HIS SWIFT EYES SEARCHED IT FOR THE SIGN

IN KENTUCKY
WITH
Daniel Boone

By
JOHN T. McINTYRE

Illustrations by
Ralph L. Boyer and A. Edwin Kromer

THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
1913

COPYRIGHT
1913 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

Contents

Illustrations

In Kentucky With Daniel Boone

CHAPTER I
THE GRAY LIZARD SPEAKS

Along the trail which wound along the banks of the Yadkin, in North Carolina, rode a tall, sinewy man; he had a bronzed, resolute face, wore the hunting shirt, leggins and moccasins of the backwoods, and had hanging from one shoulder a long flint-locked rifle. A small buck, which this unerring weapon of the hunter had lately brought down, lay across his saddle bow.

Away along the trail, at a place where the river bent sharply, a cloud of dust arose in the trail; and as the hunter rode forward he kept his keen eyes upon this.

“Horsemen,” he told himself. “Two of them, I reckon, judging from the dust.”

Nearer and nearer rolled the cloud; at length the riders within it could be seen. One was a middle-aged man who rode a powerful black horse; the other was a boy of perhaps thirteen whose mount was a long-legged young horse, with a wild eye and ears that were never still.

Catching sight of the hunter, the man on the big black drew rein.

“What, Daniel!” cried he. “Well met!”

“How are you, Colonel Henderson?” replied the backwoodsman. “I didn’t calculate on seeing you to-day.”

“I rode over for the express purpose of having a talk with you,” said Colonel Henderson. “I was at your house, but they told me you’d gone away early this morning to try for some game.”

The hunter glanced down at the buck across his saddle. There was a discontented frown upon his brow.

“Yes, gone since early morning,” he said. “And this is all I got. The hunting ain’t so good in the Yadkin country as it was once. As a boy I’ve stood in the door of my father’s cabin and brought down deer big enough to be this one’s granddaddy.”

The boy on the long-legged horse bounced up and down in his saddle at this; the nag felt his excitement and began to rear and plunge.

“Steady, boy, steady,” said Colonel Henderson. “Hold him in.”

“It’s all right, uncle,” replied the lad. “He don’t mean anything by it.” Then to the hunter, as his mount became quiet: “That was good shooting, Mr. Boone, wasn’t it? And,” pointing to the carcass of the buck, “so was that. Right behind the left shoulder; and it left hardly a mark on him.”

Daniel Boone smiled.

“I always treat my old rifle well,” said he, humorously. “And she never goes back on me.”

“Some time ago I had a talk with John Finley,” said Colonel Henderson. “He told me wonderful tales of the hunting country beyond the Laurel Ridge.”[1]

Daniel Boone’s eyes went toward the northwest where the great mountain chain reared its peaks toward the sky until they were enveloped in a blue mist.

“Beyond the Laurel Ridge,” said he, “there is a country such as no man has ever seen before. Such hills and valleys, such forests and streams and plains can only be in one place in the world. And there are deer and bear and fur animals; and buffalo cover the plains. Also,” and a grim look came into his face, “there are redskins!”

There was a short silence; Colonel Henderson looked at the backwoodsman very thoughtfully.

“For some time,” said he, “it has seemed to me that these settlements are not what they should be. The laws enforced by the British governor Tryon, have sown discontent among the people. New emigrants go to other places where there are better laws and less taxes.”

Daniel Boone nodded.

“Tax gatherers, magistrates, lawyers and such like live like aristocrats,” said he, “and the farmers and other settlers are asked to support them. We are here in the settlements, it seems, for no other purpose than to give these fellows a soft living. And they take our money and treat us like servants. A peddler who hucksters among the Indians is thought a better man than the one who has cut a form out of the wilderness with his axe.”

There was a bitterness in the man’s tone which seemed to please the other.

“There are a great many who feel just as you do about it,” said he. “And it was this very thing that I rode over to speak about.”

Daniel Boone shook his head.

“Signing writings and sending them to Tryon will do no good,” said he. “He’s a tyrant and understands nothing but oppression.” Then in a longing tone, his eyes on the distant hills, “I wish I were away from the Yadkin for good and all. No man can be free here as long as we have public officers who think of nothing but plunder.”

“As I said before,” said Colonel Henderson, in a satisfied tone, “there are a great many others who are of the same way of thinking as you. But they have nowhere to go; if a new country was opened for them, they would sell their farms, pack their goods upon their horses’ backs and be gone.”

There was something in the speaker’s tone that took the attention of the backwoodsman. His keen eyes studied Colonel Henderson’s face; but he said nothing.

“Ever since I heard Finley talk of the country beyond the ridge,” said the colonel, resuming after a moment, “I’ve felt that such a rare region should be opened up for settlement.”

“Right!” cried Daniel Boone and his eyes began to glow.

“But,” said the colonel, “I’ve also felt that it should not be done until the country was explored further—until it had been penetrated to its interior, until its streams were worked out on a chart, a trail made for the passage of emigrants and the most promising places fixed upon for settlements.”

“Right again,” said Daniel Boone. “I’ve been in the country and so have Finley and some others; but none of us has studied it. To do that would take a year or more; and to live a year so far from the settlements a man would have to make up his mind to troubles from the Indians.”

“The Shawnees claim it,” said the colonel. “If it is what I want, I will buy it from them.”

“It’s a hunting-ground for Cherokees, Shawnees and Chickasaws,” said Boone, and he shook his head as he spoke. “So far as I could see, it belonged to all of them. And it’s a fighting place; when two hunting parties meet, the hatchet, knife and arrow begin their work.”

