When at last they reached the Ohio River, Abe stared in surprise.  It was so blue, so wide, so much bigger than the creek where he and Dennis had gone swimming.  There were so many boats.  One of them, a long low raft, was called a ferry.  The Lincolns went right on board with their pack horses, and it carried them across the shining water to the wooded shores of Indiana.

Indiana was a much wilder place than Kentucky.  There was no road leading to Pigeon Creek; only a path through the forest.  It was so narrow that sometimes Tom had to clear away some underbrush before they could go on.  Or else he had to stop to cut down a tree that stood in their way.  Abe, who was big and strong for his age, had his own little ax.  He helped his father all he could.

Fourteen miles north of the river, they came to a cleared place in the forest.  Tom called it his “farm.”  He hastily put up a shelter—­a camp made of poles and brush and leaves—­where they could stay until he had time to build a cabin.  It had only three walls.  The fourth side was left open, and in this open space Tom built a fire.  The children helped their mother to unpack, and she mixed batter for cornbread in a big iron skillet.  She cut up a squirrel that Tom had shot earlier in the day, and cooked it over the campfire.

“Now if you will fetch me your plates,” she said, “we’ll have our supper.”

The plates were only slabs of bark.  On each slab Nancy put a piece of fried squirrel and a hunk of cornbread.  The children sank down on one of the bearskins to eat their first meal in their new home.  By this time it was quite dark.  They could see only a few feet beyond the circle of light made by their campfire.

Nancy shivered.  She knew that they had neighbors.  Tom had told her there were seven other families living at Pigeon Creek.  But the trees were so tall, the night so black, that she had a strange feeling that they were the only people alive for miles around.

“Don’t you like it here, Mammy?” Abe asked.  To him this camping out was an adventure, but he wanted his mother to like it, too.

“I’m just feeling a little cold,” she told him.

“I like it,” said Sally decidedly.  “But it is sort of scary.  Are you scared, Abe?”

“Me?” Abe stuck out his chest.  “What is there to be scared of?”

At that moment a long-drawn-out howl came from the forest.  Another seemed to come from just beyond their campfire.  Then another and another—­each howl louder and closer.  The black curtain of the night was pierced by two green spots of light.  The children huddled against their mother, but Tom Lincoln laughed.

“I reckon I know what you’re scared of.  A wolf.”

“A wolf?” Sally shrieked.

“Yep.  See its green eyes.  But it won’t come near our fire.”

He got up and threw on another log.  As the flames blazed higher, the green lights disappeared.  There was a crashing sound in the underbrush.