Sometimes they would halt in a small glade and Boone would set up a mark for Hardy to shoot at, impressing upon him the wisdom of never pressing trigger until he should be sure of his aim. This exercise was varied with that of throwing the tomahawk, a very useful accomplishment. The Indian fighter who expended a shot without bringing down his foe, might not have time to reload, when he would have to resort to the weapons in his belt. On such and many other occasions the tomahawk came into play. At times they would engage in running matches and wrestling bouts, and although at first the hunter could pick Hardy up by the belt and hold him at arm’s length, the boy soon became too strong and agile to be treated as an altogether indifferent antagonist.
As they were constantly on the move, they made what was called an “open” camp,—that is to say, at night they rolled themselves in their blankets under the sky, or beneath the trees. As they sat beside their fire, after the meal of venison and cornbread, Boone would instruct Hardy in the ways of Indians, or tell him tales of frontier life—stories of hairbreadth escape from wild beast or cruel Indian; of women defending their cabins in the absence of their men; of fierce fights; of captivity and torture; of wanderings in the trackless wilds; of various adventures in a world that was as yet little known to the lad. The hunter liked to tell and Hardy to hear of Boone’s excursions into Kentucky—how he spent three months alone, hundreds of miles from a white man and without even a horse or dog for company; how the Indians captured him, and how he escaped. These stories fired Hardy with an intense longing to become a full-fledged frontiersman, and he bent every effort towards that end.
Sometimes Hardy would awake in the morning to find Boone gone. Then he understood that he was expected to trail the hunter to the next camp. The man took care that the task should not be too difficult and Hardy met with such success that he was quite elated at it. One night he boasted of his skill and the next day received a lesson that abated his pride and convinced him that he had a great deal yet to learn.
The next morning Hardy found himself alone and at once started off on Boone’s trace, which was plainly visible. He followed it with comparative ease until some time after noon. Then he began to be uncertain and at last was entirely at a loss. For hours he wandered about, carefully examining the ground, the bushes, and the trees, but not a sign could he find. For all trace of him that Hardy could see, the hunter might have flown straight up from the earth. Evening found the lad still at fault. There was nothing for it but to camp for the night.
Hardy felt somewhat downcast as he looked around for a resting place. He had perfect confidence in Boone and knew that he would turn up on the morrow, but it was the first time that Hardy had been alone in the wilderness and he didn’t quite like the experience. However, he concluded to make the best of it, and to hearten himself, said aloud:
“Cheer up, Hardy! You’ll never make a frontiersman if you’re afraid to be alone in the woods.”
A short chuckling laugh came from the depths of the neighboring undergrowth. Hardy started and peered apprehensively into the gloaming, his rifle half way to his shoulder. He could see nothing to cause alarm and the most profound silence reigned.
“Ugh! a gobbler I reckon,” concluded Hardy, turning once more to his preparations for the night.