The wagons went slowly on through the virgin wilderness, Daniel Poe and Dick Salter at their head, the riflemen all along the flanks.

“We’ll strike a river some time to-morrow,” said Salter.  “It’s narrow and deep, and the ford will be hard.”

“I wish we were safely on the other side,” said Daniel Poe.

“So do I,” said Dick Salter, and his tone was full of meaning.

Yet the day passed as the night had passed, and nothing happened.  They had safely crossed the mountains, and before them were gentle, rolling hills and open forest.  The country steadily grew more fertile, and often game sprang up from the way, showing that man trod there but little.  The day was of unrivaled beauty, a cloudless blue sky overhead, green grass under foot, and a warm, gentle wind always blowing from the south.  How could danger be threatening under such a smiling guise?  But the “eyes” of the train, which nothing escaped, the five who watched on every side, saw the Indian sign again and again, and always their faces were grave.

“The train carries many brave men,” said Henry, “but it will need every one of them.”

“Yes,” said Tom Ross; “an’ ef the women, too, kin shoot, so much the better.”

That night they encamped again in one of the openings so numerous throughout the country, and, as before, they fortified; but the women and children were getting over their fear.  They were too strong.  The Indians would not dare to attack a train defended by three hundred marksmen—­two hundred and fifty men and at least fifty women who could and would shoot well.  So their voices were no longer subdued, and jest and laughter passed within the circle of the wagons.

Paul remained by one of the fires, Henry and Shif’less Sol suggesting that he do so because he was already a huge favorite with everybody.  He was sitting comfortably before the coals, leaning against a wagon wheel, and at least a score of little boys and girls were gathered about him.  They wanted to know about the great wilderness, and the fights of himself and his comrades with the red warriors.  Paul, though modest, had the gift of vivid narrative.  He described Wareville, that snug nest there in the forest, and the great battle before its wooden walls; how the women, led by a girl, had gone forth for water; how the savages had been beaten off, and the dreadful combat afterward in the forest through the darkness and the rain.  He told how he had been struck down by a bullet, only to be carried off and saved by his comrade, Henry Ware—­the bravest, the most skillful, and the strongest hunter, scout, and warrior in all the West.  Then he told them something of their life in the winter just closed, although he kept the secret of the haunted island, which was to remain the property of his comrades and himself.

The children hung upon his words.  They liked this boy with the brilliant eyes, the vivid imagination, and the wonderful gift of narrative, that could make everything he told pass before their very eyes.