Once more the colonel regarded the backwoodsman attentively.

“I never knew the prospect of danger or hard work to hold you back in anything you wanted to do,” he said.

Boone laughed.

“I’ve always tried not to let them, I reckon,” said he.

“This fall,” and the colonel spoke slowly, “I am going to send an exploring party into the northwest country; and later, if it’s what I think it is, I’ll want a party of trail makers and a man to treat with the Shawnees. How would you like to take charge of this matter for me?”

For a moment Boone sat his horse, staring at the speaker.

“You mean it?” he said, at last.

“I do.”

The backwoodsman held out a strong brown hand; Colonel Henderson gripped it.

“I’m with you,” said Boone, in a tone of deep satisfaction. “It’s a thing I’ve been sort of dreaming of for years. That great region, now given over to the Indian hunters and wild beasts, is calling the white man. I heard its voice as I stood among the lonely hills, in the forests, and upon the banks of its rivers. Once there with their families, their plows and their horses, their cabins built, the settler will meet——”

“Death!” said a strange voice; and, startled, both Boone and Colonel Henderson turned their eyes in the direction from which it came.

An Indian stood there—an ancient savage, clad in skins upon which were painted queer symbols. Strings of amulets, bears’ claws and the teeth of foxes and wolves hung about him; his face was lined with the deep wrinkles of great age, his eyes were small, black, and glittered coldly like those of a snake.

“What, Gray Lizard!” said Boone, in surprise. “Are you here?”

The old Indian advanced a step or two, supporting himself by a long staff. Keenly the serpent eyes gazed at the three whites.

“Death will meet the paleface,” said he. “He will never build his lodge in the country beyond the mountains. Let him once pass the great gap, and he is no more.”

Boone laughed.

“I’ve been through the gap, Gray Lizard,” he said, good-naturedly; “and so have other white men. And we still live.”

The cold eyes fixed themselves upon the resolute face; one skinny finger was lifted until it pointed at Boone’s breast.

“You have,” said Gray Lizard. “You have, and you are marked. Let your rifle once more break the silence of the hills or ring over the waters of the red man’s rivers, and your death song is sung.”

Then he turned to Colonel Henderson, and continued:

“And you, white chief, take care! The Gray Lizard has known these many moons of what you mean to do, and now he warns you. If you love your friends, do not send them beyond the Laurel Ridge. For in the wilderness their fate awaits them at the hands of the Shawnees.”

He turned and was about to go; then he paused, and added:

“The Gray Lizard is old. He has seen many things. He knew the Yadkin when the white man was a stranger on its banks. Take warning by his words: do not venture beyond the blue hills.”

Then, his long staff ringing on the stones, he went limping down the trail.

CHAPTER II
A COMING STRUGGLE

As the strange figure of the old Cherokee went halting along the river trail, the eyes of Boone and his companions followed curiously.

“A queer sort of customer,” commented Colonel Henderson. “I don’t recall ever having seen him before.”

“He’s a wonder worker and medicine man,” said Boone. “And he spends a good bit of his time on the fringe of the settlements. Sometimes,” and here a frown came upon his brow, “I’ve thought him more of a spy than anything else.”

“At any rate he knows how to creep up on one secretly,” said the colonel, with a laugh. And then, more soberly: “And he seemed rather earnest in his sayings.”

Daniel Boone nodded his head.

“All these old redskins are crafty,” said he. “They spend their days and nights finding out ways of imposing on their fellow savages. And managing to do this without trouble they think they can impose in the same way upon the white man.”

“I see,” said Colonel Henderson.

“If they can put fear in the hearts of the whites,” continued Boone, “the whites will not venture into the wilderness. A settler killed now and then is the common way; but there are others, and I’ve heard a warning spoken by a prophet hung with totems before to-day.”

The boy who had been staring after the figure of Gray Lizard now spoke.

“I’ve been wondering where I saw him before, and now I’ve remembered, Uncle Dick,” said he. “Yesterday I rode up the river to visit the camp of the young braves who are to take part in the games. It was there I saw him; among the lodges.”

“Ah!” said Boone; “and so the braves have come in for the games, eh?”

“More than a score of them,” replied the lad. “And a fine looking lot they are, sir,” with admiration.

The backwoodsman nodded.

“They are sure to be,” said he, grimly. “The redskins seldom send any but the pick of their villages.”

“It’s been three days since they pitched their camp,” said the lad. “And they’ve been hard at work ever since, practicing with their bows and rifles, and throwing their hatchets at marks. There’s a good runner or two among them,” added the boy; “and they have some fine horses.”

“I’ve always been against these games,” said Daniel Boone, as he shook his head.

Colonel Henderson looked at him in surprise.

“Why,” said he, “how is that? Athletic games always seemed to me to be good for the youngsters.”

“So they are,” agreed Boone. “Mighty good. But these of ours are a mistake, because the lads don’t put enough heart in ’em. They don’t take ’em serious enough.”

The colonel smiled.

“It’s all in the spirit of fun,” said he.

But Boone shook his head.

“That’s where you’re wrong, colonel,” said he, “and that’s where the boys are also wrong. There ain’t many of us whites on this border; but over beyond the Laurel Ridge the Indians lie in clouds. And that they haven’t blotted us out long since is because away down in their hearts they’ve thought we’re better’n they are, for we’ve always showed we could give them odds and beat them at anything they cared to do.”

