Transcriber’s Notes:

The Table of Contents was created by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.

[Additional Transcriber’s Notes] are at the end.

CONTENTS

[Chapter I. The Ranger’s Ruse.]
[Chapter II. The Island.]
[Chapter III. The Meeting.]
[Chapter IV. Ruby Roland.]
[Chapter V. The Journey.]
[Chapter VI. Danger All Round.]
[Chapter VII. On the Line.]
[Chapter VIII. The Backwoods Leader.]
[Chapter IX. The Secret Expedition.]
[Chapter X. A Frontier Camp.]
[Chapter XI. The Secret Disclosed.]
[Chapter XII. Kaskaskia.]
[Chapter XIII. The Fort.]
[Chapter XIV. The Surprise.]
[Chapter XV. The Algonquin Venus.]
[Chapter XVI. Ruby’s Visit.]
[Chapter XVII. The Cure’s Embassy.]
[Chapter XVIII. The Last Mass.]
[Chapter XIX. The Lampoon.]
[Chapter XX. Mutiny.]
[Chapter XXI. Ruby’s Mission.]
[Chapter XXII. The Council of War.]
[Chapter XXIII. The Discovery.]
[Chapter XXIV. Conclusion.]

Semi-Monthly Novels Series,

No. 282.

BEADLE’S
DIME NOVELS

RUBY ROLAND, THE GIRL SPY.

BEADLE AND ADAMS, 98 WILLIAM STREET, NEW YORK.

New England News Co., Boston, Mass.

A TALE OF THE LONG TRAIL.

THE OLD RED RIVER TRAIL

In the next issue of the “Household and Fireside Guest” series

Beadle’s Dime Novels, No. 283

Ready Tuesday, June 3, lovers of the Romance of the Wilderness and Plains have a story that will enlist their attention to an unusual degree, viz.:

THE LONE CHIEF;
OR,
The Trappers of the Saskatchewan.

BY JOS. E. BADGER, JR.

The Lone Chief is the noted Omaha “Blackbird,” who takes the long trail to the far Saskatchewan in pursuit of an object which sustains him in hours of awful trial, and awakens our warmest admiration.

His unexpected friends—a band of trappers—become involved with him in the meshes of a conflict with the fierce Crees of the Plains.

The old trapper, Ben Duncan, a second edition of Old Nick Whiffles, is a splendid character, equally handy in scrimmage, on the trail, in the camp, or at a yarn.

That there are women in the case does not lessen the interest taken in the Chief’s affairs by the two younger members of Old Duncan’s party, who, even in that remote region, find that the course of true love never runs smooth.

A strangely beautiful Cree girl is drawn into the foreground of the story to become its heroine and—something else!

☞ Beadle’s Dime Novels are always kept in print and for sale by all newsdealers; or are sent, post-paid, to any address on receipt of price—Ten Cents each—by

BEADLE AND ADAMS, Publishers,
98 William Street, New York.

RUBY ROLAND,
THE GIRL SPY;
OR,
SIMON KENTON’S PROTEGE.

BY FREDERICK WHITTAKER,

Author of “Mustang-Hunters,” “White Wizard,” “Jaguar Queen,” “Boone, the Hunter,” etc.

NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
98 WILLIAM STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by

BEADLE AND ADAMS,

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

(No. 282.)

RUBY ROLAND,
THE GIRL SPY.

CHAPTER I.
THE RANGER’S RUSE.

A tall, muscular young fellow, dressed in hunter garb, came silently out of the woods from the north side of the Kentucky river, about a hundred years ago, and pausing by the bole of a gigantic beech tree, scanned the opposite shore with keen, silent attention.

There was a peculiar air of resolute fearless deviltry in the face of the young hunter, coupled with the piercing, roving glances of his intensely black eyes, that showed he was no novice to the trade of hunter and scout. He was in the midst of the hunting-grounds of Shawnee and Delaware, miles away from the then infant settlement of Boonesborough; and he was all alone with his rifle and knife, to take care of himself.

