“I think we’d better take off our clothing and dry it,” said Henry, and both promptly did so.  They hung part of their garments before the fire, on a stick thrust in the ground, until they were dry, and then, putting them on again, replaced them with the remainder, to dry in their turn.  Meanwhile they ate of the venison that Henry carried in his knapsack, and felt very happy.  It was a wonderful experience for Paul.  This was comfort and safety.  They were only a pin point in the wilderness, but for the present the stony hollow fenced them about, and the hidden fire gave forth warmth and pleasure.

“Do you think you could sleep, Paul?” asked Henry, when they had put on again the last of the dried clothing.

Paul laughed.

“Could I sleep?” he said.  “Would a hungry wolf eat?  Will water run down hill?  I don’t think I could do anything else just now.”

“Then try it,” said Henry.  “After a while I’ll wake you up for your watch, and take a turn at it myself.”

Paul said not another word, but sank back on the grass and leaves, with his feet to the great bed of coals.  He saw their glow for a moment or two, then his eyelids shut down, and he was wafted away on a magic carpet to a dreamless region of happy peace.  Henry’s eyes, grown used to the dark, looked at him for a moment or two, and then the larger boy smiled.  Paul, his faithful comrade, filled a great place in his heart—­they liked each other all the better because they were so unlike—­and he was silently, but none the less devoutly thankful that he had come.

Henry was warm and dry, and as he tested his muscles he found them supple and strong.  Now he took precautions, thinking he had let the fire burn as long as was safe.  He scattered the coals with a stick, and then softly crushed out each under the stout heel of his moccasin.  With the minute patience that he had learned from his forest life, he persisted in his task until not a single spark was left anywhere.  Then he sat down in Turkish fashion, with his rifle lying across his lap and the other rifles near, listening, always listening, with the wonderful ear that noted every sound of the forest, and piercing the thickets with eyes whose keenness those of no savage could surpass.  He knew that they were in the danger zone, that the Shawnees were on a great man-hunt, and regarded the two boys as stilt within their net, although they could not yet put their hands upon them.  That was why he listened and watched so closely, and that was why he would break his word to Paul and not waken him, keeping the nightlong vigil himself.

The night advanced, the darkness shredded away a little before a half moon, and Henry was very glad that he had put out the last remnant of the fire.  Yet the trees still enclosed the hollow like a black wall, and he did not think a foe had one chance in a thousand of finding them there while the night lasted.  But he never ceased to watch—­a silent, powerful figure, with the rifle lying across his lap, ready to be used at a moment’s notice.  His stillness was something marvelous.  Even had it been light, an ordinary observer would not have seen him move a hair’s breadth.  He was a part of the silent wilderness.