In a few hours they started, the old man on foot like the others. Nor did they need to slacken their pace to accommodate him. He strode along, erect and with a step that displayed much of its old-time elastic swing. They found that he could cover his twelve miles a day without undue fatigue and he insisted that the stages should be no less. If Kenton or Hardy attempted any subterfuges, such as feigning weariness or a desire to examine the scenery, for the sake of affording their aged companion a rest, Boone was visibly annoyed and they soon decided to let him have his own way. They were delighted to find that the old woodsman’s eye, though somewhat restricted in range, was as keen as ever in detecting “signs.” He soon gave them proof that he still possessed his wonderful skill with the rifle. “Can you bark a squirrel now, Hardy? Try that fellow,” said Boone, pointing to one of the little animals on a branch, at the distance of about fifty yards. Hardy declined to take the shot, but insisted upon Boone doing so. The old hunter took aim and fired. The squirrel flew into the air and came to the ground without a hair injured. It was a feat that few backwoodsmen in the prime of life and practice could accomplish. Boone took his young friends to Kansas River. They spent two weeks hunting in the adjoining country and never enjoyed themselves better in their lives. Boone at this time was a more delightful companion than in his younger years. He talked freely and frankly about himself and men whom he had known. He recounted stories of great hunts in which he had taken part, and told his companions of the long months he had passed in Kentucky before the advent of settlers. He related the incidents of his capture by the Indians and his escape to find his companions gone and himself alone a hundred miles and more from the nearest white settlement. Boone informed them that he was in the habit of going on a hunting expedition twice a year with a companion whom he had bound by a written contract to bring his body home in case he should die in the wilderness. “It is strange,” he said, “that I, who have spent much of my life in strife and most of it in the wilderness, should have a dread of leaving my bones in the forest. I can’t account for it, but I have the strongest desire to be buried near the habitations of men.” It was with regret that the hunters turned their faces homewards. Each felt that it was their last hunt together, and perhaps the closing incident of their last meeting. Such, indeed, it proved to be. The day after their return, Kenton and Hardy bade the old man a reluctant and affectionate farewell. He stood at his cabin door with eyes shaded and watched them out of sight. He went out of their lives, but in their distinguished after-careers each felt and acknowledged that he was a better man for having known Daniel Boone. THE END Transcriber’s Notes: --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).