With Boone on the frontier

Daniel Boone showed his years of wilderness training when he did not at once raise a shout and rush in to the rescue of his daughter and the other girl captives of the Indians.

“I saw that two of the Indians over the fire had their hunting knives in their hands,” he said afterward, in telling of the situation. “They were merciless wretches, and at the first sign of peril would have turned and laid the girls low at their feet, or else carried them off on their backs as shields from our bullets.”

He moved back, and once among his companions in the bushes gave directions how the party should advance, and how all should fire at the call of a certain wild bird—a call which Boone could imitate to perfection.

Joe’s nerves were on a tension, for this was to be a daring rush, and there was no telling how it would end.

Cautiously all the members of the hunting party moved forward as Colonel Boone had directed. Joe was next to an old backwoodsman, John Ford, the father of Darry, who had done so well in the foot race.

There were several minutes of intense silence. Daniel Boone was watching the Indians as a hawk watches a brood of chickens. He was waiting for the red men to move away from the captives.

Presently that moment came. Two of the Indians left the fire to get more wood, and the others were lying on the ground, conversing earnestly together.

Loud and clear the cry of the wild bird pierced the air, and an instant after came the crack of Daniel Boone’s rifle, and one of the Indians fell. Then came the cracks of the other rifles, and another red man went down, and a third was wounded in the side.

“At them, men!” cried Daniel Boone, and ran forward, hunting knife in hand.

The Indians were taken by surprise, and, with one man killed, one dying, and another wounded, they imagined that a large force of whites had come up.

“We must run!” said one quickly. “Run, or we shall all be killed!” And they took to cover without delay, and went crashing through the forest and cane-brake until the sounds of their retreat were lost in the distance.

“Father!” came from Jemima Boone, and in her joy she ran and threw herself into her parent’s arms. The Callaway girls were equally glad to be rescued.

Some of the members of the party were anxious to follow up the fleeing Indians and lay them all low, but Daniel Boone objected.

“I think the best thing we can do is to get back to the fort,” he said.

In his own mind Daniel Boone had come to the conclusion that the Indians were preparing for an early attack on the fort at Boonesborough. Had he been asked for his reasons he could scarcely have given them. To him it was “in the air”—that feeling that sometimes come to one as a forewarning of coming evil.

It was learned that the girls had been treated fairly well by the Indians, for which the whites were thankful. A midday meal was had of the food the red men had been preparing, and after a short rest the journey to the fort was begun.

So far the weather had been fair, but now it began to cloud up, and a cold spring storm set in which speedily wet the party thoroughly.

“We might as well go into camp,” said Daniel Boone at three in the afternoon. “I know of a fairly good shelter close by here,” and he led them to where a clump of gnarled trees overhung a bank of rocks and dirt. Among these roots some hunters had cleaned out an opening as large as a fair-sized room, and here the girls were kept out of the wet, while the men folks built a large camp-fire at which to dry themselves.

Just above the first clump of trees was a second, and after the camp-fire was lit, Joe and John Ford moved to the spot to see if they could not fix up some sort of shelter for themselves for the night.

“It will be better than lying out under the trees in the rain,” said John Ford. “I’ve had a bit of rheumatism the past winter, and I do not want more of it.”

The hollow under the trees was filled with sticks and dead leaves, and both Joe and the backwoodsman had to work for some time cleaning out the place.

Joe was bending close to the ground, and had a bunch of sticks in one hand when he heard a hiss to one side of him. He started, and on the instant saw a rattlesnake glide from among the roots of the tree, and glare at him with its beady eyes.

“A snake!” roared John Ford, and tumbled out of the opening without delay.

Joe started to follow his companion. But as he turned his foot caught in a rope-like root, and down he pitched headlong on his face. When he sat up the rattlesnake had shifted its position, and rested directly between the young pioneer and the open air.

There was no denying the fact that Joe was scared. The rattlesnake was large, and the youth had often heard of the fatal effects of a rattlesnake bite.

What to do he did not know. If he ran for the open air he would have to pass close to the reptile, and a jump over the snake was out of the question, owing to the closeness of the tree roots overhead.

It was John Ford who gave him a bit of good advice.

“Jump up, lad, and catch the roots!” he sang out. “I’ll get my gun.”

As Ford uttered the words the rattlesnake prepared to strike at Joe. Up went the youth, and not only caught the roots over his head with his hands, but also with his feet, drawing up his body as far as possible.

