CHAPTER I_The Young Trailers: A Story of Early Kentucky

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THE YOUNG TRAILERS

A Story of Early Kentucky

JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER

Appleton-Century-Crofts, Inc.

New York

D. Appleton and Company

reproduced in any form without permission of the publishers.

Printed in the United States of America

SYDNEY

A YOUNG KENTUCKIAN

CONTENTS

I.--Into the Unknown

II.--The First Great Exploit

III.--Lost in the Wilderness

IV.--The Haunted Forest

V.--Afloat

VI.--The Voice of the Woods

VII.--The Giant Bones

VIII.--The Wild Turkey's "Gobble"

IX.--The Escape

X.--The Cave Dust

XI.--The Forest Spell

XII.--The Primitive Man

XIII.--The Call of Duty

XIV.--The Return

XV.--The Siege

XVI.--A Girl's Way

XVII.--The Battle in the Forest

XVIII.--The Test

XIX.--An Errand and a Friend

THE YOUNG TRAILERS

CHAPTER I

INTO THE UNKNOWN

It was a white caravan that looked down from the crest of the mountains

upon the green wilderness, called by the Indians, _Kain-tuck-ee_. The

wagons, a score or so in number, were covered with arched canvas,

bleached by the rains, and, as they stood there, side by side, they

looked like a snowdrift against the emerald expanse of forest and

foliage.

The travelers saw the land of hope, outspread before them, a wide sweep

of rolling country, covered with trees and canebrake, cut by streams of

clear water, flowing here and there, and shining in the distance, amid

the green, like threads of silver wire. All gazed, keen with interest

and curiosity, because this unknown land was to be their home, but none

was more eager than Henry Ware, a strong boy of fifteen who stood in

front of the wagons beside the guide, Tom Ross, a tall, lean man the

color of well-tanned leather, who would never let his rifle go out of

his hand, and who had Henry's heartfelt admiration, because he knew so

much about the woods and wild animals, and told such strange and

absorbing tales of the great wilderness that now lay before them.

But any close observer who noted Henry Ware would always have looked at

him a second time. He was tall and muscled beyond his years, and when he

walked his figure showed a certain litheness and power like that of the

forest bred. His gaze was rapid, penetrating and inclusive, but never

furtive. He seemed to fit into the picture of the wilderness, as if he

had taken a space reserved there for him, and had put himself in

complete harmony with all its details.

The long journey from their old home in Maryland had been a source of

unending variety and delight to Henry. There had been no painful

partings. His mother and his brother and young sister were in the fourth

wagon from the right, and his father stood beside it. Farther on in the

same company were his uncles and aunts, and many of the old neighbors.

All had come together. It was really the removal of a village from an

old land to a new one, and with the familiar faces of kindred and

friends around them, they were not lonely in strange regions, though

mountains frowned and dark forests lowered.

It was to Henry a return rather than a removal. He almost fancied that

in some far-off age he had seen all these things before. The forests and

the mountains beckoned in friendly fashion; they had no terrors, for

even their secrets lay open before him. He seemed to breathe a newer and

keener air than that of the old land left behind, and his mind expanded

with the thought of fresh pleasures to come. The veteran guide, Ross,

alone observed how the boy learned, through intuition, ways of the

wilderness that others achieved only by hard experience.

They had met fair weather, an important item in such a journey, and

there had been no illness, beyond trifling ailments quickly cured. As

they traveled slowly and at their ease, it took them a long time to pass

through the settled regions. This part of the journey did not interest

Henry so much. He was eager for the forests and the great wilderness

where his fancy had already gone before. He wanted to see deer and bears

and buffaloes, trees bigger than any that grew in Maryland, and

mountains and mighty rivers. But they left the settlements behind at

last, and came to the unbroken forest. Here he found his hopes

fulfilled. They were on the first slopes of the mountains that divide

Virginia from Kentucky, and the bold, wild nature of the country pleased

him. He had never seen mountains before, and he felt the dignity and

grandeur of the peaks.

Sometimes he went on ahead with Tom Ross, the guide, his chosen friend,

and then he considered himself, in very truth, a man, or soon to become

one, because he was now exploring the unknown, leading the way for a

caravan--and there could be no more important duty. At such moments he

listened to the talk of the guide who taught the lesson that in the

wilderness it was always important to see and to listen, a thing however

that Henry already knew instinctively. He learned the usual sounds of

the woods, and if there was any new noise he would see what made it. He

studied, too, the habits of the beasts and birds. As for fishing, he

found that easy. He could cut a rod with his clasp knife, tie a string

to the end of it and a bent pin to the end of a string, and with this

rude tackle he could soon catch in the mountain creeks as many fish as

he wanted.

