Part 2

Of the two men we have under notice, one would have attracted immediate attention in any company, or under any conditions. He was verging upon his fortieth year and in the prime of life. Five feet ten inches in height, his erect carriage gave him an appearance of greater stature. His body, encased in the deerskin dress of the backwoodsman, was splendidly formed, the extraordinarily broad and deep chest giving evidence of great strength. A sculptor might have taken the head, with its noble brow and fine features, for a model. The long hair was plaited and rolled into a knot. The clear, keen, blue eye had a mild expression, but force was written in the large, aquiline nose and the square chin, while the thin, compressed lips denoted resolution. It was a face on which courage and composure were strongly stamped. As he swung along with easy stride, his rifle over his shoulder, the movement of the sinewy limbs betrayed strength and agility.

It did not appear to the surveyor that his companion was particularly mindful of his surroundings but, as a matter of fact, nothing escaped the ever-watchful eyes of Daniel Boone. To him a twig, a leaf, a stone, the bark of a tree, or the lightest impression on the earth, told a story that none but a master of woodcraft might read. Throughout the day his piercing glance had fallen on this side and on that, taking in every detail as he passed along the trail. This caution was habitual with the backwoodsman, but on the present occasion Boone’s vigilance was, if possible, keener than usual because he was responsible for the safety of a large company which included many women and children. Behind the leader came a train of settlers bound for the promised land beyond the mountains.

The band, which had left their homes at Boone’s persuasion, numbered about forty men and the women and children of five families including his own. The majority were old neighbors from the Yadkin Valley who had been fired by the glowing accounts of Boone and other hunters who had penetrated to the wonderful country that was the favorite hunting-ground of the Indians. The settlers had crossed the Blue Ridge and some lesser ranges and were approaching the Cumberland Gap, which was the gateway to the region they sought. The hardships of a backwoods migration were nothing to them, but they were a little apprehensive about pushing so far into the interior and going hundreds of miles from the nearest settlement. Such a thing had never been done, and probably would not have been attempted except under the guidance of Boone, who was already an acknowledged leader on the frontier and one in whom all placed the utmost reliance.

It was now the 6th of October and the party had left the Yadkin district on the 25th of the preceding month. Their progress was necessarily slow, owing to the nature of the country they had to traverse and the character of the cavalcade. The narrow and rough trail forbade their using wagons as did the later pioneers in crossing the prairie regions. A string of pack-horses, tied head to tail, carried their bedding, clothing, and other belongings. Aside from corn, maple-sugar, and salt, they did not need to burden the animals with provisions, for the men could always be depended upon to supply the evening camp-kitchen with an abundance of meat. Wild turkeys were numerous, and at this time of the year fat and lazy. Pigeons, quail, and other game birds abounded in the forest, and an occasional deer or bear was to be had.

Here and there in the line a woman rode, holding a child before her, but for the most part the backwoods women tramped along with the men. Some mothers placed their infants in baskets, Indian fashion, and hung them to the sides of the ponies. Others carried them slung to their backs or straddled across their hips. Early in life the little ones became accustomed to tramping and a boy or girl of ten years, born in the wilderness, made small matter of a ten or twelve miles journey on foot.

At night they encamped near some spring or creek. Meat was broiled over the flames of the fire, and bread baked in the ashes. Each family or group of men made its fire in front of the shelter for the night, so that they might lie with their feet to it. A low structure, open in front and sloping towards the back, was readily raised by means of poles covered with skins. A comfortable bed was made of dry leaves or grass, with a blanket or pelt for covering. With such accommodations, these hardy, simple people deemed themselves well provided for, and without doubt they enjoyed better health than would have been their lot under the softer conditions of city life.