The look of his face abundantly evinced that he felt quite equal to the task, and only the acquired caution of his craft kept him from wading boldly into the river at once.

But as it was, he had learned the lesson of the successful Indian-slayer by hard experience. Therefore, now, it was with a long, deep scrutiny that he scanned the opposite banks, across the first open piece of landscape he had come on in a day’s travel. On the opposite bank all was still as death, save for the occasional note of a bird. It was late in May and the forest was all blinded with its canopy of leaves, while game was distant and hiding in the coverts.

As the young hunter looked, a black squirrel, shyest of all its kind, ran out on a limb of a tree on the other side of the river, and stood, whisking its tail and chattering, before his eyes, above the stream.

“Wal,” muttered the young man, as he stepped boldly out, “thar kurn’t be much to be skeered on when you’re thar, my little kuss. Go ahead, Simon.”

Without further ado he descended the bank, deep, brown, and bare, for some sixty feet, and then ran quickly across a bed of sand into the shallow stream.

The Kentucky river, in winter a broad and powerful stream, had dwindled under the summer heats to a rivulet not more than two hundred feet across, running over a sandy rocky bed walled in by high banks.

Into this stream waded the hunter, and soon found himself midway between the banks and up to his armpits in water. He was obliged to lift up rifle and powder-horn over his head as he waded along, and every now and then he would stop to brace himself against the current, and glance anxiously up and down either side of the river, as if anticipating the presence of enemies, ready to take him at advantage.

At last the water began to sink below his arms; and slowly he emerged from the river, strode through the shallows, and stood on the opposite shore.

“By the holy poker!” he muttered, as he climbed the further bank, “that ar’s a bad scrape fur to ketch a kuss in. You’d best git to cover right smartly, Simon, ef you’re the spy you used to was. Git!”

And, as he spoke, he hurried up the bank into the woods, and threw himself down under a tree, completely hidden from sight. With the hunter’s instinct, he lay still as death, listening intently for sounds. The presence of the squirrel had assured him of the quiet of things before, or he would not have ventured where he did. But, the hunter knew too well that a very few minutes were able to change the whole current of events around him, and that the chance passing of a single Indian might render his own situation very perilous.

It was therefore with the keenest attention that he looked and listened in the woods all round, before going further.

Presently came the sweet pipe of a red-bird from a tree not far off, and the hunter muttered:

“All right on that side.”

He knew the note, as belonging to one of the most wary of birds. Then several other birds chirped at intervals, and he heard the tiny chatter of squirrels all round him.

“Simon, you blamed ornary kuss, I reckon you kin git,” said the hunter deliberately, and he rose to his feet.

Hardly had he done so, when he sunk down again as if shot, for the loud snap of a dry stick sounded plainly in the air, and it came from the further bank of the river.

“Follered, by the holy poker!” he ejaculated, in a low tone. “Now, who the Old Scratch kin that be?”

As he spoke he threw himself down behind the tree, and, bringing all his intelligence to bear on the north bank, which he had just left, awaited the advance of the stranger.

There was no more noise now. The other, whoever he was, had evidently been startled by his own carelessness. Apart from the snapping of that single stick, there was no further sign of human presence on the north bank.

The man on the south bank lay there watching silently and eagerly, but saw nothing. The usual noises of the woods kept on around him, and he could see squirrels moving on the other side of the river.

There was a small deserted space on either side of him, and a patch of the same breadth on the opposite side that showed him that the wild animals were shy of human creatures, and revealed to him the locality of his enemy.

In those two places all were still, and, as unerringly as if he had seen the strange hunter, Simon guessed that the latter had come to the identical tree by which himself had first scanned the river.

“And by the holy poker, ef that’s so, the kuss kin see my trail,” he grumbled, half aloud. “Simon, Simon, you orter be ashamed of yourself fur leavin’ them huff-tracks in the mud, when ye mout ’a’ jumped from stone to stone.”

