Simon Kenton’s boyhood—His fight for a sweetheart—His defeat and his victory—Flight into the wilderness—Three adventures in Kentucky—Attack by the Indians and the death of Strader—A terrible journey and a timely rescue—Kenton is captured by the Indians—He is tortured and made to run the gauntlet—He is sentenced to be burned at the stake—Girty saves his old comrade’s life—Kenton is sent to Logan’s village and befriended by the great chief—Again he is doomed to death by torture—And finds a new friend in a British agent—He goes to Detroit a prisoner of war—Escapes with the aid of a trader’s wife—And at last finds himself safe in Kentucky.

During Boone’s captivity Hardy had attached himself to Kenton, and when the former went upon his journey to North Carolina these two became inseparable companions. Neither had any work to do at Boonesborough. Hardy was too young to take up land and Kenton lacked the desire to do so. His occupation was scouting. When Indians were in the country he went out and watched their movements, warning the settlements of impending attack. When an expedition into the Indian territory was contemplated, he went in advance and ascertained the state of the intervening country and the condition of the town against which the movement was directed. He preceded armed bodies on the march and guarded them against surprise and ambush. He conducted settlers from one point to another and performed many other services of a similar nature. Kenton was one of a number of scouts whose names are perpetuated in the stories of border adventure. The vocation demanded qualities of the highest order. In order to follow it with success, a man needed to be fearless, vigorous, a good shot, a master of woodcraft; to be familiar with the country over which his operations extended, and to have a thorough knowledge of the Indian character and customs. The scouts were regularly attached to the military establishment, received pay from the authorities, and were amenable to their orders. The militia officers frequently took counsel with them and sometimes entrusted to them important details in the arrangement of an expedition. The calling of scout was a highly responsible and honorable one.

After the Indians retired from Boonesborough Kenton trailed them back to their own country, and returned to report that they had dispersed to their several villages and would probably not be heard from again until after the winter. When Boone went away Kenton and Hardy started upon a long hunt and scout in the country lying south of the Ohio. Now and again they crossed the river and made short excursions into the region inhabited by the redskins. November was drawing to a close when they reappeared at Boonesborough.

The two friends took up their abode in Boone’s cabin for the winter. In the long nights, when the wind whistled around the walls and the wolves howled in the neighboring forest, they sat for hours before the great log fire and exchanged experiences. The scout was glad to learn what Hardy could tell of life in England, and in turn told the story of his adventures. It was a wonderful tale, considering that Kenton was but twenty-three years of age in this year 1778. It was related piecemeal and at many sittings, so that we must be content with a brief rÉsumÉ of it.

Simon Kenton was a born backwoodsman. He first saw the light of day in a little cabin on the borders of Virginia. His boyhood was that common to frontier children—a little schooling, a good deal of hard work, and a fair admixture of adventure. When only sixteen years old he was attracted by the charms of a young girl in the settlement. This aroused the resentment of a youth several years older than Kenton, who imagined that he had engaged the affections of the backwoods maiden, although she would not admit as much. As Kenton declined to abandon his suit, the rivals determined to settle the matter by one of the fist fights that were not uncommon incidents of border life.

The encounter took place in the presence of the assembled settlers, as was usual. Kenton made a plucky stand, but in the end was beaten by the man, who had immeasurably the advantage of him in physical development. He accepted his defeat cheerfully but a year later, when he had grown into a muscular giant of six feet, he challenged his former antagonist to try conclusions once more. The other was a powerful man and readily accepted the cartel.

These backwoods fights were often terrible affairs. Everything short of the use of weapons was permissible, and the participants were frequently seriously injured. In this instance, the former victor was fired by intense hatred for Kenton, who was determined on this occasion to win. The conflict which ensued was terrifically fierce. At first the younger man got the worst of it and was severely hurt, but his courage continued unabated. He renewed the struggle, and in the end so beat his antagonist that he lay unconscious.

Kenton looked down at the prostrate form in horror, fully believing it to be that of a dead man. Then he turned and fled with all the speed possible, stopping only to snatch up his rifle and ammunition from the stump upon which they lay. So convinced was he that the sheriff with a posse would shortly be in pursuit of him that he continued his flight with little cessation for two days.

