DANIEL BOONE
BACKWOODSMAN

SECOND EDITION

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

JOHN SMITH
GENTLEMAN ADVENTURER

An interesting work on the life and times of this famous soldier of fortune and American colonist, intended primarily for the young, but of such a character as to appeal to all.

“A good, strong, interest compelling narrative, and a valuable addition to a boy’s library.”—The Sun, New York.

“Historical fiction that appears to show him [Smith] in a clearer and more truthful light than has ever before been shed.”—The Courier-Journal, Louisville.

“The book will be read with great interest by both old and young, for all men love adventures of the Smith type.”—The Republic, St. Louis.

“Should mightily interest every boy who loves his country.”—The Inter-Ocean, Chicago.

With four full-page illustrations in color by
HARRY B. LACHMAN

12 mo. Cloth, $1.50

[Immediately He Became a Target]

Daniel Boone
BACKWOODSMAN

BY

C. H. FORBES-LINDSAY

Author of “John Smith, Gentleman Adventurer,” “India:
Past and Present,” “America’s Insular
Possessions,” etc.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

FRANK McKERNAN

“Who passes for in life and death most lucky,
Of the great names which in our faces stare
Is Daniel Boone, backwoodsman of Kentucky.”

—Byron

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1909

Copyright, 1908

By J. B. Lippincott Company

Published September, 1908

Electrotyped and printed by J. B. Lippincott Company
The Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U. S. A.

CONTENTS

[ILLUSTRATIONS]

Daniel Boone

[I.]
THE AMERICAN BACKWOODSMAN

The backwoods town in colonial days—The place of the backwoodsmen in the march of progress—Boone and his descendants among the leading pioneers—How the backwoods fighters forced the boundary westward—The frontier farmer was necessarily hunter and fighter—The character of the backwoodsman and his manner of life—The dwellings, dress and weapons of the frontier—Daniel Boone, a typical backwoodsman—His birth and boyhood in a frontier settlement—His parents migrate to North Carolina—Then he marries and settles on the border—He explores Kentucky and forms a determination to settle there.

We shall be able to follow the story of Daniel Boone with a better understanding if, before entering upon it, we take a brief survey of the country in which his entire life was passed and the people among whom he lived—the American backwoods and the American backwoodsmen.

At the outbreak of the Revolution the American colonies extended no farther west than the Alleghany Mountains, and consisted of the narrow strip of territory lying between that rocky wall and the Atlantic seaboard. By far the greater portion of the population dwelt along the coast in urban centres, or in comparatively closely settled districts which had been cleared and cultivated. In this belt were found the large plantations and wealthy slave-owners. Beyond it, the land was covered with virgin forest, dense, impenetrable, except along the trails, and infested by wild beasts and savages.

In the portion of this region that lay nearest to civilization a rude backwoods town might be found here and there. It lay in a clearing of a few hundred acres, and usually at the junction of several frequented trails. It consisted of a cluster of log cabins, a general store, perhaps a smithy, a school, a tavern, and court-house. The inhabitants seldom numbered more than three or four hundred. It may not be strictly proper to speak of a people to whose midst the schoolmaster and the judge penetrated, as beyond the bounds of civilization, and, of course, the expression is used in a comparative sense. The backwoods dominie was hardly worth considering as an educational factor. He was generally ignorant, frequently intemperate, and sometimes immoral. The law lost much of its wonted majesty in a community where an unpopular judge was liable to be mobbed and a dishonest sheriff to be lynched.

The fact is that these people were entirely different from the colonists of the coast—different in origin, in religion, in manners, and customs. With splendid natural qualities, such as made them peculiarly fitted to act as the pioneers of the nation, they were rude, unlettered, and impatient of restraint. In the upbuilding of the infant nation, these pathfinders formed the muscle and sinew, whilst the older communities supplied the brain. Although both classes were essentially Americans, in the Revolutionary period they had hardly anything in common but their patriotism.

The inhabitants of the backwoods towns were in general the less bold spirits. Deeper in the forest wilderness were found more daring souls, scattered along the mountain border that divided the colonies from the Indian territory. They lived face to face and in constant touch with the fierce savages, and acted as a buffer to their countrymen behind them.

The term “backwoods” conflicts somewhat with a proper sense of the actual situation. From the time that they turned their backs on the mother country, our people faced steadily towards the west, and maintained a forward march in that direction until they reached the distant shores of the continent. A marked peculiarity of the class we have under consideration is that when they arrived in the country, they pushed through the ranks of the colonists and, assuming the vanguard, continued at the head of the advance, first taking possession of Kentucky and Tennessee, then settling Mississippi and Missouri, and ultimately marching across the continent to the Pacific. Son followed father, and continued on when the latter lay in the peace of the grave. Two children of Boone were among the first Americans to make homes beyond the “Father of Waters”; a grandson was the first settler in Kansas; another among the earliest in Colorado; and a third—the famous Kit Carson—acted as scout and guide to the expedition of General Frémont.

Many backwoods families devoted themselves, through several generations, to the winning of the wilderness with rifle and axe. The debt of the nation to these people is a heavy one. They may be compared to the outposts of an encamped army, the border settlers being the sentries, stretching along the enemy’s face, and the backwoods towns the pickets. As an army sleeps in security behind its outposts, so was the main body of the colonists, screened from the Indians by the backwoods settlers, enabled to build up towns and cultivate its plantations in safety. And as, when an army resumes the march, the outpost of the night before forms the advance guard, so these border sentinels were ever in the front of our territorial progress.

In 1783 the western boundary of the United States had been carried forward to the Mississippi River. The large area between it and the Alleghanies had been won for us by the dauntless backwoodsmen after a decade of intense struggle. By holding the border Indians in check they performed a valuable service to the colonies in their fight for freedom. The settlement of Kentucky made possible the capture of the British posts in the Illinois and Indiana regions, and paved the way for the acquisition of our Western territory.

Whilst working out the destiny of a nation, the simple-minded backwoodsmen were quite unconscious of any such high purpose. They pushed forward into the wilderness because land was to be had there for practically nothing. They desired to make homes for their children, and were willing to risk their lives in the venture. As to the hardships, they and their fathers had been accustomed to arduous poverty in the old country. The life of the hunter, which was an inseparable part of backwoods existence, appealed to them as it does to all healthy men. In fact, the majority of them grew to love their hard lot, with its constant adventure. Many, like Boone, became so enamoured of the life, despite its dangers and hardships, that they shunned the approach of civilization and moved farther into the forest whenever the region they had opened up began to be at all thickly populated.

The backwoodsman was at once hunter, fighter, and farmer. He could not look for aid or protection from the Government. He had to depend upon his own resources and, even in the acquisition of new territory, upon his own strong right arm. This was particularly the case with the pioneer settlers of Kentucky, for the movement took place when all the men and material available were needed to strengthen the Continental forces, and the backwoodsmen battling with the Indian allies of the British had difficulty in getting sufficient powder and lead to carry on the conflict. Every man and youth was a home-made soldier. Most of the women could handle a rifle, and the annals of the frontier teem with stories of brave mothers and daughters who, in the absence of their men-folk, successfully defended their cabins against the attacks of savages. In the frequent sieges of the forts the women loaded the weapons, moulded bullets, and sometimes stood to a port-hole. It is significant of the life of the backwoodsmen that every male among them who was old enough to carry fire-arms was spoken of as a “gun.”

For the most part, the people of the backwoods were of Scotch or Irish descent, with a strong sprinkling of English and Germans, but in the second generation differences of nationality were rarely detectable. Their characters and even their physical traits were greatly affected by the peculiar conditions of their lives, which created a type the members of which were all much alike, whilst they differed widely from the colonists in general. Their isolation tended to develop some of the best human qualities. It taught them independence and self-reliance and at the same time prompted them to help one another. On the border men practiced the golden rule and maintained a homely code of morality and justice. They were hard, rough and self-contained, but neither ungenerous, cruel, nor morose.

In their dealings with hostile Indians the backwoodsmen may appear to have exercised merciless severity, but that is hardly to be wondered at when the provocation is considered. The wanton barbarity of their enemies hardened them and goaded them to revenge. This sometimes took the form of deplorable cruelty but, as a rule, the backwoodsmen were neither inhuman nor bloodthirsty. They fought in defence of their homes and property, and when they carried the conflict into the Indian’s country it was usually in retaliation for an attack and with a view to checking further hostilities. The settler was always glad to live in peace if he might.

As to the respective rights of the white men and their red foes, a great deal has been said on both sides, and perhaps it would be impossible to exactly weigh the equities in the case. It was, however, inevitable that a growing and energetic race should have contested the possession of the soil with the mere handful of savages that did not occupy it but merely roamed over it, hunting and camping here and there and keeping up a perpetual warfare among themselves. They set up claims, it is true, to the exclusive possession of certain large areas but, even among themselves, such claims were only sustained by superior strength, and one tribe frequently ousted another from its accustomed territory.

The most ardent defenders of the Indians must find it difficult to establish a case of trespass against the settlers of Kentucky. The territory that is now comprised within that State was ceded by the Indians in more than one treaty and purchased for a definite sum. Moreover, it had not been the home or country of any particular tribe, but was held as a hunting-ground common to all and in which none were allowed to settle. It contained no permanent Indian villages, nor was an acre of its soil cultivated until the white man cleared the land.

The pioneers of the wilderness made their settlements in groups of five or six families. The first thing they did was to erect their cabins and form a fort. This was usually accomplished by raising the former in a row and making their backs one side of a palisaded enclosure, with blockhouses at the corners. This was the refuge of all during an attack by the Indians, but otherwise each family lived in a cabin upon its farm. The clearings were generally four hundred acres in extent and lay at some distance from each other in the heart of the forest. The trees having been felled, the settler left the stumps standing, rolled the trunks to one side and burned the branches on the spot. He then planted his fields with maize or other cereals. Some stock was raised and a few sheep, but only in sufficient numbers to supply local needs. Corn, or maize, was the principal reliance of the frontier farmer. His wife made a coarse flour and hominy from it, and a bag of the parched grains served him for food on his hunting expeditions.

The backwoods cabin was commonly a one-roomed structure of unhewn logs, chinked with clay and moss. After a while, when the owner became fairly settled and had his fields in good order, this would give place to a larger building, containing perhaps as many as three rooms and an attic reached by a ladder. A huge stone fireplace occupied one end of the cabin, and the door was always furnished with heavy bolts. The logs were hewn, at least on the inside, and the roof covered with clapboards. There was little furniture and few utensils in such a place. The table was a board set on trestles, and three-legged stools served to sit upon. The beds were rough wooden contrivances covered with skins. The dishes and platters were often of wood and the spoons and forks of pewter, the hunting-knife serving admirably to cut the meat. The family depended very largely upon its head to furnish the larder with venison and bear-steaks.

The dress of the backwoodsman was a distinctive one. He wore a hunting-shirt of buckskin, or homespun, ornamented with a fringe of the same material, or perhaps with porcupine quills. It was a loose tunic, descending nearly to the knees and fastened round the waist with a belt, from which were suspended the tomahawk and hunting-knife. From his shoulders hung by a strap the powder-horn and bullet-pouch, in which he also carried spare flints. On his head he wore a fur cap or a soft felt hat, and his feet were covered with moccasins, after the fashion of the Indians, from whom the dress was in large part borrowed. His legs were encased in leather leggings or trousers.

