The two girls were carried upon the men’s shoulders into camp, and there were given a feast of welcome. They were embraced by the women, hugged by the children, and were presented with a wreath of flowers by the men. As for Harrod, his modesty forbade him taking part in the ceremonies, and, leaving the next day upon a hunting excursion, he was not heard or seen until a week later, when he returned with several deer and bear skins.
Shortly after this thrilling adventure the scout went into the forest in search of game. Not far from the settlement he spied a fat deer. He drew a careful bead on him, and was just about to raise his rifle for a shot when he heard the buck whistle and saw him raise his head. He knew from this that the forest rover had scented some hidden foe, and, sure that it was not himself that the animal smelled—as the wind was blowing from the deer toward him—he crouched down to await developments. He had not long to remain in this position. In a few moments he heard the crack of a rifle and saw the noble buck leap high into the air. He fell prone upon his side, and, as he lay quivering in the grass, three Indians came up and began to skin him. They were laughing and talking in loud tones.
“Ah ha,” said the scout to himself, “they are skinning my game for me. Let them go on.”
He crouched low in the brush, and when they had about completed this operation he rose, took careful aim, and killed the one he judged to be the leader of the party. Believing that he was too well concealed to be detected, he crouched behind the brush, and, turning his back, reloaded his rifle in that position. The redskins, meanwhile, climbed into some trees, but one of them exposed himself to the keen view of the scout. Harrod took careful aim, and, at the discharge of his flint-lock, the savage tumbled to the ground. The third Indian now saw where he was concealed, and, leaping to the ground, made at him with rifle raised. Harrod put his cap upon a stick and poked it above the brush. The redskin fired, thinking that he was aiming at the trapper, and, as his bullet whistled by the head of the man of the frontier, the scout knew that the advantage was now on his side. Drawing his tomahawk, he leaped from his hiding place, and, in a few bounds, had swung his weapon above the head of the now terrified brave. In a second it was all over with the red man.
The scout sat down and laughed loudly, for he had won a glorious victory. Then he rose, gathered up the arms of his enemies, loaded himself with deer meat, and made his way back to his cabin. He was well satisfied with the day’s work.
This was but one of many adventures. He continued upon his solitary hunts, and, while searching for game, often was surrounded by roving Shawnees, so that his life was in constant danger.
A month after the first affair he was chasing some deer on Cedar Run—a tributary of a stream now named Harrod’s Creek, in honor of this intrepid pioneer. He had shot a fat buck and was bending over him in order to get the choicest bit of venison, when a bullet whizzed suddenly by his ear. A loud and triumphant yell sounded in the forest at the same instant, and, looking up, he saw that he was confronted by a dozen red men. His only safety was in flight.
Scout Harrod was no mean runner. Inured to hardship, and with muscles of steel, he bounded away like one of the very deer which he had just dispatched. The Indians were in hot pursuit. As they came on, their leader cried, at the top of his voice:
“Come on! Here is the lone panther—Come on! Come on!”
So hotly did they push the running trapper that Harrod did not keep a proper lookout for what was in front of him. To his dismay, he found that he almost ran into a party of savages coming up to join the others. What was he to do? In a moment he had made up his mind.