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Title: With Boone on the frontier

Subtitle: Or, The pioneer boys of old Kentucky

Author: Ralph Bonehill

Release Date: September 14, 2023 [eBook #71642]

Language: English

Credits: David Edwards, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed
         Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITH BOONE ON THE FRONTIER ***



[Illustration: “LONG KNIFE WAS TAKEN FAIRLY AND SQUARELY IN THE
BREAST.”--P. 63.]




  WITH BOONE ON
  THE FRONTIER

  OR

  _THE PIONEER BOYS OF OLD
  KENTUCKY_

  BY
  CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL

  AUTHOR OF “THE BOYS OF THE FORT,” “WITH CUSTER IN
  THE BLACK HILLS,” “WHEN SANTIAGO FELL,”
  “THE YOUNG BANDMASTER,” ETC.

  [Illustration]

  NEW YORK
  GROSSET & DUNLAP
  PUBLISHERS




  COPYRIGHT, 1903
  BY
  THE MERSHON COMPANY




PREFACE


“WITH BOONE ON THE FRONTIER” relates the adventures of two youths
who, with their families, go westward into what was at that time the
wilderness of Kentucky, to join Daniel Boone in settling what has since
become one of the richest and most prosperous of our States.

The history of this movement, and the history of the man who was
its greatest leader, are as fascinating as the most exciting novel
ever written. Daniel Boone was a character almost unique in American
history, a man the very embodiment of pluck and energy, and one who
knew neither fear nor the meaning of the word fail. For years he had
his eye on the great green fields of Kentucky, and he resolved, in
spite of the dangers from natural causes and from the Indians, to open
up this territory to the hundreds of pioneers who had become tired
of life along the eastern seacoast or close to it, and who wanted to
go where they would be less under the rule of those English who were
making themselves offensive at that time. While those in the East were
fighting the War for Independence he and his trusty followers were
working equally hard to give to this nation a stretch of land of which
any people might well be proud.

The first settlement in Kentucky was at Boonesborough, about eighteen
miles to the southeast of Lexington, on the Kentucky River. To-day this
village is of small importance, but at that time, in 1775, it boasted
of a fort which, built under the directions of Daniel Boone, was a
rallying point for all the settlers of that territory and a place to
which they fled for safety at the first sign of an Indian uprising.
It is in and around this fort that many incidents of the present tale
occur.

It may be that some, in reading this story, will deem many of the
statements made therein overdrawn. Such is far from being the fact.
The days in which Daniel Boone lived were full of dire peril to those
who lived on the frontier, or who attempted to push further westward
over the hunting grounds of the jealous red men, and many were the
outrages committed by the Indians, not alone on the men and boys among
the pioneers, but also among the women and girls, and even the little
children. Let us all be thankful that such days are now past never to
return.

                                                 CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL.

  _July 1, 1903._




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                     PAGE

       I. TWO BOYS OF THE WILDERNESS,            1

      II. PURSUED BY THE INDIANS,               11

     III. A DISMAYING DISCOVERY,                20

      IV. LOST UNDERGROUND,                     30

       V. THE ESCAPE OF THE CAPTIVES,           40

      VI. HARRY AND THE BEAR,                   50

     VII. WHAT HAPPENED IN THE RAIN,            60

    VIII. DAYS OF PERIL,                        70

      IX. DANIEL BOONE, THE PIONEER,            80

       X. BOONE LEADS THE WAY,                  90

      XI. WITH NO TIME TO SPARE,               100

     XII. SETTLING DOWN AT BOONESBOROUGH,      110

    XIII. PERILS OF THE YOUNG HUNTERS,         120

     XIV. ON THE TRAIL OF A THIEF,             130

      XV. FIGHTING THE FLAMES,                 140

     XVI. THE FALL OF A HICKORY TREE,          150

    XVII. AN ADVENTURE ON SNOWSHOES,           166

   XVIII. NIGHT WITH THE WOLVES,               176

     XIX. THE HUNTERS HUNTED,                  185

      XX. DANIEL BOONE’S GREAT SHOT,           195

     XXI. THE FOOT RACE AT THE FORT,           205

    XXII. WHO WAS THE WINNER?                  222

   XXIII. THE RESCUE OF JEMIMA BOONE,          231

    XXIV. A NIGHT RAID BY THE INDIANS,         240

     XXV. IN A FOREST FIRE,                    250

    XXVI. THE ATTACK ON THE FORT,              266

   XXVII. SHOT ON THE ROOF,                    276

  XXVIII. THE RETREAT OF THE INDIANS,          292

    XXIX. THE LONG-LOST AT LAST,               302

     XXX. BACK TO THE CABIN--CONCLUSION,       312




WITH BOONE ON THE FRONTIER




CHAPTER I

TWO BOYS OF THE WILDERNESS


“Hark, Joe, what was that?”

“It sounded like the report of a gun, Harry. But I didn’t imagine that
anybody was within gunshot of this place outside of ourselves.”

“That was what I was thinking. Do you imagine any of those Indians we
met yesterday had guns?” went on Harry Parsons thoughtfully.

“I didn’t see any,” answered Joe Winship. “And if they had ’em I think
we would have seen ’em,” he added, as he took up his gun from where it
was resting against a tree and looked at the priming.

“We didn’t come out here to have trouble,” continued Harry Parsons.
“We only came to see if we couldn’t bag a fine deer or two. If those
Indians followed our party----”

The youth came to a stop, for at that instant another gunshot
rang out, somewhat closer than the first which had attracted their
attention. Then came a rush through the forest and a few seconds later
four beautiful deer burst into view.

“Deer!” cried Joe Winship, and leveled his gun at the nearest of the
game.

“Don’t shoot, Joe!” cried his companion.

“Why not?”

“If the Indians are after ’em we may have trouble.”

There was no time to argue the matter, for even as Harry Parsons spoke
the deer leaped the small brook which wound its way through the mighty
forest and in a twinkling were out of sight again. Then all became as
quiet as before.

“Don’t hear any Indians,” was Joe Winship’s comment, after straining
his ears for a full minute. “And lost a tremendously good shot,” he
added regretfully.

“Well, it’s best to be on the safe side. If half a dozen redskins were
after those deer we wouldn’t stand any show at all against ’em,” said
Harry Parsons, with a decided shake of his curly-haired head. “You
remember what our folks told us--to keep out of trouble.”

“But what beautiful deer they were!”

“You are right. And it isn’t likely they’ll come back this way----”

“Hush!”

As Joe Winship uttered the word he caught his companion by the sleeve
and pointed through the forest to where there was an opening, perhaps
an acre in extent, dotted here and there with small brushwood.

“What did you see, Joe?”

“A couple of Indians. There they are again--getting ready to cross the
brook!”

“They came up quietly enough. What shall we do?”

“Let us get behind yonder bushes. They are on the trail of the game,
and I don’t think they’ll come this way. But if they do we’ll have
trouble just as sure as you are born,” concluded Joe Winship, and
led the way to the shelter he had mentioned, quickly followed by his
companion.

Joe Winship was a youth of fifteen, tall and as strong as outdoor life
can make a boy of that age. He was the only son of Ezra Winship, a
hardy hunter and pioneer, one of the number who did so much to build up
our country in years gone by. Besides Joe, the family consisted of the
boy’s mother and his two sisters, named respectively Cora and Harmony,
both of whom were younger than himself.

Harry Parsons was a few months older than Joe. He too was an only son,
and had one sister, Clara, two years older than himself. His father,
Peter, had in years gone by been a cattle dealer doing business in and
around Philadelphia, and had there married his wife, Polly, of Quaker
stock.

It was during a visit to Williamsburgh that Mr. Peter Parsons had
fallen in with Ezra Winship, about four years previous to the opening
of this story. A chance acquaintanceship had ripened into true
friendship, which speedily spread from all the members of one family to
all the members of the other.

From Williamsburgh the Winships and the Parsons migrated to a small
settlement in North Carolina known by the name of Jackson’s Ford. Here
log cabins were built and some planting was done by the boys and the
others, while Mr. Winship and Mr. Parsons spent a good deal of their
time in bringing down game in the almost trackless forests to the west
of the rude settlement--the game being used to supply the table with
meat and the pelts being sold or traded for household commodities at a
trading-post thirty-five miles away.

In those days--just previous to the Revolution of 1776--the great
West was an unknown country to the American colonists. There were
settlements in plenty along the Atlantic seacoasts, and for several
hundreds of miles inland, but beyond this was, to them, the trackless
forests and the unknown mountains, inhabited by game of all sorts and
Indians.

One of the leading pioneers of those times, and one who will figure
quite largely in our story, was Daniel Boone. Boone had already gone
into the wilderness beyond the Kentucky River, and had come back to
tell of the richness of the land there and the abundance of game. As a
result a company was formed to settle the territory now known as the
State of Kentucky, and among the first of the pioneers to take part in
this move westward was Peter Parsons, who helped to erect a fort at
what was afterwards called Boonesborough.

The settlement at Boonesborough was quickly followed by other
settlements at Harrodsburgh, Boiling Spring, and St. Asaph, and when it
became an assured fact that Kentucky was to be settled and held by the
bold pioneers who had followed in the footsteps of Daniel Boone, Peter
Parsons sent back word to Jackson’s Ford asking Ezra Winship to join
him in this “far western country,” and bring all the members of the
two families with him. He stated that he had selected two fine grants
of land upon which they could build, and that upon his arrival Mr.
Winship should have his pick of the two prospective farms.

In those days to move, especially with one’s household effects, was no
easy matter, and it was a good two months before all was in readiness
for the start. The Winship and the Parsons family did not go alone,
but were accompanied by four other pioneers and their families and a
pack train of fourteen horses, for to get anything like a wagon or cart
through the wilderness was utterly impossible.

To the boys the move westward seemed to promise no end of sport, and
they willingly did all they could to further the project. But the
girls and their mothers dreaded to think of this step into the great
wilderness, and Mrs. Parsons shook her head doubtfully as she said in
her quaint Quaker way:

“Friend Ezra, since Peter wishes me to come to him, I will go with
thee. But I am of a mind that our journey will be a troublous one, and
that the Indians will not be as friendly as thee imagines.”

“Have no fear, Mistress Parsons, but that we will get through in
safety,” answered Ezra Winship. “The trail has now been used half
a score of times, so we cannot very well get lost, and as for the
Indians, if we do not harm them I doubt if they harm us.”

But even though he spoke thus, Ezra Winship knew that all who were to
move westward with him were sure to encounter more or less of peril.
Wild animals roamed the forest, and the Indians, although apparently
friendly, were not to be trusted. To this were to be added the perils
of storms and of forest fires, and the dangers of crossing rapidly
flowing streams in such frail craft as they could build, or upon
horseback.

All told, there were five men and six boys in the train that started
out from Jackson’s Ford one warm and pleasant day. Before the exodus
began Ezra Winship called the men and the older boys aside and gave
them a little advice.

“We are moving into a strange territory,” he said. “There is no telling
what perils we may have to face. You have made me your leader, and
that being so, I feel it my duty to warn each one to be on his guard
constantly. In traveling, always be sure to keep the rest of our
train in sight, and never discharge your weapons without reloading
immediately. If any Indians appear, treat them well so long as they are
friendly, but do not trust them too far.”

The progress westward was slow, but twelve miles being covered the
first day, fifteen the second, and ten the third. The trail--a narrow
path used occasionally by the buffalo and by the Indians--was an
exceedingly rough one, winding in and out of the forest and along the
banks of rivers and small streams. At certain spots were huge rocks,
over which buffalo and Indians could scramble with ease, but around
which the pack horses had to make their way slowly and cautiously.

The party were out a week before any Indians appeared. Then one of the
pioneers announced that he had discovered three red men looking down
upon them from a nearby cliff.

“They disappeared the minute I spotted ’em,” said the pioneer, whose
name was Pepperill Frost, generally shortened to Pep Frost.

“We must be on our guard against them,” said Ezra Winship, and that
night a strict guard was kept, but no red men appeared.

But the next afternoon, about three o’clock, four Indians showed
themselves at a spot where the trail crossed a shallow, rocky brook.
They came up with their hands before them and with their bows and
arrows and other weapons slung over their backs.

“To what place journey our white brothers?” questioned one of the
Indians, after the usual greeting in his native tongue.

“To some place where they can live in peace with our red brethren,”
answered Ezra Winship cautiously.

After this the Indians said little, but begged for some tobacco and
some Indian meal, a small quantity of which was given to them. They
then departed into the forest, disappearing as rapidly as they had come.

“I think we’ll see more of those Indians,” said Pep Frost.

“I believe you,” answered Ezra Winship. “And perhaps they’ll not be so
friendly another time. But do not alarm the women folks, for it will do
no good.”

Early the following morning an accident happened which came close to
proving fatal to one of the boys, Chet Rockley by name. He was driving
a pack horse loaded with provisions along the river bank when the horse
slipped and fell into the stream, carrying the lad with him. In the
struggle that followed the boy was kicked in the head by the animal.
Chet Rockley was rescued by Ezra Winship, but the horse was carried
away by the swift current and drowned, and the provisions were lost.

It was decided to rest for two days, to care for young Rockley, and
to bring in some game to take the place of the provisions which had
been lost. A temporary camp was established at the fork of two small
streams, and as soon as this was done the men folks and the boys took
turns in going out hunting and fishing.

Joe and Harry had been cautioned not to go too far, and to keep a
close watch for Indians. But their anxiety to bring in at least one
good-sized deer had caused them to roam further from the camp than at
first anticipated. They had seen no game until the four deer burst into
view, closely followed by the two Indians already mentioned.




CHAPTER II

PURSUED BY THE INDIANS


“Do you really think the Indians would prove unfriendly?” questioned
Harry, as both boys crouched down behind a thick clump of bushes.

“I do--if they belong to the crowd who called upon us yesterday. There
was one Indian in particular, a tall chap, who looked bloodthirsty
enough for anything,” said Joe.

“You mean the fellow called Long Knife?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t deny he did look ugly, Joe. But then a redskin can’t help his
looks.”

Here the talk came to a sudden end, for a splashing in the brook
reached their ears, telling that the two Indians were not far away.
They had not gone after the deer as the boys had imagined, but were
coming closer. Harry clutched Joe’s arm, and both youths crouched lower
than ever in the grass and brushwood.

In a minute more the two red men were less than a rod away, and the
boys could hear them talking softly to one another. Peeping through
the bushes, Joe made out the savage face of Long Knife, and saw that
the Indian carried a musket of ancient pattern, and a horn of powder
and ball, as well as his bow and arrows, and his tomahawk. The second
Indian was similarly armed.

Hardly daring to breathe, the boys remained behind the bushes until the
Indians had passed the spot and followed the course of the stream a
distance of several rods further. Then Harry touched Joe on the arm.

“Did you see it?” he asked, in a low voice, but one full of suppressed
excitement.

“See what, Harry?”

“The scalp Long Knife carried. I’m sure it was a fresh one, too!”

“A fresh scalp! Oh, Harry, are you sure?”

“Yes, and the best thing we can do is to get back to the train without
delay.”

“But the Indians have gone up the brook----”

“We’ll have to take to the forest and trust to luck.”

“Supposing they have attacked the train? That scalp may be that of one
of our party!”

“Let us trust not,” answered Harry, but with a face that showed his
anxiety.

The youths had been following the course of the brook, which was lined
on one bank with a series of large flat rocks. On these rocks their
trail had been lost, so that the Indians had not discovered their
footprints in the semi-gloom caused by the heavy forest growth overhead.

“But they’ll find some footprints before long,” said Joe, in speaking
of this. “And when they do they may be after us hot-footed.”

Fortunately for the boys the brook, as they remembered, made a long
semicircle, so that if they could make their way through the forest in
anything of a straight line they would cut off a goodly portion of the
distance to camp.

The gun of each was loaded and freshly primed, and each held his weapon
ready for instant use should occasion require. Joe led the way, but
Harry followed closely in his footsteps.

Less than a hundred yards had been covered when there came a shot from
a distance, followed by several others.

“Where can they come from?” questioned Joe.

“I don’t believe we are in sound of the camp, Joe. But if we are,
perhaps those other shots came from there, too.”

“No, they were off in that direction.” Joe pointed with his hand. “I
can tell you what, I don’t like the looks of the situation, do you?”

“No, I don’t--and that is why I think we had best get back to camp with
all speed.”

On and on they went, deeper and deeper into the forest. The summer day
was drawing to a close and they knew that in another hour the darkness
of night would be upon them.

Suddenly a small wild animal darted up in their path. This caused
Joe to fall back upon Harry, and by accident the latter’s gun was
discharged, the buckshot whistling past Joe’s left ear and tearing
through the boughs overhead.

“Oh, Joe, are you shot?” cried Harry in keen alarm.

“I--I reckon not,” stammered his companion, as soon as he could recover
from the shock. “But why did you fire over my shoulder like that? It
was only a jack-rabbit.”

“I didn’t mean to fire. The gun--hark!”

Harry stopped short and both listened. From a distance they could hear
one Indian calling to another. Then followed a crashing through some
undergrowth.

“They are after us sure!” ejaculated Harry. “Come on.”

Both broke into a run without waiting for Harry to reload. As they went
on, they heard more firing at a distance, and then a long yell that
they knew could mean but one thing.

“The Indians are on the warpath!” exclaimed Joe. “There can be no doubt
of it--they have attacked the camp.”

“How many do you suppose there are of them?”

“There is no telling. But if they number a dozen or more it will surely
go hard with all of our party, Harry.”

They calculated that they had covered half the distance to the camp
when they reached something of a hollow. Here the undergrowth was extra
heavy and the ground wet and uncertain, and before they realized it
they were in a bog up to their ankles.

“This won’t do,” came from Harry. “If we aren’t careful we’ll get in so
deep we can’t get out again. We’ll have to turn back.”

“Turn back--with the Indians following us?” said Joe.

“I mean to walk around this hollow, Joe. It’s the only way.”

They turned back to dry ground and then moved to the southward, still
further away from the brook. Here was something of an opening, but they
avoided this and made for some rocks, gaining a new shelter just as
three Indians burst into view.

“Keep to the rocks,” whispered Joe. “Don’t leave a trail if you can
help it--and get away as far as possible from this place!”

He went on, over the rocks, and Harry followed. The way led deeper and
deeper into the forest and soon the light of day was shut out entirely.

Both were now out of breath and glad enough to climb into a dense tree
and rest. As they sat among the upper branches they listened intently
for more signs of the Indians, but none reached them. Once Joe fancied
he heard a cry in English at a great distance, but he was not certain.

“This is a pickle truly,” observed Harry, after a long spell of silence.

“It is what we get for straying away too far from camp,” returned Joe
bitterly. “Father warned me to keep near, and he warned everybody else,
too.”

“What do you say we should do next?”

“I hardly know, Harry. If we start to go on those Indians may be laying
low for us.”

“Do you want to remain in the tree all night?”

“We may have to remain here all night. If we start out after it is real
dark we may become hopelessly lost in the timber.”

“But the redskins can spot us twice as quick in the daylight as they
can now.”

“I know that as well as you.”

After this came another long spell of silence, in which each boy was
busy with his thoughts. The mind of each dwelt upon the camp. Had it
been attacked, and if so had any of the loved ones been slain?

As night came on they heard strange sounds in the forest, sounds
which would have frightened youths less used to woodcraft. From the
hollow came the mournful glunk of frogs, and the shrill tweet of tree
toads. All around them the night birds uttered their solitary notes,
punctuated ever and anon with the hoot of an owl. And then they heard
the rustling of underbrush as various wild animals stole from their
lairs in quest of prey.

“I am going to climb to the top of the tree and see if I can locate the
camp-fire,” said Harry, at length. “If that is burning as usual it will
be a sign that nothing very wrong has happened.”

Leaving his gun hanging on a limb, he commenced to climb from one
branch to the next. Joe was about to follow but concluded that it would
be best for one to remain below on guard, for the top of this giant of
the forest was fully eighty feet above the position he now occupied.

The climbing of such a tree is by no means an easy task. As Harry
approached the top he found the branches further apart and quite
slender, and he had all he could do to haul himself from one safe
position to another above it.

His activity was rewarded at last, and he stood on a limb which gave
him a free and uninterrupted view of the country for miles around.
There was no moon, but the sky was clear, and countless stars served to
brighten the early night. Far to the westward the clouds were still red
from the setting sun.

Eagerly the youth turned to where he imagined the camp-fire of the
pioneers must be located. Not a single light came to view, either
camp-fire or lantern.

“That is certainly queer,” he told himself. “Not a flare of any kind.”

The thought had scarcely crossed his mind when his attention was
attracted to a location about half a mile to the northward of the camp.
The light of a torch had blazed forth and was now revolving rapidly in
a semicircle.

“An Indian signal,” he muttered softly. “I wish I knew what it meant.”

The light was waved in a semicircle for fully half a minute. Then it
bobbed up and down twice and vanished.

Scarcely had this light gone from view than Harry noticed another
light, this time on the other side of the pioneers’ camp. This new
light was bobbing up and down at a rapid rate, making it look almost
like a streak of fire. Then it changed from side to side, and then to a
circle. Inside of three minutes it was gone.

“If one could only read the Indian signs it might prove a big help,”
mused the boy. “Perhaps I had better stay up here to-night and see if
any more signs are made. Then, if we get back to camp in the morning, I
can ask old Pep Frost what they mean.”

He sat in a crotch of the limb for the best part of half an hour. The
position was far from comfortable, and he was on the point of changing
it when he heard a noise some distance below.

“Is that you coming up, Joe?” he asked softly.

A low hiss of warning was the only reply, and Harry knew at once
something was wrong. He leaned far down and presently made out his
companion, coming up slowly and noiselessly and carrying both of the
guns.

“What is it?” he asked, when he could get his mouth close to Joe’s ear.

“Three Indians are in the forest, close to the bottom of this tree,”
was the answer. “Don’t make a sound or we’ll be discovered--if we
haven’t been spotted already.”




CHAPTER III

A DISMAYING DISCOVERY


The announcement that Joe Winship made filled Harry Parsons with
renewed fear. The three Indians in the forest below them must surely be
on their trail, and for no good purpose.

In a low whisper Harry related what he had seen, and Joe agreed that
they were Indian signals.

“More than likely they are surrounding the camp,” whispered Joe. “And
as you didn’t see the camp-fire likely the folks are on guard. They are
not going to make a light for the redskins to shoot by.”

This was all that was said for a long time. Joe passed up his
companion’s gun and both sat in readiness to defend their lives at any
instant it might become necessary to do so.

Presently the low murmur of voices came to their ears from the very
root of the tree in which they were in hiding. Two Indians had met
there and were discussing the situation.

“What are they saying?” whispered Harry, for he knew that Joe had
learned considerable of the Indian tongue, both from some friendly red
men and from his father.

“I can’t hear clearly,” replied Joe. “I might go down a little further.”

“Don’t do it--it isn’t safe,” was his companion’s warning.

But Joe was curious, and as the murmur of voices continued, he
noiselessly lowered himself until he was halfway down to the roots of
the monarch of the forest.

Leaning over a limb, he strained his ears to catch what was said. The
dialect of the red men was somewhat new to him, yet he caught the words
“camp of the palefaces,” “Long Knife has commanded it,” and a little
later “his scalp shall be mine.”

It was a good half-hour before the Indians moved away, having been
joined by three others. All were in warpaint, as Joe could see by a
smoky torch which one of the number carried. Luckily the Indians had
tramped around the bottom of the tree so much that the trail of the two
youths was completely obliterated.

When Joe returned to where he had left Harry, the pair discussed the
situation in an earnest whisper.

“The whole thing is clear in my mind,” said Joe. “Long Knife has
ordered a raid on our camp, and one of the redskins has a particular
grudge against one of our crowd and is going in to get his scalp. The
question is: what are we to do?”

“What can we do, Joe?”

“I don’t know what we can do, Harry, but I know what we ought to try to
do.”

“Get back to camp and warn everybody?”

“Yes. Of course I think they are on guard already, but we are not sure
of it. And if the redskins fall on them by surprise they’ll kill all of
the men folks, and kill the women and children too, or carry them off.”

“Then let us try to get back to camp, no matter how perilous it is.”

“I’m willing.”

It was not long after this that they were on the lowest branch of the
tree. They strained eyes and ears for some sign of the Indians, but
none appeared. Joe was the first to drop to the ground, and Harry
speedily followed.

From the top of the tree they had “located themselves” with care, and
now they struck out in the darkness directly for the camp.

“We are taking our lives in our hands,” was the way in which Joe
expressed himself. “But it cannot be helped. I don’t want to see the
others suffer if we can do anything that will save them.”

“Right you are, Joe,” was his companion’s reply.

Fortunately for the boys there was but little undergrowth in that
portion of the great forest, and the ground was comparatively level.
The trees, five to fifteen feet apart, grew up tall and as straight as
so many arrows. Some had stood there for many, many years, and it did
not seem possible that these veterans were later on to fall beneath the
stroke of the woodman’s ax, to make way for the farmer and his crops.

But if brushwood was wanting, exposed roots were not, and more than
once one boy or the other would go sprawling in the darkness.

“By George, what a fall!” panted Harry, after a tumble that had laid
him flat on his breast. “It--it knocked the wind right out of me.”

“Be glad it didn’t knock out your teeth,” answered Joe, as he assisted
him to his feet. “It is dark here for certain.”

“How far do you suppose we have still to go?”

“Not less than half a mile.”

A moment after this a distant shot rang out, followed by several others
in quick succession.

Then came a muffled yell, which gradually became louder.

“The attack on the camp has begun!” ejaculated Joe. “Oh, Harry, we are
too late!”

“You are right. More than likely the camp is surrounded.”

“Then we can’t get to the others even if we try!”

“Perhaps we can. Anyway I am not going to stay here when the others may
be fighting for their lives. Think of your mother and mine, and of the
girls.”

“Yes! yes!” Joe gave a groan which was echoed by his companion. “We
must go on.”

And on they did go, running as fast as the trees and the darkness
permitted. The land sloped slightly upward, but this they did not
notice until Harry, who was slightly in advance, gave a cry of alarm.
Then followed a crash of brushwood and a splash.

“Harry! Harry! what’s the matter?” asked Joe, and came to a halt.

No answer came back, and filled with added fear Joe crawled forward
until he reached the brushwood. Then of a sudden he took a step
backward. The brushwood was on the edge of a cliff and in front was a
sheer descent of fully fifty feet.

“Harry went over that and most likely broke his neck,” was Joe’s first
thought, and a shiver passed down his backbone. Then he remembered
having heard a faint splash, and crawling forward on hands and knees,
peered over the cliff into the darkness beneath.

At first he could see nothing. But then came a faint twinkling of stars
as they were reflected in the surface of the water, and he knew that a
pond or a stream lay at the bottom of the cliff.

“Harry! Harry!” he called out, first in an ordinary tone and then
louder and louder. For the moment his own peril was forgotten in his
alarm over the disappearance of his chum.

No answering cry came back, and again Joe shivered. What if his
companion was drowned?

“I must get down to the bottom of the cliff,” he told himself. “And the
sooner the better. Harry may not yet be dead.”

With extreme caution the young pioneer moved along the edge of the
cliff, not leaving one footing until he was sure of the next. By this
means he discovered something of a break, and here let himself down,
foot by foot. The route was rough, and more than once he scratched his
face and hands, but just then he gave no attention to the hurts.

Luckily for Joe there was at the foot of the cliff a small stretch
of rocks and sand less than a yard wide. Standing on this the youth
surveyed the surface of the dark water before him with interest.

It was no pond to which he had descended, but a good-sized stream which
flowed rapidly to the northward, being hedged in on one side by the
cliff, and on the other by a rock-bound forest. The stream disappeared
around a curve of the cliff.

A rapid search along the sandy shore under the cliff revealed nothing
more than Harry’s rifle, which had caught in a bush just over the
water’s edge. This gave Joe a clew to where his companion had fallen,
and he searched eagerly in the water at that point.

“Not a sign,” he murmured after reaching into the stream as far as
possible. Then he cut down a sapling with his hunting knife and stirred
up the water with that, and with no better result.

“The river is flowing so swiftly it must have carried Harry’s body
away,” he reasoned. “Perhaps I had better move around the curve of the
cliff and make a search there.”

All this while Joe had heard distant firing and yelling, and now, as he
straightened up, he saw a glow in the sky, as of a conflagration.

“Something is on fire,” he thought. “And it isn’t a plain camp-fire
either. Oh, I trust to Heaven that the others are safe!”

Slowly and painfully he crawled along at the foot of the cliff until
the bend was reached. Here a footing was uncertain, and more than once
he slipped into the stream up to his ankles.

Around the bend the water swirled and foamed, on its way to a series
of rough rocks. Here was another cliff and the stream appeared to
disappear beneath this, much to Joe’s wonder.

“If it’s an underground river good-by to poor Harry,” he told himself.

Again he called out, not once, but a score of times, and the only
answer he received was an echo from the rocks.

“Poor, poor Harry!” he murmured, and the tears of sorrow stood in his
eyes. He loved his chum as though the two were brothers.

Joe knew not how to proceed. He wanted to find Harry, and he also
wanted to learn how his folks and the others were faring at the camp.

While he was meditating he saw the flare of a torch on the opposite
side of the stream. He had just time enough to drop behind an
outstanding rock when three Indians came into view. Each carried a
bundle, but what the loads contained Joe could not tell.

From a hiding place beneath the trees the Indians brought forth a
large canoe and two paddles. They placed their loads into the craft,
and then entered themselves.

“Can they be coming over here?” Joe asked himself.

The question was soon answered in the negative, for the Indians turned
up the stream. It was a difficult matter to paddle against the strong
current, but the red men were equal to the task, and soon the canoe
disappeared in the darkness.

“I’ll wager all I am worth those were things stolen from our camp,”
reasoned Joe.

He sat down at the water’s edge to listen and to think. All had become
quiet in the distance, and the red glow in the sky was dying away.

“I must do something,” he cried, leaping up. “If I stay here I’ll go
crazy. Perhaps mother and father and the others need me this very
minute.”

As quickly as he could he made his way along the rocks to the point
where the stream disappeared under the cliff. Then he worked his way
around to where the Indians had launched their canoe.

“There must be some sort of a route from this point to our camp,” he
told himself.

He was about to move onward through the forest when another torch came
into view. Again he ran for shelter, and was not an instant too soon.
Four red men were marching forward to the river, and between each pair
was a captive, disarmed, and with his hands tied tightly behind him.

“Pep Frost!” murmured Joe, as he caught a good look at the first of the
captives. It was indeed the pioneer the youth had mentioned. His garb
was torn and dirty, and his face streaked with blood, showing that he
had fought desperately.

The second captive was also dirty and bloodstained, and walked with
a limp, as if wounded in the left leg. As he came closer Joe could
scarcely suppress a cry of horror.

“Father!” he gasped, and he was right. The second captive was Ezra
Winship.




CHAPTER IV

LOST UNDERGROUND


“Oh!”

That was the single cry which Harry uttered as he plunged over the edge
of the cliff into the stream below.

As he went down his gun was torn from his grasp by the bushes, and an
instant later he struck the stream with a splash and went down straight
to the bottom.

The breath was knocked out of him by the fall, and when he came again
to the surface he was more than half unconscious. He felt himself borne
along by the current, and there followed a strange humming in his ears.
Then his senses completely forsook him.

When Harry was once more able to reason he knew little outside of the
fact that he had a severe headache, and that all was pitch-dark around
him. He lay in a shallow pool with the swiftly flowing river within an
arm’s length. Absolute darkness was on all sides of the youth.

For a long time he lay still, gasping for breath and putting his hand
feebly to his forehead. Then he sat up and stared about in bewilderment.

“Joe!” he stammered. “Joe!”

Of course there was no answer, and then Harry slowly realized what had
happened--his rapid run through the forest, his coming to the cliff,
and his unexpected plunge into the river beneath.

“I’m still in the water,” he thought. “But where?”

This question he could not answer, nor could he explain to himself how
it was that he had not been drowned. But with even so much of peril
still around him he was thankful that his life had been spared.

Feeling cautiously around the pool, he soon learned which side sloped
to the river, and which toward a sandy underground shore, and slowly
and painfully he dragged himself up to the higher ground.

“I am not at the cliff, that is certain,” he mused, as he tried to gaze
upward. “I can’t see a star.”

The conviction then forced itself upon him that he was underground, and
this being so he quickly came to the conclusion that the flow of the
river had carried him to this locality. But how far he was from the
spot where he had taken the fall he could not imagine.

He was too weak to travel, or even to make an examination of his
surroundings, and having moved around a distance of less than a rod
along the bank of the underground stream he was glad enough to sink
down again to rest.

As Harry sat there, his head still aching, his mind went back to Joe.

“I suppose he thinks I am dead,” was his dismal thought.

Slowly the time wore away and Harry sat in something of a doze, too
weak to either move or speculate upon his condition, very much as one
does who is recovering from a long spell of sickness.

Thus the night wore away and morning came to view outside, with clear
warm sunshine and singing birds. But in the cavern the darkness
remained as great as before.

At last Harry felt that he must do something for himself. He was
beginning to grow hungry, and he knew that many hours had passed since
he had taken the plunge into the stream.

“I must see if I can’t follow the river back to where it ran under the
rocks,” was what he told himself. “That ought o bring me back to the
cliff, and perhaps I’ll find Joe looking for me.”

With extreme caution he felt of the water, to find in what direction
it was flowing, and then essayed to follow the stream up its course
between the rocks and along the sandy beach.

It was a difficult task, and more than once he had to stop to get back
his strength. At certain points he had to climb rocks which were sharp
and slippery, and twice he fell into the stream and pulled himself out
only with much labor.

And then came the bitterest moment of all, when he reached a point
where the beach came to an end and found that the opening further up
the stream was completely filled with water, which roared onward,
dashing the spray in all directions. Here Harry could see a faint gleam
of daylight, but only sufficient to show him how completely he was a
prisoner.

“I can’t get through that,” he muttered. “If I try it I’ll surely be
drowned.”

But if he could not get through what was he to do? To remain where he
was would be to starve like a rat in a trap.

“Perhaps the stream leaves this cave at the other end,” he reasoned.
“But that may be a long way from here.”

There was no help for it, and with slow and painful steps he retraced
his way along the underground river bank, often falling over the rough
rocks and stopping every few rods to rest and get back his breath. He
was now hungrier than ever, and eagerly gnawed at a bit of birch wood
which he happened to pick up out of the water as he moved along.

As Harry journeyed onward, he came to a sharp turn of the stream. Here
the water appeared to divide into several parts, and two of these sunk
out of sight amid the rough rocks on all sides. A small stream flowed
to the left. From some point far overhead a faint light shone down,
just sufficient to reveal the condition of affairs to the youth.

