Mounted upon his powerful bay horse, Daniel Boone the following day rode toward Holman’s Ford. This point was some eight miles from Hillsboro, and it was here that the young men of the settlement met each fall for their hardy frontier games.
Keen-sighted youths, bearing long barrelled flint-locks, eagerly awaited this, the test of their skill; sturdy wrestlers burned to match their thews against each other; and the runners, both horse and man, were equally anxious to show their quality.
The sun had reached high noon when the backwoodsman reached the ford, dismounted and tied his nag to a tree. A long line of wagons, the horses tied to the wheels, stood on the river bank; the settlers and their families were gathered beneath the trees. Apart from these were the athletes of farm and forest, well-grown boys and brawny young men; they stood about in knots and discussed the probabilities of each event. A smaller knot than any of the others stood at the foot of a huge cottonwood; a hail went up from this as Boone went by; and he paused as he recognized Oliver Barclay, Eph Taylor and Sandy Campbell.
“Well, youngsters,” said the pioneer, “how is it going?”
Eph Taylor grinned.
“There ain’t been much done yet, Mr. Boone,” said he. “And even with the little we’ve gone through, we’ve had trouble with the redskins.”
The eyes of Boone went to a cleared space among the trees where a number of lodges had been erected; upon some skins, thrown upon the ground, lay a half score of keen-looking Shawnees. To the trees near by were fastened a number of rangy-looking horses.
“What’s wrong?” asked the backwoodsman.
“We’ve had the jumps,” said Eph, “and none of the Indians entered for them. So Eben Clarke won ’em all. Then there was the throwing of the stone and big Sam Dutton put it further than any one else, by a good bit. The first thing the Shawnees took any interest in was the swim. It was across the river and back, to start at the word and all together. A slippery little redskin entered for that; he got into the water like a streak; and he was a real good swimmer. George Collins was off in the front and the little Shawnee went by him like a fish. Then George began to stretch out and grab the water in armfuls and pull himself after him. But he never caught him till they got to the middle of the stream on the way back. Sandy here was in the race,” and Eph grinned. “He thinks he’s a swimmer, but he was still on the way over when George and the redskin were coming back. Just as George caught the Indian they both ran afoul of Sandy. And because George went ahead from that on and won the race the Shawnees say the whole consarned thing was a put up job to beat them out of the race.”
“And it’s not so,” said Sandy, with indignation. “If I interfered with anybody it was with George Collins. I dived to get out of the Indian’s way when I saw him coming and I went straight into George.”