University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

About an hundred yards from where Boone and his young companions
set forth, the dog, which was running along before them, paused, and with
his nose to the ground, set up a fierce bark. When arrived at the spot, the
party halted and perceived the body of an Indian, slightly covered with
earth, leaves, and a few dry bushes. Hastily throwing off the covering from
his head, they discovered hideous features, wildly distorted by the last three
of death, and bloody from a wound in his forehead made by a ball. His
scalp had been taken off also, by those who buried him—from fear, probably,
that he would be found by enemies, and this secured as a trophy—a
matter of disgrace which the savage, under all circumstances, ever seeks to
avoid, both for himself and friends.

“Well done, Master Reynolds!” observed Boone, musingly, spurning the
body with his foot, turning away, and resuming his journey: “You're a

brave young man; and I'll bet my life to a bar-skin, did your best under
the sarcumstances; and ef it's possible, we'll do somewhat for you in return.”

“Well, ef he arh't a brave chap—that thar same Algernen Reynolds—
then jest put it down as how Isaac Younker don't know nothing 'bout faces,”
returned the individual in question, in reply to Boone. “I never seed a
man with his fore'ed and eye as would run from danger when a friend war
by, wanting his sarvice.”

“Ay, he is indeed a clever youth!” rejoined Boone.

“Well, colonel, he's all that,” again returned Isaac; “and I'll al'ays look
'pon't in the light o' a sarvice, that you jest placed him in my hands, when
he war wounded; for to do sech as him a kindness, al'ays carries along its
own reward. And Ella, my poor sweet cousin, as war raised up in good
sarcumstances, and lost her all—she too I reckon feels kind o' grateful to
you, colonel, besides.”

“As how?” asked Boone.

“Why I don't know's it's exactly right for me to tell as how,” replied
Isaac, shrewdly, who was fearful of saying what Ella herself might wish
kept a secret.

“I understand ye,” said Boone, in a low tone, heard only by Isaac; and
the subject was then changed for one more immediately connected with
their present journey.

In the course of conversation that followed, it was asked of Boone how he
chanced to be in the vicinity, and learnt of the calamity that had befallen
Algernon and Ella, before any of the others; to which he replied, by stating
that he was on his way from Boonesborough to Bryan's Station, and coming
into the path just above the ravine, had been indebted to his noble brute
companion for the discovery—a circumstance which raised Cæsar in the
estimation of the whole party to a wonderful degree. Nor was this estimation
lessened by the conduct of Cæsar himself in the present instance; for
true to his training, instinct and great sagacity, he led them forward at a
rapid pace, and seemed possessed of reasoning powers that would have done
no discredit to an intelligent human being. One instance in point is worthy
of note. In passing through a dense thicket on the Indian trail, the noble
brute discovered a small fragment of ribbon, which he instantly seized in his
mouth, and turning back to his master, came up to him wagging his tail,
with a look expressive of joy, and dropped it at his feet. On examination it
was recognised as a detached portion of a ribbon worn by Ella; and this
little incident gave great animation and encouragement to the party—as it
proved, that she at least was yet alive, and had a hope of being followed by
friends.

Some two hours from their leaving the ravine, they came to the dark
pass, where we have seen the meeting between the two Indian parties. Here
our pursuers halted a few minutes to examine the ground, and form conjectures
as to what had taken place—in doing which, all paid the greatest
deference to the opinions and judgement of Boone, who was looked upon by
all who knew him as a master in the woodsman's craft.

After gazing intently for some time at the foot prints, Boone informed his
companions that another party had been in waiting, had been joined by the
others, and that all had proceeded together down the stream; and moreover,
that there was an addition of white prisoners, one of which was a child.
This caused a great sensation among his listeners—many of whom had lost
their relatives, as the reader already knows—and Hope, the cheering angel,
which hovers around us on our pathway through life, began to revive in
each breast, that the friends they were mourning as dead, might still be

among the living, and so made them more eager than ever to press on to the
rescue.

At the river's bank, the sagacious Cæsar discovered another piece of
ribbon—dropped there as the reader knows by Ella—which he carried in
triumph to his master, and received in turn a few fond caresses.