“And now, you think——”

“Our young men are letting them pull out ahead too often; and that’s not a good thing to have happen. Once let the red man get the notion that he’s better than the white, and this border’ll be turned into a wilderness—there won’t be a settlement but won’t feel the tomahawk and the torch. The white man will be turned back from the west for twenty years to come.”

“I see.” Colonel Henderson looked thoughtful. “I never thought of that, Daniel; and now that you put it before me I can see that you are right.”

The boy had listened to what the backwoodsman had to say with much attention. Now he spoke.

“Eph Taylor was along when I rode up to the Shawnee camp yesterday,” said he. “And as we went he told me how the young braves crowed over them last fall, and how they promised to beat them even worse this year. And when we got to the camp all the young warriors grinned at us and talked a lot among themselves. Eph knows some of their language and said it was all about us, and about the games and how they were going to run away from us in everything we tried.”

Boone looked at Henderson and nodded, grimly.

“Do you see?” said he. “That’s how it will begin. Five years from now these same young redskins will have a voice in the councils of their tribe. Let them carry this feeling of being better than us into those councils, and nothing will hold them back from a bloody war.”

“Well, Noll,” said Colonel Henderson to his nephew, “you see what you’ve got before you.”

The tone was half laughing; but when Oliver Barclay made reply it was with all the seriousness in the world.

“Eph and I talked about it as we rode back home,” said he. “And we made up our minds to give them a hard fight for each match as it came along. Eph and I are to arrange everything to-day; that’s why I am riding over to see him.”

“Well,” said Colonel Henderson, “I suppose you may as well go on if that’s what you are about. I have some business to talk over with Mr. Boone, and will ride back to his farm with him. Will you be home to-night?”

Noll shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” he replied. Then with a laugh: “When I get down to plotting with Eph Taylor there’s no telling when I’ll get through.”

He shook the rein, and the long-legged young horse brandished its heels in most exuberant fashion. The boy waved his hand to the two men.

“Good-bye,” said he. Then to Boone, “Going to be at the games to-morrow, Mr. Boone?”

“Maybe,” said the backwoodsman.

“Come along,” suggested Noll. “Maybe something’ll happen that’ll please you.”

Boone looked at the strong young figure sitting the fiery horse so easily, the clear eyes, the confident smile. And his bronzed face wrinkled in a laugh of pleasure.

“Well, Noll,” said he, “I’ll go. But mind you this: I’ll expect something more than I saw a year ago.”

“I can promise you that, anyhow,” said the boy. “And maybe there’ll be more. Good-bye.”

And with that he rode forward along the river trail, while Daniel Boone and Colonel Henderson turned their horses’ heads in the opposite direction. A mile further on Noll overtook Gray Lizard plodding on with the help of his long staff. The magician gave the boy a sidelong glance as he passed; but Noll did not check the lope of his horse, pushing on until he reached a place where a second trail branched away from the river, winding among the huge forest trees and losing itself in the billowing ocean of foliage.

He struck into this, and after an hour’s riding came in sight of a well-built log house, surrounded by broad fields, from which the crops had lately been harvested.

Before the cabin door sat a tall, lank boy in a hunting shirt, busily engaged in cleaning a long flint-locked rifle. At the sound of the rapid hoof-beats he looked up. Recognizing Oliver, who was still some distance off, he waved his hand in greeting; then he turned his head and spoke to some one within the cabin.

Drawing rein before the door, young Barclay threw himself from the saddle.

“Well, Eph,” said he, as he tied his mount to a post, “I suppose you all but gave up hope of me.”

Eph Taylor had a long, droll looking face, and as he shook his head he twisted his countenance into an expression of comic denial.

“No,” said he. “I reckoned you’d be along some time soon. This thing of ours was too important to let go by.”

He rammed a greased cloth down the barrel of the rifle, and twisting it about, withdrew it once more.

“I saw Sandy,” added he.

At this Noll Barclay was all eagerness.

“Did you!” exclaimed he. “And what did he say?”

“Suppose I let him speak for himself,” said Eph, with the same comical twist to his long face. “He came over this afternoon to talk things over with us. Ho! Sandy! Can you come here for a little?”

A short, tow-haired youth appeared at the door of the cabin; he carried a halter in one hand and a brad-awl in the other. He nodded to Oliver good-humoredly.

“Glad to see you again,” said he. “How are you?”

His accent was broadly Scotch, and there was a round-bodied heartiness to him which at once inspired good will.

“I’m in right good health,” said Oliver. “And I’m glad enough to see you, Sandy.”

Sandy Campbell laughed. He placed a strap of the halter against the door frame and punctured it with the awl.

“I was mighty taken with your notion,” stated he. “And when I got done with my work, I rode over to hear more about it.”

Oliver Barclay sat down upon a rough settle which stood beneath a cottonwood; he looked at the other two boys with earnest eyes.

“What we talked over yesterday, Eph,” said he, “seemed good reason enough for us to make an attempt to get the best of the Cherokees. But what I heard this afternoon puts a different face on it altogether.”

Eph Taylor looked up from his rifle in surprise.

“You don’t mean to say that you have changed your mind!” said he.

Oliver shook his head.

“Not a bit of it,” answered he. “Indeed, I’m firmer about it than ever. But to just make an attempt to best the Indians won’t do now; we must beat them!”

Both Eph and Sandy looked at him inquiringly.

“You say you heard something,” said Sandy Campbell. “What was it?”

“As I rode down the trail with my uncle,” said Noll, “we met Mr. Boone.”

The face of Eph Taylor took on an expression of interest.

“Oh, it was something he said, was it? Well, then, I allow it was worth listening to, for Dan’l Boone always talks as the crow flies—in a straight line.”

