Boone was called upon to fight in the defence of the settlements of
Kentucky. He had been among the earliest explorers of the country. He
had led one of the first parties of settlers into it. His rifle had
been constantly at the service of the harassed backwoodsmen and his
counsel had guided their leaders. None had made greater sacrifices for
the territory than he, and none reaped less benefit. He had lost a
son at the very threshold of the promised land, and another had fallen
in the final fight. His brother Squire had been scalped at the Blue
Licks, and there his brother Samuel was sorely stricken. And yet, when
the period of strife and stress had passed and the country presented a
peaceful picture of well-tilled fields and cheery cabins, Boone’s sole
possession was his good name and his trusty rifle. He had not an acre
to transmit to his children, nor a habitation he could call his own. He
was a mere squatter among men who held their lands in security largely
by reason of his determined efforts.
It was not, however, until some time after this that Boone learned that
through ignorance of legal requirements and characteristic simplicity,
he had failed to make good his title to the land he occupied. For
several years he cultivated his farm and in the hunting season followed
his favorite pursuit.
In the meantime the population of Kentucky was rapidly increasing.
Towns were springing up at various points and a considerable trade
in furs and merchandise developed. The settlers lived in comparative
peace, but they were by no means exempt from attack by hostile Indians.
It is believed that between the years 1783 and 1790 no fewer than
fifteen hundred persons were either killed or carried into captivity by
small bands of redskins that made stealthy inroads into Kentucky. One
such incident must be mentioned in detail.
The Indians probably held Boone in higher estimation than they did any
other man among the Kentuckians, and this was particularly the case
with the Shawnees, who were best acquainted with him, having thrice had
him in their power. A few years after the affair of the Blue Licks they
conceived the idea of again trying to capture Boone. Four of the most
agile and wily braves were assigned to the task.
Although he did not use the weed, Boone had a patch of tobacco upon his
farm with a view to meeting the market demand for the leaf. A short
distance from his cabin was a small shed in which he cured his crop.
Around the inside of the shed was a construction of rails twelve or
fifteen feet in height. Poles were laid upon these so as to extend
across the hut. Upon the poles were spread stacks of leaves in three
tiers, representing three different stages of curing.
Boone was one day at work in this shed. On the lower tiers was a large
quantity of dry tobacco which the farmer required to move to the
uppermost poles in order to make room for fresh leaves. He was standing
upon the rails that supported the poles and just about to enter into
his task when four Indians, carrying rifles, entered the place.
“Now we got you, Boone,” cried the leader. “We carry you back to
Chillicothe and you never get away again.”
The days were past when the settler constantly had his gun beside him.
Boone was unarmed, but he did not exhibit the slightest uneasiness. He
kept his position and looked down upon the redskins with a pleasant
smile.
“Well, well! Is that you, Pewultee?” he cried, recognizing one of the
sons of old Blackfish. “How is the squaw and how are the papooses?
How is everyone at Chillicothe? I think I should like to see them all
again.”
The Indians expressed some impatience to have Boone come down, but his
manner was so cordial that they fell under its spell as of old. He
assured them that he would descend in a few minutes but begged them
to wait until he should have finished his work. He kept up a running
fire of talk about the old times, about adventures and fights that
he and they had taken part in. The savages were soon absorbed in
the conversation. They stood leaning upon their rifles and gazing up
intently at the speaker.
Meanwhile, Boone had been arranging his bundles of tobacco and at
length had them adjusted to his satisfaction. Suddenly he removed two
poles and the next instant the four Indians were buried beneath a huge
pile of dry leaves. Before they could extricate themselves Boone had
sprung through the open door and was fifty yards away.
When he had reached what he considered a safe distance, the farmer
turned and at the sight that met his eyes, burst into peals of
laughter. The Indians, blinded and half suffocated, had groped their
way out of the shed and were now aimlessly stumbling around, whilst
their frames shook with violent coughing and sneezing. With scanty
breath they cursed Boone’s cunning and bewailed their own folly.