“Here,” said Boone, as himself and companions entered the streamlet,
whose clear, bright waters, to the depth of some three inches, rolled merrily
over a smooth bed, with a pleasing murmur: “Here, lads, I reckon we'll
have difficulty; for the red varmints never enter a stream for nothing; and
calculating pretty shrewdly they'd be followed soon, no doubt they've taken
good care to puzzle us for the trail. Ef it be as I suspect, we'll divide on
the other side, and a part o' us go up, and a part down, till we come agin
upon thar track. But then agin,” added Boone, musingly, with a troubled
expression, “it don't follow, that because they entered the stream they
crossed it; and it's just as likely they've come out on the same side they
went in; so that we'll have to make four divisions, and start on the sarch.

Accordingly on reaching the other shore, and finding the trail was lost,
Boone divided the party—assigning each his place—and separating, six of
them recrossed the stream, and dividing again, two, headed by Isaac, went
up, and two led by Henry Millbanks went down along the bank; while
Boone and Seth Stokes, with the rest, proceeded in like manner on the
opposite side, and the dog flew hither and yon, to render what service he
could also. For something like a quarter of an hour not the least trace of
the savages could be found, when at last the voice of Isaac was heard shouting.

“I've got it—I've got it! Here it is, jest as plain and nateral as cornstalks—Hooray!”

In a few minutes the whole company was gathered around Isaac, who
pointed triumphantly to his discovery.

“That's the trail sure enough,” observed Boone, bending down to scan
it closely; “and rather broad it is too. It's not common for the wily varmints
to do thar business in so open a manner, and I suspicion it's done for
some trickery. Look well to your rifles, lads, and be prepared for an ambush
in you thicket just above thar, while I look carefully along this for a
few rods, just to see ef I can make out thar meaning. They've spread themselves
here considerable,” continued the old hunter, after examining the
trail a few minutes in silence; “but ef they thinks to deceive one that has
been arter 'em as many times as I, they've made quite a mistake; for I can
see clean through thar tricks, as easy as light comes through greased paper.”

“What discovery have you made now?” inquired young Millbanks, who,
together with the others, pressed eagerly around Boone to hear his answer.

“Why I've diskivered what I war most afeard on,” answered the woodsman.
“I've diskivered that the varmints have divided, for the sake of giving
us trouble, or leading us astray from them as they cares most about.
See here!” and bending down to the ground, Boone pointed out to his young
companions, many of whom were entirely ignorant of that ingenious art of
wood-craft, whereby the experienced trapper knows his safety or danger in
the forest, as readily as the sailor knows his on the ocean, and which appears
to the uninitiated like a knowledge superhuman—Boone pointed out to them,
we say, three distinct foot prints, which he positively asserted were neither
made by the Indians nor the captives of the ravine.

“But I'd jest like to know, Colonel Boone, how you can be so sartin o'
what you declar, of it wouldn't be for putting you to too much trouble,”
said one of the party, in surprise.

“Obsarve,” replied Boone, who, notwithstanding it would cause some

little delay, was willing to gratifying his young friends, by imparting to them
what information he could regarding an art so important to frontier life:
“Obsarve that print thar (pointing with his finger to the largest one of the
three); now that war never made by Master Reynolds, for it's much too
big; and this I know from having got the dimension o' his track afore I left
the ravine to trail him; and I know it war never made by one o' the red
heathen, for it arn't the shape of thar feet; and besides, you'll notice how
the toe turns out'and from the heel—a thing an Indian war never guilty on
—for they larn from children to tread straight forward. The next one
you'll obsarve turns out in like manner; and though it's smaller nor the
first, it arn't exactly the shape of Reynolds's, and it's too big for Ella's; and
moreover I opine it's a woman's—though for the matter o' that I only guess
at it. The third you perceive is the child's; and them thar three are the
only ones you can find that arn't Indian's. Now note agin that the trail's
spread here, and that here and thar a twig's snapped on the bushes along
thar way, which the red-skins have done a purpose to make thar course
conspicuous, to draw thar pursuers on arter 'em, prehaps for an ambush,
prehaps to keep them from looking arter the others.”

“In this perplexity what are we to do?” inquired young Millbanks.