And then, while his two friends listened with great attention, Oliver repeated the words of the backwoodsman. When he had finished, Sandy nodded his head.

“It sounds much like the truth of the matter,” said he.

“It is the truth!” declared Eph, emphatically. “If we give these redskins a chance to crow over us in little things, they’ll think they can do it in big things. To-morrow we must take ’em in hand and give them a good thrashing—a regular good one that they’ll not forget in a hurry.”

“I’m all ready for my part of it,” grinned Sandy. “Or, at least I will be as soon as this halter’s finished. That old Soldier horse couldn’t have been better for the work if he’d been picked out of a hundred. He’s got a back as wide as a floor; and I’ve been practicing with him all summer, never thinking I’d have any use for it.”

“It’s lucky you did,” spoke Eph. “And I reckon the things you do’ll make the redskins open their eyes. As for me,” and he fondled the long rifle lovingly, “I got old Jerusha here; and when she begins to talk I allow there won’t be many Shawnees that’ll use better language.”

Oliver smiled and nodded. To strangers there would have been a boastful note in the words of young Taylor; but not to those who knew him. The boy was a wonderful shot at all distances, but it never occurred to him to take any personal credit for this. Oddly enough he gave it all to his rifle.

“Nobody with half an eye could miss with her,” he’d frequently declare. “She’s the greatest old shooting iron ever made.”

Oliver sat smiling and nodding at Eph’s faith in his piece, and while he did so his eyes went to the spot where the long-legged young horse was tied. Sandy noticed the look and his glance also went in the same direction.

“The Hawk will do his share,” said he with an air of expert judgment. “He has speed and bottom and in a long race he’ll break the hearts of those Indian nags.”

“Just like his master’ll break the hearts of the Shawnees that’ll run against him,” spoke Eph Taylor, with confidence.

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Oliver; and as he spoke a sound from across the fields toward the line of forest took their attention. The sinking sun glanced from the lithe bronze body of a young Indian who was running swiftly and low, like a hound. “There’s the fellow I’m to fight it out against,” added the white boy. “And any one who comes in ahead of him will have speed, indeed.”

Eph Taylor nodded.

“He’s good,” admitted he. “But I count on him, Injun like, only to use his legs in the race. To beat him, all you’ve got to do is to use your head as well.”

CHAPTER III
DANIEL BOONE, MARKSMAN

Mounted upon his powerful bay horse, Daniel Boone the following day rode toward Holman’s Ford. This point was some eight miles from Hillsboro, and it was here that the young men of the settlement met each fall for their hardy frontier games.

Keen-sighted youths, bearing long barrelled flint-locks, eagerly awaited this, the test of their skill; sturdy wrestlers burned to match their thews against each other; and the runners, both horse and man, were equally anxious to show their quality.

The sun had reached high noon when the backwoodsman reached the ford, dismounted and tied his nag to a tree. A long line of wagons, the horses tied to the wheels, stood on the river bank; the settlers and their families were gathered beneath the trees. Apart from these were the athletes of farm and forest, well-grown boys and brawny young men; they stood about in knots and discussed the probabilities of each event. A smaller knot than any of the others stood at the foot of a huge cottonwood; a hail went up from this as Boone went by; and he paused as he recognized Oliver Barclay, Eph Taylor and Sandy Campbell.

“Well, youngsters,” said the pioneer, “how is it going?”

Eph Taylor grinned.

“There ain’t been much done yet, Mr. Boone,” said he. “And even with the little we’ve gone through, we’ve had trouble with the redskins.”

The eyes of Boone went to a cleared space among the trees where a number of lodges had been erected; upon some skins, thrown upon the ground, lay a half score of keen-looking Shawnees. To the trees near by were fastened a number of rangy-looking horses.

“What’s wrong?” asked the backwoodsman.

“We’ve had the jumps,” said Eph, “and none of the Indians entered for them. So Eben Clarke won ’em all. Then there was the throwing of the stone and big Sam Dutton put it further than any one else, by a good bit. The first thing the Shawnees took any interest in was the swim. It was across the river and back, to start at the word and all together. A slippery little redskin entered for that; he got into the water like a streak; and he was a real good swimmer. George Collins was off in the front and the little Shawnee went by him like a fish. Then George began to stretch out and grab the water in armfuls and pull himself after him. But he never caught him till they got to the middle of the stream on the way back. Sandy here was in the race,” and Eph grinned. “He thinks he’s a swimmer, but he was still on the way over when George and the redskin were coming back. Just as George caught the Indian they both ran afoul of Sandy. And because George went ahead from that on and won the race the Shawnees say the whole consarned thing was a put up job to beat them out of the race.”

“And it’s not so,” said Sandy, with indignation. “If I interfered with anybody it was with George Collins. I dived to get out of the Indian’s way when I saw him coming and I went straight into George.”

“There’s only one of them who understands any English, beside old Gray Lizard,” said Oliver, “and that’s the tall fellow covered with the bearskin. We took the trouble to explain the matter to them; but they just shake their heads and candidly think the worst of us.”

“Injuns,” stated Boone, “can never be got to quite believe the white man. Maybe it’s because they’ve been beaten so often and in so many ways that they’ve come to think that he can’t have played fair with him.”

The wrestling was now going forward, and big Sam Dutton, he of the “stone throw,” was disposing of opponent after opponent with ease. There being little interest manifested in this because of its one-sidedness, the master of ceremonies, a stout, humorous-looking man, called out:

“I reckon we’ll now have the fancy riders out getting ready.” Then in a lower tone to those near him, “This is a thing the Injuns always win, and our boys ought to be ashamed of themselves for letting ’em. Trick riding ought to be as easy for a white as a redskin.”

