What drove this valiant soul into the wilderness of Kentucky? What spirit moved his restless footsteps into the virgin forest? How came he to penetrate into that “dark and bloody ground?” Who knows? His was the restless spirit and his was the soul which loved the vast solitude of the wildwood; for—even earlier than Daniel Boone—we know that this sinewy frontiersman built a log cabin for himself at the present site of Harrodsburg. When Boone went to the assistance of the surveyors of Lord Dunmore, who were surrounded by the red men, Harrod returned to Virginia and joined a force of whites sent to repel the Shawnees and other savages at Point Pleasant on the Great Kanawha. He was under General Lewis in the bloody affair, and then, having done his duty by his white brethren, returned to Kentucky in order to make Harrodsburg a place of refuge for the immigrants, who were beginning to turn their steps towards the setting sun.
One day, as he sat before his cabin busily engaged in cleaning his rifle, a man ran up to him. He was plainly excited, and was breathing heavily, as if laboring under a severe mental strain.
“Bad news, comrade!” said he, when he had partly recovered his breath. “Jim Bailey’s cabin has been attacked by the red men and no one is alive to tell the tale, save his two daughters, who have been carried away by the savages in the direction of their village. Unless a party hurries immediately in pursuit, they will be taken to the tribe and will be never seen again. Their fate will not be a pleasant one.”
The frontiersman jumped to his feet immediately.
“I will go at once,” said he. “You warn the other settlers and send all that you can after me. Now, there is no time to be lost!”
Seizing his powder-horn and pouch of bullets, he was soon speeding through the forest. He knew well where the cabin lay, and, as he burst through the tangled woodland, saw that a terrific fight had occurred around the little log fortress in the wilderness. Smoke still came from the chimney. The windows were battered and broken. The door was a splintered wreck. And, as he gazed inside, he saw the evil work of the vindictive redskins. The tracks of the murderers were plain, for a rain had fallen and it was evident that eight or ten had been in the party.
“Curses upon you, Shawnees!” cried Harrod, in loud tones. “You will pay for this ere many days are o’er!”
It was near midday. The scout took one lingering glance at the wreckage of that once peaceful home, then turned and followed the trail of the savages. It was clear, and he saw—after an hour’s travel—that the Indians had separated. One half had gone toward the Indian towns. One half had sheered off toward a settlement, about fifteen miles below. Presuming that the Indians would take the girls to the settlement by the nearest route, he followed the first trail, and, as night came on, was delighted to see a camp-fire before him, in the dense woodland.
With true woodsman’s cunning, the scout dropped to his knees and cautiously wormed a way toward the glimmering embers. Peeping over a fallen log, he saw that there were five Indians lying near the blaze. His heart now beat tumultuously—for there, also, were the two captive girls. They were bound with deer thongs, and, even at that distance, he could mark the misery expressed upon their pale countenances.