University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

That portion of territory known throughout Christendom as Kentucky,
was, at an early period, the theatre of some of the wildest tragedies, most
hardy contested and bloody scenes ever placed on record. In fact its very
name, derived from the Indian word Kan-tuck-kee, and which was applied
to it long before its discovery by the whites, is peculiarly significant in
meaning—being no less than “the dark and bloody ground.” History makes
no mention of its being inhabited prior to its settlement by the present race,
but rather serves to aid us in the inference, that from time immemorial it
was used as a “neutral ground,” whereon the different savage tribes were
wont to meet in deadly strife; and hence the portentious name by which it
was known among them. But notwithstanding its ominous title, Kentucky,
when first beheld by the white hunter, presented all the attractions he would
have envied in Paradise itself. The climate was congenial to his feelings—
the country was devoid of savages—while its thick tangles of green cane—
abounding with deer, elk, bears, buffaloes, panthers, wolves and wild cats,
and its more open woods with pheasant, turkey and partridges—made it the
full realization of his hopes—his longings. What more could he ask? And
when he again stood among his friends, beyond the Alleghanies, is it to be
wondered at that his excited feelings, aided by distance, should lead him to
describe it as the El Dorado of the world? Such indeed he did describe it;
and to such glowing descriptions, Kentucky is doubtless partially indebted
for her settlement so much in advance of the surrounding territory.

As it is not our purpose in the present instance, to enter into a history of
the country, further than is necessary to the development of our story, the
reader will pardon us for omitting that account of its early settlement which
can readily be gleaned from numerous works already familiar to the reading
public. It may not be amiss, however, to remark here, what almost every
reader knows, that first and foremost in the dangerous struggles of pioneer
life, was the celebrated Daniel Boone, whose name in the west, and particularly
in Kentucky, is a household word; and whose fame, as a fearless
hunter, has extended not only over this continent, but throughout Europe.
The birth place of this renowned individual has been credited to several
states, by as many writers; but one, more than the rest, is positive in
asserting it to have been Bucks county, Pennsylvania, and the year of his
birth 1732, which is sufficient for our purpose, whether strictly correct or
not. At an early period of his life, all agree that he removed with his
father to a very thinly settled section of North Carolina, where he spent
his time in hunting, thereby supplying the family with meat, and destroying
the wild beasts, while his brothers assisted the father in tilling the farm, and
where he afterwards, in a romantic manner, became acquainted with a settler's

daughter, whem he married, and whence, in the spring of 1769, in
company with five others, he set out on an expedition of danger across the
mountains, to explore the western wilds; and after undergoing hardships
innumerable, and loosing all his companions in various ways, he at last
succeeded in erecting the first log cabin, and being the first white settler on
the borders of Kentucky. To follow up, even from this time, a detail of
his trials, adventures, captures by the Indians, and hair-breadth escapes, to
the close of his eventful career, would be sufficient to fill a volume; therefore
we shall drop him for the time, merely remarking, by the way, that he
will be found to figure occasionally in the following pages.

From the first appearance of Boone in the wilds of Kentucky, we shall
pass over a space of some ten or twelve years, and open our story in the
fall of 1781. During this period, the aspect of the country for a considerable
distance around the present site of Lexington, had become materially
changed, and the smoke from the cabin of the white settler arose in an hundred
places, where, a dozen years before, prowled the wolf, the bear and the
panther, in perfect security. In sooth, the year in question had been very
propitious to the immigrants, who, flocking in from eastern settlements in
goodly numbers, were allowed to domiciliate themselves in their new homes,
with but few exceptions, entirely unmolested by the savage foe. So much
in fact was this the case, that instead of taking up their residence in a fort—
or station, as they were more generally called—the new comers erected
cabins for themselves, at such points as they considered most agreeable,
gradually venturing farther and farther from the strongholds, until some of
them became too distant to look hopefully for succor, even in cases of extreme
necessity.

Among the stations most prominent at this period, as being most secure,
and against which the attacks of the Indians were most frequent and unsuccessful,
may be mentioned Harrod's, Boone's, Logan's, and Bryan's, so called
in honor of their founders. The two first named, probably from being the
two earliest founded, were particularly unfortunate in drawing down upon
themselves the concentrated fury of the savages, who at various times surrounded
them in great numbers and attempted to take them by storm. These
attacks not unfrequently lasted several days, in which a brisk fire was maintained
on both sides, whenever a foe could be seen, until wearied out with
fruitless endeavors, or surprised by a reinforcement of the whites, the Indians
would raise the siege, with a howl of rage, and depart. One of the longest
and most remarkable of these on record, we believe, was that of Boonesborough,
which was attacked in June, 1778, by five hundred Indians, led on
by Duquesne, a Frenchman, and which, with only a small garrison, commanded
by Boone himself, nobly held out for eight days, when the enemy
withdrew in despair. But, as we before remarked, it not being our purpose
to enter into a general history of the time, we shall proceed forthwith to our
story.

