“LONG KNIFE WAS TAKEN FAIRLY AND SQUARELY IN THE BREAST.”—P. [63].

WITH BOONE ON
THE FRONTIER

OR

THE PIONEER BOYS OF OLD
KENTUCKY

BY
CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL
AUTHOR OF “THE BOYS OF THE FORT,” “WITH CUSTER IN
THE BLACK HILLS,” “WHEN SANTIAGO FELL,”
“THE YOUNG BANDMASTER,” ETC.

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1903
BY
THE MERSHON COMPANY

PREFACE

“With Boone on the Frontier” relates the adventures of two youths who, with their families, go westward into what was at that time the wilderness of Kentucky, to join Daniel Boone in settling what has since become one of the richest and most prosperous of our States.

The history of this movement, and the history of the man who was its greatest leader, are as fascinating as the most exciting novel ever written. Daniel Boone was a character almost unique in American history, a man the very embodiment of pluck and energy, and one who knew neither fear nor the meaning of the word fail. For years he had his eye on the great green fields of Kentucky, and he resolved, in spite of the dangers from natural causes and from the Indians, to open up this territory to the hundreds of pioneers who had become tired of life along the eastern seacoast or close to it, and who wanted to go where they would be less under the rule of those English who were making themselves offensive at that time. While those in the East were fighting the War for Independence he and his trusty followers were working equally hard to give to this nation a stretch of land of which any people might well be proud.

The first settlement in Kentucky was at Boonesborough, about eighteen miles to the southeast of Lexington, on the Kentucky River. To-day this village is of small importance, but at that time, in 1775, it boasted of a fort which, built under the directions of Daniel Boone, was a rallying point for all the settlers of that territory and a place to which they fled for safety at the first sign of an Indian uprising. It is in and around this fort that many incidents of the present tale occur.

It may be that some, in reading this story, will deem many of the statements made therein overdrawn. Such is far from being the fact. The days in which Daniel Boone lived were full of dire peril to those who lived on the frontier, or who attempted to push further westward over the hunting grounds of the jealous red men, and many were the outrages committed by the Indians, not alone on the men and boys among the pioneers, but also among the women and girls, and even the little children. Let us all be thankful that such days are now past never to return.

Captain Ralph Bonehill.

July 1, 1903.

CONTENTS

WITH BOONE ON THE
FRONTIER

CHAPTER I
TWO BOYS OF THE WILDERNESS

“Hark, Joe, what was that?”

“It sounded like the report of a gun, Harry. But I didn’t imagine that anybody was within gunshot of this place outside of ourselves.”

“That was what I was thinking. Do you imagine any of those Indians we met yesterday had guns?” went on Harry Parsons thoughtfully.

“I didn’t see any,” answered Joe Winship. “And if they had ’em I think we would have seen ’em,” he added, as he took up his gun from where it was resting against a tree and looked at the priming.

“We didn’t come out here to have trouble,” continued Harry Parsons. “We only came to see if we couldn’t bag a fine deer or two. If those Indians followed our party——”

The youth came to a stop, for at that instant another gunshot rang out, somewhat closer than the first which had attracted their attention. Then came a rush through the forest and a few seconds later four beautiful deer burst into view.

“Deer!” cried Joe Winship, and leveled his gun at the nearest of the game.

“Don’t shoot, Joe!” cried his companion.

“Why not?”

“If the Indians are after ’em we may have trouble.”

There was no time to argue the matter, for even as Harry Parsons spoke the deer leaped the small brook which wound its way through the mighty forest and in a twinkling were out of sight again. Then all became as quiet as before.

“Don’t hear any Indians,” was Joe Winship’s comment, after straining his ears for a full minute. “And lost a tremendously good shot,” he added regretfully.

“Well, it’s best to be on the safe side. If half a dozen redskins were after those deer we wouldn’t stand any show at all against ’em,” said Harry Parsons, with a decided shake of his curly-haired head. “You remember what our folks told us—to keep out of trouble.”

“But what beautiful deer they were!”

“You are right. And it isn’t likely they’ll come back this way——”

“Hush!”

As Joe Winship uttered the word he caught his companion by the sleeve and pointed through the forest to where there was an opening, perhaps an acre in extent, dotted here and there with small brushwood.

“What did you see, Joe?”

“A couple of Indians. There they are again—getting ready to cross the brook!”

“They came up quietly enough. What shall we do?”

“Let us get behind yonder bushes. They are on the trail of the game, and I don’t think they’ll come this way. But if they do we’ll have trouble just as sure as you are born,” concluded Joe Winship, and led the way to the shelter he had mentioned, quickly followed by his companion.

Joe Winship was a youth of fifteen, tall and as strong as outdoor life can make a boy of that age. He was the only son of Ezra Winship, a hardy hunter and pioneer, one of the number who did so much to build up our country in years gone by. Besides Joe, the family consisted of the boy’s mother and his two sisters, named respectively Cora and Harmony, both of whom were younger than himself.

Harry Parsons was a few months older than Joe. He too was an only son, and had one sister, Clara, two years older than himself. His father, Peter, had in years gone by been a cattle dealer doing business in and around Philadelphia, and had there married his wife, Polly, of Quaker stock.

It was during a visit to Williamsburgh that Mr. Peter Parsons had fallen in with Ezra Winship, about four years previous to the opening of this story. A chance acquaintanceship had ripened into true friendship, which speedily spread from all the members of one family to all the members of the other.

From Williamsburgh the Winships and the Parsons migrated to a small settlement in North Carolina known by the name of Jackson’s Ford. Here log cabins were built and some planting was done by the boys and the others, while Mr. Winship and Mr. Parsons spent a good deal of their time in bringing down game in the almost trackless forests to the west of the rude settlement—the game being used to supply the table with meat and the pelts being sold or traded for household commodities at a trading-post thirty-five miles away.

In those days—just previous to the Revolution of 1776—the great West was an unknown country to the American colonists. There were settlements in plenty along the Atlantic seacoasts, and for several hundreds of miles inland, but beyond this was, to them, the trackless forests and the unknown mountains, inhabited by game of all sorts and Indians.

One of the leading pioneers of those times, and one who will figure quite largely in our story, was Daniel Boone. Boone had already gone into the wilderness beyond the Kentucky River, and had come back to tell of the richness of the land there and the abundance of game. As a result a company was formed to settle the territory now known as the State of Kentucky, and among the first of the pioneers to take part in this move westward was Peter Parsons, who helped to erect a fort at what was afterwards called Boonesborough.

The settlement at Boonesborough was quickly followed by other settlements at Harrodsburgh, Boiling Spring, and St. Asaph, and when it became an assured fact that Kentucky was to be settled and held by the bold pioneers who had followed in the footsteps of Daniel Boone, Peter Parsons sent back word to Jackson’s Ford asking Ezra Winship to join him in this “far western country,” and bring all the members of the two families with him. He stated that he had selected two fine grants of land upon which they could build, and that upon his arrival Mr. Winship should have his pick of the two prospective farms.

In those days to move, especially with one’s household effects, was no easy matter, and it was a good two months before all was in readiness for the start. The Winship and the Parsons family did not go alone, but were accompanied by four other pioneers and their families and a pack train of fourteen horses, for to get anything like a wagon or cart through the wilderness was utterly impossible.

To the boys the move westward seemed to promise no end of sport, and they willingly did all they could to further the project. But the girls and their mothers dreaded to think of this step into the great wilderness, and Mrs. Parsons shook her head doubtfully as she said in her quaint Quaker way:

“Friend Ezra, since Peter wishes me to come to him, I will go with thee. But I am of a mind that our journey will be a troublous one, and that the Indians will not be as friendly as thee imagines.”

“Have no fear, Mistress Parsons, but that we will get through in safety,” answered Ezra Winship. “The trail has now been used half a score of times, so we cannot very well get lost, and as for the Indians, if we do not harm them I doubt if they harm us.”

But even though he spoke thus, Ezra Winship knew that all who were to move westward with him were sure to encounter more or less of peril. Wild animals roamed the forest, and the Indians, although apparently friendly, were not to be trusted. To this were to be added the perils of storms and of forest fires, and the dangers of crossing rapidly flowing streams in such frail craft as they could build, or upon horseback.

All told, there were five men and six boys in the train that started out from Jackson’s Ford one warm and pleasant day. Before the exodus began Ezra Winship called the men and the older boys aside and gave them a little advice.

“We are moving into a strange territory,” he said. “There is no telling what perils we may have to face. You have made me your leader, and that being so, I feel it my duty to warn each one to be on his guard constantly. In traveling, always be sure to keep the rest of our train in sight, and never discharge your weapons without reloading immediately. If any Indians appear, treat them well so long as they are friendly, but do not trust them too far.”

The progress westward was slow, but twelve miles being covered the first day, fifteen the second, and ten the third. The trail—a narrow path used occasionally by the buffalo and by the Indians—was an exceedingly rough one, winding in and out of the forest and along the banks of rivers and small streams. At certain spots were huge rocks, over which buffalo and Indians could scramble with ease, but around which the pack horses had to make their way slowly and cautiously.

The party were out a week before any Indians appeared. Then one of the pioneers announced that he had discovered three red men looking down upon them from a nearby cliff.

“They disappeared the minute I spotted ’em,” said the pioneer, whose name was Pepperill Frost, generally shortened to Pep Frost.

“We must be on our guard against them,” said Ezra Winship, and that night a strict guard was kept, but no red men appeared.

But the next afternoon, about three o’clock, four Indians showed themselves at a spot where the trail crossed a shallow, rocky brook. They came up with their hands before them and with their bows and arrows and other weapons slung over their backs.

“To what place journey our white brothers?” questioned one of the Indians, after the usual greeting in his native tongue.

“To some place where they can live in peace with our red brethren,” answered Ezra Winship cautiously.

After this the Indians said little, but begged for some tobacco and some Indian meal, a small quantity of which was given to them. They then departed into the forest, disappearing as rapidly as they had come.

“I think we’ll see more of those Indians,” said Pep Frost.

“I believe you,” answered Ezra Winship. “And perhaps they’ll not be so friendly another time. But do not alarm the women folks, for it will do no good.”

Early the following morning an accident happened which came close to proving fatal to one of the boys, Chet Rockley by name. He was driving a pack horse loaded with provisions along the river bank when the horse slipped and fell into the stream, carrying the lad with him. In the struggle that followed the boy was kicked in the head by the animal. Chet Rockley was rescued by Ezra Winship, but the horse was carried away by the swift current and drowned, and the provisions were lost.

It was decided to rest for two days, to care for young Rockley, and to bring in some game to take the place of the provisions which had been lost. A temporary camp was established at the fork of two small streams, and as soon as this was done the men folks and the boys took turns in going out hunting and fishing.

Joe and Harry had been cautioned not to go too far, and to keep a close watch for Indians. But their anxiety to bring in at least one good-sized deer had caused them to roam further from the camp than at first anticipated. They had seen no game until the four deer burst into view, closely followed by the two Indians already mentioned.

CHAPTER II
PURSUED BY THE INDIANS

“Do you really think the Indians would prove unfriendly?” questioned Harry, as both boys crouched down behind a thick clump of bushes.

“I do—if they belong to the crowd who called upon us yesterday. There was one Indian in particular, a tall chap, who looked bloodthirsty enough for anything,” said Joe.

“You mean the fellow called Long Knife?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t deny he did look ugly, Joe. But then a redskin can’t help his looks.”

Here the talk came to a sudden end, for a splashing in the brook reached their ears, telling that the two Indians were not far away. They had not gone after the deer as the boys had imagined, but were coming closer. Harry clutched Joe’s arm, and both youths crouched lower than ever in the grass and brushwood.

In a minute more the two red men were less than a rod away, and the boys could hear them talking softly to one another. Peeping through the bushes, Joe made out the savage face of Long Knife, and saw that the Indian carried a musket of ancient pattern, and a horn of powder and ball, as well as his bow and arrows, and his tomahawk. The second Indian was similarly armed.

Hardly daring to breathe, the boys remained behind the bushes until the Indians had passed the spot and followed the course of the stream a distance of several rods further. Then Harry touched Joe on the arm.

“Did you see it?” he asked, in a low voice, but one full of suppressed excitement.

“See what, Harry?”

“The scalp Long Knife carried. I’m sure it was a fresh one, too!”

“A fresh scalp! Oh, Harry, are you sure?”

“Yes, and the best thing we can do is to get back to the train without delay.”

“But the Indians have gone up the brook——”

“We’ll have to take to the forest and trust to luck.”

“Supposing they have attacked the train? That scalp may be that of one of our party!”

“Let us trust not,” answered Harry, but with a face that showed his anxiety.

The youths had been following the course of the brook, which was lined on one bank with a series of large flat rocks. On these rocks their trail had been lost, so that the Indians had not discovered their footprints in the semi-gloom caused by the heavy forest growth overhead.

“But they’ll find some footprints before long,” said Joe, in speaking of this. “And when they do they may be after us hot-footed.”

Fortunately for the boys the brook, as they remembered, made a long semicircle, so that if they could make their way through the forest in anything of a straight line they would cut off a goodly portion of the distance to camp.

The gun of each was loaded and freshly primed, and each held his weapon ready for instant use should occasion require. Joe led the way, but Harry followed closely in his footsteps.

Less than a hundred yards had been covered when there came a shot from a distance, followed by several others.

“Where can they come from?” questioned Joe.

“I don’t believe we are in sound of the camp, Joe. But if we are, perhaps those other shots came from there, too.”

“No, they were off in that direction.” Joe pointed with his hand. “I can tell you what, I don’t like the looks of the situation, do you?”

“No, I don’t—and that is why I think we had best get back to camp with all speed.”

On and on they went, deeper and deeper into the forest. The summer day was drawing to a close and they knew that in another hour the darkness of night would be upon them.

Suddenly a small wild animal darted up in their path. This caused Joe to fall back upon Harry, and by accident the latter’s gun was discharged, the buckshot whistling past Joe’s left ear and tearing through the boughs overhead.

“Oh, Joe, are you shot?” cried Harry in keen alarm.

“I—I reckon not,” stammered his companion, as soon as he could recover from the shock. “But why did you fire over my shoulder like that? It was only a jack-rabbit.”

“I didn’t mean to fire. The gun—hark!”

Harry stopped short and both listened. From a distance they could hear one Indian calling to another. Then followed a crashing through some undergrowth.

“They are after us sure!” ejaculated Harry. “Come on.”

Both broke into a run without waiting for Harry to reload. As they went on, they heard more firing at a distance, and then a long yell that they knew could mean but one thing.

“The Indians are on the warpath!” exclaimed Joe. “There can be no doubt of it—they have attacked the camp.”

“How many do you suppose there are of them?”

“There is no telling. But if they number a dozen or more it will surely go hard with all of our party, Harry.”

They calculated that they had covered half the distance to the camp when they reached something of a hollow. Here the undergrowth was extra heavy and the ground wet and uncertain, and before they realized it they were in a bog up to their ankles.

“This won’t do,” came from Harry. “If we aren’t careful we’ll get in so deep we can’t get out again. We’ll have to turn back.”

“Turn back—with the Indians following us?” said Joe.

“I mean to walk around this hollow, Joe. It’s the only way.”

They turned back to dry ground and then moved to the southward, still further away from the brook. Here was something of an opening, but they avoided this and made for some rocks, gaining a new shelter just as three Indians burst into view.

“Keep to the rocks,” whispered Joe. “Don’t leave a trail if you can help it—and get away as far as possible from this place!”

He went on, over the rocks, and Harry followed. The way led deeper and deeper into the forest and soon the light of day was shut out entirely.

Both were now out of breath and glad enough to climb into a dense tree and rest. As they sat among the upper branches they listened intently for more signs of the Indians, but none reached them. Once Joe fancied he heard a cry in English at a great distance, but he was not certain.

“This is a pickle truly,” observed Harry, after a long spell of silence.

“It is what we get for straying away too far from camp,” returned Joe bitterly. “Father warned me to keep near, and he warned everybody else, too.”

“What do you say we should do next?”

“I hardly know, Harry. If we start to go on those Indians may be laying low for us.”

“Do you want to remain in the tree all night?”

“We may have to remain here all night. If we start out after it is real dark we may become hopelessly lost in the timber.”

“But the redskins can spot us twice as quick in the daylight as they can now.”

“I know that as well as you.”

After this came another long spell of silence, in which each boy was busy with his thoughts. The mind of each dwelt upon the camp. Had it been attacked, and if so had any of the loved ones been slain?

As night came on they heard strange sounds in the forest, sounds which would have frightened youths less used to woodcraft. From the hollow came the mournful glunk of frogs, and the shrill tweet of tree toads. All around them the night birds uttered their solitary notes, punctuated ever and anon with the hoot of an owl. And then they heard the rustling of underbrush as various wild animals stole from their lairs in quest of prey.

“I am going to climb to the top of the tree and see if I can locate the camp-fire,” said Harry, at length. “If that is burning as usual it will be a sign that nothing very wrong has happened.”

Leaving his gun hanging on a limb, he commenced to climb from one branch to the next. Joe was about to follow but concluded that it would be best for one to remain below on guard, for the top of this giant of the forest was fully eighty feet above the position he now occupied.

The climbing of such a tree is by no means an easy task. As Harry approached the top he found the branches further apart and quite slender, and he had all he could do to haul himself from one safe position to another above it.