“Why,” answered Boone, energetically, “God knows my heart yearns to
rescue all my fellow creaters who're in distress; but more particularly,
prehaps, them as I know's desarving; and as I set out for Master Reynolds,
and his sweet companion, Ella Barnwell, God bless her! I somehow reckon
it's my duty to follow them—though I leave the rest o' ye to choose for
yourselves. Ef you want to divide, and a part go this trail and part follow
me, mayhap it'll be as well in the end.”

This plan seemed the best that could be adopted under the circumstances;
and after some farther consultation among themselves, it was finally agreed
that Isaac, with six others—two of whom were Switcher and Stokes—should
proceed on the present trail; while Millbanks and the remainder should accompany
Boone. Isaac was chosen as the most suitable one to lead his party,
on account of his foresight and shrewdness, and, withal, some little knowledge
which he possessed of the country and the woodsman's art—previously
gained in a tour with his father, when seeking a location, together with an
expedition of considerable extent shortly after made with Boone himself.

To him, as the leader, the noble old hunter now turned, and in a brief
manner imparted some very important advice, regarding his mode of proceeding
under various difficulties, particularly cautioned him against any
rash act, and concluded by saying, “Wharsomever or howsomever you may
be fixed, Isaac, and you his companions, (addressing the young men by his
side) don't never forget the injunction o' Daniel Boone, your friend, that
you must be cool, steady and firm; and whensomever you fire at a painted
varmint, be sure you don't throw away your powder!”

He then proceeded to shake hands with each, bidding them farewell and
God speed, in a manner so earnest and touching as to draw tears from many
an eye unused to the melting mood. The parting example of Boone was
now imitated by the others, and in a few minutes both divisions had resumed
their journey.

Dividing his party again as before, Boone proceeded with them to examine
closely both banks of the stream for the other trail. Commencing where
they had left off on the announcement of Isaac, they moved slowly downward,
taking due note of every bush, leaf and blade as they went along—
often pausing and bending on their knees, to observe some spot more
minutely, where it seemed probable their enemies had withdrawn from the

water. Cæsar, too, apparently comprehending the object of their search,
ran to and fro, snuffing at every thing he saw, sometimes with his nose to
the ground and sometimes elevated in the air. At length he gave a peculiar
whine, at a spot about twenty yards below that which had been reached
by his master, on the side opposite Isaac's discovery; and hastening to
him, Boone immediately communicated to the others the cheering intelligence
that the trail had been found.

Each now hurrying forward, the old hunter was soon joined by his young
friends; not one of whom, on coming up, failed to express surprise that he
should be so positive of what their eyes eyes gave them not the least proof.
The place where they were now assembled, was at the base of a hill, which
terminated the flat or hollow in that direction, and turned the stream at a
short bend off to the left, along whose side its waters ran for some twenty
yards, when the arm or projection of the ridge ended, and allowed it to turn
and almost retrace its path on the opposite side—thus forming an eliptical
bow. At the point in question, rose a steep bank of rocks, of limestone
formation, against which the stream, during the spring and fall floods, had
rolled its tide to a height of six or eight feet; and had lodged there, from
time to time, various sorts of refuse—such as old leaves, branches and roots
of trees, and the like encumbrances to the smooth flow of its waters. On
these rocks it was that the eyes of the party were now fixed; while their
faces exhibited expressions of astonishment, that the old hunter should be
able to distinguish marks of a recent trail, where they could perceive nothing
but the undisturbed surface of what perhaps had been ages in forming.

“And so, lads, you don't see no trail thar, eh?” said Boone, with a quiet
smile, after having listened to various observations of the party, during
which time he had been carelessly leaning on his rifle.

“Why, I must confess I can see nothing of the kind,” answered Henry.

“Nor I,” rejoined another of the party.

“Well, ef thar be any marks o' a trail here, jest shoot me with red pepper
and salt, ef ever I'm cotched bragging on my eyes agin,” returned a
third.

“That thar observation 'll hold good with me too,” uttered a fourth.

“Here's in,” said the fifth and last.

