Travelers in a strange land—“I’m dying to see old Dad!”—Old friends meet after many years—Kenton and Hardy find the old man happy in his simple life—“I have more than I need and no man can lay a claim against me”—The simple creed of a sincere Christian—One more hunt together—Boone proves that he is still a stout backwoodsman—And shows Hardy how to “bark” a squirrel—He tells his companions of his early life and adventures—His strange dread of dying in the wilderness—Kenton and Hardy part with the old man for ever—He stood at the cabin door and watched them out of sight.

Let us go back in our story and take a parting glimpse at some of its characters.

On a bright September day of the year 1808 two men stepped from a boat to the landing at St. Louis. They were both bronzed and weather-beaten and wore the familiar dress of the American backwoodsman. One was a fair-haired giant of about forty years, with laughing blue eyes and a musical voice. He had the careless, joyous manner of a boy and the air of one to whom mere living was a delight. His companion was a younger man but of graver aspect. His slight but sinewy frame gave evidence of strength and activity, and the clear-cut features bespoke alert intelligence.

The travellers carried rifles but were unburdened with baggage. They did not appear to be pressed for time nor hampered by business. Two or three hours were spent by them in rambling about the quaint town with its mixed population of Americans and Creoles, French and Spanish. Then they resorted to a tavern and ate a hearty meal. When at length they returned to the street it was with the air of men refreshed and with a purpose in view.

“Well, Hardy, how shall it be? On horseback, or on foot?” asked Kenton.

“On foot, Si, by all means. I’m dying to see old Dad, but I don’t want to ride up to his doorstep like a trooper. It will seem more like old times if we come in on the tramp. In fact, I want to arrive with a good fat buck on my back.”

“Right you are, but it shall be two bucks. We’ll come on the old man just as we used to do in the good old days at Boonesborough. Those were good times, Hardy! Things are getting too tame in the back country now. You and I will have to go farther west, I’m thinking.”

“Yes. If we stay this side of the Mississippi, I shall never get a chance to pay off that little debt I contracted to you. Do you remember—the first time I ever saw you?”

Kenton laughed heartily and slapped his companion on the back, as he said:

“You know better now than to aim at the crest-feathers of a redskin and then throw your tomahawk at him, eh, young ’un?”

It was a beautiful country through which the travellers passed in their two days’ journey. On every hand stretched timbered prairie, over which roamed herds of buffalo, deer, and other game. Every few miles brought them to a little settlement surrounded by orchards and standing crops. Many of the inhabitants were Americans. In fact, three-fifths of the population of Upper Louisiana were immigrants from the States at the time of annexation.

On the evening of the second day, the friends learned that they were within a few miles of their destination. They determined to defer their arrival until the next morning, and spent the interval before bedtime in securing the two fat bucks that they had proposed to take to their old leader as a humble testimony of respect.

Early the next morning Kenton and Hardy, laboring under their heavy burdens, approached a cabin, to which they had been directed, on the outskirts of a settlement in St. Charles County, Missouri. It was a small, two-roomed, structure of hewn logs and shingle roof. Well-fenced fields and a large orchard lay behind the building.

On a tree-stump near the cabin sat an old man, with snow-white hair falling over his shoulders. He was repairing the lock of a gun, whilst a hound crouched at his feet and looked up in eager expectation, hoping that a hunt was in prospect.

The travellers hurried forward as well as they could with their loads, shouting greetings as they came:

“Hallo, Colonel!”

“Hallo, dad!”

The old man rose, displaying surprising activity and erectness of carriage. He shaded his eyes with his hand and in a moment recognized his visitors.

“Hardy! Si!” he cried, in accents of delight. “Bless your dear hearts! The sight of you is surely good for old eyes! It looks like old times to see you two coming up to the cabin so.”

Twelve years had passed since these former followers of Boone had seen him. Of course, they had a great deal to tell one another. The old pioneer’s life had been comparatively uneventful in these later years, but his two disciples insisted on hearing all about it. At sight of the humble cabin they had feared that the old man might be in straitened circumstances. They were relieved to learn that he was very comfortably situated, and lived in his little log hut because he felt more at home in it than in a spacious dwelling. At times, he told them, he would spend a few weeks in the mansion of his son Nathan, a few miles distant, or in the roomy frame house of his son-in-law Callaway, but he was always glad to get back to his own little two-roomed cabin.