This complaint was greeted by a laugh from those at whom it was aimed; and the laugh was still echoing when a young Shawnee ran out and across the green. To a tree some distance away he affixed a mark of painted bark, then he paced off a score of yards, turned, drew a tomahawk and waved it as though in challenge. Then the sinewy, bronzed arm went back and the hatchet whizzed through the air; true and fair it struck the mark, burying itself an inch or more in the tree.

A yell went up from the young braves at this; there were challenging glances thrown right and left; but as none of the whites appeared disposed to accept, a fresh mark was put up. Another Shawnee stepped forward and drew out a heavy-bladed knife. For an instant he balanced it in his hand, then launched it forward like a lightning flash, straight to the heart of the mark.

Another whoop arose, and again the triumphant challenging glances went around from the young savages.

“They reckon there ain’t none of you got it in you to do a thing like that,” stated the master of ceremonies.

“Just you wait till the shooting,” answered a voice, and a murmur went up from among the whites. “We’ll show ’em then.”

“Well, you ought to,” answered the stout man. “You’ve lived all your lives with rifles in your hands, and it’s not much to your credit that you can shoot. But,” and he waved one pudgy finger at them, “don’t be too sure of the shooting, even at that. Maybe you ain’t heard that Long Panther is here to-day! And anybody that’s acquainted with that young redskin knows a Shawnee with a good eye and a steady hand.”

Here those horsemen entered for the fancy riding galloped out into the open space. To a man they were Indians, in all the bravery of paint and plumes.

“Not a single one of you!” exclaimed the fat master of ceremonies, reproachfully, his gaze going from the array of confident savages to the circle of lolling young whites. “Not a single one; not a thing do you know about riding but to get into the saddle and sit there like an old dame in a rocking-chair. Not a single——”

But there he paused, for just then there rode into the open space a round-bodied youth with a cheerful, good-natured face, and mounted upon an ambling white horse, as fat and unlike the fiery brutes bestridden by the Shawnees as could well be imagined. A roar went up at sight of this unexpected entry; even the stoical savages grinned in ironic enjoyment of the situation.

Gravely the master of ceremonies shook the newcomer’s hand.

“Young man,” said he, gratefully, “you may not have much chance, but you have got pluck. What’s your name and the name of that young animal you’re a-riding?”

“I’m Sandy Campbell,” replied that good-natured youth, “and this,” patting the fat white horse on the neck, “is Soldier, a plow horse, fifteen years old, belonging to the man I work for.”

Another shout went up from the by-standers; but the master of ceremonies held up his hand.

“It’s not your turn to laugh,” stated he. “He’s making a try; and that’s something more than any of you have the enterprise to do.”

The word was given; one after another the young braves set their horses into a gallop; when at full speed they leaped from the backs of their mounts and, clinging to the streaming manes, ran a dozen or more yards by their sides; then with agile swings they were astride them once more. Then with a rush they approached the starting point, bringing up sharply and in picturesque fashion, the front hoofs of the horses pawing the air.

All eyes now turned upon Sandy Campbell and the sleek sided Soldier. Quietly Sandy gave the white horse the word and calmly the placid beast obeyed. At a stoical gallop he began circling the clearing; his movements were as regular as those of a rocking-horse; and Sandy sat him in total unconcern while shouts and laughter greeted them on every hand. Then Sandy threw his right leg across the horse’s broad back, sitting him sideways; it looked like an uncouth beginning of the feat performed by the Shawnees and a titter of expectancy began. This changed to a roar of derision as the fat boy slid from his perch to the ground.

But if they had watched keenly, they would have perceived that he alighted with a soft, practiced accuracy; also that the long comic bounds which followed at the side of the calmly galloping Soldier were really as light as those of a rubber ball. Then with one higher than the others, and never putting a hand upon his horse, he was upon its back once more; and Soldier drew up, switching his tail and regarding the green distance with sleepy eyes.

Without waiting for the surprised applause of the settlers to grow to the height it naturally would have reached, one of the young Shawnees shook his rein; his nimble steed darted away like the wind, an arrow flew ahead, performed a graceful arch and stack in the ground. Racing at full speed the horse swooped down upon it; clinging with one foot and one hand the brave stooped, caught the feathered shaft, and recovering, waved it above him triumphantly.

Soldier was at once put into motion; when he had attained his best speed, Sandy’s hat flew ahead to one side, and a long hunting knife followed, falling to the other side, but a dozen or more yards further along. Heading his galloping horse between these, Sandy stooped and caught the hat; then recovering like a flash, he threw himself to the opposite side, gripping the shaft of the knife as he sped by.

The shout which greeted this made the echo from across the Yadkin ring lustily; the settlers now awoke to the fact that the round-faced youth and his fat plow horse knew what they were about. And so they eagerly acclaimed and urged them to do their best.

Trick after trick of horsemanship was performed by the Indians, and all with the ease of experts and the dash of perfect confidence. But their feats showed little imagination, and in this those of the white boy were vastly superior. Each time they displayed something new he duplicated it with an added touch, leaving them open-mouthed and aghast.

At last one of them, and their finest rider by far, broke from the line and called something to Sandy, a something which was evidently a defiance. Putting his horse to gallop, he, with much effort, swaying and uncertainty, got upon his feet and there remained until he had completed the circle, when he leaped to the ground. While the yells of the Indians were still greeting this bit of daring, Sandy started Soldier once more. With perfect ease, and greatly helped by the beast’s broad back and its rocking-horse motion, the boy got upon his feet; after making a complete round, he leaped up, turned a somersault, alighted expertly upon the platform-like back, and once more stood erect; then standing upon one foot and with the other twiddling in the air, he galloped around once more.