His activity was rewarded at last, and he stood on a limb which gave him a free and uninterrupted view of the country for miles around. There was no moon, but the sky was clear, and countless stars served to brighten the early night. Far to the westward the clouds were still red from the setting sun.

Eagerly the youth turned to where he imagined the camp-fire of the pioneers must be located. Not a single light came to view, either camp-fire or lantern.

“That is certainly queer,” he told himself. “Not a flare of any kind.”

The thought had scarcely crossed his mind when his attention was attracted to a location about half a mile to the northward of the camp. The light of a torch had blazed forth and was now revolving rapidly in a semicircle.

“An Indian signal,” he muttered softly. “I wish I knew what it meant.”

The light was waved in a semicircle for fully half a minute. Then it bobbed up and down twice and vanished.

Scarcely had this light gone from view than Harry noticed another light, this time on the other side of the pioneers’ camp. This new light was bobbing up and down at a rapid rate, making it look almost like a streak of fire. Then it changed from side to side, and then to a circle. Inside of three minutes it was gone.

“If one could only read the Indian signs it might prove a big help,” mused the boy. “Perhaps I had better stay up here to-night and see if any more signs are made. Then, if we get back to camp in the morning, I can ask old Pep Frost what they mean.”

He sat in a crotch of the limb for the best part of half an hour. The position was far from comfortable, and he was on the point of changing it when he heard a noise some distance below.

“Is that you coming up, Joe?” he asked softly.

A low hiss of warning was the only reply, and Harry knew at once something was wrong. He leaned far down and presently made out his companion, coming up slowly and noiselessly and carrying both of the guns.

“What is it?” he asked, when he could get his mouth close to Joe’s ear.

“Three Indians are in the forest, close to the bottom of this tree,” was the answer. “Don’t make a sound or we’ll be discovered—if we haven’t been spotted already.”

CHAPTER III
A DISMAYING DISCOVERY

The announcement that Joe Winship made filled Harry Parsons with renewed fear. The three Indians in the forest below them must surely be on their trail, and for no good purpose.

In a low whisper Harry related what he had seen, and Joe agreed that they were Indian signals.

“More than likely they are surrounding the camp,” whispered Joe. “And as you didn’t see the camp-fire likely the folks are on guard. They are not going to make a light for the redskins to shoot by.”

This was all that was said for a long time. Joe passed up his companion’s gun and both sat in readiness to defend their lives at any instant it might become necessary to do so.

Presently the low murmur of voices came to their ears from the very root of the tree in which they were in hiding. Two Indians had met there and were discussing the situation.

“What are they saying?” whispered Harry, for he knew that Joe had learned considerable of the Indian tongue, both from some friendly red men and from his father.

“I can’t hear clearly,” replied Joe. “I might go down a little further.”

“Don’t do it—it isn’t safe,” was his companion’s warning.

But Joe was curious, and as the murmur of voices continued, he noiselessly lowered himself until he was halfway down to the roots of the monarch of the forest.

Leaning over a limb, he strained his ears to catch what was said. The dialect of the red men was somewhat new to him, yet he caught the words “camp of the palefaces,” “Long Knife has commanded it,” and a little later “his scalp shall be mine.”

It was a good half-hour before the Indians moved away, having been joined by three others. All were in warpaint, as Joe could see by a smoky torch which one of the number carried. Luckily the Indians had tramped around the bottom of the tree so much that the trail of the two youths was completely obliterated.

When Joe returned to where he had left Harry, the pair discussed the situation in an earnest whisper.

“The whole thing is clear in my mind,” said Joe. “Long Knife has ordered a raid on our camp, and one of the redskins has a particular grudge against one of our crowd and is going in to get his scalp. The question is: what are we to do?”

“What can we do, Joe?”

“I don’t know what we can do, Harry, but I know what we ought to try to do.”

“Get back to camp and warn everybody?”

“Yes. Of course I think they are on guard already, but we are not sure of it. And if the redskins fall on them by surprise they’ll kill all of the men folks, and kill the women and children too, or carry them off.”

“Then let us try to get back to camp, no matter how perilous it is.”

“I’m willing.”

It was not long after this that they were on the lowest branch of the tree. They strained eyes and ears for some sign of the Indians, but none appeared. Joe was the first to drop to the ground, and Harry speedily followed.

From the top of the tree they had “located themselves” with care, and now they struck out in the darkness directly for the camp.

“We are taking our lives in our hands,” was the way in which Joe expressed himself. “But it cannot be helped. I don’t want to see the others suffer if we can do anything that will save them.”

“Right you are, Joe,” was his companion’s reply.

Fortunately for the boys there was but little undergrowth in that portion of the great forest, and the ground was comparatively level. The trees, five to fifteen feet apart, grew up tall and as straight as so many arrows. Some had stood there for many, many years, and it did not seem possible that these veterans were later on to fall beneath the stroke of the woodman’s ax, to make way for the farmer and his crops.

But if brushwood was wanting, exposed roots were not, and more than once one boy or the other would go sprawling in the darkness.

“By George, what a fall!” panted Harry, after a tumble that had laid him flat on his breast. “It—it knocked the wind right out of me.”

“Be glad it didn’t knock out your teeth,” answered Joe, as he assisted him to his feet. “It is dark here for certain.”

“How far do you suppose we have still to go?”

“Not less than half a mile.”

A moment after this a distant shot rang out, followed by several others in quick succession.

Then came a muffled yell, which gradually became louder.

“The attack on the camp has begun!” ejaculated Joe. “Oh, Harry, we are too late!”

“You are right. More than likely the camp is surrounded.”

“Then we can’t get to the others even if we try!”

“Perhaps we can. Anyway I am not going to stay here when the others may be fighting for their lives. Think of your mother and mine, and of the girls.”

“Yes! yes!” Joe gave a groan which was echoed by his companion. “We must go on.”

And on they did go, running as fast as the trees and the darkness permitted. The land sloped slightly upward, but this they did not notice until Harry, who was slightly in advance, gave a cry of alarm. Then followed a crash of brushwood and a splash.

“Harry! Harry! what’s the matter?” asked Joe, and came to a halt.

No answer came back, and filled with added fear Joe crawled forward until he reached the brushwood. Then of a sudden he took a step backward. The brushwood was on the edge of a cliff and in front was a sheer descent of fully fifty feet.

“Harry went over that and most likely broke his neck,” was Joe’s first thought, and a shiver passed down his backbone. Then he remembered having heard a faint splash, and crawling forward on hands and knees, peered over the cliff into the darkness beneath.

At first he could see nothing. But then came a faint twinkling of stars as they were reflected in the surface of the water, and he knew that a pond or a stream lay at the bottom of the cliff.

“Harry! Harry!” he called out, first in an ordinary tone and then louder and louder. For the moment his own peril was forgotten in his alarm over the disappearance of his chum.

No answering cry came back, and again Joe shivered. What if his companion was drowned?

“I must get down to the bottom of the cliff,” he told himself. “And the sooner the better. Harry may not yet be dead.”

With extreme caution the young pioneer moved along the edge of the cliff, not leaving one footing until he was sure of the next. By this means he discovered something of a break, and here let himself down, foot by foot. The route was rough, and more than once he scratched his face and hands, but just then he gave no attention to the hurts.

Luckily for Joe there was at the foot of the cliff a small stretch of rocks and sand less than a yard wide. Standing on this the youth surveyed the surface of the dark water before him with interest.

It was no pond to which he had descended, but a good-sized stream which flowed rapidly to the northward, being hedged in on one side by the cliff, and on the other by a rock-bound forest. The stream disappeared around a curve of the cliff.

A rapid search along the sandy shore under the cliff revealed nothing more than Harry’s rifle, which had caught in a bush just over the water’s edge. This gave Joe a clew to where his companion had fallen, and he searched eagerly in the water at that point.

“Not a sign,” he murmured after reaching into the stream as far as possible. Then he cut down a sapling with his hunting knife and stirred up the water with that, and with no better result.

“The river is flowing so swiftly it must have carried Harry’s body away,” he reasoned. “Perhaps I had better move around the curve of the cliff and make a search there.”

All this while Joe had heard distant firing and yelling, and now, as he straightened up, he saw a glow in the sky, as of a conflagration.

“Something is on fire,” he thought. “And it isn’t a plain camp-fire either. Oh, I trust to Heaven that the others are safe!”

Slowly and painfully he crawled along at the foot of the cliff until the bend was reached. Here a footing was uncertain, and more than once he slipped into the stream up to his ankles.

Around the bend the water swirled and foamed, on its way to a series of rough rocks. Here was another cliff and the stream appeared to disappear beneath this, much to Joe’s wonder.

“If it’s an underground river good-by to poor Harry,” he told himself.

Again he called out, not once, but a score of times, and the only answer he received was an echo from the rocks.

“Poor, poor Harry!” he murmured, and the tears of sorrow stood in his eyes. He loved his chum as though the two were brothers.

Joe knew not how to proceed. He wanted to find Harry, and he also wanted to learn how his folks and the others were faring at the camp.

While he was meditating he saw the flare of a torch on the opposite side of the stream. He had just time enough to drop behind an outstanding rock when three Indians came into view. Each carried a bundle, but what the loads contained Joe could not tell.

From a hiding place beneath the trees the Indians brought forth a large canoe and two paddles. They placed their loads into the craft, and then entered themselves.

“Can they be coming over here?” Joe asked himself.

The question was soon answered in the negative, for the Indians turned up the stream. It was a difficult matter to paddle against the strong current, but the red men were equal to the task, and soon the canoe disappeared in the darkness.

“I’ll wager all I am worth those were things stolen from our camp,” reasoned Joe.

He sat down at the water’s edge to listen and to think. All had become quiet in the distance, and the red glow in the sky was dying away.

“I must do something,” he cried, leaping up. “If I stay here I’ll go crazy. Perhaps mother and father and the others need me this very minute.”

As quickly as he could he made his way along the rocks to the point where the stream disappeared under the cliff. Then he worked his way around to where the Indians had launched their canoe.

“There must be some sort of a route from this point to our camp,” he told himself.

He was about to move onward through the forest when another torch came into view. Again he ran for shelter, and was not an instant too soon. Four red men were marching forward to the river, and between each pair was a captive, disarmed, and with his hands tied tightly behind him.

“Pep Frost!” murmured Joe, as he caught a good look at the first of the captives. It was indeed the pioneer the youth had mentioned. His garb was torn and dirty, and his face streaked with blood, showing that he had fought desperately.

The second captive was also dirty and bloodstained, and walked with a limp, as if wounded in the left leg. As he came closer Joe could scarcely suppress a cry of horror.

“Father!” he gasped, and he was right. The second captive was Ezra Winship.

CHAPTER IV
LOST UNDERGROUND

“Oh!”

That was the single cry which Harry uttered as he plunged over the edge of the cliff into the stream below.

As he went down his gun was torn from his grasp by the bushes, and an instant later he struck the stream with a splash and went down straight to the bottom.

The breath was knocked out of him by the fall, and when he came again to the surface he was more than half unconscious. He felt himself borne along by the current, and there followed a strange humming in his ears. Then his senses completely forsook him.

When Harry was once more able to reason he knew little outside of the fact that he had a severe headache, and that all was pitch-dark around him. He lay in a shallow pool with the swiftly flowing river within an arm’s length. Absolute darkness was on all sides of the youth.

For a long time he lay still, gasping for breath and putting his hand feebly to his forehead. Then he sat up and stared about in bewilderment.

“Joe!” he stammered. “Joe!”

Of course there was no answer, and then Harry slowly realized what had happened—his rapid run through the forest, his coming to the cliff, and his unexpected plunge into the river beneath.

“I’m still in the water,” he thought. “But where?”

This question he could not answer, nor could he explain to himself how it was that he had not been drowned. But with even so much of peril still around him he was thankful that his life had been spared.

Feeling cautiously around the pool, he soon learned which side sloped to the river, and which toward a sandy underground shore, and slowly and painfully he dragged himself up to the higher ground.

“I am not at the cliff, that is certain,” he mused, as he tried to gaze upward. “I can’t see a star.”

The conviction then forced itself upon him that he was underground, and this being so he quickly came to the conclusion that the flow of the river had carried him to this locality. But how far he was from the spot where he had taken the fall he could not imagine.

He was too weak to travel, or even to make an examination of his surroundings, and having moved around a distance of less than a rod along the bank of the underground stream he was glad enough to sink down again to rest.

As Harry sat there, his head still aching, his mind went back to Joe.

“I suppose he thinks I am dead,” was his dismal thought.

Slowly the time wore away and Harry sat in something of a doze, too weak to either move or speculate upon his condition, very much as one does who is recovering from a long spell of sickness.

Thus the night wore away and morning came to view outside, with clear warm sunshine and singing birds. But in the cavern the darkness remained as great as before.

At last Harry felt that he must do something for himself. He was beginning to grow hungry, and he knew that many hours had passed since he had taken the plunge into the stream.

“I must see if I can’t follow the river back to where it ran under the rocks,” was what he told himself. “That ought o bring me back to the cliff, and perhaps I’ll find Joe looking for me.”

With extreme caution he felt of the water, to find in what direction it was flowing, and then essayed to follow the stream up its course between the rocks and along the sandy beach.

It was a difficult task, and more than once he had to stop to get back his strength. At certain points he had to climb rocks which were sharp and slippery, and twice he fell into the stream and pulled himself out only with much labor.

And then came the bitterest moment of all, when he reached a point where the beach came to an end and found that the opening further up the stream was completely filled with water, which roared onward, dashing the spray in all directions. Here Harry could see a faint gleam of daylight, but only sufficient to show him how completely he was a prisoner.

“I can’t get through that,” he muttered. “If I try it I’ll surely be drowned.”

But if he could not get through what was he to do? To remain where he was would be to starve like a rat in a trap.

“Perhaps the stream leaves this cave at the other end,” he reasoned. “But that may be a long way from here.”

There was no help for it, and with slow and painful steps he retraced his way along the underground river bank, often falling over the rough rocks and stopping every few rods to rest and get back his breath. He was now hungrier than ever, and eagerly gnawed at a bit of birch wood which he happened to pick up out of the water as he moved along.

As Harry journeyed onward, he came to a sharp turn of the stream. Here the water appeared to divide into several parts, and two of these sunk out of sight amid the rough rocks on all sides. A small stream flowed to the left. From some point far overhead a faint light shone down, just sufficient to reveal the condition of affairs to the youth.

“What a cave!” murmured Harry to himself, and he was right. It was certainly a large opening, but nothing at all in comparison to the great Mammoth Cave of that territory, discovered some years later, and which covers many miles of ground. The roof was fully fifty feet above the young pioneer’s head, and the walls were three or four times that distance apart.

Having even a faint light made walking easier, and once again he went onward, following the single stream that remained in sight. Twice he heard a rush of birds over his head, which made him confident that the open air could not be far off. The cave turned and twisted in several directions, and at last he saw sunshine ahead and fairly ran to make certain that he had not been deceived.

When he was really out into the open air once more, Harry sat down on the grass, trembling in every limb. To him the time spent underground seemed an age. Never before had the sun and the blue vault of heaven appeared to him so beautiful.

But it was not long before the pangs of hunger again asserted themselves. He had already taken note of some berry bushes, and he hobbled to these and ate what he wanted of the fruit. They stilled the gnawing in his stomach, but did not satisfy him.

In his pocket the young pioneer had some fishing lines and several hooks, and also a box with flint and tinder. He laid the tinder out to dry on a warm rock, and then with the line went to fishing, after having turned up some worms from under a number of small stones.

His catch of fish amounted to little, but soon he had enough for a single meal, and then he made himself a tiny fire. He could hardly wait to cook the fish, and it must be confessed that he gulped them down when still half raw,—for Harry’s appetite had always been of the best, and in those days pioneers did not dare to be over-particular concerning their food.

By the position of the sun Harry judged that it was nearly noon. As the orb of day was almost directly overhead it was next to impossible for him to locate the points of the compass.

“If I felt stronger I would climb a tree and take a look around,” he told himself. But he was still so shaky he felt that there would be too much danger of falling.

A grassy bank close to where he had cooked the fish looked very inviting, and he threw himself upon it to rest—for just about ten minutes, so he told himself. But the ten minutes lengthened into twenty, and then into half an hour, and soon he was sleeping soundly, poor, worn-out Nature having at last claimed her own.

When Harry awoke he felt much refreshed, and his headache was entirely gone. He sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise, for the sun was setting over the forest in the west.

“I must have slept all afternoon,” he murmured ruefully. “Well, I reckon I needed it. But I should have been on my way before dark.”

He now felt more like climbing a tree, and was soon going up a tall walnut that stood on a slight hill near by.

From the top a grand panorama of the rolling hills of Kentucky was spread out before him—that captivating scene which had but a few years before so charmed Daniel Boone and other pioneers who had entered that territory. Here and there a stream glistened in the setting sun, and at one point Harry could see an open stretch of grass with a small herd of buffalo grazing peacefully, while at another point, evidently a salt-lick, several deer were making themselves at home. As Daniel Boone had said, it was truly the land of plenty.

But Harry’s mind was just then centered upon but two things—to find Joe and to get back as soon as possible to the camp,—provided anything was left of the latter, which was questionable. As he thought of the Indians he shook his head doubtfully.

“They won’t give up this land to us if they can help it,” he told himself. “They will fight for it to the bitter end. For all I know to the contrary, all of the others, including Joe, may be either dead or prisoners.”