“You're all young men, and have got a right smart deal to larn yet,”
resumed Boone, “afore you can be turned out rale ginuine woodsmen and
hunters. Now mark that thar small pebble stone, that lies by your feet on
the rock. Ef you look at it right close, you'll perceive that on one side
on't the dirt looks new and fresh—which proves it's jest been started from
its long quietude. Now cast your eyes a little higher up, agin yon dirt
ridge which partly kivers them thar larger stones, and you'll see an indent
that this here pebble stone just fits. Now something had to throw that
down, o' course; and ef you'll just look right sharp above it, you'll see a
smaller dent, that war made by the toe of some human foot, in getting up the
bank. Agin you'll obsarve that that thar dry twig, just above still, has been
lately broke, as ef by the person who war climbing up taking hold on't for
assistance; but that warn't the reason the climber broke it—it war done
purposely; as you'll see by the top part being bent up the hill, as ef to
point us on. By the Power that made me!” added Boone, gazing for a moment
at the broken twig intently, “ef I arn't wondrously mistaken, thar's a
leaf hanging to it in a way nater never fixed it.”

“Right, there is!” cried Henry, who, looking up with the rest, chanced
to observe it at the same moment with Boone; and springing forward with
a light bound, he soon reached the spot, and returned with it in his hand.

It was a fall leaf, which had been fastened in a hasty manner to the twig in
question, by a pin through its center. On one side of it was scrawled, in
characters difficult to be deciphered:

“Follow—fast—for God's sake!—E.”

As Millbanks, after looking at it closely, read off these words, Boone
started, clutched his rifle with an iron grasp, and merely saying, in a quiet
manner, “Onward, lads—I trust you 're now satisfied!” he sprang up the
rocks with an agility that threatened to leave his young companions far in
the rear.

All now pressed forward with renewed energy; and having gained the
summit of the hill, which here rose to the height of eighty feet, they were
enabled, by the aid of Cæsar, to come quickly upon the trail of the Indians,
who, doubtless supposing themselves now safe from pursuit, had taken little
or no pains to conceal their course. Of this their pursuers now took advantage,
and hurried onward with long and rapid strides; now through thick
dark woods and gloomy hollows; now up steep hills and rocky barren cliffs;
now through tangles and over marshy grounds—clearing all obstacles that
presented themselves with an ease which showed that notwithstanding some
of them might be inferior as woodsmen, none were, at all events, as travellers
in the woods.

By noon the party had advanced some considerable distance, and were
probably not far in the rear of the pursued—at least such was the opinion
of Boone—when they were again, to their great vexation, put at fault for
the trail, by the cunning of the renegade, who, to prevent all accidents, had
here once more broken it, by entering another small streamlet—a branch of
Eagle river;—and although our friends set to with all energy and diligence
to find it, yet, from the nature of the ground round about, the darkness of
the wood through which the rivulet meandered, and several other causes,
they were unable to do so for three good hours.

This delay tended not a little to discourage the younger members of our
pursuing party, who, in consequence thereof, began to be low spirited, and
less eager than before to press forward when the trail was again found; but
a few words from Boone in a chiding manner, telling them that if they faltered
at every little obstacle, they would be unfit representatives of border
life, served to stimulate them on to renewed exertions. To add to the discomfiture
of all—not excepting Boone himself—the sun, which had thus
far shone out warm and brilliant, began to grow more and more dim, as a
thick huze spread through the atmosphere overhead, foretokening an approaching
storm—an event which might prove entirely disastrous to their
hopes, by obliterating all vestiges of the pursued. As the gallant old hunter
moved onward with rapid strides—preceded by the faithful brute, which,
on the regular trail, greatly facilitated their progress, by saving the company
a close scrutiny of their course—he from time to time cast his eyes
upward and noted the thickening atmosphere with an anxious and troubled
expression.

For some time the sun shone faintly; then his rays became entirely obscured,
and his position could only be discerned by a bright spot in the
heavens; this, ere he reached the horizon, became obscured also; when
the old hunter, who had watched every sign closely, looking anxiously toward
the west, observed:

“I don't like it, lads; thar's a storm a brewing for sartin, and we shall
drenched afore to-morrow morning. Howsomever,” he continued, “it arn't
the wetting as I cares any thing about,—for I'm used to the elements in all
thar stages, and don't fear 'em no more'n a dandy does a feather bed,—but

the trail will be lost in arnest this time; and then we'll have to give in, or
follow on by guess work. It's this as troubles me; for I'm fearful poor Ella
and Reynolds won't get succor in time. But keep stout hearts, lads,” he
added, as he noticed gloomy expressions sweep over the faces of his followers;
“keep stout hearts—don't get melancholy; for in this here world
we've got to take things as we find 'em; and no doubt this storm's all for
the best, ef we could only see ahead like into futurity.”

