appearance. His eyes roved continually, and were full of suspicion,
and of a sort of smoldering anger, as if he had a grievance against
all the world. His hair was long and tangled, his face brown with sun
and storm, and his dress more Indian than white. He was heavily armed,
and, whether seen in the dusk or in the light, his whole aspect was
formidable and dangerous. But Willet continued to advance without
hesitation.

"Captain Jack," he said extending his hand. "We were not looking for
you tonight, but no man could be more welcome. These are young friends
of mine, brave warriors both, the white and the red, Robert Lennox,
who is almost a son to me, and Tayoga, the Onondaga, to whom I feel
nearly like a father too."

Now Robert knew him, and he felt a thrill of surprise, and of the most
intense curiosity. Who along the whole border had not heard of Captain
Jack, known also as the Black Hunter, the Black Rifle and by many
other names? The tale had been told in every cabin in the woods how
returning home, he had found his wife and children tomahawked and
scalped, and how he had taken a vow of lifelong vengeance upon the
Indians, a vow most terribly kept. In all the villages in the Ohio
country and along the Great Lakes, the name of Black Rifle was spoken
with awe and terror. No more singular and ominous figure ever crossed
the pages of border story.

He swept the two youths with questing glances, but they met his gaze
firmly, and while his eye had clouded at first sight of the Onondaga
the threatening look soon passed.

"Friends of yours are friends of mine, Dave Willet," he said. "I know