The backwoodsman’s principal weapon was the heavy flint-lock rifle. It was five feet, and sometimes slightly more, in length, and although it did not carry very far was exceedingly accurate. The most marvellous feats of marksmanship were performed by some of the pioneers with these weapons. Every boy learned to shoot almost as soon as he was strong enough to lift a gun, and his training in woodcraft commenced even earlier, so that it is not surprising that many a youth, such as Kit Carson and Simon Kenton, exhibited the qualities of the expert hunter and Indian fighter before his beard was grown.

There was little money in the backwoods, pelts serving instead. Almost all the needs of the people were supplied by themselves. The women made homespun, in which they clothed the children and themselves. Every man was something of a smith, and most of the rifles were of backwoods manufacture. The men tanned the skins and their wives sewed them into foot-gear and garments. Trenchers and bowls, and even harrows and sleds, were made without much difficulty.

There were, however, a few very necessary articles for which the settlers had to depend upon the outside world. These were salt, iron, powder and lead. In the fall the members of a settlement would make a joint collection of fur-skins and send two or three of their number to some large town, such as Baltimore, to get what was needed. Thus, a train of several peltry-laden horses would make the long, slow journey over a distance which we may cover in these days in two or three hours.

Daniel Boone was a typical backwoodsman. Born in a frontier settlement, he passed his long and adventurous life in sparsely-peopled regions and died in a pioneer community beyond the Mississippi. Boone’s father, a native of England, after living in different parts of Pennsylvania, took up some land on what was then the frontier, in Oley township, about eight miles from the site of the present city of Reading. Here Daniel was born in November, 1734. His early life was that of the ordinary backwoods boy. It embraced no considerable opportunity for scholarship. He learned to read and write but, having little occasion in the course of his active life for the exercise of either accomplishment, his spelling was poor to the day of his death. He helped his mother with the chores and, when old enough, was entrusted with the care of the stock at pasture. His days were spent in the open and he grew to be a lusty lad, well versed in nature and the ways of wild beasts and the less dangerous denizens of the forest. When he had reached the age of twelve, his father gave him a rifle, with which he soon became a good shot and furnished his mother’s kitchen with an ample supply of game. His winters were now spent in hunting, and he often roamed long distances from home in his solitary expeditions, returning with skins secured by his trap or gun.

In 1750 Boone’s parents with their children migrated south and settled on the banks of the upper Yadkin, in the northwestern corner of North Carolina. The location was even wilder than that they had left, and their lives were harder and more adventurous. Attacks by the Indians were not infrequent, and a few years later a border war cost many lives in the Yadkin Valley. Here Daniel, following the custom of young backwoodsmen, married as soon as he had arrived at manhood and set up housekeeping in a log cabin.

Ten years were passed after the usual manner of backwoods existence, in hunting, farming, and fighting Indians. But Boone’s hunting expeditions sometimes partook of the character of explorations. He went far beyond the frontier in various directions, and on two or three occasions crossed the mountains into Kentucky. The beauty and richness of the country and the abundance of game filled him with an irresistible desire to make his home there. In the fall of 1773 Boone sold his farm on the Yadkin and set out at the head of a company, consisting of his own family and several others that he had induced to accompany them, to make new homes in the lovely valleys of Kentucky. It is at this point that we take up his story.

[II.]
HARDY GOODFELLOW

Boone leads a company toward the promised land of Kentucky—They are attacked by Indians in Powell’s Valley—Six of the party are slain and among them Boone’s eldest son—The sorrow of a strong man and his sense of duty—The dead are buried and the march resumed—Boone’s lonely watch over the sleeping settlers—His encounter with Hardy Goodfellow in the gray dawn—“Now that father’s dead, I’m all alone”—Hardy finds a new father and Boone another son—Man and boy make a strange compact—“Maybe the Lord meant it that way—who knows?”

“Isn’t it about time to make camp, Captain?”

“Pretty near that, but I don’t exactly fancy campin’ right on a trace. I reckon we’ll push on a bit and see if we can’t find a likelier location.”

The first speaker was not a backwoodsman but a Charlestown surveyor. The day’s march had wearied him to the point of exhaustion, and he felt faint for lack of a good meal, for the frontiersman ate plenteously but once in the twenty-four hours and that at the close of the day. He turned to his pipe for solace, first offering his plug of strong tobacco to his companion.

“Have a fill, Captain?”

“Thanks; I don’t use it.”

“You don’t smoke, Captain?” said the other, in astonishment.

“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.

At night they encamped near some spring or creek. Meat was broiled over the flames of the fire, and bread baked in the ashes. Each family or group of men made its fire in front of the shelter for the night, so that they might lie with their feet to it. A low structure, open in front and sloping towards the back, was readily raised by means of poles covered with skins. A comfortable bed was made of dry leaves or grass, with a blanket or pelt for covering. With such accommodations, these hardy, simple people deemed themselves well provided for, and without doubt they enjoyed better health than would have been their lot under the softer conditions of city life.

Boone and Mr. Sproul—whom it is needless to describe, for he does not figure any further in our story—were pacing the path in silence when several shots fired in rapid succession rang out. The surveyor dropped his pipe and stood paralyzed with alarm. At the first sound the hunter had wheeled about, and before the last report, which his trained ear told him was half a mile at least in the rear, had died away, he was speeding past the string of pack-animals with his rifle in readiness. In passing he called on five men to follow him and ordered the remainder to guard the women and children.

It was evident that the attack—for the character of the firing clearly indicated an attack—had been upon the party set to guard and drive the cattle, which often lagged a long way behind. Boone remembered, with a sudden pang, that his young son was one of the cattle escort that day, and the thought spurred him onward. Presently a savage whoop of triumph broke upon his ears and the next instant he was upon the scene.

The animals had plunged into the thicket and scattered. Six figures lay upon the earth, still in death. Five Indians, each exultantly brandishing a bleeding scalp, were in the act of diving into the neighboring undergrowth. A sixth bent over one of the prostrate forms, with his fingers entwined in the hair and knife raised to make the circular sweep in the crown of the head. Boone’s rifle went up, and had hardly touched his shoulder before it spoke. The Indian dropped, shot through the brain.

The father had the poor consolation of having saved his boy’s body from mutilation. That to a backwoodsman was a source of satisfaction, but it did not go far towards mitigating Boone’s present grief. He stood for some minutes, leaning upon his rifle and looking down at the face of his dead boy. The convulsive twitching of his features told of the inward commotion. But there was urgent duty at hand and Boone sternly put his grief behind him and turned to it. When he lifted his head, his companions saw that the features, though drawn, were calm and the eyes keen and alert as ever.

Reloading his rifle, Boone stepped into the forest at the point where the Indians had disappeared. In ten minutes’ time he rejoined the anxiously waiting men.

“Only seven,” he said. “No likelihood of another attack. McCurdy, you go and fetch back five men—and don’t tell them what’s happened as yet.”

With the reinforcement, the party set to work digging a broad and shallow grave, in which they laid their dead without further preparation or ceremony. It was but an incident of backwoods life and the men who performed the service to-day might be in need of it to-morrow. Having marked the grave with stones and blazed some neighboring trees, they rejoined the main body, which resumed the march, leaving the cattle to be sought for the next day.

A little farther on, the party came upon a favorable spot and went into camp for the night. As soon as Boone had made the shelter for his family and built a fire, he devoted himself to comforting his stricken wife. But even this task could not be pursued uninterruptedly. The camp needed guarding with special vigilance. It is true that Boone believed the attack of the afternoon to have been made by a small party of wandering Indians who killed the settlers for the mere sake of securing their scalps. On the other hand, they might have been a scouting party sent out by a large band. Although Boone was as fearless as any man that ever lived, he was never imprudent, much less reckless. In the course of their conversation Mr. Sproul had said something about “trusting to Providence.” The hunter had replied that he didn’t “believe in trusting to Providence until you have done all you can for yourself. After that, Providence is much more likely to lend a willing hand.”

As soon, therefore, as the other settlers had composed themselves to rest, Boone went out and seated himself upon a fallen tree, prepared to spend the night in watchfulness. His ears were alive to the slightest sound and he could instantly detect the origin of each. Now and again the stillness of the forest would be broken by the howl of a wolf, or the hoot of an owl. At such times the hunter would raise his head and listen intently, for the Indians imitated the cries of birds and animals in signalling to one another. Boone was himself a very good hand at that form of reproduction and was seldom deceived by the performance of another.

Boone’s vigil had extended to the gray dawn when his attention was attracted by a dim figure moving on the farther side of the camp. He thought that it was probably one of the settlers suffering from indigestion or, perhaps, walking in his sleep. However, prudence demanded that he should stalk the figure, and he accordingly slipped noiselessly round the back of the shelters in his moccasined feet. The manœuvre brought him suddenly within sight of the person at a few feet distance. The light was just strong enough to enable him to discern the form of a youth who was struggling to suppress the sobs that convulsed his frame at intervals.

Boone took the boy by the arm and gently led him to the fallen tree by his own camp fire.

“Sit down,” he said. “Now, what’s the trouble, young man?” He spoke in a low, soft voice that told the lad that he had fallen in with a friend. “Take your time,” continued the hunter, soothingly; “I know it hurts, whatever it is, and you’re taking it like a man, anyhow.”

He placed an arm across the boy’s shoulders and the youngster felt the touch strengthen and calm him as had not all the comforting words of the sympathetic settlers’ wives. After a while he controlled himself sufficiently to speak.

“My father was killed yesterday,” said the lad, at last, “and—and I didn’t see him.”

“Too bad, too bad,” said Boone, drawing the boy closer to his side. “I wouldn’t worry about not seeing him, though. I saw him—I buried him, and he looked peaceful and I don’t doubt is happier than you or me at this moment. Where’s your mother, young man?”

“Mother died long ago, before we left England.”

“You don’t mean that you’re all alone?”

“Yes, now that father’s dead, I’m all alone.”

The thought of his utter loneliness overcame the lad, and for a few minutes he was again shaken with grief. Boone waited silently until the boy had somewhat recovered himself. Then he asked:

“What’s your name?”

“Hardy Goodfellow, sir.”

“I like that name,” said the hunter. “Hardy Goodfellow sounds like it ought to fit a backwoodsman. What are you going to do, Hardy?” The hunter did not wait for an answer to his question but went on: “We can’t leave you here and there’s no way of sending you back, at present. Do you want to go on to Kentucky, Hardy?”

“Yes, I’d rather go on,” replied the lad. “I think father would want me to, if he knew.”

“Why do you think he would?”

“Well, I’ve often heard him say he hated to see a man turn back when he’d once started to do anything—but, of course, I’m not a man.”

“I’m not so sure of that, Hardy. You don’t need to have a certain number of years nor a certain number of feet to be a man, leastways not in the backwoods. It’s more a matter of the heart and head, Hardy, and I think you’ve got as much pluck and sense as many of your elders.”

After this speech the hunter lapsed into silent thought and so sat for ten or fifteen minutes. When he turned again to his young companion it was with an air of satisfied decision.

“Hardy, the same Injuns that killed your father killed my son. The eldest he was—the other’s only a baby. Now, if you’re willin’, I’ll try to take the place of your father and you shall take the place of our Jim. What do you say?”

The boy strove to speak but his emotions choked him. He looked up at Boone and the hunter could see gratitude and joy written on his face.