With this consoling reflection the hunter again quickened his pace, and
pressed forward until the shadows of evening warned him to seek out an
encampment for the gathering night. Accordingly, sweeping the adjoining
country with an experienced eye, his glance soon rested on a rocky ridge,
some quarter of a mile to the right, at whose base he judged might be found
a comfortable shelter from the coming rain. Communicating his thoughts
to his companions, all immediately quitted the trail and advanced towards
it, where they arrived in a few minutes, and found, to their delight, that
the experienced woodsman had not been wrong in his conjectures. A cave
of no mean dimensions was fortunately discovered, after a short search
among the rocks, into which all now gathered; and striking a light, they
made a small fire close at the entrance, around which they assembled and
partook of the refreshments brought with them—Boone declaring he had
not tasted a morsel of food since leaving Boonsborough early in the morning.
The meal over, the young men disposed themselves about the cave in
the best manner possible for their own comfort; and being greatly fatigued
by their journey, and the revels of the night previous, they very soon gave
evidence of being in a sleep too deep for dreams. Boone sat by the fire,
apparently in deep contemplation, until a few embers only remained; then
pointing Cæsar to his place near the entrance, he threw himself at length
upon the ground, and was soon imitating the example of his young comrades.

Early in the evening it came on to blow very hard from the cast, and
about midnight set in to rain, as Boone had predicted, which it continued to
do the rest of the night; nor were there any signs of its abatement, when
the party arose to resume their journey on the following morning.

“What can't be cured must be endured,” said Boone, quoting an old
proverb, as he gazed forth upon the storm. “We must take sech as comes,
lads, without grumbling; though I don't know's thar's any sin in wishing
it war a little more to our liking. Howsomever,” he added, “prehaps
it won't be so much agin us arter all; for the red varmints mayhap 'll
think as how all traces of 'em have been washed away, and feeling safe
from pursuit, be less cautious about their proceedings; and by keeping on
the same course, we may chance upon 'em unawares. So come, lads, let 's
eat and be off.”

Accordingly making a hasty breakfast, and securing the remainder of
their provision as well as ammunition, in the bosoms of their hunting frocks
—which were always made large for such and similar purposes—tightening
the belts about their bodies, and placing their rifle's, lock downwards, under
the ample skirts of their frocks, to shield them from the rain—the whole
party sallied forth upon their second days adventure. Regaining the spot
they had quitted the evening before, Boone took a long look in the direction
whence they first approached, and then shaping his course so as to bear as
near as possible on a direct line with it, set forward at a quick pace, going
a very little west of due north.

In this manner our pursuers continued their journey for some three or
four hours, scarcely exchanging a syllable—the storm beating fiercely against
their faces and drenching their bodies—when an incident occurred of the
most alarming kind.

They had descended a hill, and were crossing an almost open plain of
some considerable extent—which was bounded on the right by a wood, and
on the left by a cane-brake—and had nearly gained its center, when they
were startled by a deep rumbling sound, resembling the mighty rushing of
a thousand horse. Nearer and nearer came the rushing sound, while each
one paused, and many a pale face was turned with an anxious, inquiring
glance upon Boone, whose own, though a shade paler than usual, was composed
in every feature, as he gazed, without speaking, in the direction whence
the noise proceeded.

“My God! what is it?” cried Henry, in alarm.

“Behold!” answered Boone, pointing calmly toward the cane-brake.

A cry of surprise, despair and horror, escaped every tongue but the old
hunter's—as, at that moment, a tremendous herd of buffaloe, numbering
thousands, was seen rushing from the brake, and bearing directly to the
spot where our party stood. Escape by flight was impossible; for the animals
were scarcely four hundred yards distant and booming forward with
the speed of the frightened wild horse of the prairie. Nothing was apparent
but speedy death, and in its most horrible form, that of dying unknown,
beneath the hoofs of the wild beasts of the wilderness. In this awful
moment of suspense, which seemingly but preceded the disuniting of soul
and body, each of the young men turned a breathless look of horror
upon the old hunter, such as landsmen in a terrible gale at sea would
turn upon the commander of the vessel; but, save an almost impreceptible
quiver of the lips, not a muscle of the now stern countenance of
Boone changed.