Even while he grumbled, his eyes were fixed on the great beech tree, and the heavy Kentucky rifle he carried was trained on its bole, while he watched with intense gaze for a motion of the foe he guessed to be there.

Suddenly he shifted his gaze and aim to a point on one side of the tree, and fired at something moving there.

Leaping to one side out of the smoke, he distinctly beheld the splinters of bark fly where his bullet struck, and the next moment felt the stinging whiz of a bullet, that grazed his own side, as an answering puff of white smoke came from the other side of the tree, followed by the sharp crack of a rifle. The bullet stung him sharply, and he dropped to the earth, catching a glimpse of the vanishing figure of a man on the other side of the river, flitting from tree to tree.

“By the holy poker, that’s a right smart kuss, whoever he is,” muttered Simon, ruefully, as he rubbed his side, “Who’d ’a’ thunk he’d ’a’ fooled me as quick as that, and with sich an old trick. By the holy poker, Simon, you’d better go and soak your head ef you ain’t smarter than that kuss. But, I’ll get even with him. Darn me ef he shall fool me ag’in like that. No, sir. Mister stranger, be you white or red, runnygade or Shawnee, I’ll hev your skulp fur that ar’ shot, or my name ain’t Simon Kenton.”

And the renowned ranger darted from tree to tree on his passage up the river, following the shadowy form of his antagonist, as he caught occasional glimpses of it, and both tending toward a spot a mile further up the stream, where a wooded island reduced the danger of crossing to a less degree.

The two enemies raced for that island, loading as they ran.

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 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.

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?

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 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.

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 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.”

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.

“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 composed themselves to slumber, with their feet to the fire, and slept till the first streaks of dawn appeared in the eastern sky.

CHAPTER IV.
RUBY ROLAND.

Simon Kenton was the first to wake in the morning. Instead of experiencing the usual feeling of chilliness which assails the camper-out in the early hours by a dying fire, he was sensible of a glowing and comfortable warmth at his feet, and his eyes opened on the leaping white flames of a pleasant fire, the brands crackling merrily, as if lately put on.

“By the holy poker, cunnel,” quoth the borderer, rubbing his eyes and stretching, “you’re ahead of me this hyar mornin’. Wal, let’s get up and make tracks.”

As he spoke, he yawned portentously, and sat up, only to fall back the next moment with a loud exclamation of:

“Who in the Old Scratch be you, anyhow?”

Boone lay fast asleep opposite, and by the fire, between them, sat a young girl, looking intently at Kenton.

“I am Ruby Roland,” said one of the sweetest voices he had ever heard; and the girl smiled in his face, fearlessly.

Simon Kenton slowly rose up to a sitting posture and stared at the new-comer in utter amazement, just as Boone also awoke, and rolling half over, fixed his steady gaze on the girl, but without exhibiting the surprise displayed by Kenton.

The girl was a little creature of some seventeen summers, with a dark, foreign-looking face, very pretty, lighted with black eyes, and set off with black hair, arranged in two long plaits. She was attired in the costume of an Indian chief’s daughter, of the richest materials in use among the Shawnees, and carried with her a bow and arrows.

First Simon drew in his feet, and sat up in a more polite position, then Daniel Boone slowly rose and sat looking at the strange maiden; and then a deep silence fell on all three, which was first broken by the girl who called herself Ruby Roland.

“You two are Simon Kenton and Colonel Boone, are you not?” she asked, in her musical voice, slightly accented with a French intonation.

Boone himself answered her with great respect:

“We are, Miss. I am Colonel Daniel Boone, and this is Captain Simon Kenton.”

The Kentucky borderers were always remarkably tenacious of their military titles, and very proud of them. In reality they represented deeds requiring courage and conduct of a kind such as few regular soldiers could have boasted of.

Ruby Roland smiled graciously on the two Kentuckians.

“I suppose, then, you will not be afraid to run into danger on my account, will you? I warn you that a deadly peril is round us all three, which you can only escape by leaving me to face it alone. Will you do that?”