Boone went to the cabin and secured his rifle. He then bade the
Indians, who were by this time somewhat recovered, get their guns
and begone. He warned them that if he should catch them in that part
of the country again worse would assuredly befall them. It would be
interesting to know the story Pewultee and his companions told upon
their returning to Chillicothe.
With the development of the territory and the return of peace, steps
were taken by the authorities for the proper surveying of land in
Kentucky and the perfection of titles. In this process hundreds of the
older settlers were dispossessed in favor of shrewder claimants, better
versed in the technicalities of the law. Boone had always displayed
an aversion for legal forms and carelessness in matters of business.
Scrupulously honest, he credited all others with a similar quality. His
life had been governed by the golden rule, which, indeed, generally
prevailed in the backwoods communities. He was as ignorant as any
child of the devious ways of the speculator and land-shark. Nor was it
possible for him to conceive that the State he had served so loyally
should fail to protect him in what he reasonably considered his rights.
When his beautiful farm at Boonesborough and other tracts were wrested
from him by the subtle processes of law, he was aggrieved to think
that the community for which he had bled and suffered could offer him
no better recompense than the beggar’s portion, but he did not become
embittered, as did Clark towards the close of his life. Boone laid his
misfortunes at the door of the speculators and lawyers, and resolved
to leave Kentucky and seek a new home in the wilderness. In a memorial
to the legislature of Kentucky in 1812, he says: “Unacquainted with
the niceties of the law, the few lands I was enabled to locate were,
through my ignorance, generally swallowed up by better claims.”
Hale and active, and with spirit undaunted, the grand old pioneer
set out when past sixty years of age for the land of prairies beyond
the “Father of Waters.” His fame had reached the Spanish dominions
in America, and the Lieutenant-Governor whose seat was at St. Louis
invited him to settle in that district with “assurance that ample
portions of land should be given to him and his family.”
The proposal was an alluring one to Boone. Many Americans were settled
in Louisiana, and it was already generally believed that the country
would soon be annexed to the United States. Boone’s eldest son, Nathan,
had some years previous taken up land in the rich country bordering on
the Missouri River. The invitation of the Spanish official presented a
means of acquiring land which Boone had not the money to purchase and,
finally, the region beyond the Mississippi abounded in game.
Boone accepted the liberal offer and in 1795, accompanied by his
family, journeyed to the Femme Osage settlement, about forty-five miles
from St. Louis, and there took up his abode. Here, as promised, a
large tract of land was conveyed to him and he was made commandant, or
syndic, of the district. The post was an important one, entailing both
civil and military duties of a responsible nature.
A large proportion of the people in the district were Americans, among
whom were included several of Boone’s relatives. The population was a
peaceable, happy and prosperous one. Boone found the new conditions of
his life congenial and he passed his last years in cheery contentment.
He discharged his duties agreeably to the community under his control,
and to the satisfaction of the Spanish authorities. When, at length,
he passed peacefully away in the year 1820, at the ripe old age of
eighty-six, the American flag was flying over the land.
XXII.
THE LAST HUNT
Travelers in a strange land--“I’m dying to see old Dad!”--Old friends
meet after many years--Kenton and Hardy find the old man happy in
his simple life--“I have more than I need and no man can lay a claim
against me”--The simple creed of a sincere Christian--One more hunt
together--Boone proves that he is still a stout backwoodsman--And
shows Hardy how to “bark” a squirrel--He tells his companions of
his early life and adventures--His strange dread of dying in the
wilderness--Kenton and Hardy part with the old man for ever--He stood
at the cabin door and watched them out of sight.
Let us go back in our story and take a parting glimpse at some of its
characters.
On a bright September day of the year 1808 two men stepped from a boat
to the landing at St. Louis. They were both bronzed and weather-beaten
and wore the familiar dress of the American backwoodsman. One was a
fair-haired giant of about forty years, with laughing blue eyes and a
musical voice. He had the careless, joyous manner of a boy and the air
of one to whom mere living was a delight. His companion was a younger
man but of graver aspect. His slight but sinewy frame gave evidence
of strength and activity, and the clear-cut features bespoke alert
intelligence.
