Comparative Quiet on the Frontier—Capture of Boone's Daughter and the Misses Callaway by Indians—Pursued by Boone and Seven Companions—Their Rescue and Return to their Homes.

It was the summer of 1776, and the colonies were aflame with war. Those were the days which tried men's souls, and the skies were dark with discouragement and coming disaster. There were many hearts that could only see overwhelming failure in the momentous struggle in which the country was engaged.

For a time, comparative quiet reigned in the neighborhood of Boonesborough. The settlers improved the time to the utmost. While some hunted and fished, others cleared the land, and a promising crop of corn had been put in the rich soil. Only one of the colony had been shot by Indians during the preceding winter, the band which did it having withdrawn before any retaliatory measures could be taken.

On the afternoon of the seventh of July, Miss Betsey Callaway, her sister Frances, and a daughter of Daniel Boone entered a canoe under the bank of the river, as children would naturally do to amuse themselves. Betsey was a young lady, but the other two were about thirteen years of age,—all bright, joyous girls, who had no thought of danger, as they paddled about the rock where the frail boat had been moored.

They were laughing and paddling, when suddenly a rustling among the overhanging bushes arrested their attention, and, turning their gaze, they saw with consternation the painted face of an Indian warrior.

The girls were almost paralyzed with terror. The savage warned them by signs to make no outcry, through penalty of being brained with the tomahawk griped in his hand. They could only huddle together in terror and await his pleasure, whatever it might be.

The sinewy Indian then stepped cautiously into the canoe, and took up the paddle, which he handled with the skill peculiar to his people. With scarcely the slightest plash, he silently forced it out from the undergrowth and started for the other shore.

The terrified girls looked appealingly in the direction of the stockades, but they dare make no outcry. The stalwart savage dipped the paddle first on one side and then on the other, and the canoe rapidly neared the shore, beneath whose overhanging bushes it glided the next moment like an arrow.

Turning toward the girls, the Indian signified that they were to leave the boat, and the poor girls could do nothing less. Several other warriors who were in waiting, joined them, and the journey was instantly begun toward the interior. No more unfavorable time for the captives could have been selected. It was late in the afternoon, and before anything like pursuit could be organized it would be night, and the trail invisible. The Indians would use all the woodcraft at their command, and doubtless the morning would see them many miles removed from the settlement.

The captors took the very precautions of which we have spoken, directing their steps toward the thickest cane, where they separated and made their way through it with the utmost caution, with a view of rendering their footprints so faint that pursuit would be out of the question.

Having assured themselves, so far as they could, that their trail was hidden from the scrutiny of the settlers, the Indians with the three girls made another turn, and striking a buffalo path, pushed forward without delay.

The girls had been reared in a society where outdoor life and exercise were a part of their creed, and they stood the unwonted task forced upon them with much greater fortitude than would have been supposed. They walked nimbly along, taking great consolation in each other's company, though they were almost heartbroken at the thought that every mile through the gloomy forest was taking them so much further away from their loved ones, and lessened in the same degree their chances of rescue by their friends at Boonesborough.

It being midsummer, they did not suffer from cold, and but for their terror of their ultimate fate, they would have cared nothing for the jaunt. Still, as children will feel under such circumstances, they had strong hopes that their parents and friends would soon be in close pursuit of the Indians.

And such indeed was the case. For it was not long before the girls were missed at Boonesborough, and search made for them. Some one had seen them in the canoe, and when it was discovered that the boat was left on the opposite side of the river, and when the keen eyes of the pioneers were able to detect the imprint of moccasins along the shore where the craft had been moored on their side, there could be no doubt of what it meant.

The girls had been captured and carried away by Indians.

It can be well understood that great excitement spread among the families of Boonesborough, all of whom were drawn together by the closest ties of friendship, and who shared in each other's joys and woes. The whole male force were ready to start at a moment's notice to the rescue.

But that was not the way in which to secure them, for it would have been equally effective for a hunting party to go in search of the timid antelope with drums and banners. What was needed was a small company of hunters, brave, swift of foot, clear-headed and skilled in the ways of the woods.

They should be men who could trail the red Indian where the imprints of his moccasined feet were invisible to ordinary eyes, and who, when the critical emergency should come, were sure to do just the right thing at the right time. There were plenty such in Boonesborough, and there could be no difficulty in finding them. At the head, of course, stood Daniel Boone himself, and he selected seven others who could be relied on in any emergency; but, by the time the pursuit could be begun, the shades of night were settling over wood and river, and it was out of the question to attempt anything like an intelligent search for the girls.

In such a case there is no basis for reasoning, for though it may seem certain to the veteran hunter that his enemy has taken a certain course in order to reach his distant lodge, yet the morning is likely to show that he has gone on a different route altogether.

The American Indian, who is educated from his infancy in cunning and treachery, is likely to do that which is least expected and provided against; and Boone, therefore, did not make the mistake of acting upon any theory of his own which was likely to cause him to lose many precious hours of pursuit.

But it was the season when the days were longest, and at the earliest streakings of the morning light, the eight pioneers were on the other side of the river, looking for the trail of the Indians.

The delicate imprints were discovered almost instantly by the keen-eyed hunters, who started on the scent like bloodhounds, eager to spring at the throats of the savages.