“Simon Kenton will not, madam; I will answer for that,” said the quiet voice of Boone.

“And Cunnel Boone ’ll let the red varmints chaw him up ter fiddle-strings, afore he deserts a lady. I’ll go a house and farm on that. So now,” was Kenton’s characteristic reply.

Ruby smiled at them both as she said:

“I knew I was not wrong. You have heard of Tabac, the Grand Door of the Wabash. I am his daughter.”

Kenton looked more and more astonished. He scratched his head in a dubious manner, and observed:

“Then, by the holy poker, Miss, all I kin say is that the Grand Door opens into a very pretty place; but—”

Ruby smiled as he hesitated.

“But you wonder how I come to talk English so well, and how I come here; is it not so?”

“Wal, Miss, I ain’t denyin’ that same,” said Kenton, frankly.

“I will tell you, then. The Grand Door is not my own father. No, alas! he died when I was a baby. But, I have been adopted by the chief since then, and my mother reigned over all the tribes of the Wabash till her death, last year. It was only six weeks ago when I escaped from the Indian town by St. Vincent’s, and came here. Gentlemen, I want to see Colonel George Rogers Clark.”

Both the scouts uttered an involuntary exclamation of wonder, the first that had escaped the lips of Boone.

“Colonel Clark is at Harrodsburg, Miss,” said the elder hunter, gravely; “and we shall find it difficult to penetrate there, for Blackfish, the Shawnee chief, is round it with his band.”

Ruby Roland smiled with some little appearance of scorn.

“My father was a French officer, and I am the adopted child of the first war-chief of the West,” she said. “I suppose you think you could get into Harrodsburg, do you not?”

“I suppose so, Miss,” said Boone, quietly.

“Very well; then I will go with you,” said this little fragile-looking girl, with equal calmness. “You are both good warriors and scouts, and yet I fooled you both last night.”

“What! was it you, then, as was on this hyar island?” asked Kenton, in amazement. “Why, whar in the Old Scratch did ye hide, Miss, ef it ain’t axin’ too much?”

Ruby laughed, and pointed to a great tree that overhung the camp-fire itself.

“Up there in a hollow, and heard every word you said. Had you been Shawnees, as you made me think by your whoops, both would have been dead long ere this. I made up this fire half an hour ago, and neither of you waked.”

Boone and Kenton looked at each other in silence for several minutes. The practiced woodmen had been outwitted by this quiet, modest little girl, and both instinctively felt that she was no common personage.

Daniel Boone rose to his feet and shook himself, then looked to the priming of his rifle and examined his weapons before he spoke. At last he said:

“I am at your orders, Miss. What do you wish us to do?”

“I am very hungry,” said the girl, simply. “I want something to eat first. The Shawnees are on my trail, and I must get to Harrodsburg in some way. I have no rifle, and I am too weak to shoot well with the bow. I want you to take me to see Colonel Clark.”

Boone made a sign to Kenton, and the latter disappeared among the bushes on the shallow side of the river. As soon as he was gone, the veteran hunter asked:

“How do you know the Shawnees are on your trail, Miss?”

“I saw them, only yesterday morning,” she answered. “I threw them out by floating down the river on a log, and they are by this time ranging up and down the river to find me.”

Boone frowned thoughtfully and remained silent for some minutes, when he asked:

“How far off did you leave them, do you think?”

“About thirty-five miles up the stream,” was the quiet reply.

The old hunter looked with grave admiration at the girl.

“You are a brave girl!” he said. “I have known warriors not half as brave and skillful. Simon and I did not find a single sign all of yesterday, and we were on different tracks too. Do you think they will follow you close?”

“I know it,” said Ruby, quietly. “They will follow me to kill me, till I am safe in Harrodsburg!”

Another man might have asked “why.” Boone had no idle curiosity; he judged unerringly that the girl was telling the truth, and wished for no reasons. She gave them herself a moment later.