It was near the close of a mild, beautiful day, in the autumn of 1781, that
a young man, some twenty-two years of age, emerged from a wood into an
open space or clearing, at a distance of perhaps fifteen miles eastward of
Lexington. The general appearance of this individual betokened the hunter,
but at the same time one who followed it for pleasure, rather than as a means
of support. This was evident by his dress, which, although somewhat characteristic
of the time, was much superior to that generally worn by the
woodsman. It consisted of a woolen hunting frock, of fine texture, of a dark
green color, that came a few inches below the hips. Beneath this, and fitting
closely around his shoulders, neck and breast, was a scarlet jacket, tastefully

adorned with two rows of round, white, metal buttons. A large cape—with
a deep red fringe, of about an inch in width—was attached to the frock, and
extended from the shoulders nearly to the elbow. Around the waist, outside
the frock, passed a dark leather belt, in which were confined a brace of handsome
pistols, and a long silver-handled hunting knife. Breeches of cloth,
like the frock, connected with leggins of tanned deer skin, which in turn
extended over, and partly concealed, heavy cow hide boots. A neatly made
cap of deer skin, with the hair outside, surmounted a finely shaped head,
whereon was a countenance both striking and pleasing. His features, though
somewhat pale and haggard, as if from recent grief or trouble, were mostly
of the Grecian cast, with a high, noble forehead—a large, clear, fascinating
gray eye—a well formed mouth, and a prominent chin, indicative of manly
courage and strength of character. In height he was about five feet and ten
inches—broad shouldered—straight—heavy set—with handsome proportions,—every
limb plump and tapering with that beauty of outline which
may ever be set down as combining great strength and suppleness.

Upon the shoulder of the young man, as he emerged from the wood,
rested an elegant rifle, which, after advancing a short distance, he brought
into a trailing position, and then pausing, he dropped the breech upon the
ground, placed his hands over the muzzle, and, carelessly leaning his chin
upon them, swept with his eye the surrounding country, to which he was
evidently a stranger.

The day had been one of those mild and smoky ones, peculiar to the climate
and season, and the sun, large and red, was near to sinking behind the
far western ridge, giving a beautiful crimson, mellow tinge to each object
which came beneath his rays. The landscape, over which the stranger
gazed, was by no means unpleassing. His position was on an eminence, overlooking
a fertile valley, partly cleared, and partly shaded by woods, through
which wound a chrystal stream, whose gentle murmurs could be heard even
where he stood. Beyond this stream, the ground, in pleasing undulations,
took a gentle rise, to a goodly height, and was covered by what is termed an
open wood—a wood peculiar to Kentucky at this period, consisting of trees
in the regularity of an orchard, at some distance apart, devoid of underbrush,
beneath which the earth was beautifully carpeted with a rank growth
of clover, high grass, and wild flowers innumerable. In the rear of the
young hunter, as if to form a background to the picture, was the wood he
had just quitted, which, continuing the elevation spoken of, but more abruptly,
rose high above him, and was crowned by a ledge of rocks. Far in the
distance, to his right, could be seen another high ridge, while to his left,
spreading far away from the mouth of the valley, if we may so term it,
like the prairies of Missouri, was a beautiful tangle, or cane-brake, containing,
like the former, its thousands of wild animals. The open space
wherein the hunter stood, was not large—covering an area of not more than
half a dozen acres—was of an oblong form, and sloped off from his position
to the right, left, and front,—had been tilled for a couple of seasons, and
reached from the wood down to the stream in the valley, where stood a
rather neat log cabin, from which a light blue smoke ascended in graceful
wreaths. The eye of the stranger, glancing over the scene, fell upon this
latter with that gleam of satisfaction which is felt by a person after performing
a long fatiguing journey, when he sees before him a comfortable inn,
where he is to repose for the night; and pausing for a couple of minutes,
he replaced his rifle upon his shoulder, and started forward down the hill
towards it, at a leisure pace.

