Daniel Boone, Backwoodsman

by C. H. Forbes-Lindsay

At night they encamped near some spring or creek. Meat was broiled over the flames of the fire, and bread baked in the ashes. Each family or group of men made its fire in front of the shelter for the night, so that they might lie with their feet to it. A low structure, open in front and sloping towards the back, was readily raised by means of poles covered with skins. A comfortable bed was made of dry leaves or grass, with a blanket or pelt for covering. With such accommodations, these hardy, simple people deemed themselves well provided for, and without doubt they enjoyed better health than would have been their lot under the softer conditions of city life.

Boone and Mr. Sproul—whom it is needless to describe, for he does not figure any further in our story—were pacing the path in silence when several shots fired in rapid succession rang out. The surveyor dropped his pipe and stood paralyzed with alarm. At the first sound the hunter had wheeled about, and before the last report, which his trained ear told him was half a mile at least in the rear, had died away, he was speeding past the string of pack-animals with his rifle in readiness. In passing he called on five men to follow him and ordered the remainder to guard the women and children.

It was evident that the attack—for the character of the firing clearly indicated an attack—had been upon the party set to guard and drive the cattle, which often lagged a long way behind. Boone remembered, with a sudden pang, that his young son was one of the cattle escort that day, and the thought spurred him onward. Presently a savage whoop of triumph broke upon his ears and the next instant he was upon the scene.

The animals had plunged into the thicket and scattered. Six figures lay upon the earth, still in death. Five Indians, each exultantly brandishing a bleeding scalp, were in the act of diving into the neighboring undergrowth. A sixth bent over one of the prostrate forms, with his fingers entwined in the hair and knife raised to make the circular sweep in the crown of the head. Boone’s rifle went up, and had hardly touched his shoulder before it spoke. The Indian dropped, shot through the brain.

The father had the poor consolation of having saved his boy’s body from mutilation. That to a backwoodsman was a source of satisfaction, but it did not go far towards mitigating Boone’s present grief. He stood for some minutes, leaning upon his rifle and looking down at the face of his dead boy. The convulsive twitching of his features told of the inward commotion. But there was urgent duty at hand and Boone sternly put his grief behind him and turned to it. When he lifted his head, his companions saw that the features, though drawn, were calm and the eyes keen and alert as ever.

Reloading his rifle, Boone stepped into the forest at the point where the Indians had disappeared. In ten minutes’ time he rejoined the anxiously waiting men.

“Only seven,” he said. “No likelihood of another attack. McCurdy, you go and fetch back five men—and don’t tell them what’s happened as yet.”

With the reinforcement, the party set to work digging a broad and shallow grave, in which they laid their dead without further preparation or ceremony. It was but an incident of backwoods life and the men who performed the service to-day might be in need of it to-morrow. Having marked the grave with stones and blazed some neighboring trees, they rejoined the main body, which resumed the march, leaving the cattle to be sought for the next day.

A little farther on, the party came upon a favorable spot and went into camp for the night. As soon as Boone had made the shelter for his family and built a fire, he devoted himself to comforting his stricken wife. But even this task could not be pursued uninterruptedly. The camp needed guarding with special vigilance. It is true that Boone believed the attack of the afternoon to have been made by a small party of wandering Indians who killed the settlers for the mere sake of securing their scalps. On the other hand, they might have been a scouting party sent out by a large band. Although Boone was as fearless as any man that ever lived, he was never imprudent, much less reckless. In the course of their conversation Mr. Sproul had said something about “trusting to Providence.” The hunter had replied that he didn’t “believe in trusting to Providence until you have done all you can for yourself. After that, Providence is much more likely to lend a willing hand.”

As soon, therefore, as the other settlers had composed themselves to rest, Boone went out and seated himself upon a fallen tree, prepared to spend the night in watchfulness. His ears were alive to the slightest sound and he could instantly detect the origin of each. Now and again the stillness of the forest would be broken by the howl of a wolf, or the hoot of an owl. At such times the hunter would raise his head and listen intently, for the Indians imitated the cries of birds and animals in signalling to one another. Boone was himself a very good hand at that form of reproduction and was seldom deceived by the performance of another.