CHAPTER II. THE ISLAND.

In ten minutes more, Kenton reached a bend of the river, in the midst of which stood the little wooded island at which he thought his foe would be likely to try to cross. At that turn he made a discovery which caused him to stop with a gratified chuckle.

He was on the inside of the curve, and the position of the island was such that he commanded the whole of the further side. No human being could cross there by daylight without[13] being seen by an observer at the center of the curve.

Besides this, he could see the further bank of the river beyond for nearly two miles, and his enemy would be obliged to make a large detour if he expected to cross at all. That he wished to cross, the hunter felt certain, but he had totally gone out of sight now, and the opposite shore looked as silent and deserted as when Kenton first entered the river.

“By the holy poker, I’ve got ye, middlin’ sure,” muttered the ranger, gleefully. “Ef ye try to move off, I’m arter ye, like a painter arter a young shoat. Ef ye stay thar, durn me ef I kurn’t wait as long as you kin. So now.”

He sheltered himself under a great spreading tree and lay there watching the opposite shore. He knew well enough that his enemy had not gone thence. The practiced senses of the hunter would have detected a moving figure, however it tried to shelter itself among the trees; and moreover, the scouts of nature, the free wild creatures of the forest, served by their actions to indicate the whereabouts of each foe to the other, well used as both were to reading the open book of nature.

From various indications, Kenton came to the conclusion that his enemy was lying down behind the gnarled roots of a huge old oak at the edge of the bank opposite the end of the island; and Kenton was right.

There behind that tree lay his wily foe, watching the very tree at which Simon was posted. As far as woodcraft went, it was diamond cut diamond with the two.

Presently Simon chuckled to himself, as a thought struck him.

“Now ef that ar’s a Shawnee hunter, mebbe I kin fool him yit. He don’t know who the Old Scratch I am, and ef I give a Shawnee signal mebbe he’ll show.”

The hunter rose to his feet behind the tree, and shouted the Shawnee war-cry with the full force of his lungs.

It was instantly answered from the other side of the river, by the peculiar whoop of the Miamis.

In the same instant Simon stuck his cap on the end of his rifle and protruded it from behind his tree.

[14]

Hardly had he done so when a bullet whizzed through the cap, with an accuracy of aim that surprised even him.

The ranger stepped from behind the tree, and leveled his rifle at the white puff of smoke on the other side of the river. He saw the form of a man vanish as he fired, and was greeted with a derisive whoop of scorn.

Kenton sunk back to his old position to reload, muttering: “By the holy poker, mister, thur bean’t no discount on you fur a warrior. Kurn’t fool that kuss. He must ’a’ seen the cap. That skulp’s wuth hav’in’. Reckon it must be old Blackfish or Otter Lifter hisself. No common brave c’u’d be as smart as that.”

It certainly seemed as if matters were at a dead lock. Two shots had been fired by Simon Kenton, the best marksman of the border, after Boone, and each had brought nothing but a return as close as his own.

Reckless as the nature of the ranger was, he began to think that he couldn’t afford to try any more risks with such a foe. The chances were too evenly balanced. He threw himself down in a place whence he could command a good view of the north bank, and determined to wait. He was well aware that night would surely bring things to a crisis and end the suspense. For darkness he determined to wait, resolved not to give his foe another chance.

For at least an hour all was profoundly still, and not a motion on either bank betrayed the presence of the two wily antagonists. Then Simon Kenton started violently and muttered to himself:

“By the holy poker, what’s that?”

There was a distinct rustling of trees and bushes on the little island in the river.

“Is that kuss the devil himself?” queried Simon, wonderingly. “How in the Old Scratch did he get thar?”

The sound of rustling increased on the island, and at last the ranger saw a bush move.

Crack went his rifle on the instant.

It was blended with a report from the opposite side of the river, and Kenton saw the white smoke curl up from the very place whence his foe had not stirred.

But where went that bullet?

[15]

The question was answered ere asked.

Both foemen had arrived at the island, and a shower of splintered bark and twigs flew up from the midst of the bush at which both marksmen had aimed!

A loud shriek, in the unmistakable tones of a woman, rose from the island, and the rustling of bushes became violent, as some one fell back into cover.

Then all was still again.

Simon rubbed his eyes. For a moment he was so bewildered that he forgot to reload his rifle.

“By the holy poker, it’s a gal on the island, and we must ’a’ nigh shot her!” he ejaculated, aloud. “Wal, ef this don’t beat cockfightin’, I’m durned. So now!”

The words seemed to relieve him in some way, for the hunter-instinct returned, and he proceeded to reload his rifle.

But as he loaded, he muttered:

“Simon, Simon, go home and soak your head for a durned fool! Three shots fired, and nary hit. What would Boone say ef he knowed it. By the holy poker, I’d as soon face Old Scratch as face the cunnel arter this bout, ef I don’t git that kuss’s sculp. So now.”

He rammed home the bullet with a vicious thump as he said this, and resumed his weary watch. The situation had become more complicated.

A woman was on that island, a white woman, or she would not have shrieked. The squaw is well-nigh as stoical in danger as her warrior husband.

On the other side the river was a merciless savage, who would not hesitate to scalp her if he got a chance. In a moment the native chivalry of the Kentuckian was up in arms, and his face assumed an expression of grim ferocity, such as few men would have cared to face, as he scanned the opposite shore, muttering, as he clenched his rifle:

“Now may I never fire a shot ag’in as long as I live, ef I let you git your claws on that gal, Mister Stranger. Sink or swim I’m a-goin’ fur her jest as soon as it’s dark, an’ ef thar ain’t some clawin’ o’ wool on that there island about the time we git there, wallop me for a skunk. So now.”

He remained at his post, watching his enemy’s tree with a sleepless vigilance and ferocity, that told how much in earnest[16] he was. Hour after hour passed; the sun sunk down to the west and fell behind the curtain of forest; the dark shadows sloped weirdly across the tree-trunks; the deer flitted about through the aisles of the woods, unconscious of the two statue-like figures that lay on the ground, each watching his enemy’s lair like a lurking tiger; squirrel and bird, cicada and snake, fox and rabbit, wandered about the vicinity perfectly undisturbed; for the two men lay so still that the animals had come to the conclusion they must be dead. Then at last the twilight faded into darkness, and the river and banks became indistinct. Suddenly Kenton leaped to his feet and dashed through the cover to a narrow place opposite the island. He used no caution, for now the island sheltered him from view entirely. But, as he dashed into the water, he heard his enemy thunder along on the opposite bank, and knew that it would be a race for the island.