The travellers carried rifles but were unburdened with baggage. They
did not appear to be pressed for time nor hampered by business. Two or
three hours were spent by them in rambling about the quaint town with
its mixed population of Americans and Creoles, French and Spanish. Then
they resorted to a tavern and ate a hearty meal. When at length they
returned to the street it was with the air of men refreshed and with a
purpose in view.
“Well, Hardy, how shall it be? On horseback, or on foot?” asked Kenton.
“On foot, Si, by all means. I’m dying to see old Dad, but I don’t want
to ride up to his doorstep like a trooper. It will seem more like old
times if we come in on the tramp. In fact, I want to arrive with a good
fat buck on my back.”
“Right you are, but it shall be two bucks. We’ll come on the old man
just as we used to do in the good old days at Boonesborough. Those were
good times, Hardy! Things are getting too tame in the back country
now. You and I will have to go farther west, I’m thinking.”
“Yes. If we stay this side of the Mississippi, I shall never get
a chance to pay off that little debt I contracted to you. Do you
remember--the first time I ever saw you?”
Kenton laughed heartily and slapped his companion on the back, as he
said:
“You know better now than to aim at the crest-feathers of a redskin and
then throw your tomahawk at him, eh, young ’un?”
It was a beautiful country through which the travellers passed in their
two days’ journey. On every hand stretched timbered prairie, over which
roamed herds of buffalo, deer, and other game. Every few miles brought
them to a little settlement surrounded by orchards and standing crops.
Many of the inhabitants were Americans. In fact, three-fifths of the
population of Upper Louisiana were immigrants from the States at the
time of annexation.
On the evening of the second day, the friends learned that they were
within a few miles of their destination. They determined to defer their
arrival until the next morning, and spent the interval before bedtime
in securing the two fat bucks that they had proposed to take to their
old leader as a humble testimony of respect.
Early the next morning Kenton and Hardy, laboring under their heavy
burdens, approached a cabin, to which they had been directed, on the
outskirts of a settlement in St. Charles County, Missouri. It was a
small, two-roomed, structure of hewn logs and shingle roof. Well-fenced
fields and a large orchard lay behind the building.
On a tree-stump near the cabin sat an old man, with snow-white hair
falling over his shoulders. He was repairing the lock of a gun, whilst
a hound crouched at his feet and looked up in eager expectation, hoping
that a hunt was in prospect.
The travellers hurried forward as well as they could with their loads,
shouting greetings as they came:
“Hallo, Colonel!”
“Hallo, dad!”
The old man rose, displaying surprising activity and erectness of
carriage. He shaded his eyes with his hand and in a moment recognized
his visitors.
“Hardy! Si!” he cried, in accents of delight. “Bless your dear hearts!
The sight of you is surely good for old eyes! It looks like old times
to see you two coming up to the cabin so.”
Twelve years had passed since these former followers of Boone had seen
him. Of course, they had a great deal to tell one another. The old
pioneer’s life had been comparatively uneventful in these later years,
but his two disciples insisted on hearing all about it. At sight of the
humble cabin they had feared that the old man might be in straitened
circumstances. They were relieved to learn that he was very comfortably
situated, and lived in his little log hut because he felt more at
home in it than in a spacious dwelling. At times, he told them, he
would spend a few weeks in the mansion of his son Nathan, a few miles
distant, or in the roomy frame house of his son-in-law Callaway, but he
was always glad to get back to his own little two-roomed cabin.
“The Lord has dealt kindly with me,” said the old man, reverently;
“I have more than I need and no man can lay a claim against me. I
left some debts in Kentucky but with a few good seasons’ hunting and
trapping I got together a considerable pile of money. I went back--you
two boys were in Illinois and I was mighty sorry not to see you--and I
cleaned up every debt. When I got home again I had just half a dollar
but--oh, Hardy!--it felt good to be a free man.”
“And you have been happy, Dad?”
“Yes, son, I’ve been happy. I won’t say that I was not sorry to leave
the country that I had hunted over and fought for, but Kentucky was
getting crowded and I felt that I needed more elbow room. It pleased
the Lord to choose me as an instrument for the settlement of Kentucky,
but I think my work was done before I left.”
