r him and the
others. He saw it all with bitter clearness. Jim had been inveigled to
the Mingo camp taking risks as he always did, and there been ordered to
reveal the whereabouts of the hunting party. He had refused, and endured
the ordeal... Memories of their long comradeship rushed through Boone's
mind and set him weeping in a fury of affection. There was never such a
man as old Jim, so trusty and wise and kind, and now that great soul was
being tortured out of that stalwart body and he could only look on like
a baby and cry.

As he gazed, it became plain that the man at the stake was dead. His
head had fallen on his chest, and the Indians were cutting the green
withies that bound him. Boone looked to see them take his scalp, and so
wild was his rage that his knees were already bending for the onslaught
which should be the death of him and haply of one or two of the
murderers.

But no knife was raised. The Indians seemed to consult together, and one
of them gave an order. Deerskins were brought and the body was carefully
wrapped in them and laid on a litter of branches. Their handling of it
seemed almost reverent. The camp was moving, the horses were saddled,
and presently the whole band began to file off towards the forest. The
sight held Boone motionless. His fury had gone and only wonder and
awe remained. As they passed the dead, each Indian raised his axe in
salute--the salute to a great chief. The next minute they were splashing
through the ford.

An hour later, when the invaders had disappeared on the northern levels,
Boone slipped down from the bluff to the camping place. He stood still
a long time by his friend, taking off his deerskin cap, so that his long
black hair was blown over his shoulders.

"Jim, boy," he said softly. "I reckon you was the general of us all. The
likes of you won't come again. I'd like ye to have Christian burial."

With his knife he hollowed a grave, where he placed the body, still
wrapped in its deerskins. He noted on a finger of one hand a gold ring,
a queer possession for a backwoodsman. This he took off and dropped into
the pouch which hung round his neck. "I reckon it'd better go to Mis'
Hanks. Jim's gal 'ud valley it mor'n a wanderin' coyote."

When he had filled in the earth he knelt among the grasses and repeated
the Lord's Prayer as well as he could remember it. Then he stood up and
rubbed with his hard brown knuckles the dimness from his eyes.

"Ye was allus lookin'