The grief of the white Shawnee at the death of his foster-brother was pitiful to behold. Even Sam Oliver and his companions, who seldom showed any sympathy for the Indians, were not unmoved by his agonized cries of grief.

In the Shawnee tongue, some words of which all the white men present understood, the young stranger poured forth his sorrows. He called upon the spirits of his foster-father and brother to wait for him in their journey to the happy hunting-grounds. He explained that in no way had his treachery been of his own choosing. In spite of his protest, he explained, he had been compelled to direct the white men to the place where those who were nearest and dearest to him had fallen before their fire.

Several minutes elapsed and no one of the settlers spoke. Then Sam Oliver said sharply: "We have had enough of this! I feel just about as guilty as I do when I shoot a panther cub." Without a further word the hunter stepped to the place where the body of the young Indian was lying and scalped his victim. Even Peleg, hardened though he was to the scenes that were enacted upon the border, shuddered as he saw his companion perform this act.

At the urgent request of Peleg the white Shawnee was permitted to return with his newly found friend to bury the body of his foster-father, after his brother also had received decent burial at his hands.

When this act, in which Peleg had aided, was completed, the young hunter turned to his heartbroken companion and said, "You must come to the fort with me."

"No go! No go!" wailed the visitor.

"I do not blame you very much," acknowledged Peleg, "but you have no other home, and you might just as well come with me. I am sure you will be treated kindly, and as soon as Daniel Boone comes back you need have no further fears. If you go back to the Shawnees they will think you have betrayed your father and brother. Of course I understand that you did not do anything of the kind."

"Me do! Me false to me fader," interrupted the white Shawnee, his lamentations breaking forth afresh.

"What is your name?" abruptly demanded Peleg.

The reply of his companion sounded to him very like Tontileaugo, but although it was repeated several times Peleg was unable to pronounce it distinctly.

"I might call you Tonti, and I might call you Henry. Which do you like better?"

"No call Tonti."

"Then I will call you Henry. Don't you remember what your name was when you were a white boy?"

"Henry" shook his head, although plainly he was striving to recall the name which belonged to the years that were now dim in his memory.

"You come with me," said Peleg.

Together the two boys returned to the fort. Neither of them spoke until they entered within the stockade, where the men of the settlement were assembled listening to Sam Oliver's dramatic description of the events which had just taken place.

The sight of the hunter seemed to revive the sorrow of Henry, as Peleg henceforth called the young stranger, and bring back recollections of his own, unwilling treachery to the family which had been kind to him since the time of his adoption into the tribe.

However, Peleg did his utmost to shield his friend, to whom his heart went out in strong sympathy.

"What you goin' to do with your friend?" laughed Sam as he spoke to Peleg when the group at last scattered.

"I am going to take care of him," replied Peleg quietly.

"Make a pet of him, are you? The next rattler I find or the next wolf's cub I run across I will bring back to you, lad, and let you make a pet of that, too. The only trouble is that a rattlesnake is kinder at heart than an Indian."

Peleg shook his head but did not reply to this statement of the hunter.

"It is true, what I am tellin' you," continued Sam, as if somehow he was striving to justify himself. "It's got to be extermination. Either you kill the redskins or they will kill you. There isn't room for both in the same land. They are trying to kill us off, and I am not one to sit down quietly and invite them to bring their tomahawks and brain me. If I can get the drop on them before they can get it on me, that's all to my advantage."

"I think Henry feels——" began Peleg.

"Henry? Who's Henry?" broke in Sam Oliver.

"That's the name I have given this boy. He told me what his name was in Shawnee, but I could not quite get it. It sounded like Tontileaugo, and I offered to call him Tonti for short but he didn't like that."

"You will live to regret the day you ever took him in," warned Sam.

"But he is a white boy," persisted Peleg.

"Born white, but raised an Indian. It doesn't make much difference where a man is born. He grows to be like what he sees and is used to. He has been brought up to look at things through Indian eyes and he thinks Indian thoughts. You will find he will play you false before you are done with him."

"I shall have to take my chance as to that," said Peleg. "Daniel Boone has told me to try to do something to help somebody every day. He told me to start out with that in my mind the first thing every morning."

"You are makin' a mistake, lad," said Sam Oliver more quietly.

It was plain to Peleg that the old hunter was convinced that what he said was true, and there had been many experiences along the border to justify him in his conclusion. What Sam Oliver had been unable to comprehend was that, much as the methods of the Indians in their warfare were to be condemned, they still were fighting for the protection of the lands which they believed to be their own.

A few days afterward Daniel Boone and his family arrived with their little caravan, which included two milch cows and several pack-horses. The scout was hilariously greeted by the settlers, and without opposition at once resumed his position as leader of the little community.