“Shake on it—that’s enough,” said Boone, extending his hand. “That’s settled, then, and I don’t think either of us will ever be sorry for the bargain. My woman will make you a good mother and I’ll go bail you’ll make her a good son. Now crawl into your new home, Hardy, and get an hour’s sleep. I’ll stretch my legs a bit.”

It may seem strange that Boone should on such short acquaintance have taken a boy into his family on the footing of a son. However, Boone’s judgment of human character amounted to almost unerring intuition and he felt strongly drawn towards Hardy, largely perhaps on account of his recent bereavement. Moreover, he was not devoid of the backwoods trait of superstition, as was evidenced by his muttered remark as he turned on his heel after seeing the boy enter the shelter: “Maybe the Lord meant it that way—who knows?”

[III.]
THE YOUNG HUNTER

The emigrants show the white feather—They retrace their steps to North Carolina—Boone refuses to turn his back upon Kentucky and Hardy proves staunch—“Didn’t we make a bargain?”—The new home in the cabin on the Clinch—Hardy enters upon his backwoods education—Boone finds him an apt and willing pupil—The hunting expeditions in the glorious Indian summer—Hardy soon learns to shoot straight and to stalk a deer—Hardy has a lesson in tracking a man—“I laid flat, thinking you might fire”—Winter trapping and camping—The Indians invade the settlements—Hardy serves in Dunmore’s War.

When the first rays of the rising sun called the settlers from their rude couches, Boone appeared in camp, after a bath in the branch, as fresh and alert as though he had enjoyed a long rest like the others. The night before he had instructed them not to strike their shelters in the morning, for he designed to remain in the camp until the next day and devote the interval to searching for the strayed cattle. These were a very valuable property. Their milk was needed for the young children, and they were intended to form the nucleus of the stock in the new settlement. A party was sent out to search the thickets, but Boone was doomed to meet with a great disappointment before the close of the day and to have his cherished plans entirely upset.

At about noon the heads of the families among the emigrants came to the leader and expressed their determination to return. The attack of the day before had convinced them that the Indians would oppose their farther progress, and they deemed it suicidal to venture into an unknown region, far beyond the limits of settlement. Many of the other men were married and had joined the expedition with a view to prospecting for land. These, also, were bent on returning to their homes. A few of the single men, who had no ties, were indifferent as to their future course, and of these perhaps half a dozen stayed in the district.

Boone felt that if there was to be any turning back, the sooner it took place the better, and he did not try to dissuade the settlers from their purpose. For his own part, he had made up his mind to go to Kentucky and get there he would. He should stay where he was until an opportunity for going forward presented itself.

While this understanding was being reached, Hardy stood beside his adoptive father, an interested listener. Boone now turned to him.

“Hardy,” he said, with a grim smile, “here’s a fine chance to go back again, if you want to.”

The boy looked up at the hunter with an expression of mingled surprise and reproach.

“Didn’t we make a bargain?” he asked.

“That we did, Hardy,” replied Boone heartily, slapping the lad on the back, “that we did, and I’m to blame for doubting you.”

So it was settled, and the next morning the entire party set out on the back trail. Boone accompanied the returning settlers for a distance of about forty miles and then bade them farewell and good luck. They parted company in the Valley of the Clinch, near the headwaters of the river of that name. Boone had noticed a deserted cabin and a small clearing on the banks of the stream and had marked the place for his future home. When the retreating band had disappeared from view, Boone turned his pack-horses towards the spot and before nightfall his little family was comfortably ensconced in the lonely hut.

The Boones were not beyond the bounds of settlement. During the few years previous to their arrival, restless pioneers from the borders of Virginia and North Carolina had pushed out to the valleys this side of the Cumberland Mountains, and there were several scattered “stations” at no great distance, as backwoodsmen computed distance. Indeed, Russell’s Station was next door, being only eight miles away. Boone felt confident that among these adventurous spirits he would soon find some to make up another expedition for the settlement of Kentucky. Meanwhile, there was much to be done. The cabin needed repairing and the clearing had to be attended to. Then there was the winter’s stock of meat to be laid in and some furs, which, as we have said, represented money, to be secured.

Then commenced for Hardy Goodfellow the happiest time of his life. Boone, as soon as he had seen his wife and little ones comfortably settled at home, began to take hunting trips. This was a very necessary part of a backwoodsman’s life, and his wife was quite accustomed to being left alone for weeks and months at a time. For Hardy these excursions afforded the most delightful experience and the most useful education. While he was somewhat better schooled than the average backwoods boy, he was almost a greenhorn in the matters that went to the making of an accomplished frontiersman, his father having but recently arrived with him from England. He had, however, unusual advantages to favor his development into an expert backwoodsman. He was a lusty, well-formed lad, rather tall for his fourteen years. His childhood had been passed in a rural district, and he delighted in outdoor life. He possessed, as Boone had quickly discerned, plenty of pluck and an ample fund of common sense. But Hardy’s greatest good fortune lay in having such an instructor as Boone who, besides being an expert hunter and a master of woodcraft, was a man of splendid character and one calculated to stimulate and develop the inherent good qualities in a pupil.

The glorious “Indian summer” of the South was upon them when they began these wanderings together. Their days were spent mainly in hunting deer, the skins of which were worth a dollar apiece and the meat the most desirable for storing. Under Boone’s directions Hardy soon learned to shoot straight, and also became fairly adept in stalking the game. After a while the hunter would allow his young companion to take the direction of the day’s hunt, when Hardy would be required to calculate from the state of the weather and the condition of the surrounding country where the deer were likely to be found, and to decide from the course of the wind upon the point at which they were to be approached.

Every minute of the day added to the boy’s knowledge and his strength, while his powers of observation and reasoning steadily developed. Hunting is hard work and Boone was no light taskmaster, but despite the fatigue and the bruises and the scratches, Hardy fairly revelled in his new experience, as any healthy boy would. As they tramped along, Boone showed the eager youngster how to detect “signs” of Indians and animals; how to tell whether an upturned stone or leaf had been disturbed by the wind or by the foot of man or beast. He explained to him how, from the barks of trees and other indications, to determine the points of the compass, so that he might travel the wilderness without guide. They studied the habits of birds and animals and practiced mimicking their cries.

Sometimes they would halt in a small glade and Boone would set up a mark for Hardy to shoot at, impressing upon him the wisdom of never pressing trigger until he should be sure of his aim. This exercise was varied with that of throwing the tomahawk, a very useful accomplishment. The Indian fighter who expended a shot without bringing down his foe, might not have time to reload, when he would have to resort to the weapons in his belt. On such and many other occasions the tomahawk came into play. At times they would engage in running matches and wrestling bouts, and although at first the hunter could pick Hardy up by the belt and hold him at arm’s length, the boy soon became too strong and agile to be treated as an altogether indifferent antagonist.

As they were constantly on the move, they made what was called an “open” camp,—that is to say, at night they rolled themselves in their blankets under the sky, or beneath the trees. As they sat beside their fire, after the meal of venison and cornbread, Boone would instruct Hardy in the ways of Indians, or tell him tales of frontier life—stories of hairbreadth escape from wild beast or cruel Indian; of women defending their cabins in the absence of their men; of fierce fights; of captivity and torture; of wanderings in the trackless wilds; of various adventures in a world that was as yet little known to the lad. The hunter liked to tell and Hardy to hear of Boone’s excursions into Kentucky—how he spent three months alone, hundreds of miles from a white man and without even a horse or dog for company; how the Indians captured him, and how he escaped. These stories fired Hardy with an intense longing to become a full-fledged frontiersman, and he bent every effort towards that end.

Sometimes Hardy would awake in the morning to find Boone gone. Then he understood that he was expected to trail the hunter to the next camp. The man took care that the task should not be too difficult and Hardy met with such success that he was quite elated at it. One night he boasted of his skill and the next day received a lesson that abated his pride and convinced him that he had a great deal yet to learn.

The next morning Hardy found himself alone and at once started off on Boone’s trace, which was plainly visible. He followed it with comparative ease until some time after noon. Then he began to be uncertain and at last was entirely at a loss. For hours he wandered about, carefully examining the ground, the bushes, and the trees, but not a sign could he find. For all trace of him that Hardy could see, the hunter might have flown straight up from the earth. Evening found the lad still at fault. There was nothing for it but to camp for the night.

Hardy felt somewhat downcast as he looked around for a resting place. He had perfect confidence in Boone and knew that he would turn up on the morrow, but it was the first time that Hardy had been alone in the wilderness and he didn’t quite like the experience. However, he concluded to make the best of it, and to hearten himself, said aloud:

“Cheer up, Hardy! You’ll never make a frontiersman if you’re afraid to be alone in the woods.”

A short chuckling laugh came from the depths of the neighboring undergrowth. Hardy started and peered apprehensively into the gloaming, his rifle half way to his shoulder. He could see nothing to cause alarm and the most profound silence reigned.

“Ugh! a gobbler I reckon,” concluded Hardy, turning once more to his preparations for the night.

He made a fire and was broiling a venison steak on the end of his ramrod, when a well-known voice greeted him with, “Got a bit of meat to spare, Hardy?” and Boone strode into the circle of light, a quizzical smile overspreading his face. He took in the preparations for the night’s camp at a glance, rested his rifle against a tree within arm’s reach, and sat down beside the young hunter.

It goes without saying that Hardy was delighted to have his adoptive father with him just as he was looking forward to a solitary and cheerless night, but he was not a little nettled to learn that Boone, after purposely throwing him off the track, had stalked him to his camp and was able to tell him of every movement that he had made.

“Son,” said the hunter, after he had explained the situation, “if I had been an Injun, I’m afraid that you’d a had less hair on your head than you have. But I shouldn’t have laughed just now. That was foolish. As soon as I’d done it, I laid flat, thinking you might fire. I was glad to see that you minded what I’ve told you, not to shoot till you can see what you’re shooting at. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, son. Dan’l Boone’s thrown many an Injun off his track before now.”

Notwithstanding the reassuring remarks of his mentor, Hardy had sense enough to realize from this incident that he was not so smart as he had imagined himself to be, and he redoubled his efforts to become expert in woodcraft.

With the approach of winter the hunters took out pack-horses and brought home the skins from where they had cached them. They also laid in a store of smoked venison. Some time was spent in making the cabin weather-tight and in cutting logs for the great fireplace. In this work Hardy learned to wield the long-handled backwoods axe, which was as important a factor in frontier life as the rifle. When all was made snug at home, the hunters were ready to set out again.

Hardy now entered upon an entirely new experience. Winter hunting he found quite different from what had gone before. They did not wander about, as in the fall, but stayed in one place for weeks at a time. Trapping was their chief occupation, and their object to secure the furs of beaver, otter, mink, and other desirable animals. The rifle was only used for the purpose of providing food.

They had plenty of tramping to do, for making the rounds of the traps involved a journey of several miles; but at night they always came back to the spot where their shelter stood and where their stores were kept. This was called a “closed” camp, or a “half-faced cabin.” It was made in the following manner: A log was placed for the back and two or three logs along each side. These were chinked with moss to keep out the cold wind. Boughs or poles were laid over the top and skins or bark covered these, sloping down to the back-log. The shelter was open in front.

