They scrambled up the first low range of hills which looked down upon the broad river, and paused for a moment on the summit for a look about them. Beyond the river lay the level valley which, twelve decades before, had been one of the favourite dwelling-places of the red man. The woods abounded with game of every sort, and the river with fish, while in the fertile bottom his corn would grow to ripe luxuriance with little cultivation. More than one fierce battle for the possession of this smiling valley had been fought with the hardy bands of pioneers, who had pushed their way up from the Ohio, but at last the advancing tide of civilization swept the Indian aside, and the modern town of Wadsworth began to rise where formerly there had been no building more substantial than the hide wigwam. Jack and Allan could see the town nestling among its trees in the wide valley, but, when they turned about, a different view met them. To the eastward were no plains, no bottoms, no city, but, far as the eye could see, one hill rose behind another, all of them heavily wooded to the very summit, so steep and with a soil so gravelly that no one had ever attempted to cultivate them. Nor did any one dwell among them, save a few poverty-stricken families, who lived in summer by picking blackberries and in winter by digging sassafras-root,—a class of people so shiftless and mean and dirty that no respectable farmer would permit them on his place. It was the rude cabin of one of these families which Jack and Allan saw in the valley before them, and they determined to descend to it and make inquiries. There was a rough path leading downwards through the woods, and this they followed until they came to the edge of the little clearing which surrounded the house. They went forward to the door and knocked, but there was no response, and, after a moment, Jack pushed the door open cautiously and looked inside. As he did so, a shot rang out behind him, and Allan felt a sudden sting of pain across his cheek as a bullet sang past and embedded itself in the jamb of the door. “What’s that?” cried Jack, springing around, and then he saw Allan wiping the blood from his cheek. “What is it, lad?” he asked, his face paling. “You’re not hurted?” “Only a scratch,” said Allan, smiling. “Just took a little of the skin off.” “Come in here an’ we’ll look at it,” and Jack half-dragged him through the open door, which he closed and barred. “That’ll keep th’ varmint from takin’ another shot at us,” he said. “Now let’s see the cheek.” But not even Jack’s anxiety could make of the wound more than a scratch. The bullet had cut the skin from the left cheek for nearly an inch, and a little cold water, which Jack found in a bucket in the house, soon stopped the bleeding. “Who could it have been?” asked Allan, at last. “Y’ don’t need t’ ask that, I hope,” cried Jack. “It was Dan Nolan!” “Well, he didn’t hurt me much,” said Allan, with a laugh. “He doesn’t seem to have very good luck.”