The men seemed to have no fear of an enemy, perhaps because their fire was in an open space, too far from the forest for the rifle shot of an ambushed foe to reach them.  Perhaps, too, they felt security in their numbers and valor, because they were certainly a formidable-looking party.  All were stalwart, dressed in wilderness fashion—­that is, in tanned deerskin—­and every one carried the long, slender-barreled Kentucky rifle, with knife and hatchet at his belt.  There was Tom Ross, the guide, of middle years, with a powerful figure and stern, quiet face, and near him lounged a younger man in an attitude of the most luxurious and indolent ease, Shif’less Sol Hyde, who had attained a great reputation for laziness by incessantly claiming it for himself, but who was nevertheless a hunter and scout of extraordinary skill.  Jim Hart, a man of singular height and thinness, whom Sol disrespectfully called the “Saplin’”—­that is, the sapling, a slim young tree—­was doing the cooking.  The others were typical frontiersmen—­lean, big of build, and strong.

The shiftless one curled himself into an easier position against a log, and regarded with interest a particularly juicy piece of the buffalo hump that lay on the grass some distance from him.

“Say, Saplin’,” he drawled, “I wish you’d bring me that piece o’ hump.  I think it would just suit my teeth.”

“Git it yourself,” replied Saplin’ indignantly.  “Do you think I’m goin’ to cook for a lazy bag o’ bones like you, an’ then wait on you, too?”

“Well, I think you might,” said Shif’less Sol sorrowfully.  “I’m pow’ful tired.”

“If I wuz to wait on you when you wuz tired, I’d wait on you all my life.”

“Which ‘ud he puttin’ yourself to a mighty good use,” said Sol tolerantly.  “But if you won’t bring it to me, I reckon I’ll have to go after it.”

He rose, with every appearance of reluctance, and secured the buffalo meat.  But he stood with it in his hand and regarded the forest to the east, from which two figures were coming.  Ross had already seen them, but he had said nothing.  The keen eyes of the shiftless one were not at fault for a moment.

“Paul Cotter an’ Henry Ware,” he said.

“Yes,” said Tom Ross.

“And Paul’s just about done up.”

“Yes,” said Tom Ross.

“Looks like they’ve had a big fight or a big run, one or t’other or both.”

“Yes,” said Tom Ross.

Then all went forward to meet the two boys, so well known to them.  Paul was staggering a little, and there was a high color, as of fever, in his face, but Henry showed signs of neither fatigue nor excitement.

“We’re glad to find you,” said Henry briefly.

“We’re glad, awful glad!” began Paul, with more fervor; but he suddenly reeled, and everything grew dim about him.  Shif’less Sol caught him.

“Here, Paul,” he said, “stand up.  You’re a heavy weight for a tired man to hold.”