When Indians were not to be feared, a fire was kept burning before the cabin all night and the hunters lay with their stockinged feet to it, their wet moccasins being hung to dry. The bed was made of boughs covered with a blanket, or a skin with the hair on it. Except in the very severest weather, this kind of shelter afforded sufficient protection to the hardy hunters. During the winter of 1773-1774, Boone and Hardy Goodfellow occupied such a camp during two trapping expeditions which resulted in good takes.

With the approach of spring, conditions on the border became such that Boone was obliged to abandon hunting and take up another phase of the backwoodsman’s life, that of Indian fighter.

With the increase of population in the colonies and the corresponding increased demand for lands, the border had been steadily pushed forward towards the Indian country. The savages had gradually become alarmed at the threatened invasion of their hunting-grounds and at the time of our story were preparing to contest the advance in force. They had shown many evidences of ill temper, but as yet no open declaration of war had been made. There were frequent conflicts between small parties or individuals of the two races and, in fact, whenever a redman met a white the rifle generally came into immediate play. Now, however, there were indications that the tribes upon the western border were preparing to go on the war-path unitedly.

Although the backwoodsmen were a fine class as a whole, there were among them some ruffians. In the spring of 1774, a band of such men committed a dastardly deed that acted as a firebrand upon the inflammable minds of the Cherokees and Shawnees. This was no less than the cold-blooded and unprovoked murder of the family of Chief Logan. Logan was an Indian of exceptionally fine character and peaceable disposition, and the whites, no less than his own people, deplored the outrage. The Indians were aroused to a pitch of fury. The tomahawk was dug up; the war-pipe was carried through the villages; runners were sent to recall hunting parties; and all the usual preparations for a war to the knife were put in train.

The danger was, of course, greatest on the frontier, and every man and boy who could bear arms was mustered into the militia. Boone received a commission as captain and was given command of three stockaded forts, in one of which Hardy Goodfellow served as rifleman. A few hundred soldiers were distributed among the frontier posts but they were not the valuable accession that might be supposed. The regulars always proved to be much inferior to the Indians in forest fights. The former were brave enough but utterly ignorant of the tactics of backwoods warfare. In conflicts with the savages, one frontiersman was worth a score of redcoats.

But before actual hostilities had broken out, it was found that a company of land prospectors and surveyors were in Kentucky, with great danger of being cut off and massacred. Lord Dunmore, the Governor of Virginia, sent a messenger to the Clinch Valley with the request that Boone and another should go out and endeavor to bring the party back. Boone immediately accepted the dangerous and difficult task and taking with him Michael Stoner, a backwoodsman of experience, started upon the long journey without delay. “If they are alive,” wrote Russell to Colonel Preston, the commandant in the Valley, “it is indisputable but Boone must find them.” So, indeed, he did and accomplished his errand successfully, having travelled upwards of eight hundred miles in sixty-five days, including a halt of more than a week.

A detailed description of Dunmore’s War, as it is called, is not necessary to our story. Suffice it to say that after a fierce battle, in which fifteen hundred braves were opposed by a force of frontiersmen, under General Lewis, the Indians were glad to sue for peace and entered into a treaty waiving all claim to the country now known as Kentucky.

Boone and Hardy, who had their share of the fighting, came through the campaign without serious mishap. Before the close of the year they were cheered by the opening of a prospect of pursuing the desire which both possessed to go on to the fair land of Kentucky.

[IV.]
THE DARING PIONEER

Colonel Henderson plans a semi-independent republic—He employs Boone to spy out the land—Boone makes a hazardous journey into Kentucky alone—He locates the site of Boonesborough and after six weeks’ absence returns—Boone gathers the Indian chiefs at Sycamore Shoals—The Indians sell Kentucky to Henderson and his associates—Boone with a small band starts out to blaze the way into the interior—They are attacked by Indians and see buffalo for the first time—They commence the erection of a fort—Hundreds of speculators flock to the new territory.

The important part played by Daniel Boone in the settlement of Kentucky was due to the extraordinary combination of qualities possessed by this ideal backwoodsman, a combination which was not found in any other of the pioneers who were associated with him. George Rogers Clark was his superior in intellect, but Clark lacked Boone’s calm, even temper and infinite patience. Kenton was as fearless, but he had not Boone’s prudence and foresight. Harrod, Logan, Todd, and others were able captains, but each was wanting in some of the qualities that combined to fit Boone so perfectly for the rôle he filled in frontier history.

The men of the border, with their independent dispositions, were extremely difficult to control. Even when imminent danger demanded concerted action, they were amenable only to the lightest discipline. If they followed a leader, it was not from any consideration of their obligations as militiamen, but because they had confidence in him and personal regard for him. These sentiments Boone excited in almost every one with whom he came in contact, and his influence over the rough, untrammelled backwoods fighters was probably greater than that exerted by any other leader. In the time of dire danger and stress that came upon the Kentucky settlers, when hundreds fled at the approach of the storm, had not Boone stood his ground, the new country must have been deserted.

The affection and respect which the settlers evinced for Boone were enhanced by the fact that he was in all respects one of themselves. Born on the border, of backwoods parentage, he was wedded to the hard life led by the frontier people, and like most of them he was poor and unlettered. There is much in his simple, honest character, with its homely common sense and cheery humor, to remind us of Abraham Lincoln, and it is not difficult to believe that Lincoln, under similar circumstances, would have been just such a backwoodsman as Boone.

The high qualities which made Daniel Boone a natural leader among his fellows were not lost upon men of superior station with whom he happened to have relations. Colonel Richard Henderson, of Granville County, North Carolina, had the highest opinion of the pioneer’s character and ability. Henderson was a judge whose circuit included the backwoods town of Hillsboro, and here he had frequently met Boone at the time that the latter lived upon the Yadkin. In fact, there is a tradition that Boone once saved Henderson from ill-treatment, if not death, at the hands of a band of Regulators.

Boone’s descriptions of Kentucky had keenly interested the Judge and ultimately awoke in his mind the idea of establishing in that wonderful region a semi-independent republic, to be called Transylvania. Of course, such a movement would meet with the disapprobation of the British authorities, but active opposition was hardly to be feared in such a remote part of the country. Three brothers named Hart who, like Colonel Henderson, were men of means, associated themselves with him in this romantic project. The defeat of the Indians in Dunmore’s War and the subsequent treaty of peace seemed to open a promising prospect of prosecuting the enterprise with success.

Towards the close of the year, Colonel Henderson put himself in communication with Boone, in whose judgment and discretion he had, as we have said, implicit confidence. The plan was outlined to the backwoodsman and his services as prospector were readily secured. Though Boone was not, perhaps, so sanguine as the promoters in the ultimate success of the undertaking, he fully appreciated its advantages as a preliminary step. He knew that in the past, the dwellers upon the frontier had been left to fight their own battles and manage their own affairs, with no considerable aid from the colonial authorities, and he did not believe that they would fare much better in the contemplated case with a corporation at their backs; but he realized that the efforts of Henderson and his associates might have a powerful effect in starting the settlement and he entered into the scheme with hearty good-will.

Leaving Hardy, who was duly proud of the responsibility, to look after the family on the Clinch, Boone started in January, 1775, upon a solitary expedition into Kentucky. His ostensible purpose was hunting, but in reality he was engaged in spying out the land for his employers. He struck the Kentucky River near the Virginia border and followed it to the site of Harrodsburg, which had been surveyed the year before. Thence he took a diagonal course across the great valley to the Cumberland Gap, and so home.

It was a hazardous journey, but just such an adventure as Boone delighted in. He found a genuine pleasure in the solitude of the wilderness, and felt safer when alone than with a companion whose imprudence might lead him into trouble. Kentucky was the common hunting-ground of several tribes and did not contain any permanent Indian villages. There were, therefore, few savages about in the winter. Perils of other kinds were, however, plentiful. Panthers, wolves, and bears sometimes attacked lone men. There was the possibility of becoming lost or, worse still, of suffering a crippling accident. Imagine the plight of a man with a broken leg, lying in the snowy wastes hundreds of miles from a human being. Such a fate befell more than one scout and pioneer, but Boone accomplished his task without mishap and returned after an absence of about six weeks to the cabin on the Clinch.

When Boone reported the result of his observations to Colonel Henderson and his associates, who now called themselves the Transylvania Company, it was determined to entrust him with a task calling for qualities of a different nature from those exercised in his exploration. It was proposed by the Company to purchase from the Cherokees the land which they decided on Boone’s recommendation to settle, and to him was entrusted the matter of opening negotiations.

It should be understood that the Cherokees had no better title to the territory in question than had the Choctaws, Shawnees, or Iroquois. In fact, the last named had some few years previous transferred to the British Crown all the lands lying between the Ohio and Tennessee Rivers. However, the Company felt that its position would be strengthened by securing some title, however shadowy, from an Indian tribe, and the Cherokees were selected because they commanded the path that would be followed by the settlers from the South in going to the new country.

As usual, Boone accomplished his errand and in March brought twelve hundred Cherokees to the Sycamore Shoals, on the Watauga River, where the promoters met them and after considerable bickering struck a bargain. It was agreed that in consideration of the payment of fifty thousand dollars, the tribe should cede to Henderson and his partners in the Transylvania Company all the land lying between the Kentucky and Cumberland Rivers, and should allow them a free road to the region through Powell’s Valley and the Cumberland Gap.

According to the general practice of the time, the purchase price was paid in merchandise, consisting of cloth, clothing, guns, ammunition, cooking utensils, hatchets, and ornaments. The goods filled a large cabin but when it came to distributing them, each warrior’s share proved to be small. One brave, to whom was allotted a deerskin hunting-shirt, expressed his disgust in no uncertain terms. What a fool he had been, he said, to sell for such an article his hunting-grounds, where in a single day he could kill deer enough to make half a dozen such garments.

Thus, at the outset, the arrangement met with the dissatisfaction of the Indians. Indeed, before the meeting broke up one of the chiefs warned Boone that he must not expect to effect the settlement of the region without trouble. He pointed out, truthfully enough, that the Indian chiefs could no more control their young men than the frontier leaders could the hot-heads among themselves. The Cherokees as a nation might, he said, be at peace with the Virginians—they called all frontiersmen “Virginians”—and a few individuals on either side wantonly commit some act that would bring on war. The chiefs could not, he declared, guarantee the safety of emigrants upon the promised path, much less of settlers in Kentucky itself.

This was not very promising, but it did not daunt the promoters, for they had expected nothing better. All they had looked for from the agreement was something that would give them a moral right to fight for the possession of the land and entitle them to the countenance of the Crown authorities. In this hope they were, however, immediately disappointed; for the Governors of North Carolina and Virginia denounced the transaction as soon as knowledge of it reached them.

By this time the colonists, and especially those on the borders, had begun to treat the representatives of King George with scant respect, and the Transylvania Company was in no measure deterred from the prosecution of its enterprise by the proclamations issued against it by Governors Martin and Dunmore. Boone counselled immediate action, reasoning that the Indians might be expected to observe the treaty for a few months and that by driving the entering wedge home before they should awake to active opposition, much would be gained. In this view the promoters concurred and again they relied upon their trusty agent to carry out their designs.

In his expedition of the preceding January, Boone had marked a spot for the first settlement of the Transylvania Company, and now it was arranged that he should go out at the head of a body of thirty picked backwoodsmen to mark a path through the wilderness to the place selected. The party started immediately after the conclusion of the meeting on the Watauga and arrived at their destination on the sixth day of April. They encountered many difficulties on the way and were more than once attacked by Indians, several of their number being killed and wounded.

