his stomach to the one plenteous meal a day which was the custom with
the backwoodsmen. It was now past midday, and feeling keenly hungry
he decided to eat one of his squirrels and take a short rest before
turning homeward. Whilst his fire was burning up, he skinned and
dressed the little animal and soon had it broiling on the end of his
hickory ramrod. Well-cooked squirrel and corn bread, washed down with
cool spring water, make a very enjoyable meal to a hungry hunter,
especially when his taste has not been spoiled by condiments and
dainties.
Hardy sat with his back to a large linden, leisurely eating and
thinking of nothing in particular, when presently he began to _feel_
that eyes were upon him. We have all had a similar experience more
than once in our lives. The knowledge--or belief, if you will--that he
was being watched, coming upon him gradually in this manner, instead
of suddenly with the apparition of the watcher, did not upset his
self-control or cause him to betray any uneasiness. On the contrary,
whilst continuing to pick the bones of the squirrel with apparent
disregard for everything else, he furtively scanned the neighboring
landscape. It was not long before he discerned an Indian peering at
him from behind a tree. Averting his face, but not sufficiently to
prevent a watch of the spot out of the corner of his eye, Hardy fell to
considering the situation.
No question as to the intentions of the skulking savage entered into
his mind for, although Hardy had not yet encountered any Indians, he
had fully imbibed the border doctrine, begotten of bitter experience,
that every redskin was a natural enemy. In his present position, the
Indian behind the tree was considerably beyond range, and Hardy’s
watchful concern was chiefly directed to seeing that he did not
approach nearer unobserved. The boy concluded that he was alone,
because had there been others with him they would surely have attacked
ere this.
It would not do to retreat. In the first place, such a movement would
give the other a decided advantage, and in the second place--well,
Hardy didn’t think of it. Clearly there was to be a duel between them.
The point was, how should Hardy set about playing his part in it.
Suddenly he struck upon a plan based on the recollection that Boone had
once said that an Indian will seldom fire at beyond fifty yards’ range,
because he is not confident of his marksmanship and also because he
uses a light charge.
These reflections only occupied a few minutes and, when he had decided
upon his plan of action, Hardy rose with a well-feigned air of
indifference as to the direction he should take. He was gratified to
find that, although his heart beat somewhat faster than usual, he had
no feeling of fear, and in fact rather enjoyed the situation. After
looking around carelessly, he set out walking slowly and taking a line
that would carry him past the Indian’s tree but at a distance of about
one hundred yards. Hardy was confident of his own aim at that range,
and unhesitatingly relied upon Boone’s statement that the Indian would
not fire at that distance.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hardy kept a watch on the savage’s hiding
place as he strolled leisurely along. When he had passed the point
he wheeled suddenly about, and at the same time brought his rifle to
his shoulder. As he had anticipated, the Indian, believing himself
undiscovered, had come from cover and was preparing to steal upon Hardy
from behind. The latter’s sudden turn surprised the redskin and he
stood stock-still in his tracks. The next instant Hardy’s rifle cracked
and the Indian’s head-feathers flew.
Hardy had missed his mark by a scalp’s breadth. Almost his sole chance
of safety lay in taking to his heels. He thought of it and started to
run but something restrained him and, instead, he stepped behind a tree
and waited. Later in life Hardy learned that even such dare-devils as
Simon Kenton and Lewis Wetzel recognized discretion as the better part
of valor under similar circumstances, and were not ashamed to resort to
flight in the face of great odds.
The advantage was now enormously in favor of the Indian, and he fully
realized it. He ran forward instantly and circling round Hardy’s tree
kept him so busily dancing about in order to remain under cover that it
was impossible to reload his gun. This manœuvre had brought the savage
within fifty feet of his adversary, and he would in all probability
have presently fired. Instead of awaiting such action and trusting to
the possible miss which would have placed them on even terms again,
Hardy--who, it must be confessed, had become somewhat excited--made
a foolish move. He took his tomahawk from his belt and, seizing a
favorable moment, threw it with all the force he could command at the
Indian. It was well aimed but the nimble redskin dodged and the missile
whizzed over his left shoulder.