“They know my errand to Colonel Clark, and Governor Hamilton has sent them after me,” she said, meaningly.

Then Boone knew all. The great chief of the Wabash tribes had doubtless sent his daughter to open negotiations with the Americans, and the English Governor at Detroit had got wind of it in some manner, and was resolved to intercept the fair messenger; for the Revolutionary War was at its hight, and the British were reckless in subsidizing savages.

As he thought over the atrocious scheme, the old hunter’s lips compressed themselves into an iron line, and he growled:

“If the dogs cross my path to Harrodsburg, they must look to themselves. You shall go there safe, Miss.”

The report of a rifle a short way off, was followed by the cheery shout of Kenton, “A fat buck, and no Injun sign yet.”

CHAPTER V.
THE JOURNEY.

Half an hour after, three persons rose from a full meal of broiled venison, comforted and refreshed, and little Ruby Roland asked:

“Now, gentlemen, which way?”

“Straight across that thar stream,” said Kenton, pointing to the deep but narrow channel which separated them from the south bank. “I’ve been lookin’ fur a place to cross dry-shod, and thur ain’t but two ways: uther to swim, or to make a ring-tailed squealer of a jump, which we mout do, but the lady kurn’t.”

“I will show you a better way than that,” said Ruby, smiling, “if you will follow me.”

She led them to the south side of the island, where the swift current had undermined the bank, till it overhung considerably. At this point the stream was not over twenty feet wide, and a clump of young chestnut trees overhanging the water, almost met with their foliage the boughs of a water-elm on the other bank.

The girl threw her bow and quiver to her back, swung herself up one of the young trees like a monkey, and immediately her weight caused it to bend down and touch the boughs of the elm-tree.

Light as a mountain-cat, she walked along the swaying perch, caught hold of a long, slender bough of the elm, and swung safely on her feet on the south bank of the river.

“Well done, by the holy poker!” said Kenton, admiringly. “Ef I’d ’a’ thunk of that last night, whar would you ha’ be’n, cunnel? No miss fire, then.”

And the reckless borderer crossed the stream, followed by his companion, both laughing at the recollection of the ludicrous mistake of the night before.

Arrived on the other side, both became grave and professional at once; and the girl Ruby, who had hitherto taken the lead, remained subject to the further direction of her protectors.

“Now, Simon,” said the elder scout, “there are no sign about here yet, but that doesn’t say there won’t be before long. We’ve a good day’s tramp to Harrodsburg, and, tew chances to one, the Shawnees will take a short cut and lie in wait for us at the town, leaving a small party to follow the lady’s trail. It’s a chance if they hit upon ours. So you take the right hand, I’ll take the left, and Miss, here, shall have the middle. Forward.”

Without another word the three set out on their perilous tramp through the silent woods, at a long distance from each other, stealing like shadows among the trees, and glancing from side to side as they went, suspicious of every rustling leaf.

Boone was at least a hundred yards to the left and in front, very rarely visible at all, but all eyes and ears in the direction he was guarding, the quarter from which he himself thought the danger most imminent.

Simon Kenton was at an equal distance from Ruby on the other side, and never allowed a glimpse of himself, the only announcement of his presence being the occasional whistle of a robin from the leafy covert.

Little Ruby, in the center, held her own course fearlessly, flitting from tree to tree, and always peering ahead from behind every trunk, to see that the coast was clear, before flitting to another. As noiseless as a startled bird, she passed through the dense forest toward Harrodsburg, without a sounding footfall, and many a time her two companions would have thought she had disappeared, but for the answering signals which she sent back to Kenton, whenever he was doubtful.

Instead of finding the little girl an incumbrance, both hunters were compelled to admit that her Indian education had made her a more skillful hider than they.