The point at which it was decided to locate the capital town of Transylvania, as the colony was to be called, was Big Lick, just below Otter Creek on the Kentucky River. The site was a plain on the south side of the river, and as the pioneers approached it they were confronted with a sight which to most of them was entirely novel. Hundreds of buffalo occupied the destined ground, where they were engaged in licking the earth for the salt with which it was impregnated. As the men advanced, the huge beasts scattered in every direction, some running, some walking, others loping carelessly along with young calves skipping and bounding at their sides. Such a sight was common enough in Kentucky at that time, but soon after the advent of white men the great herds of bison moved westward.

The pioneers immediately commenced the erection of a fort and raised a few cabins along the river bank, but it was long before the stockade of Boonesborough, as the settlement was named, was completed. In the absence of women, it was hard to induce the backwoodsmen to devote themselves to measures of defence while such tempting opportunities for hunting presented themselves. They were a self-confident and somewhat reckless lot. Their first thought was to mark off a claim by a rude method of surveying which entailed endless after trouble. Their second, to pursue the game which abounded in a plenteousness far surpassing anything in their past experience.

Before the close of April, Colonel Henderson arrived with a reinforcement of thirty men and a quantity of tools and ammunition. In the succeeding months arrivals were numerous from various quarters and by different routes. During the course of the year upwards of five hundred men from the frontiers of Pennsylvania, Virginia, and North Carolina went into Kentucky, but the majority of them were not settlers. Some were merely hunters but the greater number land speculators or “cabiners,” as they were termed, who ran up a shanty on a piece of land as evidence of occupation and returned to the colonies in the hope of selling the tract.

At the close of the summer Boone brought in his family from the Clinch Valley and his wife and daughters were, as he proudly declared, “the first white women to stand on the banks of the Kentucky.” Shortly afterwards, several other families came in, and there were before the end of September four or five settlements, the principal being Boonesborough and Harrodsburg, about fifty miles to the west of the former place. Two or three hundred acres of corn had been planted, fruit trees had been set, and horses, cattle and hogs had been introduced.

The settlers were for the most part of Scotch-Irish extraction, sturdy, patriotic men, attaching themselves to the soil with a tenacity that nothing could shake. In the struggle to maintain their homes in the new territory they greatly aided their countrymen in the Revolution, which was just about to break out. Indeed, they guarded the western flank of the colonies and even carried the war into the Crown dominions on the north. Among those who came into Kentucky in this first year of its settlement were a number whose names figure prominently in border story and in the history of our western march—George Rogers Clark, Simon Kenton, the Lewises, Benjamin Logan, James Harrod, John Todd, the brothers McAfee, Bowman, Hite, Randolph, McClellan.

During the latter months of 1775 the Indians gave little trouble and many settlers began to congratulate themselves upon the prospect of occupying the land without serious opposition, but in the closing days of the year several attacks were made on the whites at different points. These were the signal for the hurried departure of the timid, and of speculators, surveyors, and others who had no permanent interests in the country, making it apparent that in time of stress the tenure of the land would depend upon a few bold spirits.

In order to dispose of the Transylvania Company once for all, we shall anticipate the course of time somewhat. The settlers found many causes of dissatisfaction with the Company’s methods of managing affairs, and the declaration of independence by the colonies in July, 1776, made it evident that a proprietary government could not long exist. Under the circumstances, the settlers of Kentucky wished for definite inclusion in the new republic and with that view they sent a delegation to the Virginia Assembly praying that body to give them recognition as part of the State. In accordance with this petition, Kentucky was organized as a county of Virginia, with David Robinson as county lieutenant, John Bowman colonel, Anthony Bledsoe and George Rogers Clark majors, and Daniel Boone, James Harrod, Benjamin Logan and John Todd captains. Ultimately the Transylvania Company was compensated for the forfeiture of its possessions by a large grant of land.

But before all this happened, Kentucky had entered upon the stormy days that earned for it the grim title of “the dark and bloody ground.”

[V.]
IN FAIR KENTUCKY

The settlers find themselves in a rich and beautiful land—But soon learn that they must fight for the possession of it—A night alarm on the border—How a woman and two children defended their home—The stockade at Boonesborough—Two girls carried off by the savages—Hardy raises an alarm and a party is soon in hot pursuit—Boone circumvents the wily redskins—They are overtaken and caught unprepared—A volley, a charge, and the girls are safe—Back to Boonesborough and a happy reunion.

The country in which Boone and his companions found themselves differed greatly from the gloomy, forest-covered region that they had left. Here were extensive forests, it is true, but they were not so dense as those along the Alleghanies, and furthermore they were interspersed with stretches of fertile plain and valleys of succulent grass. Hill and vale, river-bottom and prairie, timber-land and cane-brake, succeeded one another in pleasing variety and offered the widest opportunities for agricultural pursuits. Game was so plentiful that the settler might almost shoot it from his door-sill, but this very abundance induced to reckless and unnecessary killing, with the result that in a few years there was an actual scarcity and more than once the little community was hard pressed to secure a sufficient supply of food. The wanton killing of game continued until recent years.

Settlers were allowed to acquire lands on very easy terms. An advertisement inserted by Henderson in the newspapers of Virginia stated that: “Any person who will settle on and inhabit the same before the first day of June, 1776, shall have the privilege of taking up and surveying for himself five hundred acres, and for each tithable person he may carry with him and settle there, two hundred and fifty acres, on the payment of fifty shillings sterling per hundred, subject to a yearly quit-rent of two shillings, like money, to commence in the year 1780.” The deeds required the holders of the lands to pay this nominal rent “yearly and every year for ever,” so that had the Company’s title been confirmed, a large portion of Kentucky might have been subject to proprietary control at this day.

Having selected his land, the settler proceeded to clear it of timber and brush and to erect upon it a cabin. In this work he was aided by his neighbors, and himself stood ready to help the next comer. The farms were widely separated from one another and were in many cases situated several miles from the town or fort. Families lived upon them in times of quiet and almost invariably in the winter, when it was the habit of the Indians to retire to their villages. During troublous periods, one half of the men were engaged in scouting and guarding the settlement, whilst the other half tilled the ground. Often runners would make the rounds of the outlying farms warning the occupants of impending attack. There might not be a moment to spare, in which case all the worldly possessions of the family would be abandoned and they would make a hasty retreat to the stockaded village.

Doctor Doddridge, who was born and reared on the frontier says: “I well remember that when a little boy the family were sometimes waked up in the dead of night by an express with a report that the Indians were at hand. The express came softly to the door or back window, and by gently tapping waked the family; this was easily done, as an habitual fear made us ever watchful and sensible to the slightest alarm. The whole family were instantly in motion: my father seized his gun and other implements of war; my stepmother waked up and dressed the children as well as she could; and being myself the oldest of the children, I had to take my share of the burthens to be carried to the fort. There was no possibility of getting a horse in the night to aid us in removing to the fort; besides the little children, we caught up what articles of clothing and provisions we could get hold of in the dark, for we durst not light a candle or even stir the fire. All this was done with the utmost despatch and the silence of death; the greatest care was taken not to awaken the youngest child; to the rest it was enough to say ‘Indian,’ and not a whimper was heard afterwards. Thus it often happened that the whole number of families belonging to a fort, who were in the evening at their homes, were all in their little fortress before the dawn of the next morning. In the course of the succeeding day their household furniture was brought in by parties of the men under arms.”

On the other hand, it frequently happened that when the assembled settlers looked round after such a hasty gathering, it was discovered that one or another family was missing. Then a party of men would go out after them and, if fortunate, bring them in, but it might be that they had wandered from the trail in the darkness and become lost, or that they had encountered the savages and been massacred. Some men of reckless disposition would not leave their cabins until actually forced to do so by the approach of the enemy, or would return to their farms before the removal of danger. Such individuals caused serious trouble to the settlers with whom they were associated and often jeopardized their safety.

Such warnings as we have described were attendant upon the advance of the Indians in force, but the lone cultivator, upon his isolated farm, was in constant danger of attack from small bands or single savages that skulked unseen through the forest. The clearing was generally surrounded by woods or thicket that afforded ample cover to the foe in his stealthy approach. The settler, driving his team along the furrow, never knew but that watchful eyes were following his every movement, awaiting the opportunity for a favorable shot at him. His boy, going to the spring for water, might be suddenly seized from behind, gagged before he could utter a sound, and carried away to meet a cruel death, or to be brought up in some Indian’s wigwam. The mother, standing in the doorway of the cabin, oblivious to all danger, might be shot through the heart in the very sight of her husband. Perhaps, when the head of the family was away on a short hunt, or a trip to the fort, a party of Indians who had patiently awaited the chance for days would make an attack on the cabin. If the occupants had time to throw the heavy bolts across the door, there was a fair chance of their beating off the assailants, even though their success depended upon the courage of one woman and a half-grown boy. Many a thrilling border story turns upon the heroism of frontier women and children under such circumstances.

A typical affair of the kind occurred in Nelson County, Kentucky, during the year 1791. A party of about a score of Indians attacked the cabin of a settler named Merrill. The place was at some distance from the nearest habitation and no help could reasonably be looked for. The family were taken entirely unawares, the first intimation of the presence of the dreaded redskins being a volley from the neighboring brush aimed at the father who was working near his home. He fell grievously wounded but contrived to struggle to his feet and staggered into the cabin with the foremost savage at his heels. The wife of the settler succeeded, however, in closing the door and throwing the heavy bar across it, before the Indian could enter. Meanwhile, her husband sank helpless upon the floor.

The defence of the home now depended upon the woman and her son and daughter, neither of whom was much more than a child. But the desperate situation did not daunt the brave mother. She seized an axe and prepared to defend the family as best she might with it. There were no firearms in the cabin. Merrill, after the manner of backwoodsmen of the time, had carried his rifle to work with him and after being hit had been unable to regain it from the tree against which it had been placed.

The assailants at once began to hack an opening in the door with their tomahawks and of course the defenders were unable to offer any obstruction to this proceeding. At length a hole was made big enough for a man to squeeze through and one of the savages entered the room by this means. The woman stood beside the door with axe poised and as soon as the Indian was fairly inside, but before he could rise to his feet, she brought the weapon crashing down upon his skull. He expired with scarce a groan.

Close behind the first intruder followed a second. He met with a similar fate and so with a third and a fourth. Each had entered as fast as the way became clear and the death-blows had been delivered swiftly and surely. The Indians now began to suspect that something untimely had befallen their fellows and before another essayed to enter the house they made a cautious survey through the crevice of the door. By the fitful light of the fire four motionless figures stretched upon the floor were discernible and their fate was easily surmised.

The attackers now decided upon another line of tactics. Two of them clambered to the roof of the cabin and began a descent of the capacious chimney. The alert woman had heard the noises made by the climbers and anticipated their designs. Still maintaining her vigilant watch at the door, she bade her children cut open the feather bed and throw its contents upon the fire. The burning feathers flew up the chimney in a fountain of flame and acrid smoke. The two savages half way down strove to regain the roof but were unable to do so and at last fell into the fireplace, scorched and suffocated. They were easily despatched by the children and the wounded father.

Hardly had the attack been repulsed at one end of the room than it was renewed at the other. A fifth savage made an effort to gain entrance by way of the door. He was not more than half way through when the well-wielded axe ended his career. This put an end to the assault. The Indians were more than satisfied and beat a retreat. When they reached their village they assured the tribesmen that the squaws fought better than the “Long Knives” themselves.

