l father and George to be
careful, won't you, please?"

"We are in the hands of God, my child, and have only to do our duty.
Help us by causing no anxiety about yourselves."

The great necessity, as has been explained, was to work the flatboat
away from land. The most direct means of doing this was by pushing with
the poles that had been taken on board for that use; but they were
fastened in place as supports for the sail that had brought the craft to
this place. The sweeps would accomplish this work, but only slowly and
by frightful exposure on the part of those swaying them.

Nevertheless, Jim Deane seized the bow sweep at the moment another
ranger grasped the rear one, and both wrought with right good will.

Dark forms appeared in greater number along shore and near the craft
itself. The gloom was lit up by flashes of guns, and the air was rent by
the shouts of the combatants, for the white men could make as much noise
as their enemies in the swirl and frenzy of personal encounter and
deadly conflict.

Boone, Kenton, the missionary and most of the men had leaped into the
flatboat and crouched low, where all seemed huddled together in
inextricable confusion. The two were toiling at the sweeps, and the
craft worked away from the shore with maddening tardiness. To some of
the terrified inmates it did not seem to move at all.

"A little harder, Jim," called the missionary "shall I lend a hand?"

"No," replied Deane; "I'll fetch it, I don't need you--yes I do, too."

As he spoke, he let go of the sweep and sagged heavily downward.

"Are you hit?" asked the good man, raising the head upon his knee.

"I got my last sickness that time, parson--it's all up--good-by!"

The missionary would have said more, would have prayed with the fellow,
despite the terrifying peril around him, had there been time to do so,
but Jim Deane was dead.

"God rest his soul!" murmured the good man, gently laying down the head,
and drawing the body as closely as he could to the gunwale, where it
would be out of the way.

As from the first, the missionary exposed himself with the utmost
recklessness, and, where the bullets were hurtling all about him, the
wonder was that he had not already been struck; but the life of Rev. J.
B. Finley was one of sacrifice, peril, suffering and hardship, in which
his last thought was for himself. He was ready for the call of the dark
angel, whether he came at midnight, morning, or high noon, and the ang