“What a cave!” murmured Harry to himself, and he was right. It was
certainly a large opening, but nothing at all in comparison to the
great Mammoth Cave of that territory, discovered some years later, and
which covers many miles of ground. The roof was fully fifty feet above
the young pioneer’s head, and the walls were three or four times that
distance apart.

Having even a faint light made walking easier, and once again he went
onward, following the single stream that remained in sight. Twice he
heard a rush of birds over his head, which made him confident that the
open air could not be far off. The cave turned and twisted in several
directions, and at last he saw sunshine ahead and fairly ran to make
certain that he had not been deceived.

When he was really out into the open air once more, Harry sat down on
the grass, trembling in every limb. To him the time spent underground
seemed an age. Never before had the sun and the blue vault of heaven
appeared to him so beautiful.

But it was not long before the pangs of hunger again asserted
themselves. He had already taken note of some berry bushes, and he
hobbled to these and ate what he wanted of the fruit. They stilled the
gnawing in his stomach, but did not satisfy him.

In his pocket the young pioneer had some fishing lines and several
hooks, and also a box with flint and tinder. He laid the tinder out
to dry on a warm rock, and then with the line went to fishing, after
having turned up some worms from under a number of small stones.

His catch of fish amounted to little, but soon he had enough for a
single meal, and then he made himself a tiny fire. He could hardly
wait to cook the fish, and it must be confessed that he gulped them
down when still half raw,--for Harry’s appetite had always been of the
best, and in those days pioneers did not dare to be over-particular
concerning their food.

By the position of the sun Harry judged that it was nearly noon. As the
orb of day was almost directly overhead it was next to impossible for
him to locate the points of the compass.

“If I felt stronger I would climb a tree and take a look around,” he
told himself. But he was still so shaky he felt that there would be too
much danger of falling.

A grassy bank close to where he had cooked the fish looked very
inviting, and he threw himself upon it to rest--for just about ten
minutes, so he told himself. But the ten minutes lengthened into
twenty, and then into half an hour, and soon he was sleeping soundly,
poor, worn-out Nature having at last claimed her own.

When Harry awoke he felt much refreshed, and his headache was entirely
gone. He sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise, for the
sun was setting over the forest in the west.

“I must have slept all afternoon,” he murmured ruefully. “Well, I
reckon I needed it. But I should have been on my way before dark.”

He now felt more like climbing a tree, and was soon going up a tall
walnut that stood on a slight hill near by.

From the top a grand panorama of the rolling hills of Kentucky was
spread out before him--that captivating scene which had but a few years
before so charmed Daniel Boone and other pioneers who had entered that
territory. Here and there a stream glistened in the setting sun, and
at one point Harry could see an open stretch of grass with a small herd
of buffalo grazing peacefully, while at another point, evidently a
salt-lick, several deer were making themselves at home. As Daniel Boone
had said, it was truly the land of plenty.

But Harry’s mind was just then centered upon but two things--to find
Joe and to get back as soon as possible to the camp,--provided anything
was left of the latter, which was questionable. As he thought of the
Indians he shook his head doubtfully.

“They won’t give up this land to us if they can help it,” he told
himself. “They will fight for it to the bitter end. For all I know to
the contrary, all of the others, including Joe, may be either dead or
prisoners.”

From his position in the tree Harry tried to locate the camp which he
had left the morning before, but all he could see was a smoldering fire
far in the distance.

“That looks as if it might be where the camp was,” he reasoned.

Descending to the ground once more he determined to make his way in the
direction of the smoldering fire. Before setting out he cut himself
a stout club. He mourned the loss of his gun, and wondered what he
should do if confronted by the Indians, or by some wild beast.

But the forest seemed deserted, and he passed a good quarter of a mile
without meeting anything but a few rabbits and a fox, and these lost no
time in getting away.

The sun was already out of sight behind some trees when he struck
another brook, that upon which the fated camp had been located. Here
he stopped for a drink, getting down on his hands and knees for that
purpose.

Having satisfied his thirst, Harry was on the point of rising, when
a noise behind him attracted his attention. He whirled around, to
discover a big black bear moving on him with great deliberation.

“Hi! get back there!” he yelled and swung his stick at the beast. He
did not mean to throw the object, but it slipped from his hand and,
sailing through the air, struck bruin fairly and squarely on the nose.

At once the bear let out a snort of pain and then an added snort of
rage. His den was in that vicinity, and, thinking the youth had come
to invade it, he arose on his hind legs and came for Harry in a clumsy
fashion.

There now remained but one thing for the young pioneer to do, and this
he did without stopping to regain the club. He started off on a run up
the brook.

The bear immediately dropped down on all fours and came after him.
Although totally unconscious of it, Harry was running directly for the
bear’s den. This enraged the beast still more, and he did what he could
to close the gap between the boy and himself.

The bear was almost on top of Harry when the young pioneer came to a
wide-spreading tree with low-hanging branches. One of the branches was
within easy reach, and as quick as a flash the youth swung himself up,
just as bruin made a leap for him. The bear caught him by the toe, but
the boy’s foot-covering gave way and the beast fell back.

Harry lost no time in climbing higher up in the tree. Then he made his
way to the trunk, and, hanging to one of the limbs, drew his hunting
knife and waited for the bear to climb up.




CHAPTER V

THE ESCAPE OF THE CAPTIVES


For the moment after making the discovery that the two captives in the
hands of the Indians, were his father and Pep Frost, the old pioneer,
Joe Winship could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses.

“Father!” he repeated hoarsely. “Father and Pep Frost!”

The sound of his voice reached one of the Indians, and the red man
gazed around sharply. But Joe was wise enough to drop out of sight
behind some brushes, and the Indian continued to move on, doubtless
thinking that it was merely the wind that had reached his ears.

The two captives were marched down to the river front, and here another
canoe was brought to light, similar to that used by the three Indians
who had gone off with the three bundles.

“Whar are ye a-going to take us?” Joe heard old Pep Frost ask.

For answer one of the Indians raised his palm and struck the pioneer
across the mouth.

“No talk now,” he said laconically.

The two captives were forced into the canoe, one being placed at the
bow and one at the stern. Then two of the Indians took up the paddles
and started up the stream, in the direction pursued by the first canoe.

Joe watched the proceedings with interest, but when the canoe began to
disappear from sight his heart sank within him.

“If I could only follow!” he thought.

But to run along the river bank and thus keep the craft in sight was
out of the question. The Indians were experts at using the paddle, and
the shore of the stream was, as we already know, rough and uncertain.

Suddenly the youth was seized with a new idea. If there had been two
canoes secreted in the bushes why not perhaps a third?

“I’ll hunt around and see,” he muttered, and began the search at once.

In a tiny cove he found just what he wanted, a small canoe boasting
of a single paddle. Without hesitation he leaped into it, took up the
paddle, and pushed the craft out into the river.

Joe had spent many of his boyhood days on the rivers near his
home and could row and paddle just as well as he could shoot and
ride on horseback. If it had but a single paddle, the craft was
correspondingly light, and by working with vigor he managed to keep the
larger canoe within easy distance, although being careful to keep out
of reach of the enemies he was following.

As he worked at the paddle his thoughts were busy. What did the capture
of his father and Pep Frost mean? Was it possible that the fight
at the camp had ended in a general massacre of the others? Such a
dire happening was not an impossibility. He remembered that only the
summer before the Indians had fallen upon one Jack Flockley and his
companions, six in number, and murdered all but one young girl, who had
been carried off into captivity.

“I must save them if I possibly can,” he reasoned. “I’ve got my hunting
knife and my gun, as well as this gun of Harry’s. They will all come in
handy if I can but cut their bonds.”

Fortunately for Joe the Indians kept their torch burning, as a signal
for those who had gone on ahead. Two turns of the stream were passed
when they came in sight of another torch, waving to and fro on the left
bank of the river. At once the canoe turned in that direction, and
presently a landing was made at a point where those in the first canoe
had gone ashore.

By the light of the two torches Joe saw all of the Indians assembled,
with their captives and their bundles between them. He allowed his
own little canoe to drift past the landing and then came ashore in the
midst of some brushwood overhanging the stream.

By making a détour the young pioneer presently came to the rear of the
enemy. He found that they were going into something of a camp and that
they had already tied the two captives to separate trees some eight or
ten feet apart. Between the two trees squatted a young warrior, placed
on guard over the whites.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Joe crept closer and closer until he was
less than five yards away from where his father stood, hands and feet
fastened to the tree by means of a stout grass rope. For the present he
did not dare go closer, but, lying full length in the grass, watched
the Indians as a hawk watches a brood of chickens.

The red men were much interested in the contents of the bundles brought
hither in the first canoe. Torches were stuck up in convenient places
and the bundles were unrolled, revealing to Joe many of the smaller
articles which the pioneers had been bringing westward on their pack
horses. There was a dress belonging to his mother, a pair of slippers
belonging to his sister Harmony, and a razor that he knew belonged to
his father. The sight of the razor tickled the fancy of one of the
Indians, and flourishing it in the air he approached Pep Frost and made
a motion as if to cut the throat of the old pioneer.

“Oh, I reckon ye air ekel to it,” snorted Pep Frost. “You are a
cowardly, miserable lot at the best!”

There was a small mirror in one of the bundles, and this pleased the
red men more than did any other object. Running up to a torch, one
after another would gaze into the mirror with expressions of wonder and
admiration. Even the young warrior on guard wanted to look into the
glass.

For the moment the prisoners were forgotten and, struck with a sudden
determination, Joe crawled close up behind his father and cut the grass
rope that bound the parent. Then he placed one of the guns into Mr.
Winship’s hand.

“It is I, Joe,” whispered the boy. “Wait till I free Pep Frost.”

“Be quick, and be careful,” returned the astonished man in an equally
low tone. And he added: “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

No more was said, and crawling backward Joe made his way to the tree
to which Pep Frost was fastened. Two slashes of the knife and the
old pioneer was also liberated, and Joe provided him with the second
musket.

“Cut tudder man loose,” whispered Frost, as he fingered the gun
nervously.

“He is free,” answered Joe.

So far the captives had not moved from their positions against the
trees, and as the young warrior looked at them he imagined each as
secure as ever. The Indians in general continued to look over the
contents of the bundles until a light on the river caused a fresh
interruption.

A third canoe was approaching filled with Indians and with at least two
captives. The latter were evidently females, and one, a girl of twelve
or fifteen, was crying piteously.

“Let me go! Please let me go!” she begged. “Oh, where are you taking
me?”

“Better be quiet, Harmony,” said the woman in the canoe. “It will do
thee no good to weep.”

“Harmony!” groaned Joe. “Harmony and Mrs. Parsons! Where can sister
Cora be, and Harry’s sister Clara?”

All of the Indians had turned to the river front, and now Pep Frost
made a motion to Ezra Winship. The pioneer understood, and, like a
flash, both turned and fled into the forest, calling softly to Joe to
follow.

Before the Indians discovered their loss the former captives were a
good hundred yards away. They kept close together and Joe was by his
father’s side. Presently a mad yell rent the air.

“They’ve found out the trick,” came from Pep Frost. “But I reckon as
how we’ve got the best o’ ’em, Joey--and thanks to your slickness.”

“Did you see those in the canoe?” queried the youth. “Mrs. Parsons and
Harmony!”

“Harmony!” ejaculated Mr. Winship, and stopped short. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, father; Mrs. Parsons called her by name.”

“Then I had best go back----”

“No, no!” put in Pep Frost. “It would be worse nor suicide, friend
Winship.”

“But my daughter--the redskins will----”

“I know, I know! But we must bide our time,” interrupted Pep Frost
again. “Remember, there were seven redskins on shore and at least four
more on the river. We can’t fight no sech band as thet.”

They had reached a small brook, and along this Pep Frost forced the
father and son, more than half against their will. Yet both realized
that the old pioneer was right--that to fight eleven of the foe under
present circumstances would be out of the question.

The Indians were already on the trail and the whites could hear them
rushing along the tracks left in the forest. At the brook they came to
a halt and then the force divided, some going up the stream and some
down.

“I--I can’t walk much further,” came presently from Ezra Winship.

“By gum! I forgot about that wound in your leg,” exclaimed Pep Frost;
“but we air a-comin’ to some rocks now an’ more’n likely they’ll afford
us some kind o’ a hidin’-place.”

The old pioneer was right, and leaving the brook they crawled up a
series of rough rocks and then into a hollow thick with brushwood. Here
they felt comparatively safe, and Ezra Winship sank down exhausted,
unable to take another step.

While Pep Frost remained on guard to give the alarm should any of
the Indians appear in the vicinity, Mr. Winship gave Joe some of the
particulars of the attack on the camp of the pioneers.

“We were caught at something of a disadvantage,” said he. “The horses
were giving us a good deal of trouble because one of them stepped into
a nest of hornets. While the men were trying to calm the beasts the
Indians rushed at us without warning.”

“Was anybody killed?”

“Yes; at the first volley Jim Vedder was laid low and Jerry Dillsworth
received a wound from which he cannot possibly recover. The Freemans’
baby was also struck in the shoulder while her mother was holding her
in her arms. Those who weren’t struck ran for their guns, and we fought
the redskins for fully quarter of an hour. But at last the tide of
battle went against us, and I was laid low with an arrow wound in the
thigh. I went down and a horse came down on top of me, and that was all
I knew for about half an hour, when I found myself a prisoner and tied
to a tree in the dark.”

“And mother and the girls----”

“I didn’t see anything more of them,” answered Ezra Winship sadly. “I
know your mother was hit in the arm by a tomahawk, but I don’t believe
the wound was very bad. The last I saw of Pep Frost he was fighting to
save Clara Parsons from being carried away. But a blow from a club one
of the redskins carried stretched him flat, and when I saw him again he
was a prisoner like myself.”

“And what of all of the others, father?”

“I can’t say anything about them for certain, but I imagine about half
of them escaped under cover of the darkness, and Pep Frost thinks that
at least two men and two women got away on horseback. Besides that,
Frank Ludgate was off on a hunt when the attack began, so that it is
very likely he escaped too,” concluded Ezra Winship.




CHAPTER VI

HARRY AND THE BEAR


Hunting knife in hand, Harry waited for the black bear to mount the
tree after him. He knew that if the beast came up he would have the
bear at a disadvantage, and he hoped that one good stroke of the long
blade would finish the fight.

But the bear did not come up. Instead he halted at the trunk, put his
forepaws on the bark, and gazed thoughtfully upward. Then he dropped on
his haunches, let out a growl of anger, and sat where he was.

“Don’t want to fight, eh?” mused Harry. “All right, but I hope you
won’t stay where you are too long.”

For a while the bear kept his eyes fixed on Harry, as though expecting
an attack. But as this did not come bruin lay down at the foot of the
tree, resting his head on his forepaws.

This was certainly provoking, for it now looked as if the beast meant
to keep the young pioneer a prisoner in the tree.

“Perhaps he thinks he can starve me out,” thought Harry. “Well, I
reckon he can, if he keeps me up here long enough. But I don’t mean to
stay--not if I can help myself.”

With the hunting knife Harry cut a small limb from the tree and dropped
it down on the bear. With a snarl bruin snapped at the limb and buried
his teeth into it. Then he leaped up and began to come up the tree in a
clumsy fashion.

Harry’s heart thumped madly, for he knew that a perilous moment was at
hand. Grasping the hunting knife firmly he leaned far down to meet the
oncoming animal.

Bruin was suspicious and evidently did not like the looks of that
gleaming blade. When still a yard out of reach he halted in a crotch
and snarled viciously. Then he came closer inch by inch.

Leaning still further down Harry made a lunge at the bear. Like a flash
up came a forepaw to ward off the blow. Paw and blade met and the bear
dropped back a little with the blood dripping from his toes.

But the animal was not yet beaten, and soon he came forward once more,
uttering a suppressed snarl and showing his gleaming teeth. He kept his
body low down as though meditating a spring.

It came and Harry met it with the point of the hunting knife, which
sank deeply into the bear’s right eye. This was a telling blow and the
beast let a loud cry of pain. Then the bear dropped back, limb by limb,
to the ground.

“That was a lucky stroke,” thought the youth, and he was right. He
listened intently and soon heard the bear crashing through the forest
and then climbing some rocks leading to his den. With the sight of one
eye gone all the fight had been knocked out of him.

Not to be taken unawares, Harry descended to the ground cautiously.
But the coast was now clear, and drops of blood on the grass and rocks
told plainly in what direction the beast had retreated. Not wishing for
another encounter without a gun, the young pioneer moved away in the
opposite direction.

“Harry!”

The cry came from the rocks close at hand and made the young pioneer
leap in amazement. Looking in the direction he saw Joe standing there,
backed up by Mr. Winship and Pep Frost.

“Joe!” he ejaculated, and ran toward his chum.

“Oh, how glad I am to know that you escaped!” exclaimed Joe when they
were together. “I thought you were drowned surely.”

“I had a narrow escape,” was the answer. “But where have you been, and
what brings your father and Pep Frost here?”

In the next few minutes each youth told his story, to which the other
listened with interest.

“You were lucky to escape from that cave,” said Mr. Winship to Harry.
“I have heard of such places before but have never seen one.”

From Joe, Harry learned that his chum and the others had been in hiding
among the rocks and trees all night and a part of the forenoon, not
being able to leave the vicinity because of Mr. Winship’s wounded leg.
The Indians had scouted around for them for hours, but without locating
them, and they had slipped away to the present location less than half
an hour before.

“I must say I am mighty hungry,” said Pep Frost. “An’ if ye don’t mind
I’ll follow up thet air b’ar Harry wounded an’ finish him an’ git the
meat.”

The others did not object, and the old pioneer was soon on the trail of
blood-spots.

“So my mother is in the hands of the Indians,” said Harry, when this
news was at last broken to him. “Oh, Mr. Winship, this is terrible! And
your daughter Harmony, too! What shall we do?”

“I am going on the trail of the redskins as soon as my wound will
permit, Harry.”

“And I am going along,” put in Joe.

“Then I shall go too. I wish we had two more guns.”

In less than an hour Pep Frost came back, bringing with him quite a
large chunk of bear meat.

“Had a putty good fight with thet b’ar,” he said. “But the knocked-out
eye bothered him a good bit. I knocked out tudder with the gun an’ then
the rest was easy.”

In a deep hollow among the rocks a fire was kindled and here they
broiled as much of the meat as they cared to eat. This meal was welcome
to all and after it was over even Mr. Winship declared that he felt
like a new person.

The want of weapons was a serious one, and Pep Frost declared that it
was no use going after the Indians unless the two boys were armed with
something. He cut for each a strong stick and fashioned it into a bow,
and then cut a dozen or more arrows.

“Now try them,” he declared, and when they did so, and found the arrows
went fairly straight and with good force, he was delighted.

“’Taint so good as a gun or a pistol,” he said, “but it’s a heap sight
better’n nuthin’.”

As some of the Indians had been wounded and killed in the fight, the
old pioneer declared that the red men would most likely remain in that
vicinity for a week or perhaps even for a month.

“They know well enough that there aint nobuddy to come to our aid,” he
said. “So they’ll hang around down by the river an’ give the wounded
warriors a chance to patch up thar hurts.”

“And what will they do with their prisoners?” questioned Harry.

“Keep ’em with ’em, more’n likely, lad.”

“Can’t we rescue them in the dark?” asked Joe.

“Jest what I calkerlated we might try to do. But we must be keerful, or
else we’ll be killed, an’ nobuddy saved nuther.”

It was late that evening when they started back for the river, Pep
Frost leading the way, slowly and cautiously, with Harry’s gun still in
hand, ready to be used on an instant’s notice.

The boys had been taught the value of silence, and the whole party
proceeded in Indian file, speaking only when it was necessary, and then
in nothing above a whisper.

It soon became evident that the clear night of the day before was not
to be duplicated. There was a strong breeze blowing, and heavy clouds
soon rolled up from the westward.

“A storm is coming,” whispered Joe to his father.

“I won’t mind that,” answered the parent. “It may make the work we have
cut out for ourselves easier.”

Soon came the patter of rain, at first scatteringly, and then in a
steady downpour. Under the trees of the forest it remained dry for a
time, but at last the downpour reached them and they were soon wet to
the skin.

“This isn’t pleasant, is it?” whispered Harry to Joe. “But if only it
helps us in our plan I shan’t care.”

Before the river was gained they had to cross an open space. As they
advanced Pep Frost called a sudden halt and dropped in the long grass,
and the others followed suit.

Hardly were our friends flat than several Indians came in that
direction, each carrying a bundle, the same that had been opened and
inspected the night before. They passed within fifty feet of the
whites, but without discovering their presence.

“That was a close shave,” whispered Joe when the last of the red men
had finally disappeared in the vicinity of some rocks to the northward.

“Reckon they are striking out for some sort o’ shelter,” said Pep
Frost. “I’m mighty glad on it, too,” he added thoughtfully.

“Why?” asked Harry.

“Thar was three o’ ’em, lad, an’ thet means three less down by the
river a-guardin’ the prisoners.”

“To be sure,” cried the young pioneer. “I wish some more would come
this way.”

The storm was now on them in all of its fury. There was no thunder or
lightning, but the rain came down in sheets, and they were glad enough
when the shelter of the forest was gained once more. They were now
close to the river, and in a few minutes reached the spot where Joe
had landed in the borrowed canoe. The craft still lay hidden where the
young pioneer had left it.

“The canoe may come in very useful, should we wish to escape in a
hurry,” said Ezra Winship.

While the others remained at the water’s edge, Pep Frost went forward
once again on the scout. Joe begged to be taken along, but the old
pioneer demurred.

“No use on it, lad, an’, besides, it’s risky. Sence you helped us to
git away them Injuns is sure to be on stricter guard nor ever.”

Left to themselves, the others decided to float the canoe and hold it
in readiness for use. This was an easy matter, and Joe remained in the
craft, paddle in hand, while Harry and Mr. Winship stood on the river
bank on guard.

Thus nearly half an hour went by. The rain came down as steadily as
ever, and the sky was now inky black.

“It’s time Pep Frost was back,” said Ezra Winship at last. “I hope
nothing has happened to him.”

A few minutes later they heard a murmur of voices in the Indian camp,
and then a scream which, however, was quickly suppressed.

“I cannot stand the suspense,” declared Mr. Winship. “Boys, watch out
until I get back,” and without further words he followed in the trail
Pep Frost had taken.

The scream had excited Joe as well as his father, for he felt that it
was his sister Harmony who had uttered the cry.

“I’m going to push the canoe out to the edge of the brushwood,” he
whispered to Harry. “I think I can see the Indian camp from that point,
if they have any torches lit.”

Noiselessly he shoved the light craft forward until the edge of the
bushes was reached. He peered forward cautiously, and then went out a
little further. Only the fierce rain greeted him, and the silent river
seemed deserted.

At last he caught sight of the flare of a torch, spluttering fitfully
in the rain and the wind. It was a good hundred yards away, and he made
out the forms of several Indians with difficulty. Then he discovered
another torch on the river and saw that it was fastened at the bow of a
canoe which had just been set in motion.

“Save me!” came suddenly to his ears. “Oh, save me, Mrs. Parsons. Do
not let this horrid Indian carry me away from you!”

“Harmony!” burst from Joe’s lips.

He was right, his sister was in the canoe, held there by the hand of a
tall and fierce-looking warrior. With the other hand the red man was
using his paddle to force the craft up the stream. As the canoe came
closer Joe recognized the warrior. It was Long Knife, the savage chief
who had led the attack on the pioneers’ camp.




CHAPTER VII

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE RAIN


It filled Joe’s heart with a nameless dread to see his sister
being thus carried off by an Indian he knew was as cruel as he was
bloodthirsty.

“I must save her,” was his thought. “I must save her, no matter what
the cost!”

In haste he shoved his canoe back to the bank and called softly to
Harry.

“What do you want, Joe?” asked his chum, in an equally low tone of
voice.

In a few hurried words the situation was explained. “Tell father I have
gone after the pair,” Joe added.

Without more conversation, Joe started his canoe forward again, and was
soon on the river and in pursuit of the other canoe, which was now a
hundred yards or more ahead.

By the aid of the torch in the bow he kept Long Knife’s craft in view
with ease, while his own canoe was invisible to the red man on account
of the rain and the darkness.

As he crept closer Joe could hear his sister begging piteously of the
Indian to let her go back to Mrs. Parsons.

“Please, please, let me go back!” cried Harmony. “Oh, have you no
heart?”

“White maiden be quiet,” growled Long Knife. “Can talk much after she
is in Long Knife’s wigwam.”

“I do not want to go to your wigwam,” moaned the girl. “I want to go
back to the lady I was with.”

“Bah! the old Quaker woman does not count,” was Long Knife’s comment.
“She is not as good as the squaw that shall take care of the white
maiden.”

“I don’t want any squaw to take care of me,” answered Harmony, and then
fell to weeping silently.

So far Joe had formed no plan of rescue. Long Knife had dropped his
hold of the girl and was now paddling vigorously with both hands, and
it was all the young pioneer could do to keep him in sight.

When about half a mile of the river had been covered, they came to a
spot where there was something of a lake. Here Long Knife paddled with
less speed and Joe came closer rapidly.

In the canoe the youth had the bow and arrows made for him by Pep
Frost, and also a stout club he had cut for himself.

“I wish I had a gun instead of the bow,” he thought. “I’d soon knock
him over as he deserves.”

Picking up the bow and an arrow Joe adjusted the latter with care.
Harmony had sunk to the bottom of the canoe, while Long Knife stood
upright, trying, by the flare of the torch, to find a suitable landing.

The canoes were now not over a hundred feet apart. With a strong use
of the paddle the young pioneer sent his craft thirty or forty feet
closer. Then he leaped to the bow and aimed the arrow with all the
accuracy at his command.

Whiz! the arrow shot forth, and had the object at which it was aimed
not moved at that instant Long Knife would have received the shaft
straight under the shoulder blade. But just then the canoe bumped on a
part of the bank that was under water, and the Indian pitched slightly
forward, which caused the shaft to graze his shoulder and his neck.

“What is the white maiden doing?” he cried in his native tongue, as he
grasped the bow of the canoe to keep from going overboard.

Harmony did not answer, for she did not understand the question. But
she saw the arrow before it caught the eye of the Indian, and turning
to see who fired it, discovered her brother and set up a cry of joy.

“Oh, Joe! Joe! Save me!”

“I will if I can,” he answered, and reached for another arrow.

By this time Long Knife had recovered and was peering forth into the
gloom to learn from what point the attack was coming, and how many of
the whites were at hand.

It must be admitted that Joe was excited, and his hand trembled
somewhat as he adjusted the second arrow and let it fly without
stopping to take a careful aim.

But the hand of Providence was in that shot, and Long Knife was taken
fairly and squarely in the breast.

The wound was not a mortal one, but it was enough to take all the fight
out of the Indian. With a groan of pain he fell in the bow of the
canoe. Then, fearing another shot, or perhaps a blow from a hunting
knife, he slipped overboard, staggered ashore, and disappeared in the
total darkness of the forest.

“Oh, Joe!” These were the only words that Harmony could utter, but as
the two canoes glided together, she arose and threw her arms around her
brother’s neck.

Just then the brother uttered no reply to this warm greeting. He had
seen Long Knife disappear into the forest, and he did not know but that
the Indian might return to the attack almost immediately.

Two steps took him to the bow of the other canoe, and with a handful of
water he dashed out the light of the torch. Then he seized the paddle
and began to work the craft out into midstream, shoving the other canoe
along at the same time.

But Long Knife was in no condition to attack anybody, and soon the dim
outline of the shore faded from view. Then Joe tied the smaller craft
fast to the larger, and transferred his bow and arrows and club to the
latter. He bent over his sister, and in the midst of the wind and the
rain he kissed her.

“It was a close shave, Harmony,” he said. His heart was too full to say
more.

“Oh, Joe!” She clung to him tightly. “Was it not terrible? Supposing he
had carried me off, miles and miles away?”

“Don’t make too much noise, Harmony--there may be redskins all along
this river bank.”

“Do you know anything of father and mother?”

“I was with father when I discovered you in the canoe with Long Knife.
He and Pep Brown and Harry Parsons were all with me, and we were
getting ready to do what we could to rescue you and Mrs. Parsons. I
don’t know anything about mother.”

“She was carried off by two of the Indians--Mrs. Parsons saw it done.”

“It’s queer the redskins separated.”

“The attack was made by two tribes, one under Long Knife, and the other
under an Indian called Red Feather, a horrible-looking savage with a
broken nose.”

“I haven’t seen anything of that savage. But now we had best keep
quiet, Harmony, for we are getting close to the Indian camp again.”

Joe was right. Caught by the current of the river the two canoes were
drifting down the stream rapidly. The rain still descended steadily
although not as heavily as before.

So far no sound had reached them from the vicinity of the camp where
Mrs. Parsons was still held a captive, but now a distant shout could be
heard, followed by a war-whoop, and then two gun shots.

“Some sort of an attack is on!” cried the boy. “I trust our side wins
out.”

“Oh, so do I, Joe. Did you say father and Mr. Frost had guns?”

“Yes, and they most likely fired those two shots. Hark to the
war-whoops! The redskins are making it lively. I’d like to know if
Harry is in that mix-up.”

Joe turned the canoes toward the river bank, and after a careful survey
of the locality discovered the spot where he had left his chum.

“Harry!” he called softly. “Harry!”

No answer came back, and with caution he shoved the leading canoe
through the brushwood toward the bank.

“Keep quiet, Harmony, while I try to find out how the fight is going,”
he said, and leaped ashore, hunting knife in hand.

“Oh, Joe, don’t leave me,” she pleaded, but he was already gone.

It was an easy matter to crawl to the vicinity of the Indian camp from
where the canoes lay hidden. The whooping and the shots had ended as
suddenly as they had begun.

Suddenly Joe stumbled over the dead body of an Indian, still warm, and
with blood flowing from a wound in the breast. The discovery was a
shock to the young pioneer, and he felt a great desire to jump up and
fly from the scene.

Hardly had he made this discovery than he ran across Harry, leaning
against a tree, gasping for breath.

“Harry,” he cried, and caught his chum just as he was about to fall in
a heap. “Where are you hit?”

“Some--somebody struck me in the--the stomach with a--a--club,” was the
gasped-out reply. “Oh!” And then Harry sank like a lump of lead.

Without stopping to think twice Joe picked up the form of his chum
and started for the canoes once more. It was a heavy load, but the
excitement of the moment gave the youth added strength.

“Who is there?” called Harmony, through the rain.

“I’ve got Harry, Harmony. He has been hit with a club.”

“And father and Mr. Frost?”

“I don’t know where they are.”

But scarcely had the young pioneer spoken when there came a rush of
footsteps, and Pep Frost appeared on the scene, closely followed by
Ezra Winship, who carried the unconscious form of Mrs. Parsons.

“Father!” burst from the girl’s lips.

“My daughter!” ejaculated the astonished parent. “How did you get here?
I thought that Long Knife had carried you off in a canoe.”

“So he did, but Joe came after me and brought me back, after knocking
Long Knife over with two arrows.”

“Got two canoes, eh?” came from Pep Frost. “By gum, but they air jest
wot we need. In ye go, all of ye, an’ quick!”

But little more was said. All leaped into the canoes, taking the
unconscious woman and boy with them. Then they shoved off into the
river.

They were not a moment too soon, for as the darkness swallowed them up
they heard the Indians in the brushwood, running forward and backward
along the bank, and calling guardedly to each other. They did not
imagine that the whites had the boats, and supposed they must be in
hiding, most likely half in and half out of the water.

Not knowing what else to do the whites headed the two canoes up the
stream for a short distance and then landed on the opposite shore, at a
point where some walls of rock seemed to promise a little shelter from
the driving rain.

As they went ashore Mrs. Parsons recovered her senses, for she had
merely fainted from the excitement.

“What has happened to me?” she asked faintly.

“Don’t worry, you are now safe, Mistress Parsons,” answered Ezra
Winship.

“Providence be praised for it!” responded the Quakeress piously. Then
her gaze fell upon her son and she uttered a slight shriek. “Harry! Oh,
tell me not that he is killed!”

“No, he isn’t dead,” answered Joe. And shortly after that Harry sat up,
declaring that he was all right excepting that his stomach felt very
sore.

“We knocked over three o’ the redskins,” said Pep Frost. “Then the rest
dug fer the woods an’ we rushed in and freed Mrs. Parsons. But it was
a lively fight, and I don’t know as we air out o’ it yet,” he added
significantly.




CHAPTER VIII

DAYS OF PERIL


Although Pep Frost was as tired out as anybody in the party, yet the
old pioneer did not rest until he had found a cave-like opening under
some of the largest of the rocks in that vicinity.

To this spot all of the party retired, and here found shelter from the
rain and wind, and here they remained until morning.

By that time the storm had passed away and the sun came out as brightly
as ever. Joe and his father managed to find a little dry wood and with
this a fire was kindled, all being careful to keep the smoke from
ascending in a solid cloud. By the fire the remainder of the bear meat
was cooked, and all partook of their share and washed down the meal
with a drink from a nearby spring.

How to turn next was the all-important question, and nobody had a very
definite answer.

“O’ course we can push on westward fer Fort Boone,” said Pep Frost.
“But I aint allowin’ as how ye want to do thet.”

“Thee art right, friend Frost,” answered Mrs. Parsons. “I would first
learn what has become of my daughter Clara, and I doubt not but what
Friend Winship would like to learn what has become of his good wife,
Mistress Winship, and his daughter Cora.”

“That is true,” answered Ezra Winship. “If they are dead I want to know
it, and if they have been carried off I feel that I must do all I can
to rescue them.”

“Yes, yes, we must learn the truth,” cried Harmony, while Joe nodded
his head to show that he agreed.

A discussion followed that lasted fully an hour, and then it was
decided that Mr. Winship and Pep Frost should go off on a scout,
leaving Joe and Harry to watch over Mrs. Parsons and Harmony.

“We may not be back in two or three days,” said Ezra Winship. “For we
will not only try to learn what has become of all the other members of
the company that was with us before the attack, but also try to find
some of the things that belong to us.”

“Never mind the things, father,” said Joe. “Just find mother and Cora
and I’ll be content.”

“And I say to thee, find Clara and I will be content, Friend Winship,”
added Mrs. Parsons.

In the canoe that Long Knife had occupied was a small bag containing
Indian meal, and another containing pease, and a strip of jerked beef,
so that those left behind would not starve during the absence of the
men. The men themselves took nothing but the guns and horns of powder,
ball and shot, with a tinder box, declaring that they would hunt down
whatever they needed.

“Do not show yourselves on the river,” were Ezra Winship’s last words
of caution. “Those redskins are still over there, and they may remain
there for days, trying to locate us.”

