THE FOOT RACE AT THE FORT
The remainder of the winter passed without special incident. The cold
weather seemed to come “all in a bunch,” as Joe put it, and after that
it was quite mild, so that they could come and go as they pleased.
During those days of waiting the young pioneers were not idle. There
were many things to do in and around the frontier home, and when not
employed there the two youths went gunning or fishing, or else set
traps. It was Daniel Boone himself who showed them how to make several
traps of a superior sort, and with them the game captured was by no
means to be despised.
“He is a natural-born hunter and trapper,” said Harry, in speaking of
Boone. “He takes to it like an Indian to a buffalo trail.”
Among the traps made by Joe was a large one, strong enough to hold
a catamount, and possibly a bear. It was of the old-fashioned chain
variety, with a powerful jaw, and set close to the ground. Joe had
seen the footprints of some wild animal midway between the edge of
the clearing and a small pond that, in summer, connected with the
watercourse near the cabin, and here he set up the trap one day when
Harry was busy around the house.
On the following day Harry started to go fishing through a hole in the
ice on the pond. Joe had work to do at home, so did not accompany him.
“Do not stay away after dark, Harry,” cautioned his mother. “I think it
will snow before morning.”
“I’ll be back by supper-time,” answered the son.
It did not take him long to reach the pond. He had brought his ax with
him, and soon had a hole in the ice a foot or more in diameter. Then he
brought forth some bait, and also a spear, and did his best to catch
some of the fish he knew must be in the pond.
But the specimens of the finny tribe were not biting, and, although he
fished for two hours steadily, he got nothing. Then, in disgust, he
wound up his line.
As usual he had his gun with him, and now he determined to look for a
little game.
“I’m not going home empty-handed,” he told himself. “If I do Joe will
have the laugh on me.”
It was growing colder, and the standing still over the hole in the ice
had chilled Harry not a little. To get his blood into circulation he
started to run, and did not stop until he stumbled over a tree root and
pitched headlong.
“Oh, what a tumble!” he muttered, when he could get back his wind. He
arose slowly, and after that walked with care.
But luck was against poor Harry that day, and only two rabbits appeared
in sight. One disappeared before he could take aim, and the other he
missed entirely.
“Just so much powder and shot wasted,” he thought. “Reckon I had better
go home.”
The winter day was drawing to a close, and there was a dampness in
the air that made him shiver. Several times he had to slap his hands
together to get them warm, but after that he grew colder and colder.
“Wish I was back home in front of the fire,” he said to himself. “There
is no fun in hunting or fishing alone, anyhow.”
In the semi-darkness he stumbled along in the direction of the cabin.
A light fall of snow had started, and this kept growing heavier and
heavier. The snow made it darker than ever, and he could see his way
only with difficulty.
Harry reached the pond to find the surface covered with the flying
flakes. Instead of going around he started to cross the ice.
When in the very middle of the pond, the next misfortune of the outing
came upon him. Down went one foot into the hole he had cut a short
while before, and ere he could save himself he received a wetting up to
the knee.
“What an all-around fool I am making of myself!” he cried, half aloud.
“To cut the hole in the first place, and then step into it afterward!
How Joe will laugh at me if I tell him. But I just won’t open my mouth
about it.”
The wet leg and foot grew colder rapidly, until Harry was afraid both
would freeze. He stamped on the foot many times, and then started
onward again.
But his chapter of misfortunes had not yet reached its climax. That
came when he stepped into the trap Joe had set. There was a click, and
of a sudden Harry felt something press his dry ankle as if the member
was in a vise.
“Oh! oh!” he yelled. “Let go! Oh!”
But the trap did not let go, and, dropping his gun, the young pioneer
clutched at the grip and the chain, and tried to force the former open.
But Joe had calculated that that grip should “stay put” if once it
caught hold of anything, and the more Harry tried to release himself
the tighter the trap seemed to fasten on his ankle, until the pressure
became positively painful.
“What in the world am I to do now?” thought the youth, and gazed at the
trap in dismay.