Boone and Mr. Sproul--whom it is needless to describe, for he does not figure any further in our story--were pacing the path in silence when several shots fired in rapid succession rang out. The surveyor dropped his pipe and stood paralyzed with alarm. At the first sound the hunter had wheeled about, and before the last report, which his trained ear told him was half a mile at least in the rear, had died away, he was speeding past the string of pack-animals with his rifle in readiness. In passing he called on five men to follow him and ordered the remainder to guard the women and children.

It was evident that the attack--for the character of the firing clearly indicated an attack--had been upon the party set to guard and drive the cattle, which often lagged a long way behind. Boone remembered, with a sudden pang, that his young son was one of the cattle escort that day, and the thought spurred him onward. Presently a savage whoop of triumph broke upon his ears and the next instant he was upon the scene.

The animals had plunged into the thicket and scattered. Six figures lay upon the earth, still in death. Five Indians, each exultantly brandishing a bleeding scalp, were in the act of diving into the neighboring undergrowth. A sixth bent over one of the prostrate forms, with his fingers entwined in the hair and knife raised to make the circular sweep in the crown of the head. Boone’s rifle went up, and had hardly touched his shoulder before it spoke. The Indian dropped, shot through the brain.

The father had the poor consolation of having saved his boy’s body from mutilation. That to a backwoodsman was a source of satisfaction, but it did not go far towards mitigating Boone’s present grief. He stood for some minutes, leaning upon his rifle and looking down at the face of his dead boy. The convulsive twitching of his features told of the inward commotion. But there was urgent duty at hand and Boone sternly put his grief behind him and turned to it. When he lifted his head, his companions saw that the features, though drawn, were calm and the eyes keen and alert as ever.

Reloading his rifle, Boone stepped into the forest at the point where the Indians had disappeared. In ten minutes’ time he rejoined the anxiously waiting men.

“Only seven,” he said. “No likelihood of another attack. McCurdy, you go and fetch back five men--and don’t tell them what’s happened as yet.”

With the reinforcement, the party set to work digging a broad and shallow grave, in which they laid their dead without further preparation or ceremony. It was but an incident of backwoods life and the men who performed the service to-day might be in need of it to-morrow. Having marked the grave with stones and blazed some neighboring trees, they rejoined the main body, which resumed the march, leaving the cattle to be sought for the next day.

A little farther on, the party came upon a favorable spot and went into camp for the night. As soon as Boone had made the shelter for his family and built a fire, he devoted himself to comforting his stricken wife. But even this task could not be pursued uninterruptedly. The camp needed guarding with special vigilance. It is true that Boone believed the attack of the afternoon to have been made by a small party of wandering Indians who killed the settlers for the mere sake of securing their scalps. On the other hand, they might have been a scouting party sent out by a large band. Although Boone was as fearless as any man that ever lived, he was never imprudent, much less reckless. In the course of their conversation Mr. Sproul had said something about “trusting to Providence.” The hunter had replied that he didn’t “believe in trusting to Providence until you have done all you can for yourself. After that, Providence is much more likely to lend a willing hand.”

As soon, therefore, as the other settlers had composed themselves to rest, Boone went out and seated himself upon a fallen tree, prepared to spend the night in watchfulness. His ears were alive to the slightest sound and he could instantly detect the origin of each. Now and again the stillness of the forest would be broken by the howl of a wolf, or the hoot of an owl. At such times the hunter would raise his head and listen intently, for the Indians imitated the cries of birds and animals in signalling to one another. Boone was himself a very good hand at that form of reproduction and was seldom deceived by the performance of another.

Boone’s vigil had extended to the gray dawn when his attention was attracted by a dim figure moving on the farther side of the camp. He thought that it was probably one of the settlers suffering from indigestion or, perhaps, walking in his sleep. However, prudence demanded that he should stalk the figure, and he accordingly slipped noiselessly round the back of the shelters in his moccasined feet. The manœuvre brought him suddenly within sight of the person at a few feet distance. The light was just strong enough to enable him to discern the form of a youth who was struggling to suppress the sobs that convulsed his frame at intervals.