Two or three days were delightfully spent by the three friends in
exchange of experiences and in mutual reminiscences. Boone evinced
particular pleasure in recalling the scenes and events connected with
his first years in Kentucky. Without being garrulous he had become more
communicative than when Kenton and Hardy knew him and he told them many
details of his earlier life that they had never known.
Hardy had often felt curiosity on the subject of his foster-father’s
religious belief. Boone’s life and actions marked him as a moral
and God-fearing man, but he was not given to the discussion of such
matters. During this visit, when they happened to be alone, Hardy took
an opportunity to ask the old man for an expression of his creed.
“I never had much schooling, Hardy, and you know that churches are not
over plentiful in the backwoods,” replied Boone, thoughtfully. “I’m
afraid my religion is the home-made kind, and I dare say it wouldn’t
seem quite the right thing to a parson, but I’ve used it as a guide
through life, son, and it served me well enough. It’s just this,”
continued the old man, baring his head: “To love and fear God; to
believe in Jesus Christ. To do all the good to my neighbor and myself
that I can, and to do as little harm as I can help. And to trust in
God’s mercy for the rest.”
One morning Kenton and Hardy rose early as usual and, to their
surprise, found the old man bustling about in front of the cabin.
Two pack-horses stood tied to neighboring trees. Blankets, wallets,
powder-horns, and a variety of other articles lay strewn around.
“Why, Dad, what’s forward now?” asked Hardy, in astonishment.
“We’re going on a hunt,” answered Boone, in the most matter-of-course
tone.
“Bully, Colonel!” cried Kenton. “It’s just what I’ve been thinking of
proposing. Lend a hand, Hardy, and let’s pack the outfit!”
In a few hours they started, the old man on foot like the others. Nor
did they need to slacken their pace to accommodate him. He strode
along, erect and with a step that displayed much of its old-time
elastic swing. They found that he could cover his twelve miles a day
without undue fatigue and he insisted that the stages should be no
less. If Kenton or Hardy attempted any subterfuges, such as feigning
weariness or a desire to examine the scenery, for the sake of affording
their aged companion a rest, Boone was visibly annoyed and they soon
decided to let him have his own way.
They were delighted to find that the old woodsman’s eye, though
somewhat restricted in range, was as keen as ever in detecting “signs.”
He soon gave them proof that he still possessed his wonderful skill
with the rifle.
“Can you bark a squirrel now, Hardy? Try that fellow,” said Boone,
pointing to one of the little animals on a branch, at the distance of
about fifty yards.
Hardy declined to take the shot, but insisted upon Boone doing so.
The old hunter took aim and fired. The squirrel flew into the air and
came to the ground without a hair injured. It was a feat that few
backwoodsmen in the prime of life and practice could accomplish.
Boone took his young friends to Kansas River. They spent two weeks
hunting in the adjoining country and never enjoyed themselves better in
their lives. Boone at this time was a more delightful companion than in
his younger years. He talked freely and frankly about himself and men
whom he had known. He recounted stories of great hunts in which he had
taken part, and told his companions of the long months he had passed
in Kentucky before the advent of settlers. He related the incidents
of his capture by the Indians and his escape to find his companions
gone and himself alone a hundred miles and more from the nearest white
settlement.
Boone informed them that he was in the habit of going on a hunting
expedition twice a year with a companion whom he had bound by a written
contract to bring his body home in case he should die in the wilderness.
“It is strange,” he said, “that I, who have spent much of my life
in strife and most of it in the wilderness, should have a dread of
leaving my bones in the forest. I can’t account for it, but I have the
strongest desire to be buried near the habitations of men.”
It was with regret that the hunters turned their faces homewards. Each
felt that it was their last hunt together, and perhaps the closing
incident of their last meeting. Such, indeed, it proved to be.
The day after their return, Kenton and Hardy bade the old man a
reluctant and affectionate farewell. He stood at his cabin door with
eyes shaded and watched them out of sight. He went out of their lives,
but in their distinguished after-careers each felt and acknowledged
that he was a better man for having known Daniel Boone.
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes:
--Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
--Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
--Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
--Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
End of Project Gutenberg's Daniel Boone, Backwoodsman, by C. H. Forbes-Lindsay