This was the last straw. The Shawnees could not hope to outdo this, and so retired. While the whites gathered about Sandy and his steed, Boone turned to Oliver and Eph.

“I reckon your friend didn’t learn them things in Carolina,” said he.

Oliver laughed, delighted.

“No,” he replied. “At home, in Scotland, he was a rider in a circus; and he’s been practicing and training the white horse for some time.”

“Friends!” called the master of ceremonies, “the time is drawing on, and as there are three contests still to be decided, we’d best get at them. The race for horses is next; riders will line across the trail.”

At this summons, Oliver Barclay sprang from Hawk, his long-legged young horse, untied and mounted him; and as it happened as he rode to the end of the forming line, he found himself next the tall young Shawnee whom they had pointed out to Boone as being able to talk English.

“Umph!” said this personage, his swift eyes running over the points of the horse. “You ride?”

Oliver nodded. The young brave bestrode a bony, long barreled horse with small ears and a wicked head. Its bared teeth gleamed as it snapped viciously at the horses within reach.

“Maybe you run,” ventured the Shawnee. Again Oliver nodded; and a glint of satisfaction came into the keen black eyes of the brave.

“Heap good!” said he. “Long Panther will beat you in both.”

Oliver smiled.

“The Long Panther is a good rider,” said he. “We have seen him many times break the wild horse, and manage the swift one. And he can run. Only yesterday I saw him flying along the trail like a wolf in the track of an antelope. But,” and the boy shook his head, “to win to-day, even Long Panther must do his best.”

“White boy shoot?” asked Long Panther; but Oliver shook his head.

“Not enough to match myself against experts,” said he. “But there are a few who will handle the rifle to-day, Long Panther, whom it will not be easy to draw away from.”

The Shawnee lifted his head proudly.

“The red man will win,” said he. “His eye is like the eagle’s, his hand as steady as the head of a rattlesnake before it strikes.”

The glance of the master of ceremonies ran along the line of horsemen. Then he pointed to a lone tree far down the river trail from which a flag was flying.

“You ride to that, around it, and back,” said he. “And now, when I drop my hat, you start.”

Once more the glance went along the line to assure him that all was still as it should be. Then the hat fell.

With a rush the horses shot forward along the trail; a cloud of dust overhung them and it was hard to tell who led or who trailed in the rear. Then little by little the compactness of the mass was lost; the runners began to stretch out, the swift going to the front, and the others falling back. At the flag the dust ascended in a great column; then the riders were seen plunging through it on the way to the finish.

“Long Panther in the lead!” cried Eph Taylor, straining his eyes to make out the contestants. “And he’s riding like as if he was part of the horse.”

“I don’t see anything of young Noll,” said Boone.

Sandy Campbell was trying to keep the sun out of his eyes by holding his outspread hands over them; he searched the dusty cloud as it rolled toward them.

“I see him!” he shouted, in high excitement. “I see him!”

“Where?” demanded Eph, eagerly.

“He’s about the sixth rider—far back in the dust.”

“Sixth!” cried Eph, and his voice was husky with disappointment.

“But he’s coming along swiftly,” said Sandy. “The Hawk is stretching over the ground like a rabbit.”

“I see him now!” shouted Eph. “I see him! But he’s not sixth—he’s fourth!”

“He’s passed two of them since I spoke,” said Sandy, and then with a whoop, “There goes another to the rear!”

“And still another!” cried Eph, dropping his beloved Jerusha and waving his long arms. “He’s second!”

“Do you see Long Panther look over his shoulder?” called Sandy. “See how his teeth show—even at that distance! He looks as vicious as that ugly brute of a horse of his.”

Whirling out of the dust came the bony steed ridden by the Shawnee; its sweeping stride covered the ground with astonishing speed, its rider was bent low over its neck, his eagle plumes mingling with the steed’s flying mane. But if the stride of the Indian’s steed ate up the distance, the long legs of Hawk devoured it. The eyes of the young animal fairly flowed with excitement; his wide nostrils showed red; his flying hoofs made dazzling play as they flashed and reflashed, in and out, up and down; his sleek hide was flecked with foam.

“One hundred yards to go!” cried Sandy.

“And the Hawk’s nose is at the Injun’s knee!” shouted Eph Taylor, arms still waving madly.

Lower and still lower bent Long Panther, whiter and whiter gleamed his teeth; faster and still faster flew the thundering hoofs of the wicked looking steed. But nothing on four feet could have outstepped the rush of the flame-eyed Hawk; no one who ever sat in a saddle could have outdone in determination the boy who bestrode him. In a half dozen mighty bounds the Hawk was nose and nose with the horse of the Indian; and then he was ahead, daylight showing between them true and fair; when he flashed by the finish he was a winner by a good half dozen yards.

White boy and red slipped from their horses almost side by side as the roar of applause went up from the crowd. Leaning against the heaving side of his mount, the Long Panther stood for a moment staring into the face of Oliver Barclay. Then, without a word, he turned, leaving his horse standing in the trail and strode toward the lodges among the trees.

Amid the tumult of shouting the stout master of ceremonies was not idle. The next event was the shooting at all distances—and with all weapons; and the targets and marks were set up with all possible speed.