Although the fort at Boonesborough was not completed until some months after the point at which we have arrived in our story, it will be well to describe it here. There was a close resemblance between all these frontier stockades, and the picture of one serves as a general description of any other. The Boonesborough fort stood about two hundred feet from the river. It was a parallelogram, about three hundred feet in length and half as wide. The sides were formed of cabins set close together, the spaces between being closed with double rows of logs, planted endwise in the ground and standing about ten feet in height. At each corner was a blockhouse, two stories in height, the upper section extending two feet beyond the lower, with the floor of the projection loop-holed so that attackers immediately below might be fired upon. The cabins and palisades were plentifully loop-holed along each of the sides. Stumps, brush and everything that might afford cover, was cleared from the immediate vicinity. In the middle of each of the long sides was a strong, heavy gate, with wooden hinges and bolts. In the centre of the enclosure stood a storehouse for provisions and ammunition, a few trees, and posts for stretching clothes-lines. In time of siege, cattle and horses were driven into the stockade.

Such a fortress could not, of course, stand against artillery and in some instances, where the Indians were supported by British gunners and cannon, the defenders of stockades were obliged to surrender. But it was seldom, indeed, that any force of savages unaided succeeded in carrying a frontier fort by assault when there were a handful of unerring backwoods rifles to defend it. In fact, the redskins had, long before this date, learned the futility of direct attack and usually resorted to subterfuge, or attempted to starve out the garrison. But this was not so easily accomplished in the case of such resourceful and determined men as the pioneers of Kentucky. When food began to fail, one would leave the fort in the dead of night and, stealthily creeping through the cordon of besiegers, take to the woods in search of game. The return, heavily laden, was even a more dangerous and difficult feat than the departure, and many laid down their lives for the sake of their fellows in such enterprises. But though one fell to-day, another was ready to essay the task to-morrow, and in the end some would succeed.

The Indians generally relied upon stratagem to overcome the defenders. A favorite subterfuge was pretended retreat. Simulating discouragement or alarm, they would act as though retiring from the country. The object was to draw the garrison into pursuit and entrap them in ambush. As we shall see, these tactics were sometimes highly successful with men who were ever ready to embrace any excuse for escaping the irksome restraint of the fort.

With the approach of summer, Indian outrages became increasingly frequent. No large bodies of savages were seen, nor was any concerted attack made upon a settlement. It was evident, however, that numbers of redskins were in the country, which was not strange, for at this time of the year hundreds of them had been in the habit of hunting in Kentucky. Settlers were picked off at the plough, or while traversing the forest. Women and children were killed and scalped or seized and carried into captivity. Cattle and horses were frequently found dead, with arrows in their sides, for the redskins still used that weapon upon animals in order to save valuable ammunition for fighting.

Another and more extensive exodus took place. All but three of the stations were abandoned, those maintained being Boonesborough, Harrodsburg, and McClellan’s, and the last-named was deserted early in the following year. There were hardly one hundred “guns,” that is, fighting men, left in the entire territory.

Fair Kentucky was soon to be in the throes of a life-and-death struggle for possession of the soil. As yet the settlers did not realize the fearful danger that beset them. Had they done so, all but the very stoutest hearts must have quailed before it. The Revolution was now in progress and, incited and armed by British agents, the Shawnees, Cherokees, and Mingos were preparing to exterminate the invaders of their old-time hunting-grounds. Virginia could afford but scanty aid to her distant territory. All the men and munitions that the State could command were needed to support the Continental Army. To the devoted band of backwoodsmen, isolated from their fellows and dependent upon their own resources, two courses were open,—either to retreat, or to stand their ground and face the flood of savage onslaught. It is characteristic of such men as Boone and his companions that the former alternative was not even considered by them.

Among the families at Boonesborough was that of Colonel Richard Callaway, an intimate friend of Boone. One day early in July, 1778, the two daughters of the former and Jemima Boone entered a canoe near the fort and cast it off from its moorings. This act was contrary to the injunctions of their parents, who realized that lurking Indians might be encountered even in the immediate neighborhood of the stockade. However, the girls were young and careless and as they drifted idly upon the placid stream that lovely summer evening, no thought of danger entered their minds.

Thick woods and dense undergrowth came down to the water’s edge upon the opposite bank. Here a party of savages crouched, motionless and silent, peering hungrily through the leafy screen at their intended victims. Laughing and chatting, while they aimlessly paddled the little craft, the girls gradually approached the farther bank. At length they were within a few feet of it, when suddenly the foliage parted in several places and five hideous forms sprang into the shallow water, seized the horror-stricken young women, and plunged into the thicket with them.

The screams of the girls as their captors bore them away were heard in the fort. Hardy, who was seated in the doorway of the Boones’ cabin, cleaning his rifle, sprang up and ran to the river bank. The empty canoe, drifting in the current, and a bonnet, floating on the stream, told the story. Hardy’s first thought was to plunge into the river and swim across, but he quickly realized that he could accomplish no good by following the abductors alone, and so he turned to the fort for assistance. Both Boone and Callaway were some miles distant, surveying a piece of land. In two minutes Hardy was astride a horse and galloping in the direction they had taken. He was fortunate in coming upon them without loss of time, but night had fallen before the party regained the stockade of Boonesborough.

Of course every man in the settlement was eager to join in the pursuit, but Boone determined to take but seven picked men with him. Even though the Indians should prove to be a large body, it was more important to come upon them by surprise than in force. The main point was to recover the girls before the savages should have time to kill them. The smaller the body of pursuers, then, the greater the likelihood of their success. Hardy Goodfellow begged, but without success, to be allowed to accompany the party. He was greatly disappointed but, although he did not suspect it, his eagerness for Indian fighting was soon to be satisfied.

At the first streak of dawn the eight men crossed the river, the two fathers in the lead. At the outset they experienced a check, but this was no more than their knowledge of Indian tactics had led them to suspect. The redskins, on leaving the river bank, had separated and made their way at considerable distance from one another through the thickest cane-brake. The pursuers could not follow any one of these tracks without danger of being misled. It was noticed that they all pointed in one general direction and that gave a clue as to their destination and Boone concluded that they were bound for the Ohio River and the Indian villages beyond it.

It was probable that the savages would drop scouts in the rear to ascertain whether they were being followed, and if they had reason to believe that they were not, that they would relax their speed and their vigilance. Taking these probabilities into consideration, Boone formed a plan of action with his usual decision. He abandoned the track and took his party by a rapid march over a circuit of thirty miles, coming round to a point where he hoped to again pick up the trail of the warriors. Sure enough, it was discovered in a buffalo path and the backwoodsmen were delighted to find that the Indians had made a considerable turn in order to cross their trace, and so had lost much headway. It was evident, too, from the signs that they had begun to travel carelessly and imagined themselves safe from pursuit.

The men under Boone pushed on as rapidly as possible and with every mile saw that they were getting nearer to their quarry. Vigilance was of no less consequence than speed. They knew that at the first alarm the redskins would bury their tomahawks in the skulls of the girls and scatter in the forest. Noiselessly, then, and tirelessly, the trackers followed the trail, every moment bringing them closer to the now slowly-moving savages. At length, towards the close of the third day, and after a journey of fifty miles, Boone decided that nightfall would bring them within striking distance of the Indians’ camp.

The pace was now slackened and each man bent his efforts to a stealthy advance without sound. The moccasined feet, hardly less adept than those of the redskins, trod so lightly as scarcely to disturb a twig or leaf. And so, several feet separating each man from the next, they crept forward until at length they came in sight of the abductors. In a small glade surrounded by thick cane they were in the act of building a fire at which to cook their evening meal.

The party had been instructed as to their action in this situation, which had been anticipated. Four rifles went up in careful aim, the others reserving their fire. The instant that the reports rang out, the whole body charged forward with a yell. The manœuvre was a perfect success. Two Indians fell. The others dashed into the forest, leaving their rifles, and even their knives, tomahawks and moccasins behind them. The girls were unharmed, and without delay the party turned about and retraced its steps to Boonesborough.

[VI.]
HARDY’S FIRST INDIAN

The war-cloud gathers over Kentucky—Hardy goes a-hunting and bags a fat turkey—He practices the difficult feat of barking squirrels—He detects a dusky foe spying upon him from behind a tree—And plans to outwit the wily savage—Hardy fires and scatters the head-feathers of the Indian—Hardy is now reduced to his tomahawk for defence—He makes a good throw and barely misses the mark—Powerless, he awaits death as the savage advances—A friend in need is a friend indeed—“My scalp, I reckon, young fellow!”—Simon Kenton, the daring dandy of the backwoods.

Before the close of the summer the Kentuckians became fully alive to the fact that they were threatened with a great Indian war. Most of the settlers were too careless or lacking in foresight to take measures in advance for their safety, and the preparations for the protection of the settlements devolved upon a few leading men among them. There were constant consultation, exchange of views, and formation of plans. The two principal objects desired were the inclusion of the new territory in the State of Virginia and the procurement of a supply of ammunition. By effecting the former, it was hoped to secure aid from the State in the impending struggle, and without the latter the backwoodsmen would soon be reduced to a state of helplessness, for they depended upon the rifle for their supplies of food, no less than for defence against the Indians. George Rogers Clark was sent to Virginia as the representative of the Kentucky settlers, and before the close of the year succeeded in having the desired legislation passed and, after a hazardous voyage down the Ohio, returned with a large quantity of powder.

Daniel Boone was of course indispensable to the councils of the leaders, and his time was entirely occupied in the affairs of the community, which took him frequently from home. Under these circumstances it fell to the lot of Hardy to look after the family and perform the ever-pressing duty of hunter. The search for game did not entail long journeys as in North Carolina, but he made frequent trips into the woods and met with such success as to excite the praise of his adoptive father.

The settlers, had not at this time contrived to plant anything like a sufficiency of corn, nor did they until several years afterwards. Before the country had been two years in occupation the live stock had become reduced to very small numbers, and beeves were not slaughtered for food but carefully kept for breeding purposes and as a reserve against emergency. The sole source of meat supply was the hunter’s rifle, and in the use of that Boone and other leaders were urging economy, for ammunition was running alarmingly low.

It was a fine, mild morning in October when Hardy set out for a day’s hunt, by which he might with reasonable good luck secure enough meat to keep the family pot boiling for a week. He was not in search of big game, but intended to make his bag of birds, of which many edible kinds were to be found in the neighborhood. He filled his powder-horn and bullet-pouch, put a generous piece of corn bread into his wallet and, with tomahawk and knife in belt and rifle over shoulder, left the cabin, with a promise to return before nightfall.

Hardy paddled himself across the river and, after hiding his canoe in a secluded spot, he made his way into the woods. It was not long before he heard the gobble of a turkey. Listening closely for a few minutes, and satisfying himself that the sounds came from a bird and not from an Indian, he commenced stealthily to approach his intended victim. This was not to be easily accomplished, however. The turkey detected Hardy’s movements before he got a sight of the bird. The chase lasted for an hour or more. Now the quarry would take alarm and make off with long, awkward strides, and anon, lulled into quietness by the hunter’s caution, would again allow him to come almost within range, only to run off just as the rifle was coming into position. At length a good chance came to the patient tracker. In one of its sudden retreats the turkey incautiously started across an open space about sixty feet in breadth. Hardy was eighty yards away from his mark but determined not to lose this opportunity. He dropped on one knee and, taking careful aim, fired as the bird reached the middle of the glade. The turkey fluttered for a few paces and then fell dead.