Thus the three companions pressed through the silent forest in a south-westerly direction, cutting across the bend of the stream which separated them from Harrodsburg. They had only about twenty-five miles to go in a direct line, but in the woods, and among wily foes like the red-men, such a distance took double the time to traverse that it would on a high-road in a quiet country. Every half-hour they called a halt, while the two scouts went on a circuit on either hand, to look for sign of enemies in pursuit.

For a long time nothing was found. The sun climbed up overhead, and darted his flaming arrows through the leaves, the birds ceased to sing, and only the sleepy whirr of the cicada recurred at intervals to make the silence deeper. Far away in the woods they could hear the occasional mournful boom boom of the wood dove, but the squirrels and deer were all silent and hidden away.

At noon Boone uttered the cry of the wood dove three times in succession, as a signal to close, and the three friends met together under a great tree.

“The enemy have passed ahead toward Harrodsburg,” said the hunter, in a low tone. “I have just come on a trail not more than three hours old, off to the left. They have twenty warriors with them, and have gone to join Blackfish and his band at Harrodsburg.”

“What do you propose doing, then?” asked little Ruby, quietly.

Boone looked at her several minutes before answering.

“You tell me these men are after you, Miss. Well, nothing is surer than that we can’t get into the fort by daylight. We are only seven miles from Harrodsburg now, and if we run too fast, we shall only fall into a well-prepared ambush.”

“Shall we wait here, then?” she asked, glancing round her with a quick catch of her breath.

“Not by a jugfull,” said bluff Kenton, interrupting. “See hyar, cunnel, ef you’ve come acrost a trail ahead, I’ve found ’nuther. Them ornery cusses is arter us; and ef we wait hyar, we’ll hev to fight afore we’re two hours older. So now.”

Boone looked keenly at his friend.

“How do you know, Simon?” he asked.

“I heern ’em,” said Kenton, laconically.

“Heard what?—shots, yells? I heard nothing.”

And the great hunter looked doubtfully at Kenton, for he had never yet met his own match for keenness of senses.

Kenton held up his hand for them to listen. A moment after the faint crack of a rifle echoed far away in the rear.

CHAPTER VI.
DANGER ALL ROUND.

Boone looked grave, Ruby turned a shade paler, and Kenton smiled grimly.

“Ye see, cunnel,” said the scout, “I’ve b’en suspicioning them cusses mout be arter us all the while, and I’ve b’en kinder on the watch to the rear. Thar’s a party of the imps arter the little gal, and they’ve got good trackers. Guess they’ve b’en huntin’ up and down stream arter her trail, and got to the island at last. Ef they have, they know the hull thing now, and they’re comin’ arter us hellaty-clip. ’Tain’t so middlin’ difficult to pick up our trail, ye know, and what with them behind, and them in front, we’ll hev a right smart chance of trouble to flax ’em all, and git into the fort to-night.”

“That shot was not three miles off,” said Ruby, suddenly. “What do you think it was, Mr. Kenton?”

“That? Oh, that was a signal from the cuss as found our trail,” said Kenton, carelessly. “It’s middlin’ likely thur spread out all over the woods huntin’ your trail, Miss; and that shot ’ll call ’em in.”

“I thought so,” said the girl, quietly. “Well, then, gentlemen, why shouldn’t we cross the trail of the party ahead, make a circuit, and come into the town on the other side? They won’t watch that so closely.”

Boone, who had been leaning thoughtfully on his rifle all this time, now raised his head.

“Little gal,” he said, gravely, “it’s our only chance. But are you able to take the tramp? ’Twill be a tough one.”

“I am a chief’s daughter,” said the girl, proudly. “Try me, and see.”

Kenton was about to speak, when Boone checked him with a wave of his hand.

“Left wheel,” he said, in military fashion, “and follow your leader.”

As he spoke he threw his rifle to his shoulder, and started off at a slow trot of some seven miles an hour into the depths of the woods, followed, without a word, by the others at long intervals. Kenton remained behind to bring up the rear, and away they went into the woods. In a few minutes they crossed the trail of which Boone had spoken, and Kenton stopped to examine it carefully. As the elder hunter had said, it led straight to Harrodsburg, and they crossed it at right-angles, plunging deep into the woods toward the south, where, at least, they were certain the country was comparatively free of enemies.

