The spot where the battle recorded had taken place, was in Sciota Valley, but a short distance from the river of that name, and toward this Kingman bent his steps. He could hear the shouts of the savages, and see their lights flitting through the trees, as they moved about in the village. Some, he knew, were still absent in the forest, searching for prey, and he was yet by no means out of danger, as the river bank would probably be watched the whole night. His wound pained him now more than usual, and he was fearful of a fever renewing itself before morning. He took the river bank, for by following this he would avoid that singular mistake which persons lost in the wilderness so often make—that of coming, after a long time, back to the precise spot from which they started. The Sciota emptied into the Ohio, and by following its banks he would in time reach the settlement, as Wetzel and the hunters had done some time before. As he approached the river, the moon was shining upon it, and he could plainly discover the dark line of the opposite shore. He hurried along the bank in the hope of finding some Indian canoe, but was disappointed. As every moment was of value to him, he commenced his homeward march at once. For a mile or so he kept within the wood, until, judging that he had gone far enough to be beyond danger, he took the shore and hastened onward. For a mile or so the beach was composed of a hard, gravelly sand, which made the walking easy and pleasant on such a warm moonlight night. Kingman could not help congratulating himself upon his own pleasant lot, when he reflected upon the fate of so many others, despite the severe and troublesome wound he had received. “Yes,” he exclaimed, half aloud, “I’m in a fair way to get home again, and I thank Heaven for it. If I should happen——hello!” The latter exclamation had good reason for its utterance. In coming around a sharp bend in the river, he had encountered a Shawnee Indian, and the two stood face to face! They were not fifty feet apart, and each appeared equally astonished. As Kingman stood, the moon shone upon his back, so that his features were concealed from his enemy, while the face of the latter was as distinctly visible as at noonday. Kingman saw his large, dark eyes glowing, and his whole countenance working with passion; but suddenly it changed, and losing the hold upon his knife, a grim smile came over his swarthy features as he said in a low tone, “You scare Long Tom, Pete. He tink you oder man.” Kingman saw in a moment that he had been mistaken for the renegade. His dress was similar, and his stature about the same, so that it could not be wondered at. Without losing a moment he availed himself of the mistake. “Wal, I reckon I did scarce you, Tom! Wagh! wagh!” he laughed, imitating as nearly as he remembered the renegade’s tones and actions. “What scarce me for?” “’Cause you was fool enough to git scart, wagh! But ain’t there no more of Injins with you?”