“Yes, friends,” cried the stout man at the top of his voice, addressing a throng gathered about Oliver and the Hawk, “I know how you feel, for I feel just that way myself. It’s a good boy and a good colt. But let’s get ahead with things. Now we have the shooting on our hands—shooting with rifles or with bows and arrows, the white man and his red brother to have the use of his favorite weapon. If a white wants to use a bow, let him do so and the fates prosper him; if a red prefers a rifle, let him take it by all means and use it to the best of his courage and eyesight.”

As the riflemen came forward, each with his long weapon in his grip, the throng followed and formed a sort of half circle behind them. Several of the Indians also advanced, their long bows tautly strung, their quivers full of arrows.

One by one the rifles cracked, and the bowstrings sang; mark after mark was shot away, and marksman after marksman fell back defeated. Eph Taylor advanced time after time, Jerusha in his hand; fondly he’d cuddle the smooth stock against his cheek, and when the old weapon’s sharp voice rang out, it was to announce the planting of a bullet in the heart of the target.

After three-quarters of an hour the last Shawnee was eliminated; and the struggle seemed between Eph Taylor and a gray-haired, keen-eyed hunter from the region toward the ridge. It was nip and tuck between this pair; neither seemed able to perform a feat which the other could not duplicate. The ringing of the shots, the spatting of the ball, the fall of wand or coin, or the snuffing out of candles went on with monotonous regularity; but at length this was broken by the appearance of the magician, Gray Lizard. With his amulets of skulls and claws, and pouches filled with potent charms hanging from him, his staff in his hand and his ratty old eyes filled with contempt, he advanced to the place where the riflemen were standing.

“What child’s work!” cried he. “What pastime for the papooses of the village! Again and again do you repeat what you have done before. And nothing comes of it. The Shawnee is about to go! but before he goes he would like to show his white brother what he thinks is a real test of skill.” Then to the master of ceremonies, “Is it the white man’s will?”

The stout official scratched his head.

“It’s against all the rules that I ever heard tell of,” he announced. “But I’m for letting them do it. What do you say, lads?”

A shout of assent went up from the settlers; for all were eager to see what the redskin marksman would do.

The Gray Lizard turned and held up one hand toward the little knot of savages who stood in a gloomy array at one side.

“Long Panther, by jickety!” said Eph, who had been looking toward the Indians, curiously.

“I thought he was so tarnal mad at being licked in the hoss race that he didn’t mean to shoot at all,” said the old hunter who had been pressing Eph close. “But here he comes, as proud as a she wolf with seven pups, and a-meaning to outshoot all creation if it can be done any way at all.”

Long Panther advanced with erect head and a face like bronze, so utterly devoid of expression was it; but his keen swift eyes were full of fire and insolent challenge. His manner was that of one who felt himself master of the situation.

“The Gray Lizard spoke well,” said he. “To shoot at sticks and lights is work for the papoose, and not for the warrior. I ask but one shot; and then let any of you do as well, and I am content to say the white man is better than the Shawnee.”

As he spoke his swift eyes went about among the trees; upon a huge dead limb of an oak, near to the trunk, sat a gray squirrel, his bushy tail held erect, his deft forepaws stroking his moustache.

“A live mark!” said Long Panther, as he fitted an arrow to his string. “I will take it through the skin at the back of its neck and pin it to the tree.”

Almost before he ceased to speak, the arrow flew upon its mission; and the next instant the squirrel, pinned exactly as the Shawnee marksman had said, was struggling for release.

A hush fell upon the crowd; and as a boy nimbly ascended the oak and liberated the squirrel, the master of ceremonies spoke.

“Men, it was a good shot. And, now, speak up. Can any of you do the like?”

Eph and the old hunter were shaking their heads when Daniel Boone stepped forward.

“The brave,” said Boone, slowly, “has made a good shot. No one will gainsay that. But it was a trick.”

All eyes were upon him; Long Panther gave him a look of fierce disdain.

“The shot,” said the young warrior, “was fair, and was seen by all.”

Boone nodded.

“But for all that it was a trick,” said he. “It was a shot that can be made only with an arrow. A marksman can’t pin a squirrel to a tree trunk with a rifle bullet, Long Panther, as you know very well.”

A murmur went up from the whites; there was an eager assent to this way of looking at the matter.

“But,” continued Boone, coolly, “you said that if any of us could do as well, you’d admit yourself beaten.” He balanced his heavy rifle in his strong hands, a smile upon his bronzed face. “Very well. To equal your trick shot which cannot be done with a rifle, I will do one which can’t be done with an arrow.”

A huge gum tree reared its mighty head upon the river bank; upon a limb part way up lay a red squirrel, blinking at the assemblage with his shrewd little eyes. The heavy rifle began to lift toward this mark.

“Long Panther,” said Boone, quietly, his eyes never leaving the tiny ball of red fur so high in the air, “if I bring down the little beast, dead, and with never a mark of the bullet on him, will you admit it as good a shot as your own?”

“I will!” cried the Shawnee, promptly.

The long rifle cracked, a shower of particles of bark flew up from the limb directly under the squirrel; the concussion threw the little animal whirling into the air; it fell to the ground at the foot of the gum tree—dead.[2]

In an instant it was in the hands of Long Panther; his swift eyes searched it for the sign that would give him victory.

“Well?” asked Boone, after a moment.

The young warrior lifted his face.

“It is without a mark,” said he. Then as he turned away, he added in a voice of wonder, “The white man is indeed a mighty hunter.”

