great caves of Kentucky had been discovered by the people of Wareville,
and now they wished to share their unfailing supply with others, in order
that the infant colony might be able to withstand Indian attacks. Henry
Ware, once a captive in a far Northwestern tribe, and noted for his great
strength and skill, had been chosen, with Paul Cotter, his comrade, to
carry it. Both rejoiced in the great task, which to them meant the saving
of Kentucky.

Paul's eyes were apt at times to have a dreamy look, as if he were
thinking of things far away, whether of time or place; but now they were
alive to the present, and to the forest about him. He listened intently.
At last he lay down and put his ear to the earth, as he had seen Henry do;
but he heard nothing save a soft, sighing sound, which he knew to be only
the note of the wilderness. He might have fired his rifle. The sharp,
lashing report would go far, carried farther by its own echoes; but it was
more likely to bring foe than friend, and he refrained.

But he must try, if not one thing, then another. He looked up at the
heavens and studied the great, red globe of the sun, now going slowly
down the western arch in circles of crimson and orange light, and then he
looked hack at the earth. If he had not judged the position of the sun
wrong, their little camp lay to the right, and he would choose that
course. He turned at once and walked swiftly among the trees.

Paul stopped now and then to listen. He would have uttered the long forest
shout, as a signal to his comrade, but even that was forbidden. Henry had
seen signs in the forest that indicated more than once to his infallible
eye the presence of roving warriors from the north, and no risk must be
taken. But, as usual, it was only the note of the wilderness that came to
his ears. He stopped also once or twice, not to listen, but to look at the