It proved to be a fine, fat bird, and would have justified Hardy in considering the day’s hunt as finished and returning to the many tasks of a less attractive nature that awaited him. But the weather and the surroundings were so enticing that he could not resist the temptation to remain out a little longer. He hid his turkey where he could find it on the return, and determined to indulge himself for a while in the sport of “barking” squirrels. This was a favorite pastime with Hardy, because it involved a very high order of marksmanship, in which he was eager to excel. At the same time, it was the last use to which he should have put his rifle at this time, when, as he knew, powder and shot were precious and every load should be made to count.

As the reader may imagine, a squirrel hit by a rifle ball would be torn to pieces, so that neither its flesh nor its fur could be of any service. In order to secure the animals intact, the backwoodsmen resorted to a skilful expedient which was called “barking.” The marksman aimed, not at the squirrel, but at the bark of the tree immediately below its feet. If he hit the exact place at which he fired, the animal flew into the air and came down, killed by the concussion, but whole. To accomplish this feat required the greatest precision. If the course of the bullet was an inch too high, the squirrel was shattered; if it was as much too low, the ball sank into the wood of the tree without the desired effect.

“Barking” squirrels was one of the favorite methods with the backwoodsmen of showing off their marksmanship. Boone could bring down his animal, without injuring a hair, every time at fifty yards. When far advanced in years, he gave such an exhibition of his skill to Audubon that made the naturalist wonder exceedingly. It is hardly necessary to say that Hardy, although a very creditable pupil, had not attained to anything like the same expertness. Indeed, if he “barked” one squirrel in five attempts he was doing very well. To-day it appeared, however, that our young hunter was in unusually good form, for by careful approach and steady shooting he succeeded in getting three whole squirrels with ten shots. Fragments of a number of others had been uselessly scattered over the ground.

Hardy was blessed with a healthy appetite, and had not yet trained his stomach to the one plenteous meal a day which was the custom with the backwoodsmen. It was now past midday, and feeling keenly hungry he decided to eat one of his squirrels and take a short rest before turning homeward. Whilst his fire was burning up, he skinned and dressed the little animal and soon had it broiling on the end of his hickory ramrod. Well-cooked squirrel and corn bread, washed down with cool spring water, make a very enjoyable meal to a hungry hunter, especially when his taste has not been spoiled by condiments and dainties.

Hardy sat with his back to a large linden, leisurely eating and thinking of nothing in particular, when presently he began to feel that eyes were upon him. We have all had a similar experience more than once in our lives. The knowledge—or belief, if you will—that he was being watched, coming upon him gradually in this manner, instead of suddenly with the apparition of the watcher, did not upset his self-control or cause him to betray any uneasiness. On the contrary, whilst continuing to pick the bones of the squirrel with apparent disregard for everything else, he furtively scanned the neighboring landscape. It was not long before he discerned an Indian peering at him from behind a tree. Averting his face, but not sufficiently to prevent a watch of the spot out of the corner of his eye, Hardy fell to considering the situation.

No question as to the intentions of the skulking savage entered into his mind for, although Hardy had not yet encountered any Indians, he had fully imbibed the border doctrine, begotten of bitter experience, that every redskin was a natural enemy. In his present position, the Indian behind the tree was considerably beyond range, and Hardy’s watchful concern was chiefly directed to seeing that he did not approach nearer unobserved. The boy concluded that he was alone, because had there been others with him they would surely have attacked ere this.

It would not do to retreat. In the first place, such a movement would give the other a decided advantage, and in the second place—well, Hardy didn’t think of it. Clearly there was to be a duel between them. The point was, how should Hardy set about playing his part in it. Suddenly he struck upon a plan based on the recollection that Boone had once said that an Indian will seldom fire at beyond fifty yards’ range, because he is not confident of his marksmanship and also because he uses a light charge.

These reflections only occupied a few minutes and, when he had decided upon his plan of action, Hardy rose with a well-feigned air of indifference as to the direction he should take. He was gratified to find that, although his heart beat somewhat faster than usual, he had no feeling of fear, and in fact rather enjoyed the situation. After looking around carelessly, he set out walking slowly and taking a line that would carry him past the Indian’s tree but at a distance of about one hundred yards. Hardy was confident of his own aim at that range, and unhesitatingly relied upon Boone’s statement that the Indian would not fire at that distance.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hardy kept a watch on the savage’s hiding place as he strolled leisurely along. When he had passed the point he wheeled suddenly about, and at the same time brought his rifle to his shoulder. As he had anticipated, the Indian, believing himself undiscovered, had come from cover and was preparing to steal upon Hardy from behind. The latter’s sudden turn surprised the redskin and he stood stock-still in his tracks. The next instant Hardy’s rifle cracked and the Indian’s head-feathers flew.

Hardy had missed his mark by a scalp’s breadth. Almost his sole chance of safety lay in taking to his heels. He thought of it and started to run but something restrained him and, instead, he stepped behind a tree and waited. Later in life Hardy learned that even such dare-devils as Simon Kenton and Lewis Wetzel recognized discretion as the better part of valor under similar circumstances, and were not ashamed to resort to flight in the face of great odds.

The advantage was now enormously in favor of the Indian, and he fully realized it. He ran forward instantly and circling round Hardy’s tree kept him so busily dancing about in order to remain under cover that it was impossible to reload his gun. This manœuvre had brought the savage within fifty feet of his adversary, and he would in all probability have presently fired. Instead of awaiting such action and trusting to the possible miss which would have placed them on even terms again, Hardy—who, it must be confessed, had become somewhat excited—made a foolish move. He took his tomahawk from his belt and, seizing a favorable moment, threw it with all the force he could command at the Indian. It was well aimed but the nimble redskin dodged and the missile whizzed over his left shoulder.

Hardy noted his failure with a sinking of the heart. His first impulse was to run but he checked at thought of that bullet in his back. He would rather meet death face to face than have it overtake him in flight. Then there was a slim chance of fight left, he remembered, as he drew his hunting-knife from its sheath. The Indian now approached boldly with his gun presented, intending to make a sure shot at the closest range. Regardless of the fact that the weapon was directed full at him, Hardy stood, with head exposed, staring spell-bound at the hideous features of the exultant redskin.

He never could tell afterwards what thoughts passed through his mind in those few seconds, that seemed an eternity. He remembered only that he seemed to have fallen into a trance from which he was awakened by the whip-like report of a rifle behind him, and at the moment it broke upon his ear the Indian fell in a convulsive heap at his feet.

“[My scalp, I reckon, young fellow.] Sorry you didn’t get him. Better luck next time.”

“[My Scalp, I Reckon, Young Fellow]”

The words were spoken in a cheery, musical voice, and before he had finished the utterance the speaker’s knife had secured the prize to which he referred.

Hardy looked up to the handsome beardless face of a young man of extremely attractive presence. The countenance was made up of contradictory features. The sternness suggested by the square jaw and large nose was belied by the smiling lips and the merry glint in the eyes. The careful dress, with its adornment of porcupine quills, the embroidered moccasins, the raccoons’ tails pendent from the back of the cap, the long, curled locks that fell below the shoulders,—all these betokened the backwoods dandy; but the great stature, the erect form, the muscular limbs and the weather-beaten face proclaimed the practiced hunter and fighter.

“Simon Kenton, at your service,” said the newcomer, extending his hand with a smile that instantly won Hardy as it did everyone who came in contact with the young frontiersman.

“My name is Hardy Goodfellow,” replied our friend, who had not yet quite recovered his composure. “I live at Boonesborough.”

“Well, if you’ve nothing to keep you, Hardy, we’ll make tracks for the fort. No telling how many more Indians there may be about, and I’d rather eat than fight just now.”

He threw his rifle over his shoulder and led the way to the beaten path with easy swinging strides, whistling as he went. Hardy presently ranged up alongside of him and immediately proceeded to unburden his mind.

“You saved my life,” he said. “I hope I may do as much for you some day.”

“Well, if I’m ever caught in the same kind of a fix,” said Kenton, with a laugh, “I hope you may be somewhere around. But it’s nothing to make a palaver about. In the backwoods it’s every man for himself and every man for his neighbor. If we didn’t stick together and help one another the redskins would soon wipe us out.

“Say, that was a right pretty throw of yours with the tomahawk,” continued Kenton. “Who taught you?”

“Daniel Boone,” replied Hardy, proudly. He then went on to explain his relationship to the great hunter. With boyish enthusiasm he told Kenton how Boone had taken him, a forlorn orphan, into his family and had treated him as a son. How the great hunter had tutored him in woodcraft, in the use of the rifle and the tomahawk and in the rude arts of the backwoods. When he had concluded his companion extended his hand, saying:

“Shake again, Hardy! We shall see a good deal of each other, if I’m not mistaken. I’ve been at Hinkston’s, but when they all cleared out for fear of the Indians I made up my mind to come over here, because I know that there won’t be any backing down with Boone. He’s here to stay and so am I.”

Their mutual admiration of Boone brought these two close together in a very short while. Kenton had only had one brief meeting with Hardy’s adoptive father but that had made a deep impression on him, and he listened with avidity to his young companion’s enthusiastic accounts of the man who had fostered him in his loneliness and had cared for him since.

They picked up Hardy’s turkey on their way and Kenton helped to eat it at the Boone cabin a few hours later. The party was completed by the arrival of the head of the family from Harrodsburg in time for supper. Boone warmly welcomed Kenton to the settlement, for that young man had already made a name for himself as a good fellow, a fearless fighter, and an expert hunter. Boone strongly suspected that the time was fast approaching when such men would be invaluable to the community.

As to Hardy, from the first he was strongly drawn to this handsome, cheery son of the wilderness and the more he saw of him the better he liked him. In fact, their dramatic encounter in the forest proved to be the beginning of a friendship that lasted through life. Many years afterwards, when another generation dwelt peacefully in Kentucky, Colonel Goodfellow was a frequent guest at the humble home of General Kenton in Urbana, Ohio.

[VII.]
THE CAPTURE OF BOONE

The Indians burst upon the frontiers and overrun Kentucky—Boonesborough is besieged once and again—Boone spies on the Indian camp, is detected and wounded—Kenton runs to the rescue in the nick of time—Boone goes salt-making with a band of settlers—He is tracked by Indians and caught in an ambush—He makes a great race for life and liberty but is captured—Boone wisely decides to surrender his men who are surprised and powerless—“It was a sorry day for the Indians when they captured me and my salt-makers.”

With the opening of spring the Indians, who had spent the preceding winter in preparation, burst upon the frontiers. Had they made a concentrated attack, with the aid of the British, upon the Kentucky settlements at this time, there can be little doubt but that they would have succeeded in clearing the country of the “buckskins,” as they sometimes called the pioneers. Fortunately, they scattered their forces and directed their first attack mainly against the borders of Virginia and Pennsylvania. Sufficient numbers, however, assailed the four stations of Kentucky to tax the courage and resources of the defenders and to keep them in a constant state of disquietude. Men, women and children were unremittingly alert, for the forest swarmed with skulking savages. Frequent attacks in force were made upon the stockades, which were from time to time subjected to the characteristically brief sieges of the Indian. The ground was tilled and crops were tended under guard. Scouts scoured the surrounding country, and saved the settlers from many a surprise.

