The advantage was now enormously in favor of the Indian, and he fully realized it. He ran forward instantly and circling round Hardy’s tree kept him so busily dancing about in order to remain under cover that it was impossible to reload his gun. This manœuvre had brought the savage within fifty feet of his adversary, and he would in all probability have presently fired. Instead of awaiting such action and trusting to the possible miss which would have placed them on even terms again, Hardy--who, it must be confessed, had become somewhat excited--made a foolish move. He took his tomahawk from his belt and, seizing a favorable moment, threw it with all the force he could command at the Indian. It was well aimed but the nimble redskin dodged and the missile whizzed over his left shoulder. Hardy noted his failure with a sinking of the heart. His first impulse was to run but he checked at thought of that bullet in his back. He would rather meet death face to face than have it overtake him in flight. Then there was a slim chance of fight left, he remembered, as he drew his hunting-knife from its sheath. The Indian now approached boldly with his gun presented, intending to make a sure shot at the closest range. Regardless of the fact that the weapon was directed full at him, Hardy stood, with head exposed, staring spell-bound at the hideous features of the exultant redskin. He never could tell afterwards what thoughts passed through his mind in those few seconds, that seemed an eternity. He remembered only that he seemed to have fallen into a trance from which he was awakened by the whip-like report of a rifle behind him, and at the moment it broke upon his ear the Indian fell in a convulsive heap at his feet. “My scalp, I reckon, young fellow. Sorry you didn’t get him. Better luck next time.” [Illustration: “MY SCALP, I RECKON, YOUNG FELLOW”] The words were spoken in a cheery, musical voice, and before he had finished the utterance the speaker’s knife had secured the prize to which he referred. Hardy looked up to the handsome beardless face of a young man of extremely attractive presence. The countenance was made up of contradictory features. The sternness suggested by the square jaw and large nose was belied by the smiling lips and the merry glint in the eyes. The careful dress, with its adornment of porcupine quills, the embroidered moccasins, the raccoons’ tails pendent from the back of the cap, the long, curled locks that fell below the shoulders,--all these betokened the backwoods dandy; but the great stature, the erect form, the muscular limbs and the weather-beaten face proclaimed the practiced hunter and fighter. “Simon Kenton, at your service,” said the newcomer, extending his hand with a smile that instantly won Hardy as it did everyone who came in contact with the young frontiersman. “My name is Hardy Goodfellow,” replied our friend, who had not yet quite recovered his composure. “I live at Boonesborough.”