After the two men had left, the spot seemed lonelier than ever. To
occupy her time Mrs. Parsons soaked some of the pease in a hollow
of water, and then set them to baking on a flat stone, rimmed with
dried clay. On another flat stone she mixed some of the Indian meal
into a dough which afterwards turned out into fairly good corn cakes.
While this was going on Harry set to work fishing in a pool under the
brushwood bordering the river, and caught several fish of fair size.

“To be sure, ’tis not eating fit for a king,” declared Mrs. Parsons,
“but for such as ’tis, let us all be truly thankful.” And they were
thankful.

While the others were thus occupied, with Harmony doing what she could
to help the Quakeress, Joe took his way to the top of the rocks. Here
grew a tree of good size, and this he easily climbed to the top.

The view he obtained from this elevation was a disappointment to him.
As far as eye could reach stretched the hills and valleys, with here
and there a stream of water and a tiny lake. Across the river directly
in front of him he could see the late Indian camp, now deserted, and
this was the only sign of life anywhere.

“Not even a deer, much less a white man or an Indian,” he murmured.
“But then I suppose the redskins are keeping out of sight the same as
ourselves.”

He looked long and earnestly in the direction his father and Pep Frost
had taken, but neither of them appeared, and at last he descended and
rejoined the others.

The day passed quietly until about four o’clock in the afternoon, when
Harry, returning from another fishing expedition, a little further down
the river, announced that two canoes were in sight, each containing at
least half a dozen Indians.

“Oh, I hope they don’t attempt to land here!” cried Harmony, in dismay.

“We’ll put out the fire and hide,” said Joe, and this was done, Mrs.
Parsons and the girl secreting themselves in a nearby split in the
rocks, and Harry and Joe taking themselves close to the water’s edge
where they might watch the progress of the canoes.

The canoes were large affairs, and as they came closer the two young
pioneers saw that they contained other persons besides the Indians.
There was a heap of goods in the center of each canoe, and likewise
several captives.

“Clara is in the front canoe,” whispered Harry excitedly.

“And Cora is in the other,” announced Joe a moment later.

The other captives were men and women who had belonged to the
unfortunate expedition. All had their hands tied behind them, and not a
few were suffering from wounds made by arrows and tomahawks.

“Those Indians must belong to the tribe under Red Feather,” whispered
Harry, and he was right, as it later on proved.

The boys were itching to do something for their captive sisters and the
others of their friends, but such a move was, just then, out of the
question. Their only weapons were their bows and arrows, and the canoes
hugged the opposite shore, too far to be reached with any degree of
accuracy.

“I am going to follow those canoes as far as I can,” declared Joe, and
ran along the river bank behind the brushwood. But soon the rocks and a
curve of the watercourse cut him off, and a little later the two canoes
passed from sight.

When the craft were gone the two youths went back to where the others
had been left. Both Mrs. Parsons and Harmony were, of course, surprised
to learn that they had seen Cora and Clara.

“Where will they take them?” cried Harmony, wringing her hands, while
the tears stood in the Quakeress’ eyes.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if there was an Indian village somewhere up
this stream,” said Joe. “If you’ll remember, Long Knife spoke about
taking Harmony to his wigwam.”

“Father said he had heard of an Indian village up there,” answered
Harry. “Daniel Boone told him of it. Boone was at the village once,
when the redskins were off on a hunt.”

“I wish Daniel Boone was here now,” answered Joe. “He knows how to
fight Indians, if anybody does.”

“He may be in this vicinity for all we know,” put in Harmony. “He
doesn’t stay at Fort Boone all the time.”

Harmony was very anxious to know if her mother had been in either of
the canoes, but neither Joe nor Harry could answer that query.

“There were some folks we couldn’t see on account of the distance and
the goods piled up in the canoes,” said Joe. “I wouldn’t be surprised
if she was there.”

Night came on quickly and they remained in the dark, not caring to
light another camp-fire.

Harry climbed a tree to see if he could detect any fire in that
vicinity.

“Not even a torch,” he declared on coming below. “Everybody on both
sides is keeping shady.”

“Those Indians that went by didn’t keep very shady, Harry.”

“That is true, Joe,--which proves that they didn’t belong to the
party that we have been fighting. It’s more than likely they have met
some of the others since passing here, and now they are on guard like
ourselves.”

It was decided that the boys should take turns at picket duty, as Harry
called it, for it was not deemed wise for all to sleep at once.

The two boys drew straws as to which should keep awake the first half
of the night, and it fell to Harry’s lot. Worn out, Joe turned in
immediately, if not to sleep at least to rest, and Mrs. Parsons and
Harmony soon followed his example. But, though their minds were in sore
distress, abused Nature soon claimed her own, and all slept the sleep
of the exhausted.

To keep his own eyes open Harry moved around, up and down the rocks,
and then along a stretch of the river bank which was comparatively free
from brushwood and trees.

It was a lonely vigil, and more than once the youth’s eyes closed in
spite of himself. To keep himself awake he decided to bathe his head
and arms.

He was engaged in this agreeable occupation when something floating on
the surface of the river attracted his attention. At first he could not
distinguish what it was, but at last made it out to be a small tree, or
large tree branch. On the top rested a dark object that looked like the
huddled form of a man.

“Hullo, here is something new!” he thought. “If that is a man is it a
white person or an Indian?”

As the object came nearer he strained his eyes to see more clearly. As
he did this, the man on the driftwood raised himself slightly and gave
a moan.

“A white man, and he is likely wounded,” said the young pioneer to
himself, and without hesitation he ran for one of the canoes, launched
it, and soon had the sufferer ashore.

Harry had called Joe while launching the canoe, and now the latter
joined him and the two carried the unknown one to the shelter under the
rocks. He was suffering from a wound in the shoulder, and from another
in the left leg, and both of these were bound up by Mrs. Parsons, who
in her younger days had been a famous nurse for the sick and wounded.

It was noon of the next day before the unknown man opened his eyes and
attempted to sit up.

“You--you are kind to me,” he gasped--“very kind, madam, and I will not
forget you for it.”

“How came you in such a situation?” questioned Harry.

“Nay, nay, my son, do not question so sick a mortal,” interposed Mrs.
Parsons. “Time enough when he is stronger.”

“The story is soon told,” said the wounded man with an effort. “I was
on my way from Fort Boone, with Daniel Boone and three others, to
join a party which is expected there soon by a man there named Peter
Parsons----”

“My husband!” ejaculated Mrs. Parsons.

“Then you are of that party?”

“Yes.”

“’Tis a strange place for you, madam.” The wounded man looked at the
rocks. “But as I was saying, I was with Boone and the others, when we
became separated in the heavy rainstorm. The Indians tracked me, and I
was wounded and captured. But some time ago I escaped and fled to the
river. Then I swam to a tree that was floating by, and crawled on it
more dead than alive. And now I am here, thanks----”

The wounded man got no further, for at that moment the form of a man
appeared on the rocks above the shelter--a tall white man, dressed in
the garb of a hunter.

“Hullo, who are you?” demanded Joe, leaping to his feet and feeling for
his hunting knife.

“Why, that’s Daniel Boone!” cried the wounded man, before the newcomer
could answer Joe’s question.




CHAPTER IX

DANIEL BOONE, THE PIONEER


At the time this story opens, Daniel Boone, known to history as the
famous hero and pioneer of Kentucky, was about forty years of age. He
was tall and well-formed, and had an eye that was as sharp as it was
true. He could hit a bird on the wing, or a speeding deer with ease,
and there was an old saying that if Boone drew bead on an animal the
game was as good as dead.

Daniel Boone was born in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, in 1735. His
boyhood days were spent on the farm, and in hunting and fishing,
pastimes of which he was passionately fond. He also had a strong
“fever” for roaming, and more than once was missing at night, having
gone on a tramp miles and miles from home.

When Boone was about thirteen years of age, his family moved to a place
called Holman’s Ford, on the Yadkin River, in North Carolina. Here
the youth grew to manhood and married the daughter of a neighbor, a
sweet and courageous girl by the name of Rebecca Bryan. It is well to
remember that name, for, as Daniel Boone was the pioneer of Kentucky,
Mrs. Boone--Rebecca Bryan--was the pioneer woman of that great
commonwealth. It took courage on the part of a man to penetrate the
wilderness, but it took even more courage on the part of a woman with
children to do the same thing.

When Daniel Boone married he still made his home on the Yadkin, but
further westward than where his father was located. At first he had a
wide range of territory to himself, which was just to his liking, but
presently other settlers discovered the richness of this land and came
to settle near him.

“We are going to be crowded out, wife,” said he to Mrs. Boone. “From
our doorstep I can see the smoke of five other cabins in the valley.”
This great hunter loved solitude, and he thought he was being “crowded”
even when he could but see his neighbors.

Boone’s thought had often turned to the West--to that vast, mysterious
land which lay beyond the Cumberland Mountains--that land which to-day
forms the State of Kentucky with its many cities and towns, but which
only a hundred and twenty-five years ago was an unbroken wilderness,
inhabited by wandering red men and vast herds of buffalo, deer, and
other wild animals. A hundred and twenty-five years! Reader, how
quickly our great country has grown to be what it is!

A well-known hunter of that time, John Finley by name, had made a short
tour westward, and he brought back with him a wonderful account of what
he had seen--the great forests, fertile fields, streams rich with fish,
and the large quantities of game. Daniel Boone met this man and talked
with him, and from that hour determined to move westward on his own
account at the first opportunity.

It was on the first day of May, 1769, that Boone bade farewell to
his wife and children, and started out on his explorations. He had
with him five companions, all hunters and pioneers like himself, and
including the John Finley already mentioned. The party traveled through
the mountains and valleys for five weeks, often stopping to hunt and
fish on the way, and then reached the Red River, and from a tall cliff
looked for the first time on the beautiful plains and woodlands of
Kentucky.

“What a grand, what a glorious prospect!” exclaimed Boone.

“It will prove a paradise on earth,” answered one of his companions.

A shelter was erected close to the river, and the whole party went
into camp until late in the year, making many tours of discovery to
the north, west, and south. On one of these tours Boone and one of
his companions were surprised by the Indians and made prisoners. The
Indians treated them roughly and threatened them with all sorts of
torture. At the end of a week, however, the two captives watched their
chance, and escaped. When they got back to their old camp they found it
plundered, and the others of the party had gone home.

“We had better go home too,” said Boone’s companion, and they started
without delay. On the way they met Squire Boone, Daniel Boone’s
brother, and another man. Shortly after this the man who had been a
captive with Boone was killed, and the hunter who had come West with
Squire Boone returned to his home. This left the two brothers alone.

All winter the two Boones hunted and explored the region, keeping
away from all the Indians of that vicinity. When spring came Squire
Boone returned home, leaving Daniel alone to the solitude of the great
forests.

This was what Daniel Boone really loved, and not a day was lost during
the time he was left alone. He explored the territory for miles around,
and paddled his way on many a stream. Thus three months passed, and
then the brother returned with pack horses and a load of much needed
provisions and a goodly supply of powder.

With all the time already spent in this vast wilderness, Daniel Boone
was not yet satisfied to go back to his home on the Yadkin, and it was
not until March, 1771, that he and his brother retraced their steps to
civilization. In that time they had gained a wonderful insight into the
country, and could now speak with authority of its formation and worth.
They were familiar with every trail worth knowing, and could tell true
stories of the richness of the soil.

But in those days things moved rather slowly, and it took two years to
bring a number of the settlers up to the point of moving westward with
their belongings. It was the end of September, 1773, that Daniel Boone
and his brother, Squire Boone, with their families, moved to a place
called Powell’s Valley. Here they were joined by five other families
and forty men.

It was a hopeful beginning of the great work of settling the West, but
it came to a speedy and disastrous termination. The pioneers had been
but two weeks on the march when a band of Indians fell upon some of the
young men who had gone out to round up the cattle. The fight was short
and sharp, and six of the young men, including Daniel Boone’s oldest
son, a lad of seventeen, were killed.

This was a great shock to the other members of the expedition, and
despite the earnest protestations of Daniel and Squire Boone, it was
decided to turn back.

“We can do nothing against the redskins,” said one timid hunter. “They
will turn in some dark night and massacre the whole of us.”

But though this expedition turned back, the disaster did not dim the
fame of Daniel Boone. He was known far and wide as Colonel Boone, the
discoverer of Kentucky, and this fame reached even to the courts of
Virginia, and he was often consulted regarding this “promised land”
which he had explored. He was sent out at one time to assist a number
of surveyors, and at another to open negotiations with the Indians, and
his work in these directions served to increase his fame materially.

It was in the autumn of 1774 that a treaty was made with the Cherokee
Indians by which all the land between the Cumberland and Kentucky
Rivers passed into the control of a body known as the Transylvania
Company. Immediately steps were taken to survey the territory, and to
establish a trail which might be used by prospective settlers. It was a
difficult task, and it fell to the lot of Daniel Boone to lead the way
from a settlement on the Holston to the Kentucky River.

The Indians had been willing to negotiate the sale of the land, but
when they saw an actual road being made through their beloved country
they grew enraged, and soon there was a skirmish, in which two of
Boone’s party fell, and he narrowly escaped death. But the expedition
stood its ground, until it reached the site of the present village of
Boonesborough, located about eighteen miles southeast of the city of
Lexington. Here no time was lost in building a fort, and in making
other defenses against the red men.

As soon as the stronghold was complete, Daniel Boone went back to the
East and brought on his wife and children, and they were speedily
joined by several other families. Then other settlements besides that
of Boonesborough began to appear, and it was then that Peter Parsons
went westward to see for himself if this “land of plenty” of which he
had heard so much was really as good as pictured.

Mr. Parsons was delighted, both with the aspect of the country and
with the kind-heartedness of Colonel Boone and the other hunters
and pioneers that he met, and it did not take him long to reach the
conclusion that a home here, if once the Indians could be brought
to submission, would be most desirable. He was naturally a man who
wanted freedom, and the troubles in the eastern settlements, where the
discontentment that led to the Revolution was already in evidence, were
exceedingly distasteful to him.

As soon as Mr. Parsons had sent for his family and that of Ezra Winship
to come on, he set about clearing some of the land of the sites he
had selected. He was hard at work one day felling some trees when an
unexpected wind came along and knocked a tree over on him, hurting his
leg. He was carried into the fort, and there he lay for several weeks
while the hurt member grew better.

“It is too bad,” said he to Daniel Boone. “I was going out to meet
my family and the others that are expected here. I have heard that
the Indians are growing ugly again, and I am afraid that they will
encounter trouble.”

“You must not think of standing on that hurt leg yet,” answered Colonel
Boone. “I am going out myself, in company with Jerry Wright and several
others of our best marksmen. We shall do our best to bring your family
and the others to this fort in safety.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” answered Peter Parsons. “If you’ll do that I will
rest content. When do you calculate to start?”

“Early to-morrow morning.”

Daniel Boone was as good as his word, and the party of five was several
miles away from the fort by the time the sun rose. Each man was mounted
on a good horse, and the only stop made that day was for the midday
meal, and to feed and water the steeds.

For several days nothing out of the usual occurred excepting that they
found the remains of several Indian camp-fires, which showed that the
red men were in that vicinity in force.

“Perhaps they are gathering to attack the party under this Ezra
Winship,” said Jerry Wright, who had been a great friend of Boone’s
son--the one who had been killed--and who was well liked by the great
hunter himself.

“I trust not, Jerry,” replied Daniel Boone. “We want no more massacres
here.”

It was then that the great rainstorm came on, and during this Jerry
Wright’s horse ran away from him. The young hunter went after the
steed, and in the darkness became separated from his companions. His
trail was discovered by some Indians, and before he could recover
his horse he was discovered and the Indians set upon him with fierce
shouts. He tried to defend himself, but was wounded, and then the red
men made him their captive.

Jerry Wright fully expected death at the hands of his enemies, but it
did not come, and watching his chance, he escaped from the Indians and
ran for the river. Here he swam out to a floating tree and crawled on
top; and it was from this position of peril that Harry rescued him, as
already described in the last chapter.




CHAPTER X

BOONE LEADS THE WAY


“Daniel Boone!”

The cry came from several lips at once, and not only Harry and Joe, but
also Mrs. Parsons and Harmony, leaped up to meet the newcomer on the
rocks.

“Hullo! Reckon I’ve struck some sort of a camp,” were Colonel Boone’s
first words. Then he looked at his late companion. “Where did you go to
in the rain, and what is the matter of you?” he continued.

“Oh, Colonel Boone, how glad I am to see you!” exclaimed Harmony.

The great hunter nodded and descended to the shelter.

“Thank you, miss--but I don’t reckon I know you,” he said simply.

“I am Harmony Winship, and this is my brother Joe. This is Mrs. Parsons
and her son Harry. We were all on our way to join Mr. Parsons at your
fort.”

“Tell me, good sir, how is my husband?” put in the Quakeress quickly.

Before answering Boone removed his coonskin cap and bowed politely. “He
is tolerably well, madam, but for his leg, which he hurt while felling
trees in the forest. But for his hurt he might be with me this moment.”

“Is it serious?”

“Far from it, and I doubt not but that he will be up and around before
we get back. But where are the others of the expedition, and why are
you in such a place as this? And why are you here?” went on Colonel
Boone to Jerry Wright.

It took the best part of half an hour to acquaint the great hunter with
all that had occurred, both to the party under the leadership of Ezra
Winship, and to his late companion. Boone listened quietly, but as he
learned of the attacks by the Indians his brow grew dark and his lips
were tightly compressed.

“They are nothing but fiends after all--after all the promises they
have made,” he said at last. “To trust them even for a moment seems
foolish.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “When do you expect Mr.
Winship and Frost back?” he questioned of the boys.

“I suppose they will be back sometime to-day,” answered Joe.

Colonel Boone told them that he had left the others of his party on a
trail quarter of a mile away, having come on foot to the river bank to
see if any Indians were in sight, or to learn, if possible, what had
become of Wright.

“I will go back and bring my companions to this place,” he said. “And
then we can talk over what is to be done.”

“If thee will but get us safe to the fort I shall ask no more,” said
Mrs. Parsons.

Before sundown the other hunters and pioneers came up and were
introduced. They were glad to learn that Jerry Wright was not seriously
wounded, and one brought the good news that the missing horse had
turned up unharmed.

Fortunately for those in distress the party under Colonel Boone had
brought with them a fair supply of provisions and also a couple of
extra rifles and three long pistols, with ammunition. Each of the
young pioneers was provided with a rifle and ammunition, and even Mrs.
Parsons accepted one of the pistols, while Harmony took another.

Colonel Boone was of a humor to follow up the canoes with captives that
had passed up the river, but after a talk with his companions it was
decided to wait until morning to see if Mr. Winship and Pep Frost might
not return.

“The Indians must not be allowed to go too far,” said Daniel Boone.

“But with even my father and Frost we will number but eight,” said Joe.

“True, lad; but I calculate that a good white hunter is worth four or
five redskins,” answered Boone.

The well-known old hunter was dressed in the typical garb of that
period--loose hunting shirt, or frock, of dressed deer skins, leggings
of leather, fringed on the outer seam, and a coonskin cap, in which was
stuck a curled feather or two, and on the feet a pair of coarse, heavy
moccasins. Around his waist the hunter wore a substantial belt, with
a tomahawk at his right side, and on the left his long hunting knife,
powder horn, bullet pouch, and small metal case containing extra flints
and tinder.

All were seated around a tiny camp-fire at about eight o’clock that
evening, when Boone suddenly arose.

“Somebody is coming,” he said.

Neither of the boys had heard a sound out of the ordinary, nor had some
of the others for that matter. But Daniel Boone’s ears were trained
to woodcraft, and he had caught the cracking of some brushwood a good
distance away. He picked up his rifle and moved out of the circle of
light, and several of the other men followed his example.

It was soon seen that Ezra Winship and Pep Frost were approaching,
followed by two men and several women and children--all members of that
ill-fated band that had suffered so much but a short while before. One
of the men was wounded in the shoulder, and one of the children had
been partly scalped.

It can well be imagined that Ezra Winship was glad to meet Daniel
Boone, whom he knew so well by reputation, if not personally.

“We need your assistance sorely,” said Mr. Winship. “Our whole party
has been either killed, taken prisoners, or scattered, and I must say
that I hardly know what to do.”

He listened closely to what Joe had to tell him about the canoes that
had gone up the river.

“Your mother must have been of the party,” said he. “For I have learned
that she and Cora and Clara Parsons were together.” He turned to Boone.
“Colonel Boone, where do you think the captives will be taken?”

“’Tis hard to tell, Winship,” was the reply. “Perhaps to the village of
Go-wan-shi-ska. That is a favorite spot with them at this season of the
year.”

In their trip back to the former camp Mr. Winship and Pep Frost had
seen but two Indians and they were a long distance off. In coming
through a patch of timber they had heard the cry of a child and this
had led them to a shelter where they had found those that they had now
brought with them.

“We must rescue those who have been carried off,” said Ezra Winship. “I
cannot consent to go on to the fort until that is done. My own wife and
daughter are missing and so are five or six others. To leave them to
the mercy of the savages would not be human.”

“We cannot go after the missing ones until we have seen the women and
children who are here safe,” replied Daniel Boone. “But once they are
at the fort I promise you that I will use every effort within my power
to bring back the missing ones and avenge this great wrong.”

The great hunter spoke feelingly, for he had not yet forgotten the
death of his beloved son nor the deaths of many of his old-time
companions.

It was arranged that the whole party should move forward under the
personal guidance of Colonel Boone without delay. The wounded and the
small children were placed on horseback, and the men and boys, all
armed, tramped on ahead and behind, Boone himself far in advance,
making certain that the way was clear.

On the way two Indians were encountered. One was shot down and the
other taken prisoner.

The captured red man was closely questioned by Colonel Boone and
others. At first he refused to talk, but at last said that the tribe
under Red Feather was journeying toward Go-wan-shi-ska. They had some
captives, he did not know how many, nor did he know how long Red
Feather intended to remain at the village before moving further to the
north.

When the news reached the fort that the expected expedition had been
attacked by the Indians under Long Knife and Red Feather there was
great excitement, and a score of men, including Peter Parsons, rode out
to meet those who were coming in.

“So you are safe,” said Mr. Parsons to his wife. “I am glad of that.”

“Yes, yes; but poor Clara!” groaned Mrs. Parsons, and then burst into
tears on her husband’s shoulder.

The stories the various survivors of the expedition had to tell were
listened to with interest by all at the fort, and under Colonel Boone’s
command a party of twenty-two men, young and old, prepared to follow
up the trail of the red men and give them battle if necessary. All were
aroused to the necessity of swift action, and each man was prepared
to fight to the last in defense of his own family and those of his
companions.

With the men went Mr. Winship and Joe. Mr. Parsons wanted to go, but it
was thought best to leave him and Harry behind to look after the women
folks, for it was barely possible that, during the absence of so many
of the garrison, the Indians might attack the fort itself.

“You must be on guard, day and night,” said Colonel Boone to the
officer who was left in charge. “Keep pickets out constantly and do not
allow any Indians to visit the fort proper. If they want to parley let
them do it outside and not more than two at a time.”

The entire party went out on horseback, Joe riding a steed provided
by Mr. Parsons. The young pioneer had been introduced to all of the
others in the expedition and felt thoroughly at home among them. The
men, young and old, were a whole-souled body and willing to do almost
anything for each other.

It was now that Joe learned for the first time in his life what real
hard riding meant. Daniel Boone allowed no dragging behind, and the
hunters went forward as fast as their steeds could carry them, up
trail and down, over stretches of deep grass and then along and
over the rocks. Often a stream would have to be swum or forded, and
the riders would have all they could do to get over and keep their
ammunition dry.

The first night was spent in the open, without a camp-fire, and long
before the sun arose the party was again the saddle, riding as hard as
ever.

“I hope you are not tired out, Joe,” said his father, on the way.

“Not yet; but how long are we to keep this up?” questioned the son.

“Colonel Boone says until we see something of the Indians. And I am
glad of it,” added Ezra Winship. “We can’t come up to those rascals too
quick for me.”

On the third day out, however, the speed was slackened a little, and
just before sundown Daniel Boone and two of the other skilled hunters
went on ahead. They were moving up a hill, the ridge of which was
located in some timber quarter of a mile away.

Colonel Boone and the others were gone the best part of an hour. The
remainder of the party were then ordered to swing round to the left of
the trail they had been following and halt just this side of the ridge
of the hill.

“The Indians are encamped in the valley on the other side of the hill,”
said Colonel Boone. “There are about thirty of them and they have at
least some, if not all, of the captives with them.”




CHAPTER XI

WITH NO TIME TO SPARE


“The Indians are encamped in the valley beyond this hill!” cried Joe.
“In that case we will soon find out whom they have as captives with
them.”

With extreme caution the hunters and pioneers climbed the slope until
about fifty feet from the ridge.

Then the men and boys were allowed to crawl among the trees and
brushwood to the very top and look over into the valley below.

A plain of tall grass and low brush met their gaze, extending for
quarter of a mile in width and several miles in length. In the very
center was a small brook, moving peacefully along between the reeds and
rushes.

The encampment of the red men was along the bank of the watercourse
next to the hill occupied by the whites. Here several wigwams had been
temporarily erected and here two camp-fires had just been started. On a
slight rise of ground lay several bundles of goods which belonged to
the ill-fated pioneers, and not far away several horses and mules were
tethered.

But the gaze of those on the ridge of the hill was not directed to the
Indians, the bundles, or the horses, but to the captives, who were in a
group by themselves not far from one of the wigwams.

The captives were six in number--two women, two girls, and two men, one
of the latter just grown to manhood. Each was bound, and it was plain
to see that each had suffered much since being taken a prisoner.

“I see Cora!” exclaimed Joe in a low voice. “Do you see mother?”

“I do not,” answered Ezra Winship, and the tone of his voice showed
keen disappointment.

“That other girl is Dorothy Reasoner, and the two women are Mrs.
Landrop and Mrs. Gellott,” went on the boy.

“The men are old Hank Kassoway and young Paul Broker, the young fellow
they said looked like you, Joe.”

“Do you suppose they have any other captives, father?”

“There may be some in one of the wigwams, but it is doubtful.”

Word was now passed along that the hunters must be silent, and for
some minutes not a word was spoken.

During that interval several of the Indians were seen to run to the
group of prisoners and bring forward the young fellow named Paul Broker.

In a twinkle the hunting shirt was ripped off the young pioneer and
he was hurled flat on his back on the ground. While he was being held
there by two red men others tied cords to his wrists and ankles and
these were afterward secured to four short stakes driven securely in
the soil.

“They are going to torture that young man!” exclaimed Mr. Winship in
horror.

After the victim was so secured that he could scarcely move some of the
Indians began to dance around him, uttering the words of a wild song
and flourishing their tomahawks and scalping knives. Occasionally one
would leap forward and make a move as if to cut off the nose or gouge
out an eye of the victim.

They thought by this to make the young man cry out in fear and beg
for mercy, but Paul Broker had learned the lesson that the Indian is
merciless when it comes to torturing an enemy and so he remained mute.

The girl and women prisoners shrieked in horror at the scene and,
unable to stand the sight, one woman fainted dead away.

Burning fagots were now brought forward and the Indians prepared to
place them upon the naked breast of the victim. One fagot was held
close to his face, so that his eyebrows were singed.

While this was going on, Boone crawled from one to another of his party
and gave a few hurried directions.

It was now growing dark, and, keeping as much in the shadows of the
hill as possible, the hunters moved over the ridge and down close to
the Indian encampment.

The Indians around Paul Broker were just on the point of placing the
fagots upon the victim’s breast when Daniel Boone gave the order to
open fire.

Crack! crack! bang! went the rifles and shotguns, and at the first
irregular volley three of the Indians were killed outright and five
others badly wounded. In those days powder and ball were scarce, and no
man discharged his weapon unless he was tolerably sure of his aim.

“Forward!” cried Daniel Boone, and led the way, reloading as he ran.

The red men had not yet thrown out their guards for the night and were
taken completely by surprise. As the shots rang out and so many of
their number fell, the others were almost panic-stricken.

“The palefaces! the palefaces!” they cried, and ran for their bows and
arrows and other weapons.

Colonel Boone knew well how to fight Indians and had given instructions
to make as much noise as possible. Consequently the hunters under him
came onward with many loud yells and shrieks, uttered in all sorts
of tones, giving the red men the impression that the attacking party
numbered a hundred or more.

Guns and pistols were discharged and reloaded with all possible speed,
and as the whites drew closer they brought forth their tomahawks and
hunting knives. It was Boone himself who leaped to the rescue of Paul
Broker, closely followed by Mr. Winship and others. Joe ran straight to
his sister Cora.

Realizing that the battle was against them the Indians made but a
feeble resistance, and then those who were able did what they could to
escape across the valley to the hills.

As one tall red man dashed past the captives he aimed a blow with his
tomahawk at Cora. But before the hatchet could reach the girl’s head
Joe swung around the butt of his gun and struck the Indian’s arm a
crushing blow, breaking that member and causing the tomahawk to fall
to the ground.

“Joe! Joe!” burst from Cora Winship’s lips. She could not say more.

Some of the Indians attempted to reach the horses, but were blocked and
two others were shot down. Then the rest ran in all directions, their
only idea being to hide themselves under cover of the coming night.

But the pioneers were thoroughly aroused to the situation, and, under
the leadership of Daniel Boone, those left of the evil band were
hunted not only during the night, but all of the next day. In this
hunt Joe took no part, preferring to do the duty assigned to him and
four others, namely, that of looking after the women and girls and the
horses and goods in the camp. But Ezra Winship went with Boone and his
men, and this following of the red men’s trail resulted in the downfall
of two more Indians and the taking prisoner of the chief, Red Feather,
who had been wounded at the very start of the fight.

In the battle four of the whites had been wounded and one man--a very
old frontiersman named Hollenbeck--was killed. The wounds of those hurt
were not serious and were dressed with care by the women and girls who
had been rescued.

It was a long story that Cora Winship had to tell concerning her
captivity, but it need not be repeated here, for it is very similar to
hundreds of such stories which have already been told. The Indians had
treated her with alternate kindness and harshness, and she had been
given to understand that she was to be taken to some Indian village far
to the northward, along one of the lakes.

“I do not know what has become of mother or of Harmony,” she said.

“Harmony is safe at the fort,” answered Joe. “Do you know what has
become of Clara Parsons?”

“I do not, Joe. We were together at first, but the Indians soon
separated us, just as they separated Harmony from the others. So
Harmony is safe? Well, I am glad to learn that. But poor dear mother!”
And the girl shook her head sorrowfully.

When Mr. Winship came back from the hunt after the fleeing Indians Cora
sprang into his arms with a joyful cry. It was a happy moment for all
despite the fact that the mother and wife was still missing.

The Indian chief, Red Feather, refused to talk when brought in, nor
would any threats induce him to open his mouth.

[Illustration: “HIS GUN STRUCK THE INDIAN’S ARM A CRUSHING BLOW.”--P.
104.]

“The palefaces may do as pleases them,” were his words. “Red Feather,
the mighty chief of the Cherokees, has nothing to say to them.”

But one of the other Indians was not so close-mouthed, and from this
warrior it was learned that the reason Paul Broker had been tortured
was because he had attacked and attempted to kill Long Knife, Red
Feather’s brother chief.

“Long Knife was in a canoe with a white maiden when the paleface shot
him with an arrow,” said the Indian to Daniel Boone, in his native
language.

The old pioneer had heard Joe’s story, and he quickly turned to the
youth and told him what the Indian said.

“That was not Paul Broker, but myself,” said Joe.

“Ha! now we have the truth of it!” cried Paul Broker, who was standing
near. “I told the redskins that I had done nothing of the kind, but
they would not believe me. In the darkness Long Knife probably mistook
Joe for myself.”

As the youth and the young man looked so much alike, this was accepted
as the true explanation of the affair.

“It is lucky we came along as we did,” said Joe to Paul Broker. “If we
hadn’t you would have suffered horribly on my account.”

None of the Indians could tell what had become of Long Knife further
than that he had appeared at the camp badly wounded and that he had
been taken away by two warriors acting under Red Feather’s orders.

“Red Feather and Long Knife are related,” said Daniel Boone. “If either
suffers the other will do what he can to right the injury. Now that
Long Knife has escaped he will probably keep shady until he is well
again, and then he will do what he can to cause us more trouble. But I
have a card I shall play against him.”

“You mean Red Feather?” said Ezra Winship.

“Yes. I shall keep him a captive and notify the Indians for miles
around the fort that if an attack is made Red Feather shall suffer
most horribly for it, but if they keep the peace Red Feather shall
be released at the end of six months and be given half a dozen best
blankets and a fine horse.”

“But what will you do about my wife and the others who are still
missing?” asked Mr. Winship anxiously.

At this Daniel Boone shook his head slowly and thoughtfully.

“I hate to say it, friend Winship, but--but----”

“But what?”

“I am sorely afraid that all of the others who were taken captives are
dead,” answered Daniel Boone.

“Do you really mean that?” cried Joe, with a sinking heart.

“I do. I have tried my best to find some trace of them, but there is
none, and when a redskin refuses to speak on that subject after talking
about all others it is pretty safe to say that the truth is too awful
to mention.”




CHAPTER XII

SETTLING DOWN AT BOONESBOROUGH


It was with sorrowful hearts that Mr. Winship and Joe accompanied the
party under Colonel Boone back to the fort. Even the presence of Cora,
who had always been the particularly bright member of the family, did
not serve to dispel the gloom caused by the continued absence of Mrs.
Winship.

“I cannot believe that she is dead, father,” said the young pioneer.
“Such a fate would be horrible!”

“I am of the same mind, Joe,” answered Ezra Winship. “Yet Colonel Boone
has had a vast experience with the red men, and he must know what he is
talking about.”

“The best of men make mistakes sometimes,” put in Cora hopefully.

The party moved onward as fast as possible, but with the women and
girls along, as well as the wounded and the goods recovered from the
Indians, it took twice the time to reach the fort as it had to ride
from there to the encampment in the valley.

Those at the fort saw them when yet a long distance away, and Peter
Parsons and Harry rode out to meet the Winships.

“My Clara still missing!” groaned Mr. Parsons. It was like a blow in
the face to him.

“Yes, Peter, and my wife, too,” replied Ezra Winship.

The news that Clara Parsons was still missing was an added shock to the
girl’s mother, and it was several days before the Quakeress recovered
sufficiently to go about her duties.

“She must be dead, just as Colonel Boone says!” moaned the stricken
mother. “Oh, why has this cross fallen upon us? Is it that we have been
so sinful?”

On his part, Harry said but little. But he felt the loss as keenly as
did anybody, for his sister Clara had been his constant companion all
his life, and he loved her dearly.