“The Lord has dealt kindly with me,” said the old man, reverently; “I have more than I need and no man can lay a claim against me. I left some debts in Kentucky but with a few good seasons’ hunting and trapping I got together a considerable pile of money. I went back—you two boys were in Illinois and I was mighty sorry not to see you—and I cleaned up every debt. When I got home again I had just half a dollar but—oh, Hardy!—it felt good to be a free man.”

“And you have been happy, Dad?”

“Yes, son, I’ve been happy. I won’t say that I was not sorry to leave the country that I had hunted over and fought for, but Kentucky was getting crowded and I felt that I needed more elbow room. It pleased the Lord to choose me as an instrument for the settlement of Kentucky, but I think my work was done before I left.”

Two or three days were delightfully spent by the three friends in exchange of experiences and in mutual reminiscences. Boone evinced particular pleasure in recalling the scenes and events connected with his first years in Kentucky. Without being garrulous he had become more communicative than when Kenton and Hardy knew him and he told them many details of his earlier life that they had never known.

Hardy had often felt curiosity on the subject of his foster-father’s religious belief. Boone’s life and actions marked him as a moral and God-fearing man, but he was not given to the discussion of such matters. During this visit, when they happened to be alone, Hardy took an opportunity to ask the old man for an expression of his creed.

“I never had much schooling, Hardy, and you know that churches are not over plentiful in the backwoods,” replied Boone, thoughtfully. “I’m afraid my religion is the home-made kind, and I dare say it wouldn’t seem quite the right thing to a parson, but I’ve used it as a guide through life, son, and it served me well enough. It’s just this,” continued the old man, baring his head: “To love and fear God; to believe in Jesus Christ. To do all the good to my neighbor and myself that I can, and to do as little harm as I can help. And to trust in God’s mercy for the rest.”

One morning Kenton and Hardy rose early as usual and, to their surprise, found the old man bustling about in front of the cabin. Two pack-horses stood tied to neighboring trees. Blankets, wallets, powder-horns, and a variety of other articles lay strewn around.

“Why, Dad, what’s forward now?” asked Hardy, in astonishment.

“We’re going on a hunt,” answered Boone, in the most matter-of-course tone.

“Bully, Colonel!” cried Kenton. “It’s just what I’ve been thinking of proposing. Lend a hand, Hardy, and let’s pack the outfit!”

In a few hours they started, the old man on foot like the others. Nor did they need to slacken their pace to accommodate him. He strode along, erect and with a step that displayed much of its old-time elastic swing. They found that he could cover his twelve miles a day without undue fatigue and he insisted that the stages should be no less. If Kenton or Hardy attempted any subterfuges, such as feigning weariness or a desire to examine the scenery, for the sake of affording their aged companion a rest, Boone was visibly annoyed and they soon decided to let him have his own way.

They were delighted to find that the old woodsman’s eye, though somewhat restricted in range, was as keen as ever in detecting “signs.” He soon gave them proof that he still possessed his wonderful skill with the rifle.

“Can you bark a squirrel now, Hardy? Try that fellow,” said Boone, pointing to one of the little animals on a branch, at the distance of about fifty yards.

Hardy declined to take the shot, but insisted upon Boone doing so.

The old hunter took aim and fired. The squirrel flew into the air and came to the ground without a hair injured. It was a feat that few backwoodsmen in the prime of life and practice could accomplish.

Boone took his young friends to Kansas River. They spent two weeks hunting in the adjoining country and never enjoyed themselves better in their lives. Boone at this time was a more delightful companion than in his younger years. He talked freely and frankly about himself and men whom he had known. He recounted stories of great hunts in which he had taken part, and told his companions of the long months he had passed in Kentucky before the advent of settlers. He related the incidents of his capture by the Indians and his escape to find his companions gone and himself alone a hundred miles and more from the nearest white settlement.

Boone informed them that he was in the habit of going on a hunting expedition twice a year with a companion whom he had bound by a written contract to bring his body home in case he should die in the wilderness.

“It is strange,” he said, “that I, who have spent much of my life in strife and most of it in the wilderness, should have a dread of leaving my bones in the forest. I can’t account for it, but I have the strongest desire to be buried near the habitations of men.”

It was with regret that the hunters turned their faces homewards. Each felt that it was their last hunt together, and perhaps the closing incident of their last meeting. Such, indeed, it proved to be.

The day after their return, Kenton and Hardy bade the old man a reluctant and affectionate farewell. He stood at his cabin door with eyes shaded and watched them out of sight. He went out of their lives, but in their distinguished after-careers each felt and acknowledged that he was a better man for having known Daniel Boone.

THE END