THE RETREAT OF THE INDIANS
“Oh, Mrs. Parsons, Harry is killed!”
It was Harmony who uttered the cry, for she had seen Harry go down with
the two arrows sticking into him.
“My son killed!” screamed Mrs. Parsons, rushing forward to where she
could catch sight of the form in Joe’s arms. “Oh, Harry! Harry! is it
true that the Indians have slain thee?” she wailed.
“I don’t believe he is dead,” said Joe, his own face white and drawn.
“He is struck in the leg and the arm.”
“Bring him to yonder cabin,” said the distracted mother, and Joe did as
directed. Blood was flowing freely from Harry’s wounds and it was seen
that he had fainted from the shock and from weakness.
“If those arrows are poisoned he will surely die,” came from Cora.
“They are not poisoned,” said Daniel Boone, who had walked up and who
examined the shafts closely. “Bind up his wounds with care, and I
warrant he will pull through.”
At once Mrs. Parsons and the girls did all they could for the
sufferer. In the meantime other flaming arrows were coming into the
inclosure, and Joe had to rush away once more, to do his full share in
extinguishing the fires that sprang up.
Luckily the pioneers had a never-failing supply of water direct from
the river on which the fort was located, so in spite of the flaming
arrows they managed to keep the various conflagrations under control.
Seeing this, the Indians withdrew once more, to consider another plan
for defeating the hated palefaces.
It was now sometime after noon and all were hungry. A hasty meal was
prepared, and as hastily eaten, and the men continued on guard. As all
remained quiet, Joe stole to the cabin, to see how Harry was faring.
“I--I’m not yet dead,” the sufferer managed to say. “But I reckon I am
out of th--this fight.”
“I am so thankful he was not killed,” said Mrs. Parsons. “But oh, if
this cruel fighting was only at an end!” And she covered her face with
her apron.
Slowly the afternoon dragged by and not a single sign of an Indian was
seen.
“Goin’ to wait until night,” said Pep Frost “Injuns allers like to
fight after dark. Reckon we’ll have an all-fired hot time atween now
an’ sun-up to-morrow.”
“Well, we must take what comes,” answered Joe. His own heart felt like
a lump of lead in his bosom. With his father and his mother missing,
and also Mr. Parsons and Clara, and with Harry seriously wounded, the
future looked black indeed.
“If the Indians manage to get in here it will be all up with us,” he
reasoned.
Pep Frost was right, the Indians were waiting for nightfall, and hardly
had darkness come over the fort, than the attack was renewed with
vigor. Arrows flew in all directions, and more than one tomahawk came
whizzing over the stockade and close to some pioneer’s head. As in the
daytime the yells of the red men were frightful.
Joe and Pep Frost had been stationed at a certain angle of the fort.
Just beyond was a high rock, and half a dozen of the enemy were
secreted behind this. Two had muskets, and they fired whenever they
caught the least sign of anybody in the stronghold.
“We must try to plug them Injuns,” said Frost. “Joey, you keep yer eye
glued on the right o’ the rocks an’ I’ll watch the left. Shoot the
fust rascal ez shows himself.”
Joe did as he was bidden, and stood at the loophole with his hand ready
on the trigger of his rifle.
Suddenly an Indian bobbed up, bow and arrow in hand. He let drive
directly for the loophole, and the arrow hit the edge of Joe’s rifle
barrel. At the same time the youth pulled the trigger of the weapon.
Joe’s aim was true, and the Indian fell with a serious bullet wound
close to his ear. Then Pep Frost’s rifle also cracked, and a second
Indian fell, shot through the throat.
“Thet’s the time we cotched ’em,” chuckled the old frontiersman. “They
can’t play any o’ their funny games around here, ha! ha!”
Again the Indians found their assault on the fort unsuccessful, and
again they retreated. Long Knife was at their head, and some of the
warriors complained bitterly to him of their want of success.
“Long Knife said the fort would be taken with ease,” said one warrior.
“But we have not captured it, and thirteen of our braves are already
slain.”
“We have approached too openly,” said Long Knife. “We must come up as
panthers in the dark. We will rest and throw them off the watch.”
No other attack was made until nearly four o’clock in the morning. Then
half of the Indians entered their canoes and put out on the water.
Their idea was to paddle to that part of the fort which rested on the
river bank, and then try crawling through the ditch that let the water
into the stockade.
But the pioneers were on the watch, and no sooner had the swarm of
canoes appeared than several of the warriors were shot down. Two of the
craft were sunk, and the occupants had a lively time of it swimming for
their lives.
Two canoes reached the ditch, and five Indians dived down under the
stockade. When they attempted to come up on the inside they were
stopped by a row of long stakes that Daniel Boone had had planted there
the day previous. Not wishing to be drowned like rats in a trap, the
Indians had to retreat; and then the whole body left the river, not to
return.
“Whoopee!” shouted Pep Frost, throwing up his cap in his delight. “Put
down another failure fer ’em! It’s a pity they didn’t come in, so ez we
could have killed ’em off one at a time!”