But every period of mourning and lamenting must have an end, and there
was plenty to do for all hands in Boonesborough.

“I think the best we can do is to get settled down,” said Peter
Parsons. “That will give my wife and the girls something to do and keep
their mind off of this trouble. As soon as we are settled you and I,
friend Winship, and Joe and Harry, too, for that matter, can do our
best to find some trace of your wife and my Clara.”

“But they may be suffering at this moment,” said Ezra Winship.

“I hardly think that. Now that the fight is over, if they have not been
killed, they are most likely living quietly at some Indian village far
away.”

As already mentioned, Peter Parsons had selected two sites for farms
adjoining each other. There was scarcely a choice between the two, and
to be perfectly fair in the matter Mr. Winship insisted upon drawing
lots to decide which should be his and which Peter Parsons’.

It was decided that for the present only one cabin should be built, as
close to the fort as possible, in which the Winships and the Parsons
might dwell together until the following summer. This would keep Mrs.
Parsons and the two Winship girls together while the boys and their
fathers were away from home.

It was no easy task to fell the trees and build such a cabin as was
needed for the united families, but the men and the boys went to work
with a will, and inside of several weeks the cabin was finished in the
rough. It was of logs and was about fifteen feet deep by thirty feet
long. The interior was divided into a living room fifteen feet square,
and opening off of this were two bedrooms of half that size. The living
room boasted of a door front and back and a window, and there was also
a window in each of the sleeping apartments.

No furniture of large size had been brought to this settlement, and
it was consequently necessary to furnish the living room with a table
built of a rough slab and two benches of the wooden-horse variety,
commonly called puncheons. The floor was likewise a puncheon floor,
that, is, made of the halves of a split log, the flat side smoothed
off. In the bedchambers a long low frame was built, running parallel
with the inner wall, and on these the beds were placed, foot to foot,
two in each room.

The chimney of the cabin was rather a large affair, built of rough
stone and such mortar as the settlers could make themselves. It was on
the side of the living room, directly between the two doors opening
into the bedrooms. Above the open fireplace was a shelf and several
hooks for cooking utensils, and in the fireplace itself were several
chains and hooks upon which to hang pots and other things. It may be
added that the settlers had brought with them half a dozen knives and
an equal number of spoons, cups, and plates. Forks were hardly known
in those days, and many of the old pioneers preferred to cut their food
with their hunting knives.

After the woodwork of the cabin was finished, the chinks were carefully
plastered with a clayey mud which soon hardened in the hot weather and
sunshine. In the meantime the women folks set to work to place the
interior in order with such means as were at hand. Not many things had
been brought along, and of these a number were still missing because
of the Indian raid, and at the proper time Mrs. Parsons and the girls
would have all they could do to spin, weave, or knit towels, bed-linen,
and clothing.

The hard work brought with it one blessing. It took the minds of the
workers from their sorrow, and had it not been for that one dark cloud
all of the party would have been very happy.

“It’s an ideal spot for a home,” said Ezra Winship more than once. “I
doubt if a better can be found anywhere.”

“I thought the soil amazingly rich,” answered Peter Parsons, “and the
things that have been planted prove it. Everything is growing nicely.”

In those days a man could live only by what he planted and by what he
hunted and fished, and, although no wheat or corn was sown that season
by the Winships and the Parsons, a small tract of land was cleared and
here the precious seeds of numerous kinds of vegetables were planted,
peas, beans, onions, carrots, parsnips, turnips, as well as squashes,
pumpkins, and the like, and some cuttings of vines which had been
brought along.

One day a week was spent in hunting and fishing, the two boys going out
one week and the two men folks the next.

“I saw the track of a number of deer this morning,” said Harry to Joe,
on a Friday before the Saturday on which the pair were to go out and
try their luck. “I wish we could spot some of ’em to-morrow.”

“Where did you see them, Harry?” questioned Joe with interest, for he
was as anxious to add some venison to the home larder as was his chum.

“Up that little side stream, near the fallen walnut. I was up there
after some sassafras and birch, and I counted at least six tracks
leading from the turn of the brook.”

“We ought to go down early and try our luck with them.”

“Just what I was thinking. We ought to get on the ground before sun-up.”

The boys spoke to their parents about going away early and, receiving
consent, set to work that evening at cleaning and oiling up the two
rifles to be taken along, and also arranging their fishing lines, for
they did not intend to rely upon hunting entirely to fill the household
larder.

It was not yet four o’clock when Joe pinched Harry’s arm and awoke him.
Silently, so as not to awaken the other sleepers, the boys slipped into
their clothing and went into the living room.

Here Mrs. Parsons had left a cold breakfast for them, and this they
swallowed with all speed. Then, with a drink of water to wash down the
food, they took up their weapons and their lines and sallied forth in
the early dawn.

The grass was heavy with dew and the early morning birds were just
beginning to pipe up when they passed out of sight of the cabin and
along the tiny brook Harry had mentioned. They walked with caution and
when they spoke it was in a whisper.

“The wind is just right,” said Harry. “If it was blowing the other way
they’d spot us before we so much as caught a sight of ’em.”

As they drew closer to the spot where Harry had seen the tracks they
moved with increased caution and finally threw themselves down in the
grass and wormed along behind some low bushes and rocks.

When Harry had gained a position he considered just right he halted
and motioned for Joe to do the same. Each examined his rifle to make
certain it was ready for use, and then each set his gaze on a spot
which Harry indicated with his finger to his chum.

A half-hour went by, and there was no sight of a deer or anything else
coming down to the brook. But these young pioneers had learned the
value of patience in hunting, and each remained in his position without
a word of complaint.

Ten minutes more and Joe saw something moving in the bushes just
above the spot his chum had pointed out. It was a beautiful buck with
graceful antlers and a skin that shone finely in the early dawn.

Slowly the buck came down to the water’s edge, raising his head every
few steps, and sniffing the air suspiciously. Behind him came six deer,
all of fair size and all equally timid.

As the game came closer the boys’ hearts began to thump madly within
their bosoms. Never had they seen such a fine collection of deer, and
never had they had a better chance to bring down the game.

“Which will you take?” whispered Joe, when he could remain silent no
longer.

“I’d like to try for the buck, but----” Harry hesitated.

“We’ll have to let him go, Harry. His meat would be as tough as
leather. Take the one next to him, and I’ll take one further back.”

So it was agreed, and resting their long rifles on the rocks in front
of them the two young pioneers took careful aim at the game.

“Ready, Harry?”

“Yes.”

Crack! crack! the two rifles spoke almost as one piece, and as the echo
arose on the air two of the deer were seen to leap and shiver, and then
pitch over on their sides.

“Hurrah! we’ve got ’em both!” shouted Joe, and sprang to his feet.

“Let’s try for another,” answered Harry, and pulling out an old pistol
he had brought along he aimed it at the big buck and fired.

His aim was only partly true, and the buck was struck a glancing blow
in the left foreleg. He slipped down on his knees, but soon arose
again. In the meantime the unshot deer fled to the forest with a speed
that can better be imagined than described.

While Harry was shooting at the buck Joe had started to reload his
rifle. Harry dropped his empty pistol and pulled out his hunting knife,
thinking to rush in and cut the buck’s throat.

“Look out for him, or he’ll gore you!” yelled Joe, and his warning
came none too soon, for just then the buck leaped forward and rushed
at Harry with lowered antlers. The young pioneer knew he could not
withstand such a shock and leaped to one side.

“He has got lots of fight in him yet, even if he is clipped,” panted
Harry, rushing to the top of some rocks. “Look out for him, Joe!”

“I mean to look out,” was the answer, as Joe continued to load with all
possible speed.

The retreat of Harry caused the wounded buck to pause for an instant.
But it was only for an instant; then his gaze turned to Joe, and with a
snort of rage he hopped rather than leaped forward, as if to prod Joe
to death on the spot.




CHAPTER XIII

PERILS OF THE YOUNG HUNTERS


It was a moment of extreme peril, and none could have realized it
better than did these two young pioneers. They had often heard of the
rage of a wounded buck, and had heard of how one old friend of Harry’s
family had once been gored to death in scarcely more time than it takes
to tell it.

“Run, Joe, run!” came from Harry. “Don’t let him strike you!”

For one instant Joe had been of a mind to stand his ground and finish
the loading of his gun. But now he saw that there would not be time
in which to prime the weapon, and he made a rush behind some of the
nearest bushes.

The buck came on and struck the bushes with terrific force, almost
reaching the youth in spite of the thickness of the growth. Joe leaped
further back and then ran for the rocks upon which Harry was standing.

“He means business, doesn’t he?” the young pioneer gasped.

“Yes, and you want to look out for his prongs,” answered Harry.

He, too, had been trying to reload his gun, but had not as yet been
able to attend to the priming.

Again the buck turned, and, having disentangled himself from the
bushes, rushed toward the rocks.

“Jump!” called Joe, and made a leap to the ground in the rear.

Instead of doing as his chum had done, Harry made a leap for a nearby
tree and caught hold of one of the bottom branches. His weight,
however, proved to be too much for the branch, and it sagged down to
within four feet of the ground.

Once on the rocks the buck stared at first one boy and then the other,
as if trying to decide which he should attack first. Then he saw Harry
clutching the branch, and made a leap straight in that direction.

But Harry was not to be caught thus easily, and sliding around he faced
the buck, still holding on to the limb with both hands.

Again there was a rush, and this time, instead of striking the bushes,
the animal came pell-mell into the end of the tree branch. There was a
quiver and a crash, and the branch snapped into pieces, hurling Harry
backward almost against the tree trunk.

The buck could easily have followed Harry to the trunk, and have there
finished him, but for one reason, and that was, when the crash came a
part of the tree limb caught the animal directly in the mouth. This is
a sensitive part, even in an old buck of the deer tribe, and the animal
lost no time in pulling back to clear himself of this new difficulty.

But the buck still had his eye on Harry, and rushing around the broken
tree branch he prepared for another plunge forward.

As soon as the animal turned from him to Harry, Joe lost no time in
finishing the loading of his gun. With the weapon now properly primed
he leaped around to a position where he could get a good shot at the
buck.

Again the animal came forward, straight for Harry, who, in trying to
leap to the opposite side of the tree, had slipped and fallen.

Crack! It was Joe’s rifle that spoke up, and this time the boy’s aim
was all that could be desired. The buck received the ball straight
in the heart and leaped high in the air. Down he came with a crash,
directly at Harry’s side and lay still, stone-dead.

As the buck fell Harry tried to roll out of the way, thinking there
might still be some life left in the animal. Joe drew his hunting knife
and leaped in.

“Is he--he dead?” panted Harry.

“Yes,” was Joe’s slow answer. “That shot fixed him.”

For fully half a minute both youths stood by the side of the fallen
game, surveying the animal with interest. Harry was trembling slightly,
and Joe was several shades paler than his usual color.

“He’s a big one, isn’t he?” said Joe at length.

“Yes, Joe, and I reckon we both had a close shave, eh?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want another such fight, do you?”

“Not at quite such close quarters,” came from Joe. He bent lower. “I
must have taken him right through the heart.”

“Three deer! What will the folks say to that?”

“I reckon they’ll think it is something wonderful.”

“Well, it is wonderful for boys. I never heard of it being done before.
But don’t let us brag.”

“That’s right, I hate bragging. But, say, let us get home with the meat
at once. Then, if we want to, we can go fishing this afternoon.”

This plan was agreed on, and then came the question of how best to
get the deer home. All told, there were several hundreds of pounds of
venison in the pile, no light load to be dragged a distance of over a
mile.

“Let us each take a deer on a drag at first,” said Joe. “We can come
back for the buck later.”

“But some wild beast may make way with the buck. We don’t want to lose
him after all the trouble we had in bringing him down.”

“Let us haul him up into the tree.”

They looked around, and close at hand found a convenient limb, over
which they threw a bit of rope one of the boys had brought along. Soon
the buck was tied to the rope and hoisted a distance of eight feet from
the grass.

When this task was finished, the boys cut two drags, and on the top
of each fixed one of the deer. Then both started for the cabin, each
dragging his load behind him.

The way was rough and long before the cabin came into view, the boys
were more than tired of hauling the tree limbs with their dead weights
along. But the thought of how the good news of the hunt would be
received by their folks kept them up, and at last they came in sight of
the home in the little clearing, and raised a shout which was at once
answered by Ezra Winship, who came from the kitchen, gun in hand.

“Well, by the great pewter candlestick!” cried Mr. Winship. “Is it
possible! Two deer, and each as plump as one would wish. You’ve
certainly had luck, boys.”

The shouting now brought Mr. Parsons from a neighboring bit of brush,
and Mrs. Parsons and the girls from the house, and all gazed in
admiration at the game.

“How many shots for each?” questioned Mr. Parsons.

“Only one for each,” answered Harry proudly. “Joe brought down that
one, and I brought down this.”

“You’ve done well, lads, mighty well--in fact, no old hunters could do
better.” And Peter Parsons’ face showed his pleasure.

“How many deer were there?” asked Ezra Winship.

“Six, and a magnificent old buck,” answered Joe.

“Oh, why didn’t you try for the buck?” cried Harmony. “I’d like to have
a pair of prongs for your coats and hats to hang on.”

“The deer meat is best,” said Mrs. Parsons. “’Tis likely to be very
sweet and tender.”

“Yes, but we got the old buck after all,” said Joe, and he could
scarcely disguise the tone of triumph in his voice.

“Got the buck?” came from the lad’s father and several of the others.

“Yes,” said Harry. “Joe shot him right through the heart.”

“But not until Harry had wounded him in the leg with a pistol shot,”
came quickly from Joe.

And then the two boys had to tell the particulars of the brief hunt.
But they did not tell how closely they had been in danger of death,
being afraid that if they told all they might be kept from going on
another hunt in the future.

“Boys, you are regular hunters and no mistake,” said Peter Parsons
warmly. “Three at once! Winship, it is wonderful!”

“You are right,” answered Ezra Winship. “These deer are of good size,
and from what they say of the buck he must have been in his prime.”

“Then we’ll have the hat and coat rack after all,” said Harmony
brightly.

“And three good rugs in addition,” came from Cora.

Neither Mr. Parsons nor Mr. Winship advised letting the buck hang in
the tree too long, and both volunteered to go after the game. But the
boys preferred to go after it themselves, after they had had a short
rest. While they were resting, Mrs. Parsons treated them to some fresh
sugared corn cookies she had just made, while Cora brought them each a
glass of nice birch beer of their own make. In those days beer made of
birch, spruce, and various roots was a common drink.

Leaving their fathers to dress and cut up the venison brought in, Joe
and Harry set out on the return to the hunting ground. Neither expected
to see any more game that day, yet each had loaded his gun, and Harry
his pistol in addition, and the weapons were carried in such a fashion
that they could be brought into use at short notice if required.

“If we go fishing this afternoon, I wonder if we’ll have such luck
as we had hunting,” remarked Harry, as they strode forward in the
direction of the brook.

“You mustn’t expect too much good luck all at once,” responded his chum
with a short laugh. “Besides, with so much meat we won’t want so much
fish.”

“I’ll never expect to bring down a larger buck, shall you?”

“Hardly. Yet we are both young, and there is no telling what luck we’ll
have before we die.”

“Tell you what,” went on Harry, after a pause. “What fine times we
could have if only--if only my sister and your mother were with us.”
His voice sank low as he finished.

“Yes, Harry, whenever I think of them it takes the fun right out of
everything,” answered Joe; and then both boys heaved a long sigh.

“If we only knew where to look for them.”

“That’s it. But father is going on a hunt soon, with your father and
old Pep Frost and some others. Let us hope they’ll get news of some
kind.”

“Speaking of Pep Frost puts me in mind of some news he brought in
yesterday. He says that things are getting hot down Boston way between
the citizens and King George’s officials, and almost everybody is
speaking of war. I wonder if it will really come to that?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised. What is the use of our paying taxes if we
aren’t to get anything for doing it? I think we ought to be allowed to
run this country as we please.”

“If war comes it may make more trouble out here. The French and the
Indians who used to train with them wouldn’t like anything better than
to give us a rub.”

“The French won’t do much--they are quite friendly now. But it might be
an excuse for another Indian uprising. They hate it like poison to see
us occupying these lands.”

“Colonel Boone says he is going to stick here no matter what comes. And
I reckon he’ll keep his word.”

“Well, we’ll all stand by him. There is nothing else to do. We are too
far away from any other fort to look for aid from such a quarter. We’d
have to fight to a finish.”

So talking, the two boys hurried on through the woods and along the
brook where the deer had first been sighted. The sun was now fairly
high in the heavens, and the day promised to be an unusually warm one.

At last they reached the tree from which the carcass of the big buck
had been suspended. Both stared up into the branches in wide-eyed
amazement.

The carcass of the buck was gone.




CHAPTER XIV

ON THE TRAIL OF A THIEF


“The buck is gone!”

It was Joe who gasped out the words, after several seconds of painful
silence.

“Yes, but to where?” came from Harry. “That meat didn’t walk off by
itself.”

“Perhaps some wild animal carted it away, Harry.”

“If so, it was a pretty big animal, and we had best look out for our
own hides, Joe.”

Both looked around the spot, and up the brook, but neither man nor
beast was in sight.

As Joe continued to look around the vicinity Harry dropped on his hands
and knees and examined the damp ground under the tree.

“What do you see?” called out Joe.

“Here are plenty of footprints,” was the slow reply. “But perhaps they
are only our own.”

Joe came closer, and some of the footprints were followed out of the
tangle in the shade. Then Joe uttered a cry.

“Harry, we didn’t come in this direction, and those marks are neither
yours nor mine.”

“You are right. See, they lead along behind these bushes and then
directly into the brook.”

“Yes, and they move up the brook, too!”

“It was a two-legged thief who ran away with our game!”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think it was an Indian or a white man?”

“I really can’t say. I haven’t seen an Indian here since that fellow
called Yellow Blanket called on Colonel Boone. And who of the settlers
around here would be mean enough to take our game is more than I can
surmise. But I know one thing.”

“And that is----”

“I’m going after the chap in double-quick order.”

“I am with you. We are two to one and well armed. I suppose he didn’t
think we would come back so soon.”

“More than likely.”

Just above the spot where the deer had been shot, the brook widened
out and became more or less of a shallow stream, with here and there a
dirt instead of a stone bottom. Bending low they could, by the aid of
the strong sunlight, occasionally catch sight of a footprint where the
thief had missed his footing from one stone to the next.

“He would have kept to the stones entirely, and thus cut off his
trail,” said Joe; “but his load was almost too much for him. And by
that same token, I imagine he won’t go very far before he sits down to
rest.”

“If that is so, we may be close to him already. Perhaps we had best
keep quiet, and keep our eyes wide open.”

After that but little was said, and each youth kept his ears on the
alert. The brook now ran upward, and consisted of a series of tiny
waterfalls. Just ahead were a series of rocks.

As they approached the rocks, Joe, who was in advance, held up his hand
as a warning. Then he crawled forward as noiselessly as a ghost, and
looked over the top of the rocks.

On a fallen tree he saw an Indian resting, with the carcass of the buck
beside him. The warrior was Yellow Blanket, the red man who had called
on Daniel Boone at the fort about a week before, bringing a message for
Red Feather, which, however, had not, by Boone’s order, been delivered.

Yellow Blanket was alone, and was evidently getting ready to continue
his journey. He had been carrying the buck across his shoulders, and
his bow and arrows were slung over his breast so as not to interfere
with his load.

By signs Joe gave Harry to understand that both should cover the red
man with their guns, and this was done without delay. The two young
pioneers leaped on the rocks and confronted the Indian.

Yellow Blanket had been in a contemplative mood, not dreaming that he
would be thus quickly followed up. He started in amazement, and leaped
to his feet.

“Raise your hands!” called out Joe, as one hand of the enemy went
toward the tomahawk at his belt. “Raise ’em or I’ll fire!”

“And so will I fire!” added Harry.

The Indian understood very little English, but the truth of the
situation was plain to him, and letting go of the tomahawk he spread
out his arms wide, as if to show a friendly spirit. Then the youths
came closer, each keeping the Indian still covered.

“So you thought you would run off with our meat, eh?” questioned Joe
sharply.

The Indian looked blankly at them and shrugged his shoulders.

“Yellow Blanket cannot speak the tongue of the paleface,” he said in
his own language.

“This is our game,” went on Joe, and still keeping his gun leveled
with one hand, he took the other and pointed first at the dead buck and
then at himself and Harry.

Again the Indian shrugged his shoulders, and then shook his head
slowly. At last he pointed to a tree, and then at himself, and then at
Joe and Harry, and shook his head.

“He means to say he found it in a tree, and didn’t know it belonged to
us,” said Harry. “Well, that’s the truth, I suppose, but it wasn’t his
game, even so.”

“What shall we do with the fellow, Harry? We can’t shoot him down in
cold blood, and it wouldn’t do much good to march him back to the fort.”

“Well, take his arrows from him, and march him off about his business,
Joe. That’s the best I can think of.”

While Joe kept the Indian covered with his gun Harry strode forward and
made the fellow give up eight fine arrows he carried. The bow he let
the red man retain, since it would be useless until he could provide
more arrows for it.

To show that they did not take the arrows for their own use, Harry
broke the shafts over his knee. This caused the Indian to scowl deeply,
but he said nothing.

“Now march, and don’t you turn around to look back,” said Joe, and he
pointed up the brook beyond the rapids. Yellow Blanket understood, and
with downcast countenance walked off.

They watched him out of sight, and then, without loss of time, picked
up the buck between them and hurried towards home, but not by the route
they had previously traveled.

“That Indian may take it into his head to come back on the sly,” said
Joe. “We don’t want to run the risk of having our heads split open by
his tomahawk.”

“We can keep an eye to the rear and on both sides,” answered his chum,
and this was done, but Yellow Blanket failed to reappear, probably
thinking that one Indian with only a tomahawk was no match for two
strong-looking youths with guns and hunting knives.

When the boys got back and told of the adventure with the Indian, both
Mr. Winship and Mr. Parsons said it would not be advisable for them to
go out fishing that afternoon.

“There may be more Indians in the neighborhood,” said Ezra Winship.
“And if there are, it won’t do for you to run unnecessary risks.”

It was thought best to report the occurrence to Colonel Boone, and Joe
walked over to the fort for that purpose.

In those days, the fort at Boonesborough was a rude but strong one. It
was about two hundred and sixty feet in length by about one hundred
and fifty feet in width, with one corner resting on the bank of the
river. It had a strong stockade of pointed timbers planted deeply
into the ground, and a similar stockade ran around most of the cabins
occupied by those who had first come westward with Daniel Boone, so
that they were in close communion with the fort proper. Inside of the
main stockade were several log cabins, and a shelter for ammunition and
another for garrison stores.

Joe found Daniel Boone at work writing a letter to one of the superior
officers of the land company which he represented, telling of what had
recently happened at the settlement, and what he thought the Indians
would do next.

“So Yellow Blanket is still sneaking around this vicinity,” said the
great hunter, on hearing the youth’s tale. “I am glad that you and
young Parsons sent him about his business.”

“Do you think he will harm us further?” asked the young pioneer.

“It is not likely, Winship. Yellow Blanket is a cur, nothing more. If
he strikes at all it will be in the dark. I will send out Pep Frost and
Raystock to see if they cannot capture him. A month of captivity will
make him glad enough to shake the dust of this vicinity from his feet.”

Pep Frost, who was close at hand, was called in. Joe had not seen this
old hunter for some time, and the two were glad to meet again.

“What! You an’ Harry got two deer an’ an old buck one trip?” he
ejaculated. “By hemlock! but it won’t be no ust fer us old fellows to
go out no more; eh, colonel?”

“It’s the air that is doing it,” returned Daniel Boone with a laugh.
“Such purity can’t help but make a good shot and a good trailer out of
most anybody.”

“I’ll bring in Yellow Blanket ef I kin,” said Pep Frost. “But he’s a
cur, as the colonel says, an’ more’n likely he’s lit out long ago fer
his wigwam.”

When Joe returned home he found Harry hard at work dressing the deer
skins, and he went to work to fix up the head and antlers of the buck,
so that they might be hung up in the living room for a coat and hat
rack, as Harmony had suggested.

As mentioned before, it had been a hot day, and when the sun went down
it was hardly any cooler. There was scarcely a breath of air stirring,
and, as a consequence, scarcely anybody felt like retiring to the
rather stuffy bedchambers of the log cabin until sleep could no longer
be put off.

As tired as he was, Harry could not sleep until long after he had gone
to bed. He lay with Joe, and he rather envied his chum, who slept
peacefully. When at last Harry did go to sleep he dreamed of shooting
deer, and of being gored by the big buck, and about an hour later he
awoke with a start and dripping with perspiration.

“Oh, what a dream!” he murmured to himself, and sat bolt upright, he
could not tell why.

Joe still slept, and so did the youth’s father and Ezra Winship, who
occupied the second bed in the room. From outside the faint rays of the
old moon cast a dim light into the room.

Feeling thirsty, Harry resolved to go out to the living room for a
drink. Not to awaken the others, he crawled from the bed as silently as
possible, and tiptoed his way to the other part of the cabin.

The water in the crock was warm and stale, and having tasted of it
Harry spit it out into the fireplace.

“I’ll go out to the spring and get a fresh drink. The air will do me
good,” he reasoned, and tiptoeing his way back to the bedchamber he
slipped on his outer garments for that purpose.

As he made his way to the living room door he saw a shadow glide over
the floor, as if something had come in between the rays of the moon and
the window close at hand. He looked up, but on the instant the shadow
was gone.

Harry stopped short and caught his breath. Was he half asleep still, or
had somebody really passed the window? Several times he asked himself
that question, but could frame no satisfactory answer.

“I’ll soon make sure,” he murmured, and reached for his gun, which at
night was laid on a shelf, loaded and primed for immediate use.

As he caught up the weapon a scraping sound from outside reached his
ear. Then came a flare of light through a crack between the cabin logs,
and like a flash he realized the truth.

Some enemy was outside, and was on the point of setting the cabin on
fire.




CHAPTER XV

FIGHTING THE FLAMES


“Stop, you rascal, stop!”

Such was Harry’s exclamation as he saw the flare of fire and realized
what the person outside of the log cabin was bent upon doing.

He knew that the cabin was dry from the hot sun of the day before, and
that the timber, once started, would burn like tinder. Moreover, he
knew that to obtain sufficient water to put out such a conflagration
would be difficult.

Without stopping to think of possible peril, he leaped for the door and
threw it open.

In the dim moonlight he made out the form of a man running across the
dooryard to the nearest patch of timber.

“Stop!” he called loudly. “Stop, or I will fire on you!”

Instead of heeding the command the fellow ran faster than ever.

Up came Harry’s gun, and, taking a low aim at the retreating form, he
fired. A yell of pain followed, and he saw the man stagger and fall
headlong.

By this time the cabin was in an uproar, and Ezra Winship and Peter
Parsons came rushing from the bedroom, followed by Joe, and all leaped
for their guns, thinking that an attack by the Indians had been begun.
A moment later the girls and Mrs. Parsons followed, wrapped in such
garments as had been handy.

“Harry, who are you firing at?” demanded the youth’s father.

“Some rascal who set the cabin on fire,” was the answer. “Quick, get
some water, or the place will be burnt down!”

The others now saw the fire, which was burning fiercely in a heap
of pine brush stacked against the side of the cabin. Rushing for a
pitchfork, Ezra Winship threw the burning brush away from the building.

While this was being done Mr. Parsons and Joe hurried for buckets
of water from the spring. They had to work lively, for the flames
were creeping up the whole side of the log cabin toward the highly
inflammable roof.

“The house will be burnt down!” screamed Cora, while Harmony wrung her
hands in mute despair.

Mrs. Parsons was more practical, and, catching up a blanket, she
saturated it in a pail of water, and then began to beat out some of the
flames with this.

A few minutes of energetic work and the danger was over. But the smoke
filled the cabin, and all the windows and the two doors had to be
opened wide to clear the interior.

While this was being done, Harry, having slipped on some of his
clothes, ran forward to where the unknown had fallen. He was followed
by his father.

As they neared the spot they saw that the intruder was limping away,
casting anxious glances backward as he did so.

“Come back here!” cried Harry, raising his gun once more. “Come back
here, or I’ll give you another shot.”

Upon hearing this threat the unknown hesitated for an instant. Then he
dove into the bushes.

But Harry and Peter Parsons were too quick for the evildoer, and in a
moment more they were beside him, and each had a gun pointed at the
fellow’s head.

“Yellow Blanket!” exclaimed the young pioneer. “I suspected as much.”

“Is this the redskin who tried to rob you of the buck?” questioned Mr.
Parsons.

“The same, father. He got mad because Joe and I stopped him, and
because we took his arrows away and broke them up. He was going to
revenge himself by burning down our cabin.”

At these words Yellow Blanket scowled, but to them he made no reply.
Indeed, having been caught red-handed, as the saying is, it was
impossible for him to make any defense.

The Indian had been wounded in the right thigh, and was undoubtedly
suffering much pain. Regardless of this, however, he was made to march
back to the cabin and a rope was brought forth.

“We ought to shoot him on the spot, and have done with the viper,” said
Ezra Winship. “But we’ll be a little more merciful and merely make him
a prisoner. In the morning we can lay the case before Colonel Boone.”

The shot and the fire had aroused a number of the neighbors, and soon
several came to the place to learn the trouble. When they heard of
Yellow Blanket’s actions they were thoroughly enraged, and a number
wanted to kill the Indian immediately, but Ezra Winship told them of
what he had decided to do, and there the matter rested.

Daniel Boone came over himself at dawn, having just learned of the
affair.

“It was a dastardly piece of business,” said the great hunter. “And I
must say I didn’t think it of Yellow Blanket. He is a cur, but not so
cowardly as I imagined. We will march him over to the fort and see what
he has to say for himself.”

Colonel Boone’s orders were carried out, and the Indian was subjected
to a rigid examination, lasting fully an hour.

At first Yellow Blanket would not talk, but when he was given to
understand that he might suffer death for his crime he shrank back with
fear.

Then he begged Boone to spare him, and intimated that he could tell a
great deal concerning the raid on the late expedition to Boonesborough
if the great hunter would promise him his life and his liberty.

At first Daniel Boone was not inclined to listen to the rascal, but
he remembered how anxious Ezra Winship was concerning the whereabouts
of Mrs. Winship, and how much the Parsons were worried over the loss
of Clara Parsons, and he at last consented to be easy on the Indian
provided he would tell the plain truth.

“And remember,” he said, “I shall not let you go until I have proved
your words.”

Yellow Blanket then went into many details of the late raid. He said
that the news of the expedition had been brought in by Long Knife, and
that it was this chief who induced Red Feather to join in an attack
on the whites. Long Knife was particularly anxious to carry off some
pretty white maiden whom he might make his squaw. After the fight he
had tried to carry off Harmony Winship, but she had been rescued, and
Long Knife had been seriously wounded by some white person, the Indian
had supposed was Paul Broker, but who, later on, proved to be Joe
Winship, as already related.

“And what has become of Mrs. Winship and Clara Parsons?” questioned
Daniel Boone. “And of the other captives?”

“They are at the lodges of Long Knife, Leaping Waters, and Elk Head,”
answered Yellow Blanket. “But remember, the great hunter has promised
not to tell anybody that Yellow Blanket revealed this,” he added.

“Where are those lodges located?” went on Boone.

At this Yellow Blanket described the spot as best he could. It was a
place entirely new to Colonel Boone, and one not yet visited by any of
the settlers at Boonesborough.

“How long do they expect to stay at the lodges?” was Boone’s next
question.

Yellow Blanket could not answer definitely, but said he supposed they
would remain there during the winter, at least.

After the examination, the news the Indian had imparted was told to
Ezra Winship and Peter Parsons.

“If you wish you may head an expedition against the Indians,” said
Daniel Boone. “I would go myself, but at present that is impossible.
More settlers are coming in every day, as you can see, and Colonel
Henderson is anxious to open a regular land office and form a permanent
local government.”

What Boone said about new settlers was true. Nearly every day some
pioneers came straggling in, and once or twice a month a body of six or
eight families would appear. These settlers located at various points,
but all looked to the fort at Boonesborough for aid in time of peril.
A government was formed, which, though crude, succeeded in preserving
some sort of law and order. Various officers were elected, but the
majority of the settlers looked to Boone as their most reliable leader,
especially when dealing with the ever-present Indian question.

From Yellow Blanket it was learned that the Indians under Long Knife
and the other chiefs now amounted to perhaps a hundred all told. Of
these less than thirty were full-fledged warriors, the balance being
women, children, and old men incapable of fighting.

“Fifteen or twenty good shots ought to be able to whip them, and whip
them well,” said Ezra Winship to Peter Parsons.

“I believe you,” answered Mr. Parsons. “And if we can get together that
many pioneers I am willing to go out with you and see if we cannot
rescue my daughter and your wife, and also the other captives.”

It was no easy matter to find so many good shots willing to enlist for
the venture. Those who had members of their families missing were eager
enough, but others held back, saying that they must remain at home
to protect their own folks and provide food for the coming fall and
winter. Many had not yet built their cabins, having lived during the
summer under tents, and these felt that their first duty was to provide
suitable shelters against the snow and cold weather that was coming.

“We should have started sooner, when the feeling against the redskins
was more bitter,” said Peter Parsons. “Now the folks have grown
accustomed to what has been, and it doesn’t look so cruel to them.”

But he and Ezra Winship persisted, and at last they gathered together
seventeen men who were willing to undertake the trip. Of this number,
four were men who had lost various members of their families by death
during the raid, five, including Mr. Winship and Mr. Parsons, wanted to
find, if possible, relatives who were lost, and the others went merely
from a sense of duty, or for the excitement.

“We’ll teach ’em a lesson they won’t forgit in a hurry,” said old Pep
Frost, who was of the number. “We’ll come down on ’em like a reg’lar
hurricane, hear me!” The prospect just suited this man, and he went
around whistling gayly as though getting ready for a pleasure outing.

Joe and Harry had both begged hard for permission to go along, but
their fathers would not listen to their pleadings.

“I know you are brave enough to go, Joe,” said Mr. Winship. “But I want
you to remain behind and look out for Cora and Harmony.”

“And you, Harry, must look after your mother,” put in Peter Parsons.
“And, besides, both you boys want to prepare all the food you can for
the long winter that will soon be on us. If by some cause we do not
get back as soon as expected, we don’t want anybody here to starve to
death.”

“Ah, husband, if thee will take good care of thy body we will take
care of ours,” answered Mrs. Parsons. “And the same to thee, friend
Winship.”

“We’ll try to come back safe and sound,” answered Mr. Parsons. “And,
God willing, we will bring back the lost ones with us.”