From his position in the tree Harry tried to locate the camp which he had left the morning before, but all he could see was a smoldering fire far in the distance.

“That looks as if it might be where the camp was,” he reasoned.

Descending to the ground once more he determined to make his way in the direction of the smoldering fire. Before setting out he cut himself a stout club. He mourned the loss of his gun, and wondered what he should do if confronted by the Indians, or by some wild beast.

But the forest seemed deserted, and he passed a good quarter of a mile without meeting anything but a few rabbits and a fox, and these lost no time in getting away.

The sun was already out of sight behind some trees when he struck another brook, that upon which the fated camp had been located. Here he stopped for a drink, getting down on his hands and knees for that purpose.

Having satisfied his thirst, Harry was on the point of rising, when a noise behind him attracted his attention. He whirled around, to discover a big black bear moving on him with great deliberation.

“Hi! get back there!” he yelled and swung his stick at the beast. He did not mean to throw the object, but it slipped from his hand and, sailing through the air, struck bruin fairly and squarely on the nose.

At once the bear let out a snort of pain and then an added snort of rage. His den was in that vicinity, and, thinking the youth had come to invade it, he arose on his hind legs and came for Harry in a clumsy fashion.

There now remained but one thing for the young pioneer to do, and this he did without stopping to regain the club. He started off on a run up the brook.

The bear immediately dropped down on all fours and came after him. Although totally unconscious of it, Harry was running directly for the bear’s den. This enraged the beast still more, and he did what he could to close the gap between the boy and himself.

The bear was almost on top of Harry when the young pioneer came to a wide-spreading tree with low-hanging branches. One of the branches was within easy reach, and as quick as a flash the youth swung himself up, just as bruin made a leap for him. The bear caught him by the toe, but the boy’s foot-covering gave way and the beast fell back.

Harry lost no time in climbing higher up in the tree. Then he made his way to the trunk, and, hanging to one of the limbs, drew his hunting knife and waited for the bear to climb up.

CHAPTER V
THE ESCAPE OF THE CAPTIVES

For the moment after making the discovery that the two captives in the hands of the Indians, were his father and Pep Frost, the old pioneer, Joe Winship could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses.

“Father!” he repeated hoarsely. “Father and Pep Frost!”

The sound of his voice reached one of the Indians, and the red man gazed around sharply. But Joe was wise enough to drop out of sight behind some brushes, and the Indian continued to move on, doubtless thinking that it was merely the wind that had reached his ears.

The two captives were marched down to the river front, and here another canoe was brought to light, similar to that used by the three Indians who had gone off with the three bundles.

“Whar are ye a-going to take us?” Joe heard old Pep Frost ask.

For answer one of the Indians raised his palm and struck the pioneer across the mouth.

“No talk now,” he said laconically.

The two captives were forced into the canoe, one being placed at the bow and one at the stern. Then two of the Indians took up the paddles and started up the stream, in the direction pursued by the first canoe.

Joe watched the proceedings with interest, but when the canoe began to disappear from sight his heart sank within him.

“If I could only follow!” he thought.

But to run along the river bank and thus keep the craft in sight was out of the question. The Indians were experts at using the paddle, and the shore of the stream was, as we already know, rough and uncertain.

Suddenly the youth was seized with a new idea. If there had been two canoes secreted in the bushes why not perhaps a third?

“I’ll hunt around and see,” he muttered, and began the search at once.

In a tiny cove he found just what he wanted, a small canoe boasting of a single paddle. Without hesitation he leaped into it, took up the paddle, and pushed the craft out into the river.

Joe had spent many of his boyhood days on the rivers near his home and could row and paddle just as well as he could shoot and ride on horseback. If it had but a single paddle, the craft was correspondingly light, and by working with vigor he managed to keep the larger canoe within easy distance, although being careful to keep out of reach of the enemies he was following.

As he worked at the paddle his thoughts were busy. What did the capture of his father and Pep Frost mean? Was it possible that the fight at the camp had ended in a general massacre of the others? Such a dire happening was not an impossibility. He remembered that only the summer before the Indians had fallen upon one Jack Flockley and his companions, six in number, and murdered all but one young girl, who had been carried off into captivity.

“I must save them if I possibly can,” he reasoned. “I’ve got my hunting knife and my gun, as well as this gun of Harry’s. They will all come in handy if I can but cut their bonds.”

Fortunately for Joe the Indians kept their torch burning, as a signal for those who had gone on ahead. Two turns of the stream were passed when they came in sight of another torch, waving to and fro on the left bank of the river. At once the canoe turned in that direction, and presently a landing was made at a point where those in the first canoe had gone ashore.

By the light of the two torches Joe saw all of the Indians assembled, with their captives and their bundles between them. He allowed his own little canoe to drift past the landing and then came ashore in the midst of some brushwood overhanging the stream.

By making a détour the young pioneer presently came to the rear of the enemy. He found that they were going into something of a camp and that they had already tied the two captives to separate trees some eight or ten feet apart. Between the two trees squatted a young warrior, placed on guard over the whites.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Joe crept closer and closer until he was less than five yards away from where his father stood, hands and feet fastened to the tree by means of a stout grass rope. For the present he did not dare go closer, but, lying full length in the grass, watched the Indians as a hawk watches a brood of chickens.

The red men were much interested in the contents of the bundles brought hither in the first canoe. Torches were stuck up in convenient places and the bundles were unrolled, revealing to Joe many of the smaller articles which the pioneers had been bringing westward on their pack horses. There was a dress belonging to his mother, a pair of slippers belonging to his sister Harmony, and a razor that he knew belonged to his father. The sight of the razor tickled the fancy of one of the Indians, and flourishing it in the air he approached Pep Frost and made a motion as if to cut the throat of the old pioneer.

“Oh, I reckon ye air ekel to it,” snorted Pep Frost. “You are a cowardly, miserable lot at the best!”

There was a small mirror in one of the bundles, and this pleased the red men more than did any other object. Running up to a torch, one after another would gaze into the mirror with expressions of wonder and admiration. Even the young warrior on guard wanted to look into the glass.

For the moment the prisoners were forgotten and, struck with a sudden determination, Joe crawled close up behind his father and cut the grass rope that bound the parent. Then he placed one of the guns into Mr. Winship’s hand.

“It is I, Joe,” whispered the boy. “Wait till I free Pep Frost.”

“Be quick, and be careful,” returned the astonished man in an equally low tone. And he added: “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

No more was said, and crawling backward Joe made his way to the tree to which Pep Frost was fastened. Two slashes of the knife and the old pioneer was also liberated, and Joe provided him with the second musket.

“Cut tudder man loose,” whispered Frost, as he fingered the gun nervously.

“He is free,” answered Joe.

So far the captives had not moved from their positions against the trees, and as the young warrior looked at them he imagined each as secure as ever. The Indians in general continued to look over the contents of the bundles until a light on the river caused a fresh interruption.

A third canoe was approaching filled with Indians and with at least two captives. The latter were evidently females, and one, a girl of twelve or fifteen, was crying piteously.

“Let me go! Please let me go!” she begged. “Oh, where are you taking me?”

“Better be quiet, Harmony,” said the woman in the canoe. “It will do thee no good to weep.”

“Harmony!” groaned Joe. “Harmony and Mrs. Parsons! Where can sister Cora be, and Harry’s sister Clara?”

All of the Indians had turned to the river front, and now Pep Frost made a motion to Ezra Winship. The pioneer understood, and, like a flash, both turned and fled into the forest, calling softly to Joe to follow.

Before the Indians discovered their loss the former captives were a good hundred yards away. They kept close together and Joe was by his father’s side. Presently a mad yell rent the air.

“They’ve found out the trick,” came from Pep Frost. “But I reckon as how we’ve got the best o’ ’em, Joey—and thanks to your slickness.”

“Did you see those in the canoe?” queried the youth. “Mrs. Parsons and Harmony!”

“Harmony!” ejaculated Mr. Winship, and stopped short. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, father; Mrs. Parsons called her by name.”

“Then I had best go back——”

“No, no!” put in Pep Frost. “It would be worse nor suicide, friend Winship.”

“But my daughter—the redskins will——”

“I know, I know! But we must bide our time,” interrupted Pep Frost again. “Remember, there were seven redskins on shore and at least four more on the river. We can’t fight no sech band as thet.”

They had reached a small brook, and along this Pep Frost forced the father and son, more than half against their will. Yet both realized that the old pioneer was right—that to fight eleven of the foe under present circumstances would be out of the question.

The Indians were already on the trail and the whites could hear them rushing along the tracks left in the forest. At the brook they came to a halt and then the force divided, some going up the stream and some down.

“I—I can’t walk much further,” came presently from Ezra Winship.

“By gum! I forgot about that wound in your leg,” exclaimed Pep Frost; “but we air a-comin’ to some rocks now an’ more’n likely they’ll afford us some kind o’ a hidin’-place.”

The old pioneer was right, and leaving the brook they crawled up a series of rough rocks and then into a hollow thick with brushwood. Here they felt comparatively safe, and Ezra Winship sank down exhausted, unable to take another step.

While Pep Frost remained on guard to give the alarm should any of the Indians appear in the vicinity, Mr. Winship gave Joe some of the particulars of the attack on the camp of the pioneers.

“We were caught at something of a disadvantage,” said he. “The horses were giving us a good deal of trouble because one of them stepped into a nest of hornets. While the men were trying to calm the beasts the Indians rushed at us without warning.”

“Was anybody killed?”

“Yes; at the first volley Jim Vedder was laid low and Jerry Dillsworth received a wound from which he cannot possibly recover. The Freemans’ baby was also struck in the shoulder while her mother was holding her in her arms. Those who weren’t struck ran for their guns, and we fought the redskins for fully quarter of an hour. But at last the tide of battle went against us, and I was laid low with an arrow wound in the thigh. I went down and a horse came down on top of me, and that was all I knew for about half an hour, when I found myself a prisoner and tied to a tree in the dark.”

“And mother and the girls——”

“I didn’t see anything more of them,” answered Ezra Winship sadly. “I know your mother was hit in the arm by a tomahawk, but I don’t believe the wound was very bad. The last I saw of Pep Frost he was fighting to save Clara Parsons from being carried away. But a blow from a club one of the redskins carried stretched him flat, and when I saw him again he was a prisoner like myself.”

“And what of all of the others, father?”

“I can’t say anything about them for certain, but I imagine about half of them escaped under cover of the darkness, and Pep Frost thinks that at least two men and two women got away on horseback. Besides that, Frank Ludgate was off on a hunt when the attack began, so that it is very likely he escaped too,” concluded Ezra Winship.

CHAPTER VI
HARRY AND THE BEAR

Hunting knife in hand, Harry waited for the black bear to mount the tree after him. He knew that if the beast came up he would have the bear at a disadvantage, and he hoped that one good stroke of the long blade would finish the fight.

But the bear did not come up. Instead he halted at the trunk, put his forepaws on the bark, and gazed thoughtfully upward. Then he dropped on his haunches, let out a growl of anger, and sat where he was.

“Don’t want to fight, eh?” mused Harry. “All right, but I hope you won’t stay where you are too long.”

For a while the bear kept his eyes fixed on Harry, as though expecting an attack. But as this did not come bruin lay down at the foot of the tree, resting his head on his forepaws.

This was certainly provoking, for it now looked as if the beast meant to keep the young pioneer a prisoner in the tree.

“Perhaps he thinks he can starve me out,” thought Harry. “Well, I reckon he can, if he keeps me up here long enough. But I don’t mean to stay—not if I can help myself.”

With the hunting knife Harry cut a small limb from the tree and dropped it down on the bear. With a snarl bruin snapped at the limb and buried his teeth into it. Then he leaped up and began to come up the tree in a clumsy fashion.

Harry’s heart thumped madly, for he knew that a perilous moment was at hand. Grasping the hunting knife firmly he leaned far down to meet the oncoming animal.

Bruin was suspicious and evidently did not like the looks of that gleaming blade. When still a yard out of reach he halted in a crotch and snarled viciously. Then he came closer inch by inch.

Leaning still further down Harry made a lunge at the bear. Like a flash up came a forepaw to ward off the blow. Paw and blade met and the bear dropped back a little with the blood dripping from his toes.

But the animal was not yet beaten, and soon he came forward once more, uttering a suppressed snarl and showing his gleaming teeth. He kept his body low down as though meditating a spring.

It came and Harry met it with the point of the hunting knife, which sank deeply into the bear’s right eye. This was a telling blow and the beast let a loud cry of pain. Then the bear dropped back, limb by limb, to the ground.

“That was a lucky stroke,” thought the youth, and he was right. He listened intently and soon heard the bear crashing through the forest and then climbing some rocks leading to his den. With the sight of one eye gone all the fight had been knocked out of him.

Not to be taken unawares, Harry descended to the ground cautiously. But the coast was now clear, and drops of blood on the grass and rocks told plainly in what direction the beast had retreated. Not wishing for another encounter without a gun, the young pioneer moved away in the opposite direction.

“Harry!”

The cry came from the rocks close at hand and made the young pioneer leap in amazement. Looking in the direction he saw Joe standing there, backed up by Mr. Winship and Pep Frost.

“Joe!” he ejaculated, and ran toward his chum.

“Oh, how glad I am to know that you escaped!” exclaimed Joe when they were together. “I thought you were drowned surely.”

“I had a narrow escape,” was the answer. “But where have you been, and what brings your father and Pep Frost here?”

In the next few minutes each youth told his story, to which the other listened with interest.

“You were lucky to escape from that cave,” said Mr. Winship to Harry. “I have heard of such places before but have never seen one.”

From Joe, Harry learned that his chum and the others had been in hiding among the rocks and trees all night and a part of the forenoon, not being able to leave the vicinity because of Mr. Winship’s wounded leg. The Indians had scouted around for them for hours, but without locating them, and they had slipped away to the present location less than half an hour before.

“I must say I am mighty hungry,” said Pep Frost. “An’ if ye don’t mind I’ll follow up thet air b’ar Harry wounded an’ finish him an’ git the meat.”

The others did not object, and the old pioneer was soon on the trail of blood-spots.

“So my mother is in the hands of the Indians,” said Harry, when this news was at last broken to him. “Oh, Mr. Winship, this is terrible! And your daughter Harmony, too! What shall we do?”

“I am going on the trail of the redskins as soon as my wound will permit, Harry.”

“And I am going along,” put in Joe.

“Then I shall go too. I wish we had two more guns.”

In less than an hour Pep Frost came back, bringing with him quite a large chunk of bear meat.

“Had a putty good fight with thet b’ar,” he said. “But the knocked-out eye bothered him a good bit. I knocked out tudder with the gun an’ then the rest was easy.”

In a deep hollow among the rocks a fire was kindled and here they broiled as much of the meat as they cared to eat. This meal was welcome to all and after it was over even Mr. Winship declared that he felt like a new person.

The want of weapons was a serious one, and Pep Frost declared that it was no use going after the Indians unless the two boys were armed with something. He cut for each a strong stick and fashioned it into a bow, and then cut a dozen or more arrows.

“Now try them,” he declared, and when they did so, and found the arrows went fairly straight and with good force, he was delighted.

“’Taint so good as a gun or a pistol,” he said, “but it’s a heap sight better’n nuthin’.”

As some of the Indians had been wounded and killed in the fight, the old pioneer declared that the red men would most likely remain in that vicinity for a week or perhaps even for a month.

“They know well enough that there aint nobuddy to come to our aid,” he said. “So they’ll hang around down by the river an’ give the wounded warriors a chance to patch up thar hurts.”

“And what will they do with their prisoners?” questioned Harry.

“Keep ’em with ’em, more’n likely, lad.”

“Can’t we rescue them in the dark?” asked Joe.

“Jest what I calkerlated we might try to do. But we must be keerful, or else we’ll be killed, an’ nobuddy saved nuther.”

It was late that evening when they started back for the river, Pep Frost leading the way, slowly and cautiously, with Harry’s gun still in hand, ready to be used on an instant’s notice.

The boys had been taught the value of silence, and the whole party proceeded in Indian file, speaking only when it was necessary, and then in nothing above a whisper.

It soon became evident that the clear night of the day before was not to be duplicated. There was a strong breeze blowing, and heavy clouds soon rolled up from the westward.

“A storm is coming,” whispered Joe to his father.

“I won’t mind that,” answered the parent. “It may make the work we have cut out for ourselves easier.”

Soon came the patter of rain, at first scatteringly, and then in a steady downpour. Under the trees of the forest it remained dry for a time, but at last the downpour reached them and they were soon wet to the skin.

“This isn’t pleasant, is it?” whispered Harry to Joe. “But if only it helps us in our plan I shan’t care.”

Before the river was gained they had to cross an open space. As they advanced Pep Frost called a sudden halt and dropped in the long grass, and the others followed suit.

Hardly were our friends flat than several Indians came in that direction, each carrying a bundle, the same that had been opened and inspected the night before. They passed within fifty feet of the whites, but without discovering their presence.

“That was a close shave,” whispered Joe when the last of the red men had finally disappeared in the vicinity of some rocks to the northward.

“Reckon they are striking out for some sort o’ shelter,” said Pep Frost. “I’m mighty glad on it, too,” he added thoughtfully.

“Why?” asked Harry.

“Thar was three o’ ’em, lad, an’ thet means three less down by the river a-guardin’ the prisoners.”