“God of Heaven!—we are lost!” cried Henry, wildly. “Oh! such a
death!”

“Every man's got to die when his time comes—but none afore; and
yourn hasn't come yet, Master Harry,” replied Boone, quietly; “unless,”
he added, a moment after, as he raised his rifle to his eye, “Betsey here's
forgot her old tricks.”

As he spoke, his gun flashed, a report followed, and one of the foremost
of the herd, an old bull, which had gained a point within two hundred
yards of the marksman, stumbled forward and rolled over on the earth, with
a loud bellow of pain. His companions, which were pressing close behind,
snorted with fear, as they successively came up, and turning aside, on either
hand, made a furrow in their ranks, that, gradually widening as they advanced,
finally cleared our friends by a space of twenty yards; and so passed
they on, making the very earth tremble under their mighty tread.[1]

It was a sublime sight—to behold such a tremendous caravan of wild
beasts rushing past—and one that filled each of the spectators, even when
they knew all danger was over, with a sense of trembling awe; and they
stood and gazed in silence, until the last of the herd was lost to their vision;
then advancing to the noble hunter, Henry silently grasped his hard,
weather-beaten hand, and turned away with tearful eyes—an example that
was followed by each of the others, and which was more heart-touchingly
expressive of their feelings, than would have been a vocabulary of appropriate
words.

Our party next proceeded to examine the wounded bull, which was
still bellowing with rage and pain; and having carefully approached and
despatched him with their knives, they found that the ball of Boone had
penetrated his head. Taking from him a few slices of meat, to serve them

in case their provisions ran short, they once more resumed their journey—
the wind still easterly and the storm raging.

About three hours past noon the storm began to show signs of abatement—
the wind blew less hard, and had veered several points to the north—an
event which the old hunter noted with great satisfaction. They had now
gained a point within ten miles of the beautiful Ohio, when the dog—which,
since he had had no trail to guide him, ran where he chose—commenced
barking spiritedly, some fifty paces to the left of the party, who immediately
set off at a brisk gait to learn the cause.

“I'll wager what you dare, lads, the pup's found the trail,” said Boone.

The event proved him in the right; for on coming up, the footsteps of
both captors and captives, who had evidently passed there not over three
hours before, could be distinctly traced in the loomy earth. A shout,—not
inferior in power and duration to that set up by crazy-headed politicians, on
the election of some favorite—was sent away to the hills, announcing the
joy of our party; which the hills, as if partakers also of the hilarious feelings,
in turn duly echoed.

This new, important and unexpected discovery, raised the spirits of all
our company to a high degree; and they again set forward at a faster gait
than ever, so as to overtake the pursued if possible before they crossed the
Ohio river. The trail was now broad and distinct, and the footprints of the
Indians, as also those of their captives, Algernon and Ella, could be clearly
defined wherever the ground chanced to be of a clayey nature. In something
like two hours our pursuers succeeded in reaching the river; but unfortunately
too late to intercept their enemies and rescue their friends, who
had already crossed sometime before. By trailing them to the water's edge,
they discovered the very spot where the canoes of the savages had been
secreted on the beach, behind some drift-logs, nearly opposite the mouth of
the Great Miami.

“Ef we'd only been here a little sooner,” observed Boone, musingly,
“we'd ha' saved some o' the varmints the trouble of paddling over thar; or
ef we only had the means o' crossing now, we'd be upon 'em afore they
war aware on't. Howsomever, as it is, I suppose we'll have to make a raft to
cross on and so give the red heathen a little more time.”

“Is it not possible, colonel,” answered Millbanks, in a suggestive way,
“that the Indians, forming the two parties, may all be of the same tribe,
and have crossed here together, when they came over to make the attack?
and that the boats of the other division, unless they have recrossed, may
still be secreted not far hence?”

“By the Power that made me!” exclaimed Boone, energetically, “a good
thought, lad—a good thought, Master Harry—and we'll act on't at once,
by sarching along the banks above here; for as the other varmints took off
to the east, it arn't improbable they've just steered a little round about, to
come down on 'em, while these went right straight ahead.”