Henry liked the nights in the mountains; in which he did not differ from

his fellow-travelers. Then the work of the day was done; the wagons were

drawn up in a half circle, the horses and the oxen were resting or

grazing under the trees, and, as they needed fires for warmth as well as

cooking, they built them high and long, giving room for all in front of

the red coals if they wished. The forest was full of fallen brushwood,

as dry as tinder, and Henry helped gather it. It pleased him to see the

flames rise far up, and to hear them crackle as they ate into the heart

of the boughs. He liked to see their long red shadows fall across the

leaves and grass, peopling the dark forest with fierce wild animals; he

would feel all the cosier within the scarlet rim of the firelight. Then

the men would tell stories, particularly Ross, the guide, who had

wandered much and far in Kentucky. He said that it was a beautiful land.

He spoke of the noble forests of beech and oak and hickory and maple,

the dense canebrake, the many rivers, and the great Ohio that received

them all--the Beautiful River, the Indians called it--and the game, with

which forests and open alike swarmed, the deer, the elk, the bear, the

panther and the buffalo. Now and then, when the smaller children were

asleep in the wagons and the larger ones were nodding before the fires,

the men would sink their voices and speak of a subject which made them

all look very grave indeed. It sounded like Indians, and the men more

than once glanced at their rifles and powderhorns.

But the boy, when he heard them, did not feel afraid. He knew that

savages of the most dangerous kind often came into the forests of

Kentucky, whither they were going, but he thrilled rather than shivered

at the thought. Already he seemed to have the knowledge that he would be

a match for them at any game they wished to play.

Henry usually slept very soundly, as became a boy who was on his feet

nearly all day, and who did his share of the work; but two or three

times he awoke far in the night, and, raising himself up in the wagon,

peeped out between the canvas cover and the wooden body. He saw a very

black night in which the trees looked as thin and ghostly as shadows,

and smoldering fires, beside which two men rifle on shoulder, always

watched. Often he had a wish to watch with them, but he said nothing,

knowing that the others would hold him too young for the task.

But to-day he felt only joy and curiosity. They were now on the crest of

the last mountain ridge and before them lay the great valley of

Kentucky; their future home. The long journey was over. The men took off

their hats and caps and raised a cheer, the women joined through

sympathy and the children shouted, too, because their fathers and

mothers did so, Henry's voice rising with the loudest.

A slip of a girl beside Henry raised an applauding treble and he smiled

protectingly at her. It was Lucy Upton, two years younger than himself,

slim and tall, dark-blue eyes looking from under broad brows, and

dark-brown curls, lying thick and close upon a shapely head.

"Are you not afraid?" she asked.

"Afraid of what?" replied Henry Ware, disdainfully.

"Of the forests over there in Kentucky. They say that the savages often

come to kill."

"We are too strong. I do not fear them."

He spoke without any vainglory, but in the utmost confidence. She

glanced covertly at him. He seemed to her strong and full of resource.

But she would not show her admiration.

They passed from the mountain slope into a country which now sank away

in low, rolling hills like the waves of the sea and in which everything

grew very beautiful. Henry had never seen such trees in the East. The

beech, the elm, the hickory and the maple reached gigantic proportions,

and wherever the shade was not too dense the grass rose heavy and rank.

Now and then they passed thickets of canebrake, and once, at the side of

a stream, they came to a salt "lick." It was here that a fountain

spouted from the base of a hill, and, running only a few feet, emptied

into a creek. But its waters were densely impregnated with salt, and all

around its banks the soft soil was trodden with hundreds of footsteps.

"The wild beasts made these," said the guide to Henry. "They come here

at night: elk, deer, buffalo, wolves, and all the others, big and

little, to get the salt. They drink the water and they lick up the salt

too from the ground."

A fierce desire laid hold of the boy at these words. He had a small

rifle of his own, which however he was not permitted to carry often. But

he wanted to take it and lie beside the pool at night when the game came

down to drink. The dark would have no terrors for him, nor would he need

companionship. He knew what to do, he could stay in the bush noiseless

and motionless for hours, and he would choose only the finest of the

deer and the bear. He could see himself drawing the bead, as a great

buck came down in the shadows to the fountain and he thrilled with

pleasure at the thought. Each new step into the wilderness seemed to

bring him nearer home.

Their stay beside the salt spring was short, but the next night they

built the fire higher than ever because just after dark they heard the

howling of wolves, and a strange, long scream, like the shriek of a

woman, which the men said was the cry of a panther. There was no danger,

but the cries sounded lonesome and terrifying, and it took a big fire to

bring back gayety.