For at least half an hour they continued their course to the south, and then Boone turned again, sharp to the west, and proceeded in the direction of Harrodsburg without more ado. Kenton remained at least a quarter of a mile nearer the march of their suspected foes, and chuckled with satisfaction as he came across several bear and deer-tracks.

The tracks were recent and very regular, unanswerable evidence to the keen hunter that the animals had been undisturbed that morning.

When Boone turned, Ruby and Kenton turned likewise, so that the former Indian file became, once more, a skirmish-line of three people, stretching over a space a quarter of a mile wide.

Again they glided cautiously but swiftly along, on the way to Harrodsburg, the post of honor, nearest the foe, belonging to Kenton.

The sun was long past the meridian, and sunk rapidly as they pressed along, till at last his level rays pierced through the covert of the forest, and announced that the king of day was about to take his departure.

By that time they judged that they must be nearly abreast of Harrodsburg, but, so still was the forest, that they could not tell its position with any certainty.

This very stillness, however, supplied them with one piece of information which they needed.

It told them they were nearing their enemies.

The birds had ceased to sing, and not a living creature of the usual denizens of the forest made its appearance on their right flank.

They knew that the Indians must be there.

Just as the sun set, they heard the reports of several rifles, a little way off on their right front, and Kenton, immediately after, sheered off to the left, and came near to Ruby and Boone.

The three, as if by a common impulse, turned their course once more to the south, and had the satisfaction of hearing a brisk fire of rifles beginning, which revealed to them the only thing they wanted to know, the position of the fort of Harrodsburg.

As they went on and the shots became more distant, Kenton and Boone closed in on Ruby, so that all three were within whispering distance, and Kenton panted out:

“Thur havin’ a little muss thar, cunnel. Bully for us!”

Boone made no answer, but kept on his course till they had left the sounds of conflict far to the rear, when he turned sharp to the north, motioning the rest to keep behind him.

Now at last the twilight began to fade.

As the twilight faded, the sounds of conflict grew less and less frequent. Only an occasional rifle-shot rung out at intervals; but every one came closer and closer as they advanced.

At last it was dark.

Then the veteran borderer stopped and allowed his two companions to come up alongside of him, when a short whispered conversation took place.

So cautious were all of being overheard that they were obliged to put their lips to each other’s ears to tell and hear, and the sharpest scout might have lain twenty feet off without hearing a sound.

“We are close to the imps,” said Boone; “and the fort gate lies right in front of us. We must keep close together now.”

“Do you think they know we are around?” said Ruby.

“The Indians must,” said the borderer. “The only trouble is that the people inside don’t.”

“Ef they’ll fire a few more shots,” said Kenton, “I’ll be bound to go through safe.”

“They won’t do it,” whispered Boone, in answer.

Hardly had he spoken, when, as if to give the lie to his words, the flash of a rifle came from the black woods toward the fort, not a hundred yards off.

It was immediately answered by a line of flashes some distance further on, and the crackling reports of the rifles were followed by the spiteful plug, plug, plug, of several bullets slapping into the ground and tree-trunks round them, in very unpleasant proximity.

“That feller war some young brave on his fust war-path, cunnel,” whispered Kenton, delightedly, “Ef I don’t flax him, call me a skunk.”

“Now we know where the fort is, thanks to him,” was the answer. “There must be a big crowd, Simon, when they let the youngsters stand picket.”

“I’m goin’ to fotch that feller’s skulp, by the holy poker,” muttered Kenton. “Ef so be he’s alone thar, we kin creep through the gap.”

“Be careful, Simon,” replied Boone, cautiously. “Remember we’re not alone, and the lady can’t run like we can.”

“All right, cunnel,” said the borderer; and as he spoke he glided away on his belly like a snake toward the point from whence the flash had proceeded.