When the sun rose it found the pioneers still on guard. All were much
worn by what they had passed through, yet nobody felt like lying down
to sleep. Strong coffee and hearty rations were served, and Boone
divided his force into two parties, one to remain on guard, and the
other to take it easy until another alarm should sound out.
So far there had been but one man killed and two wounded, including
Harry. The wounded youth lay resting quietly, and Mrs. Parsons was
close by, ready to minister to his wants so far as her limited means
permitted.
Slowly the hot July day passed. In the stockade it was almost
suffocating, and one girl fainted from the heat. But water was
plentiful and cool, and nobody complained.
It was not until the middle of the afternoon that the Indians massed
their forces for a final assault. On they came yelling and whooping
like demons, and again the arrows flew all around and in the stockade.
Large stones were also hurled at the fort, and more than a score of the
red men climbed into the nearby trees, and tried to pick off the whites
from these points of vantage.
The red men in the trees could hardly be seen, and to make sure of them
Daniel Boone had half a dozen muskets heavily loaded with buckshot.
In the old-fashioned bores of that period this shot scattered itself
over a wide space, and the Indians came down from the trees in a hurry,
some literally “peppered” to death, and all more or less wounded.
“Gosh! but this beats bird huntin’,” observed Pep Frost. “See ’em
tumble. Whoop! but it’s jest the thing!” And he let drive another dose
of the shot.
Down at the east end of the fort the fight was more desperate than it
had been for the whole two days. Six or seven of the red men succeeded
in climbing the stockade, and a fierce hand-to-hand struggle ensued,
in which four were thrown down and mortally wounded. The other two
ran toward the heavy gate, with the idea of throwing off the bars and
opening the barrier.
“No you don’t!” cried Daniel Boone, and with a few leaps he was on the
red men. Each threw a tomahawk at the old hunter. But he dodged the
weapons, and sent one Indian to the earth by a blow from his gun-stock.
Then he grappled with the other fellow, and both rolled on the ground.
“Boone is down!” cried a woman, and, turning, Joe saw the struggle that
was taking place. He ran for the spot with all speed, and just as the
Indian was trying to stab Daniel Boone with his hunting knife the youth
kicked out and struck the enemy in the head, completely stunning him.
Then Boone arose, and another blow put the red man out of the fight
forever.
The fall of the six men who had mounted the stockade, and of those who
had climbed the trees, was a great blow to the Indians, and soon one
of the old warriors sounded the retreat. This command made Long Knife
furious, for he wanted to continue fighting, but nobody would listen to
him, and at last the Indians retreated, and the enraged chief followed.
It may be added that in the forest the chief tried to argue the point
with the old warrior, who, instead of talking, struck Long Knife in the
mouth, and told him to be quiet.
“Black Wolf is right,” said another warrior. “Long Knife would lead us
to death. We have had enough of fighting the white man in his strong
box. Henceforth Arrowhead shall fight the white man only in the forest.”
From the manner in which the Indians left the vicinity of the fort
Daniel Boone was satisfied that they had almost enough of the fighting.
“Had we a few more men, we could follow them and bring them to terms,”
he said. “But as it is we will have to continue on guard until we are
certain they have left this locality.”
Three days were spent in the fort, and then some settlers from another
locality arrived. They brought news that four other points had been
attacked, but in each contest the enemy had been driven off with a
heavy loss.
“Long Knife has encamped up at Flat-Rock Run,” said the pioneer. “A
good many of his followers have deserted him. We are going up there
after him. If we can capture him perhaps we can then learn what has
become of the women and children he made captives a long while ago.”
“Let me go with you!” cried Joe eagerly.
“You?”
“Yes! yes! My mother was made a prisoner, and one of my girl friends,
Clara Parsons, is missing, too.”
“I’ll go,” put in Pep Frost. “Joey can go with me.”
Six others volunteered for the expedition. The other pioneers, by
Daniel Boone’s advice, remained at the fort, to defend that stronghold.
The distance to Flat-Rock Run was not over eighteen miles, but the
trail was exceeding rough, and progress was necessarily slow.
“Long Knife knows what he is doing,” said Pep Frost, as he and Joe
trudged along side by side. “If he can’t fight he’ll hide in the hills,
an’ we won’t have no fool o’ a task routin’ him out nuther!”
“We can stick to his trail until we catch him,” answered the young
pioneer simply. “I don’t care how much I suffer, so long as I learn
what has become of my mother and father and the rest.”
“Spoken jest like a good boy, Joey. Wall, I’m with ye to the finish, ye
kin jest wager yer last shillin’ on that!”
That night the pioneers and hunters went into camp in something of a
hollow. A strict guard was kept, and before sunrise the march forward
was resumed. Two hours later a sharpshooter who had been in advance
came back with the news that the band under Long Knife was in sight,
camping at the edge of a small stream running through the hills.