“To be sure,” cried the young pioneer. “I wish some more would come this way.”

The storm was now on them in all of its fury. There was no thunder or lightning, but the rain came down in sheets, and they were glad enough when the shelter of the forest was gained once more. They were now close to the river, and in a few minutes reached the spot where Joe had landed in the borrowed canoe. The craft still lay hidden where the young pioneer had left it.

“The canoe may come in very useful, should we wish to escape in a hurry,” said Ezra Winship.

While the others remained at the water’s edge, Pep Frost went forward once again on the scout. Joe begged to be taken along, but the old pioneer demurred.

“No use on it, lad, an’, besides, it’s risky. Sence you helped us to git away them Injuns is sure to be on stricter guard nor ever.”

Left to themselves, the others decided to float the canoe and hold it in readiness for use. This was an easy matter, and Joe remained in the craft, paddle in hand, while Harry and Mr. Winship stood on the river bank on guard.

Thus nearly half an hour went by. The rain came down as steadily as ever, and the sky was now inky black.

“It’s time Pep Frost was back,” said Ezra Winship at last. “I hope nothing has happened to him.”

A few minutes later they heard a murmur of voices in the Indian camp, and then a scream which, however, was quickly suppressed.

“I cannot stand the suspense,” declared Mr. Winship. “Boys, watch out until I get back,” and without further words he followed in the trail Pep Frost had taken.

The scream had excited Joe as well as his father, for he felt that it was his sister Harmony who had uttered the cry.

“I’m going to push the canoe out to the edge of the brushwood,” he whispered to Harry. “I think I can see the Indian camp from that point, if they have any torches lit.”

Noiselessly he shoved the light craft forward until the edge of the bushes was reached. He peered forward cautiously, and then went out a little further. Only the fierce rain greeted him, and the silent river seemed deserted.

At last he caught sight of the flare of a torch, spluttering fitfully in the rain and the wind. It was a good hundred yards away, and he made out the forms of several Indians with difficulty. Then he discovered another torch on the river and saw that it was fastened at the bow of a canoe which had just been set in motion.

“Save me!” came suddenly to his ears. “Oh, save me, Mrs. Parsons. Do not let this horrid Indian carry me away from you!”

“Harmony!” burst from Joe’s lips.

He was right, his sister was in the canoe, held there by the hand of a tall and fierce-looking warrior. With the other hand the red man was using his paddle to force the craft up the stream. As the canoe came closer Joe recognized the warrior. It was Long Knife, the savage chief who had led the attack on the pioneers’ camp.

CHAPTER VII
WHAT HAPPENED IN THE RAIN

It filled Joe’s heart with a nameless dread to see his sister being thus carried off by an Indian he knew was as cruel as he was bloodthirsty.

“I must save her,” was his thought. “I must save her, no matter what the cost!”

In haste he shoved his canoe back to the bank and called softly to Harry.

“What do you want, Joe?” asked his chum, in an equally low tone of voice.

In a few hurried words the situation was explained. “Tell father I have gone after the pair,” Joe added.

Without more conversation, Joe started his canoe forward again, and was soon on the river and in pursuit of the other canoe, which was now a hundred yards or more ahead.

By the aid of the torch in the bow he kept Long Knife’s craft in view with ease, while his own canoe was invisible to the red man on account of the rain and the darkness.

As he crept closer Joe could hear his sister begging piteously of the Indian to let her go back to Mrs. Parsons.

“Please, please, let me go back!” cried Harmony. “Oh, have you no heart?”

“White maiden be quiet,” growled Long Knife. “Can talk much after she is in Long Knife’s wigwam.”

“I do not want to go to your wigwam,” moaned the girl. “I want to go back to the lady I was with.”

“Bah! the old Quaker woman does not count,” was Long Knife’s comment. “She is not as good as the squaw that shall take care of the white maiden.”

“I don’t want any squaw to take care of me,” answered Harmony, and then fell to weeping silently.

So far Joe had formed no plan of rescue. Long Knife had dropped his hold of the girl and was now paddling vigorously with both hands, and it was all the young pioneer could do to keep him in sight.

When about half a mile of the river had been covered, they came to a spot where there was something of a lake. Here Long Knife paddled with less speed and Joe came closer rapidly.

In the canoe the youth had the bow and arrows made for him by Pep Frost, and also a stout club he had cut for himself.

“I wish I had a gun instead of the bow,” he thought. “I’d soon knock him over as he deserves.”

Picking up the bow and an arrow Joe adjusted the latter with care. Harmony had sunk to the bottom of the canoe, while Long Knife stood upright, trying, by the flare of the torch, to find a suitable landing.

The canoes were now not over a hundred feet apart. With a strong use of the paddle the young pioneer sent his craft thirty or forty feet closer. Then he leaped to the bow and aimed the arrow with all the accuracy at his command.

Whiz! the arrow shot forth, and had the object at which it was aimed not moved at that instant Long Knife would have received the shaft straight under the shoulder blade. But just then the canoe bumped on a part of the bank that was under water, and the Indian pitched slightly forward, which caused the shaft to graze his shoulder and his neck.

“What is the white maiden doing?” he cried in his native tongue, as he grasped the bow of the canoe to keep from going overboard.

Harmony did not answer, for she did not understand the question. But she saw the arrow before it caught the eye of the Indian, and turning to see who fired it, discovered her brother and set up a cry of joy.

“Oh, Joe! Joe! Save me!”

“I will if I can,” he answered, and reached for another arrow.

By this time Long Knife had recovered and was peering forth into the gloom to learn from what point the attack was coming, and how many of the whites were at hand.

It must be admitted that Joe was excited, and his hand trembled somewhat as he adjusted the second arrow and let it fly without stopping to take a careful aim.

But the hand of Providence was in that shot, and Long Knife was taken fairly and squarely in the breast.

The wound was not a mortal one, but it was enough to take all the fight out of the Indian. With a groan of pain he fell in the bow of the canoe. Then, fearing another shot, or perhaps a blow from a hunting knife, he slipped overboard, staggered ashore, and disappeared in the total darkness of the forest.

“Oh, Joe!” These were the only words that Harmony could utter, but as the two canoes glided together, she arose and threw her arms around her brother’s neck.

Just then the brother uttered no reply to this warm greeting. He had seen Long Knife disappear into the forest, and he did not know but that the Indian might return to the attack almost immediately.

Two steps took him to the bow of the other canoe, and with a handful of water he dashed out the light of the torch. Then he seized the paddle and began to work the craft out into midstream, shoving the other canoe along at the same time.

But Long Knife was in no condition to attack anybody, and soon the dim outline of the shore faded from view. Then Joe tied the smaller craft fast to the larger, and transferred his bow and arrows and club to the latter. He bent over his sister, and in the midst of the wind and the rain he kissed her.

“It was a close shave, Harmony,” he said. His heart was too full to say more.

“Oh, Joe!” She clung to him tightly. “Was it not terrible? Supposing he had carried me off, miles and miles away?”

“Don’t make too much noise, Harmony—there may be redskins all along this river bank.”

“Do you know anything of father and mother?”

“I was with father when I discovered you in the canoe with Long Knife. He and Pep Brown and Harry Parsons were all with me, and we were getting ready to do what we could to rescue you and Mrs. Parsons. I don’t know anything about mother.”

“She was carried off by two of the Indians—Mrs. Parsons saw it done.”

“It’s queer the redskins separated.”

“The attack was made by two tribes, one under Long Knife, and the other under an Indian called Red Feather, a horrible-looking savage with a broken nose.”

“I haven’t seen anything of that savage. But now we had best keep quiet, Harmony, for we are getting close to the Indian camp again.”

Joe was right. Caught by the current of the river the two canoes were drifting down the stream rapidly. The rain still descended steadily although not as heavily as before.

So far no sound had reached them from the vicinity of the camp where Mrs. Parsons was still held a captive, but now a distant shout could be heard, followed by a war-whoop, and then two gun shots.

“Some sort of an attack is on!” cried the boy. “I trust our side wins out.”

“Oh, so do I, Joe. Did you say father and Mr. Frost had guns?”

“Yes, and they most likely fired those two shots. Hark to the war-whoops! The redskins are making it lively. I’d like to know if Harry is in that mix-up.”

Joe turned the canoes toward the river bank, and after a careful survey of the locality discovered the spot where he had left his chum.

“Harry!” he called softly. “Harry!”

No answer came back, and with caution he shoved the leading canoe through the brushwood toward the bank.

“Keep quiet, Harmony, while I try to find out how the fight is going,” he said, and leaped ashore, hunting knife in hand.

“Oh, Joe, don’t leave me,” she pleaded, but he was already gone.

It was an easy matter to crawl to the vicinity of the Indian camp from where the canoes lay hidden. The whooping and the shots had ended as suddenly as they had begun.

Suddenly Joe stumbled over the dead body of an Indian, still warm, and with blood flowing from a wound in the breast. The discovery was a shock to the young pioneer, and he felt a great desire to jump up and fly from the scene.

Hardly had he made this discovery than he ran across Harry, leaning against a tree, gasping for breath.

“Harry,” he cried, and caught his chum just as he was about to fall in a heap. “Where are you hit?”

“Some—somebody struck me in the—the stomach with a—a—club,” was the gasped-out reply. “Oh!” And then Harry sank like a lump of lead.

Without stopping to think twice Joe picked up the form of his chum and started for the canoes once more. It was a heavy load, but the excitement of the moment gave the youth added strength.

“Who is there?” called Harmony, through the rain.

“I’ve got Harry, Harmony. He has been hit with a club.”

“And father and Mr. Frost?”

“I don’t know where they are.”

But scarcely had the young pioneer spoken when there came a rush of footsteps, and Pep Frost appeared on the scene, closely followed by Ezra Winship, who carried the unconscious form of Mrs. Parsons.

“Father!” burst from the girl’s lips.

“My daughter!” ejaculated the astonished parent. “How did you get here? I thought that Long Knife had carried you off in a canoe.”

“So he did, but Joe came after me and brought me back, after knocking Long Knife over with two arrows.”

“Got two canoes, eh?” came from Pep Frost. “By gum, but they air jest wot we need. In ye go, all of ye, an’ quick!”

But little more was said. All leaped into the canoes, taking the unconscious woman and boy with them. Then they shoved off into the river.

They were not a moment too soon, for as the darkness swallowed them up they heard the Indians in the brushwood, running forward and backward along the bank, and calling guardedly to each other. They did not imagine that the whites had the boats, and supposed they must be in hiding, most likely half in and half out of the water.

Not knowing what else to do the whites headed the two canoes up the stream for a short distance and then landed on the opposite shore, at a point where some walls of rock seemed to promise a little shelter from the driving rain.

As they went ashore Mrs. Parsons recovered her senses, for she had merely fainted from the excitement.

“What has happened to me?” she asked faintly.

“Don’t worry, you are now safe, Mistress Parsons,” answered Ezra Winship.

“Providence be praised for it!” responded the Quakeress piously. Then her gaze fell upon her son and she uttered a slight shriek. “Harry! Oh, tell me not that he is killed!”

“No, he isn’t dead,” answered Joe. And shortly after that Harry sat up, declaring that he was all right excepting that his stomach felt very sore.

“We knocked over three o’ the redskins,” said Pep Frost. “Then the rest dug fer the woods an’ we rushed in and freed Mrs. Parsons. But it was a lively fight, and I don’t know as we air out o’ it yet,” he added significantly.

CHAPTER VIII
DAYS OF PERIL

Although Pep Frost was as tired out as anybody in the party, yet the old pioneer did not rest until he had found a cave-like opening under some of the largest of the rocks in that vicinity.

To this spot all of the party retired, and here found shelter from the rain and wind, and here they remained until morning.

By that time the storm had passed away and the sun came out as brightly as ever. Joe and his father managed to find a little dry wood and with this a fire was kindled, all being careful to keep the smoke from ascending in a solid cloud. By the fire the remainder of the bear meat was cooked, and all partook of their share and washed down the meal with a drink from a nearby spring.

How to turn next was the all-important question, and nobody had a very definite answer.

“O’ course we can push on westward fer Fort Boone,” said Pep Frost. “But I aint allowin’ as how ye want to do thet.”

“Thee art right, friend Frost,” answered Mrs. Parsons. “I would first learn what has become of my daughter Clara, and I doubt not but what Friend Winship would like to learn what has become of his good wife, Mistress Winship, and his daughter Cora.”

“That is true,” answered Ezra Winship. “If they are dead I want to know it, and if they have been carried off I feel that I must do all I can to rescue them.”

“Yes, yes, we must learn the truth,” cried Harmony, while Joe nodded his head to show that he agreed.

A discussion followed that lasted fully an hour, and then it was decided that Mr. Winship and Pep Frost should go off on a scout, leaving Joe and Harry to watch over Mrs. Parsons and Harmony.

“We may not be back in two or three days,” said Ezra Winship. “For we will not only try to learn what has become of all the other members of the company that was with us before the attack, but also try to find some of the things that belong to us.”

“Never mind the things, father,” said Joe. “Just find mother and Cora and I’ll be content.”

“And I say to thee, find Clara and I will be content, Friend Winship,” added Mrs. Parsons.

In the canoe that Long Knife had occupied was a small bag containing Indian meal, and another containing pease, and a strip of jerked beef, so that those left behind would not starve during the absence of the men. The men themselves took nothing but the guns and horns of powder, ball and shot, with a tinder box, declaring that they would hunt down whatever they needed.

“Do not show yourselves on the river,” were Ezra Winship’s last words of caution. “Those redskins are still over there, and they may remain there for days, trying to locate us.”

After the two men had left, the spot seemed lonelier than ever. To occupy her time Mrs. Parsons soaked some of the pease in a hollow of water, and then set them to baking on a flat stone, rimmed with dried clay. On another flat stone she mixed some of the Indian meal into a dough which afterwards turned out into fairly good corn cakes. While this was going on Harry set to work fishing in a pool under the brushwood bordering the river, and caught several fish of fair size.

“To be sure, ’tis not eating fit for a king,” declared Mrs. Parsons, “but for such as ’tis, let us all be truly thankful.” And they were thankful.

While the others were thus occupied, with Harmony doing what she could to help the Quakeress, Joe took his way to the top of the rocks. Here grew a tree of good size, and this he easily climbed to the top.

The view he obtained from this elevation was a disappointment to him. As far as eye could reach stretched the hills and valleys, with here and there a stream of water and a tiny lake. Across the river directly in front of him he could see the late Indian camp, now deserted, and this was the only sign of life anywhere.

“Not even a deer, much less a white man or an Indian,” he murmured. “But then I suppose the redskins are keeping out of sight the same as ourselves.”

He looked long and earnestly in the direction his father and Pep Frost had taken, but neither of them appeared, and at last he descended and rejoined the others.

The day passed quietly until about four o’clock in the afternoon, when Harry, returning from another fishing expedition, a little further down the river, announced that two canoes were in sight, each containing at least half a dozen Indians.

“Oh, I hope they don’t attempt to land here!” cried Harmony, in dismay.

“We’ll put out the fire and hide,” said Joe, and this was done, Mrs. Parsons and the girl secreting themselves in a nearby split in the rocks, and Harry and Joe taking themselves close to the water’s edge where they might watch the progress of the canoes.

The canoes were large affairs, and as they came closer the two young pioneers saw that they contained other persons besides the Indians. There was a heap of goods in the center of each canoe, and likewise several captives.

“Clara is in the front canoe,” whispered Harry excitedly.

“And Cora is in the other,” announced Joe a moment later.

The other captives were men and women who had belonged to the unfortunate expedition. All had their hands tied behind them, and not a few were suffering from wounds made by arrows and tomahawks.

“Those Indians must belong to the tribe under Red Feather,” whispered Harry, and he was right, as it later on proved.

The boys were itching to do something for their captive sisters and the others of their friends, but such a move was, just then, out of the question. Their only weapons were their bows and arrows, and the canoes hugged the opposite shore, too far to be reached with any degree of accuracy.

“I am going to follow those canoes as far as I can,” declared Joe, and ran along the river bank behind the brushwood. But soon the rocks and a curve of the watercourse cut him off, and a little later the two canoes passed from sight.

When the craft were gone the two youths went back to where the others had been left. Both Mrs. Parsons and Harmony were, of course, surprised to learn that they had seen Cora and Clara.

“Where will they take them?” cried Harmony, wringing her hands, while the tears stood in the Quakeress’ eyes.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if there was an Indian village somewhere up this stream,” said Joe. “If you’ll remember, Long Knife spoke about taking Harmony to his wigwam.”

“Father said he had heard of an Indian village up there,” answered Harry. “Daniel Boone told him of it. Boone was at the village once, when the redskins were off on a hunt.”

“I wish Daniel Boone was here now,” answered Joe. “He knows how to fight Indians, if anybody does.”

“He may be in this vicinity for all we know,” put in Harmony. “He doesn’t stay at Fort Boone all the time.”

Harmony was very anxious to know if her mother had been in either of the canoes, but neither Joe nor Harry could answer that query.

“There were some folks we couldn’t see on account of the distance and the goods piled up in the canoes,” said Joe. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was there.”

Night came on quickly and they remained in the dark, not caring to light another camp-fire.

Harry climbed a tree to see if he could detect any fire in that vicinity.

“Not even a torch,” he declared on coming below. “Everybody on both sides is keeping shady.”

