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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Didn’t we make a bargain?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He made a fire and was broiling a venison steak on the end of his ramrod, when a well-known voice greeted him with, “Got a bit of meat to spare, Hardy?” and Boone strode into the circle of light, a quizzical smile overspreading his face. He took in the preparations for the night’s camp at a glance, rested his rifle against a tree within arm’s reach, and sat down beside the young hunter.

It goes without saying that Hardy was delighted to have his adoptive father with him just as he was looking forward to a solitary and cheerless night, but he was not a little nettled to learn that Boone, after purposely throwing him off the track, had stalked him to his camp and was able to tell him of every movement that he had made.

“Son,” said the hunter, after he had explained the situation, “if I had been an Injun, I’m afraid that you’d a had less hair on your head than you have. But I shouldn’t have laughed just now. That was foolish. As soon as I’d done it, I laid flat, thinking you might fire. I was glad to see that you minded what I’ve told you, not to shoot till you can see what you’re shooting at. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, son. Dan’l Boone’s thrown many an Injun off his track before now.”

Notwithstanding the reassuring remarks of his mentor, Hardy had sense enough to realize from this incident that he was not so smart as he had imagined himself to be, and he redoubled his efforts to become expert in woodcraft.

With the approach of winter the hunters took out pack-horses and brought home the skins from where they had cached them. They also laid in a store of smoked venison. Some time was spent in making the cabin weather-tight and in cutting logs for the great fireplace. In this work Hardy learned to wield the long-handled backwoods axe, which was as important a factor in frontier life as the rifle. When all was made snug at home, the hunters were ready to set out again.

Hardy now entered upon an entirely new experience. Winter hunting he found quite different from what had gone before. They did not wander about, as in the fall, but stayed in one place for weeks at a time. Trapping was their chief occupation, and their object to secure the furs of beaver, otter, mink, and other desirable animals. The rifle was only used for the purpose of providing food.

They had plenty of tramping to do, for making the rounds of the traps involved a journey of several miles; but at night they always came back to the spot where their shelter stood and where their stores were kept. This was called a “closed” camp, or a “half-faced cabin.” It was made in the following manner: A log was placed for the back and two or three logs along each side. These were chinked with moss to keep out the cold wind. Boughs or poles were laid over the top and skins or bark covered these, sloping down to the back-log. The shelter was open in front.

When Indians were not to be feared, a fire was kept burning before the cabin all night and the hunters lay with their stockinged feet to it, their wet moccasins being hung to dry. The bed was made of boughs covered with a blanket, or a skin with the hair on it. Except in the very severest weather, this kind of shelter afforded sufficient protection to the hardy hunters. During the winter of 1773-1774, Boone and Hardy Goodfellow occupied such a camp during two trapping expeditions which resulted in good takes.

With the approach of spring, conditions on the border became such that Boone was obliged to abandon hunting and take up another phase of the backwoodsman’s life, that of Indian fighter.

With the increase of population in the colonies and the corresponding increased demand for lands, the border had been steadily pushed forward towards the Indian country. The savages had gradually become alarmed at the threatened invasion of their hunting-grounds and at the time of our story were preparing to contest the advance in force. They had shown many evidences of ill temper, but as yet no open declaration of war had been made. There were frequent conflicts between small parties or individuals of the two races and, in fact, whenever a redman met a white the rifle generally came into immediate play. Now, however, there were indications that the tribes upon the western border were preparing to go on the war-path unitedly.

Although the backwoodsmen were a fine class as a whole, there were among them some ruffians. In the spring of 1774, a band of such men committed a dastardly deed that acted as a firebrand upon the inflammable minds of the Cherokees and Shawnees. This was no less than the cold-blooded and unprovoked murder of the family of Chief Logan. Logan was an Indian of exceptionally fine character and peaceable disposition, and the whites, no less than his own people, deplored the outrage. The Indians were aroused to a pitch of fury. The tomahawk was dug up; the war-pipe was carried through the villages; runners were sent to recall hunting parties; and all the usual preparations for a war to the knife were put in train.

The danger was, of course, greatest on the frontier, and every man and boy who could bear arms was mustered into the militia. Boone received a commission as captain and was given command of three stockaded forts, in one of which Hardy Goodfellow served as rifleman. A few hundred soldiers were distributed among the frontier posts but they were not the valuable accession that might be supposed. The regulars always proved to be much inferior to the Indians in forest fights. The former were brave enough but utterly ignorant of the tactics of backwoods warfare. In conflicts with the savages, one frontiersman was worth a score of redcoats.

But before actual hostilities had broken out, it was found that a company of land prospectors and surveyors were in Kentucky, with great danger of being cut off and massacred. Lord Dunmore, the Governor of Virginia, sent a messenger to the Clinch Valley with the request that Boone and another should go out and endeavor to bring the party back. Boone immediately accepted the dangerous and difficult task and taking with him Michael Stoner, a backwoodsman of experience, started upon the long journey without delay. “If they are alive,” wrote Russell to Colonel Preston, the commandant in the Valley, “it is indisputable but Boone must find them.” So, indeed, he did and accomplished his errand successfully, having travelled upwards of eight hundred miles in sixty-five days, including a halt of more than a week.

A detailed description of Dunmore’s War, as it is called, is not necessary to our story. Suffice it to say that after a fierce battle, in which fifteen hundred braves were opposed by a force of frontiersmen, under General Lewis, the Indians were glad to sue for peace and entered into a treaty waiving all claim to the country now known as Kentucky.

Boone and Hardy, who had their share of the fighting, came through the campaign without serious mishap. Before the close of the year they were cheered by the opening of a prospect of pursuing the desire which both possessed to go on to the fair land of Kentucky.