On the third day Kenton, still apprehensive and downcast, was traversing the forest in an unsettled part of the country when his eye was suddenly gladdened by the sight of a man upon the trail ahead of him. The stranger proved to be a wanderer named Johnson, as homeless and as careless of his destination as was Kenton. Each man was glad of the prospect of company and after a brief comparison of notes they agreed to become partners, as they say in the West.

These two travelled in company for some weeks and until they reached a settlement on the Monongahela, where Kenton decided to stop. This decision was prompted by learning that two young men at the place, named Strader and Yager, contemplated a journey into Kentucky and were willing that he should join them. The three set out shortly afterwards and for a year or more they lived in the wilderness, hunting and trapping, and selling their peltries to traders at Fort Pitt.

They had not been troubled by Indians, and had come to consider themselves safe from their attacks. Of this belief, however, they were rudely disabused one evening in March, 1773. As they sat in their “open-face” cabin, utterly unmindful of danger, a volley was suddenly fired at them from the surrounding thicket. Strader, who was the most exposed, instantly fell dead, riddled with bullets. The other two leaped to their feet and dashed into the neighboring cover without even taking time to pick up their rifles.

The dusk and heavy undergrowth aided their escape and they were soon beyond the reach of their pursuers. But, though the immediate prospect of death had been averted, these men found themselves in the most perilous situation. The onslaught had happened at a time when their belts and weapons were laid aside. They had now nothing with which to defend themselves against the possible attacks of Indians or wild beasts. They lacked provisions and blankets, and had not even a tinder-box with which to make a fire.

They did not, however, abandon themselves to despair, but struck out in the direction of the Ohio, hoping to reach a settlement before their strength should give out. For days they subsisted upon roots and the bark of trees, and at night huddled together in the brush with shaking limbs, for the weather was unusually cold. Gradually weakness stole upon them and on the third day both were seized with violent cramps and nausea, probably in consequence of having swallowed some poisonous substance. Before the close of the fourth day they fell exhausted to the ground and for the first time despaired of going farther, but with the dawn of the morrow their strength and spirits were sufficiently revived to enable them to make another effort. With slow and trembling steps they painfully pursued the way and in a few hours’ time came upon a party of traders.

This experience decided Yager to return to civilization, but Kenton, as soon as he had recovered his strength and had secured a rifle and ammunition, bade the party farewell and plunged again into the recesses of the wilderness. The next year he spent, for the most part alone, hunting and exploring the country. In the spring, Dunmore’s War broke out and Kenton performed valuable services as a scout, this being his first employment in that capacity. It was during this campaign that he became acquainted with Simon Girty, the notorious renegade, and rendered him a signal service. Girty professed the greatest friendship for Kenton and his after conduct proved the sincerity of his declaration.

Upon his return from a reconnoissance in the Indian country, Kenton, when about to cross the Ohio into Kentucky, was captured by a band that had suffered recent defeat by the whites and was consequently in a ferocious mood. Their temper was not improved by the severe injuries that the scout inflicted on some of their number before he could be subdued. Few men on the frontier could command the cool common-sense that unfailingly characterized Boone in a critical situation. He would fight against the heaviest odds whilst any hope of success existed, but once convinced of the futility of resistance, he avoided creating unnecessary rancor by continuing it. Kenton on this occasion fought like a catamount and so aroused the resentment of his assailants that when they had disarmed him they continued to lay on their clubs and tomahawks until he lapsed into unconsciousness.

When the scout came to his senses, he found himself “spread-eagled,” face downwards upon the earth. His arms and legs had been extended and pegged down so that the body lay in the form of a Maltese cross. The position did not permit of any movement save that of slightly raising the head. As time wore on the body became filled with excruciating pains and Kenton passed the night in intense suffering. He did not doubt that he was reserved for worse tortures. Otherwise the Indians would have vented their anger by killing him.