The rattlesnake leaped high in making its strike, but the fangs merely grazed the lower end of Joe’s hunting shirt. Then it hissed again, and prepared to climb the roots from the rear of the opening under the trees.

As the snake passed to the rear of the opening Joe swung himself down and made a leap forward to where John Ford had just reached for his gun.

Bang! went the weapon of the backwoodsman. His aim was uncertain, and the rattlesnake was merely struck on the tail, a wound that caused it to become more enraged than ever. There was another hiss, and then the reptile came straight for Ford, its eyes gleaming more venomously than before.

By this time Joe had his gun at hand. Luckily the weapon was loaded with shot, and the youth had taken care to keep the priming dry. He took hasty aim and pulled the trigger.

As the report of the gun sounded out, the head of the rattlesnake was seen to fly into half a dozen pieces. The body whipped in one direction and another, and it was a long time before it straightened out and lay still.

“A good shot!” cried John Ford. “And in the nick of time, too!”

The reports of the two guns brought all of the others in the camp hurrying in that direction, thinking there might be another attack of the Indians.

“You are well out of that, lad,” said Daniel Boone, on examining the body of the snake. “He was a bad one. Did he strike you at all?”

“No, but he hit the end of my hunting shirt,” answered Joe.

“If that is so, be careful not to touch the spot and you had better soak it in brandy or cut it out.”

“I would cut it out,” put in John Ford. “Soaking may take out the poison, and it may not. I once knew a man who got a rattlesnake fang in his boot. He soaked it in rum for two days, and yet, later on, when he used the boot, it made his foot swell up as if he had been bitten by a nest of hornets.”

“I’ll cut the place out,” said Joe, and he did, without further loss of time. Nobody cared to go near the clump of trees after that, fearing more snakes, and Joe and Ford found shelter with some of the other hunters at the camp-fire.

It was a cold and disagreeable night, and Joe slept but little. Yet the youth was thankful that he had escaped from the snake, and when he said his prayers on retiring he did not forget to thank God for all His many mercies.

In the morning, the sun came out as brightly as ever, and by eight o’clock the journey to the fort was resumed. It passed without special incident, and twenty-four hours later saw Joe once again at home, and rather glad that the brief campaign against the Indians was at an end.

Acting on instructions from his superiors, Daniel Boone now released the Indian chief Red Feather, and gave to him the gifts that had been promised. He also released Yellow Blanket, and told both red men that he trusted the war between the Indians and the whites was at an end, and that henceforth all would dwell in peace.

“The white man has come here to till the soil,” said Boone to Red Feather. “The Indian lives by the hunt. Let each go his way, and when the winter comes let the Indian bring to the white man the meat of the buffalo and other game, and he shall receive in return flour, and hay for his horse, and such other things as he needs.”

“It is well spoken—the war is at an end,” said Red Feather, and so departed, and Yellow Blanket followed him.

It was not known until long after that Red Feather intended fully to keep his promise to remain friendly to the whites. Even Daniel Boone did not believe the Indian chief, for he knew much of red men’s treachery. But Red Feather went straight to the Indian villages and told of what Daniel Boone had said.

“He is a noble brave,” said Red Feather. “If we remain friendly to him he will surely treat us well.”

This speech enraged Long Knife, who was now recovered from the arrow wound Joe inflicted, and he made a long speech in return, in which he insinuated that the whites had bribed Red Feather to friendliness. This provoked a quarrel and a fight, in the midst of which Red Feather was shot down by some treacherous follower of Long Knife.

“Red Feather deserved the fate,” said Long Knife, after the excitement was over. “He was untrue to the red man. The land is ours, and I will not sit down and see the white man occupy it.”

“Long Knife speaks well,” said Yellow Blanket. “I, too, was a prisoner of the whites, but I made them no promises. I will fight them to the bitter end. Yellow Blanket has spoken.”

“Yellow Blanket has uncovered a heart of gold,” said Long Knife. “He is a true friend to the Indian. He shall stand beside me when we go into battle against the whites. We shall make every paleface bite the dust before this war is at an end.”

On the day following this talk, another was held, and it was decided that all of the Indians should henceforth serve under the leadership of Long Knife, and that there should be no let-up to the warfare until all of the white settlers were driven from the soil of Kentucky, and their cabins and forts razed to the ground.