Daniel Boone, Backwoodsman

by C. H. Forbes-Lindsay

“No; I never learned and I don’t see that it would have done me any particular good if I had. It seems to take pretty hard hold on a man. I’ve seen hunters well nigh crazy when their tobacco run out, and I shouldn’t like to be that way myself. Then it’s apt to make trouble in other ways. A deer could scent your pipe half a mile away, and an Injun’s nose is near as keen.”

“You don’t think there are any Indians hereabouts, do you?” asked the surveyor, with some show of apprehension.

“I wouldn’t like to say one way or the other. There might be a hundred in there”—he jerked his head in the direction of the dense undergrowth—“and we not know it till they showed themselves. You see, a redskin’s like a copperhead—you don’t know where he is till he strikes.”

The men who thus conversed were following a forest trail, or “trace,” as it was called at the time, in Powell’s Valley, which lay near the point where the States of Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee meet. On either side stretched forest so dense that the sun never penetrated the canopy of leaves. Even at midday a gloom prevailed, and now, as evening approached, it was impossible for any but the keenest eyes to see farther than a few yards in the growing dusk. The undergrowth was so thick as to be impenetrable at most points without the aid of the axe. Only a practiced woodsman dare enter that tangle of shrubs and vines. Had Mr. Sproul, the surveyor, ventured a hundred yards from the trail, he could only have found it again by accident and would in all probability have died of hunger, unless, indeed, his sufferings had been cut short by wild beasts or Indians.

It was precisely in this manner that Stuart, Boone’s companion in his first expedition to Kentucky, lost his life. He wandered from their camp and, failing to find his way back, probably died of starvation after his ammunition became exhausted. Years afterwards his skeleton was found in a hollow sycamore and identified by the powder-horn which bore his initials.

Of the two men we have under notice, one would have attracted immediate attention in any company, or under any conditions. He was verging upon his fortieth year and in the prime of life. Five feet ten inches in height, his erect carriage gave him an appearance of greater stature. His body, encased in the deerskin dress of the backwoodsman, was splendidly formed, the extraordinarily broad and deep chest giving evidence of great strength. A sculptor might have taken the head, with its noble brow and fine features, for a model. The long hair was plaited and rolled into a knot. The clear, keen, blue eye had a mild expression, but force was written in the large, aquiline nose and the square chin, while the thin, compressed lips denoted resolution. It was a face on which courage and composure were strongly stamped. As he swung along with easy stride, his rifle over his shoulder, the movement of the sinewy limbs betrayed strength and agility.

It did not appear to the surveyor that his companion was particularly mindful of his surroundings but, as a matter of fact, nothing escaped the ever-watchful eyes of Daniel Boone. To him a twig, a leaf, a stone, the bark of a tree, or the lightest impression on the earth, told a story that none but a master of woodcraft might read. Throughout the day his piercing glance had fallen on this side and on that, taking in every detail as he passed along the trail. This caution was habitual with the backwoodsman, but on the present occasion Boone’s vigilance was, if possible, keener than usual because he was responsible for the safety of a large company which included many women and children. Behind the leader came a train of settlers bound for the promised land beyond the mountains.

The band, which had left their homes at Boone’s persuasion, numbered about forty men and the women and children of five families including his own. The majority were old neighbors from the Yadkin Valley who had been fired by the glowing accounts of Boone and other hunters who had penetrated to the wonderful country that was the favorite hunting-ground of the Indians. The settlers had crossed the Blue Ridge and some lesser ranges and were approaching the Cumberland Gap, which was the gateway to the region they sought. The hardships of a backwoods migration were nothing to them, but they were a little apprehensive about pushing so far into the interior and going hundreds of miles from the nearest settlement. Such a thing had never been done, and probably would not have been attempted except under the guidance of Boone, who was already an acknowledged leader on the frontier and one in whom all placed the utmost reliance.

It was now the 6th of October and the party had left the Yadkin district on the 25th of the preceding month. Their progress was necessarily slow, owing to the nature of the country they had to traverse and the character of the cavalcade. The narrow and rough trail forbade their using wagons as did the later pioneers in crossing the prairie regions. A string of pack-horses, tied head to tail, carried their bedding, clothing, and other belongings. Aside from corn, maple-sugar, and salt, they did not need to burden the animals with provisions, for the men could always be depended upon to supply the evening camp-kitchen with an abundance of meat. Wild turkeys were numerous, and at this time of the year fat and lazy. Pigeons, quail, and other game birds abounded in the forest, and an occasional deer or bear was to be had.

Here and there in the line a woman rode, holding a child before her, but for the most part the backwoods women tramped along with the men. Some mothers placed their infants in baskets, Indian fashion, and hung them to the sides of the ponies. Others carried them slung to their backs or straddled across their hips. Early in life the little ones became accustomed to tramping and a boy or girl of ten years, born in the wilderness, made small matter of a ten or twelve miles journey on foot.