Henry had not yet gone to bed, but was sitting in his favorite place

beside the guide, who was calmly smoking a pipe, and he felt the

immensity of the wilderness. He understood why the people in this

caravan clung so closely to each other. They were simply a big family,

far away from anybody else, and the woods, which curved around them for

so many hundreds of miles, held them together.

The men talked more than usual that night, but they did not tell

stories; instead they asked many questions of the guide about the

country two days' journey farther on, which, Ross said, was so good, and

it was agreed among them that they should settle there near the banks of

a little river.

"It's the best land I ever saw," said Ross, "an' as there's lots of

canebrake it won't be bad to clear up for farmin'. I trapped beaver in

them parts two years ago, an' I know."

This seemed to decide the men, and the women, too, for they had their

share in the council. The long journey was soon to end, and all looked

pleased, especially the women. The great question settled, the men

lighted their pipes and smoked a while, in silence, before the blazing

fires. Henry watched them and wished that he too was a man and could

take part in these evening talks. He was excited by the knowledge that

their journey was to end so soon, and he longed to see the valley in

which they were to build their homes. He climbed into the wagon at last

but he could not sleep. His beloved rifle, too, was lying near him, and

once he reached out his hand and touched it.

The men, by and by, went to the wagons or, wrapping themselves in

blankets, slept before the flames. Only two remained awake and on guard.

They sat on logs near the outskirts of the camp and held their rifles in

their hands.

Henry dropped the canvas edge and sought sleep, but it would not come.

Too many thoughts were in his mind. He was trying to imagine the

beautiful valley, described by Ross, in which they were to build their

houses. He lifted the canvas again after a while and saw that the fires

had sunk lower than ever. The two men were still sitting on the logs and

leaning lazily against upthrust boughs. The wilderness around them was

very black, and twenty yards away, even the outlines of the trees were

lost in the darkness.

Henry's sister who was sleeping at the other end of the wagon awoke and

cried for water. Mr. Ware raised himself sleepily, but Henry at once

sprang up and offered to get it. "All right," Mr. Ware said.

Henry quickly slipped on his trousers and taking the tin cup in his hand

climbed out of the wagon. He was in his bare feet, but like other

pioneer boys he scorned shoes in warm weather, and stubble and pebbles

did not trouble him.

The camp was in a glade and the spring was just at the edge of the

woods--they stopped at night only by the side of running water, which

was easy to find in this region. Near the spring some of the horses and

two of the oxen were tethered to stout saplings. As Henry approached, a

horse neighed, and he noticed that all of them were pulling on their

ropes. The two careless guards were either asleep or so near it that

they took no notice of what was passing, and Henry, unwilling to call

their attention for fear he might seem too forward, walked among the

animals, but was still unable to find the cause of the trouble. He knew

everyone by name and nature, and they knew him, for they had been

comrades on a long journey, and he patted their backs and rubbed their

noses and tried to soothe them. They became a little quieter, but he

could not remain any longer with them because his sister was waiting at

the wagon for the water. So he went to the spring and, stooping down,

filled his cup.

When Henry rose to his full height, his eyes happened to be turned

toward the forest, and there, about seven or eight feet from the ground,

and not far from him he saw two coals of fire. He was so startled that

the cup trembled in his hand, and drops of water fell splashing back

into the spring. But he stared steadily at the red points, which he now

noticed were moving slightly from side to side, and presently he saw

behind them the dim outlines of a long and large body. He knew that this

must be a panther. The habits of all the wild animals, belonging to this

region, had been described to him so minutely by Ross that he was sure

he could not be mistaken. Either it was a very hungry or a very ignorant

panther to hover so boldly around a camp full of men and guns.

The panther was crouched on a bough of a tree, as if ready to spring,

and Henry was the nearest living object. It must be he at whom the great

tawny body would be launched. But as a minute passed and the panther did

not move, save to sway gently, his courage rose, especially when he

remembered a saying of Ross that it was the natural impulse of all wild

animals to run from man. So he began to back away, and he heard behind

him the horses trampling about in alarm. The lazy guards still dozed and

all was quiet at the wagons. Now Henry recalled some knowledge that he

had learned from Ross and he made a resolve. He would show, at a time,

when it was needed, what he really could do. He dropped his cup, rushed

to the fire, and picked up a long brand, blazing at one end.

Swinging his torch around his head until it made a perfect circle of

flame he ran directly toward the panther, uttering a loud shout as he

ran. The animal gave forth his woman's cry, this time a shriek of

terror, and leaping from the bough sped with cat-like swiftness into the

forest.