In the morning the party took up the march after strapping Kenton along the bare back of an unbroken horse. All day his limbs were racked by the fresh pains of this cruel mode of progression, and at night he was crucified as before. This march, with its unceasingly attendant agonies, continued for three days and nights. On the fourth the Indians arrived at the village of Chillicothe. By this time Kenton would have welcomed death, but he was to endure much more.

After his captors had refreshed themselves with food and rest, the entire population of the place assembled in the great square and Kenton was led forth to afford amusement for them. After he had been subjected to the jibes and floutings of the children and squaws, he was bound to a post and flogged upon the bare back with switches until the blood flowed copiously. Meanwhile the redskins danced around him, howling with demoniac delight. But they tired of this pastime when it was found impossible to extract a cry of pain from the victim.

Kenton was now led to the stake, stripped of his clothing and bound with hands extended above his head. Faggots were heaped about his feet and all the preparations completed for burning him. At this juncture the Indians seemed to waver in their purpose. The chief men withdrew, leaving the scout to the spiteful persecution of the villagers, who found a fiendish pleasure in pulling his hair, pricking him with knives, and beating him with sticks and clubs. This continued until nightfall, when Kenton was released from his bonds and removed under a strong guard to one of the wigwams.

The next morning he realized why he had been spared from the flames on the previous day. The chiefs had declared that it would be a pity to dispose finally of so strong a man until he had been subjected to all the torture he was capable of enduring. He was now condemned to “run the gantlet,” and when he emerged from the cabin in which he had passed the night he saw the painted warriors assembled and ready to perform their part in the affair.

Across the square two lines of braves were drawn up, facing inwards, with a space of about six feet between them. Each was furnished with a club, tomahawk, or leathern thong. Kenton was required to traverse this lane of inhuman wretches whilst they rained blows upon him in passing. This cruel pastime of the Indians was not designed to kill the victim, but many a man sank dead before going through the ordeal and none completed it without receiving the most severe injuries.

Kenton was a swift runner but as he looked down that double row of waiting warriors, more than one hundred yards in length, he determined not to attempt its entire passage. When he started at the utmost speed he could command, it was with eyes alert for a gap in the line through which he might make his escape. The opportunity offered when he had covered about half the distance. Dashing through the opening, he dodged the Indians who attempted to intercept him and took refuge in the council-house. Of course he was soon once more in the clutches of his tormentors but they did not force him to run the gantlet again. Instead, a council was held to determine his fate. After considerable discussion it was decided that he should be taken to a town named Waughcotomoco and there burned.

Whilst preparations were in progress for the death of Kenton, Simon Girty, the renegade white man, came into Waughcotomoco with a settler’s wife and her children, whom he had captured. Curious to see the prisoner under sentence to be burned at the stake, he went to the wigwam where Kenton was confined. Great was the surprise of Girty to find his old companion and benefactor. Since they had last seen each other, Girty had forsworn his race, and his name had become execrated along the border as that of an unnatural creature devoid of pity and destitute of principle.

Girty’s conduct on this occasion proved that he was not utterly abandoned, but it is the sole redeeming feature of his life as we know it. With the utmost difficulty, he induced the chiefs to defer their purpose, and for three weeks Kenton was left unmolested. At the end of that time he was sent to the village of the great chief Logan, who despite the wrongs he had suffered at the hands of the whites, befriended the scout and treated him as kindly as possible.

Even Logan’s influence did not, however, seem sufficient to save Kenton from the doom with which the Indians appeared to be determined to visit him. After a short while he was sent under escort to Sandusky, which place had been selected as the scene of his death by torture. Here, when the sturdy scout had abandoned hope, a British agent named Drewyer contrived his removal to Detroit.

At Detroit Kenton was held as a prisoner of war and well treated. He was required to work, but received half wages, the other half being applied to the cost of his keep. Some months were passed under these conditions, when Kenton and another Kentuckian contrived to escape with the aid of the wife of a trader. This woman secured and secreted on the outskirts of the town two rifles and a supply of ammunition. At a favorable opportunity the prisoners stole out of the fort, possessed themselves of the weapons and, after a month of travel through the wilderness, found themselves at last among friends in Kentucky.