Scarcely had the stranger advanced twenty paces, when he was startled

by a fierce yell, accompanied by the report of a rifle, the ball of which
whizzed past him, within an inch of his head. Ere he could recover from
his surprise, a sharp pain in the side, followed by another report, caused
him to reel like one intoxicated, and finally sink to the earth. As the young
man fell, two Indians sprang from behind a cluster of bushes, which skirted
the clearing some seventy-five yards to the right, and with a whoop of triumph,
tomahawk in hand, rushed toward him. Believing that his life now
depended upon his own speedy exertions, the young hunter, by a great effort,
succeeded in raising himself upon his knees; and drawing up his rifle with
a hasty aim, he fired, but with no other success than that of causing one of
the savages to jerk his head suddenly aside without slackening his speed.
There was still a chance left him, and setting his teeth hard, the wounded
man drew his pistols from his belt, and awaited the approach of his enemies,
who, when within thirty paces, discovering the weapons of death,
suddenly came to a halt, and commenced loading their rifles with great rapidity.

The young hunter now perceived, with painful regret, that only an interposition
of Providence could save him, for his life was hanging on a thread
that might snap at any moment. It was an awful moment of suspense, as
there on his knees, far, far away from the land of his birth, in a strange
country, he, in the prime of life, without a friend near, wounded and weak,
was waiting to die, like a wild beast, by the hands of savages, with his scalp
to be borne hence as a trophy, his flesh to be devoured by wolves, and his
bones left to bleach in the open air. It was an awful moment of suspense!
and a thousand thoughts (for in extreme peril, as in a dream, we think with
a hundred-fold ratio,) came rushing through his mind, and he felt he would
have given worlds, were they his, for the existence of even half an hour,
with a friend by, to receive his dying requests. To add to his despair, he
felt himself fast growing weaker and weaker; and with an unsteady vision
as his last hope, he turned his eye in the direction of the cottage, to note if
any assistance were at hand—he saw none, and nature failing to support him
longer in his position, he sunk back upon the ground, believing the last sands
of his existence were run.

Meantime the Indians had loaded their rifles, and one of them stepping a
pace in front of his companion, was already in the act of aiming, when, perceiving
the young man falter and sink back, he lowered the muzzle of his
gun, and, grasping his tomahawk, darted forward to despatch him without
further loss of amunition. Already had he reached within five or six paces
of his victim, who now unable to exert himself in his own defence, could
only look upon his savage enemy and the weapon uplifted for his destruction,
when, crack went another rifle, in an opposite direction whence the Indians
approached, and bounding into the air, with a terrific yell, the foremost fell
dead by the young man's side. On seeing his companion fall, the other
Indian, who was only a few paces behind, stopped suddenly, and, with a yell
of fear and disappointment, turned and fled.

Those only who have been placed in peril sufficient to extinguish the
last gleam of hope, and have suddenly been relieved by a mysterious interposition
of Providence, can fully realize the feelings with which the wounded
hunter saw himself rescued from an ignominious death. True, he was
weak and faint from a wound which was, perhaps, mortal; still it was a great
consolation to feel that he should die among those who would bury him, and
perhaps bear a message to friends in a far-off land. With such thoughts
uppermost in his mind, the young man, by great exertion, raised himself upon
his elbow, and turned his head in the direction whence his deliverer might

be expected; but to his surprise and disappointment no one appeared; and
after vainly attempting to regain his feet, he sunk back completely exhausted.
The wound in his side had now grown very painful and was bleeding
profusely; while he became conscious, that unless the hemorrhage could be
stanched immediately, the only good service a friend could render him,
would be to inter his remains. In this helpless state, something like a minute
elapsed, when he felt a strange sensation about his heart—his head
grew dizzy—his thoughts seemed confused—the sky appeared suddenly to
grow dark, and he believed the icy grasp of death was already settling upon
him. At this moment a form—but whether of friend or foe he could not
tell—flitted before his uncertain vision; and then all became darkness and
nonentity. He had swooned.

When the young stranger recovered his senses, after a lapse of some ten
minutes, his glance rested on the form of a white hunter, of noble aspect,
who was bending over him with a compassionate look, and who, meantime,
had opened his dress to the wound and stanched the blood, by covering it with
a few pieces of coarse linen which he had torn into shreds for the purpose
and secured there by means of his belt.

As this latter personage is designed to figure somewhat in the following
pages, we shall take this opportunity of describing him as he appeared to our
wounded friend.