Every one that could share in the labour was busily engaged now throughout the long hours of the day. The sound of the axe was continually heard, and the few crops which had been planted were carefully tended, and, what is more, were giving promise of an abounding harvest from the small sowing.

Peleg had related to the great scout the events which had been connected with the coming of Henry to the settlements. The young scout's heart was still sore for his friend, who now had little to say to any one except Peleg. Together the boys toiled in the field or hunted game in the forests; but Henry was never stationed as a guard.

"It is this way, lad," said Boone, after he had heard the entire story. "Sam Oliver means right, but he has no understanding of the feelings of any one else. Because I shoot an Indian and he shoots an Indian, he thinks we both act from the same motive. Never yet have I raised my rifle to fire at an Indian without feeling in my heart that perhaps he might be as fully entitled to the land for which he is struggling as I am. I should be glad to share with him. The trouble is he will not share with me. There ought to be room enough here for us both; but, now I am sure, lad, through the actions of the Indians themselves, it must be either white man or red man who will dwell in this wonderful country." As he spoke, Daniel Boone looked around him at the wonderful vision that spread before his eyes. It was a day late in the summer and a slight haze rested over the forests and the fields. The silence which enveloped all things was in itself impressive. The cloudless sky and the colours of the trees below the hill where the scout and his companion were standing combined to impress upon their minds the marvellous beauty of the region. "This is destined to be a great land, lad," Boone said simply. "It is a wonderful thing that you and I should have a little part in opening it up. When I close my eyes, almost I see the homes that will be built here, the men and women who will find resting-places here; even the voices of the little children who will be born two hundred years from now are sounding in my ears." Changing his tone, Boone said: "Have you seen anything in your friend to make you feel suspicious of him?"

"Never!" said Peleg positively. "Have you?"

"No. There are some men in the settlement, however, who are fearful that he may try to betray us when trouble comes."

"He never will," said Peleg positively. "If you had been with me and seen him when Sam Oliver shot his foster-father and brother I am sure you would never suspect Henry of not being true."

"That is my feeling, lad," said Boone gently. "Do all in your power to prevent him from doing anything which might arouse the anger or even the suspicions of our men."

"He never talks to Sam Oliver and very seldom to any one else. He stays with me all through the day, except when I am on guard."

"You are welcome to bring him to our home any time."

"To stay there?" inquired Peleg.

"That is what I mean, lad," replied the great scout, his face lighting up with the occasional smile that appeared upon it. "My wife and daughters feel toward him as I do. Do you know that they were the first white women ever to stand on the banks of the Kantuckee River?"

"I had not thought of that," replied Peleg.

"There are many others coming soon. Already I have received word that Mrs. McGary, Mrs. Hogan, and Mrs. Denton are on their way here."

The arrival soon afterward of more than a score of white men to join the settlers aroused great enthusiasm, because now it was confidently believed that, after so many had passed safely over the roadway which Boone and his companions had opened to the beautiful region, many more would surely follow. These expectations were soon fulfilled.

The continued labours of the whites, however, had increased the intense hostility of the Indians, who naturally believed all these lands belonged to them. When they saw the settlers felling the trees and erecting their houses and planting their crops, a spirit of determination to drive the whites from the region spread among the tribes.

There was just now, however, a lull in the direct warfare. Dusky faces occasionally were seen in the forest, but there was no open attack.

Daniel Boone, however, was not to be deceived. He was confident that it was simply the hush which at times precedes the coming of the tempest. In his own mind he was convinced that the Indians simply were reserving their strength until they could rally a sufficient number to make an attack worth while. And Boone in the midst of all his labours—for he was toiling with the men of the settlement—was forming plans by which he hoped to meet the fierce attacks he expected the Shawnees to make.

Frequent sallies upon the men when they were at work in the fields now began to be made. While they were plowing, the stealthy warriors did their utmost to waylay and shoot them. When they were hunting they were chased and sometimes fired upon. Sometimes an Indian would creep up near the fort in the night and fire upon the first of the garrison to appear in the morning. The little settlement soon was in a state of continual and increasing alarm.

Even many of the ordinary duties of life were performed only at great risk. But the determination in the hearts of the hardy people to defend their new homes in the wonderful region strengthened with every passing day.

Many of the settlers every night assembled within the walls of the fort. It was the expressed desire of Boone that all should do this, for in this way only could the safety of every one be assured. For the most part the people responded willingly to his appeal, and after a certain eventful night all were willing to heed his counsel. On that particular night occurred a struggle with the prowling Indians which made the name of one of the heroic women long to be remembered.