Hardy noted his failure with a sinking of the heart. His first impulse
was to run but he checked at thought of that bullet in his back. He
would rather meet death face to face than have it overtake him in
flight. Then there was a slim chance of fight left, he remembered, as
he drew his hunting-knife from its sheath. The Indian now approached
boldly with his gun presented, intending to make a sure shot at the
closest range. Regardless of the fact that the weapon was directed full
at him, Hardy stood, with head exposed, staring spell-bound at the
hideous features of the exultant redskin.
He never could tell afterwards what thoughts passed through his mind in
those few seconds, that seemed an eternity. He remembered only that he
seemed to have fallen into a trance from which he was awakened by the
whip-like report of a rifle behind him, and at the moment it broke upon
his ear the Indian fell in a convulsive heap at his feet.
“My scalp, I reckon, young fellow. Sorry you didn’t get him. Better
luck next time.”
[Illustration: “MY SCALP, I RECKON, YOUNG FELLOW”]
The words were spoken in a cheery, musical voice, and before he had
finished the utterance the speaker’s knife had secured the prize to
which he referred.
Hardy looked up to the handsome beardless face of a young man of
extremely attractive presence. The countenance was made up of
contradictory features. The sternness suggested by the square jaw and
large nose was belied by the smiling lips and the merry glint in the
eyes. The careful dress, with its adornment of porcupine quills, the
embroidered moccasins, the raccoons’ tails pendent from the back of the
cap, the long, curled locks that fell below the shoulders,--all these
betokened the backwoods dandy; but the great stature, the erect form,
the muscular limbs and the weather-beaten face proclaimed the practiced
hunter and fighter.
“Simon Kenton, at your service,” said the newcomer, extending his hand
with a smile that instantly won Hardy as it did everyone who came in
contact with the young frontiersman.
“My name is Hardy Goodfellow,” replied our friend, who had not yet
quite recovered his composure. “I live at Boonesborough.”
“Well, if you’ve nothing to keep you, Hardy, we’ll make tracks for the
fort. No telling how many more Indians there may be about, and I’d
rather eat than fight just now.”
He threw his rifle over his shoulder and led the way to the beaten
path with easy swinging strides, whistling as he went. Hardy presently
ranged up alongside of him and immediately proceeded to unburden his
mind.
“You saved my life,” he said. “I hope I may do as much for you some
day.”
“Well, if I’m ever caught in the same kind of a fix,” said Kenton, with
a laugh, “I hope you may be somewhere around. But it’s nothing to make
a palaver about. In the backwoods it’s every man for himself and every
man for his neighbor. If we didn’t stick together and help one another
the redskins would soon wipe us out.
“Say, that was a right pretty throw of yours with the tomahawk,”
continued Kenton. “Who taught you?”
“Daniel Boone,” replied Hardy, proudly. He then went on to explain
his relationship to the great hunter. With boyish enthusiasm he told
Kenton how Boone had taken him, a forlorn orphan, into his family and
had treated him as a son. How the great hunter had tutored him in
woodcraft, in the use of the rifle and the tomahawk and in the rude
arts of the backwoods. When he had concluded his companion extended his
hand, saying:
“Shake again, Hardy! We shall see a good deal of each other, if I’m not
mistaken. I’ve been at Hinkston’s, but when they all cleared out for
fear of the Indians I made up my mind to come over here, because I
know that there won’t be any backing down with Boone. He’s here to stay
and so am I.”
Their mutual admiration of Boone brought these two close together in a
very short while. Kenton had only had one brief meeting with Hardy’s
adoptive father but that had made a deep impression on him, and he
listened with avidity to his young companion’s enthusiastic accounts of
the man who had fostered him in his loneliness and had cared for him
since.
They picked up Hardy’s turkey on their way and Kenton helped to eat it
at the Boone cabin a few hours later. The party was completed by the
arrival of the head of the family from Harrodsburg in time for supper.
Boone warmly welcomed Kenton to the settlement, for that young man had
already made a name for himself as a good fellow, a fearless fighter,
and an expert hunter. Boone strongly suspected that the time was fast
approaching when such men would be invaluable to the community.
