leave a blind trail. He did not stop to eat nor to sleep; and when, on
the second day, he emerged upon the banks of the broad Ohio River, the
current was swirling full and muddy, swollen by the June freshets.

Daniel Boone was no swimmer to brag of; not with rifle and powder, in
such a river. For a moment he was daunted, but he swiftly scouted
along the shore, seeking a partial ford, or islands that would aid him.
By a miracle he came to a canoe--an old canoe, half concealed in the
bushes at the water's edge, with an end stove in.

Laboring rapidly, he stuffed and patched the hole. By paddling with
his hands and a branch he crossed, and still he heard no whoop of
pursuit.

He was in his loved Kentucky. The Ohio River and the Shawnee country
lay behind him.

Near sunset of June 20 he sighted the clearing of Boonesborough. He
saw the log walls of the fort, the rudely shingled sloping roofs of the
rows of cabins lining it, the supper smoke gently wafting from the clay
chimneys. Everything looked to be as when he had left, except that the
season was smiling summer instead of white winter. Yes, his home was
safe, and so was he. Afoot he had covered one hundred and sixty miles,
breaking his own trail through the forest and across the streams, in
four days, and had eaten only once. That was a record, white or red.

He hastened down in. His eye rapidly grasped details. The gates of
the fort were widely open; women were outside, milking cows; men were
chopping wood in the timber; children were fetching water, and playing
about, even straying almost beyond call. No guards were posted, on the
look-out. The logs of the defences had sagged by weather--some
appeared to have rotted. One of the double gates, swung inward, hung
crookedly. It was a Boonesborough gone to seed in a fancied peace.

He arrived unchallenged. Indians might have done the same. The first
persons whom he met stared at him blankly, then amazed.

"What! Boone? We thought you dead long since man! Hooray!"

At the cry, the people flocked to greet him. He had been absent five
months and twelve days; four of these months he had been among the
Indians. Shawnee paint was still on his face; his hair was unusually
long, and he himself uncommonly thin and gaunt--weary but keen.

"Where's Rebecca? How are my wife and children?"

There was silence. Then Simon Kenton spoke up frankly.

"Well, you see, Dan, they'd give you up. We all though