“Those Indians that went by didn’t keep very shady, Harry.”

“That is true, Joe,—which proves that they didn’t belong to the party that we have been fighting. It’s more than likely they have met some of the others since passing here, and now they are on guard like ourselves.”

It was decided that the boys should take turns at picket duty, as Harry called it, for it was not deemed wise for all to sleep at once.

The two boys drew straws as to which should keep awake the first half of the night, and it fell to Harry’s lot. Worn out, Joe turned in immediately, if not to sleep at least to rest, and Mrs. Parsons and Harmony soon followed his example. But, though their minds were in sore distress, abused Nature soon claimed her own, and all slept the sleep of the exhausted.

To keep his own eyes open Harry moved around, up and down the rocks, and then along a stretch of the river bank which was comparatively free from brushwood and trees.

It was a lonely vigil, and more than once the youth’s eyes closed in spite of himself. To keep himself awake he decided to bathe his head and arms.

He was engaged in this agreeable occupation when something floating on the surface of the river attracted his attention. At first he could not distinguish what it was, but at last made it out to be a small tree, or large tree branch. On the top rested a dark object that looked like the huddled form of a man.

“Hullo, here is something new!” he thought. “If that is a man is it a white person or an Indian?”

As the object came nearer he strained his eyes to see more clearly. As he did this, the man on the driftwood raised himself slightly and gave a moan.

“A white man, and he is likely wounded,” said the young pioneer to himself, and without hesitation he ran for one of the canoes, launched it, and soon had the sufferer ashore.

Harry had called Joe while launching the canoe, and now the latter joined him and the two carried the unknown one to the shelter under the rocks. He was suffering from a wound in the shoulder, and from another in the left leg, and both of these were bound up by Mrs. Parsons, who in her younger days had been a famous nurse for the sick and wounded.

It was noon of the next day before the unknown man opened his eyes and attempted to sit up.

“You—you are kind to me,” he gasped—“very kind, madam, and I will not forget you for it.”

“How came you in such a situation?” questioned Harry.

“Nay, nay, my son, do not question so sick a mortal,” interposed Mrs. Parsons. “Time enough when he is stronger.”

“The story is soon told,” said the wounded man with an effort. “I was on my way from Fort Boone, with Daniel Boone and three others, to join a party which is expected there soon by a man there named Peter Parsons——”

“My husband!” ejaculated Mrs. Parsons.

“Then you are of that party?”

“Yes.”

“’Tis a strange place for you, madam.” The wounded man looked at the rocks. “But as I was saying, I was with Boone and the others, when we became separated in the heavy rainstorm. The Indians tracked me, and I was wounded and captured. But some time ago I escaped and fled to the river. Then I swam to a tree that was floating by, and crawled on it more dead than alive. And now I am here, thanks——”

The wounded man got no further, for at that moment the form of a man appeared on the rocks above the shelter—a tall white man, dressed in the garb of a hunter.

“Hullo, who are you?” demanded Joe, leaping to his feet and feeling for his hunting knife.

“Why, that’s Daniel Boone!” cried the wounded man, before the newcomer could answer Joe’s question.

CHAPTER IX
DANIEL BOONE, THE PIONEER

At the time this story opens, Daniel Boone, known to history as the famous hero and pioneer of Kentucky, was about forty years of age. He was tall and well-formed, and had an eye that was as sharp as it was true. He could hit a bird on the wing, or a speeding deer with ease, and there was an old saying that if Boone drew bead on an animal the game was as good as dead.

Daniel Boone was born in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, in 1735. His boyhood days were spent on the farm, and in hunting and fishing, pastimes of which he was passionately fond. He also had a strong “fever” for roaming, and more than once was missing at night, having gone on a tramp miles and miles from home.

When Boone was about thirteen years of age, his family moved to a place called Holman’s Ford, on the Yadkin River, in North Carolina. Here the youth grew to manhood and married the daughter of a neighbor, a sweet and courageous girl by the name of Rebecca Bryan. It is well to remember that name, for, as Daniel Boone was the pioneer of Kentucky, Mrs. Boone—Rebecca Bryan—was the pioneer woman of that great commonwealth. It took courage on the part of a man to penetrate the wilderness, but it took even more courage on the part of a woman with children to do the same thing.

When Daniel Boone married he still made his home on the Yadkin, but further westward than where his father was located. At first he had a wide range of territory to himself, which was just to his liking, but presently other settlers discovered the richness of this land and came to settle near him.

“We are going to be crowded out, wife,” said he to Mrs. Boone. “From our doorstep I can see the smoke of five other cabins in the valley.” This great hunter loved solitude, and he thought he was being “crowded” even when he could but see his neighbors.

Boone’s thought had often turned to the West—to that vast, mysterious land which lay beyond the Cumberland Mountains—that land which to-day forms the State of Kentucky with its many cities and towns, but which only a hundred and twenty-five years ago was an unbroken wilderness, inhabited by wandering red men and vast herds of buffalo, deer, and other wild animals. A hundred and twenty-five years! Reader, how quickly our great country has grown to be what it is!

A well-known hunter of that time, John Finley by name, had made a short tour westward, and he brought back with him a wonderful account of what he had seen—the great forests, fertile fields, streams rich with fish, and the large quantities of game. Daniel Boone met this man and talked with him, and from that hour determined to move westward on his own account at the first opportunity.

It was on the first day of May, 1769, that Boone bade farewell to his wife and children, and started out on his explorations. He had with him five companions, all hunters and pioneers like himself, and including the John Finley already mentioned. The party traveled through the mountains and valleys for five weeks, often stopping to hunt and fish on the way, and then reached the Red River, and from a tall cliff looked for the first time on the beautiful plains and woodlands of Kentucky.

“What a grand, what a glorious prospect!” exclaimed Boone.

“It will prove a paradise on earth,” answered one of his companions.

A shelter was erected close to the river, and the whole party went into camp until late in the year, making many tours of discovery to the north, west, and south. On one of these tours Boone and one of his companions were surprised by the Indians and made prisoners. The Indians treated them roughly and threatened them with all sorts of torture. At the end of a week, however, the two captives watched their chance, and escaped. When they got back to their old camp they found it plundered, and the others of the party had gone home.

“We had better go home too,” said Boone’s companion, and they started without delay. On the way they met Squire Boone, Daniel Boone’s brother, and another man. Shortly after this the man who had been a captive with Boone was killed, and the hunter who had come West with Squire Boone returned to his home. This left the two brothers alone.

All winter the two Boones hunted and explored the region, keeping away from all the Indians of that vicinity. When spring came Squire Boone returned home, leaving Daniel alone to the solitude of the great forests.

This was what Daniel Boone really loved, and not a day was lost during the time he was left alone. He explored the territory for miles around, and paddled his way on many a stream. Thus three months passed, and then the brother returned with pack horses and a load of much needed provisions and a goodly supply of powder.

With all the time already spent in this vast wilderness, Daniel Boone was not yet satisfied to go back to his home on the Yadkin, and it was not until March, 1771, that he and his brother retraced their steps to civilization. In that time they had gained a wonderful insight into the country, and could now speak with authority of its formation and worth. They were familiar with every trail worth knowing, and could tell true stories of the richness of the soil.

But in those days things moved rather slowly, and it took two years to bring a number of the settlers up to the point of moving westward with their belongings. It was the end of September, 1773, that Daniel Boone and his brother, Squire Boone, with their families, moved to a place called Powell’s Valley. Here they were joined by five other families and forty men.

It was a hopeful beginning of the great work of settling the West, but it came to a speedy and disastrous termination. The pioneers had been but two weeks on the march when a band of Indians fell upon some of the young men who had gone out to round up the cattle. The fight was short and sharp, and six of the young men, including Daniel Boone’s oldest son, a lad of seventeen, were killed.

This was a great shock to the other members of the expedition, and despite the earnest protestations of Daniel and Squire Boone, it was decided to turn back.

“We can do nothing against the redskins,” said one timid hunter. “They will turn in some dark night and massacre the whole of us.”

But though this expedition turned back, the disaster did not dim the fame of Daniel Boone. He was known far and wide as Colonel Boone, the discoverer of Kentucky, and this fame reached even to the courts of Virginia, and he was often consulted regarding this “promised land” which he had explored. He was sent out at one time to assist a number of surveyors, and at another to open negotiations with the Indians, and his work in these directions served to increase his fame materially.

It was in the autumn of 1774 that a treaty was made with the Cherokee Indians by which all the land between the Cumberland and Kentucky Rivers passed into the control of a body known as the Transylvania Company. Immediately steps were taken to survey the territory, and to establish a trail which might be used by prospective settlers. It was a difficult task, and it fell to the lot of Daniel Boone to lead the way from a settlement on the Holston to the Kentucky River.

The Indians had been willing to negotiate the sale of the land, but when they saw an actual road being made through their beloved country they grew enraged, and soon there was a skirmish, in which two of Boone’s party fell, and he narrowly escaped death. But the expedition stood its ground, until it reached the site of the present village of Boonesborough, located about eighteen miles southeast of the city of Lexington. Here no time was lost in building a fort, and in making other defenses against the red men.

As soon as the stronghold was complete, Daniel Boone went back to the East and brought on his wife and children, and they were speedily joined by several other families. Then other settlements besides that of Boonesborough began to appear, and it was then that Peter Parsons went westward to see for himself if this “land of plenty” of which he had heard so much was really as good as pictured.

Mr. Parsons was delighted, both with the aspect of the country and with the kind-heartedness of Colonel Boone and the other hunters and pioneers that he met, and it did not take him long to reach the conclusion that a home here, if once the Indians could be brought to submission, would be most desirable. He was naturally a man who wanted freedom, and the troubles in the eastern settlements, where the discontentment that led to the Revolution was already in evidence, were exceedingly distasteful to him.

As soon as Mr. Parsons had sent for his family and that of Ezra Winship to come on, he set about clearing some of the land of the sites he had selected. He was hard at work one day felling some trees when an unexpected wind came along and knocked a tree over on him, hurting his leg. He was carried into the fort, and there he lay for several weeks while the hurt member grew better.

“It is too bad,” said he to Daniel Boone. “I was going out to meet my family and the others that are expected here. I have heard that the Indians are growing ugly again, and I am afraid that they will encounter trouble.”

“You must not think of standing on that hurt leg yet,” answered Colonel Boone. “I am going out myself, in company with Jerry Wright and several others of our best marksmen. We shall do our best to bring your family and the others to this fort in safety.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” answered Peter Parsons. “If you’ll do that I will rest content. When do you calculate to start?”

“Early to-morrow morning.”

Daniel Boone was as good as his word, and the party of five was several miles away from the fort by the time the sun rose. Each man was mounted on a good horse, and the only stop made that day was for the midday meal, and to feed and water the steeds.

For several days nothing out of the usual occurred excepting that they found the remains of several Indian camp-fires, which showed that the red men were in that vicinity in force.

“Perhaps they are gathering to attack the party under this Ezra Winship,” said Jerry Wright, who had been a great friend of Boone’s son—the one who had been killed—and who was well liked by the great hunter himself.

“I trust not, Jerry,” replied Daniel Boone. “We want no more massacres here.”

It was then that the great rainstorm came on, and during this Jerry Wright’s horse ran away from him. The young hunter went after the steed, and in the darkness became separated from his companions. His trail was discovered by some Indians, and before he could recover his horse he was discovered and the Indians set upon him with fierce shouts. He tried to defend himself, but was wounded, and then the red men made him their captive.

Jerry Wright fully expected death at the hands of his enemies, but it did not come, and watching his chance, he escaped from the Indians and ran for the river. Here he swam out to a floating tree and crawled on top; and it was from this position of peril that Harry rescued him, as already described in the last chapter.

CHAPTER X
BOONE LEADS THE WAY

“Daniel Boone!”

The cry came from several lips at once, and not only Harry and Joe, but also Mrs. Parsons and Harmony, leaped up to meet the newcomer on the rocks.

“Hullo! Reckon I’ve struck some sort of a camp,” were Colonel Boone’s first words. Then he looked at his late companion. “Where did you go to in the rain, and what is the matter of you?” he continued.

“Oh, Colonel Boone, how glad I am to see you!” exclaimed Harmony.

The great hunter nodded and descended to the shelter.

“Thank you, miss—but I don’t reckon I know you,” he said simply.

“I am Harmony Winship, and this is my brother Joe. This is Mrs. Parsons and her son Harry. We were all on our way to join Mr. Parsons at your fort.”

“Tell me, good sir, how is my husband?” put in the Quakeress quickly.

Before answering Boone removed his coonskin cap and bowed politely. “He is tolerably well, madam, but for his leg, which he hurt while felling trees in the forest. But for his hurt he might be with me this moment.”

“Is it serious?”

“Far from it, and I doubt not but that he will be up and around before we get back. But where are the others of the expedition, and why are you in such a place as this? And why are you here?” went on Colonel Boone to Jerry Wright.

It took the best part of half an hour to acquaint the great hunter with all that had occurred, both to the party under the leadership of Ezra Winship, and to his late companion. Boone listened quietly, but as he learned of the attacks by the Indians his brow grew dark and his lips were tightly compressed.

“They are nothing but fiends after all—after all the promises they have made,” he said at last. “To trust them even for a moment seems foolish.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “When do you expect Mr. Winship and Frost back?” he questioned of the boys.

“I suppose they will be back sometime to-day,” answered Joe.

Colonel Boone told them that he had left the others of his party on a trail quarter of a mile away, having come on foot to the river bank to see if any Indians were in sight, or to learn, if possible, what had become of Wright.

“I will go back and bring my companions to this place,” he said. “And then we can talk over what is to be done.”

“If thee will but get us safe to the fort I shall ask no more,” said Mrs. Parsons.

Before sundown the other hunters and pioneers came up and were introduced. They were glad to learn that Jerry Wright was not seriously wounded, and one brought the good news that the missing horse had turned up unharmed.

Fortunately for those in distress the party under Colonel Boone had brought with them a fair supply of provisions and also a couple of extra rifles and three long pistols, with ammunition. Each of the young pioneers was provided with a rifle and ammunition, and even Mrs. Parsons accepted one of the pistols, while Harmony took another.

Colonel Boone was of a humor to follow up the canoes with captives that had passed up the river, but after a talk with his companions it was decided to wait until morning to see if Mr. Winship and Pep Frost might not return.

“The Indians must not be allowed to go too far,” said Daniel Boone.

“But with even my father and Frost we will number but eight,” said Joe.

“True, lad; but I calculate that a good white hunter is worth four or five redskins,” answered Boone.

The well-known old hunter was dressed in the typical garb of that period—loose hunting shirt, or frock, of dressed deer skins, leggings of leather, fringed on the outer seam, and a coonskin cap, in which was stuck a curled feather or two, and on the feet a pair of coarse, heavy moccasins. Around his waist the hunter wore a substantial belt, with a tomahawk at his right side, and on the left his long hunting knife, powder horn, bullet pouch, and small metal case containing extra flints and tinder.

All were seated around a tiny camp-fire at about eight o’clock that evening, when Boone suddenly arose.

“Somebody is coming,” he said.

Neither of the boys had heard a sound out of the ordinary, nor had some of the others for that matter. But Daniel Boone’s ears were trained to woodcraft, and he had caught the cracking of some brushwood a good distance away. He picked up his rifle and moved out of the circle of light, and several of the other men followed his example.

It was soon seen that Ezra Winship and Pep Frost were approaching, followed by two men and several women and children—all members of that ill-fated band that had suffered so much but a short while before. One of the men was wounded in the shoulder, and one of the children had been partly scalped.

It can well be imagined that Ezra Winship was glad to meet Daniel Boone, whom he knew so well by reputation, if not personally.

“We need your assistance sorely,” said Mr. Winship. “Our whole party has been either killed, taken prisoners, or scattered, and I must say that I hardly know what to do.”

He listened closely to what Joe had to tell him about the canoes that had gone up the river.

“Your mother must have been of the party,” said he. “For I have learned that she and Cora and Clara Parsons were together.” He turned to Boone. “Colonel Boone, where do you think the captives will be taken?”

“’Tis hard to tell, Winship,” was the reply. “Perhaps to the village of Go-wan-shi-ska. That is a favorite spot with them at this season of the year.”

In their trip back to the former camp Mr. Winship and Pep Frost had seen but two Indians and they were a long distance off. In coming through a patch of timber they had heard the cry of a child and this had led them to a shelter where they had found those that they had now brought with them.

“We must rescue those who have been carried off,” said Ezra Winship. “I cannot consent to go on to the fort until that is done. My own wife and daughter are missing and so are five or six others. To leave them to the mercy of the savages would not be human.”

“We cannot go after the missing ones until we have seen the women and children who are here safe,” replied Daniel Boone. “But once they are at the fort I promise you that I will use every effort within my power to bring back the missing ones and avenge this great wrong.”

The great hunter spoke feelingly, for he had not yet forgotten the death of his beloved son nor the deaths of many of his old-time companions.

It was arranged that the whole party should move forward under the personal guidance of Colonel Boone without delay. The wounded and the small children were placed on horseback, and the men and boys, all armed, tramped on ahead and behind, Boone himself far in advance, making certain that the way was clear.

On the way two Indians were encountered. One was shot down and the other taken prisoner.

The captured red man was closely questioned by Colonel Boone and others. At first he refused to talk, but at last said that the tribe under Red Feather was journeying toward Go-wan-shi-ska. They had some captives, he did not know how many, nor did he know how long Red Feather intended to remain at the village before moving further to the north.