As to Hardy, from the first he was strongly drawn to this handsome,
cheery son of the wilderness and the more he saw of him the better he
liked him. In fact, their dramatic encounter in the forest proved to
be the beginning of a friendship that lasted through life. Many years
afterwards, when another generation dwelt peacefully in Kentucky,
Colonel Goodfellow was a frequent guest at the humble home of General
Kenton in Urbana, Ohio.
VII.
THE CAPTURE OF BOONE
The Indians burst upon the frontiers and overrun Kentucky--Boonesborough
is besieged once and again--Boone spies on the Indian camp, is detected
and wounded--Kenton runs to the rescue in the nick of time--Boone goes
salt-making with a band of settlers--He is tracked by Indians and caught
in an ambush--He makes a great race for life and liberty but is
captured--Boone wisely decides to surrender his men who are surprised
and powerless--“It was a sorry day for the Indians when they captured me
and my salt-makers.”
With the opening of spring the Indians, who had spent the preceding
winter in preparation, burst upon the frontiers. Had they made a
concentrated attack, with the aid of the British, upon the Kentucky
settlements at this time, there can be little doubt but that they would
have succeeded in clearing the country of the “buckskins,” as they
sometimes called the pioneers. Fortunately, they scattered their forces
and directed their first attack mainly against the borders of Virginia
and Pennsylvania. Sufficient numbers, however, assailed the four
stations of Kentucky to tax the courage and resources of the defenders
and to keep them in a constant state of disquietude. Men, women and
children were unremittingly alert, for the forest swarmed with skulking
savages. Frequent attacks in force were made upon the stockades, which
were from time to time subjected to the characteristically brief sieges
of the Indian. The ground was tilled and crops were tended under guard.
Scouts scoured the surrounding country, and saved the settlers from
many a surprise.
During March an attack was projected against Harrodsburg. About four
miles from that place the Indians came unawares upon a small party of
whites, who were engaged in making a new settlement. One of these was
killed and another taken prisoner, whilst a lad named James Ray, whom
we shall have further occasion to mention, contrived to make his escape
and warn the settlers at the station. This intimation of approaching
enemies, although it gave scanty time for preparation, enabled the
defenders to gather their entire number within the fort and to beat off
the Indians without any loss to themselves.
At about the same time a movement was made against Boonesborough, but
there was small chance of that stronghold being taken by surprise.
Aside from the ever-wakeful Boone, the station now had the advantage of
the services of such splendid rangers as Kenton, the McAfee brothers,
and other expert woodsmen who had recently come in. The approach of the
foe was announced in good time, and when the Indians arrived within
sight of the stockade every rifleman was at his post awaiting them.
On one side, Boonesborough was protected by the river, which the
bravest warriors dared not cross in the face of the backwoods marksmen.
On the other sides, open ground stretched for a sufficient distance to
prevent near approach under cover. The Indian of the forest regions
was accustomed to the tactics of the skirmisher and guerilla. He would
seldom fight in the open, but would take cover behind trees, stumps,
bushes, or in long grass. The facility with which he could hide
his body and the stealthiness of his movements sometimes proved an
efficient offset to the superior gunplay of his adversary.
On this occasion the savages besieged Boonesborough for several days,
during which the attack and the defence took the form of a series of
duels. On each side vigilant eyes marked individuals on the other and
patiently watched for an opportunity to shoot with fair chance of
success. In such contests the backwoodsmen were sure to inflict the
greater injury, provided they remained behind their stockades; but it
was seldom possible to ascertain the loss of the Indians, because,
unless hotly pressed in flight, it was their custom to carry off their
dead and wounded.
The siege of a fort was usually raised after a few days. The redskin
warriors lacked the patient determination necessary to the success of
such an undertaking and, moreover, as they depended upon the country
for their food supply, the attacking body was frequently weakened by
the detachment of hunting parties. In the present instance, the Indians
soon retired, having killed one of the settlers and wounded four others.