The last night together in the log cabin was a sober one. Mrs. Parsons,
a truly good woman, insisted on holding a Quaker meeting, and she and
her husband prayed most earnestly for all present, that they might pass
through the coming months unharmed, and might at last come together
again with the lost ones with them.

The expedition started at sunrise. Joe and Harry saw them a mile or
more on the way. Then came a final handshake, and the expedition
continued on its way to the northwestward, while the two young pioneers
turned back toward the log cabin, never dreaming of all that was to
happen ere they should see their fathers again.




CHAPTER XVI

THE FALL OF A HICKORY TREE


After the departure of Ezra Winship and Peter Parsons, affairs at the
log cabin took on a more sober look than ever. Although but little
was said on the subject all felt that the expedition that had been
undertaken was a most serious one. Should the pioneers be led into
ambush by the Indians it might be that not one of them would come back
to tell the tale.

But with so much work to be done, the boys had no time for idle
speculation. They felt the responsibility that had been thrust upon
them, and they determined to do their duty to the best of their ability.

The first work at hand was to gather in what remained of the somewhat
scanty summer harvest. This was comparatively easy work, and the young
pioneers were at it early and late.

During those days they were not without alarms, and on two occasions
left the field to join the others at the fort. But one alarm was
entirely false, and the other made by two drunken red men who were
easily subdued, so there was no serious trouble.

After the last of the vegetables had been brought in and stored away,
and the pease and beans dried, the boys turned their attention to
firewood, and day after day found them at the edge of the clearing,
hewing down the trees which were to keep them warm during the winter,
and were also to help enlarge the fields which in the future were to
produce the best of garden truck, as well as corn and rye.

Each boy was skillful with his ax, and they often wagered between
themselves as to which could bring down a tree first. Sometimes the
girls or Mrs. Parsons would come out to watch them for a brief spell,
but usually these persons had all they could do in and around the
cabin, where they were constantly spinning and weaving, knitting and
sewing, on the various garments necessary for the approaching winter.

One day, when the boys were hard at work cutting down two tall hickory
trees, a messenger rode into Boonesborough with news of the expedition
that had gone forth. At once the lads dropped their axes and ran after
the man to learn what he might have to tell.

“We have not seen the regular body of Indians yet,” said the
messenger. “But we met three redskins on a river about a hundred miles
west of here. Two of ’em were shot down in the fight, and the third
man captured. He didn’t want to talk at first, but later on he thought
better of it, and promised to lead us to Long Knife’s hang-out.”

The messenger had come in to have a wound in the shoulder attended to,
and to obtain two more rifles and some special ammunition. He spent two
days at Boonesborough, and during that time Joe and Harry learned from
him that Mr. Winship and Mr. Parsons were as well as ever, and that
they had great hopes of the ultimate success of the march against the
enemy.

“They are moving rather slowly,” said Joe. “Do you know what I am
inclined to think? That neither father nor the others want to attack
the Indians until they have gone into winter quarters.”

“Well, if they do that, it’s more than likely they will catch the
redskins off their guard,” answered Harry. “As a general thing an
Indian don’t care to fight in the winter.”

It was not until the day following that the two young pioneers went to
work to finish cutting down the two hickory trees. Each was anxious to
have his tree fall first, and each worked away with vigor, making the
broad chips fall in all directions.

“My tree is quivering!” cried Joe presently. “She’ll be down in another
five minutes, and I know it!”

“Mine is coming too!” returned Harry, and worked away with renewed
energy. Although they would not have admitted it, each youth was highly
excited over the prospect of winning the novel race.

Harmony had come to the spring to get a bucket of water, and now,
seeing the tops of the two tall trees quivering, she called Cora and
Mrs. Parsons to come out and see the sight.

“They are coming,” she announced. “And I believe both are coming
together.”

“I believe Harry’s is coming first,” said Cora, after a keen glance at
each shivering tree.

“Boys! boys!” called Mrs. Parsons from the doorway of the cabin. “Be
careful when they come down!”

Neither of the youths heard the warning, for each was chopping away
madly. Then of a sudden a chip flew up and hit Harry in the eye.

“Oh!” he cried. “Oh, I’m hit!”

“Where?” demanded Joe, and looked toward his chum.

At that moment each tree began to come down with a mighty crack and a
crash. Harry, holding his hand to his scratched eye, managed to leap
out of the way of danger. But Joe, looking toward the other tree, was
taken for the moment off his guard.

“Joe! Joe! jump!” screamed Harmony. “The tree is coming down on your
head!”

The young pioneer now realized his danger and tried to leap away as
bidden. But it was too late, and in an instant more he was caught by
one of the tree limbs and pinned to the earth.

All who were looking on gave cries of horror, and even Harry forgot
that one of his eyes had been scratched. He ran toward his chum with
all speed.

“Joe!” he called. “Joe, get up and out of the way before the tree turns
over on you!”

But Joe did not answer, for the reason that he was almost senseless
from the shock. Coming closer, Harry saw that one of the branches of
the hickory lay directly across his throat, pinning him down to the
ground and strangling him!

“Is he--is he dead?” came from Harmony. Her face was ghastly white.

“I--I hope not,” answered Harry. “But he will be soon if I don’t get
him free!”

Joe’s ax lay but a few steps away, and Harry caught it up without
delay. There was a grave peril there between the limbs of the hickory,
for the tree might turn over at any moment, carrying Harry down under
it, but just then Harry gave no thought to this. His one idea was to
save Joe from strangulation.

But if Harry was brave, the girls and Mrs. Parsons were equally so, and
all rushed in to offer what assistance they could. While they held the
limb as far up as possible Harry gave it a blow or two with his sharp
ax and then the branch was bent back until it snapped and broke.

“Now out of the way, all of you!” panted Harry, and caught Joe up in
his arms.

The others leaped away from the tree and Harry followed with his
burden. Then the hickory began to crack and groan, and in half a minute
more it rolled partly over into a slight hollow and lay still.

“Oh!” murmured Harmony, after the tree had stopped moving. “If--if Joe
was under there now he’d be smashed to a--a jelly!” And she covered her
face with her tier, or pinafore.

Harry had not stopped, but was on his way to the spring. Here he laid
Joe down and washed his face with cold water. But it was several
minutes ere Joe gave a gasp and sat up, staring around him.

“Oh, my neck!” were his first words, and then he added innocently:
“Did the tree fall on me?”

“That it did,” answered Mrs. Parsons, who was kneeling beside him.
“Thee can be thankful, Joseph, that thy life has been spared to thee.”

“Some--something feels as if it had--had me by the throat.”

“The tree had you by the throat,” said Harry, and then, while Mrs.
Parsons and the girls attended to Joe, Harry bathed his bruised eye.

Fortunately for both boys neither was hurt much by the double accident,
but Joe felt rather shaky when he got up on his legs.

“I reckon it was a narrow shave,” said he, and added: “Harry, it was
brave of you to jump in and help me.”

“Pooh! you would have done the same for me,” was the light answer.

“I see both the trees are down.”

“Yes, they came down exactly the same time--so Cora says.”

“Then the wager is a tie, Harry. Well, I don’t care, do you?”

“No. After this, I reckon we had best attend to business and leave
matches at tree-cutting alone.”

It was not until the next day that the boys went at the wood-cutting
once more, and they were careful to keep out of danger, and Harry was
especially careful as to where he let his chips fly when chopping.

At the end of two weeks the boys had a large pile of wood stacked
up close to the rear door of the cabin. This was made up mostly of
tree branches chopped and sawed into convenient lengths for the open
fireplace. The large tree-trunks were left where they fell, to be
cut up after the sap was partly out of them and to be hauled to the
dooryard on a sled during the winter, when the ground was covered with
snow.

As long as there was good fishing the boys spent one day a week at this
sport, and always managed to bring in a fine mess. By using the fish
Mrs. Parsons was able to economize with her salt and smoked meats,
which would give them so much more food for the long winter months.

Before long the nights became nipping cold and there was a heavy frost
on the ground in the morning. The frost opened the burs of the nuts in
the woods and the two young pioneers spent two afternoons bringing in
nuts of several varieties, which were spread out on the flooring of the
cabin loft.

During the autumn Harry had located a bee tree, and he was very anxious
to find out what amount of honey it contained.

“Let us go out to-morrow after the honey,” he said, one day.

“I’m willing,” answered Joe. “But we’ll have to be careful, or the bees
will sting us up well.”

“If you go after that honey, you had best tie some netting over your
faces,” said Harmony; and Mrs. Parsons said the same.

The tree was located nearly a mile from the cabin, and the start was
made from home just as the sun was rising. Each of the young pioneers
carried his gun, and also a torch, thick with pitch pine, and the
netting already mentioned.

For some distance their walk took them along the watercourse where
they had brought down the deer, but presently they turned to the left,
and plunged into a thicket where the trees grew tall and straight, and
where the brushwood was of small account.

Boys less accustomed to the wilderness would have become hopelessly
lost in that thicket, but Joe and Harry advanced with the utmost
confidence, for their many outings had made them thoroughly acquainted
with this bit of territory.

“Do you know, I really think the game is beginning to thin out here,”
remarked Harry, as they trudged along. “I haven’t seen even a rabbit
so far.”

“Well, that is not to be wondered at, Harry--with so many of the
settlers out after the game almost every day.”

“It would be a great pity if the game should give out altogether.”

“Oh, that won’t happen for a good many years. As the game grows more
scarce, the old hunters will drift elsewhere for shots, and that will
give the game here a chance to catch up again.”

At last they came in sight of the bee tree, standing in a little
clearing by itself. The tree was not as tall as those around it for
which they were thankful. It was hollow, and near the top flew a few
bees, basking idly in the sunshine.

“Their work for the season is over,” remarked Harry.

“It seems a pity to rob them of their store of honey,” returned Joe.
“But there is no help for it--unless we want to go without.”

“And I don’t want to do that, Joe,” came quickly from Harry, who had a
great liking for sweet things.

Putting down their guns, they brought forth the nettings, and covered
their faces and necks. Then they slipped old mittens on their hands.

“Now for the attack!” cried Joe, and brought out his flint and tinder.
He soon had a light, and with this set fire to the pine torches.

Neither of the boys had ever smoked out bees before, and they went at
it in their own way. At the bottom of the hollow tree was an opening,
and into this they thrust the lighted torches.

“Whoop! Here they come!” cried Joe, and as he spoke a swarm of bees
swept from the upper portion of the hollow. Then came the thick smoke
and more bees--a swarm much larger than they had anticipated.

“They are going to fight for their home!” cried Harry, and he was
right. Having emerged from the smoke the bees swept around and around
the tree in a circle, and then swooped downward upon the two young
pioneers.

“Oh!” came in a yell from Joe, for he was stung in the back of the
neck, where the netting failed to cover him.

“Oh!” answered Harry, stung in the left hand, through a hole in his
mitten. “Get away from me!” he added. “Shoo! shoo!”

But the bees did not want to go away, and in order to fight them off
the boys pulled their torches from the hollow tree and swung them
around their heads.

This soon made a dense smoke outside of the tree, and the bees moved
away, leaving some of the ground burnt by the fire.

“Let us leave one torch in the tree, and defend ourselves with the
other,” said Harry.

This was done, and they continued to wave the single torch around them,
which made the bees keep their distance. The smoke pouring from the top
of the tree brought forth more bees, until they felt fairly certain
that the hive within was now totally deserted.

“The tree is catching fire!” exclaimed Joe presently.

“So it is! That won’t do, Joe! Our honey will be burnt up!” groaned
Harry.

Here was a new difficulty, and, regardless of more stings, Harry leaped
toward the tree again, and pulled away the torch. In the meantime Joe
ran for some water from a stream in that vicinity. This was thrown up
into the hollow by the aid of a cup they carried, producing a denser
smoke than ever.

“Hurrah! the fire is out!” declared Harry, five minutes later. “Oh, but
wouldn’t I have been mad if the honey had been burnt up!” he said.

“That smoke has driven away the last of the bees,” announced Joe, after
a careful look around.

“Don’t be too sure, Joe. My hand burns worse than fire where I was
stung!”

“And how do you suppose my neck feels? I’ve got a lump on it as big as
a walnut. Those bees meant business, I can tell you that.”

“So would you mean business, if you were being smoked out of your home.”

They stood by the tree for quarter of an hour longer, still letting
the smoke ascend. Far overhead they saw the bees circling around and
around, but at last they flew away to the westward, in an almost solid
swarm.

“They are all gone away now, and now we had better get the tree down as
soon as possible,” said Joe.

Each had brought an ax along, and, sticking the smoking torches into
the ground close beside them, they set to work with a will. The tree,
being hollow, fell an easy prey to their blows, and soon it began to
quiver, and then came down in exactly the manner they expected.

“Down at last!” cried Harry. “Now to split it open.”

Their experience at wood-cutting stood them in good stead, and by being
careful they managed to split the tree from end to end without damaging
the honey-combs to any extent.

“Oh, what a fine haul!” came from Harry, as he saw the combs. “How much
do you think is here?”

“Seventy-five or a hundred pounds, Harry. Honey is pretty heavy stuff.”

“We’ll have a task getting it home.”

“Never mind. We got the deer home, and we’ll get this home, too.”

A few bees were now coming back, and again they had a fight, that
lasted the best part of an hour. But then the bees went off, and that
was the last they saw of them.

To get the honey home safely the boys cut a number of withes, and of
these formed a fairly good basket, weaving the affair after the manner
of some Indians they had watched at work on more than one occasion.
This basket was placed on a broad drag, and into it they put the honey.
Some honey, from the broken combs, was lost, but this could not be
helped.

“We should have brought a big kettle,” said Joe. “Next time we will be
wiser.”

“The trouble is, honey-bees are not located every day, Joe. We may not
see another for years.”

Their success at honey gathering made them light of heart, and both
whistled merrily as they hurried back to the cabin. They reached home
shortly after noon, and a shout brought Mrs. Parsons and the girls out
in a hurry to meet them.

“Oh, but this is splendid!” cried Cora. “We’ll have honey all winter!”

“’Tis truly good,” came from Mrs. Parsons. “But there is more here than
we need. We can trade some with the neighbors for other things;” and
this was, later on, done.

With the coming of cold weather rabbit hunting became extra good, and
the boys would often go out in the early morning and bring in enough
for a stew or a pot-pie. Each was now a skillful marksman, and it was
rarely that a shot was wasted. Often they would bring in some other
small animal, as well as partridge and wild turkeys.

During the autumn the inhabitants of Boonesborough organized an
expedition to search the woods around the fort for some signs of the
Indians. But, though many miles of territory were covered, no red men
were brought to view, and it was at last concluded that the Indians had
withdrawn to their winter quarters miles and miles away.

“It’s a good work done if they have,” said Harmony, when she heard the
news. “I declare I never want to see another Indian as long as I live.”

“I’m afraid, Harmony, that wish won’t come true,” said Joe.

“Oh, I know it won’t.”

“I don’t mind the Indians so much--if they would be friendly.”

“I believe as Colonel Boone does,” put in Harry. “A redskin can be
trusted just so far and no further.”

“And how far is that?” asked Cora.

“As far as you can see to watch him.”

It was a week later that the persons living in the log cabin awoke to
find the ground covered with a heavy fall of snow. The snow was still
coming down, but it let up about noon and the sun struggled through the
clouds.

“That settles outside work for a while,” said Joe. “All we can do is to
fix up that sled and haul in those big logs.”

“And go out for more deer, or for a bear,” answered Harry.

“Right you are, Harry. I wish we could get a bear--the skin would make
a good cover for one of the beds.”




CHAPTER XVII

AN ADVENTURE ON SNOWSHOES


The boys had talked bear for a long time--in fact ever since they had
heard of two other boys of the settlement bringing in a pair of cubs
they had found in a hollow tree in the forest. They had not said much
in Mrs. Parsons’ presence, but they had told the girls that they meant
to get a bear, big or little, before the winter was over.

At the fort they had fallen in with a French-English trapper named
Marquette. Marquette was a happy-go-lucky fellow who loved hunting and
fishing better than he did eating and sleeping. He was on good terms
with everybody, and all of the pioneers thought a good deal of him.

Marquette came to the log cabin one day bringing in some sweet herbs
that Mrs. Parsons desired very much, and in return was given his supper
and a place to sleep. From this meeting the boys were much interested
in the hunter and he in the boys.

“I will show you how to make snowshoes and how to wear them,” he said
one day. “Then you can go anywhere, no matter how deep the snow is.”

He was as good as his word, and when the French-Englishman went away
both Joe and Harry were provided with a substantial pair of snowshoes
and had been out on them three times and could use them fairly well.

It was about Christmas time that there came an extra heavy fall of
snow--for in those days the snow fell heavier in Kentucky than it does
to-day--why, nobody can tell, exactly. Then followed a day of thawing
and then more cold weather, so the surface of the snow was covered with
a thick crust.

“Just the thing for snowshoes!” cried Joe. “We can travel almost
anywhere and not break through.”

“Yes; and a deer will break through at every step and so will a bear,”
returned Harry. “Just the right snow for hunting.”

“If we can only find the deer and the bear.”

It took several days of hard talking on the part of both boys to bring
Mrs. Parsons and the girls over to the point of letting them go off
on a hunt which was to last at least three days. But at last the lady
of the cabin learned from Colonel Boone that there was no danger from
Indians just then, and she consented and the girls followed suit.

“But you must be sure and keep out of danger, Joe,” said Cora.

“Yes, better let the bear go than have him eat you up,” added Harmony.

“Thee must be very careful,” said Mrs. Parsons to Harry. “Remember,
with thy father gone I rely much upon thee, my son.” And she kissed him
affectionately.

Each of the young pioneers went out provided with a rifle and plenty
of ammunition, a hunting knife, and a tomahawk, and also a game bag
containing some provisions, and a tinder box with an extra flint and
steel. Their snowshoes were donned in the living room, and everybody
turned out to see them off.

They had already decided in what direction to strike out--up the
brook where they had brought down the two deer and the old buck. The
watercourse was now deeply covered with snow. They walked on the top of
this snow with care, determined not to take a tumble while in sight of
those left behind.

Quarter of an hour’s walking took them around a curve of the stream,
and looking back they saw that the homestead was no longer to be seen.

“Now we can strike out more boldly,” came from Harry, and he did so,
followed closely by Joe. But their pride soon had a fall, and one went
down directly after the other, Joe forwards and Harry backwards. There
was a great floundering, and several shrieks of laughter, and both boys
got up sadder and wiser.

“No use of talking, snowshoes are tricky things,” said Joe. “The very
moment you think you are safe you aren’t at all.”

“We have got to get used to them, Joe. Remember, Marquette has used
snowshoes for years--probably ever since he was a little boy.”

After this they walked on with more caution. The day was a perfect one,
the sun being clouded just enough to take away the dazzling glare of
the snow’s crust. On every side arose the tall, gaunt trunks of the
leafless trees, with here and there the tops of bushes and the sharp
points of windswept rocks.

As they advanced they kept their eyes open for the appearance of game.
The first thing to come to view was a partridge sitting low on a
hemlock.

“Don’t fire!” cried Joe, as Harry caught hold of his gun.

“Why not?”

“We are out for big game this trip, and if you fire you may scare away
something much better.”

“That’s true,” said Harry, and let the gun down. “But it was a fine
chance,” he grumbled.

“When a gambler plays for pounds he doesn’t mind the pennies, Harry.
Come on after those deer and that bear.”

The partridge flew away, and the landscape became as lonely as before.
At a great distance they saw some birds circle in the air, but the game
did not pass anywhere near them.

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid,” growled Harry, “we are not going to harm a
feather of you to-day. Sir Joseph is after six deer and nine bear.”

“See here, Harry, do you want the birds?” demanded Joe sharply; “if you
do, blaze away.”

“No, Joe, I was only fooling. But I believe the little beggars know we
won’t hurt them, and that is why they show themselves. If we wanted
birds or a partridge we wouldn’t see a feather of either.”

“It is tantalizing, but we--oh!”

Joe’s talking came to a sudden end. He was walking along a windswept
ridge, where the surface was covered with a thin icy snow. He had taken
a misstep and now he rolled over and over into a hollow twenty or more
feet deep. The force of the tumble broke the crust of the snow, and
with a shout for help he suddenly disappeared from view.

At first Harry was inclined to roar with laughter, for it was a comical
sight to see Joe go down, head first, dragging the snowshoes after
him. But suddenly Harry’s mirth came to an end, for Joe did not
reappear as he had expected.

“Joe! Joe!” he called out; “Joe, what’s the matter?”

No answer came back, and in increased alarm Harry commenced to climb
down into the hollow, taking care, however, not to pitch over as his
companion had done.

When he reached the bottom he caught sight of a snowshoe and began to
pull upon it. This nearly threw him over, but he continued to pull, and
presently uncovered one of Joe’s lower limbs. Then Joe turned around,
his head came up, and he uttered a cry.

“Wouw!” came from his lips. “Gosh! I thought I was going straight down
to kingdom come.”

“I thought you were buried alive,” returned Harry.

The loose snow had gone down Joe’s back and up his sleeves, and it took
a deal of shaking to free himself from a feeling that he declared was
the very opposite of comfortable. He got upon his feet with difficulty,
and then both boys wondered how they were to get to the top of the
ridge again.

“We can’t climb up here,” said Harry, in dismay. “If we do we’ll both
take a tumble.”

“Let us walk along near the foot of the ridge,” answered Joe. “This is
as good a spot to hunt as it is higher up.”

The foot of the ridge led to something of a hollow. Here was a long
stretch of high brush, the tops sticking out of the snow for several
feet.

An hour’s tramp brought them to a still deeper hollow where even the
small trees were mostly covered with snow. Here they had to walk with
extra care, for they knew the snow must be at least ten feet deep, and
neither had any desire to fall once more and go floundering to the
bottom under the crust.

“I don’t like this,” said Joe presently. “It worries me. Let us get to
higher ground.” And so they made their way back to the ridge and then
began, with extreme caution, to climb something of a hill.

Noon found them in the shelter of a clump of walnut trees. Their tramp
had made them as hungry as bears, and both willingly sat down to rest
on a fallen tree and to eat a portion of the provisions their game bag
contained.

“If we were depending on bear’s meat or venison we’d go hungry,” was
Joe’s comment, as he munched a biscuit.

“Oh, don’t worry, Joe. A half a day isn’t three days, you know.
Besides, we could have had that partridge if we had wanted it.”

“I haven’t seen the first sign of a deer or a bear yet.”

“Neither have I; but we are bound to strike luck sooner or later,”
answered Harry cheerfully.

Having rested themselves and eaten as much of the provisions as they
deemed advisable, they went on their way once more. The timber now
became thicker, and at certain points the undergrowth looked much
greener than it had further back.

“Just the spot for deer to come,” said Joe.

“Yes, and there are the signs,” answered Harry, somewhat excitedly, and
pointed to a number of bushes that had been stripped of the tenderest
of their bark.

Back of the bushes the hoofprints of at least three deer were plainly
to be seen. How old the trail was there was no means of telling, but
for the want of something better to do the two young pioneers agreed to
follow the marks, at least for a mile should the traveling permit.

They now moved forward in utter silence, each with his gun in his hand
and eyes on the alert in first one direction and then another. The
trail was by no means a straight one, and this gave them encouragement.

“It shows that the deer took their time in moving along,” said Joe.
“You can see where they stopped to nibble at every soft bush or tree
that showed itself.”

Just ahead was a heavy belt of timber not over a hundred feet in width.
Thinking that the game might be on the other side they advanced with
greater caution than ever.

“I see one!” cried Harry softly.

“And I see another,” answered Joe.

They rushed forward and were almost on top of the deer before they were
discovered by the animals. Then the deer tried to break away through
the snow, but soon came to a halt, panting for breath.

“We could almost kill them with our hunting knives,” said Harry, for he
had heard of such things being done. But the boys took no chances. Each
aimed for the eye and fired, and each shot proved true, and the game
was their own.

In the meantime the third deer of the party had been lost to view in
the thickets, and they did not attempt to go after it. Now they had
been so successful they realized that they were “dog tired,” as Joe
expressed it.

“I move we build some sort of shelter and go into camp for the night,”
said he, and Harry readily agreed.

In the timber belt they easily found several trees growing in a rough
semicircle. Here they cut boughs, and laced them together, and over
all packed the snow and slabs of ice. They also chopped some wood for a
fire and soon had a comforting blaze in front of the shelter. By this
time it was dark, and both were hungry again, and they proceeded to
cook themselves some venison steaks for the evening meal.




CHAPTER XVIII

NIGHT WITH THE WOLVES


“We might spend a good while out in a camp like this, provided we
weren’t caught in too heavy a snowstorm,” remarked Harry, while he and
Joe were disposing of the meal they had cooked for themselves.

“Right you are, Harry. I believe we could scare up lots of game, big
and little.”

“How far do you imagine we are from home?”

“Not less than five miles. We did pretty well on the snowshoes, all
things considered.”

“Not counting the tumbles, you mean,” answered Harry with a laugh.

The meal finished, they put away what was left of the steaks for the
morrow. They resolved to keep a camp-fire burning all night, and for
that purpose chopped quite a pile of wood.

The shelter they had built was not over eight feet in diameter, and on
one side of this they placed the carcasses of the deer, being afraid
to leave them outside, for fear that some wild animal might come up
and rob them of the prizes. They lay down on the other side of the
shelter, close to the tiny doorway they had left. Just outside of this
doorway was the fire, which they heaped up with chunks of wood piled as
high as the limbs overhead permitted.

“We must be careful of the flames,” cautioned Joe. “We don’t want to
set the forest on fire.”

Utterly worn out from the tramp on snowshoes, they were both willing to
retire early, and an hour after sunset found them both at rest, almost
in each other’s arms. They had but scant covering from the cold, but
with the shelter and the fire this was hardly necessary.

Harry was the first to fall asleep, and a little later Joe, with a last
glance at the fire, followed suit.

An hour went by, followed by another. Outside, scarcely a sound broke
the stillness of the night. The fire blazed away merrily as stick after
stick was consumed, and then gradually sank lower and lower until only
a flicker illuminated the surroundings.

Then, from a distance, a lone wolf appeared, on the trail of the deer
that had been shot. The wolf sniffed the air, and uttered a lonely howl
that was taken up by other wolves still further away. In a very few
minutes ten or a dozen of the animals were gathered on the trail, and
the pack moved slowly and cautiously toward where the deer had been
taken.

When the wolves came in sight of the fire they paused again, and more
lonely howls rent the night air. But the scent of the deer was now
strong, and the wolves were desperately hungry, and gradually they grew
bolder and formed a circle around the shelter.

Not far from the fire lay some of the bones of the deer, and a bit of
the meat that Harry had burned in cooking the steaks. One wolf sneaked
in and gobbled up this, and on the instant a wild howl of jealousy
arose from the rest of the pack, as they sprang in to get their share.

It was this howl which awoke Joe and Harry with a start. Both sat up
and rubbed their eyes, for some of the smoke of the fire had drifted
into the shelter, and they could see but little in the semi-darkness.

“Wolves!” The exclamation came from Joe, and scarcely had he spoken
when another howl went up.

“There must be a whole pack of them,” cried Harry. “And if that is so
we are bound to have a lively time of it.”

Each young pioneer had placed his gun where he could put his hands upon
it, and each caught up his weapon.

The wolves now came closer, and, in their fight among themselves, three
of the pack tumbled up against the shelter and broke through the snow
piled there.

“Hi! here they come!” ejaculated Joe, and, taking aim at the nearest
wolf, he let drive with his rifle.

His aim was true, and the wolf fell back dead.

The report of the rifle caused the wolves to howl louder than ever,
and some of them retreated to a position beyond the flicker of the
camp-fire. But they now had the scent of blood in their nostrils, and
the boys saw that another attack was coming.

“Get a brand from the fire!” shouted Harry, and shot at the nearest of
the beasts, sending a second wolf to the ground.

The wolves were now snapping and snarling on all sides, and before Joe
could turn to the fire one leaped for him, and fastened his teeth in
the heavy coat the youth wore.

Seeing this attack Harry leaped in to the rescue. He had his gun by the
barrel, and around came the stock with a sweeping blow that crushed in
the beast’s skull.

Joe was near to the fire now, and caught up a blazing brand and waved
it in the air. Then he kicked the other brands together, and threw on
some dry brushwood which was handy.

“They are going to carry off the deer!” shouted Harry, and he was
right. Two wolves that had not taken part in the attack on the lads
were trying their best to haul away one of the carcasses.

Catching up another firebrand, Joe hurled it at the wolves, and it
landed between them, directly on the deer meat. At once the wolves
dropped their hold, and slunk back into the circling pack.

The young pioneers were now both at the fire, and did what they could
to make it blaze up. As the light grew brighter the wolves slunk still
further back, and the fighting, for the time being, came to an end.

“That was a struggle, wasn’t it?” panted Harry, piling more wood on the
flames. “At the start I thought we’d be eaten up alive. Did he bite you
much?”

“No; his teeth only got into my coat,” answered Joe.

“Do you think they’ll come back?”

“They will if we give them the chance.”

“Let us throw out the dead wolves. That will give them something to
feed on.”

The carcasses of the wolves were dragged from the shelter, and while
Joe carried two bright torches Harry dragged the dead wolves toward a
nearby hollow.

Hardly had the first carcass gone down than the live wolves were on it,
rending and tearing it apart in a mad fury to get the meat.

“I’m glad it’s that meat instead of ourselves,” was Harry’s comment,
and he gave a shudder.

The dead wolves disposed of, they returned to the camp-fire, and while
Joe piled on what was left of the wood Harry cut more, so that the
blaze might not die down even for a moment.

“Wild beasts hate fire worse than anything else,” said Joe. “A good
blaze will prove our greatest protection.”

For over an hour they saw nothing more of the wolves, for each of the
pack had gotten his portion of the dead ones, and was disposing of it
greedily.

But now came a howl from a distance, and this drew closer slowly. The
scent of blood was in the air, and another pack had found it and was
tracing it to its source.

“More wolves are coming!” ejaculated Joe, and now his face turned pale.
“Oh, Harry, do you think there will be too many for us?”

“Let us make a half-circle of the fire and get in it,” was the reply.
“I think we can keep them off if we try.”

A little later came a fierce howling from the hollow. The second pack
had come up and was fighting for what was left of the wolves’ meat.

“It’s too bad there isn’t enough of that wolves’ meat to go around,”
said Joe.

“Let us sneak up and knock over a couple more of the beasts,” answered
his chum.

This was agreed to, and, leaving the fire blazing brightly, they
sneaked through the snow to a spot where they could catch sight of the
howling and struggling beasts.

Two clever shots caused two more of the wolves to go down. They were
the largest and heaviest of the packs, and in a twinkling their fellows
leaped upon them, rending them limb from limb.

“What horrible creatures!” said Harry. “They haven’t the slightest
feeling for one another!”

“They have been half starved by the heavy fall of snow, Harry. They
wouldn’t be that way if they could get anything else.”

Returning to the fire, they reloaded and chopped more wood. In the
hollow the wolves continued to snarl and yelp, each trying to get the
best of the meat. Occasionally there would be a fierce fight between
two wolves lasting for several minutes.

The fire had now dried out the branches hanging over the shelter, and
the boys had their hands full keeping the blaze from mounting among
the trees. Twice it did catch, but they put out the flames before they
gained much headway.

It was not until early morning that the sounds in the hollow ceased.
Both of the boys could scarcely keep their eyes open, yet each had
refused to go to sleep again.

“I’m going to take another look at those wolves,” said Joe, and walked
forward, gun in one hand and firebrand in the other. He moved with
caution, but this was unnecessary. Every wolf had vanished.

“They are gone!” he cried joyfully.

“Gone?” queried Harry. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Harry, they are gone, and have left nothing but the bones and
bits of hide behind them.”

Both young pioneers inspected the hollow with interest. The snow was
churned up in all directions, and hither and thither lay the bones,
skulls, and bits of hide and hair. By the tracks they could see that
what remained of the packs had gone off to the southward.

“That was a night I don’t wish to duplicate,” said Joe. “It’s enough to
make one’s hair stand on end to think about.”

“Perhaps they’ll come back again to-night.”

“That is true. We must be prepared for them.”

Having had such an experience, the two young hunters resolved to go no
further from home, but remain in that vicinity for the rest of their
hunting tour. This being so, they spent several hours in strengthening
the shelter, so that it might resist another attack should it come.

Breakfast disposed of, they brought out a couple of ropes they had
carried along, and hoisted the deer up into the branches of one of the
trees, so that the wolves would not be able to get at them. Then they
left a low, smudge fire burning, and set off once more in quest of
game.




CHAPTER XIX

THE HUNTERS HUNTED


With the rising of the sun the young pioneers felt once more like
themselves. The dangers of the night were past, and they imagined that
but little could come to disturb them until darkness had once again set
in.

“It has got to be a bear to-day,” said Harry. “If it isn’t I shall be
much disappointed.”

“Reckon we’ll have to take what comes,” answered Joe. Still he wanted
to bring down a bear as much as did his chum.

They resolved to strike out to the westward, over the ridge and toward
a hill topped with a heavy growth of timber. Here was a series of rough
rocks which, according to Harry’s idea, would make an ideal hiding
place for a bear.

They set out on their snowshoes, and it was not long before the ridge
was gained, and then they started directly for the hill, at a point
where there was something of a gorge or gully, where in the summer time
flowed a deep brook. But this watercourse was now frozen over, and the
surface was covered with snow ten feet in depth.

A light breeze was blowing, otherwise the weather was as it had been
the day before. The way up the hill was rather hard, and having reached
the top they were glad enough to sit down on a fallen tree and rest.

Thus quarter of an hour went by, and they were on the point of resuming
their journey when Joe caught sight of something moving through the
timber on the other side of the hill.

“Harry, what do you make out that to be?” he whispered.

His chum took a careful look.

“I believe it’s a bear!”

“That is just what I was thinking.”

“If it’s a bear, how are we to get up to him?”

“We had better skulk along behind the trees. I can go to the right, and
you can go to the left. But don’t fire until you are sure of what you
are aiming at.”

“All right.”

With their guns before them the two young hunters left the vicinity of
the fallen log, and proceeded in the direction of the object. They soon
separated a distance of a hundred feet.

It was not long before Joe made out the object to be a black bear
beyond any doubt. The big fellow was lumbering along clumsily as if
either tired or wounded. As a matter of fact he had been in a fight
with some other wild animals the day before, and had received severe
nips in the shoulder and the left foreleg.

It was not long before the bear saw that he was being pursued, and then
he started off on something of a gallop through the snow, sending the
latter flying in all directions.

“Fire on him!” shouted Joe, and let drive, followed immediately by his
companion.

Both shots took effect, but neither was serious, and they only caused
the bear to utter a savage roar of pain and rage. He turned as if to
attack Harry.

