their noise. He told himself feverishly that
there was nothing to fear; Jim was with friends, who had been south of
the river on their own business and would give him the powder he wanted.
Presently they would be returning to the camp together, and in the
months to come he and Jim would make that broad road through the Gap,
at the end of which would spring up smiling farmsteads and townships
of their own naming. He told himself these things, but he knew that he
lied.

At last, flat on the earth, he peered through the vines on the north
edge of the ridge. Below him, half a mile off, rolled the Ohio, a little
swollen by the rains There was a broad ford, and the waters had spilled
out over the fringe of sand. Just under him, between the bluff and
the river, lay the Mingo camp, every detail of it plain in the crisp
weather.

In the heart of it a figure stood bound to a stake, and a smoky fire
burned at its feet.... There was no mistaking that figure.

Boone bit the grass in a passion of fury. His first impulse was to rush
madly into the savages' camp and avenge his friend. He had half risen to
his feet when his reason told him it was folly. He had no weapon but
axe and knife, and would only add another scalp to their triumph. His
Deckard was slung on his back, but he had no powder. Oh, to be able to
send a bullet through Jim's head to cut short his torment! In all his
life he had never known such mental anguish, waiting there an impotent
witness of the agony of his friend. The blood trickled from his bitten
lips and film was over his eyes.... Lovelle was dying fo