Boone took the boy by the arm and gently led him to the fallen tree by his own camp fire.

“Sit down,” he said. “Now, what’s the trouble, young man?” He spoke in a low, soft voice that told the lad that he had fallen in with a friend. “Take your time,” continued the hunter, soothingly; “I know it hurts, whatever it is, and you’re taking it like a man, anyhow.”

He placed an arm across the boy’s shoulders and the youngster felt the touch strengthen and calm him as had not all the comforting words of the sympathetic settlers’ wives. After a while he controlled himself sufficiently to speak.

“My father was killed yesterday,” said the lad, at last, “and--and I didn’t see him.”

“Too bad, too bad,” said Boone, drawing the boy closer to his side. “I wouldn’t worry about not seeing him, though. I saw him--I buried him, and he looked peaceful and I don’t doubt is happier than you or me at this moment. Where’s your mother, young man?”

“Mother died long ago, before we left England.”

“You don’t mean that you’re all alone?”

“Yes, now that father’s dead, I’m all alone.”

The thought of his utter loneliness overcame the lad, and for a few minutes he was again shaken with grief. Boone waited silently until the boy had somewhat recovered himself. Then he asked:

“What’s your name?”

“Hardy Goodfellow, sir.”

“I like that name,” said the hunter. “Hardy Goodfellow sounds like it ought to fit a backwoodsman. What are you going to do, Hardy?” The hunter did not wait for an answer to his question but went on: “We can’t leave you here and there’s no way of sending you back, at present. Do you want to go on to Kentucky, Hardy?”

“Yes, I’d rather go on,” replied the lad. “I think father would want me to, if he knew.”

“Why do you think he would?”

“Well, I’ve often heard him say he hated to see a man turn back when he’d once started to do anything--but, of course, I’m not a man.”

“I’m not so sure of that, Hardy. You don’t need to have a certain number of years nor a certain number of feet to be a man, leastways not in the backwoods. It’s more a matter of the heart and head, Hardy, and I think you’ve got as much pluck and sense as many of your elders.”

After this speech the hunter lapsed into silent thought and so sat for ten or fifteen minutes. When he turned again to his young companion it was with an air of satisfied decision.

“Hardy, the same Injuns that killed your father killed my son. The eldest he was--the other’s only a baby. Now, if you’re willin’, I’ll try to take the place of your father and you shall take the place of our Jim. What do you say?”

The boy strove to speak but his emotions choked him. He looked up at Boone and the hunter could see gratitude and joy written on his face.

“Shake on it--that’s enough,” said Boone, extending his hand. “That’s settled, then, and I don’t think either of us will ever be sorry for the bargain. My woman will make you a good mother and I’ll go bail you’ll make her a good son. Now crawl into your new home, Hardy, and get an hour’s sleep. I’ll stretch my legs a bit.”

It may seem strange that Boone should on such short acquaintance have taken a boy into his family on the footing of a son. However, Boone’s judgment of human character amounted to almost unerring intuition and he felt strongly drawn towards Hardy, largely perhaps on account of his recent bereavement. Moreover, he was not devoid of the backwoods trait of superstition, as was evidenced by his muttered remark as he turned on his heel after seeing the boy enter the shelter: “Maybe the Lord meant it that way--who knows?”

III.

THE YOUNG HUNTER

The emigrants show the white feather--They retrace their steps to North Carolina--Boone refuses to turn his back upon Kentucky and Hardy proves staunch--“Didn’t we make a bargain?”--The new home in the cabin on the Clinch--Hardy enters upon his backwoods education--Boone finds him an apt and willing pupil--The hunting expeditions in the glorious Indian summer--Hardy soon learns to shoot straight and to stalk a deer--Hardy has a lesson in tracking a man--“I laid flat, thinking you might fire”--Winter trapping and camping--The Indians invade the settlements--Hardy serves in Dunmore’s War.