When the news reached the fort that the expected expedition had been attacked by the Indians under Long Knife and Red Feather there was great excitement, and a score of men, including Peter Parsons, rode out to meet those who were coming in.

“So you are safe,” said Mr. Parsons to his wife. “I am glad of that.”

“Yes, yes; but poor Clara!” groaned Mrs. Parsons, and then burst into tears on her husband’s shoulder.

The stories the various survivors of the expedition had to tell were listened to with interest by all at the fort, and under Colonel Boone’s command a party of twenty-two men, young and old, prepared to follow up the trail of the red men and give them battle if necessary. All were aroused to the necessity of swift action, and each man was prepared to fight to the last in defense of his own family and those of his companions.

With the men went Mr. Winship and Joe. Mr. Parsons wanted to go, but it was thought best to leave him and Harry behind to look after the women folks, for it was barely possible that, during the absence of so many of the garrison, the Indians might attack the fort itself.

“You must be on guard, day and night,” said Colonel Boone to the officer who was left in charge. “Keep pickets out constantly and do not allow any Indians to visit the fort proper. If they want to parley let them do it outside and not more than two at a time.”

The entire party went out on horseback, Joe riding a steed provided by Mr. Parsons. The young pioneer had been introduced to all of the others in the expedition and felt thoroughly at home among them. The men, young and old, were a whole-souled body and willing to do almost anything for each other.

It was now that Joe learned for the first time in his life what real hard riding meant. Daniel Boone allowed no dragging behind, and the hunters went forward as fast as their steeds could carry them, up trail and down, over stretches of deep grass and then along and over the rocks. Often a stream would have to be swum or forded, and the riders would have all they could do to get over and keep their ammunition dry.

The first night was spent in the open, without a camp-fire, and long before the sun arose the party was again the saddle, riding as hard as ever.

“I hope you are not tired out, Joe,” said his father, on the way.

“Not yet; but how long are we to keep this up?” questioned the son.

“Colonel Boone says until we see something of the Indians. And I am glad of it,” added Ezra Winship. “We can’t come up to those rascals too quick for me.”

On the third day out, however, the speed was slackened a little, and just before sundown Daniel Boone and two of the other skilled hunters went on ahead. They were moving up a hill, the ridge of which was located in some timber quarter of a mile away.

Colonel Boone and the others were gone the best part of an hour. The remainder of the party were then ordered to swing round to the left of the trail they had been following and halt just this side of the ridge of the hill.

“The Indians are encamped in the valley on the other side of the hill,” said Colonel Boone. “There are about thirty of them and they have at least some, if not all, of the captives with them.”

CHAPTER XI
WITH NO TIME TO SPARE

“The Indians are encamped in the valley beyond this hill!” cried Joe. “In that case we will soon find out whom they have as captives with them.”

With extreme caution the hunters and pioneers climbed the slope until about fifty feet from the ridge.

Then the men and boys were allowed to crawl among the trees and brushwood to the very top and look over into the valley below.

A plain of tall grass and low brush met their gaze, extending for quarter of a mile in width and several miles in length. In the very center was a small brook, moving peacefully along between the reeds and rushes.

The encampment of the red men was along the bank of the watercourse next to the hill occupied by the whites. Here several wigwams had been temporarily erected and here two camp-fires had just been started. On a slight rise of ground lay several bundles of goods which belonged to the ill-fated pioneers, and not far away several horses and mules were tethered.

But the gaze of those on the ridge of the hill was not directed to the Indians, the bundles, or the horses, but to the captives, who were in a group by themselves not far from one of the wigwams.

The captives were six in number—two women, two girls, and two men, one of the latter just grown to manhood. Each was bound, and it was plain to see that each had suffered much since being taken a prisoner.

“I see Cora!” exclaimed Joe in a low voice. “Do you see mother?”

“I do not,” answered Ezra Winship, and the tone of his voice showed keen disappointment.

“That other girl is Dorothy Reasoner, and the two women are Mrs. Landrop and Mrs. Gellott,” went on the boy.

“The men are old Hank Kassoway and young Paul Broker, the young fellow they said looked like you, Joe.”

“Do you suppose they have any other captives, father?”

“There may be some in one of the wigwams, but it is doubtful.”

Word was now passed along that the hunters must be silent, and for some minutes not a word was spoken.

During that interval several of the Indians were seen to run to the group of prisoners and bring forward the young fellow named Paul Broker.

In a twinkle the hunting shirt was ripped off the young pioneer and he was hurled flat on his back on the ground. While he was being held there by two red men others tied cords to his wrists and ankles and these were afterward secured to four short stakes driven securely in the soil.

“They are going to torture that young man!” exclaimed Mr. Winship in horror.

After the victim was so secured that he could scarcely move some of the Indians began to dance around him, uttering the words of a wild song and flourishing their tomahawks and scalping knives. Occasionally one would leap forward and make a move as if to cut off the nose or gouge out an eye of the victim.

They thought by this to make the young man cry out in fear and beg for mercy, but Paul Broker had learned the lesson that the Indian is merciless when it comes to torturing an enemy and so he remained mute.

The girl and women prisoners shrieked in horror at the scene and, unable to stand the sight, one woman fainted dead away.

Burning fagots were now brought forward and the Indians prepared to place them upon the naked breast of the victim. One fagot was held close to his face, so that his eyebrows were singed.

While this was going on, Boone crawled from one to another of his party and gave a few hurried directions.

It was now growing dark, and, keeping as much in the shadows of the hill as possible, the hunters moved over the ridge and down close to the Indian encampment.

The Indians around Paul Broker were just on the point of placing the fagots upon the victim’s breast when Daniel Boone gave the order to open fire.

Crack! crack! bang! went the rifles and shotguns, and at the first irregular volley three of the Indians were killed outright and five others badly wounded. In those days powder and ball were scarce, and no man discharged his weapon unless he was tolerably sure of his aim.

“Forward!” cried Daniel Boone, and led the way, reloading as he ran.

The red men had not yet thrown out their guards for the night and were taken completely by surprise. As the shots rang out and so many of their number fell, the others were almost panic-stricken.

“The palefaces! the palefaces!” they cried, and ran for their bows and arrows and other weapons.

Colonel Boone knew well how to fight Indians and had given instructions to make as much noise as possible. Consequently the hunters under him came onward with many loud yells and shrieks, uttered in all sorts of tones, giving the red men the impression that the attacking party numbered a hundred or more.

Guns and pistols were discharged and reloaded with all possible speed, and as the whites drew closer they brought forth their tomahawks and hunting knives. It was Boone himself who leaped to the rescue of Paul Broker, closely followed by Mr. Winship and others. Joe ran straight to his sister Cora.

Realizing that the battle was against them the Indians made but a feeble resistance, and then those who were able did what they could to escape across the valley to the hills.

As one tall red man dashed past the captives he aimed a blow with his tomahawk at Cora. But before the hatchet could reach the girl’s head Joe swung around the butt of his gun and struck the Indian’s arm a crushing blow, breaking that member and causing the tomahawk to fall to the ground.

“Joe! Joe!” burst from Cora Winship’s lips. She could not say more.

Some of the Indians attempted to reach the horses, but were blocked and two others were shot down. Then the rest ran in all directions, their only idea being to hide themselves under cover of the coming night.

But the pioneers were thoroughly aroused to the situation, and, under the leadership of Daniel Boone, those left of the evil band were hunted not only during the night, but all of the next day. In this hunt Joe took no part, preferring to do the duty assigned to him and four others, namely, that of looking after the women and girls and the horses and goods in the camp. But Ezra Winship went with Boone and his men, and this following of the red men’s trail resulted in the downfall of two more Indians and the taking prisoner of the chief, Red Feather, who had been wounded at the very start of the fight.

In the battle four of the whites had been wounded and one man—a very old frontiersman named Hollenbeck—was killed. The wounds of those hurt were not serious and were dressed with care by the women and girls who had been rescued.

It was a long story that Cora Winship had to tell concerning her captivity, but it need not be repeated here, for it is very similar to hundreds of such stories which have already been told. The Indians had treated her with alternate kindness and harshness, and she had been given to understand that she was to be taken to some Indian village far to the northward, along one of the lakes.

“I do not know what has become of mother or of Harmony,” she said.

“Harmony is safe at the fort,” answered Joe. “Do you know what has become of Clara Parsons?”

“I do not, Joe. We were together at first, but the Indians soon separated us, just as they separated Harmony from the others. So Harmony is safe? Well, I am glad to learn that. But poor dear mother!” And the girl shook her head sorrowfully.

When Mr. Winship came back from the hunt after the fleeing Indians Cora sprang into his arms with a joyful cry. It was a happy moment for all despite the fact that the mother and wife was still missing.

The Indian chief, Red Feather, refused to talk when brought in, nor would any threats induce him to open his mouth.

“HIS GUN STRUCK THE INDIAN’S ARM A CRUSHING BLOW.”—P. [104].

“The palefaces may do as pleases them,” were his words. “Red Feather, the mighty chief of the Cherokees, has nothing to say to them.”

But one of the other Indians was not so close-mouthed, and from this warrior it was learned that the reason Paul Broker had been tortured was because he had attacked and attempted to kill Long Knife, Red Feather’s brother chief.

“Long Knife was in a canoe with a white maiden when the paleface shot him with an arrow,” said the Indian to Daniel Boone, in his native language.

The old pioneer had heard Joe’s story, and he quickly turned to the youth and told him what the Indian said.

“That was not Paul Broker, but myself,” said Joe.

“Ha! now we have the truth of it!” cried Paul Broker, who was standing near. “I told the redskins that I had done nothing of the kind, but they would not believe me. In the darkness Long Knife probably mistook Joe for myself.”

As the youth and the young man looked so much alike, this was accepted as the true explanation of the affair.

“It is lucky we came along as we did,” said Joe to Paul Broker. “If we hadn’t you would have suffered horribly on my account.”

None of the Indians could tell what had become of Long Knife further than that he had appeared at the camp badly wounded and that he had been taken away by two warriors acting under Red Feather’s orders.

“Red Feather and Long Knife are related,” said Daniel Boone. “If either suffers the other will do what he can to right the injury. Now that Long Knife has escaped he will probably keep shady until he is well again, and then he will do what he can to cause us more trouble. But I have a card I shall play against him.”

“You mean Red Feather?” said Ezra Winship.

“Yes. I shall keep him a captive and notify the Indians for miles around the fort that if an attack is made Red Feather shall suffer most horribly for it, but if they keep the peace Red Feather shall be released at the end of six months and be given half a dozen best blankets and a fine horse.”

“But what will you do about my wife and the others who are still missing?” asked Mr. Winship anxiously.

At this Daniel Boone shook his head slowly and thoughtfully.

“I hate to say it, friend Winship, but—but——”

“But what?”

“I am sorely afraid that all of the others who were taken captives are dead,” answered Daniel Boone.

“Do you really mean that?” cried Joe, with a sinking heart.

“I do. I have tried my best to find some trace of them, but there is none, and when a redskin refuses to speak on that subject after talking about all others it is pretty safe to say that the truth is too awful to mention.”

CHAPTER XII
SETTLING DOWN AT BOONESBOROUGH

It was with sorrowful hearts that Mr. Winship and Joe accompanied the party under Colonel Boone back to the fort. Even the presence of Cora, who had always been the particularly bright member of the family, did not serve to dispel the gloom caused by the continued absence of Mrs. Winship.

“I cannot believe that she is dead, father,” said the young pioneer. “Such a fate would be horrible!”

“I am of the same mind, Joe,” answered Ezra Winship. “Yet Colonel Boone has had a vast experience with the red men, and he must know what he is talking about.”

“The best of men make mistakes sometimes,” put in Cora hopefully.

The party moved onward as fast as possible, but with the women and girls along, as well as the wounded and the goods recovered from the Indians, it took twice the time to reach the fort as it had to ride from there to the encampment in the valley.

Those at the fort saw them when yet a long distance away, and Peter Parsons and Harry rode out to meet the Winships.

“My Clara still missing!” groaned Mr. Parsons. It was like a blow in the face to him.

“Yes, Peter, and my wife, too,” replied Ezra Winship.

The news that Clara Parsons was still missing was an added shock to the girl’s mother, and it was several days before the Quakeress recovered sufficiently to go about her duties.

“She must be dead, just as Colonel Boone says!” moaned the stricken mother. “Oh, why has this cross fallen upon us? Is it that we have been so sinful?”

On his part, Harry said but little. But he felt the loss as keenly as did anybody, for his sister Clara had been his constant companion all his life, and he loved her dearly.

But every period of mourning and lamenting must have an end, and there was plenty to do for all hands in Boonesborough.

“I think the best we can do is to get settled down,” said Peter Parsons. “That will give my wife and the girls something to do and keep their mind off of this trouble. As soon as we are settled you and I, friend Winship, and Joe and Harry, too, for that matter, can do our best to find some trace of your wife and my Clara.”

“But they may be suffering at this moment,” said Ezra Winship.

“I hardly think that. Now that the fight is over, if they have not been killed, they are most likely living quietly at some Indian village far away.”

As already mentioned, Peter Parsons had selected two sites for farms adjoining each other. There was scarcely a choice between the two, and to be perfectly fair in the matter Mr. Winship insisted upon drawing lots to decide which should be his and which Peter Parsons’.

It was decided that for the present only one cabin should be built, as close to the fort as possible, in which the Winships and the Parsons might dwell together until the following summer. This would keep Mrs. Parsons and the two Winship girls together while the boys and their fathers were away from home.

It was no easy task to fell the trees and build such a cabin as was needed for the united families, but the men and the boys went to work with a will, and inside of several weeks the cabin was finished in the rough. It was of logs and was about fifteen feet deep by thirty feet long. The interior was divided into a living room fifteen feet square, and opening off of this were two bedrooms of half that size. The living room boasted of a door front and back and a window, and there was also a window in each of the sleeping apartments.

No furniture of large size had been brought to this settlement, and it was consequently necessary to furnish the living room with a table built of a rough slab and two benches of the wooden-horse variety, commonly called puncheons. The floor was likewise a puncheon floor, that, is, made of the halves of a split log, the flat side smoothed off. In the bedchambers a long low frame was built, running parallel with the inner wall, and on these the beds were placed, foot to foot, two in each room.

The chimney of the cabin was rather a large affair, built of rough stone and such mortar as the settlers could make themselves. It was on the side of the living room, directly between the two doors opening into the bedrooms. Above the open fireplace was a shelf and several hooks for cooking utensils, and in the fireplace itself were several chains and hooks upon which to hang pots and other things. It may be added that the settlers had brought with them half a dozen knives and an equal number of spoons, cups, and plates. Forks were hardly known in those days, and many of the old pioneers preferred to cut their food with their hunting knives.

After the woodwork of the cabin was finished, the chinks were carefully plastered with a clayey mud which soon hardened in the hot weather and sunshine. In the meantime the women folks set to work to place the interior in order with such means as were at hand. Not many things had been brought along, and of these a number were still missing because of the Indian raid, and at the proper time Mrs. Parsons and the girls would have all they could do to spin, weave, or knit towels, bed-linen, and clothing.

The hard work brought with it one blessing. It took the minds of the workers from their sorrow, and had it not been for that one dark cloud all of the party would have been very happy.

“It’s an ideal spot for a home,” said Ezra Winship more than once. “I doubt if a better can be found anywhere.”

“I thought the soil amazingly rich,” answered Peter Parsons, “and the things that have been planted prove it. Everything is growing nicely.”

In those days a man could live only by what he planted and by what he hunted and fished, and, although no wheat or corn was sown that season by the Winships and the Parsons, a small tract of land was cleared and here the precious seeds of numerous kinds of vegetables were planted, peas, beans, onions, carrots, parsnips, turnips, as well as squashes, pumpkins, and the like, and some cuttings of vines which had been brought along.

One day a week was spent in hunting and fishing, the two boys going out one week and the two men folks the next.

“I saw the track of a number of deer this morning,” said Harry to Joe, on a Friday before the Saturday on which the pair were to go out and try their luck. “I wish we could spot some of ’em to-morrow.”

“Where did you see them, Harry?” questioned Joe with interest, for he was as anxious to add some venison to the home larder as was his chum.

“Up that little side stream, near the fallen walnut. I was up there after some sassafras and birch, and I counted at least six tracks leading from the turn of the brook.”

“We ought to go down early and try our luck with them.”

“Just what I was thinking. We ought to get on the ground before sun-up.”

The boys spoke to their parents about going away early and, receiving consent, set to work that evening at cleaning and oiling up the two rifles to be taken along, and also arranging their fishing lines, for they did not intend to rely upon hunting entirely to fill the household larder.

It was not yet four o’clock when Joe pinched Harry’s arm and awoke him. Silently, so as not to awaken the other sleepers, the boys slipped into their clothing and went into the living room.

Here Mrs. Parsons had left a cold breakfast for them, and this they swallowed with all speed. Then, with a drink of water to wash down the food, they took up their weapons and their lines and sallied forth in the early dawn.

The grass was heavy with dew and the early morning birds were just beginning to pipe up when they passed out of sight of the cabin and along the tiny brook Harry had mentioned. They walked with caution and when they spoke it was in a whisper.

“The wind is just right,” said Harry. “If it was blowing the other way they’d spot us before we so much as caught a sight of ’em.”

