CHAPTER III. THE MEETING.

The sturdy ranger uttered a fierce war-whoop, and struggled through the deep water toward the island.

At the place where he was, the stream was only some twenty feet broad, but, it was swimming deep and quite rapid.

On the other side it was five times as broad, but much more shallow, so that his opponent would have that advantage over him. Still, being on the arc of a circle, the distance to be traversed was much greater, and reduced the chances to evenness.

Simon Kenton leaped into the current, rifle in hand, and sunk over his head in a moment, striking out for the opposite shore with desperate energy. Twice the strong current carried him down, and twice he touched a rock and shoved against it so vigorously that he nearly reached the opposite shore. Each time, the weight of his long rifle ducked his[17] head and nearly strangled him, while the struggle became fiercer than ever.

At last, just as he was passing the end of the island, he caught a friendly bough and dragged himself up to shore with dripping weapons, just as he caught sight of the dark figure of his enemy about the middle of the stream in the shallows, but up to his waist in water.

Simon Kenton uttered the Shawnee war-whoop once more and tore through the brushwood to intercept his foe.

“Now, ye ornary kuss, I’ve got ye, by the holy poker!” he growled savagely, as he stood on the bank above, and leveled his rifle at the other.

Click! fizz! sput!

The soaked powder missed fire, and Kenton uttered a savage growl as he flung the heavy rifle with all his force at his opponent, who was just raising his own weapon to fire back.

The ranger’s rifle hit the other as it went off, with such violence, that the man in the water staggered, slipped in the current, and fell back splashing and going under.

“Now we’re even, durn your painted hide!” yelled the irate Kenton, as he made one tremendous bound off the high bank into the water, drawing his knife as he leaped.

In another moment two strong men were grappling in water nearly up to their armpits, each having a knife in his right hand, and grasping his antagonist’s wrist with his left.

They tripped and stumbled, wrestled and struggled in grim silence, both being equally matched in strength and agility, and fighting with the deadliest ferocity. Twice they went under water, and stumbled up without relaxing their gripe, and still neither had gained the least advantage.

At last, almost at the same moment, Kenton and his foe wrenched away from each other to regain breath, and stood panting and glaring at each other for several seconds at about six feet apart.

The Kentuckian was the first to speak.

“You’re a tough cuss, stranger, I don’t deny it; but you and me’s got to settle this hyar business afore we go home, and by the holy poker, you kurn’t sculp that gal, ef you’re Blackfish hisself. So now.”

[18]

The stranger had been entirely silent so far in the struggle. As Kenton finished, he put out one hand and said:

“Simon, is that you? Well, this is a good story.”

The voice of the stranger was deep and powerful; he spoke better English than Kenton, and the latter seemed to recognize the tones in a moment.

The ranger sprung back in the water, with a cry of wonder, and shouted out:

“Gee-Christopher-cricket-and-blue-blazes! Wal, ef we arn’t be’n a couple of durndest jack-mules this side of ole Virginny. By the holy poker, it’s Cunnel Boone!”

Daniel Boone himself indulged in a short laugh, instantly checked, as he quietly said:

“And I took you for a Shawnee scout, Kenton, and thought you wanted to scalp the girl on the island. Well, well.”

Not another word passed between the two famous hunters, so strangely met, for some time. They returned their knives in silence, groped about in the water with their moccasined feet, and discovered their rifles, with which they slowly landed on the island, both buried in curious cogitations.

They ascended the bank together and entered the thick cover of bushes before either of them spoke, and then Kenton, in a sort of sheepish tone, said:

“’Twon’t do to tell this story too permiskus, cunnel, I reckon. I’m clean ashamed o’ myself fur not pluggin’ ye, when ye give me such a chance. I war a-sayin’ to myself, what would cunnel say ef he knowed I’d made sich a show o’ myself to a Injun varmint, leave alone a white man, and sich a white man as you, cunnel.”

Boone again uttered one of his low laughs.

“To tell you the truth, Simon, I was thinking that I was the man to feel ashamed. You never saw me, and you put two holes into my old cap, for all that. I saw you, and missed you. Simon, I thank God for my erring hand.”

There was a short silence, both hunters being busily employed in drawing the charges from their wet rifles, and wiping the same. Then Kenton spoke, with a curious mingling of pride and regret in his voice, hesitating in a manner not usual with the reckless borderer.

[19]

“Then ye don’t think I did so bad arter all, cunnel. I swow I feel amazin’ glad I didn’t hit yer, but still—ye don’t think I acted like a greeny—eh, cunnel?”

“You did what no other woodman in Kentucky could do, Simon. You fooled Daniel Boone,” said the elder hunter, in a grave tone. “I didn’t believe it lay in ye, and I don’t want to meet ye again in such a fashion. But one thing we forget. There’s a white woman on this island, and we have to find her; and, besides that, we haven’t a dry thread till we light a fire. Take one side the island, and I’ll take the other, and hunt till we find her.”

The young ranger raised his hand to his cap in a military salute, as he turned away.

“All right, cunnel. We’ll git her.”

The two hunters moved off on either side of the island in a circuit, which speedily brought them face to face at the upper end, for there was not more than an acre of ground embraced in its limits.

Neither of them had come across any traces of a human being.

Again they turned and searched in the opposite direction, moving cautiously and stopping frequently to listen for the rustle of bushes. At last it became plain that the former occupant of the island, whoever it might be, had decamped in some manner, probably during the noise and confusion of their struggle in the river. At all events, she was not to be found, and the two hunters gave up the search in their second round.

It was altogether too dark to trail, and both concluded to wait till morning for the purpose. Meantime a fire was kindled in the midst of a dense thicket in the middle of the island, screened on all sides by brushwood, and made of dry punk gathered from a rotten fallen tree. Then, by the side of the glowing embers, the wearied hunters dried clothes and arms, cleaned their guns, and consulted on their future movements, after detailing to each other the results of their separate scouts through the Shawnee hunting-grounds, up to the time when they had so unexpectedly met on the banks of the Kentucky.

It took but a little time to exchange news, and then both[20] composed themselves to slumber, with their feet to the fire, and slept till the first streaks of dawn appeared in the eastern sky.