When the first rays of the rising sun called the settlers from their rude couches, Boone appeared in camp, after a bath in the branch, as fresh and alert as though he had enjoyed a long rest like the others. The night before he had instructed them not to strike their shelters in the morning, for he designed to remain in the camp until the next day and devote the interval to searching for the strayed cattle. These were a very valuable property. Their milk was needed for the young children, and they were intended to form the nucleus of the stock in the new settlement. A party was sent out to search the thickets, but Boone was doomed to meet with a great disappointment before the close of the day and to have his cherished plans entirely upset.

At about noon the heads of the families among the emigrants came to the leader and expressed their determination to return. The attack of the day before had convinced them that the Indians would oppose their farther progress, and they deemed it suicidal to venture into an unknown region, far beyond the limits of settlement. Many of the other men were married and had joined the expedition with a view to prospecting for land. These, also, were bent on returning to their homes. A few of the single men, who had no ties, were indifferent as to their future course, and of these perhaps half a dozen stayed in the district.

Boone felt that if there was to be any turning back, the sooner it took place the better, and he did not try to dissuade the settlers from their purpose. For his own part, he had made up his mind to go to Kentucky and get there he would. He should stay where he was until an opportunity for going forward presented itself.

While this understanding was being reached, Hardy stood beside his adoptive father, an interested listener. Boone now turned to him.

“Hardy,” he said, with a grim smile, “here’s a fine chance to go back again, if you want to.”

The boy looked up at the hunter with an expression of mingled surprise and reproach.

“Didn’t we make a bargain?” he asked.

“That we did, Hardy,” replied Boone heartily, slapping the lad on the back, “that we did, and I’m to blame for doubting you.”

So it was settled, and the next morning the entire party set out on the back trail. Boone accompanied the returning settlers for a distance of about forty miles and then bade them farewell and good luck. They parted company in the Valley of the Clinch, near the headwaters of the river of that name. Boone had noticed a deserted cabin and a small clearing on the banks of the stream and had marked the place for his future home. When the retreating band had disappeared from view, Boone turned his pack-horses towards the spot and before nightfall his little family was comfortably ensconced in the lonely hut.

The Boones were not beyond the bounds of settlement. During the few years previous to their arrival, restless pioneers from the borders of Virginia and North Carolina had pushed out to the valleys this side of the Cumberland Mountains, and there were several scattered “stations” at no great distance, as backwoodsmen computed distance. Indeed, Russell’s Station was next door, being only eight miles away. Boone felt confident that among these adventurous spirits he would soon find some to make up another expedition for the settlement of Kentucky. Meanwhile, there was much to be done. The cabin needed repairing and the clearing had to be attended to. Then there was the winter’s stock of meat to be laid in and some furs, which, as we have said, represented money, to be secured.

Then commenced for Hardy Goodfellow the happiest time of his life. Boone, as soon as he had seen his wife and little ones comfortably settled at home, began to take hunting trips. This was a very necessary part of a backwoodsman’s life, and his wife was quite accustomed to being left alone for weeks and months at a time. For Hardy these excursions afforded the most delightful experience and the most useful education. While he was somewhat better schooled than the average backwoods boy, he was almost a greenhorn in the matters that went to the making of an accomplished frontiersman, his father having but recently arrived with him from England. He had, however, unusual advantages to favor his development into an expert backwoodsman. He was a lusty, well-formed lad, rather tall for his fourteen years. His childhood had been passed in a rural district, and he delighted in outdoor life. He possessed, as Boone had quickly discerned, plenty of pluck and an ample fund of common sense. But Hardy’s greatest good fortune lay in having such an instructor as Boone who, besides being an expert hunter and a master of woodcraft, was a man of splendid character and one calculated to stimulate and develop the inherent good qualities in a pupil.