“Look out, he is coming for you!” yelled Joe, who was reloading with
all possible speed.

At the sound of his voice the bear turned and, seeing Joe, paused. Then
he changed his course.

“He is coming for you!” screamed Harry. “Get out of the way, unless you
want to be hugged to death!”

Joe had scarcely time enough to throw some powder and a bullet into his
rifle, and fix the priming, when the huge black beast made a leap for
him. Crack! went the firearm, and the bear was struck on the side of
the neck. With a snort of pain he stopped once more, then turned and
hurried away as before.

By the time Harry was ready to fire again the bear was out of reach
of his gun, behind a growth of trees and brushwood. He was keeping to
a stretch of ground swept clear of snow by the wind. When the boys
reached the timber he had disappeared in the vicinity of a pile of
rocks.

“More than likely his den is in there,” said Joe. “We want to go slow
now, or we’ll fall into a trap.”

The tracks of the bear were plainly to be seen. They led over the very
roughest of the rocks, where it was utterly impossible to follow with
snowshoes.

“We’ll have to take the shoes off and strap them to our backs,” said
Joe, and this they did, keeping an eye open for the black bear in the
meantime.

The rocks were covered with slippery ice, and both had not progressed
far before they began to slide in one direction or another.

“Take care,” said Harry. “Give me your hand,” and they moved forward
holding tightly to each other.

All might have gone well had not the bear suddenly appeared when least
expected. This caused the young pioneers to start back, and both lost
their balance and slipped from the rocks to an opening far below.

“Help! help!” cried Harry, and then plunged into a snowbank, with Joe
after him.

When the boys recovered from the shock, they found themselves under the
side of a large sloping rock. In front of them was the snowbank that
had probably saved each from a broken neck. Behind them was a rough
opening, leading partly between and partly under the rock.

“Are yo--you all--all right?” panted Joe, when he could catch his
breath.

“I--I reck--reckon so,” was the answer. “I--I aint sure yet,” and Harry
shook himself to find out if any bones were broken.

“It looks to me as if the bear was hunting us instead of us hunting the
bear,” went on Joe grimly.

“Do you see anything of him now?”

“No.”

Harry had lost his gun in the snow, and it took a minute to find this
and put on a fresh priming. Then both kept a sharp lookout for the
bear, but the animal did not appear.

“What shall we do next?” asked Joe, rather blankly.

“Well, one thing is certain, Joe, we can’t stay down here all day.”

“Do you think the bear is up there above us?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised.”

After another wait Joe proceeded to explore the opening behind them. He
found it of no great depth, with a passageway leading upward between
two of the larger rocks.

Just as he made this discovery he made another, more important. The
black bear was squeezing his way downward through the passageway!

“He is coming down after us, Harry!”

“Where?”

“Back here! Come, let us both give him another shot!”

Joe already had his gun leveled, and he blazed away the moment his chum
was beside him. Harry followed suit, filling the small opening with
dense smoke.

A roar followed the shots, ringing loudly in their ears in that
confined space. As they could no longer see the bear they took no
chances, but leaped back into the snowbank, and then began to scramble
up the rocks as fast as they could. Joe reached the top first, and gave
a willing hand to his companion.

The first work of the young pioneers was to reload once more. In the
meanwhile they heard several roars and grunts from the bear, the sound
reaching them as from under the ground.

“If he backs out, we can give him two more shots in his hind quarters,”
said Harry. “Those ought to finish him unless he is as tough as sole
leather.”

They waited for the appearance of the bear, but the animal did not show
himself. Something like a prolonged grunt came up to them, and after
that all was quiet.

“Do you think we really killed him after all?” came from Harry, as he
attempted to look into the opening from the top.

“It’s possible. But let us wait a while, and see if he makes another
move.”

Five--ten--fifteen minutes passed, and at last they came to the
conclusion that the game must be either dead or mortally wounded.

“I’m going to poke into the hole and see,” said Joe. “I’ll do it with
the muzzle of the gun, so if he has turned around he’ll get the ball
directly down his throat.”

With caution he approached the opening, and poked down into it with his
firearm. At first he could feel nothing. Then he grew more daring, and
crawled down several feet.

“Here he is,” he cried, a moment later. “He seems to be stuck fast
between the rocks, and I reckon he is stone-dead.”

Growing bolder, both went as far into the opening as possible. They
found the bear wedged in tightly, and he uttered no sound when shoved
sharply with the gun barrels, or when stabbed with Harry’s hunting
knife.

“He’s dead, sure enough,” said Harry. “But we might as well crawl down
the rocks again, and take a look at him from the front.”

Instead of crawling down, each took a leap into the snowbank. They felt
strangely elated over bringing the bear low, and now approached him
boldly, yet with their guns once more ready for use.

But there was no need for further fear. The game was dead beyond all
doubt, and had probably died when they heard the last groan from him.

“He is ours!” cried Harry. “And what a big fellow he is, too.”

“It’s a great haul, Harry.”

“I reckon the haul is still to come, Joe. We’ll have to yank him out of
that hole somehow.”

“Or bring up a horse to do it,” was the gay answer. Both of the boys
felt like whistling and singing over their luck. And small wonder, for
to bring down such game was not an everyday occurrence.

After inspecting the situation, both came to the conclusion that the
easiest way of getting the bear out of the hole would be to haul him
forward to the front of the rocks, and then slide him along the snow
and over a patch of ice to where there was something of an incline
leading to the top of the hill.

It was hard work, and it took all of an hour to get the bear half the
distance. Both boys were perspiring freely, and very soon had to stop
for breath.

“We are earning this bear,” said Joe, while wiping his forehead. “I
never worked so hard before in my whole life.”

“That’s the fun of hunting,” answered Harry. “Of course, you wish the
bear was only half as large.”

“Do I? Not much! I want him just as big as he is. Won’t they be
surprised at home and at the fort when they hear of this?”

“It’s the biggest bear brought down, so far as I know.”

“After this I think we may as well start right for home.”

“I am willing.”

At the top of the hill they found a long and sweeping pine branch, and
of this made the best drag they could, and then fastened the bear on
top with withes.

“Now for a long and hard pull,” said Joe. “We must get him home
to-night. If we don’t the wolves may steal him from us.”

“What about the deer?”

“We can come back for them to-morrow.”

“But if some wildcats come at them in the meanwhile?”

“We’ve got to stand the risk of that.”

And then, after a lunch in the open, they started for home, dragging
their splendid prize after them.




CHAPTER XX

DANIEL BOONE’S GREAT SHOT


“Oh, Harmony, the boys are coming back!”

“So I see, Cora. What is that they are dragging on the snow behind
them?”

“Some game, I suppose. Mrs. Parsons, can you make it out?”

The Quakeress gave a long look.

“It looks to me as if ’twere a bear,” she answered slowly. “But we
shall soon know for certain, girls, so be patient.”

Throwing on their capes and hoods, Cora and Harmony rushed out of the
log cabin, and to the end of the path that had been shoveled through
the snow.

“It is a bear!” cried Harmony.

“And a big one, too!” put in her sister.

When the young pioneers reached the girls they were all but exhausted
over the long, hard pull.

“Oh, Joe, what a splendid success!” ejaculated Harmony. “Who brought
him down?”

“Both of us,” answered the brother. “And we had a hard time of it,
too, I can tell you. We hunted the bear and then he hunted us, and we
might not have had him at all only he got stuck fast between the rocks.”

The youths decided to bring the bear directly up to the cabin door.
Here Mrs. Parsons came out with a torch, for it was now dark.

“Thee has done well, my son,” said she. “And thee, too, Joseph. ’Twill
give us meat for many a long day to come.”

“And what a splendid robe the bear-skin will make,” came from Harmony.

The boys were too tired to skin and cut up the bear that night, so the
game was hauled into the cabin, and placed in the coldest corner the
building boasted. Then all the others bustled about to get the young
hunters a substantial supper.

And how good that meal tasted! It was well enough to camp in the open,
but nothing at all compared to what Mrs. Parsons and the girls were
able to set before them. They ate and ate, and in the meantime told of
their several adventures.

It was well for the lads that they were under a roof that night,
for with the setting of the sun the temperature began to drop
steadily until the night became one of the coldest Kentucky had ever
experienced. The wind arose and hummed, and shrieked through the trees
of the forest so that sound sleeping was almost out of the question.

“Had we remained in the woods we would have been frozen to death,” said
Joe, and Harry agreed with him.

Fortunately the bitter cold spell did not last over forty-eight hours,
and on the third day the sun came out as bright and warm as ever.

“We must get out to-day for those deer,” said Joe. “If we don’t go soon
some wild animals will get at them sure.”

The high winds had swept the rocks free of all loose snow, so traveling
was not as difficult as it had been. They went again on snowshoes, and
took their firearms as before.

“As we are not after any big game we can now shoot anything that
strikes our fancy,” said Joe, and on the way bagged several rabbits
and a wild turkey, while Harry knocked over several ruffled grouse, or
pheasants.

“Not a bad haul in itself,” said Joe, when their game bags were fairly
stuffed with their quarry. “Counting these, and the deer, and the bear,
I reckon we have done as well as many older hunters could do.”

On and on they went until, about noon, they came to the patch of forest
in which they had formerly camped.

“Here are some fresh tracks!” cried Harry, presently. “Some hunter has
been around here, either this morning or yesterday.”

“I don’t see anybody,” answered his companion, after a long look around.

“Nor do I.”

“Hope our deer are safe,” went on Joe, suddenly, remembering the
trouble they had had with Yellow Blanket.

They pushed on and soon reached the site of the former camp. The two
deer hung as they had left them, and the boys drew a long sigh of
relief.

“We got scared over nothing,” was Harry’s comment.

“But those tracks were there!”

“Oh, yes, plain enough.”

“Then the hunter must have turned in some other direction.”

“Yes; I couldn’t see the trail after passing over yonder rocks.”

The tree branches were thick in this vicinity, so that the boys could
see but little of what was above them. They set to work without delay,
and soon one deer was lowered to the ground and then the other. Then
two drags were cut down and the game was tied fast with ropes.

“Now for dinner and then for home,” said Joe. “By the time we get back
I reckon we’ll be as tired as we was when we hauled in the bear.”

The young pioneers had brought along some cooked food, so they did not
bother with starting up a fire. The tramp had kept them warm, and they
sat down on some rocks to eat their midday meal.

While they were eating they did not notice a dark form circling about
them and drawing closer and closer with every step. Yet such was the
fact, and the form was that of a brownish-black wolverene.

It may be remarked here that the wolverene, often known by the name of
glutton, is one of the wildest and fiercest beasts ever met with in any
North American forest. It is similar to a small bear in appearance,
but has a larger mouth and teeth and larger and sharper claws. It is a
great lover of raw meat, and will fight sometimes to the bitter end to
obtain what it desires. It has an especial fondness for the meat of the
deer and the beaver.

This wolverene had scented the two deer in the tree the day before and
all night long and during the morning it had tried to get at the meat,
but could not, on account of the swinging ropes. Now it saw the game
lying on the drags, and the young hunters several yards away, and it
was meditating a leap forward in an effort to secure at least part of
the longed-for prey.

Nearer and nearer came the beast, its eyes gleaming wickedly and its
cruel jaws working convulsively. It crawled on the ground with the
stealthiness of a panther.

When it was less than twenty feet away, Harry suddenly arose and walked
toward the game, to examine the deer heads, to see if they would be
worth preserving.

The wolverene saw the movement and its hopes of getting at the coveted
prey sank. Then it grew furious at the advance of the young hunter
and crouched still lower, with the intention of leaping straight for
Harry’s throat.

All unconscious of his danger, Harry turned around, and then for the
first time saw what he was facing. At the same instant the tail of the
wolverene gave a swish, and the beast rose high into the air as it
leaped for Harry’s throat.

But the wolverene never landed as expected. While it was yet in
mid-air, the report of a rifle echoed through the forest and the beast
fell to the ground with a strange snapping and snarling, and then of a
sudden stretched itself out in death.

“Oh!” It was all Harry could say for the time being. He gazed at the
wolverene in a dazed sort of way.

“Harry!” burst out Joe, and ran forward, rifle in hand. “A wolverene,
and dead, too! How did you do it?”

“I--I didn’t do it, Joe.”

“But he is shot--right through the left eye,” went on Joe.

“So I see. But I haven’t any gun with me. Mine is over on the rock.”

“Fetched him, didn’t I?” came in a clear voice, from the trees behind
the young hunters, and turning swiftly they found themselves confronted
by Daniel Boone, whose long rifle was still smoking from the shot.

“So you shot him, Colonel Boone?” said Harry.

“I did, lad. It was a hard shot too, I admit--firing right over your
shoulder at him. If the rifle had swung around you might have got the
ball in the neck.”

“You--you saved my life, colonel.”

“We won’t speak of that, lad. I’m glad I came up in time. I was out
hunting myself, just for the fun of it, and I saw you coming this way
and thought I’d find out if you had had any luck. That wolverene must
have been all-fired hungry, to come at you in that fashion. But the
deer meat worried him, I suppose.”

It was some time before Harry could get over his scare, and the party
of three sat down on the rocks to compare notes. Daniel Boone had
brought down three deer since early morning, and had placed them where
he could send out other hunters to bring them in later on.

“There are only a few wolverenes left around here,” he said. “I doubt
if you are troubled by any more of them, but after this you had better
be on guard all the time.”

“I will be,” answered Harry.

“Is the meat good for anything?” questioned Joe.

“Some of the old-time hunters eat it,” answered Daniel Boone. “I never
did. Better leave it for the wolves,” and this they did, after cutting
off the long, white claws, which Boone told them were valuable, the
Indians thinking more of such things than of money in making a trade.

The two young hunters were glad enough to have Daniel Boone accompany
them home, and the great hunter willingly helped them along with their
drags. He was much interested in the story about the big bear.

“You are both doing well,” he said. “In fact, I doubt if any old
hunters in these parts have done better.”

[Illustration: “THE REPORT OF A RIFLE ECHOED THROUGH THE FOREST.”--P.
200.]

They asked him if he had heard anything more of the expedition that
had moved westward in search of the Indian captives.

“Not a word,” replied Daniel Boone. “And I don’t expect to hear
anything until spring. Nobody is going to travel very far in such
weather as this, in a country where there isn’t anything better than an
Indian or a buffalo trail.”

“I don’t care how long we have to wait, if only when the news comes it
is good news,” said Joe soberly.

“I suppose you miss your mother a good bit, lad. Well, I can’t say as I
blame you. A good mother is the best blessing a boy ever had.”

“And I miss my sister,” came from Harry.

“That is the one bad feature of moving into the Indian country, boys.
It is bad enough to be wounded in a fight, but it is far worse to have
those we love carried off to we don’t know where, and treated we don’t
know how.”

“Has Red Feather said anything more?” asked Joe.

“No. He is waiting patiently for his release.”

“Don’t you suppose he will go on the warpath as soon as you let him go?”

“Perhaps. But if he does I shall hunt him down and have no mercy on
him.”

“I wish all the fighting would come to an end,” said Harry, with a
sigh. “I think I’d just like to have a few years at quiet farming and
nothing else.”

“It would be nice, but I am afraid we are a long way from that yet,”
answered Daniel Boone. And he was right, as later events on the
bloodstained soil of Kentucky proved.




CHAPTER XXI

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.




CHAPTER XXII

WHO WAS THE WINNER?


It must be acknowledged that the pace was now beginning to tell upon
all in the race. On even ground it would not have been so trying, but
it took wind, and plenty of it, to clear some of the rocks, gullies,
and fallen logs that marked the novel racecourse.

One racer was out of it entirely, having sprained his foot by an
unlucky slip on a rock, and another dropped so far behind that he soon
after gave up entirely.

This left five, and of these Harry was the last as the halfway rock was
rounded and the racers sped for the finishing line.

But Wilson, the man who had leaped to fourth place, could not keep the
pace set for him, and soon he, too, dropped behind and out, thus making
Harry fourth, with Ferris first, Darry Ford second, and Jackson third.

This position was maintained until the runners were not over a quarter
of a mile from the goal. Then it was seen that Jackson could no longer
keep up with the others. He leaped a log, slipped, and sat squarely on
the ground.

“Go on, all of you!” he panted. “I’ve got all I want of racing!”

Harry was now in third place, and running as he had never run before.
His “second wind” had come to him, and he was within four yards of
Darry Ford, with Jack Ferris three yards further in advance.

Ferris was running well, and those at a distance felt that he would
surely come in the winner. But now Darry Ford gradually closed the
distance between them, and Harry began to crawl up also, until the
three were almost in a bunch.

“Here they come!”

“Jack Ferris still leads!” yelled Luke Stout. “Told you he’d win out!”

“Darry Ford is a close second. See, he is pulling up to Ferris by
inches!”

“Harry is coming up, too,” came from Joe. His face was flushed with
excitement. “Run, Harry, run!” he yelled. “You can make it yet!”

Harry heard the cry, and it nerved him to do his utmost. He leaped on
with steps almost equaling those of long-legged Darry Ford, and soon he
was on the very heels of the leaders, who were now rushing on side by
side.

“It will be a tie!” cried the crowd.

“Go it, Ferris; don’t let the boy beat you!”

“Show him what your long legs can do, Darry!”

“Huzza! Darry is in the lead! He has left Ferris behind!”

“See, see! Harry Parsons is crawling up! He is neck and neck with Jack
Ferris.”

It was true. While still fifty yards from the finish Harry had
gradually cut away the distance between himself and the older runner.

Now the two were running side by side, with Darry Ford but a few feet
in advance.

Suddenly Ferris put on a burst of speed which took him once more beside
Darry Ford. Then Harry spurted, and in a twinkling all three runners
were abreast.

“Here they come!”

“It’s going to be a triple tie!”

“Look! look! Darry Ford is going ahead!”

“Harry Parsons is coming up with him!”

A dozen cries rang out, Joe shouting with the rest. Harry heard nothing
but a strange roaring in his ears. He had passed Ferris, and now he was
beside Darry Ford. Then he put on his last ounce of muscle and leaped
to the front, passing the line a winner by two yards, with Ford second,
and Ferris four yards further to the rear.

“Whoop! Harry Parsons has won!”

“It was a plucky run for young Darry Ford!”

“What’s the matter, Ferris; did your wind give out?”

In the midst of the excitement Joe ran up and caught Harry in his arms.

“I knew you could do it!” he exclaimed, his face shining with joy. “I
knew it.”

“It--it was a--a hard race,” panted Harry. “Darry and Ferris shoved me
to the limit of my endurance.”

“Wonder what Luke Stout will say now,” went on Joe. He tried to catch
Stout’s eye, but the fellow who had wagered his pocket knife on Jack
Ferris slunk out of sight behind his beaten champion.

The crowd surrounded Harry, and insisted on carrying him around the
fort on their shoulders. Then Andrew Leary gave him his choice of the
prizes, and Harry took the powder horn, for his old one was cracked.

“I’m glad you took that,” said Darry Ford. “I’ve been wanting a
bullet-mold.”

“You ran well, Darry,” said Harry heartily. “When you are as old as I
am you’ll outrun me without half trying.”

“I reckon it was something to best Ferris and the rest,” answered Darry
simply.

“Ferris stubbed his toe on some rocks,” put in Luke Stout. “If it
hadn’t been for that he wouldn’t have dropped behind at the last
minute.”

“I reckon I won your knife fairly enough, Luke,” came from Joe. “But as
I still have my own knife you can keep yours if you want it.”

“Oh, I don’t have to keep it,” responded Luke Stout; nevertheless later
on he gladly enough took the knife back, saying he would square up
another time. But he never did.

More settlers were now coming into the territory, and these included
several old friends of the Parsons family, so those at the log cabin
did not feel quite so lonely as before. Some of the settlers put up
at the fort, but others staked out holdings up or down the river, and
began to build homes of their own without delay.

This was the greatest year in all American history--the year 1776--when
the colonies threw off the English yoke and declared themselves free
and independent. News had already reached the frontier of the skirmish
at Lexington, the battles of Concord and of Bunker Hill, and of how
Washington was holding the British troops fast in Boston. Now came the
news that the redcoats were to evacuate Boston, and the settlers at the
fort went wild with excitement.

“It is a great victory for our colonies,” said Daniel Boone.

“It certainly means much,” said an officer under him. “We now know
something of our own strength.”

Nevertheless, Daniel Boone was much disturbed by the tidings that war
with England was a stern reality. It had been difficult in the past to
subdue the Indians, now it would be doubly hard, for the red men would
feel that the English soldiers would no longer help the colonists, and
the colonists, having to fight the foe from over the ocean, would be
in no position to send troops to the West to aid the settlers on the
frontier.

“They will dig up the war hatchet,” said Boone. “For they will think
they have us at their mercy.” And his words proved true.

On the Fourth of July the Declaration of Independence was signed at
Philadelphia, amid the ringing of bells, the blazing of bonfires,
and the loud shouting of the people. But this news did not reach
Boonesborough till sometime later, and when something was happening
which stirred the settlers at and near the fort greatly.

At the fort lived a Colonel Callaway, who was an intimate friend of
Daniel Boone. Callaway had two daughters, Betsey and Frances, both of
whom were warm friends of Colonel Boone’s daughter Jemima. All of the
girls loved to play in and near the water, and one day they got into a
canoe that was handy and began to paddle up and down the river.

Nobody missed the merry party until a loud shrieking from the other
side of the stream caught the ears of those who happened to be near the
river front. Looking across, they saw that the girls had fallen into
the clutches of a number of red men.

“The Indians! The Indians!” was the cry. And from all directions the
settlers came pouring toward the fort.

The matter was quickly explained, but nobody dared to attempt crossing
the river, believing that a large party of the enemy must be concealed
behind the bushes. Colonels Boone and Callaway were both away, and a
messenger was sent post-haste after them to acquaint them with the
situation.

“So they have stolen my daughter, eh?” demanded Daniel Boone, on
hearing the news. He said little more, but his eyes blazed with a
determination that meant much.

It was too late to follow the Indians that night, but early in the
morning Boone set off, taking with him eight men, young and old. With
this party went Joe, having asked permission of the great hunter to go
along.

“I will fight my best,” said Joe. “Please do not refuse me. As you
know, my mother is still missing among the Indians, so you know how I
feel in a matter of this kind.”

The river was crossed at a point some distance away from the fort, and
it was not long before the trail of the fleeing Indians, five or six in
number, was found among the cane-brake. It was rather hard to follow
this trail, and Daniel Boone cautioned all to be careful how they moved
forward.

“If the Indians find that they are being pursued, they may murder the
girls, and then run for it,” he said. “We must save the girls unharmed
if we possibly can.”

It was hard walking through the brake, but Joe was toughened to it, and
did not murmur. Boone went in advance, his eyes and ears as keenly on
guard as those of any Indian. Thus nearly thirty miles were covered,
with only a halt for dinner. No fire was built, Boone being afraid that
the enemy might see the smoke.

Nightfall found the hunters in the midst of a timber belt. They had
gone on until even Boone was tired out, and so rested, satisfied that
they would come up with the Indians sometime on the morrow.

Joe was glad enough to rest, and hardly had his head touched the ground
than he sank into slumber, from which he did not awaken until dawn.

A hasty breakfast was prepared and eaten, and the little band of whites
pushed forward once more, Daniel Boone again in the lead, his rifle in
both hands, and his eyes on the trail.

“It is growing fresher,” he said presently. And a moment later: “Here
is where they encamped for the night, and the girls with them.”

He was right, and, satisfied that they were now but two hours behind
the Indians on the trail, they went on faster than ever. The route lay
along a buffalo path, and in many spots was rough and uncertain.

It was almost noon when Boone, who was still in advance, held up his
hand for those behind him to stop. All dropped low in the grass beside
the trail, and then the great hunter wormed his way forward on his
breast and stomach until he reached the edge of a small opening beside
a brook that flowed into the river.

The sight that met his gaze thrilled him to the heart. The Indians
were there, having built a tiny fire over which they were cooking
their midday meal. Close beside the fire, and sitting on a log weeping
bitterly, were the three girls that had been made captives two days
before.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE RESCUE OF JEMIMA BOONE


Daniel Boone showed his years of wilderness training when he did not at
once raise a shout and rush in to the rescue of his daughter and the
other girl captives of the Indians.

“I saw that two of the Indians over the fire had their hunting knives
in their hands,” he said afterward, in telling of the situation. “They
were merciless wretches, and at the first sign of peril would have
turned and laid the girls low at their feet, or else carried them off
on their backs as shields from our bullets.”

He moved back, and once among his companions in the bushes gave
directions how the party should advance, and how all should fire at
the call of a certain wild bird--a call which Boone could imitate to
perfection.

Joe’s nerves were on a tension, for this was to be a daring rush, and
there was no telling how it would end.

Cautiously all the members of the hunting party moved forward as
Colonel Boone had directed. Joe was next to an old backwoodsman, John
Ford, the father of Darry, who had done so well in the foot race.

There were several minutes of intense silence. Daniel Boone was
watching the Indians as a hawk watches a brood of chickens. He was
waiting for the red men to move away from the captives.

Presently that moment came. Two of the Indians left the fire to
get more wood, and the others were lying on the ground, conversing
earnestly together.

Loud and clear the cry of the wild bird pierced the air, and an instant
after came the crack of Daniel Boone’s rifle, and one of the Indians
fell. Then came the cracks of the other rifles, and another red man
went down, and a third was wounded in the side.

“At them, men!” cried Daniel Boone, and ran forward, hunting knife in
hand.

The Indians were taken by surprise, and, with one man killed, one
dying, and another wounded, they imagined that a large force of whites
had come up.

“We must run!” said one quickly. “Run, or we shall all be killed!” And
they took to cover without delay, and went crashing through the forest
and cane-brake until the sounds of their retreat were lost in the
distance.

“Father!” came from Jemima Boone, and in her joy she ran and threw
herself into her parent’s arms. The Callaway girls were equally glad to
be rescued.

Some of the members of the party were anxious to follow up the fleeing
Indians and lay them all low, but Daniel Boone objected.

“I think the best thing we can do is to get back to the fort,” he said.

In his own mind Daniel Boone had come to the conclusion that
the Indians were preparing for an early attack on the fort at
Boonesborough. Had he been asked for his reasons he could scarcely have
given them. To him it was “in the air”--that feeling that sometimes
come to one as a forewarning of coming evil.

It was learned that the girls had been treated fairly well by the
Indians, for which the whites were thankful. A midday meal was had of
the food the red men had been preparing, and after a short rest the
journey to the fort was begun.

So far the weather had been fair, but now it began to cloud up, and a
cold spring storm set in which speedily wet the party thoroughly.

“We might as well go into camp,” said Daniel Boone at three in the
afternoon. “I know of a fairly good shelter close by here,” and he
led them to where a clump of gnarled trees overhung a bank of rocks
and dirt. Among these roots some hunters had cleaned out an opening
as large as a fair-sized room, and here the girls were kept out of
the wet, while the men folks built a large camp-fire at which to dry
themselves.

Just above the first clump of trees was a second, and after the
camp-fire was lit, Joe and John Ford moved to the spot to see if they
could not fix up some sort of shelter for themselves for the night.

“It will be better than lying out under the trees in the rain,” said
John Ford. “I’ve had a bit of rheumatism the past winter, and I do not
want more of it.”

The hollow under the trees was filled with sticks and dead leaves, and
both Joe and the backwoodsman had to work for some time cleaning out
the place.

Joe was bending close to the ground, and had a bunch of sticks in one
hand when he heard a hiss to one side of him. He started, and on the
instant saw a rattlesnake glide from among the roots of the tree, and
glare at him with its beady eyes.

“A snake!” roared John Ford, and tumbled out of the opening without
delay.

Joe started to follow his companion. But as he turned his foot caught
in a rope-like root, and down he pitched headlong on his face. When he
sat up the rattlesnake had shifted its position, and rested directly
between the young pioneer and the open air.

There was no denying the fact that Joe was scared. The rattlesnake
was large, and the youth had often heard of the fatal effects of a
rattlesnake bite.

What to do he did not know. If he ran for the open air he would have
to pass close to the reptile, and a jump over the snake was out of the
question, owing to the closeness of the tree roots overhead.

It was John Ford who gave him a bit of good advice.

“Jump up, lad, and catch the roots!” he sang out. “I’ll get my gun.”

As Ford uttered the words the rattlesnake prepared to strike at Joe. Up
went the youth, and not only caught the roots over his head with his
hands, but also with his feet, drawing up his body as far as possible.

The rattlesnake leaped high in making its strike, but the fangs merely
grazed the lower end of Joe’s hunting shirt. Then it hissed again, and
prepared to climb the roots from the rear of the opening under the
trees.

As the snake passed to the rear of the opening Joe swung himself down
and made a leap forward to where John Ford had just reached for his gun.

Bang! went the weapon of the backwoodsman. His aim was uncertain, and
the rattlesnake was merely struck on the tail, a wound that caused it
to become more enraged than ever. There was another hiss, and then the
reptile came straight for Ford, its eyes gleaming more venomously than
before.

By this time Joe had his gun at hand. Luckily the weapon was loaded
with shot, and the youth had taken care to keep the priming dry. He
took hasty aim and pulled the trigger.

As the report of the gun sounded out, the head of the rattlesnake was
seen to fly into half a dozen pieces. The body whipped in one direction
and another, and it was a long time before it straightened out and lay
still.

“A good shot!” cried John Ford. “And in the nick of time, too!”

The reports of the two guns brought all of the others in the camp
hurrying in that direction, thinking there might be another attack of
the Indians.

“You are well out of that, lad,” said Daniel Boone, on examining the
body of the snake. “He was a bad one. Did he strike you at all?”

“No, but he hit the end of my hunting shirt,” answered Joe.

“If that is so, be careful not to touch the spot and you had better
soak it in brandy or cut it out.”

“I would cut it out,” put in John Ford. “Soaking may take out the
poison, and it may not. I once knew a man who got a rattlesnake fang in
his boot. He soaked it in rum for two days, and yet, later on, when he
used the boot, it made his foot swell up as if he had been bitten by a
nest of hornets.”

“I’ll cut the place out,” said Joe, and he did, without further loss of
time. Nobody cared to go near the clump of trees after that, fearing
more snakes, and Joe and Ford found shelter with some of the other
hunters at the camp-fire.

It was a cold and disagreeable night, and Joe slept but little. Yet the
youth was thankful that he had escaped from the snake, and when he said
his prayers on retiring he did not forget to thank God for all His many
mercies.

In the morning, the sun came out as brightly as ever, and by eight
o’clock the journey to the fort was resumed. It passed without special
incident, and twenty-four hours later saw Joe once again at home, and
rather glad that the brief campaign against the Indians was at an end.

Acting on instructions from his superiors, Daniel Boone now released
the Indian chief Red Feather, and gave to him the gifts that had been
promised. He also released Yellow Blanket, and told both red men that
he trusted the war between the Indians and the whites was at an end,
and that henceforth all would dwell in peace.

“The white man has come here to till the soil,” said Boone to Red
Feather. “The Indian lives by the hunt. Let each go his way, and when
the winter comes let the Indian bring to the white man the meat of the
buffalo and other game, and he shall receive in return flour, and hay
for his horse, and such other things as he needs.”

“It is well spoken--the war is at an end,” said Red Feather, and so
departed, and Yellow Blanket followed him.

It was not known until long after that Red Feather intended fully
to keep his promise to remain friendly to the whites. Even Daniel
Boone did not believe the Indian chief, for he knew much of red men’s
treachery. But Red Feather went straight to the Indian villages and
told of what Daniel Boone had said.

“He is a noble brave,” said Red Feather. “If we remain friendly to him
he will surely treat us well.”

This speech enraged Long Knife, who was now recovered from the arrow
wound Joe inflicted, and he made a long speech in return, in which he
insinuated that the whites had bribed Red Feather to friendliness. This
provoked a quarrel and a fight, in the midst of which Red Feather was
shot down by some treacherous follower of Long Knife.

“Red Feather deserved the fate,” said Long Knife, after the excitement
was over. “He was untrue to the red man. The land is ours, and I will
not sit down and see the white man occupy it.”

“Long Knife speaks well,” said Yellow Blanket. “I, too, was a prisoner
of the whites, but I made them no promises. I will fight them to the
bitter end. Yellow Blanket has spoken.”

“Yellow Blanket has uncovered a heart of gold,” said Long Knife. “He is
a true friend to the Indian. He shall stand beside me when we go into
battle against the whites. We shall make every paleface bite the dust
before this war is at an end.”

On the day following this talk, another was held, and it was decided
that all of the Indians should henceforth serve under the leadership of
Long Knife, and that there should be no let-up to the warfare until all
of the white settlers were driven from the soil of Kentucky, and their
cabins and forts razed to the ground.




CHAPTER XXIV

A NIGHT RAID BY THE INDIANS


Several weeks later Mrs. Parsons was at the spring getting a bucket of
water when, without warning, an arrow came whizzing in her direction,
and buried itself in the ground close by.

With a shriek the good woman let fall her bucket and rushed for the
cabin, shrieking that the Indians were at hand.

“The Indians!” cried Harmony, who had her hands deep in a batch of
dough she was kneading.

“Yes, the Indians!” panted the Quakeress. “They just shot an arrow at
me. Get thee gone, Cora, and tell Harry and thy brother.”

Cora needed no second notice, but leaping up from her spinning frame
rushed to the opposite side of the cabin, where Joe and Harry were
working in the garden.

“The Indians! the Indians!” she called loudly. “Come into the house!”

At the announcement both young pioneers dropped their garden tools and
caught up their muskets, leaning against a stone wall.

“Where are they?” demanded Harry, who was the first to reach the cabin.

“I don’t know. But one shot an arrow at your mother.”

“Mother, are you hurt?” asked Harry.

“No,” was the answer. “But the arrow came close to me. See, there it
is,” and she pointed it out with her hand.

“I see the Indian!” cried Harry, and pointed to the distant forest. A
red man had crossed an open place on a run.

Eagerly those in the cabin watched for the reappearance of the Indian,
and in the meantime all armed themselves, the boys with their rifles,
Mrs. Parsons with a shotgun, and the girls with pistols. The outer
doors of the cabin were closed and barred, and also the windows,
leaving only the loopholes open.

“It must mean an uprising,” said Joe, who had his eye glued to a
loophole on one side of the cabin, while Harry kept guard at a loophole
opposite.

“This is some of Red Feather’s work,” came from Harry bitterly. “I knew
it was a mistake to let him go.”

“More than likely Yellow Blanket has got Long Knife to make the
attack,” answered Joe.

Ten minutes went by, and they saw nothing of the Indians. Then a yell
from a distance rent the air, followed by a number of scattering shots.

