Daniel Boone showed his years of wilderness training when he did not at once raise a shout and rush in to the rescue of his daughter and the other girl captives of the Indians.
“I saw that two of the Indians over the fire had their hunting knives in their hands,” he said afterward, in telling of the situation. “They were merciless wretches, and at the first sign of peril would have turned and laid the girls low at their feet, or else carried them off on their backs as shields from our bullets.”
He moved back, and once among his companions in the bushes gave directions how the party should advance, and how all should fire at the call of a certain wild bird—a call which Boone could imitate to perfection.
Joe’s nerves were on a tension, for this was to be a daring rush, and there was no telling how it would end.
Cautiously all the members of the hunting party moved forward as Colonel Boone had directed. Joe was next to an old backwoodsman, John Ford, the father of Darry, who had done so well in the foot race.
There were several minutes of intense silence. Daniel Boone was watching the Indians as a hawk watches a brood of chickens. He was waiting for the red men to move away from the captives.
Presently that moment came. Two of the Indians left the fire to get more wood, and the others were lying on the ground, conversing earnestly together.
Loud and clear the cry of the wild bird pierced the air, and an instant after came the crack of Daniel Boone’s rifle, and one of the Indians fell. Then came the cracks of the other rifles, and another red man went down, and a third was wounded in the side.
“At them, men!” cried Daniel Boone, and ran forward, hunting knife in hand.
The Indians were taken by surprise, and, with one man killed, one dying, and another wounded, they imagined that a large force of whites had come up.