The glorious “Indian summer” of the South was upon them when they began these wanderings together. Their days were spent mainly in hunting deer, the skins of which were worth a dollar apiece and the meat the most desirable for storing. Under Boone’s directions Hardy soon learned to shoot straight, and also became fairly adept in stalking the game. After a while the hunter would allow his young companion to take the direction of the day’s hunt, when Hardy would be required to calculate from the state of the weather and the condition of the surrounding country where the deer were likely to be found, and to decide from the course of the wind upon the point at which they were to be approached.

Every minute of the day added to the boy’s knowledge and his strength, while his powers of observation and reasoning steadily developed. Hunting is hard work and Boone was no light taskmaster, but despite the fatigue and the bruises and the scratches, Hardy fairly revelled in his new experience, as any healthy boy would. As they tramped along, Boone showed the eager youngster how to detect “signs” of Indians and animals; how to tell whether an upturned stone or leaf had been disturbed by the wind or by the foot of man or beast. He explained to him how, from the barks of trees and other indications, to determine the points of the compass, so that he might travel the wilderness without guide. They studied the habits of birds and animals and practiced mimicking their cries.

Sometimes they would halt in a small glade and Boone would set up a mark for Hardy to shoot at, impressing upon him the wisdom of never pressing trigger until he should be sure of his aim. This exercise was varied with that of throwing the tomahawk, a very useful accomplishment. The Indian fighter who expended a shot without bringing down his foe, might not have time to reload, when he would have to resort to the weapons in his belt. On such and many other occasions the tomahawk came into play. At times they would engage in running matches and wrestling bouts, and although at first the hunter could pick Hardy up by the belt and hold him at arm’s length, the boy soon became too strong and agile to be treated as an altogether indifferent antagonist.

As they were constantly on the move, they made what was called an “open” camp,--that is to say, at night they rolled themselves in their blankets under the sky, or beneath the trees. As they sat beside their fire, after the meal of venison and cornbread, Boone would instruct Hardy in the ways of Indians, or tell him tales of frontier life--stories of hairbreadth escape from wild beast or cruel Indian; of women defending their cabins in the absence of their men; of fierce fights; of captivity and torture; of wanderings in the trackless wilds; of various adventures in a world that was as yet little known to the lad. The hunter liked to tell and Hardy to hear of Boone’s excursions into Kentucky--how he spent three months alone, hundreds of miles from a white man and without even a horse or dog for company; how the Indians captured him, and how he escaped. These stories fired Hardy with an intense longing to become a full-fledged frontiersman, and he bent every effort towards that end.

Sometimes Hardy would awake in the morning to find Boone gone. Then he understood that he was expected to trail the hunter to the next camp. The man took care that the task should not be too difficult and Hardy met with such success that he was quite elated at it. One night he boasted of his skill and the next day received a lesson that abated his pride and convinced him that he had a great deal yet to learn.

The next morning Hardy found himself alone and at once started off on Boone’s trace, which was plainly visible. He followed it with comparative ease until some time after noon. Then he began to be uncertain and at last was entirely at a loss. For hours he wandered about, carefully examining the ground, the bushes, and the trees, but not a sign could he find. For all trace of him that Hardy could see, the hunter might have flown straight up from the earth. Evening found the lad still at fault. There was nothing for it but to camp for the night.

Hardy felt somewhat downcast as he looked around for a resting place. He had perfect confidence in Boone and knew that he would turn up on the morrow, but it was the first time that Hardy had been alone in the wilderness and he didn’t quite like the experience. However, he concluded to make the best of it, and to hearten himself, said aloud:

“Cheer up, Hardy! You’ll never make a frontiersman if you’re afraid to be alone in the woods.”

A short chuckling laugh came from the depths of the neighboring undergrowth. Hardy started and peered apprehensively into the gloaming, his rifle half way to his shoulder. He could see nothing to cause alarm and the most profound silence reigned.

“Ugh! a gobbler I reckon,” concluded Hardy, turning once more to his preparations for the night.