It seldom happened that the Indian attacks were characterized by
determination or concerted action. Large bodies were usually composed
of detachments from several tribes and were led by a number of chiefs
who acknowledged no superior. The will of the majority as expressed in
council theoretically controlled the action of all, but as a matter of
fact a dissatisfied member often acted contrary to the decision of the
allied chiefs in action.
Furthermore, tribal discipline was very low at this time. Even
such powerful chiefs as Cornstalk and Blackfish had difficulty in
controlling the young braves and less renowned leaders had hardly any
influence over their followers. Hence a band of Indians engaged in
warfare was apt to break up in the most sudden and unexpected manner.
A few months later a more serious assault was made upon Boonesborough.
Had they but known it, the Indians could hardly have chosen a less
propitious date than the fourth of July for such a venture, but it was
on that day that a band of two hundred warriors made its appearance
before the fort. They seem to have been particularly anxious to reduce
the place, which they doubtless knew was commanded by the great
chief, Daniel Boone. Detachments had been sent to make feints against
the other stations, in order to prevent their extending relief to
Boonesborough.
At the outset, the whites came near to suffering what would have been
an irreparable loss not only to them but to the settlers in general.
On the morning after the arrival of the besiegers, Boone, being anxious
to learn something of their numbers and disposition, left the stockade
just before daybreak and made a reconnoissance of the Indian camp.
The day dawned to find him still several hundred yards from the fort.
He was picking his way cautiously, taking advantage of all the cover
available, when an Indian discovered him. The redskin fired and hit
Boone upon the ankle.
Short of a mortal wound, nothing could have been more effective than
this ill-aimed bullet. Boone fell to the earth heavily, and as he did
so his trusty rifle escaped from his grasp and flew to some distance.
He was unable to rise and utterly helpless. The Indian, seeing his
plight, advanced rapidly with uplifted tomahawk to despatch him, and
Boone calmly awaited what he believed to be his end.
But the watchful eye of Kenton had noted the incident and Boone had
hardly fallen when the scout was outside the stockade and speeding
towards the spot with the swiftness of the deer. As soon as the Indian
came into the open, Kenton stopped, took aim, and at the moment that
the redskin reached the side of his intended victim sent a bullet
through his brain. Kenton was now little more than one hundred yards
from Boone, but by this time a number of warriors had appeared at the
edge of the clearing. There was not a second to be lost and, although
he appeared to be rushing into the jaws of death, Kenton flung aside
his gun and flew to the spot where Boone lay anxiously awaiting the
issue.
At the same instant several Indians bounded forward, yelling and
brandishing their weapons. They had advanced but a few yards when a
dozen rifles in the stockade spoke and four of the redskins fell. The
others hastily regained cover and turned their weapons upon the gallant
ranger who was in the act of lifting Boone onto his serviceable leg.
Half carried by his rescuer, Boone hopped slowly to the gate of the
fort, while a shower of bullets played unceasingly around. The half
light favored the wounded man and his companion, who gained the shelter
of the stockade without being touched.
Boone was a reticent man, estimating his own deeds lightly and little
given to bestowing praise on others. But the splendid courage, strength
and skill displayed by Kenton in this dashing exploit excited unwonted
emotion in the great pioneer and he expressed his admiration and
gratitude in the warmest terms. He recognized in the young, debonair
scout a man after his own heart and one of his own kind. Ever after
this episode Boone and Kenton were the fastest friends.
During the ensuing months, whilst his wound was slowly healing, Boone
took up his quarters in the upper story of one of the blockhouses,
where he could command the scene and direct the defence in case of
another attack. But the experience of the Indians on this occasion,
which included the loss of seven of their number, appears to have
cooled their ambition to take Boonesborough, and that place enjoyed a
respite during the remainder of the year, although attacks were made at
intervals upon other stations.
Salt was always one of the prime needs of the settlers, as it had
been when they dwelt farther back in the borderland. To secure it now
from the coast towns was a matter of much greater difficulty than it
had been then. Resort was had to the simpler method of manufacturing
the coveted commodity from the waters of the salt licks in which
the territory of Kentucky abounded. At first this was accomplished
in a manner far from satisfactory, owing to imperfect knowledge of
the process and lack of proper utensils. But just about this time
the authorities in Virginia sent out a number of kettles and two
experienced salt-makers.