During March an attack was projected against Harrodsburg. About four miles from that place the Indians came unawares upon a small party of whites, who were engaged in making a new settlement. One of these was killed and another taken prisoner, whilst a lad named James Ray, whom we shall have further occasion to mention, contrived to make his escape and warn the settlers at the station. This intimation of approaching enemies, although it gave scanty time for preparation, enabled the defenders to gather their entire number within the fort and to beat off the Indians without any loss to themselves.

At about the same time a movement was made against Boonesborough, but there was small chance of that stronghold being taken by surprise. Aside from the ever-wakeful Boone, the station now had the advantage of the services of such splendid rangers as Kenton, the McAfee brothers, and other expert woodsmen who had recently come in. The approach of the foe was announced in good time, and when the Indians arrived within sight of the stockade every rifleman was at his post awaiting them.

On one side, Boonesborough was protected by the river, which the bravest warriors dared not cross in the face of the backwoods marksmen. On the other sides, open ground stretched for a sufficient distance to prevent near approach under cover. The Indian of the forest regions was accustomed to the tactics of the skirmisher and guerilla. He would seldom fight in the open, but would take cover behind trees, stumps, bushes, or in long grass. The facility with which he could hide his body and the stealthiness of his movements sometimes proved an efficient offset to the superior gunplay of his adversary.

On this occasion the savages besieged Boonesborough for several days, during which the attack and the defence took the form of a series of duels. On each side vigilant eyes marked individuals on the other and patiently watched for an opportunity to shoot with fair chance of success. In such contests the backwoodsmen were sure to inflict the greater injury, provided they remained behind their stockades; but it was seldom possible to ascertain the loss of the Indians, because, unless hotly pressed in flight, it was their custom to carry off their dead and wounded.

The siege of a fort was usually raised after a few days. The redskin warriors lacked the patient determination necessary to the success of such an undertaking and, moreover, as they depended upon the country for their food supply, the attacking body was frequently weakened by the detachment of hunting parties. In the present instance, the Indians soon retired, having killed one of the settlers and wounded four others.

It seldom happened that the Indian attacks were characterized by determination or concerted action. Large bodies were usually composed of detachments from several tribes and were led by a number of chiefs who acknowledged no superior. The will of the majority as expressed in council theoretically controlled the action of all, but as a matter of fact a dissatisfied member often acted contrary to the decision of the allied chiefs in action.

Furthermore, tribal discipline was very low at this time. Even such powerful chiefs as Cornstalk and Blackfish had difficulty in controlling the young braves and less renowned leaders had hardly any influence over their followers. Hence a band of Indians engaged in warfare was apt to break up in the most sudden and unexpected manner.

A few months later a more serious assault was made upon Boonesborough. Had they but known it, the Indians could hardly have chosen a less propitious date than the fourth of July for such a venture, but it was on that day that a band of two hundred warriors made its appearance before the fort. They seem to have been particularly anxious to reduce the place, which they doubtless knew was commanded by the great chief, Daniel Boone. Detachments had been sent to make feints against the other stations, in order to prevent their extending relief to Boonesborough.

At the outset, the whites came near to suffering what would have been an irreparable loss not only to them but to the settlers in general. On the morning after the arrival of the besiegers, Boone, being anxious to learn something of their numbers and disposition, left the stockade just before daybreak and made a reconnoissance of the Indian camp. The day dawned to find him still several hundred yards from the fort. He was picking his way cautiously, taking advantage of all the cover available, when an Indian discovered him. The redskin fired and hit Boone upon the ankle.

Short of a mortal wound, nothing could have been more effective than this ill-aimed bullet. Boone fell to the earth heavily, and as he did so his trusty rifle escaped from his grasp and flew to some distance. He was unable to rise and utterly helpless. The Indian, seeing his plight, advanced rapidly with uplifted tomahawk to despatch him, and Boone calmly awaited what he believed to be his end.

But the watchful eye of Kenton had noted the incident and Boone had hardly fallen when the scout was outside the stockade and speeding towards the spot with the swiftness of the deer. As soon as the Indian came into the open, Kenton stopped, took aim, and at the moment that the redskin reached the side of his intended victim sent a bullet through his brain. Kenton was now little more than one hundred yards from Boone, but by this time a number of warriors had appeared at the edge of the clearing. There was not a second to be lost and, although he appeared to be rushing into the jaws of death, Kenton flung aside his gun and flew to the spot where Boone lay anxiously awaiting the issue.

At the same instant several Indians bounded forward, yelling and brandishing their weapons. They had advanced but a few yards when a dozen rifles in the stockade spoke and four of the redskins fell. The others hastily regained cover and turned their weapons upon the gallant ranger who was in the act of lifting Boone onto his serviceable leg. Half carried by his rescuer, Boone hopped slowly to the gate of the fort, while a shower of bullets played unceasingly around. The half light favored the wounded man and his companion, who gained the shelter of the stockade without being touched.

Boone was a reticent man, estimating his own deeds lightly and little given to bestowing praise on others. But the splendid courage, strength and skill displayed by Kenton in this dashing exploit excited unwonted emotion in the great pioneer and he expressed his admiration and gratitude in the warmest terms. He recognized in the young, debonair scout a man after his own heart and one of his own kind. Ever after this episode Boone and Kenton were the fastest friends.

During the ensuing months, whilst his wound was slowly healing, Boone took up his quarters in the upper story of one of the blockhouses, where he could command the scene and direct the defence in case of another attack. But the experience of the Indians on this occasion, which included the loss of seven of their number, appears to have cooled their ambition to take Boonesborough, and that place enjoyed a respite during the remainder of the year, although attacks were made at intervals upon other stations.

Salt was always one of the prime needs of the settlers, as it had been when they dwelt farther back in the borderland. To secure it now from the coast towns was a matter of much greater difficulty than it had been then. Resort was had to the simpler method of manufacturing the coveted commodity from the waters of the salt licks in which the territory of Kentucky abounded. At first this was accomplished in a manner far from satisfactory, owing to imperfect knowledge of the process and lack of proper utensils. But just about this time the authorities in Virginia sent out a number of kettles and two experienced salt-makers.

In view of the prospect of further hostilities, and perhaps protracted sieges, it was determined to lay in a large stock of salt. The men of the station were divided into two parties, which were to go out in turns and manufacture the material. As there was less danger of attack by Indians in the dead of winter than later on, Boone decided to take command of the first party, so that he might be at the fort with the opening of spring.

On the first day of the year 1778, Captain Boone with thirty men and the necessary utensils left Boonesborough and set out for the Lower Blue Licks, fifty or more miles to the north. Here they established a camp and set to work. From time to time a small party was sent to the fort with the pack-horses laden with salt. On their return they brought back supplies of parched corn and, perhaps, a few of the simple comforts that the hardy backwoodsmen looked upon almost in the light of superfluous luxuries. Thus the work progressed satisfactorily and the six weeks’ spell, at the end of which time the party was to be relieved, approached its termination.

Of course, a considerable amount of meat was constantly needed to satisfy the appetites of thirty vigorous men. Boone, as the most expert hunter among them, undertook the duty of keeping the general larder supplied. The task was a thoroughly congenial one to him, which we cannot imagine salt-making to have been. It was his habit to go out some miles from camp every morning, returning at the close of the day with as much game as he could carry and often leaving a quantity to be sent after with a pack-horse.

One afternoon in the early part of February Boone was making his way towards the lick, after a successful hunt, when he suddenly found himself surrounded by a hundred Indians. Not having seen a redskin for months, and knowing the unlikelihood of their presence in numbers at that time of the year, Boone was perhaps not as keenly on the alert as usual. But, in any case, he could hardly have escaped his present predicament. He had not crossed the trail of the Indians nor encountered any signs of them. They had seen him earlier in the day and had secreted themselves about his return path.

As soon as Boone was fairly within the circle of the ambuscade, the savages suddenly arose on every side and made at him. He took in the situation at a glance and, dropping the carcass with which he was encumbered, started to run with all the speed he could command. A few years before, Boone had been a match for the swiftest runners among the redskins, but he had now reached middle age, when the limbs of the best lose something of their supple agility. Moreover, he had spent the day in toilsome exertion, without rest or food, whereas his pursuers were comparatively fresh. Still he held his own for awhile and put the Indians to their utmost endeavor to overtake him. At length, however, seeing that further effort was useless, Boone stopped and surrendered, with a complimentary remark to the foremost braves to put them in a good humor.

It was at once evident to Boone that the band which had captured him was upon the war-path, and their destination could be none other than Boonesborough. They knew of the presence of the party at the lick and had, in fact, tracked the hunter from that place in the morning. As they journeyed thither, Boone’s mind was busy with a consideration of the conditions and the best course to be followed under the circumstances. His judgment was remarkably sure and his decisions unusually quick. Before they had arrived at the camp, he told the Indians that, if they would assure his men of kind treatment, he would order them to surrender without resistance. The proposition appealed to the savages and they readily gave the required promise.

When the scene of the salt-making was reached the Indians secured to themselves all the advantage possible by surrounding the unconscious workmen, who were in an exposed spot, before discovering themselves. When the Indians made their presence known the whites were taken utterly by surprise, but they quickly seized their rifles and no doubt would have made a stout, though hopeless, resistance had not Boone signed to them to restrain their fire. He then approached with an escort of his captors and informed his men that he had agreed to their surrender. The declaration elicited some murmurs, but so great was the confidence in Boone’s resourcefulness and the wisdom of his conclusions, that the men laid down their arms without further ado and agreed to accompany the Indians.

This action of Boone’s excited the censure of some of his fellow-officers and the disapprobation of many of the settlers. These feelings continued to be evinced after the outcome had shown the wisdom of his course, and prompted Boone, some time later, to secure a court-martial of himself. The evidence produced before this body and the frank explanation made by Boone induced his honorable acquittal, and not only that, but his promotion to the rank of major.

The considerations that moved Boone (who was the last man to avoid a fight when it could serve a good purpose) to surrender his command, were as follows: The settlement at Boonesborough, weakened by the absence of half the garrison, was in no state to make a successful defence against a large number of the enemy, should they take it by surprise. That they would do so, was more than probable, for the settlers were accustomed from long experience to consider themselves safe from attack in the winter months, when the Indians almost invariably rested and took refuge from the weather in their villages. Familiar as he was with the character and habits of the Indians, Boone calculated with confidence upon their abandoning their expedition and returning to their country in triumph with their prisoners. It was ever the tendency of these savages to repair to their towns after a great victory, to indulge in a celebration and in their customary vauntings and boasting.

Boone thus deliberately sacrificed himself and his men for the sake of saving the settlement with its women and children. That they would soon learn what had happened and be put upon their guard he felt sure, for three of the party of salt-makers were absent at the fort and would soon return. The event proved that all his calculations were justified, and the incident ultimately tended to the welfare of the community.

The shrewdest among Boone’s men began to divine their leader’s purpose when the Indians turned their backs on Boonesborough and with all possible speed took the direction of the Ohio. Up to this time the Kentucky settlers had no definite knowledge of the location of the Indians’ towns. It would have been well for the savages had this ignorance continued. In after life, Boone said: “It was a sorry day for the Indians when they captured me and my salt-makers and showed us the way to their villages and the lay of their land.”