As they drew closer to the spot where Harry had seen the tracks they moved with increased caution and finally threw themselves down in the grass and wormed along behind some low bushes and rocks.

When Harry had gained a position he considered just right he halted and motioned for Joe to do the same. Each examined his rifle to make certain it was ready for use, and then each set his gaze on a spot which Harry indicated with his finger to his chum.

A half-hour went by, and there was no sight of a deer or anything else coming down to the brook. But these young pioneers had learned the value of patience in hunting, and each remained in his position without a word of complaint.

Ten minutes more and Joe saw something moving in the bushes just above the spot his chum had pointed out. It was a beautiful buck with graceful antlers and a skin that shone finely in the early dawn.

Slowly the buck came down to the water’s edge, raising his head every few steps, and sniffing the air suspiciously. Behind him came six deer, all of fair size and all equally timid.

As the game came closer the boys’ hearts began to thump madly within their bosoms. Never had they seen such a fine collection of deer, and never had they had a better chance to bring down the game.

“Which will you take?” whispered Joe, when he could remain silent no longer.

“I’d like to try for the buck, but——” Harry hesitated.

“We’ll have to let him go, Harry. His meat would be as tough as leather. Take the one next to him, and I’ll take one further back.”

So it was agreed, and resting their long rifles on the rocks in front of them the two young pioneers took careful aim at the game.

“Ready, Harry?”

“Yes.”

Crack! crack! the two rifles spoke almost as one piece, and as the echo arose on the air two of the deer were seen to leap and shiver, and then pitch over on their sides.

“Hurrah! we’ve got ’em both!” shouted Joe, and sprang to his feet.

“Let’s try for another,” answered Harry, and pulling out an old pistol he had brought along he aimed it at the big buck and fired.

His aim was only partly true, and the buck was struck a glancing blow in the left foreleg. He slipped down on his knees, but soon arose again. In the meantime the unshot deer fled to the forest with a speed that can better be imagined than described.

While Harry was shooting at the buck Joe had started to reload his rifle. Harry dropped his empty pistol and pulled out his hunting knife, thinking to rush in and cut the buck’s throat.

“Look out for him, or he’ll gore you!” yelled Joe, and his warning came none too soon, for just then the buck leaped forward and rushed at Harry with lowered antlers. The young pioneer knew he could not withstand such a shock and leaped to one side.

“He has got lots of fight in him yet, even if he is clipped,” panted Harry, rushing to the top of some rocks. “Look out for him, Joe!”

“I mean to look out,” was the answer, as Joe continued to load with all possible speed.

The retreat of Harry caused the wounded buck to pause for an instant. But it was only for an instant; then his gaze turned to Joe, and with a snort of rage he hopped rather than leaped forward, as if to prod Joe to death on the spot.

CHAPTER XIII
PERILS OF THE YOUNG HUNTERS

It was a moment of extreme peril, and none could have realized it better than did these two young pioneers. They had often heard of the rage of a wounded buck, and had heard of how one old friend of Harry’s family had once been gored to death in scarcely more time than it takes to tell it.

“Run, Joe, run!” came from Harry. “Don’t let him strike you!”

For one instant Joe had been of a mind to stand his ground and finish the loading of his gun. But now he saw that there would not be time in which to prime the weapon, and he made a rush behind some of the nearest bushes.

The buck came on and struck the bushes with terrific force, almost reaching the youth in spite of the thickness of the growth. Joe leaped further back and then ran for the rocks upon which Harry was standing.

“He means business, doesn’t he?” the young pioneer gasped.

“Yes, and you want to look out for his prongs,” answered Harry.

He, too, had been trying to reload his gun, but had not as yet been able to attend to the priming.

Again the buck turned, and, having disentangled himself from the bushes, rushed toward the rocks.

“Jump!” called Joe, and made a leap to the ground in the rear.

Instead of doing as his chum had done, Harry made a leap for a nearby tree and caught hold of one of the bottom branches. His weight, however, proved to be too much for the branch, and it sagged down to within four feet of the ground.

Once on the rocks the buck stared at first one boy and then the other, as if trying to decide which he should attack first. Then he saw Harry clutching the branch, and made a leap straight in that direction.

But Harry was not to be caught thus easily, and sliding around he faced the buck, still holding on to the limb with both hands.

Again there was a rush, and this time, instead of striking the bushes, the animal came pell-mell into the end of the tree branch. There was a quiver and a crash, and the branch snapped into pieces, hurling Harry backward almost against the tree trunk.

The buck could easily have followed Harry to the trunk, and have there finished him, but for one reason, and that was, when the crash came a part of the tree limb caught the animal directly in the mouth. This is a sensitive part, even in an old buck of the deer tribe, and the animal lost no time in pulling back to clear himself of this new difficulty.

But the buck still had his eye on Harry, and rushing around the broken tree branch he prepared for another plunge forward.

As soon as the animal turned from him to Harry, Joe lost no time in finishing the loading of his gun. With the weapon now properly primed he leaped around to a position where he could get a good shot at the buck.

Again the animal came forward, straight for Harry, who, in trying to leap to the opposite side of the tree, had slipped and fallen.

Crack! It was Joe’s rifle that spoke up, and this time the boy’s aim was all that could be desired. The buck received the ball straight in the heart and leaped high in the air. Down he came with a crash, directly at Harry’s side and lay still, stone-dead.

As the buck fell Harry tried to roll out of the way, thinking there might still be some life left in the animal. Joe drew his hunting knife and leaped in.

“Is he—he dead?” panted Harry.

“Yes,” was Joe’s slow answer. “That shot fixed him.”

For fully half a minute both youths stood by the side of the fallen game, surveying the animal with interest. Harry was trembling slightly, and Joe was several shades paler than his usual color.

“He’s a big one, isn’t he?” said Joe at length.

“Yes, Joe, and I reckon we both had a close shave, eh?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want another such fight, do you?”

“Not at quite such close quarters,” came from Joe. He bent lower. “I must have taken him right through the heart.”

“Three deer! What will the folks say to that?”

“I reckon they’ll think it is something wonderful.”

“Well, it is wonderful for boys. I never heard of it being done before. But don’t let us brag.”

“That’s right, I hate bragging. But, say, let us get home with the meat at once. Then, if we want to, we can go fishing this afternoon.”

This plan was agreed on, and then came the question of how best to get the deer home. All told, there were several hundreds of pounds of venison in the pile, no light load to be dragged a distance of over a mile.

“Let us each take a deer on a drag at first,” said Joe. “We can come back for the buck later.”

“But some wild beast may make way with the buck. We don’t want to lose him after all the trouble we had in bringing him down.”

“Let us haul him up into the tree.”

They looked around, and close at hand found a convenient limb, over which they threw a bit of rope one of the boys had brought along. Soon the buck was tied to the rope and hoisted a distance of eight feet from the grass.

When this task was finished, the boys cut two drags, and on the top of each fixed one of the deer. Then both started for the cabin, each dragging his load behind him.

The way was rough and long before the cabin came into view, the boys were more than tired of hauling the tree limbs with their dead weights along. But the thought of how the good news of the hunt would be received by their folks kept them up, and at last they came in sight of the home in the little clearing, and raised a shout which was at once answered by Ezra Winship, who came from the kitchen, gun in hand.

“Well, by the great pewter candlestick!” cried Mr. Winship. “Is it possible! Two deer, and each as plump as one would wish. You’ve certainly had luck, boys.”

The shouting now brought Mr. Parsons from a neighboring bit of brush, and Mrs. Parsons and the girls from the house, and all gazed in admiration at the game.

“How many shots for each?” questioned Mr. Parsons.

“Only one for each,” answered Harry proudly. “Joe brought down that one, and I brought down this.”

“You’ve done well, lads, mighty well—in fact, no old hunters could do better.” And Peter Parsons’ face showed his pleasure.

“How many deer were there?” asked Ezra Winship.

“Six, and a magnificent old buck,” answered Joe.

“Oh, why didn’t you try for the buck?” cried Harmony. “I’d like to have a pair of prongs for your coats and hats to hang on.”

“The deer meat is best,” said Mrs. Parsons. “’Tis likely to be very sweet and tender.”

“Yes, but we got the old buck after all,” said Joe, and he could scarcely disguise the tone of triumph in his voice.

“Got the buck?” came from the lad’s father and several of the others.

“Yes,” said Harry. “Joe shot him right through the heart.”

“But not until Harry had wounded him in the leg with a pistol shot,” came quickly from Joe.

And then the two boys had to tell the particulars of the brief hunt. But they did not tell how closely they had been in danger of death, being afraid that if they told all they might be kept from going on another hunt in the future.

“Boys, you are regular hunters and no mistake,” said Peter Parsons warmly. “Three at once! Winship, it is wonderful!”

“You are right,” answered Ezra Winship. “These deer are of good size, and from what they say of the buck he must have been in his prime.”

“Then we’ll have the hat and coat rack after all,” said Harmony brightly.

“And three good rugs in addition,” came from Cora.

Neither Mr. Parsons nor Mr. Winship advised letting the buck hang in the tree too long, and both volunteered to go after the game. But the boys preferred to go after it themselves, after they had had a short rest. While they were resting, Mrs. Parsons treated them to some fresh sugared corn cookies she had just made, while Cora brought them each a glass of nice birch beer of their own make. In those days beer made of birch, spruce, and various roots was a common drink.

Leaving their fathers to dress and cut up the venison brought in, Joe and Harry set out on the return to the hunting ground. Neither expected to see any more game that day, yet each had loaded his gun, and Harry his pistol in addition, and the weapons were carried in such a fashion that they could be brought into use at short notice if required.

“If we go fishing this afternoon, I wonder if we’ll have such luck as we had hunting,” remarked Harry, as they strode forward in the direction of the brook.

“You mustn’t expect too much good luck all at once,” responded his chum with a short laugh. “Besides, with so much meat we won’t want so much fish.”

“I’ll never expect to bring down a larger buck, shall you?”

“Hardly. Yet we are both young, and there is no telling what luck we’ll have before we die.”

“Tell you what,” went on Harry, after a pause. “What fine times we could have if only—if only my sister and your mother were with us.” His voice sank low as he finished.

“Yes, Harry, whenever I think of them it takes the fun right out of everything,” answered Joe; and then both boys heaved a long sigh.

“If we only knew where to look for them.”

“That’s it. But father is going on a hunt soon, with your father and old Pep Frost and some others. Let us hope they’ll get news of some kind.”

“Speaking of Pep Frost puts me in mind of some news he brought in yesterday. He says that things are getting hot down Boston way between the citizens and King George’s officials, and almost everybody is speaking of war. I wonder if it will really come to that?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised. What is the use of our paying taxes if we aren’t to get anything for doing it? I think we ought to be allowed to run this country as we please.”

“If war comes it may make more trouble out here. The French and the Indians who used to train with them wouldn’t like anything better than to give us a rub.”

“The French won’t do much—they are quite friendly now. But it might be an excuse for another Indian uprising. They hate it like poison to see us occupying these lands.”

“Colonel Boone says he is going to stick here no matter what comes. And I reckon he’ll keep his word.”

“Well, we’ll all stand by him. There is nothing else to do. We are too far away from any other fort to look for aid from such a quarter. We’d have to fight to a finish.”

So talking, the two boys hurried on through the woods and along the brook where the deer had first been sighted. The sun was now fairly high in the heavens, and the day promised to be an unusually warm one.

At last they reached the tree from which the carcass of the big buck had been suspended. Both stared up into the branches in wide-eyed amazement.

The carcass of the buck was gone.

CHAPTER XIV
ON THE TRAIL OF A THIEF

“The buck is gone!”

It was Joe who gasped out the words, after several seconds of painful silence.

“Yes, but to where?” came from Harry. “That meat didn’t walk off by itself.”

“Perhaps some wild animal carted it away, Harry.”

“If so, it was a pretty big animal, and we had best look out for our own hides, Joe.”

Both looked around the spot, and up the brook, but neither man nor beast was in sight.

As Joe continued to look around the vicinity Harry dropped on his hands and knees and examined the damp ground under the tree.

“What do you see?” called out Joe.

“Here are plenty of footprints,” was the slow reply. “But perhaps they are only our own.”

Joe came closer, and some of the footprints were followed out of the tangle in the shade. Then Joe uttered a cry.

“Harry, we didn’t come in this direction, and those marks are neither yours nor mine.”

“You are right. See, they lead along behind these bushes and then directly into the brook.”

“Yes, and they move up the brook, too!”

“It was a two-legged thief who ran away with our game!”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think it was an Indian or a white man?”

“I really can’t say. I haven’t seen an Indian here since that fellow called Yellow Blanket called on Colonel Boone. And who of the settlers around here would be mean enough to take our game is more than I can surmise. But I know one thing.”

“And that is——”

“I’m going after the chap in double-quick order.”

“I am with you. We are two to one and well armed. I suppose he didn’t think we would come back so soon.”

“More than likely.”

Just above the spot where the deer had been shot, the brook widened out and became more or less of a shallow stream, with here and there a dirt instead of a stone bottom. Bending low they could, by the aid of the strong sunlight, occasionally catch sight of a footprint where the thief had missed his footing from one stone to the next.

“He would have kept to the stones entirely, and thus cut off his trail,” said Joe; “but his load was almost too much for him. And by that same token, I imagine he won’t go very far before he sits down to rest.”

“If that is so, we may be close to him already. Perhaps we had best keep quiet, and keep our eyes wide open.”

After that but little was said, and each youth kept his ears on the alert. The brook now ran upward, and consisted of a series of tiny waterfalls. Just ahead were a series of rocks.

As they approached the rocks, Joe, who was in advance, held up his hand as a warning. Then he crawled forward as noiselessly as a ghost, and looked over the top of the rocks.

On a fallen tree he saw an Indian resting, with the carcass of the buck beside him. The warrior was Yellow Blanket, the red man who had called on Daniel Boone at the fort about a week before, bringing a message for Red Feather, which, however, had not, by Boone’s order, been delivered.

Yellow Blanket was alone, and was evidently getting ready to continue his journey. He had been carrying the buck across his shoulders, and his bow and arrows were slung over his breast so as not to interfere with his load.

By signs Joe gave Harry to understand that both should cover the red man with their guns, and this was done without delay. The two young pioneers leaped on the rocks and confronted the Indian.

Yellow Blanket had been in a contemplative mood, not dreaming that he would be thus quickly followed up. He started in amazement, and leaped to his feet.

“Raise your hands!” called out Joe, as one hand of the enemy went toward the tomahawk at his belt. “Raise ’em or I’ll fire!”

“And so will I fire!” added Harry.

The Indian understood very little English, but the truth of the situation was plain to him, and letting go of the tomahawk he spread out his arms wide, as if to show a friendly spirit. Then the youths came closer, each keeping the Indian still covered.

“So you thought you would run off with our meat, eh?” questioned Joe sharply.

The Indian looked blankly at them and shrugged his shoulders.

“Yellow Blanket cannot speak the tongue of the paleface,” he said in his own language.

“This is our game,” went on Joe, and still keeping his gun leveled with one hand, he took the other and pointed first at the dead buck and then at himself and Harry.

Again the Indian shrugged his shoulders, and then shook his head slowly. At last he pointed to a tree, and then at himself, and then at Joe and Harry, and shook his head.

“He means to say he found it in a tree, and didn’t know it belonged to us,” said Harry. “Well, that’s the truth, I suppose, but it wasn’t his game, even so.”

“What shall we do with the fellow, Harry? We can’t shoot him down in cold blood, and it wouldn’t do much good to march him back to the fort.”

“Well, take his arrows from him, and march him off about his business, Joe. That’s the best I can think of.”

While Joe kept the Indian covered with his gun Harry strode forward and made the fellow give up eight fine arrows he carried. The bow he let the red man retain, since it would be useless until he could provide more arrows for it.

To show that they did not take the arrows for their own use, Harry broke the shafts over his knee. This caused the Indian to scowl deeply, but he said nothing.

“Now march, and don’t you turn around to look back,” said Joe, and he pointed up the brook beyond the rapids. Yellow Blanket understood, and with downcast countenance walked off.

They watched him out of sight, and then, without loss of time, picked up the buck between them and hurried towards home, but not by the route they had previously traveled.

“That Indian may take it into his head to come back on the sly,” said Joe. “We don’t want to run the risk of having our heads split open by his tomahawk.”

“We can keep an eye to the rear and on both sides,” answered his chum, and this was done, but Yellow Blanket failed to reappear, probably thinking that one Indian with only a tomahawk was no match for two strong-looking youths with guns and hunting knives.

When the boys got back and told of the adventure with the Indian, both Mr. Winship and Mr. Parsons said it would not be advisable for them to go out fishing that afternoon.

“There may be more Indians in the neighborhood,” said Ezra Winship. “And if there are, it won’t do for you to run unnecessary risks.”

It was thought best to report the occurrence to Colonel Boone, and Joe walked over to the fort for that purpose.

In those days, the fort at Boonesborough was a rude but strong one. It was about two hundred and sixty feet in length by about one hundred and fifty feet in width, with one corner resting on the bank of the river. It had a strong stockade of pointed timbers planted deeply into the ground, and a similar stockade ran around most of the cabins occupied by those who had first come westward with Daniel Boone, so that they were in close communion with the fort proper. Inside of the main stockade were several log cabins, and a shelter for ammunition and another for garrison stores.

