Three other figures had appeared, seeming to arise in the sunlight as if by Arabian magic; and now all five stood there in a row, side by side, everyone silent and motionless, and everyone holding by the muzzle a long, slender-barreled rifle, its stock upon the ground, as he gazed at the train.

A deep breath ran through the crowd of emigrants, and all—­men, women, and children—­moved forward for a better look.  There was something mysterious and uncanny in this sudden apparition of the five there in the blazing light of the setting sun, which outlined their figures in every detail and raised them to gigantic proportions.  On those hills only was light; everywhere else the mighty curving wilderness, full of unknown terrors, was already dark with the coming night.

“It is our omen of danger.  I feel it, I feel it In every bone of me,” murmured Daniel Poe into his great black beard.

“We must find out what this means, that’s shore,” said Dick Salter.

But as he spoke, the first figure, that of the great, splendid youth, stepped right out of the eye of the sun, and he was followed in single file by the four others, all stepping in unison.  They came down the hill, and directly toward the travelers.  Again that deep breath ran through the crowd of emigrants, and the chief note of it was admiration, mingled with an intense curiosity.

All the five figures were strange and wild, sinewy, powerful, almost as dark as Indians, their eyes watchful and wary and roving from side to side, their clothing wholly of skins and furs, singular and picturesque.  They seemed almost to have come from another world.  But Daniel Poe was never lacking either in the qualities of hospitality or leadership.

“Friends,” he said, “as white men—­for such I take you to be—­you are welcome to our camp.”

The first of the five, the great, tall youth with the magnificent shoulders, smiled, and it seemed to Daniel Poe that the smile was wonderfully frank and winning.

“Yes, we are white, though we may not look it,” he said in a clear, deep voice, “and we have come near a thousand miles to meet you.”

“To meet us?” repeated Daniel Poe, in surprise, while Dick Salter, beside him, was saying to himself, as he looked at one of the five:  “Ef that ain’t Tom Ross, then I’ll eat my cap.”

“Yes,” repeated Henry Ware, with the most convincing emphasis, “it’s you that we’ve come to meet.  We belong at Wareville, although we’ve been far in the North throughout the winter.  My name is Henry Ware, this is Paul Cotter, and these are Tom Ross, Sol Hyde, and Jim Hart.  We must have a word with you at once, where the others cannot hear.”

Tom Ross and Dick Salter, old friends, were already shaking hands.  Henry Ware glanced at the emigrants pressing forward in a great crowd, and sympathy and tenderness showed in his eyes as he looked at the eager, childish faces so numerous among them.