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.