Boone leads a company toward the promised land of Kentucky—They are attacked by Indians in Powell’s Valley—Six of the party are slain and among them Boone’s eldest son—The sorrow of a strong man and his sense of duty—The dead are buried and the march resumed—Boone’s lonely watch over the sleeping settlers—His encounter with Hardy Goodfellow in the gray dawn—“Now that father’s dead, I’m all alone”—Hardy finds a new father and Boone another son—Man and boy make a strange compact—“Maybe the Lord meant it that way—who knows?”

“Isn’t it about time to make camp, Captain?”

“Pretty near that, but I don’t exactly fancy campin’ right on a trace. I reckon we’ll push on a bit and see if we can’t find a likelier location.”

The first speaker was not a backwoodsman but a Charlestown surveyor. The day’s march had wearied him to the point of exhaustion, and he felt faint for lack of a good meal, for the frontiersman ate plenteously but once in the twenty-four hours and that at the close of the day. He turned to his pipe for solace, first offering his plug of strong tobacco to his companion.

“Have a fill, Captain?”

“Thanks; I don’t use it.”

“You don’t smoke, Captain?” said the other, in astonishment.

“No; I never learned and I don’t see that it would have done me any particular good if I had. It seems to take pretty hard hold on a man. I’ve seen hunters well nigh crazy when their tobacco run out, and I shouldn’t like to be that way myself. Then it’s apt to make trouble in other ways. A deer could scent your pipe half a mile away, and an Injun’s nose is near as keen.”

“You don’t think there are any Indians hereabouts, do you?” asked the surveyor, with some show of apprehension.

“I wouldn’t like to say one way or the other. There might be a hundred in there”—he jerked his head in the direction of the dense undergrowth—“and we not know it till they showed themselves. You see, a redskin’s like a copperhead—you don’t know where he is till he strikes.”

The men who thus conversed were following a forest trail, or “trace,” as it was called at the time, in Powell’s Valley, which lay near the point where the States of Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee meet. On either side stretched forest so dense that the sun never penetrated the canopy of leaves. Even at midday a gloom prevailed, and now, as evening approached, it was impossible for any but the keenest eyes to see farther than a few yards in the growing dusk. The undergrowth was so thick as to be impenetrable at most points without the aid of the axe. Only a practiced woodsman dare enter that tangle of shrubs and vines. Had Mr. Sproul, the surveyor, ventured a hundred yards from the trail, he could only have found it again by accident and would in all probability have died of hunger, unless, indeed, his sufferings had been cut short by wild beasts or Indians.

It was precisely in this manner that Stuart, Boone’s companion in his first expedition to Kentucky, lost his life. He wandered from their camp and, failing to find his way back, probably died of starvation after his ammunition became exhausted. Years afterwards his skeleton was found in a hollow sycamore and identified by the powder-horn which bore his initials.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s your name?”

“Hardy Goodfellow, sir.”

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

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

“Why do you think he would?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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