All the camp was awake in an instant, the men springing out of the

wagons, gun in hand, ready for any trouble. When they saw only a boy,

holding a blazing torch above his head, they were disposed to grumble,

and the two sleepy guards, seeking an excuse for themselves, laughed

outright at the tale that Henry told. But Mr. Ware believed in the truth

of his son's words, and the guide, who quickly examined the ground near

the tree, said there could be no doubt that Henry had really seen the

panther, and had not been tricked by his imagination. The great tracks

of the beast were plainly visible in the soft earth.

"Pushed by hunger, an' thinking there was no danger, he might have

sprung on one of our colts or a calf," said Ross, "an' no doubt the boy

with his ready use of a torch has saved us from a loss. It was a brave

thing for him to do."

But Henry took no pride in their praise. It was no part of his ambition

merely to drive away a panther, instead he had the hunter's wish to kill

him. He would be worthy of the wilderness.

Henry despite his lack of pride found the world very beautiful the next

day. It was a fair enough scene. Nature had done her part, but his

joyous mind gave to it deeper and more vivid colors. The wind was

blowing from the south, bringing upon its breath the odor of wild

flowers, and all the forest was green with the tender green of young

spring. The cotton-tailed hares that he called rabbits ran across their

path. Squirrels talked to one another in the tree tops, and defiantly

threw the shells of last year's nuts at the passing travelers. Once they

saw a stag bending down to drink at a brook, and when the forest king

beheld them he raised his head, and merely stared at these strange new

invaders of the wilds. Henry admired his beautiful form and splendid

antlers nor would he have fired at him had it even been within orders.

The deer gazed at them a few moments, and then, turning and tossing his

head, sped away through the forest.

All that he saw was strange and grand to Henry, and he loved the

wilderness. About noon he and Ross went back to the wagons and that

night they encamped on the crest of a range of low and grassy hills.

This was the rim of the valley that they had selected on the guide's

advice as their future home, and the little camp was full of the

liveliest interest in the morrow, because it is a most eventful thing,

when you are going to choose a place which you intend shall be your home

all the rest of your days. So the men and women sat late around the

fires and even boys of Henry's age were allowed to stay up, too, and

listen to the plans which all the grown people were making. Theirs had

not been a hard journey, only long and tedious--though neither to

Henry--and now that its end was at hand, work must be begun. They would

have homes to build and a living to get from the ground.

"Why, I could live under the trees; I wouldn't want a house," whispered

Henry to the guide, "and when I needed anything to eat, I'd kill game."

"A hunter might do that," replied Ross, "but we're not all hunters an'

only a few of us can be. Sometimes the game ain't standin' to be shot at

just when you want it, an' as for sleepin' under the trees it's all very

fine in summer, if it don't rain, but 'twould be just a least bit chilly

in winter when the big snows come as they do sometimes more'n a foot

deep. I'm a hunter myself, an' I've slept under trees an' in caves, an'

on the sheltered side of hills, but when the weather's cold give me for

true comfort a wooden floor an' a board roof. Then I'll bargain to sleep

to the king's taste."

But Henry was not wholly convinced. He felt in himself the power to meet

and overcome rain or cold or any other kind of weather.

Everybody in the camp, down to the tiniest child, was awake the next

morning by the time the first bar of gray in the east betokened the

coming day. Henry was fully dressed, and saw the sun rise in a

magnificent burst of red and gold over the valley that was to be their

valley. The whole camp beheld the spectacle. They had reached the crest

of the hill the evening before, too late to get a view and they were

full of the keenest curiosity.

It was now summer, but, having been a season of plenteous rains, grass

and foliage were of the most vivid and intense green. They were entering

one of the richest portions of Kentucky, and the untouched soil was

luxuriant with fertility. As a pioneer himself said: "All they had to do

was to tickle it with a hoe, and it laughed into a harvest." There was

the proof of its strength in the grass and the trees. Never before had

the travelers seen oaks and beeches of such girth or elms and hickories

of such height. The grass was high and thick and the canebrake was so

dense that passage through it seemed impossible. Down the center of the

valley, which was but one of many, separated from each other by low easy

hills, flowed a little river, cleaving its center like a silver blade.

It was upon this beautiful prospect that the travelers saw the sun rise

that morning and all their troubles and labors rolled away. Even the

face of Mr. Ware who rarely yielded to enthusiasm kindled at the sight

and, lifting his hand, he made with it a circle that described the

valley.

"There," he said. "There is our home waiting for us."

"Hurrah!" cried Henry, flinging aloft his cap. "We've come home."

Then the wagon train started again and descended into the valley, which

in very truth and fact was to be "home."