The trap was a “long” one--that is, the end of the release chain was
out of Harry’s reach, so that unfastening himself by such means was out
of the question.
“I’m as much of a prisoner as if I was a wild animal,” thought the
young pioneer. “I’ll have to remain here until Joe or somebody else
comes along to set me free.”
The snow now covered the ground to the depth of over an inch, and came
down more thickly than ever. Poor Harry’s feet were almost frozen, one
on account of the wet, and the other because of being clutched in the
trap. He stamped the wet foot vigorously, but even this helped him
little.
“If I have to stay here all night, I’ll die,” he thought, and his heart
sank within him.
Half an hour went by. He tugged, twisted, and pried on the trap, but
all to no purpose. Then he imagined he heard the howl of a wolf in the
distance, and he saw a lean fox come out into a clearing, and gaze
wonderingly at him.
“They’ll make short work of me if they learn I am helpless,” he thought
dismally. “Oh, I must get away somehow!”
When the fox came closer Harry raised his gun and fired on the
creature, killing it. This gave the youth a new idea.
“I’ll fire off a number of light charges,” he said to himself. “Perhaps
Joe will hear them, and come here to learn what they mean.”
He had powder enough in his horn for ten half-charges, and he began to
discharge his firearm at intervals of three or four minutes each. Then
he listened eagerly for some answering sound that would tell him his
signals had been heard.
But no answering shot came back, and once again his heart sank, this
time lower than ever.
“If Joe heard those shots he would surely fire in return,” he told
himself.
Another hour went by, and now it was very dark around him. Harry felt
so cold he could stand no longer. He sank down in the snow, his teeth
chattering. Then a drowsy feeling crept over him, and he found himself
strongly inclined to sleep.
The youth knew he must fight off the feeling--that if he gave way it
would probably prove his last sleep on earth.
“They’ll find me frozen stiff, if they ever do get here before the wild
animals,” he said to himself. And to keep himself awake he began to
sing at the top of his lungs.
“Harry Harry! Have you gone crazy?”
The cry came from the thicket close at hand, and on the instant Joe
burst into view. Harry did not see him at once, and kept on with his
snatch of a song.
“Harry, don’t you hear me? What on earth is the matter? Have you lost
your senses?”
“Joe!” The song came to an abrupt conclusion. “Oh, how thankful I am
you have come. Release me from this trap of yours, and get me home,
before I freeze to death.”
“Are you in the trap? By George, you are! Of course I’ll release you!”
Dropping his gun, Joe leaped to the end of the chain, and in a second
more the trap was opened, and Harry withdrew his foot slowly and
painfully. Then he tried to walk a step, but his feelings overcame him,
and he fell in the snow in a death-like faint.
Joe was now more alarmed than ever, and picking his companion up he
placed Harry over his shoulder, and set out for home.
It was a hard walk that Joe never forgot. The snow came down so thickly
that he was nearly blinded. He staggered up to the cabin clearing, and
caught Mrs. Parsons just as the good woman was peering anxiously from
the doorway.
“I’ve got him, and he is half frozen,” said Joe, and staggered into the
cabin.
“Mercy on us!” cried Harmony. “See, his foot is bleeding!”
“He got into my trap by accident,” said Joe.
All set to work to restore the sufferer, but it was several hours
before Harry was once more himself. Then he told the tale of his
various misfortunes.
“I want no more fishing through the ice, or nothing more of your
traps,” he said.
“Better break the trap up,” said Mrs. Parsons, and to please her Joe
took the trap to a more remote part of the wood, and placed over it a
sign of warning. Later on he caught in it two wolves, but that was all.
During the winter nothing was heard of the party who had gone after
the Indians, and only once did the people of Boonesborough hear from
the red men themselves, and that was when a party of four came to the
fort more dead than alive and asked for shelter and something to eat.
They were given something to eat and allowed to sleep in front of one
of the fires, and went off the next day apparently grateful for this
kindness.