“That is over to the Ford cabin,” said Joe. “I hope they haven’t caught
Mr. Ford and Darry in the open. If they have it’s good-by to them.”

“I’m going up to the roof to take a look around,” said Harry, and lost
no time in climbing the ladder to the loft.

The roof was a sloping one, and near the ridge was a trapdoor or
scuttle. Standing on a block of wood that was handy, Harry raised the
trapdoor and looked out.

Hardly had he done so than there followed the flight of two arrows
directed at him. One struck the roof just below the lad, and the other
grazed his hair. He tumbled back and let the trapdoor fall into place
with a bang.

“See anything?” queried Joe from below.

“All I want to,” answered Harry, when he could recover sufficiently to
speak.

“What do you mean?”

“Two of the wretches fired arrows at me, and they came altogether too
close for comfort.”

“Phew! Then this cabin is being watched surely, Harry!”

“Be careful, my son,” pleaded Mrs. Parsons. “Thee must not expose
thyself again.”

“I’m not going to,” answered Harry.

Once more the young pioneer took his station at a loophole. He and Joe
were at opposite sides of the living room, while Mrs. Parsons and the
girls were on the watch from the bedchambers.

“How much water have we on hand?” asked Joe, presently.

“The cask is full,” answered Harmony. “I looked only this morning.”

She referred to a cask that had been sunk under the living room floor
sometime before. This cask had been fitted with a cover, and the water
in it was changed once a week by either Joe or Harry. It was not used
ordinarily, but had been placed there for possible use in just such an
emergency as now seemed at hand.

“Do you--do you think they’ll keep on the watch until to-night?”
faltered Cora.

“Possibly--unless they are defeated in other directions,” answered Joe.

Slowly an hour went by, and still none of the red men appeared. Twice
they heard rifle-shots at a great distance, but that was all.

“They seem to have moved in another direction,” said Harry.

“Don’t give up watching,” was his chum’s caution.

A little later they heard a dozen or more shots in the direction of
the fort. Then came a yell, and more shots lasting the best part of a
quarter of an hour.

“I see an Indian!” cried Harmony, later still. “He is crossing the
clearing where you cut down the last tree.”

Both Joe and Harry rushed to look, but before they could get an eye at
the loophole the enemy had disappeared.

“We’ve got to continue on guard,” said Joe. “Those wretches wouldn’t
like anything better than to catch us unawares.”

The first alarm had come shortly after midday, and the balance of the
afternoon wore away slowly. To relieve the monotony of the lookout,
those on guard shifted from one loophole to another. When it grew dark
Mrs. Parsons prepared a hasty supper.

“We had best eat now,” she said. “Later on there may not be a chance.”

Although outwardly calm, each person in the cabin was tremendously
excited. The girls were particularly nervous, for they well knew what
capture by the Indians might mean.

“I’d rather die first,” whispered Harmony to her sister.

“So would I,” Cora answered. And then they both thought of their mother
and of Clara Parsons. Where were these loved ones now?

“If they are going to attack at all it will be to-night,” said Joe.
“We’ll have to remain on guard until morning.”

Slowly the mantle of night fell. The Indians had timed their raid on
the settlement well. There was no moon, and the drifting clouds cut off
many of the stars.

Mrs. Parsons’ eyesight was not of the best, and it was decided that Joe
and Cora were to take up the first watch, lasting three hours, and were
then to give place to Harry and Harmony for the next three hours. This
would give each a much needed rest, for to watch at a loophole proved
very tiring both to eyes and nerves.

With the coming of night all became silent around the cabin. No candles
were lit and all the lower cracks in the cabin logs were covered by
having articles of furniture placed against them. Thus it would be
impossible for the Indians to look inside, even if they came up close
to the building.

An ordinary eye would have distinguished little outside during that
watch. But Joe’s eye was trained by constant usage, and he made a note
of many things--the flight of birds and the slinking of a fox across
one of the clearings.

The sight of the fox was a little cheering. “If he can sneak around
the Indians must be pretty far away,” was the way the young pioneer
reasoned.

At last Joe’s watch came to an end, and he and Cora laid down to rest,
leaving Harry and Harmony on guard. Then another hour dragged by,
seeming little short of an age.

Harmony had just uttered a long sigh of weariness when something caught
her eye and caused her to become once again on the alert. Something was
moving among the trees nearest to the cabin.

“I see something!” she whispered. “Whether it is an Indian, or a white
man, or an animal, I cannot tell.”

“We’ll take no chances,” said Harry, and ran to the loophole, at the
same time rousing Joe and the others.

It was an Indian Harmony had seen. He was now behind a tree, but soon
they saw him come forth once more, drop into the grass, and worm his
way along toward the cabin.

“He is coming this way,” cried Harry softly.

“Alone?” queried Joe.

“Yes.”

“Then give him a shot, as soon as he is in range.”

“Be sure he is an Indian,” came from Mrs. Parsons. “You do not want to
shoot a friend.”

“A friend would come forward boldly,” answered Joe.

Trembling with excitement, Harry pushed the muzzle of his rifle through
the loophole. Then he took careful aim at the uncertain figure in the
grass and fired.

There was a shriek of pain and the red enemy leaped up and swung around
one arm as if in intense pain. Then he dropped down again and loped
back to the protection of the forest.

“I hit him--but I didn’t kill him,” said Harry, as he pulled in his
smoking firearm; and then he set to work to reload the rifle with all
speed.

Once more they went on watch, and slowly the minutes went by. Then Joe
suddenly thrust out his gun-barrel and discharged the weapon.

Another yell followed, and an Indian who had been in hiding behind the
stone wall of the garden fell forward, shot through the shoulder. But
he, too, managed to crawl away and disappeared into the forest.

This was the last of the alarms. Evidently the Indians imagined the
cabin well protected, and they did not dare to make a rush. Slowly the
morning dawned, and hardly had the sun peeped over the trees than they
saw Daniel Boone riding toward the cabin at full speed, followed by
half a dozen frontiersmen.

“Hurrah, here is Colonel Boone!” cried Joe, and he threw open the door
to receive the great hunter.

“Are you all safe here?” demanded Boone, with a quick glance around.

“Yes, we are all safe,” answered Harry; “but we have had a pretty hard
night of it,” and he told their story.

“The Indians attacked seven of the cabins in this settlement and some
cabins further off,” said Daniel Boone. “A small party of ’em also came
to the fort. But we have sent them about their business with the loss
of but one man--old Wimbley--who was brutally murdered in the woods.
Three of the redskins were killed in the various fights and there are
probably a dozen wounded.”

“Who led the raid, do you know that?” asked Joe.

“Long Knife. He is now at the head of all the tribes in this
neighborhood. Red Feather is dead.”

Daniel Boone was out rounding up the settlers to go after the Indians.
Joe readily agreed to go along, leaving Harry to watch over those at
the log cabin.

“Take care of yourself, Joe,” said Harry, as the pair parted.

“And you take care of yourself and the others, Harry,” was the answer.

It was nearly noon before the settlers started out, sixty-five strong,
and led by Colonel Boone. Each man carried a rifle and plenty of
ammunition, and in addition rations for two days. If more food was
needed the settlers felt that they could easily supply themselves from
the game in the forest and the plenteous fish in the numerous streams.




CHAPTER XXV

IN A FOREST FIRE


This period has well been called the “dark and bloody” years of life
in Kentucky. Raids by the Indians occurred frequently, not only at
Boonesborough, but also at the other settlements, until more than one
pioneer became so disheartened that he gave up the contest and returned
to the East.

The war with England was at its height and the red men knew that it
was impossible for the colonists to send any troops to the West to
subdue them. More than this, the English were only too glad to give the
Indians a hand against the settlers at every opportunity.

Daniel Boone felt that a stand must be taken, and the Indians must be
taught a lesson they would not readily forget. He was very silent on
the march, but his head was busy with his plans.

“I reckon he means business this trip,” observed Joe to one of the
others.

“That he does, lad,” answered the pioneer. “And can you blame him?”

“Blame him? No, indeed, Mr. Pembly. We have good cause to bring the
redskins to terms.”

“To my mind we have a hard fight afore us,” went on Andrew Pembly. “The
Injuns must know we are after ’em.”

“Perhaps not.”

The way was rough, and more than once the party had to make a détour,
to avoid some great fallen monarch of the forest, or get out of the way
of some sharp rocks next to impossible to climb over.

The pioneers did not keep very close together, and presently Joe found
himself in the company of three others on the side of a little cliff
fronting a small gully thick with brushwood and weeds.

Joe had dropped a little behind, and was on the point of starting to
catch up when he heard a faint sound in the gully.

“What was that?” was the question he asked himself.

Instantly he thought of but two things, a wild animal or an Indian. The
sound must have come from one or the other.

“I’ll have to investigate,” he reasoned.

He would have called to his companions, but they had gone ahead, and
were out of sight around the end of the little cliff.

“If I call out loud it may serve as a warning to some enemy,” he
thought.

Gun in hand, he stepped nearer to the gully, and peered searchingly
among the brushwood and weeds.

At first he could see nothing, but at last he made out a dark object
lying in the midst of a clump of bushes.

“A man, or I am greatly mistaken,” he told himself. “But if he is a
white man, what is he doing there?”

Not to be taken by surprise, Joe dropped into the bushes himself,
expecting to crawl away and tell his friends of his discovery.

But just as he was on the point of leaving the spot he heard the man
below give a prolonged groan.

“Help! help!” he murmured feebly. “For the sake of Heaven, help me!”

“What is the matter with you?” called out the youth.

“An English voice! Heaven be praised. Help me, please!”

“I say, what is the matter with you?” repeated the young pioneer.

“I am badly wounded in the leg. I have been in this dismal hole three
days, and I am half starved. Help me!”

“I certainly will,” answered Joe, and went forward boldly, although
with his gun ready for use, in case of possible treachery.

As he got closer to the sufferer he recognized the man as a hunter
named Brinker, one who had spent considerable time at Boonesborough
the year before. The hunter was indeed in a sad plight, and with him
walking was entirely out of the question. All that had passed his lips
for three days was a biscuit he had happened to have in his game bag,
and some water he had found in a nearby hollow.

“Well, you certainly are in a bad fix,” said Joe kindly. “Wait until I
tell some of the others, and then we’ll try and do what we can for you.”

“Please don’t go away too far,” pleaded Brinker.

“I shall not.”

Joe ran forward with all speed, and soon caught up to those who had
gone ahead. He reported what he had discovered, and four men went back
with him to Brinker’s assistance.

When they reached the sufferer they found he had fainted from
exhaustion, and it took tender nursing to bring him around. His wound
was washed and bound up, and he was given some liquor.

“I’m downright glad you came,” he said, when he could speak again. “I
don’t reckon as how I could have held out another day.”

“How came you there, Brinker?” asked Daniel Boone, who had come up to
interview the man.

“It’s a long story, Colonel. I was out hunting deer when I ran into a
party of eighteen or twenty redskins. They were encamped in a hollow,
and I came on ’em before I knew what was up.”

“And they started to capture you?”

“Three of ’em did capture me, but I knocked one of ’em over and broke
away. They fired on me, and one shot passed through my hair.” The
hunter pointed to where several locks had been cut away. “It was a
close hair-cut, Colonel.”

“But how did you get hit in the leg?”

“That came later. I got away, as I said, and hid in a hollow log. But
the redskins followed my trail, and I had to leave the log and take to
the woods. When I came out on the cliff one of ’em took a long shot
at me with a rifle, and hit me as you see. I fell off the cliff, and
nearly broke my other leg doing it. Then I crawled into the bushes and
laid low. They tramped all around the spot, but good luck was with me,
and they passed me by. They might have remained around here only, I
reckon, they knew you were on the trail,” concluded Brinker.

“We’ll have to send you back to the fort,” said Colonel Boone. “You are
not fit to go forward with us.”

“Can you send me back?”

“I think so. There are two others going back. They can take you.”

Brinker was then questioned concerning the Indians he had encountered.
He said they were part of Long Knife’s warriors, but that the chief had
not been with them.

“They had two captives with them,” he continued.

“Two captives!” exclaimed Joe. “Who were they?”

“I didn’t git a good look at ’em, lad. They were a man and a woman.”

“Perhaps the woman was my mother.”

“Is your mother missing?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I didn’t see the woman very closely. Fact is, I had all I could
do to get away. They wanted to either kill or capture me the worst
way,” added Brinker.

“Then you can’t describe the prisoners at all?”

“The man was tall, and looked rather old. The woman was sitting down,
and had her back to me, so I can’t tell how tall she was, or how she
looked.”

This was all Brinker could tell, and he was so weak that to make him
talk more would have been cruel. He was placed in charge of a pioneer
who had once served as a nurse in an army hospital, and later on
returned to Boonesborough with the others Colonel Boone had mentioned.

“He can be thankful he escaped with his life,” said Joe to Andrew
Pembly.

“He can thank you for finding him,” answered the pioneer. “Had you
passed him by he would most likely have died in the hollow.”

“I wish he had seen that woman who was a captive.”

“I don’t think it was your mother, Joe. She is probably miles and miles
away from here.”

“That is true. But she might have heard something of my mother--through
the Indians.”

“’Taint likely--the redskins won’t tell much about their prisoners.
They are too afraid of having their captives followed up by friends.”

The march was once more forward, over a stretch of ground thick with
thorny underbrush where more than one hunting garb became badly torn.
Here Joe took two tumbles, and scratched both his hands and his face.
But he did not complain, knowing that many of his companions were in a
similar plight.

At the end of the day the hunters found themselves on the bank of a
stream that flowed into the main river a dozen miles away. It was an
ideal spot for resting, and a long and careful search revealed no
Indians in the immediate vicinity.

Nothing came to disturb the camp that night, although a strict watch
was kept, and by daybreak the hunters were again on the march. Soon
they struck the trail of the Indians, and Daniel Boone calculated that
the enemy were not less than two hundred in number. Only a few were on
horseback.

As the hunters advanced scouts were sent out ahead, and presently two
of these came running back with the information that the Indians were
making for a long valley straight ahead.

“That is Bear Valley,” said Daniel Boone. “I know it well. Beyond is a
heavy forest. If they reach that they will surely get away. We must try
to come up to them before the end of the valley is reached.”

It was a hot, dry day, but a lively breeze was blowing, which made the
air seem somewhat cooler than it really was. The breeze had been on the
hunters’ backs, but now it began to swerve around until it came almost
from their front.

More than half the valley had been traveled when the hunters came to
a somewhat narrow pass, hemmed in with hemlocks and cedars, and large
quantities of small brush. As they entered this pass Boone suddenly
called a halt.

“Stop, men!” came in a loud voice, and then he continued, “What do you
smell?”

“Smoke!” came promptly from a dozen of the party.

“It’s coming from the left, colonel.”

“It’s coming from dead ahead.”

“I believe they have set the forest on fire,” went on Daniel Boone.

“That is just what they have,” cried one old frontiersman. “And set it
on fire in half a dozen places, too!”

The hunters could now see the smoke plainly. It came from ahead and
from both sides of the valley. The brisk breeze was fanning the flames,
which spread with marvelous rapidity.

“They want to hem us in,” said Colonel Boone. “Well, we’ll see if they
are able to do it.”

The Indians were shouting defiance to their enemies. They had withdrawn
to the sides of the valley, and now they sent in a dozen or more shots
from the few rifles they possessed.

With fire ahead and on both sides, there was nothing to do but retreat,
and, much as he hated to give the order, Boone told his men to fall
back.

“We can circle the hill on our left,” he said. “I know a deer trail
running to the river ahead.”

The whole party turned and began to retrace their steps. The smoke
was thick about them, and the breeze began to send the burning embers
flying in all directions.

“I wonder if we’ll be able to get out of this alive,” said Joe.

“We’ll be all right unless the redskins have set fire to the brush
behind us,” answered one of the hunters.

None of the party lost time in turning back. The breeze was increasing,
and soon the thick smoke swept downward, filling the narrow valley from
end to end.

“Oh, but this is awful!” gasped Joe, and then began to cough.

“Don’t stop, men!” shouted Daniel Boone. “Don’t stop, or it may be the
death of you!”

With so many men crowding the narrow trail, progress was not near as
rapid as it might otherwise have been, and long before the back end of
the valley was gained more than one settler was ready to drop from the
effects of the smoke.

Joe went on half blindly, the tears running from his eyes. He knew that
the fire was sweeping down from the other end of the valley, and that
the breeze would soon carry it in their very midst unless they made a
rapid escape.

He was almost ready to drop, when the wind shifted, and for a minute
gave him and the others a draught of fresh air. This revived all of the
hunters, and they pushed onward with renewed energy.

“If we ever git out o’ this air trap, them redskins shall pay dearly
fer the trick,” announced one old frontiersman, and many of the party
agreed with him.

The wind was shifting to the other end of the valley, and now came
a cry from ahead that caused every heart in the party to jump with
renewed fear.

“They have set fire to this end of the valley, too! We are hemmed in by
the flames!”

The report was true. Some of the Indians had secreted themselves in
the bushes, and they had not been discovered by the guards sent out
by Boone. As soon as the whites had passed, they had set fire to some
bushes in the vicinity, and then ran around to the front by means of
a narrow trail which was well known to them leading over one of the
hills.

“We’ll have to make a dash right through the fire, I am afraid,” said
Daniel Boone.

“Unless we can find some spot where the bushes haven’t caught yet,”
said another old hunter.

“Here is a small brook!” cried a third. “I’m going to souse myself in
that.”

This last suggestion was considered good, and in a twinkling all of the
party had leaped into the brook and wet themselves from head to feet.

It was well that they did this, for the burning embers were now blowing
about more thickly than ever. Joe caught some of the fire on his neck
and some on his left hand, and his eyebrows were singed.

It was now a mad rush, each man for himself. The crowd had scattered to
the right and the left of two patches of brushwood that were blazing
fiercely.

At last Joe found himself face to face with the belt of fire. It
stretched far to the left and the right.

“No loophole there,” he thought grimly, but a moment later saw a spot
where the brushwood had already burnt to the ground. The spot was a
hundred feet wide and still hot and smoking, yet he did not hesitate,
but leaped over it with the best rate of speed that he could command.

With his eyes half filled with smoke, the young pioneer could see but
little, and consequently he did not notice a sink-hole in the very
center of the burnt-over tract. Down he went into this morass up to his
waist, and there he stuck as firmly as if in so much glue.

It was a moment of peril, and it must be admitted that Joe’s heart sank
within him. The smoke was rolling all around him, and he expected to be
smothered in short order. In vain he tugged to get of the sink-hole.
The more he tried the deeper he appeared to sink.

“Help! help!” he cried, with all the vigor that he could command.
“Help! I am fast in a sink-hole!”

Again and again he cried out, but nobody appeared to hear him, and
through the drifting and swirling smoke he could see next to nothing.

In the meantime the hunters were rushing in half a dozen directions.
The majority were following the watercourse, and by bending low in
this they managed to pass the belt of fire. The Indians had piled some
brushwood over the stream and set it on fire, but this was kicked away
by the running settlers.

Joe felt his senses leaving him, when he fancied he saw a man running
close to where he was held a prisoner.

“Help!” he called feebly. “Please help me!”

“Who calls?” came back, in a thick voice, as though the speaker himself
could scarcely use his voice.

“It is I, Joe Winship. I am fast in a sink-hole. Help me!”

“Where are you, Joe?” and now the lad recognized the voice of Daniel
Boone.

“Here! Oh, Colonel Boone, save me!”

The form came closer, and presently Joe saw Boone. The young pioneer
stretched out his arms eagerly.

“Hullo, this is a bad fix,” murmured Boone, as he took in the situation
at a glance.

Coming to the edge of the sink-hole he placed his feet on the firmest
spot to be found, and then caught Joe under the arms. A long, hard
pull, that made the lad think he was going to be disjointed, followed,
and then up he came.

“Can you stand?” asked Daniel Boone, and then as he saw the boy falter,
he caught up the body, slung it over his shoulder, and made off amid
the smoke and the flying embers.

In another five minutes both Boone and Joe were out of danger. They
had reached a spot a fair distance from the burning forest, and each
squatted in the brook up to their armpits and washed their flushed and
scorched faces and hands in the cool liquid. About half of the party
that had gone out after the Indians were doing the same. What had
become of the other hunters nobody knew.

It was not until nightfall that Daniel Boone was able to get his men
together again. It was found that one had been burnt up by the fire,
and half a dozen seriously injured. Three Indians had been shot, but
the others had departed for parts unknown.

The body of the dead man had to be taken back to the settlement, and
the wounded cared for, so that immediate pursuit of the Indians was
out of the question--and, indeed, nobody of the party just then felt
like moving. The smoke in the valley was as thick as ever, and this now
covered both hills.

“We will go into camp here,” said Colonel Boone, and this was done,
and the pioneers rested for the best part of a week. During those days
the injured returned home, and ten other settlers came from another
settlement to take their places.

On the eighth day the men under Boone prepared to move forward once
again. A heavy rain had drowned out the forest fire, and the trail
over one of the hills was found to be perfectly safe to travel.

The order to march had just been given when one of the sharpshooters
who was in advance came running back with news of importance.

“A body of white men are approaching!” he cried. “And unless I am
greatly mistaken they are the men who left the fort last fall to see if
they couldn’t rescue the captives the Indians took at that time.”




CHAPTER XXVI

THE ATTACK ON THE FORT


“My father must be with that party!”

Such was the thought which rushed into Joe’s mind when he heard the
announcement made by the sharpshooter.

The news created a stir among the followers of Daniel Boone, and all of
the party hurried forward to meet the newcomers.

The other party looked travel-stained and weary. Their hunting garbs
were almost reduced to rags, and more than one was suffering from
wounds.

Joe looked at the men eagerly, and his heart fell when he realized that
neither his father nor Mr. Parsons was among them.

“We have had a long, hard siege of it,” said one of the hunters. “We
have had half a dozen battles with the redskins and had a last brush
with them day before yesterday while on our way to this spot. They
seemed to be coming from here.”

“That must have been the band that set fire to this forest,” said
Daniel Boone.

From one of the hunters, old Pep Frost, Joe obtained the particulars of
the advance on the Indians.

“We had two fights with ’em afore winter closed in on us,” said Frost.
“Then we went into quarters on the sunny side o’ a cliff and went to
shootin’ game to keep us alive.”

“But what of my father and of Mr. Parsons?” asked Joe impatiently. “And
did you see anything of my mother and Clara Parsons?”

“One question at a time, lad. Yes, we saw both your mother and Clara
Parsons, and two other captives, and we got ’em all away from the
Injuns. That was a month ago. But two days later the redskins came down
on us stronger nor ever and took the captives back. Your father and Mr.
Parsons were fer following ’em up at once, and did so--an’ thet’s the
last any o’ us saw o’ ’em.”

“Then you don’t know what has become of my father?”

“Nuthin’ further nor thet, Joey. It’s too bad, but I can’t give ye
nuthin’ but the truth,” answered Pep Frost.

It was a great blow, and, coming after such a long wait, was doubly
telling. The young pioneer covered his face with his hands and gave a
long, deep sigh.

“I don’t know what the folks at home will say of this,” he remarked,
after a silence.

“I am truly sorry for ye, Joey, indeed I am. Let us hope it all turns
out for the best.”

Again the party under Daniel Boone went forward, and two days later a
small part of the Indians under Long Knife were engaged. Joe was in the
thick of this contest, and had the satisfaction of bringing down one
Indian, who was afterward finished by Boone with a hunting knife.

This was the end of the pursuit. From one of the Indians it was learned
that another attack was contemplated on the fort at Boonesborough, and
so the settlers returned to that vicinity, unwilling to remain away and
leave the fort and the homesteads unprotected.

When Joe came back with the news brought in by Pep Frost and the others
who had gone away the year before, there was a good deal of crying on
the part of Mrs. Parsons and Harmony and Cora.

“The hand of Providence is surely against us,” said the Quakeress.
“We have done wrong by coming here and settling on the lands of the
Indians. Would that the others were back once more, and that we might
return to the East.”

Harry had but little to say, but Joe understood his chum.

“It’s awful,” said Joe, when the two were alone in the garden. “I can’t
imagine what is going to happen next.”

“Nor I,” returned Harry. “Perhaps mother is right and we did wrong to
settle on these lands.”

“No. I can’t believe that. If we didn’t come, others would. There will
be cities and towns without number here some day, Harry.”

The threatened attack on the fort at Boonesborough did not take place,
for Long Knife was afraid to march against the garrison now stationed
there. But other settlements were visited, and during that summer and
winter eight settlers were killed by the red men. More than two dozen
families grew utterly discouraged and sold off their belongings for a
song and returned to the East.

It was a dark winter all around--dark for these pioneers who had done
so much to make a home for themselves in the wilderness, and doubly
dark for the ragged and ill-fed army under General Washington who were
doing their best to drive the soldiers of England from American soil.

As the winter passed away the Indians grew bolder, and hardly a
week passed that they did not raid some settlement. Sometimes they
only drove away the horses and cattle, but often they would kill and
scalp every man, woman, and child they could lay their hands upon.
The battles were not always one-sided, and twice the Indians were
surrounded and fully a score of them were killed or made prisoners.

During those days it was almost impossible to do much around the cabin
home. When the boys worked in the garden--for the time to plow was now
at hand--they had their firearms close by, ready for use, and when they
went to the forest for wood, they always surveyed the locality with
care and retreated to the cabin at the first indication of danger.

Inside the cabin it was the same. A rifle stood behind the door loaded
all the time, and neither Mrs. Parsons nor the girls thought of going
to the spring for a bucket of water unless they were satisfied the
coast was clear. Often the various inmates of the cabin would stand
watch during the night, fearing a raid or another attempt to burn the
home over their heads.

“We can’t stand this very long,” remarked Joe one day. “I’m getting to
be as nervous as a cat.”

“I am the same,” answered Harry. “Every sound makes me jump as if a
pistol had exploded at my ear.”

“If only father would come home--and your father and the others.”

That was always the way their talk ended--if only the others would
return. And it made them heartsick beyond description.

“If it wasn’t for the women folks we could go on a hunt for them,” said
Joe. “But it wouldn’t be right to leave them here alone.”

This was in the early spring, and a few days later a scout came in with
the information that the Indians were once more gathering for an attack
on the fort.

At once messengers were sent in all directions, and the settlers were
told to hasten into Boonesborough without delay. Some few remained
at their homes, but the Parsons and the Winships decided to seek the
protection of the fort.

The attack came on the 15th of April, 1777. The Indians were about
a hundred strong, and the garrison at that time numbered less than
fifty,--some writers state less than forty,--for many of the settlers
were away on a hunting tour.

The first assault of the red men was a fierce one. A shower of arrows
were sent against and over the stockade that did no damage, and then
the warriors came forward, uttering their shrill war-whoops, and
flourishing their tomahawks and hunting knives.

“Here they come!” cried half a dozen of the settlers who were at the
loopholes.

“Stand firm!” was the command. “Don’t fire until you are sure of your
man!”

On came the red men, shouting and dancing, and another flight of arrows
came over the stockade. Then the pioneers opened fire, and down went
three Indians, two killed instantly.

After that the smoke and din of battle were terrific. The Indians ran
from one end of the stockade to the other, trying to climb the barrier
or break it down. A log was brought and used as a battering-ram against
the heavy gates. But they were securely barred on the inside, and
before those at the log could use the ram more than once two of them
were laid low, and then the others dropped the log and ran for shelter.

“Hurrah! they are on the run!” was the cry, and the settlers reloaded
their guns with all possible speed.

But the Indians were not yet defeated. Soon they came forward again,
and this attack lasted quarter of an hour. A good number of stones were
hurled into the fort, and one hit Joe on the shoulder, causing him to
cry out from pain.

“What is it?” came quickly from Harry.

“A stone hit me. Oh!” And Joe dropped his gun and rubbed the hurt.
Fortunately no bones were broken, and he soon picked up his weapon and
went to his loophole again.

The temper of the settlers was now thoroughly aroused, and they met the
second onslaught of the Indians with vigor. There was a constant rattle
of musketry, and soon the red men grew disheartened and retreated once
more. Then the pioneers opened the gates and made after their foe, and
the Indians ran helter-skelter in all directions, taking their dead and
dying with them.

It is a most remarkable fact that in this battle but one pioneer lost
his life, and only two or three were seriously wounded. How many the
Indians lost will never be known, for, as stated before, they took all
their dead and dying with them. A fair estimate, however, places their
dead at not less than twenty.

As night was coming on, it was not deemed advisable to let the settlers
return to their homes, so the families remained in the fort until the
next day. During the night a rainstorm came up, and in the morning the
downpour was heavy. But by noon the clouds drifted westward and soon
the sun shone as brightly as ever.

The storm was a blessing to many a settler, for it prevented his cabin
from being burnt down by the Indians, who ran around from place to
place, with big torches, doing all the damage they could.

After the contest was over, Joe uncovered his shoulder and found it
considerably bruised. Mrs. Parsons dressed it, and though it hurt for
several days afterward, no serious results followed.

“I reckon I can be thankful that I wasn’t touched,” said Harry. “An
arrow passed right alongside of my left ear--but a miss is as good as a
mile.”

“I’ll wager a pound that the redskins come back before long,” said Joe.
“They are bound to wipe this settlement out if they possibly can.”

It was decided that Joe and Harry should return home first, leaving
Mrs. Parsons and the girls at the fort until the morning following.

“There is no telling in what condition the Indians have left the
cabin,” said Joe. “For all we know it may be burnt to the ground.”

“That is true,” answered his chum. “Although I saw no fire in that
direction, did you?”

“To tell the truth, I didn’t look--my shoulder pained me so much.”

The boys were soon on the way, going part of the distance with some
other settlers. The heavy rains had left the trail ankle deep with mud,
so their progress was somewhat slow. At last, however, they came in
sight of the cabin.

“Hurrah! it is still standing!” cried Harry. “That is something to be
thankful for.”

“But they tried to burn it down, Harry. See, here is a mass of
half-burnt brushwood heaped up against the north side. If it hadn’t
been for the storm our cabin would now be in ashes.”

“They have burst in the back door, Joe!” was the next cry. “And see,
the living room is about empty.”

Both ran into the cabin and gazed around them in dismay. One glance
told the truth. The cabin had been looted from end to end, and all the
small articles of value, including all of their cooking utensils, had
been taken away.




CHAPTER XXVII

SHOT ON THE ROOF


“The rascals!”

Such were Joe’s words, as he gazed around the looted cabin. Yes, every
small article of value was gone, including the knives and spoons, the
trinkets belonging to the girls, and Mrs. Parsons’ sewing outfit.

“Even the fishing poles are gone--and those new hooks I got last week,”
said Harry.

“They took that old Dutch pistol, too,” added Joe. “I hope it bursts to
pieces the first time they try to use it,” he went on bitterly.

“Do you suppose they found the money?”

“I don’t know. We can soon see.”

Between them Mr. Winship and Mr. Parsons had had about thirty pounds--a
hundred and fifty dollars--in cash. Before leaving to hunt up the
Indians they had placed this money in an earthen jar and secreted it
under the flooring of one of the bedrooms. Without delay the boys ran
into the bedroom and pulled up the puncheon log under which the jar had
been hidden.

“It is gone!” came from Joe’s lips.

“Gone?” groaned his chum. “Are you certain?”

“Of course I am. Here is the very spot where the jar rested in the
ground.”

“Perhaps my mother took up the jar before she left the cabin.”

“Did she say anything about it to you?”

“No.”

“Then I reckon your mother didn’t touch it. But I would like to be
sure.”

They hunted around the cabin, but could see nothing of the jar. Then
they visited the loft of the home. This had also been robbed of the few
articles of value that it had contained.

“They came pretty close to making a clean sweep of it,” remarked Joe
disconsolately.

“They are bound to make us give up living here, Joe.”

“It looks like it, Harry, but”--Joe drew a deep breath--“they shan’t
scare me away--at least, not as long as anybody else is willing to
remain in Boonesborough.”

“I say the same.”

A little later they returned to the fort and acquainted Mrs. Parsons
and the girls with the conditions of affairs.

“I feared as much,” said Mrs. Parsons, with a shake of her head. “’Tis
truly awful. But, Harry, art thee sure the jar is missing?”

“Yes, mother.”

“I touched it not, my son. If thee has not seen it, then the Indians
stole it.”

“And all the cooking things gone!” put in Harmony. “However are we
going to cook?”

“You’ll have to do as we do when we are on a hunting tour,” said Harry.
“I believe they left one old iron pot--the one with the broken side.”

“It’s enough to wish you were back in the East again,” said Cora. She
was more hurt over the loss of a brooch than over anything else. This
had been given to her by her grandmother, and was considered valuable.

There was nothing left to do, however, but to go back to the cabin,
and this they did, and all hands searched around to find such things
as were absolutely necessary. Then Harry and Joe paid a visit to two
neighbors who had not been robbed, and borrowed several pots and
kettles, and a few knives and spoons, and also several towels.

“It is as bad as beginning all over again,” said Mrs. Parsons. “But let
us thank God that our lives have been spared,” she added reverently.

Not long after this attack on the fort at Boonesborough, Colonel Boone
called the settlers together for a “war talk,” as it was called.

“The Indians mean to do their best to wipe us out,” said Boone. “I feel
certain that before a great while they will attack us again, and with
increased numbers. Now, I want to know what you wish to do. If you want
to retreat, there is yet time to do so. If you want to stay, we must
set to work to strengthen the fort.”

There was a moment of silence, and then an old pioneer with white locks
and beard arose.

“Colonel Boone, ye listen to me,” he said, clearly and almost harshly.
“I kem out hyer to settle, an’ I hev settled, an’ no Injuns is gwine
ter unsettle me, onless they kill me fust. Ye kin go back if ye want
to, but ole Bob Chassey stays hyer.”

“Hurrah for Bob Chassey!” cried several.

“That’s the talk,” said another pioneer. “Talk about going back! Whar
are we a-going back to? I aint got no place to go to. I sold out, clean
and clear. I’m a-going to stay here.”

“So am I! So am I!” was heard on every side.

“If the Injuns want to fight, let’s fight ’em,” said another.

These various speeches made Daniel Boone smile broadly. “I see you are
of one heart,” he said. “And I am with you. We’ll stick and fight it
out, if it takes years to do it. I believe if we give the Indians one
good sound licking when they come again, they will leave us alone for a
good long spell.”

The very next day men were set to work to strengthen and extend the
stockade of the fort, which now took in not only the defense proper,
but also a number of cabins close by. Each man and boy had to work two
days per week on the fort, and some worked more, so anxious were they
to have all in readiness should another attack come in the near future.

For the stockade of the fort a goodly number of small trees were
needed. All those in the immediate vicinity of the stronghold had been
cut down, so the pioneers had to go up and down the river for more
logs. Trees growing close to the water’s edge would be cut, and a
number would be formed into a raft, to be floated or poled to the spot
desired.

