THE WOOD KING;
OR,
DANIEL BOONE'S LAST TRAIL
A ROMANCE OF THE OSAGE COUNTRY.
BY JOS. E. BADGER, Jr.,
AUTHOR OF THE FOLLOWING POCKET NOVELS:
No. 59. The Texas Hawks.
No. 63. The Florida Scout.
No. 98. Dusky Dick.
No. 101. Redlaw.
No. 105. The Indian Spy.
NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS,
No. 98 WILLIAM STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1878, by
BEADLE AND ADAMS
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
THE WOOD KING.
CHAPTER I.
LIGHTFOOT AND THE WOOD VETERAN.
Crack—crack!
Though faint and far away, there could be no mistaking these sharp,spiteful reports for other than the voice of rifles. The sound was nouncommon one for that region, which is even yet noted for its quantityof game; half a century since "the Osage Country" was truly a hunter'sparadise.
A man was crossing the Osage river, at a ford, and though near themiddle of the stream, the water barely reached his knees. As the twinreports came echoing across the eastern forest, the hunter abruptlypaused, bending his head, listening intently.
The rifle-shots alone could scarcely have occasioned the surprisewritten so plainly upon the man's features, since this washunting-ground common to all—red as well as white. He himself hadfired more than once that day.
But closely following the reports came a series of short, peculiaryells—the cries so strongly resembling the yelping of a cur-dog whenin hot pursuit of a rabbit, that an Indian sends forth when closingrapidly upon a fleeing foe.
The hunter could not mistake this sound, nor its full significance. Fornearly half a century it had been familiar to his ear. Many a time hadit rung out upon his own trail, as he fled for dear life through theforests of the "dark and bloody ground."
"Thar's mischief afoot—can it be that the varmints have r'ailly tookto the war-path?" he muttered, glancing keenly around. "They're makin'this way—it's the only ford for miles—reckon I'd better hunt cover!"
The alarm came from the point toward which the hunter's face hadbeen turned, and as he listened, the quick, sharp yells grew plainerand more distinct. Turning, he rapidly retreated to the shore he hadrecently left.
As he neared cover, it became evident that the hunter was white; thoughhis face was deeply bronzed, almost copper-hued, where the stout jeantrowsers had been rolled above his knees, the skin showed clear andwhite.
Nearing cover, he turned and listened. All was still; the yells nolonger echoed through the forest. It seemed as though the deed was done.
Bending forward, the hunter was clearly revealed by the bright rays ofthe noonday sun. That he was old, the long, snowy locks that fell belowhis rude skin cap plainly evidenced. Yet the weight of years seemed tosit lightly upon his frame. His step was light yet firm, his motionsquick and supple. The rude garb of gray jeans only half-concealed hisgreat muscular development. Altogether, he was what one might well terman awkward customer to meet in a hand-to-hand struggle, despite his age.
"No, they hain't got him yet, whoever he is," muttered the veteran.
Upon the crest of a hill, full quarter o