The crows called again. They circled widely. They returned to chatter a warning. Kenton, who never was known to lose his self-control, said, calmly: "Go on. My gray curls will make a purtier scalp than your hank o' tow; 'f I don't fret, you needn't." Doby went on. The horse needed constant petting and coaxing. The crows flapped and cawed, following a hiding something--an evil something moving near the trail. The horse quivered and shied at the unseen peril stalking him. They reached the end of the ravine and descended into the canebrake of the bottom-land which led to the Kentucky River. Far away on the other side of the river they could see the stockade of Boonesboro. "Could we signal the stockade?" faltered Doby. "We'll be made into broth if we do," was the quiet reply. Some Indians were cannibals. At this reminder, Doby's spine turned to water and he slumped into a heap. But Kenton caught him up and shook him forcibly with the words: "I once felt that-a-way myself. Ye can git used to 't. Keep right on. The cane's full of the pesky redskins." "I don't see any," gasped Doby, in forlorn hope. "Nary glimpse. Watch the crows. Show yer passport. They're there," declared Kenton. When the horse found that he could not hang back, he bolted. Wilder and wilder his pace grew. Fear had seized him past all control. Ever the canes, before, beside, behind their mad flight wavered for a wicked pursuing foe who peeped and ran. Ever the crows in dread curiosity beat the air and croaked in apprehension. Ever the boy, with his blue-jay feathers upright, clung to the saddle and lifted his white face so plainly marked, with an attempt at bravado. As the ford came in sight and the trampled clearing at its edge showed an open space of ground they knew that the crisis was near. [Illustration: EACH SAVAGE GIBED AT THE BOY'S PAINTED TALISMAN, BUT EACH OBEYED ITS MESSAGE] What was that sound? Shrill and weird, cutting their ears, they caught the note of the pig's-bladder "shrieker"--Doby's whistle! "Don't shoot," said Kenton. "Whatever happens--don't shoot--mind that--don't shoot!" Then--from the canebrake on three sides of the clearing sprang the nimble-footed savages who had teased and outrun their horse. The painted bodies closed across the entrance to the ford. Paralyzed with fear, the sweating horse crouched. The ears of Kenton and Doby were deafened with war-whoops, their nostrils sickened by dangling scalps. A horrid threatening dance swung round them. Tomahawks hurled past them. Color and noise, stench and motion, caught them in a hideous vortex. Each savage gibed at the boy's painted talisman, but each obeyed its message. They did not touch him.