One day in the middle of the week found Joe, Harry, and Darry Ford
hard at work up the river. They had already brought down six trees of
fair size, and were at work on three more. When these were down they
intended to build a rude raft of the nine logs, and float them to a
spot Colonel Boone had mentioned to them.

Not far from where the three pioneers were working was the log cabin of
Andrew Pembly. Here the pioneer resided with his wife and six small
children. The trees that were being cut were on Pembly’s land, but he
was perfectly willing to have them taken away for purposes of defense.

Pembly was not at home, but his wife and children were, and several of
the little ones came down to the river front to see the boys at work.

“I don’t think you ought to be down here,” said Joe to a little girl of
six, Mary by name.

“Why can’t I be here?” questioned Mary innocently.

“I don’t think it is quite safe. There may be Indians around watching
us.”

“Oh, I am not afraid,” was the ready reply.

“But you ought to be. Better run up to the house where your mamma is.”

“No, I am going to stay here,” answered the little girl, tossing her
yellow curls. “If the bad Indians come you can shoot them all down with
your big gun.”

“Well, if that isn’t cool!” exclaimed Harry, with a laugh. “Joe, she
has cut out a neat bit of work for you.”

“And it’s such an easy thing to do, too,” put in Darry Ford. “Of
course, the Indians will all stand up in a row for you, so that you
won’t have any trouble in knocking them over.”

“If I had a gun I could shoot an Indian,” went on little Mary. “Let me
have your gun, and I’ll show you.”

“No, no, don’t you touch the gun,” answered Joe hastily.

Presently the little children began to pick up the chips of wood. These
they carried to the stream, and tossed them in to see them float away.

“That’s a waste of good chips,” said Harry. Then he continued to one of
the little boys: “Here, Freddy, you go to the house, and get a basket
for those chips. Your mother will want them for the fire.”

At once Freddy started off, and all of the others but little Mary went
with him. The little girl continued to throw chips into the stream, a
proceeding that seemed to interest her very much.

The three trees were now almost down, and the young pioneers worked
with a will to complete their day’s labor in the forest. Harry’s tree
came down first, and Darry’s was quick to follow. Joe had five minutes
more of work, and went at it with renewed energy.

Just as the third tree came down a scream from the river bank startled
all three of the boys.

“It’s Mary Pembly!” cried Darry.

Darry was right; the scream had come from the little girl. She had
ventured too close to the water, her feet had slipped, and down she
had gone, over her head.

The current was swift, and by the time the boys reached the water-front
the little girl was fully fifty feet away. She had come to the surface,
and was spluttering and crying wildly.

“Take me out!” she cried. “I don’t like the nasty water!”

“She’ll be drowned!” ejaculated Darry.

“Not if I can help it!” came from Harry.

He flung off his jacket and shoes, and without hesitation ran down the
river bank a hundred feet or more. Then he plunged in and began to swim
toward the little girl with all the strength at his command.

Ordinarily Harry was a good swimmer, but the chopping down of three
trees had tired him, and by the time he gained the middle of the river
Mary Pembly had floated past the spot. Panting somewhat for breath,
Harry made after her.

She was going down again, when he caught hold of her arm, and drew her
toward him.

“Oh, help me, please!” she spluttered, and then caught him around the
neck in a tight embrace.

“Don’t--don’t hold me so tight!” he gasped. “I’ll--I’ll save you.”

But he could not reason with her, and in her fright she only clung
tighter than ever, until he was nearly strangled.

“Harry is having his hands full,” cried Joe, as he ran along the river
bank watching the scene.

“If he isn’t careful, they’ll both go down,” put in Darry.

“I’m going to run ahead to the bend, Darry. Perhaps I can give him a
lift there.”

The bend was two hundred feet further down the river, and Joe sped to
the spot with all speed.

Here there was a low-bending tree, with branches spreading far over the
watercourse.

Without hesitation the young pioneer leaped into the tree, and made
his way out on the branches, that hung but a couple of yards above the
surface of the river.

At first, owing to the thick growth in that vicinity, he could see
little or nothing.

“Harry, where are you?” he called.

“Help, Joe, help!” was the answer. “She is dragging me down!”

With these words Harry and his burden came into view. Little Mary clung
as tight as ever, and it was next to impossible for Harry to do any
swimming. He was treading water, but had gone down over his head twice.

Nearer and nearer swept the pair in the stream, and bending low Joe
managed at last to catch little Mary by the arm.

“Come up here,” he said. “I will save you.”

She hardly understood the words, so great was her terror. But she saw
the tree and Joe, and, letting go her hold of Harry, clutched both in a
death-like grip. Then Joe caught her tight and soon carried her to the
shore.

“My, but that was more than I bargained for!” gasped Harry, when he
managed to crawl from the stream.

“I don’t like the river at all,” came from little Mary. Then she looked
at her wet and muddy frock. “Oh, my beautiful dress! What will mamma
say?”

“Never mind the dress,” answered Joe.

He took her to the log cabin, and Harry followed. One of the children
had just brought in word that Mary had fallen into the river, and Mrs.
Pembly was highly excited.

“My child! my child!” she exclaimed. “Is she safe?”

“Yes, she’s all right,” answered Joe. “Harry saved her.”

“Joe had something to do with it,” put in Harry.

The story was soon told, and Mrs. Pembly thanked them over and over
again for their services.

“I have warned Mary not to go near the river,” said she. “She was a
naughty girl to go.”

“Mary will never, never go there again,” said the child. “The river is
all muddy and wet--it aint a nice river at all!”

Harry was given a shift of clothing belonging to Andrew Pembly, and
this he put on while his own were drying at the fire. Fortunately
neither the youth nor the little girl suffered from the wetting
received.

“I shall never forget your kindness,” said Mrs. Pembly. And she never
did.

It was no easy work to bring the nine logs together and float them
down to the fort, and it was after dark when the task was finally
accomplished.

The news of the rescue had preceded them, and Harry was hailed as a
hero, something that made him blush a good deal.

“I reckon I only did my duty,” he said. “It wasn’t much either. I could
have gotten to shore easily if she hadn’t caught me by the neck and cut
off my wind.”

“You’re a hero right enough,” said Darry. “And Joe deserves some
credit, too.”

The time for planting was once again at hand, and Joe and Harry worked
early and late, and always with their weapons where they could lay
hands upon the guns at the first intimation of danger. How little do
boys of to-day realize the perils and hardships of the years gone by!

In the cabin Mrs. Parsons and the girls were equally busy. All arose at
four o’clock in the morning, and it was rarely that anybody turned in
to sleep before nine or ten in the evening. In those days there were
no such things as amusements, for the dread of another attack by the
Indians was on every mind. Every Sunday a service was held at the fort
by a traveling preacher, who had come there some months before, and
this service was the only gathering Mrs. Parsons and the girls attended.

On the Fourth of July--just one year after the Declaration of
Independence had been declared--Joe and Harry were hard at work in the
field, when a horseman, his steed covered with foam, dashed up to the
cabin.

“The Indians are coming!” he shouted. “To the fort with all speed!”
And then, having made sure that his message was heard, he rode off as
rapidly as he had come.

“The Indians! The Indians!” shouted one and another.

It had been decided long before what should be done in case of such
a warning, so there was little confusion. Mrs. Parsons had a large
cloth handy, and into this she and the girls dumped such things as
they wished to take along. In the meantime the boys came running up,
obtained all their available weapons, and then shut up and otherwise
secured the cabin.

Inside of ten minutes all were on their way to the fort. They were soon
joined by several neighbors, and from one of these learned that Colonel
Boone had discovered that the red men were marching on Boonesborough,
not less than two hundred strong.

“And they are sending other bands of Indians to the other settlements,”
went on the pioneer.

“That is too bad,” answered Joe. “For in that case we can’t look for
outside help.”

“It’s going to be a fight to a finish, this time, Joe.”

When they arrived at the fort they found but a handful of hunters and
pioneers present. Many men were off a great distance, and although they
were notified, they did not come in until several days later. All told,
there were exactly twenty-two men on hand, and nine youths over the age
of twelve.

Soon the outposts announced that the Indians were less than a mile
away, and coming toward the fort as fast as they could travel. Colonel
Boone immediately assembled his force and gave each man and youth his
station, and also told the women and girls what they might do if called
on for assistance. Every part of the fort and grounds was wet down, so
that there might be no danger of fire.

The first shock of the attack was not long in coming. Relying upon
their superior force, the Indians advanced boldly, sending a flight
of arrows against and over the stockade, and also firing off the few
muskets they possessed. Their yells and war-whoops were deafening, and
the pioneers answered with a ringing shout of defiance.

Boone’s men had been cautioned, time and again, to save their powder
and bullets, and not one fired until he could make sure of his aim.
As the Indians hurled themselves against the stockade the rifles of
the pioneers spoke up and fully a dozen red men were either killed or
wounded.

After this first savage assault, the red men retired to the shelter of
the forest, and for half an hour nothing was seen or heard of them.

“They are up to some new trick,” said Joe. “The Indian is at his worst
when he is quiet.”

Several sharpshooters were in the trees inside the stockade and they
now announced that the red men had built several camp-fires at a
distance.

Then came another shout from the forest, and fully thirty Indians
appeared. Each had a flaming arrow fixed to his bow, and this he let
drive over the stockade among the various buildings within.

“They are going to try to burn us out!” called out a number of the
pioneers.

“Put out the fires!” ordered Daniel Boone, and he himself went around
stamping out one arrow after another. The women appeared with buckets
of water and wet swabs, and soon every arrow but one was extinguished.
This arrow was on a sloping roof and burned fiercely.

“I reckon I can get that,” called out Harry, and, throwing down his
musket, he started to climb to the top of the building.

“Have a care there!” called out Daniel Boone.

“I’m on the watch,” answered Harry.

It was no mean task to reach the roof of the log building, and once
there Harry had a hard task of it to put out the flames, which were
spreading in spite of the wetting the building had received.

“Here is a wet cloth,” called out Joe, and threw the object up to his
chum.

[Illustration: “HE DROPPED, A DEAD WEIGHT, INTO JOE’S ARMS.”--P. 291.]


Harry caught the cloth and was just on the point of pounding out some
more of the fire with it, when another flight of arrows came into the
inclosure.

One arrow struck the young pioneer in the leg, and another in the arm.

“Oh!” he cried. “I am struck!”

“Harry! Harry! come down!” called out Joe.

He had scarcely spoken when Harry pitched headlong on the roof of the
building. Then he rolled over and over down to the edge and dropped a
dead weight into Joe’s arms.




CHAPTER XXVIII

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.




CHAPTER XXIX

THE LONG-LOST AT LAST


At once there was great excitement among the men who had thus followed
Long Knife and his warriors to their newly made camp. Every pioneer and
old hunter felt that a crisis was at hand.

“I think we have the redskins at a disadvantage,” said one old hunter.
“We ought to teach them a lesson they will never forget.”

“Have they any captives with them?” questioned Joe.

This question could not be answered, for part of the Indians’ camp was
concealed by a dense mass of brushwood.

The old hunters now resorted to strategy. The party was divided into
three parts, which were to station themselves around the Indian
encampment at equal distances. At a given signal two of the parties
were to rush forward, and open on the red men. This would most likely
drive the warriors under Long Knife to the shelter of another part of
the forest, and here the third party was to open fire when they had the
Indians at close range.

The hunters and pioneers moved to their stations without the slightest
noise. Each man carried not only his rifle, but also a pistol and a
long hunting knife.

Joe’s heart was thumping wildly, for he knew that this was to be the
most dangerous battle in which he had so far taken part. But his teeth
were firmly set.

“I’ll do my duty if I die for it,” was what he told himself--not once,
but many times.

At last all was in readiness for the attack. The signal was given, and
the whites of the two parties swept in closer still, and then opened
fire.

At the first volley three Indians fell, one killed and the others
mortally wounded. Then a fierce war-whoop sounded, and the braves
caught up their own weapons.

The whites had calculated well, and, as they expected, the red men did
their best to gain the forest ahead of them. As they came on, the third
party of hunters met them, and in this onslaught six Indians fell to
rise no more.

All of the guns and pistols had now been discharged, and a thick smoke
filled the vicinity. In the midst of this, whites and Indians leaped
at each other in a hand-to-hand encounter that was bloody in the
extreme. Blood flowed freely, and Joe saw two old pioneers scalped
before his eyes.

At the first shock of battle the young pioneer was stunned. But soon
his presence of mind returned to him, and he became unusually cool and
collected. He discharged his pistol almost in the face of one brawny
Indian, and then engaged another with his hunting knife.

It was a sharp struggle, and as the pair grappled, the Indian slipped
and dragged Joe down with him. Over and over they rolled, and the
red man at last succeeded in wounding Joe in the shoulder. But the
youth was game and struck out wildly, and by a lucky stroke caught
his opponent in the ribs. Then, as another white came running up, the
Indian arose and staggered off. Joe also tried to get up, but a foot
suddenly struck him a heavy blow back of the ear, and he fell on his
face, unconscious.

The tide of war was now shifting to another part of the forest, and for
the time being the young pioneer lay where he had fallen with nobody
coming to disturb him. The fighting was as fierce as ever, but was
gradually lost in the distance.

At last Joe stirred and opened his eyes in a dazed, uncertain way.
Then, thinking his enemy still at hand, he threw up one arm, as if to
defend himself.

“Fight fair,” he murmured, and soon sat up, staring around him.

He was much surprised to find himself alone. The blood was flowing from
the wound he had received, but fortunately the hurt was not severe.

He remembered that there had been a stream at hand, and he crawled
rather than walked to this, to bathe his wound and get a drink of water.

“I must have been completely knocked out,” was his thought. “I wonder
what became of that Indian?”

After bathing and drinking his fill, he sat down by the edge of the
stream to collect his scattered senses. He could not tell how long it
was since he had been fighting.

“Must be an hour or two at least,” he told himself. “Anyway, everybody
seems to have cleared out, and left me to myself. I wonder if we
whipped them?”

Joe was sitting on the river bank, when presently something up the
stream attracted his attention. It was a canoe coming around a bend,
and the craft contained two Indians.

“Hullo, I’ll have to get out of sight,” he muttered, and started to
move back, when he received a push that sent him headlong into the
river.

By the time he came to the surface, the canoe was drawing close.
Looking on the river bank he saw three Indians standing there, each
armed with a rifle and a tomahawk. One of the red men was Long Knife.

“White boy is a prisoner,” cried the Indian chief, his eyes gleaming
wickedly. “If try to run Long Knife will tomahawk him.”

There was no help for it, and Joe walked out of the river, and
submitted to having his hands tied behind him. Then he was ordered
into the canoe, which was a large craft, and Long Knife and the others
followed.

The course of the canoe was along the stream, which was not over
fifteen feet in width, and very winding. The primeval forest arose on
both sides, and in many places the branches of the trees interlaced,
making the surface of the watercourse dark and cool.

Joe had no idea where he was being taken, and the Indians would answer
no questions. Long Knife and his followers seemed unusually silent and
bitter, and from this the young pioneer came to the conclusion that the
battle had gone against them, and with heavy loss.

“If that’s the case they won’t have much mercy on me,” he reasoned.

The canoe kept on its way for many miles and then took to another
watercourse, which was twice as wide as the first. The Indians were
now approaching one of their regular villages, and they passed along
in absolute silence, doubtless thinking that the whites might be there
awaiting their coming.

But none of the hunters who had gone forth to fight them were in the
vicinity, and soon an old Indian met them and told them that all so far
was safe.

“It is well,” said Long Knife gruffly. Then he ordered the canoe
brought around to another bend, and here the party went ashore, taking
Joe with them.

The village was rather a straggling one, extending from the river to
a spring far up among the rocks. Here the Indians had erected a rude
stockade and inside were half a dozen prisoners.

“You shall remain there until another sun,” said Long Knife. “And let
not the white boy try to escape,” he added. “Long Knife knows how to
torture those who will not obey him.”

“I reckon you are bloodthirsty enough for anything,” muttered Joe in
return.

He entered the rude stockade with downcast heart, but hardly was he
within than he gave a sudden shout of half wonder and half joy:

“Mother!”

“Joe! my Joe!” was the answer, and in a moment more mother and son were
in each other’s arms.

It was indeed Mrs. Winship, but so thin and careworn that none but one
closely connected with her would have recognized the lady. With Mrs.
Winship was Clara Parsons, who was also amazed to see the lad she knew
so well.

“How came you here?” asked Mrs. Winship, after their greeting was over.

“It’s a long story, mother,” Joe answered, and then he told her of the
fight and of his capture, and then of life in Boonesborough and at the
fort, and of how the others were faring.

“We have had many ups and downs since we were captured,” said Mrs.
Winship. “Our adventures would fill a book. We escaped twice, and three
times your father and others tried to rescue us. But it has all been of
no avail, and here we are still, and likely to remain, I suppose.” And
the good woman heaved a long sigh.

“Well, so long as we are alive let us hope for the best,” answered
Joe, as cheerfully as he could. “Of one thing I am sure. The Indians
were defeated in that last battle, and it may be that our friends will
now take steps to round them all up and make them give up all their
captives.”

“Oh, I hope that happens!” cried Clara Parsons. “I am almost crazy to
see mother and Harry and father again--and to see that cabin you say
you have built.”

On the whole Mrs. Winship and Clara had been treated fairly well. The
woman had been made to work with the squaws, and Long Knife had urged
Clara many times to become his wife. But the girl had refused him, and
this had pleased Cornball, an old dame who was already the chief’s
spouse.

“Cornball wants me to keep on refusing him,” said Clara. “She says
that as long as I do so she will protect both me and your mother. She
doesn’t care much for Long Knife, but she says he has no right to marry
anybody else.”

“Good for the old squaw,” answered Joe. “I hope she sticks by you until
we are all rescued.”

That night a strict guard was kept, not alone around the village, but
also over the prisoners in the stockade. Long Knife expected an attack
hourly by the whites, but it did not come.

“They have missed the trail,” he said at last to some of his warriors.
“Sleeping Bear has thrown dust into their eyes.” He referred to a brave
who had gone off with the express purpose of “working” a blind trail,
thus throwing the whites off the track.

It was nearly noon of the next day that Long Knife came in to see
Joe. His face was more sour than ever, for a report had come in that
his loss in the last battle was nearly twice as large as at first
anticipated.

“Does the white boy remember Long Knife?” he asked abruptly, as he
stood before Joe with folded arms.

“I do,” answered Joe, knowing that nothing was to be gained by evasion.

“Does the white boy remember when he saw Long Knife in a canoe with a
white maiden?”

“Yes.”

“The white boy tried his best to kill Long Knife.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” cried Joe. “The white maiden was my sister. Long
Knife had no right to carry her off.”

“Long Knife has a right to do as pleases him,” answered the Indian
coldly. “He bows to no law of the white man.”

To this Joe did not answer.

“The white boy has found his mother here?” went on the Indian.

“Yes. And you have no right to keep her a captive either.”

“Bah! The white boy must not talk in that manner to a chief of the red
warriors. Does the white boy know why I have brought him here?”

“To keep me a prisoner, I suppose.”

“No; Long Knife wants him not as a prisoner. Long Knife looks for more
than that. He wants some sport--and he is going to have it.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“Long Knife will give to the white boy’s mother a sight that will
please her eyes. She shall see her son burnt at the stake.”




CHAPTER XXX

BACK TO THE CABIN--CONCLUSION


Joe had often heard of the extreme cruelties of the Indians, and now
he was brought face to face with what might be expected of such a
black-hearted warrior as Long Knife.

It was not enough that this rascal contemplated burning the
young pioneer at the stake,--the most cruel death devised by the
savages,--but he also calculated to inflict equal if not deeper pain
on the youth’s mother by making the woman witness the torture of her
offspring.

“Long Knife, you are a--a monster!” cried the boy, when he could find
his tongue.

At these words the eyes of the Indian chief gleamed with cruel pleasure.

“The white boy is joyful over the news that Long Knife brings to him,”
he remarked dryly.

“If you do this thing you will surely suffer for it.”

“In what way will Long Knife suffer? The cries of his enemies is sweet
music to his ears.”

“Daniel Boone and my other friends will hear of this and they will,
sooner or later, bring you to justice for it.”

“The whites must conquer the red men first, and they have not yet done
so.”

“They came pretty close to doing it yesterday.”

At this Long Knife could no longer suppress his anger over the outcome
of that contest. Stepping forward, he hit Joe a savage blow in the
mouth.

“The white boy’s tongue runs too much,” he said, and strode away out of
the stockade.

Mrs. Winship and Clara had not heard this conversation, so they knew
nothing of what was in store for Joe. Several times he tried to tell
them, but each time the words stuck in his throat.

It was awful to think of suffering such a death, but Joe had to think
of his mother quite as much as of himself.

“The shock will kill her, too,” he told himself. “To see me die by
inches will set her crazy.”

At last he managed to call Clara Parsons to one side and tell her of
what Long Knife had said.

“Oh, Joe, will he really be as wicked as that?” asked the frightened
girl, her face growing deadly pale.

“I think he means to keep his word, Clara.”

“But--but--oh, Joe, it is dreadful!” And she burst into tears.

“I know it, Clara. But if I’ve got to die I’ll do it as bravely as I
can. It’s mother I am thinking about. You must comfort her all you can.”

“You must tell her at once, Joe. She’ll want to talk to you
before--before----” The girl could not finish.

“I can’t tell her, Clara--the words won’t come.”

“Then I’ll do it for you,” was the slow answer.

As expected, it was a great shock to Mrs. Winship, and when she
realized the situation fully she fainted dead away. On recovering she
clasped her son to her breast, refusing to let him go.

“They shall not separate us,” she cried firmly.

“Mother, perhaps it is all--all for the best,” said the youth, as
bravely as he could. “Everybody has got to die sometime. Long Knife
wants to make you suffer. I want you to be brave. He’ll be disappointed
if you take it calmly.”

But the mother only shook her head.

“It is too much, Joe,” she wailed. “You are my only boy. I’d rather die
in your stead.”

It was less than an hour after this that an Indian guard came in and
separated Joe from the other captives. The boy was taken to a wigwam
and there bound hands and feet to a post planted firmly in the ground.

Slowly the afternoon wore away and nobody came near the young pioneer.
The wigwam was very close and he was hot and thirsty, yet none came to
give him even a drink of water. Long Knife was trying to weaken him, so
that his torture at the stake might be so much the greater.

In vain the youth tugged at the thongs that bound him to the post. The
Indians had done their work well, and although he cut both his wrists
he could not release either hand.

Long Knife had gone off on a scout, but returned an hour before sunset.
Many of his warriors were angry over the way the battle against the
whites had terminated, but when he announced that the young paleface
was to be burnt at the stake the young braves set up a howl of
pleasure, and the defeat was forgotten.

It was settled that the burning was to take place at sunset, and this
awful ceremony was preceded by several incantations by the medicine man
of the village, and then by a fire dance of the Indians themselves.

While the dance was in progress Mrs. Winship and Clara were brought
out and their hands were bound behind them. Four squaws stood close by,
each with a whip in hand, ready to flog either of the captives should
they show any signs of disobedience.

In the center of a clearing another post was planted, and presently Joe
was led forth from the wigwam and stood up against this. Then a rope,
soaked in water, was tied around both the youth and the post, making
him a prisoner once more.

The Indians had a pile of brushwood handy, and this was speedily shoved
up around the captive. Then Long Knife stepped forward and faced Joe,
his black eyes gleaming more maliciously than ever.

“The white boy is trying to be brave, but he is a coward at heart,”
began the Indian chief.

To this Joe made no answer.

“Why does not the white boy beg for mercy?”

“What would be the use?” answered Joe. “Long Knife doesn’t know what
mercy means.”

“The white boy is right. Long Knife is merciless--and Long Knife does
not forget.”

So speaking the Indian chief took a torch from the hands of one of his
braves and set fire to the brushwood.

As the flames began to mount around Joe’s lower limbs Mrs. Winship let
out a scream of anguish and then fainted in Clara’s arms.

But scarcely had that scream rent the air than there came a cry of
alarm from an Indian guard. Then followed half a dozen rifle-shots, and
with his torch still in hand Long Knife pitched over into the burning
brushwood, dead!

“The palefaces! The palefaces!” was the cry. “They have surrounded the
village!”

The rifle-cracks increased, and then came a yell from the throats
of fully twoscore of hunters, and Daniel Boone, Ezra Winship, Peter
Parsons, and some others appeared. Mr. Winship made straight for the
burning brushwood and kicked it in all directions. Then came several
slashes of his hunting knife, and Joe was free.

“Father!” cried the boy. He could scarcely believe the evidence of his
eyes.

“Yes, yes,” answered Ezra Winship. “Here, take this pistol and defend
yourself.”

The fighting on all sides was now fearful, and hunting knives and
tomahawks were freely used. The whites lost no time in seeing Mrs.
Winship and Clara to a place of safety, and in caring for the other
captives.

For once the red men had been caught napping, and the battle went
against them from the very start. With Long Knife dead they speedily
became demoralized, and in less than quarter of an hour after the first
shot was fired they were fleeing in all directions.

But the blood of the pioneers was now up, and the chase after the
Indians was kept up all of that night and also the day following. How
many were killed and wounded will never be known, but it is a fact that
from that time forth the bands that had formerly been headed by Long
Knife and Red Feather became a thing of the past. Those who were not
killed left that vicinity entirely and their squaws and children went
after them.

Wounded though he was, Joe went with his father after the Indians, so
that he did not return to his mother’s side until sometime after his
rescue from the flames.

It was a happy reunion and one long remembered, both by the Winships
and the Parsons. And all of the other captives who had at last escaped
from the clutches of the red men were equally joyful.

At the Indian village were found the most of the things stolen from the
whites, and these articles were, later on, returned to their respective
owners.

It was a happy band that returned to Boonesborough about a week later.
Those left at the fort turned out to meet those who were coming in,
and a celebration was held that lasted far into the night. Mrs. Parsons
was especially glad to see her daughter alive and well, and Harry was
equally pleased.

“I hope we may never be separated again,” said Harry, who was doing as
well as could be expected.

“Amen to that,” returned Joe. “And I also hope that we have had our
last fight with the Indians.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Here let me draw to a close this tale of adventures while “With Boone
on the Frontier.”

The return to the cabin by our friends was the cause of another
celebration. Mrs. Winship was much pleased by the new homestead, and it
was decided that rather than build another cabin the old one should be
enlarged and the two families should remain together until times became
more settled.

The fights with the Indians continued for several months, but there
were no engagements of importance, and in the fall some troops came in
from the East, and then the uprisings became largely a thing of the
past.

It was not long before Harry was able to be around again, and then
the work of enlarging the cabin was begun in earnest. In the end the
building was made nearly twice as large as before, and here the Parsons
and the Winships dwelt for three years. Then Mr. Parsons, aided by
the Winships, built another cabin for himself, and also started to
cultivate an extra stretch of land.

During those years a warm attachment sprang up between Harry and
Harmony, and one spring they became man and wife and went to settle on
a farm of their own. A year later Joe was married to Clara Parsons, and
they took a tract a little further west. At the same time Cora married
Darry Ford, and the pair settled down beside Joe and Clara. It may be
mentioned here that all were prosperous, and in later years Joe served
in the State Legislature of Kentucky with much honor. Daniel Boone was
especially proud of him, and often spoke of the young representative as
“one of my boys, and a good one, too!”

The days of peril and privation are now a thing of the past in
Kentucky, and prosperity flourishes on every hand. Yet it is well
at times to look back and learn something of what the men of those
days endured in order that the present generation might receive the
blessings bestowed upon them.




THE FAMOUS ROVER BOYS SERIES

By ARTHUR W. WINFIELD

American Stories of American Boys and Girls

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      Or The Secret of Phantom Mountain

  TOM SWIFT IN THE CAVES OF ICE
      Or The Wreck of the Airship

  TOM SWIFT AND HIS SKY RACER
      Or The Quickest Flight on Record

  TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RIFLE
      Or Daring Adventures in Elephant Land

  TOM SWIFT IN THE CITY OF GOLD
      Or Marvellous Adventures Underground

  TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIR GLIDER
      Or Seeking the Platinum Treasure

  TOM SWIFT IN CAPTIVITY
      Or A Daring Escape by Airship

  TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIZARD CAMERA
      Or The Perils of Moving Picture Taking

  TOM SWIFT AND HIS GREAT SEARCHLIGHT
      Or On the Border for Uncle Sam

  TOM SWIFT AND HIS GIANT CANNON
      Or The Longest Shots on Record

  TOM SWIFT AND HIS PHOTO TELEPHONE
      Or The Picture that Saved a Fortune


GROSSET & DUNLAP, 526 WEST 26th ST., NEW YORK




THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH SERIES

By GRAHAM B. FORBES

Never was there a cleaner, brighter, more manly boy than Frank Allen,
the hero of this series of boys’ tales, and never was there a better
crowd of lads to associate with than the students of the School.
All boys will read these stories with deep interest. The rivalry
between the towns along the river was of the keenest, and plots and
counterplots to win the championships, at baseball, at football, at
boat racing, at track athletics, and at ice hockey, were without
number. Any lad reading one volume of this series will surely want the
others.


  The Boys of Columbia High;
    Or The All Around Rivals of the School.

  The Boys of Columbia High on the Diamond;
    Or Winning Out by Pluck.

  The Boys of Columbia High on the River;
    Or The Boat Race Plot that Failed.

  The Boys of Columbia High on the Gridiron;
    Or The Struggle for the Silver Cup.

  The Boys of Columbia High on the Ice;
    Or Out for the Hockey Championship.

12mo. Illustrated. Handsomely bound in cloth, with cover design and
wrappers in colors.

Price, 40 cents per volume.


GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK




The Outdoor Chums Series

By CAPTAIN QUINCY ALLEN

The outdoor chums are four wide-awake lads, sons of wealthy men of
a small city located on a lake. The boys love outdoor life, and are
greatly interested in hunting, fishing, and picture taking. They have
motor cycles, motor boats, canoes, etc., and during their vacations go
everywhere and have all sorts of thrilling adventures. The stories give
full directions for camping out, how to fish, how to hunt wild animals
and prepare the skins for stuffing, how to manage a canoe, how to swim,
etc. Full of the very spirit of outdoor life.


  THE OUTDOOR CHUMS
    Or, The First Tour of the Rod, Gun and Camera Club.

  THE OUTDOOR CHUMS ON THE LAKE
    Or, Lively Adventures on Wildcat Island.

  THE OUTDOOR CHUMS IN THE FOREST
    Or, Laying the Ghost of Oak Ridge.

  THE OUTDOOR CHUMS ON THE GULF
    Or, Rescuing the Lost Balloonists.

  THE OUTDOOR CHUMS AFTER BIG GAME
    Or, Perilous Adventures in the Wilderness.

12mo. Averaging 240 pages. Illustrated. Handsomely bound in Cloth.

Price, 40 Cents per Volume


  GROSSET & DUNLAP    --    NEW YORK




The Young Reporter Series

BY HOWARD R. GARIS

The author is a practised journalist, and these stories convey a true
picture of the workings of a great newspaper. The incidents are taken
from life.

12mo. Bound in Cloth. Illustrated.

Price, 40 Cents per Volume. Postpaid.

  FROM OFFICE BOY TO REPORTER
    Or The First Step in Journalism.

  LARRY DEXTER, THE YOUNG REPORTER
    Or Strange Adventures in a Great City.

  LARRY DEXTER’S GREAT SEARCH
    Or The Hunt for a Missing Millionaire.

  LARRY DEXTER AND THE BANK MYSTERY
    Or A Young Reporter in Wall Street.

  LARRY DEXTER AND THE STOLEN BOY
    Or A Young Reporter on the Lakes.


The Sea Treasure Series

BY ROY ROCKWOOD

No manly boy ever grew tired of sea stories--there is a fascination
about them, and they are a recreation to the mind. These books are
especially interesting and are full of adventure, clever dialogue and
plenty of fun.

12mo. Bound in Cloth. Illustrated.

Price, 40 Cents per Volume. Postpaid.


  ADRIFT ON THE PACIFIC
    Or The Secret of the Island Cave.

  THE CRUISE OF THE TREASURE SHIP
    Or The Castaways of Floating Island.

  THE RIVAL OCEAN DIVERS
    Or The Search for a Sunken Treasure.

  JACK NORTH’S TREASURE HUNT
    Or Daring Adventures in South America.


  GROSSET & DUNLAP    --    NEW YORK




THE RISE IN LIFE SERIES

By Horatio Alger, Jr.

These are Copyrighted Stories which cannot be obtained elsewhere. They
are the stories last written by this famous author.

12mo. Illustrated. Bound in cloth, stamped in colored inks.

Price, 40 Cents per Volume, Postpaid.

  THE YOUNG BOOK AGENT, Or Frank Hardy’s Road to Success

A plain but uncommonly interesting tale of everyday life, describing
the ups and downs of a boy book agent.

  FROM FARM TO FORTUNE, Or Nat Nason’s Strange Experience

Nat was a poor country lad. Work on the farm was hard, and after a
quarrel with his uncle, with whom he resided, he struck out for himself.

  OUT FOR BUSINESS, Or Robert Frost’s Strange Career

Relates the adventures of a country boy who is compelled to leave home
and seek his fortune in the great world at large.

  FALLING IN WITH FORTUNE, Or The Experiences of a Young Secretary

This is a companion tale to “Out for Business,” but complete in itself,
and tells of the further doings of Robert Frost as private secretary.

  YOUNG CAPTAIN JACK, Or The Son of a Soldier

The scene is laid in the South during the Civil War, and the hero is a
waif who was cast up by the sea and adopted by a rich Southern planter.

  NELSON THE NEWSBOY, Or Afloat in New York

Mr. Alger is always at his best in the portrayal of life in New York
City, and this story is among the best he has given our young readers.

  LOST AT SEA, Or Robert Roscoe’s Strange Cruise

A sea story of uncommon interest. The hero falls in with a strange
derelict--a ship given over to the wild animals of a menagerie.

  JERRY, THE BACKWOODS BOY, Or the Parkhurst Treasure

Depicts life on a farm of New York State. The mystery of the treasure
will fascinate every boy. Jerry is a character well worth knowing.

  RANDY OF THE RIVER, Or the adventures of a Young Deckhand

Life on a river steamboat is not so romantic as some young people may
imagine, but Randy Thompson wanted work and took what was offered.

  JOE, THE HOTEL BOY, Or Winning Out by Pluck

A graphic account of the adventures of a country boy in the city.

  BEN LOGAN’S TRIUMPH, Or The Boys of Boxwood Academy

The trials and triumphs of a city newsboy in the country.


  GROSSET & DUNLAP    --    NEW YORK




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.


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