Part 5
Hardy paddled himself across the river and, after hiding his canoe in a secluded spot, he made his way into the woods. It was not long before he heard the gobble of a turkey. Listening closely for a few minutes, and satisfying himself that the sounds came from a bird and not from an Indian, he commenced stealthily to approach his intended victim. This was not to be easily accomplished, however. The turkey detected Hardy’s movements before he got a sight of the bird. The chase lasted for an hour or more. Now the quarry would take alarm and make off with long, awkward strides, and anon, lulled into quietness by the hunter’s caution, would again allow him to come almost within range, only to run off just as the rifle was coming into position. At length a good chance came to the patient tracker. In one of its sudden retreats the turkey incautiously started across an open space about sixty feet in breadth. Hardy was eighty yards away from his mark but determined not to lose this opportunity. He dropped on one knee and, taking careful aim, fired as the bird reached the middle of the glade. The turkey fluttered for a few paces and then fell dead.
It proved to be a fine, fat bird, and would have justified Hardy in considering the day’s hunt as finished and returning to the many tasks of a less attractive nature that awaited him. But the weather and the surroundings were so enticing that he could not resist the temptation to remain out a little longer. He hid his turkey where he could find it on the return, and determined to indulge himself for a while in the sport of “barking” squirrels. This was a favorite pastime with Hardy, because it involved a very high order of marksmanship, in which he was eager to excel. At the same time, it was the last use to which he should have put his rifle at this time, when, as he knew, powder and shot were precious and every load should be made to count.
As the reader may imagine, a squirrel hit by a rifle ball would be torn to pieces, so that neither its flesh nor its fur could be of any service. In order to secure the animals intact, the backwoodsmen resorted to a skilful expedient which was called “barking.” The marksman aimed, not at the squirrel, but at the bark of the tree immediately below its feet. If he hit the exact place at which he fired, the animal flew into the air and came down, killed by the concussion, but whole. To accomplish this feat required the greatest precision. If the course of the bullet was an inch too high, the squirrel was shattered; if it was as much too low, the ball sank into the wood of the tree without the desired effect.
“Barking” squirrels was one of the favorite methods with the backwoodsmen of showing off their marksmanship. Boone could bring down his animal, without injuring a hair, every time at fifty yards. When far advanced in years, he gave such an exhibition of his skill to Audubon that made the naturalist wonder exceedingly. It is hardly necessary to say that Hardy, although a very creditable pupil, had not attained to anything like the same expertness. Indeed, if he “barked” one squirrel in five attempts he was doing very well. To-day it appeared, however, that our young hunter was in unusually good form, for by careful approach and steady shooting he succeeded in getting three whole squirrels with ten shots. Fragments of a number of others had been uselessly scattered over the ground.
Hardy was blessed with a healthy appetite, and had not yet trained 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.”
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.