Joe found Daniel Boone at work writing a letter to one of the superior officers of the land company which he represented, telling of what had recently happened at the settlement, and what he thought the Indians would do next.

“So Yellow Blanket is still sneaking around this vicinity,” said the great hunter, on hearing the youth’s tale. “I am glad that you and young Parsons sent him about his business.”

“Do you think he will harm us further?” asked the young pioneer.

“It is not likely, Winship. Yellow Blanket is a cur, nothing more. If he strikes at all it will be in the dark. I will send out Pep Frost and Raystock to see if they cannot capture him. A month of captivity will make him glad enough to shake the dust of this vicinity from his feet.”

Pep Frost, who was close at hand, was called in. Joe had not seen this old hunter for some time, and the two were glad to meet again.

“What! You an’ Harry got two deer an’ an old buck one trip?” he ejaculated. “By hemlock! but it won’t be no ust fer us old fellows to go out no more; eh, colonel?”

“It’s the air that is doing it,” returned Daniel Boone with a laugh. “Such purity can’t help but make a good shot and a good trailer out of most anybody.”

“I’ll bring in Yellow Blanket ef I kin,” said Pep Frost. “But he’s a cur, as the colonel says, an’ more’n likely he’s lit out long ago fer his wigwam.”

When Joe returned home he found Harry hard at work dressing the deer skins, and he went to work to fix up the head and antlers of the buck, so that they might be hung up in the living room for a coat and hat rack, as Harmony had suggested.

As mentioned before, it had been a hot day, and when the sun went down it was hardly any cooler. There was scarcely a breath of air stirring, and, as a consequence, scarcely anybody felt like retiring to the rather stuffy bedchambers of the log cabin until sleep could no longer be put off.

As tired as he was, Harry could not sleep until long after he had gone to bed. He lay with Joe, and he rather envied his chum, who slept peacefully. When at last Harry did go to sleep he dreamed of shooting deer, and of being gored by the big buck, and about an hour later he awoke with a start and dripping with perspiration.

“Oh, what a dream!” he murmured to himself, and sat bolt upright, he could not tell why.

Joe still slept, and so did the youth’s father and Ezra Winship, who occupied the second bed in the room. From outside the faint rays of the old moon cast a dim light into the room.

Feeling thirsty, Harry resolved to go out to the living room for a drink. Not to awaken the others, he crawled from the bed as silently as possible, and tiptoed his way to the other part of the cabin.

The water in the crock was warm and stale, and having tasted of it Harry spit it out into the fireplace.

“I’ll go out to the spring and get a fresh drink. The air will do me good,” he reasoned, and tiptoeing his way back to the bedchamber he slipped on his outer garments for that purpose.

As he made his way to the living room door he saw a shadow glide over the floor, as if something had come in between the rays of the moon and the window close at hand. He looked up, but on the instant the shadow was gone.

Harry stopped short and caught his breath. Was he half asleep still, or had somebody really passed the window? Several times he asked himself that question, but could frame no satisfactory answer.

“I’ll soon make sure,” he murmured, and reached for his gun, which at night was laid on a shelf, loaded and primed for immediate use.

As he caught up the weapon a scraping sound from outside reached his ear. Then came a flare of light through a crack between the cabin logs, and like a flash he realized the truth.

Some enemy was outside, and was on the point of setting the cabin on fire.

CHAPTER XV
FIGHTING THE FLAMES

“Stop, you rascal, stop!”

Such was Harry’s exclamation as he saw the flare of fire and realized what the person outside of the log cabin was bent upon doing.

He knew that the cabin was dry from the hot sun of the day before, and that the timber, once started, would burn like tinder. Moreover, he knew that to obtain sufficient water to put out such a conflagration would be difficult.

Without stopping to think of possible peril, he leaped for the door and threw it open.

In the dim moonlight he made out the form of a man running across the dooryard to the nearest patch of timber.

“Stop!” he called loudly. “Stop, or I will fire on you!”

Instead of heeding the command the fellow ran faster than ever.

Up came Harry’s gun, and, taking a low aim at the retreating form, he fired. A yell of pain followed, and he saw the man stagger and fall headlong.

By this time the cabin was in an uproar, and Ezra Winship and Peter Parsons came rushing from the bedroom, followed by Joe, and all leaped for their guns, thinking that an attack by the Indians had been begun. A moment later the girls and Mrs. Parsons followed, wrapped in such garments as had been handy.

“Harry, who are you firing at?” demanded the youth’s father.

“Some rascal who set the cabin on fire,” was the answer. “Quick, get some water, or the place will be burnt down!”

The others now saw the fire, which was burning fiercely in a heap of pine brush stacked against the side of the cabin. Rushing for a pitchfork, Ezra Winship threw the burning brush away from the building.

While this was being done Mr. Parsons and Joe hurried for buckets of water from the spring. They had to work lively, for the flames were creeping up the whole side of the log cabin toward the highly inflammable roof.

“The house will be burnt down!” screamed Cora, while Harmony wrung her hands in mute despair.

Mrs. Parsons was more practical, and, catching up a blanket, she saturated it in a pail of water, and then began to beat out some of the flames with this.

A few minutes of energetic work and the danger was over. But the smoke filled the cabin, and all the windows and the two doors had to be opened wide to clear the interior.

While this was being done, Harry, having slipped on some of his clothes, ran forward to where the unknown had fallen. He was followed by his father.

As they neared the spot they saw that the intruder was limping away, casting anxious glances backward as he did so.

“Come back here!” cried Harry, raising his gun once more. “Come back here, or I’ll give you another shot.”

Upon hearing this threat the unknown hesitated for an instant. Then he dove into the bushes.

But Harry and Peter Parsons were too quick for the evildoer, and in a moment more they were beside him, and each had a gun pointed at the fellow’s head.

“Yellow Blanket!” exclaimed the young pioneer. “I suspected as much.”

“Is this the redskin who tried to rob you of the buck?” questioned Mr. Parsons.

“The same, father. He got mad because Joe and I stopped him, and because we took his arrows away and broke them up. He was going to revenge himself by burning down our cabin.”

At these words Yellow Blanket scowled, but to them he made no reply. Indeed, having been caught red-handed, as the saying is, it was impossible for him to make any defense.

The Indian had been wounded in the right thigh, and was undoubtedly suffering much pain. Regardless of this, however, he was made to march back to the cabin and a rope was brought forth.

“We ought to shoot him on the spot, and have done with the viper,” said Ezra Winship. “But we’ll be a little more merciful and merely make him a prisoner. In the morning we can lay the case before Colonel Boone.”

The shot and the fire had aroused a number of the neighbors, and soon several came to the place to learn the trouble. When they heard of Yellow Blanket’s actions they were thoroughly enraged, and a number wanted to kill the Indian immediately, but Ezra Winship told them of what he had decided to do, and there the matter rested.

Daniel Boone came over himself at dawn, having just learned of the affair.

“It was a dastardly piece of business,” said the great hunter. “And I must say I didn’t think it of Yellow Blanket. He is a cur, but not so cowardly as I imagined. We will march him over to the fort and see what he has to say for himself.”

Colonel Boone’s orders were carried out, and the Indian was subjected to a rigid examination, lasting fully an hour.

At first Yellow Blanket would not talk, but when he was given to understand that he might suffer death for his crime he shrank back with fear.

Then he begged Boone to spare him, and intimated that he could tell a great deal concerning the raid on the late expedition to Boonesborough if the great hunter would promise him his life and his liberty.

At first Daniel Boone was not inclined to listen to the rascal, but he remembered how anxious Ezra Winship was concerning the whereabouts of Mrs. Winship, and how much the Parsons were worried over the loss of Clara Parsons, and he at last consented to be easy on the Indian provided he would tell the plain truth.

“And remember,” he said, “I shall not let you go until I have proved your words.”

Yellow Blanket then went into many details of the late raid. He said that the news of the expedition had been brought in by Long Knife, and that it was this chief who induced Red Feather to join in an attack on the whites. Long Knife was particularly anxious to carry off some pretty white maiden whom he might make his squaw. After the fight he had tried to carry off Harmony Winship, but she had been rescued, and Long Knife had been seriously wounded by some white person, the Indian had supposed was Paul Broker, but who, later on, proved to be Joe Winship, as already related.

“And what has become of Mrs. Winship and Clara Parsons?” questioned Daniel Boone. “And of the other captives?”

“They are at the lodges of Long Knife, Leaping Waters, and Elk Head,” answered Yellow Blanket. “But remember, the great hunter has promised not to tell anybody that Yellow Blanket revealed this,” he added.

“Where are those lodges located?” went on Boone.

At this Yellow Blanket described the spot as best he could. It was a place entirely new to Colonel Boone, and one not yet visited by any of the settlers at Boonesborough.

“How long do they expect to stay at the lodges?” was Boone’s next question.

Yellow Blanket could not answer definitely, but said he supposed they would remain there during the winter, at least.

After the examination, the news the Indian had imparted was told to Ezra Winship and Peter Parsons.

“If you wish you may head an expedition against the Indians,” said Daniel Boone. “I would go myself, but at present that is impossible. More settlers are coming in every day, as you can see, and Colonel Henderson is anxious to open a regular land office and form a permanent local government.”

What Boone said about new settlers was true. Nearly every day some pioneers came straggling in, and once or twice a month a body of six or eight families would appear. These settlers located at various points, but all looked to the fort at Boonesborough for aid in time of peril. A government was formed, which, though crude, succeeded in preserving some sort of law and order. Various officers were elected, but the majority of the settlers looked to Boone as their most reliable leader, especially when dealing with the ever-present Indian question.

From Yellow Blanket it was learned that the Indians under Long Knife and the other chiefs now amounted to perhaps a hundred all told. Of these less than thirty were full-fledged warriors, the balance being women, children, and old men incapable of fighting.

“Fifteen or twenty good shots ought to be able to whip them, and whip them well,” said Ezra Winship to Peter Parsons.

“I believe you,” answered Mr. Parsons. “And if we can get together that many pioneers I am willing to go out with you and see if we cannot rescue my daughter and your wife, and also the other captives.”

It was no easy matter to find so many good shots willing to enlist for the venture. Those who had members of their families missing were eager enough, but others held back, saying that they must remain at home to protect their own folks and provide food for the coming fall and winter. Many had not yet built their cabins, having lived during the summer under tents, and these felt that their first duty was to provide suitable shelters against the snow and cold weather that was coming.

“We should have started sooner, when the feeling against the redskins was more bitter,” said Peter Parsons. “Now the folks have grown accustomed to what has been, and it doesn’t look so cruel to them.”

But he and Ezra Winship persisted, and at last they gathered together seventeen men who were willing to undertake the trip. Of this number, four were men who had lost various members of their families by death during the raid, five, including Mr. Winship and Mr. Parsons, wanted to find, if possible, relatives who were lost, and the others went merely from a sense of duty, or for the excitement.

“We’ll teach ’em a lesson they won’t forgit in a hurry,” said old Pep Frost, who was of the number. “We’ll come down on ’em like a reg’lar hurricane, hear me!” The prospect just suited this man, and he went around whistling gayly as though getting ready for a pleasure outing.

Joe and Harry had both begged hard for permission to go along, but their fathers would not listen to their pleadings.

“I know you are brave enough to go, Joe,” said Mr. Winship. “But I want you to remain behind and look out for Cora and Harmony.”

“And you, Harry, must look after your mother,” put in Peter Parsons. “And, besides, both you boys want to prepare all the food you can for the long winter that will soon be on us. If by some cause we do not get back as soon as expected, we don’t want anybody here to starve to death.”

“Ah, husband, if thee will take good care of thy body we will take care of ours,” answered Mrs. Parsons. “And the same to thee, friend Winship.”

“We’ll try to come back safe and sound,” answered Mr. Parsons. “And, God willing, we will bring back the lost ones with us.”

The last night together in the log cabin was a sober one. Mrs. Parsons, a truly good woman, insisted on holding a Quaker meeting, and she and her husband prayed most earnestly for all present, that they might pass through the coming months unharmed, and might at last come together again with the lost ones with them.

The expedition started at sunrise. Joe and Harry saw them a mile or more on the way. Then came a final handshake, and the expedition continued on its way to the northwestward, while the two young pioneers turned back toward the log cabin, never dreaming of all that was to happen ere they should see their fathers again.

CHAPTER XVI
THE FALL OF A HICKORY TREE

After the departure of Ezra Winship and Peter Parsons, affairs at the log cabin took on a more sober look than ever. Although but little was said on the subject all felt that the expedition that had been undertaken was a most serious one. Should the pioneers be led into ambush by the Indians it might be that not one of them would come back to tell the tale.

But with so much work to be done, the boys had no time for idle speculation. They felt the responsibility that had been thrust upon them, and they determined to do their duty to the best of their ability.

The first work at hand was to gather in what remained of the somewhat scanty summer harvest. This was comparatively easy work, and the young pioneers were at it early and late.

During those days they were not without alarms, and on two occasions left the field to join the others at the fort. But one alarm was entirely false, and the other made by two drunken red men who were easily subdued, so there was no serious trouble.

After the last of the vegetables had been brought in and stored away, and the pease and beans dried, the boys turned their attention to firewood, and day after day found them at the edge of the clearing, hewing down the trees which were to keep them warm during the winter, and were also to help enlarge the fields which in the future were to produce the best of garden truck, as well as corn and rye.

Each boy was skillful with his ax, and they often wagered between themselves as to which could bring down a tree first. Sometimes the girls or Mrs. Parsons would come out to watch them for a brief spell, but usually these persons had all they could do in and around the cabin, where they were constantly spinning and weaving, knitting and sewing, on the various garments necessary for the approaching winter.

One day, when the boys were hard at work cutting down two tall hickory trees, a messenger rode into Boonesborough with news of the expedition that had gone forth. At once the lads dropped their axes and ran after the man to learn what he might have to tell.

“We have not seen the regular body of Indians yet,” said the messenger. “But we met three redskins on a river about a hundred miles west of here. Two of ’em were shot down in the fight, and the third man captured. He didn’t want to talk at first, but later on he thought better of it, and promised to lead us to Long Knife’s hang-out.”

The messenger had come in to have a wound in the shoulder attended to, and to obtain two more rifles and some special ammunition. He spent two days at Boonesborough, and during that time Joe and Harry learned from him that Mr. Winship and Mr. Parsons were as well as ever, and that they had great hopes of the ultimate success of the march against the enemy.

“They are moving rather slowly,” said Joe. “Do you know what I am inclined to think? That neither father nor the others want to attack the Indians until they have gone into winter quarters.”

“Well, if they do that, it’s more than likely they will catch the redskins off their guard,” answered Harry. “As a general thing an Indian don’t care to fight in the winter.”

It was not until the day following that the two young pioneers went to work to finish cutting down the two hickory trees. Each was anxious to have his tree fall first, and each worked away with vigor, making the broad chips fall in all directions.

“My tree is quivering!” cried Joe presently. “She’ll be down in another five minutes, and I know it!”

“Mine is coming too!” returned Harry, and worked away with renewed energy. Although they would not have admitted it, each youth was highly excited over the prospect of winning the novel race.

Harmony had come to the spring to get a bucket of water, and now, seeing the tops of the two tall trees quivering, she called Cora and Mrs. Parsons to come out and see the sight.

“They are coming,” she announced. “And I believe both are coming together.”

“I believe Harry’s is coming first,” said Cora, after a keen glance at each shivering tree.

“Boys! boys!” called Mrs. Parsons from the doorway of the cabin. “Be careful when they come down!”

Neither of the youths heard the warning, for each was chopping away madly. Then of a sudden a chip flew up and hit Harry in the eye.

“Oh!” he cried. “Oh, I’m hit!”

“Where?” demanded Joe, and looked toward his chum.

At that moment each tree began to come down with a mighty crack and a crash. Harry, holding his hand to his scratched eye, managed to leap out of the way of danger. But Joe, looking toward the other tree, was taken for the moment off his guard.

“Joe! Joe! jump!” screamed Harmony. “The tree is coming down on your head!”

The young pioneer now realized his danger and tried to leap away as bidden. But it was too late, and in an instant more he was caught by one of the tree limbs and pinned to the earth.

All who were looking on gave cries of horror, and even Harry forgot that one of his eyes had been scratched. He ran toward his chum with all speed.

“Joe!” he called. “Joe, get up and out of the way before the tree turns over on you!”

But Joe did not answer, for the reason that he was almost senseless from the shock. Coming closer, Harry saw that one of the branches of the hickory lay directly across his throat, pinning him down to the ground and strangling him!

“Is he—is he dead?” came from Harmony. Her face was ghastly white.

“I—I hope not,” answered Harry. “But he will be soon if I don’t get him free!”

Joe’s ax lay but a few steps away, and Harry caught it up without delay. There was a grave peril there between the limbs of the hickory, for the tree might turn over at any moment, carrying Harry down under it, but just then Harry gave no thought to this. His one idea was to save Joe from strangulation.

But if Harry was brave, the girls and Mrs. Parsons were equally so, and all rushed in to offer what assistance they could. While they held the limb as far up as possible Harry gave it a blow or two with his sharp ax and then the branch was bent back until it snapped and broke.

“Now out of the way, all of you!” panted Harry, and caught Joe up in his arms.

The others leaped away from the tree and Harry followed with his burden. Then the hickory began to crack and groan, and in half a minute more it rolled partly over into a slight hollow and lay still.