And when the foot-racers took their places a few moments later to decide the question of speed and endurance, Oliver Barclay was one of them. But there were no Indians among them. Curiously, the boy cast his eyes about, the words of the Gray Lizard occurring to him. Sure enough, there were the redskins mounted, their camp equipment upon the backs of the packhorses. With no thought of triumphing over a beaten foe, but filled with disappointment at not having the chance to try himself against the famed runner, Oliver stepped aside to Long Panther’s horse.

“What! are you going before the race is run?” asked he, astonished.

The young warrior looked down into the face of the white boy long and intently; then he spoke.

“It may be,” he said, “that the time will come when you and I will run a race. And if it should, see to it that you are as swift as the antelope of the plains; for it may be that you will have much at stake.”

And with that Long Panther rode off along the trail after his fellow braves.

CHAPTER IV
IN THE WILDERNESS

That Boone had in mind an adventure beyond the Laurel Ridge was soon noised abroad.

“Going on a big hunt,” said one of the settlers to another. “Taking John Finley, who some years ago led a party to the Louisa River[3] region, and some others.”

“Means to stay for some time, too, I hear,” said the other.

The first speaker nodded.

“Dan’l’s boys are big enough to look after things now,” said he. “And I guess they have money enough to last a while. And besides the fun of the hunt, Boone’ll bring back rich furs, for they say the country he’s going into just swarms with game.”

But that Boone had any thought other than hunting was not known to the settlements; that Colonel Henderson contemplated having the backwoodsman inspect the wilderness as a preliminary to planting colonies therein was kept a close secret.

It was one fine day in May in the year 1769 that the little party assembled for the start. Besides Boone and Finley, there were James Moncey, John Stuart, William Cool and Joseph Holden, hardy woodsmen, dead shots and men who could be depended upon in any emergency.

Besides the sinewy, deep-winded horses which they rode, they had a number of pack animals laden with blankets, ammunition and camp equipment and provisions.

“We need not take much food,” said Boone, and Finley had agreed with him. “A little meal and salt and such like, that’s all. For the country into which we’re going, boys, is a paradise for riflemen. The streams have never been fished except by the wandering Injuns; the herds of deer and buffalo are endless; the small game, both furred and feathered, are not to be counted.”

Each of the adventurers had slung across his back the very long, flint-lock rifle made famous by their breed and generation; they also carried keen, heavy knives and hatchets; only a few pistols were to be seen among them. They wore deerskin hunting shirts and tanned leggins of the same material; their powder-horns and bullet-pouches swung from their shoulders.

Boone and the others had said good-bye to their families and now sat their horses in the trail along the Yadkin, having a last word with Colonel Henderson, who had ridden from Hillsboro to see them off. Noll Barclay had borne him company, and Eph Taylor, eager and curious, had journeyed from the forest-encircled farm to hear the latest word.

“I suppose,” Oliver said to his uncle, “that you have reasons, but I can’t see why Eph and I could not ride with Mr. Boone on this adventure as well as not.”

“You are too young,” spoke the colonel, after the fashion of a man who had heard the suggestion in many forms before.

Boone looked at the straight, slight form of the lad, and then at the lanky Eph. He nodded his agreement with the other.

“Too young,” said he. “There are times, lads, when years count, and this is one of them. It’s not only your being short of endurance but of judgment that makes it impossible to take you along this time. You look at this thing as a bit of fun, and that is just what it is not. In a year or two, though,” he added, “you’ll both have picked up years and experience.”

“But in a year or two,” objected Noll, “there may be no trips into the wilderness.”

Both Boone and Colonel Henderson laughed.

“The wilderness will be there for many years to come,” spoke the colonel.

“And this, I think, is not the last trip into it by many,” said Daniel Boone.

Young Barclay had talked over the adventure of the wilderness with both Eph and Sandy, and while none of them hoped to be taken along on the expedition, they, like every lad for miles around, longed to have fate play an unexpected prank in their behalf.

“I don’t expect anything to happen,” Oliver had said, fervently. “But you can never tell.”

However, it did not happen, and the two boys watched the hardy band ride along the trail for the river, leading their pack animals, and plunge into the budding green sea of the forest.

Now began the long hardship of the journey across the mountains. For some days the going was not so difficult, because ways had been hewn in the forests by settlers tilling the land round about; but in a little while they penetrated beyond the settled district and were voyaging in the trackless wilderness where the foot of the white man had seldom fallen. They now followed the winding paths made by buffalo and other large animals as being attended with less labor than pushing their way through the dense undergrowth and interlacing vines. Through deep ravines, down roaring mountain streams, descending into wonderful valleys, fording deep rivers, they held their way across the mountain ridge which streaked so blue across the sky-line; and at length they found themselves on the verge of that far country of which they had been in search.

Here and there in the journey they had come across the tracks of redskins; once across the tree tops they had seen tall, pale columns of smoke lifting, which told of a camp of some size. And having no desire to become better acquainted with the wandering tribesmen, they had always changed their course and brought into play all those wiles known to the students of woodcraft to throw off their trail any one who might stumble upon it.

“It’s always best to be careful,” said Boone, during one of these sudden shifts in their course. “As far as I know there’s no big party in this region, because it belongs to no one tribe and is visited only by the hunters. But never take a chance that can be avoided—that’s the safe course to follow.”

However, as Daniel Boone had said to Colonel Henderson, the beautiful land of Kentucky was used, from time to time, as something more than a hunting-ground. Bands of Chickasaws, Shawnees and Cherokees frequently met in the heart of the wild, and when they did, savage fighting followed. So desperate were these conflicts that the region became known by an Indian name signifying “dark and bloody ground.”