With the first light he was continuing his flight and fought pains and aches for several miles before his legs limbered up. Two hours after sunrise he killed a squirrel with a rock and ate the scanty meat raw. Fortunately his mind focused on the fear behind him and he did not take time to realize he might run into another band of Indians at any moment. He entered the rugged hills around Sunfish creek. He was determined to use every hour of light for travel, and fear served as food and drink in keeping him going. Traveling south, he crossed Scioto Brush and Turkey Creek; and everything seemed unreal. Another night and day, and he halted and stared stupidly when he beheld a broad river, which, he knew, must be the Ohio. He was ten miles below the mouth of the Scioto. He had no idea of how and when he had rested, of the meager food of nuts and raw squirrel meat. But he did know he was gazing on the Ohio and the Kentucky shore beyond. His problem now was to cross the river although it was very possible that would mean from pan to fire. He remembered poor Bryant’s advice to make for Massie’s Station, but he had no idea whether he was above or below it. Nor did he know how much time had elapsed since he struck Little Beaver and escaped from the Salt Creek camp. He crawled into a thicket of bushes as a befuddling sense of helplessness swept over him. His clothing consisted of a few rags. His moccasins were worn out. His feet and limbs and chest were scratched and torn by the wildness of his flight. As he stared at his poor feet he discovered he was weeping. He fought down the weakness, and was startled into lively perception by a slight splashing noise in the current above his hiding-place. As it sounded at regular intervals and appeared to be drawing nearer he forced his way closer to the bank to stare down through the tangled growth. He felt as if he were suffocating when he beheld a man in a canoe. The man was dressed like one of the Long Hunters who lighted the Kentucky fire. “Take me off! Save me!” Knight hysterically called out. The canoe swerved in to the bank and out of sight. “I’m a white man! Save me!” he repeated. As he received no response he cried again and again to the same effect. “Who are you?” asked a curious voice behind him. He turned in frantic haste and beheld the man, his rifle across his left arm. The man had landed and mounted the bank and gained the rear of the fugitive’s position without being heard. * * * * * In a recital that was almost incoherent Knight told his story. The man relaxed and rested the butt of his rifle on the ground. As Knight ceased talking the other squatted on his heels and checked off. “You’re Virginny. Catched at the Big Sandy station. White man, named Bryant, was fetched in and got hisself killed. You busted loose. Injuns chasing you. That right?” “Yes, yes. And we must be going. Set me across, will you?”