At once proceeding upon this suggestion, Boone and his companions commenced
a close examination along the shore; which finally resulted in their
finding, as had been premised, not the canoes themselves, but traces of
where they had recently been, together with the trail of the other party,
who had also arrived at this point and crossed over. This caused no little
sensation among our pursuers, who, scaning the footprints eagerly, and
perceiving thereby that the prisoners were still along with their captors
scarcely knew whether most to rejoice or be sad. One thing at least was
cheering, they were still alive; and could their friends, the present party
succeed in crossing the river during the night, might be rescued. But where

was Isaac and his band, was the next important query. If, as they ardently
hoped, he and his comrades had not lost the trail, they might be expected to
join them soon—a reinforcement which would render them comparatively safe.

Meantime the storm had wholely subsided—the wind blew strong and
cold from the northwest—a few broken, dripping clouds sailed slowly onward—while
the sun, a little above the horison, again shone out clear and
bright, and painted a beautiful bow on the cloudy ground of the eastern
heavens.

“Well, lads, the storm's over, thank God!” said Boone, glancing upward,
with an expression of satisfaction; “and now, as day-light'll be scarce presently,
we'll improve what there is, in constructing a raft to cross over on;
and maybe Isaac and the rest on 'em will join us in time to get a ride.”

As the old hunter concluded, he at once applied himself to laying out such
drift logs as were thought suitable for the purpose, in which he was assisted
by three of the others, the remaining two proceeding into the bushes to cut
withes for binding them together; and so energetic and dilligent was each in
his labors, that, ere twilight had deepened into night, the rude vessel was
made, launched, and ready to transport its builders over the waters. They
now resolved to take some refreshment, and wait until night had fully set
in, in the faint hope that Isaac might possibly make his appearance. With
this intent, our party retired up the bank, into the edge of the wood that
lined the shore, for the purpose of kindling a fire, that they might dry their
garments, and roast some portions of the slaughtered bull.

Scarcely had they succeeded, after several attempts, in effecting a bright
ruddy blaze—which threw from their forms, dark, fantastic shadows, against
the earth, trees and neighboring bushes—when Ceasar uttered a low, deep
growl, and Boone, grasping his rifle tightly, motioned his companions to follow
him in silence into an adjoining thicket. Here, after cautioning them to remain
perfectly quiet, unless they heard some alarm, he carefully parted the
bushes, and glided noislessly away, saying, in a low tone, as he departed:

“I rather 'spect it's Isaac; but I'd like to be sartin on't, afore I commit
myself.”

For some five or ten minutes after the old hunter disappeared, all was
silent, save the crackling of the fire, the rustling of the leaves, the sighing
of the wind among the trees, and the rippling of the now swollen and muddy
waters of the Ohio. At length the sound of a voice was heard some fifty
paces distant, followed immediately by another in a louder tone, and then
by a shout which made the old forest ring again.

On hearing this, our friends in the thicket gave a shout in return, and then
rushing forward, were soon engaged in shaking the hands of Isaac and his
comrades, with a heartiness on both sides that showed the pleasure of meeting
was earnest and unalloyed.

As more important matters are now pressing hard upon us, and as our space
is limited, we shall omit the detail of Isaac's adventures, as also the further
proceedings of both parties for the present, and substitute a brief summary.

The trail whereon Isaac and his party started the day before, being broad
and open, they had experienced but little difficulty in following it, until
about noon, when they reached a stream where it was broken, which caused
them some two hours delay. This, doubtless, prevented them from over-taking
the enemy that day; and the night succeeding, not having found
quarters as comfortable as Boone's, they had been thoroughly soaked with
rain. The trail in the morning was entirely obliterated; but pursuing their
course in a manner similar to that adopted by Boone, the result had happily

been the same, and the meeting of the two parties the consequence, at a moment
most fortunate to both.

All now gathered around the fire, to dry their garments, refresh themselves
with food, tell over to each other their adventures, and consult as to
their future course. It was finally agreed to cross the stream that night, in
the hope, by following up the Miami, to stumble upon the encampment of
their adversaries; who were, doubtless, at no great distance; and who, as
they judged, feeling themselves secure, might easily be surprised to advantage.
How they succeeded in their perilous undertaking, coming events
must show.