It was not until the middle of March that word came in from the
expedition that had gone to hunt for the missing whites. One of the men
rode into the settlement at about noon. He was wounded in the shoulder
and rode a horse that was utterly fagged out.
“We had two engagements with the redskins,” said this man. “One about
ten days ago and one three days ago. We drove them from their village
on the bank of a small river into a belt of timber eight or ten miles
away. We killed not less than twelve of the band.”
“How many of our side were killed or wounded?” questioned Colonel Boone.
“That I can’t say exactly. I saw Hassock killed and Peter Parsons got
an arrow through his left arm. That was at the first fight. At the
second I was knocked over almost the first thing and fell into a gully.
When I got around again the fighting was off in another direction. I
tried to find the rest of the party, but could not, so I came home.”
Harry was anxious to learn if his father had been seriously hurt, but
the messenger could give no particulars. He said that the Indians had
been living in two villages about half a mile apart, and that there
were prisoners at each village, although nobody had been able to find
out exactly who the captives were.
These tidings only served to cast an additional gloom upon those living
at the home of the Parsons and Winships.
“’Tis hard to think that thy father has been sorely wounded,” said Mrs.
Parsons to Harry. “Perhaps it had been better had he remained at home.”
“Well, mother, all we can do is to hope for the best,” was the son’s
reply.
“When are the others coming back?” questioned Harmony.
“The messenger could not say,” answered Joe. “I reckon he was too weak
to take much account of what was going on, after he was knocked over.”
With the first sign of spring the boys prepared to go ahead with the
work of clearing and tilling the land. This was hard labor for those so
young in years, yet they went at the task manfully. They worked from
five o’clock in the morning until sundown, with only a short rest for
dinner.
One thing was in their favor--they remained perfectly healthy. While
others got chills and fever and dumb ague, and other ailments incident
to turning up new ground and working in meadow-like places, Joe and
Harry hardly knew what a sick day was. Their appetites remained good,
and gradually their muscles became as hard as iron.
They were not without their days of sport. Saturday was generally more
or less of an “off day,” and if the youths did not go hunting, fishing,
or swimming, they would join the other lads of the settlement in games
or friendly contests--rowing, running, jumping, wrestling, or shooting
at a target. The target-shooting made each a good shot, much to their
own satisfaction.
“It’s a great thing to know you can depend on your eye if you are ever
placed in a tight hole,” said Joe. “A clever shot may sometime save a
fellow’s life.”
“As that shot of Colonel Boone’s saved mine,” added Harry.
Harry prided himself somewhat on his running, and when, one Saturday
afternoon, a race was arranged between the young men and boys of the
settlement he entered eagerly. The race was presided over by an old
settler named Leary, who put up two prizes, a polished powder horn
and a brass bullet-mold, the first one in to take his choice of the
offerings.
Around Boonesborough there was no straight road for such a race, so
it was decided that the contest was to be a go-as-you-please affair,
extending half a mile up the river trail and back. The turning point
was a large flat rock, at which was stationed a man who checked off the
runners as they came up and made the turn.
Seven boys and young men took part in the contest, the youngest being
fifteen and the oldest twenty-two. The boy of fifteen was tall and
slim, with a pair of legs that were almost as nimble as those of a
deer, and more than one spectator picked this lad, whose name was Darry
Ford, as a winner. A young man of twenty named Jackson, and another
named Ferris, were also favorites.
“Harry, you have got to run well to come in ahead on this race,” said
Joe as he and his chum put off to the starting point. “Both Jackson and
Ferris have entered, and Darry Ford is to be in it, too.”
“I’m going to run as well as I can,” answered Harry.
“If I was you I’d take it a bit easy going down to the rock. Remember,
the way back is uphill.”
“Yes, I’ll remember that, Joe. Do you know the one I fear the most?”
“Jackson?”
“No.”
“Then Ferris?”
“Neither. It is Darry Ford. He has such long legs, and his wind is
splendid. He’ll get back uphill without trouble,” said Harry.