In view of the prospect of further hostilities, and perhaps protracted
sieges, it was determined to lay in a large stock of salt. The men of
the station were divided into two parties, which were to go out in
turns and manufacture the material. As there was less danger of attack
by Indians in the dead of winter than later on, Boone decided to take
command of the first party, so that he might be at the fort with the
opening of spring.
On the first day of the year 1778, Captain Boone with thirty men and
the necessary utensils left Boonesborough and set out for the Lower
Blue Licks, fifty or more miles to the north. Here they established
a camp and set to work. From time to time a small party was sent to
the fort with the pack-horses laden with salt. On their return they
brought back supplies of parched corn and, perhaps, a few of the simple
comforts that the hardy backwoodsmen looked upon almost in the light
of superfluous luxuries. Thus the work progressed satisfactorily and
the six weeks’ spell, at the end of which time the party was to be
relieved, approached its termination.
Of course, a considerable amount of meat was constantly needed to
satisfy the appetites of thirty vigorous men. Boone, as the most expert
hunter among them, undertook the duty of keeping the general larder
supplied. The task was a thoroughly congenial one to him, which we
cannot imagine salt-making to have been. It was his habit to go out
some miles from camp every morning, returning at the close of the day
with as much game as he could carry and often leaving a quantity to be
sent after with a pack-horse.
One afternoon in the early part of February Boone was making his way
towards the lick, after a successful hunt, when he suddenly found
himself surrounded by a hundred Indians. Not having seen a redskin
for months, and knowing the unlikelihood of their presence in numbers
at that time of the year, Boone was perhaps not as keenly on the
alert as usual. But, in any case, he could hardly have escaped his
present predicament. He had not crossed the trail of the Indians nor
encountered any signs of them. They had seen him earlier in the day
and had secreted themselves about his return path.
As soon as Boone was fairly within the circle of the ambuscade, the
savages suddenly arose on every side and made at him. He took in the
situation at a glance and, dropping the carcass with which he was
encumbered, started to run with all the speed he could command. A few
years before, Boone had been a match for the swiftest runners among
the redskins, but he had now reached middle age, when the limbs of the
best lose something of their supple agility. Moreover, he had spent the
day in toilsome exertion, without rest or food, whereas his pursuers
were comparatively fresh. Still he held his own for awhile and put the
Indians to their utmost endeavor to overtake him. At length, however,
seeing that further effort was useless, Boone stopped and surrendered,
with a complimentary remark to the foremost braves to put them in a
good humor.
It was at once evident to Boone that the band which had captured him
was upon the war-path, and their destination could be none other than
Boonesborough. They knew of the presence of the party at the lick and
had, in fact, tracked the hunter from that place in the morning. As
they journeyed thither, Boone’s mind was busy with a consideration
of the conditions and the best course to be followed under the
circumstances. His judgment was remarkably sure and his decisions
unusually quick. Before they had arrived at the camp, he told the
Indians that, if they would assure his men of kind treatment, he would
order them to surrender without resistance. The proposition appealed to
the savages and they readily gave the required promise.
When the scene of the salt-making was reached the Indians secured to
themselves all the advantage possible by surrounding the unconscious
workmen, who were in an exposed spot, before discovering themselves.
When the Indians made their presence known the whites were taken
utterly by surprise, but they quickly seized their rifles and no
doubt would have made a stout, though hopeless, resistance had not
Boone signed to them to restrain their fire. He then approached with
an escort of his captors and informed his men that he had agreed to
their surrender. The declaration elicited some murmurs, but so great
was the confidence in Boone’s resourcefulness and the wisdom of his
conclusions, that the men laid down their arms without further ado and
agreed to accompany the Indians.
This action of Boone’s excited the censure of some of his fellow-officers
and the disapprobation of many of the settlers. These feelings continued
to be evinced after the outcome had shown the wisdom of his course, and
prompted Boone, some time later, to secure a court-martial of himself.
The evidence produced before this body and the frank explanation made
by Boone induced his honorable acquittal, and not only that, but his
promotion to the rank of major.