But the pursuit was scarcely begun, when they were confronted by the very difficulty which they anticipated. The Indians, as we have shown, had separated and made their way through the thickest cane with such extreme care, that they succeeded in hiding their trail from the lynx eyes of even Boone himself.

In such an emergency, the pursuers could only fall back on their own resources of calculation and observation.

They noticed that the tracks all pointed in one general direction, and there was, therefore, a basis for deciding the side of the cane where they emerged. Acting upon this theory, they made a circuitous journey of fully thirty miles, and sure enough, struck the trail just as they hoped rather than expected.

Boone showed his woodcraft now by forming a reasonable theory and acting promptly upon it, for, though he may have been right, still he would have lost all the advantage by a failure to follow it up instantly.

Recalling the unusual precautions taken by the Indians to throw their pursuers off their trail, Boone was convinced that the savages would believe that these precautions had accomplished their purpose, and they would therefore relax their vigilance. Their course, as a consequence, would be followed more easily.

Accordingly, Boone and his comrades changed the route they were following, with the idea of crossing the path of the Indians. They had not gone far when they discovered it in a buffalo path, where it was quite evident that, from the careless manner in which the red-men were traveling, they had no suspicion of their pursuers being anywhere in the vicinity.

This was favorable to Boone and his companions, but they understood the delicacy and danger of the situation, which was of that character that they might well tremble for its success, even with the great advantage gained.

None knew better than they the sanguinary character of the American Indian. The very moment the captors should see that it was impossible to retain the prisoners, they would sink their tomahawks in their brains, even though the act increased their own personal peril tenfold.

It was all-important that the pursuit should be vigorously pressed, and at the same time it was equally important that the savages should be kept in ignorance of the men who were trailing them so closely.

As silently, therefore, as shadows, the pioneers, with their guns at a trail, threaded their way through the forest and dense canebrakes. Their keen and trained vision told them they were gaining rapidly upon the Indians, who were proceeding at that leisurely gait which was proof that they held no suspicion of danger.

The settlers had already traveled a long distance, and even their iron limbs must have felt the effects of journeying full forty miles through the wilderness,—but they pushed on with renewed vigor, and, as the day advanced, observed signs which showed unmistakably that they were close upon the captors. The pursuers slackened their gait and advanced with the extremest caution, for only by doing so could they hope to succeed in the rescue of the young girls.

Suddenly the figures of the warriors were discerned through the trees a short distance ahead. They had stopped, and were in the act of kindling a fire, evidently meaning to encamp for the night. The Indians were startled at the same moment by sight of the whites hurrying toward them, and not one of the dusky red-skins could misunderstand what it meant. Had it been possible for such a misunderstanding, they were undeceived the next instant.

The pursuers showed their earnestness by not waiting a moment for the warriors to rally, but four bringing their rifles to their shoulders, took a quick aim and fired into the party. The smoke of the powder had scarcely time to curl upward from the muzzles of the guns, when the whole eight charged straight into camp on a dead run, and with the fury of tigers.

When the Indians saw those figures coming, they had no time to slay the amazed captives, but, snatching up only one of their guns, they scattered pell-mell for the wood. As they went at headlong haste, Boone and one of his men fired, while still on a dead run. Each fugitive was "hit hard," but he managed to get away in the gathering darkness, and it may safely be concluded that none of the survivors looked upon that particular expedition against the settlers at Boonesborough in any other light than a failure. The joy of the three girls over the rescue must be left to the imagination of the reader. They were terrified almost out of their senses when captured, but they knew they would soon be missed from home, and their friends would be on the trail, but they were old enough to understand the vast disadvantages under which they would be placed, knowing that no pursuit could be instituted until the morrow.

And then, too, they knew the meaning of the extreme precaution taken by the Indians in separating and walking so carefully through the densest of the canebrakes. And, as mile after mile was placed behind them, and the warm summer day drew to a close, many a misgiving must have saddened their hearts, as they looked through the gathering shadows and failed to see anything of the loved forms.

But they had come, bursting into camp like thunderbolts,—the Indians had fled in terror, and the girls were restored to their friends without a hair of their heads being harmed.

The place where the recapture took place was thick with cane, and some of the pursuers would have been glad to keep on and inflict further chastisement upon the Indians,—but that was impracticable, and, as the girls were out of danger, the party turned about and started back toward Boonesborough, where they arrived without mishap or further adventure, and where, as may well be supposed, their return created joy and thanksgiving throughout the entire settlement. This incident, one of the most romantic of the innumerable occurrences of the border, possessed a significance which some of the settlers failed to see. The presence of the Indians so near Boonesborough and the daring abduction was not done by what may be called an irresponsible company of warriors. On the contrary, they were one of the many scouting parties sent out to make observations of all the settlements along the border, with a view of organizing a combined movement against them.

The agents of England, who had been so industriously at work for months with the Indians of the West, used means which at last accomplished their purpose, and, while hostilities were being pushed with such vigor in the East against the struggling colonies, it threatened to assume a more desperate and sanguinary character in the West.

The red men had been aroused to action, and their manner of warfare was as fierce and merciless as that prosecuted by the East India Sepoys, nearly a century later, against Great Britain. It was not long before the danger was plainly seen, and so profound was the fear excited by the surety of the coming war, attended, as it was certain to be, by the most atrocious massacres, that hundreds of speculators made all haste to leave the imperiled country and return to their former homes in the East.