When the pair arrived at the spot where the contest was to take place
they found a goodly crowd assembled. The other contestants had just
come in, and each was surrounded by a little band of admirers. Not a
few bets were made on the result.
“Do you think you have got any show against Jack Ferris?” demanded one
of the crowd of Harry.
“I’m going to try my luck, Luke Stout.”
“You’ll get left.”
“Perhaps.”
“Want to bet against Ferris?” went on Luke Stout loudly.
“I don’t bet, Luke.”
“Afraid?”
“No, but I don’t bet.”
“Humph! That shows you are afraid,” sneered the big youth, and shuffled
off.
Joe could not stand this, and running forward he touched Luke Stout on
the shoulder.
“I will bet with you that Harry comes in ahead of Jack Ferris,” he said
calmly. “What will you bet?”
“I was going to put up my pocket knife,” said Stout, hauling it out.
“She’s a good three-blader.”
“Mine is as good,” said Joe, and brought the article forth. “Three
blades, too, and a Boston knife at that.”
“I’ll take you up,” came eagerly from Luke Stout. And the knives were
deposited with another party who said he would act as stakeholder.
“Oh, Joe, why did you put up that knife,” whispered Harry. “It’s the
one your father gave you on your last birthday.”
“I don’t expect to lose it, Harry. You must win Stout’s knife for me.”
“But he may come in ahead.”
“You said you didn’t fear anybody but Darry Ford. I wagered that you
would come in ahead of Jack Ferris, not that you would win the race.”
“Well, that is something. But still--he may come in ahead of me.”
It was now time to start, and the contestants were called together by
Andrew Leary, who explained to them the conditions under which they
were to run.
“You are to start when I clap my hands,” he said. “And you must pass
around to the right when you reach the rock on which Frank Fordham is
standing. The first one over this line on the return is the winner, and
the second takes second prize. Now line up, all of you.”
The seven contestants lined up, Harry in the center, with Darry Ford on
his left, and Ferris and Jackson on his right.
“Are you all ready?” asked Andrew Leary. There was a moment of intense
silence. “Go!” he roared, and clapped his hands loudly.
Away went the seven at a bound, side by side, and each running swiftly
and gracefully. The pace was a “hot” one from the beginning, for just
beyond the starting point the trail narrowed down, so that not more
than three or four could run abreast, and all wanted to keep in the
lead.
It was a runner named Brown who forged ahead first, followed by another
named Wilson. Both were heavy-set fellows, and crowded Darry Ford a
good deal as they sped along.
“Go it, fellows, go it!” was the cry of the onlookers.
“Get to the front, Darry!” shouted one.
“Show ’em what you can do, Ferris!” yelled Luke Stout.
“Save your wind, Harry,” came from Joe. “Remember, the race is for a
mile!”
On and on, and still on, sped the runners over the rough trail,
leaping many a rough rock or fallen log, in steeplechase fashion.
The roughness of the way now told on Brown, and gradually he dropped
behind, and Wilson followed. Then it was seen that Jackson and Ferris
were in the lead, with Darry Ford third, and Harry fourth.
“Jackson will win!”
“Ferris is crawling up to him!”
“I’ll bet on Darry Ford. Just you wait until he begins spurting.”
It was now that a turn in the trail hid the runners from view for a
moment. When they came again into the open it was seen that Ferris and
Jackson had changed places, and that the others were as before.
“What did I tell you?” roared Luke Stout. “I knew Jack Ferris would
win. Winship, that knife is as good as mine.”
“The race isn’t over yet, Stout.”
“Pooh! Ferris is first and Harry Parsons is fourth. Do you think he is
going to crawl into the lead? Not much!”
A minute later came another cry, from those further up the trail.
“They are rounding the rock!”
“Ferris is in the lead!”
“Darry Ford has jumped to second place! Jackson is third.”
“Hullo, Harry Parsons has taken a tumble! There goes Wilson ahead of
him!”
It was true, Harry had stumbled over a loose stick. But he was up in a
moment. Then he rounded the rock, and, fifth in the race, started on
the home-stretch.