“I don’t know no reason to doubt it,” replied Salter.  “The savages don’t often get down here.  The villages uv the northwestern tribes must be close on to a thousand miles from here, an’ besides they were beat off last year, an’ beat badly, when they tried to rush Wareville.”

“That is so,” said Daniel Poe thoughtfully; “we had word of it.  But, Dick, we can’t afford to take all these people into danger here in the woods.  Look at the women and children.”

They had just begun to stop for the night, and to draw the wagons into a circle in a convenient, slightly hollowed, open place.  The women and children were trooping about upon the grass, and the air was filled with the sound of merry voices.  All were browned by the sun, but they were healthy and joyous, and they looked forward with keen delight to meeting kin who had gone on before at Wareville.  They had no fear of the mighty forests, when more than two hundred pairs of strong arms fenced them about.

“That is shorely a pleasant sight,” said Dick Salter.  “I’ve seed the same many evenin’s, an’ I hope to see it many more evenin’s.  We’ll get ’em through, Mr. Poe, we’ll get ’em through!”

“I hope so,” said Daniel Poe earnestly.

They had begun to light the evening fires, and in the west a great red sun blazed just above the hills.  Daniel Poe suddenly put his hand upon Dick Salter’s arm.

“Dick, what is that?” he said, pointing with a long forefinger.

A black silhouette had appeared on the crest of a hill in the very eye of the sun, and Dick Salter, shading his brow with his hand, gazed long and anxiously.

“It’s a man,” he said at last, “an’ ef I’m any judge uv a human bein’ it’s about the finest specimen uv a man that ever trod green grass.  Look, Mr. Poe!”

The figure, outlined against its brilliant background, seemed to grow and come nearer.  Others had seen now, and the whole wagon train gazed with intent and curious eyes.  They saw in the blazing light every detail of an erect and splendid figure, evidently that of a youth, but tall beyond the average of men.  He was clad in forest garb—­fringed hunting shirt and leggings and raccoon-skin cap.  He stood erect, but easily, holding by the muzzle a long, slender-barreled rifle, which rested, stock upon the ground.  Seen there in all the gorgeous redness of the evening sunlight, there was something majestic, something perhaps weird and unreal, in the grand and silent figure.

“He’s white, that’s shore!” said Dick Salter.

“He looks like a wilderness god,” murmured Daniel Poe, in his beard.

“Look!” exclaimed Dick Salter.  “There’s another!”

A second figure appeared suddenly beside the first, that of a youth, also, not so tall as the first; but he, too, stood erect, silent and motionless, gazing at the wagon train.

“And a third!” exclaimed Daniel Poe.

“And a fourth and fifth!” added Dick Salter.  “See, there are five uv ’em!”