In height and proportion—but not in age—these two individuals were somewhat
alike;—the new comer being full five feet ten inches, with a robust
athletic frame, well rounded, plump and tapering limbs, together with all the
concomitants of a powerful man. At the moment when first beheld by the
young man, after regaining his senses, his deliverer was kneeling by his side,
his cap of the wild-cat skin was lying on the ground, and the last mellow rays
of the setting sun were streaming upon an intelligent and manly countenance,
which, now rendered more deeply interesting by the earnest compassionate
look whereby he regarded the other, made him appear to that other, in his
peculiar situation, the most noble being he had ever seen. Of years he had
seen some fifty, though there was a freshness about his face, owing probably
to his hardy, healthy mode of life, that bid fair to dispute this point by at
least half a dozen. His countenance was open and pleasing, with good, regular,
though not, strictly speaking, handsome features. His forehead was
high, full and noble, beneath which beamed a mild, clear blue eye. His nose
was rather long and angular, his cheek-bones high and bold, his lips thin and
compressed, covering a goodly sett of teeth, his chin round and prominent,
the whole together conveying an expression of energy, decision, hardy recklesness
and manly courage, rarely seen combined in one individual. His
dress was fashioned much like the other's, already described, but of coarser
materials—the frock being of linsey, the breeches and leggings of deerskin,
and the moccasins, in place of boots, of the same material. Around his waist
passed a belt, wherein, instead of pistols, were confined a tomahawk and scalping
knife, two weapons which were considered as indispensable to the regular
white hunter of that day as to the Indian warrior himself.

So soon as the elder of the two became aware of consciousness on the part
of the younger, a friendly smile succeeded to the look of anxiety with which
he had been regarding him, and in the frank, cordial, familiar tone of that
period, when every man's cabin was the traveller's home and every strange
guest was treated with the hospitality of an old acquaintance, he said: “Well
stranger, I'm right glad to welcome you back to life agin; for I war begining
to fear your account with earthly matters had closed. By the Power
that made me! but you've had a narrow escape on't; and ef Betsey (putting his

hand on his rifle, which was lying by his side,) hadn't spoke out when she did,
that thar red skin varmint (pointing to the dead Indian) would have been
skulking now like a thief through yonder woods, with your crown piece hanging
to his girdle.”

“A thousand thanks,” returned the wounded man, pressing the hand of the
other as much as his strength would permit and accompanying it with a look
of gratitude more eloquent than words: “A thousand thanks, sir, for your
timely shot, and subsequent kindness and interest in behalf of one you know
not, but one who will ever remember you with gratitude.”

“See here, stranger, I reckon you've not been long in these parts?”

“But a few days sir.”

“And you've come from a good ways east o' the Alleghanies?”

“I have.”

“I knew it. I'd have bet Betsey agin a bushel of corn, and that's large
odd's you know, that such war the fact, from the perticular trouble you've
taken to thank me for doing the duty of a man. Let me assure you, stranger,
that you're in a country now whar equality exists, and whar one man's
just as good as another, provided he is no coward, and behaves himself as he
should do; and whether stranger or not, is equally entitled to the assistance
of his fellows; perticularly when about being treed by such a sneaking varmint
as that lying yonder. Besides, I don't want any body to thank me for
shooting Indians, for I always do it, whensomever I get a chance, as Betsey
would tell you, ef she could speak English; for somehow thar's no perticular
agreement atween us, unless it's for each to make the most he can off
the other; and so far I reckon thar's a ballance in my favor, though the
wretches are ever trying desperate hard to get even. But come, stranger,
it won't do for you to be lying thar with that hole in your side, and so just
have patience a minute, till I've secured the top-knot of this beauty here,
and then I'll assist you down to yonder cabin, whar I doubt not you'll be
well cared for.”

As he spoke, the old woodsman rose to his feet, drew his knife, and turning
to the dead Indian, to the surprise of the other, who was but little familiar
with Kentucky customs of that day, deliberately took off the scalp, which
he attached to his belt;[1] and then spurning the body with his foot, he muttered,
“Go worthless dog and fill the belly of some wolf, and may your cowardly
companion be soon keeping you company.” Then as he turned to
the other, and noticed his look of surprise, he added: “Well, stranger, I
reckon this business looks a little odd to you, coming from away beyond the
mountains as you do.”

“Why, if truth must be told, I confess it does,” answered the other.

“Don't doubt it, stranger; but you'll do it yourself afore you've wintered
here two seasons.”

“I must beg leave to differ with you on that point.”

“Well, well, we'll not quarrel about it—it arn't worth while; but ef you
stay here two year, without scalping a red-skin and prehaps skinning one, I'll
agree to pay you for your time in bar-skins, at your own valuation.”

“I am much obliged to you for the offer,” answered the young man—a
faint smile illuminating his pale features; “but I think it hardly probable I
shall remain in the country that length of time.”

“Not unless you have good care, I reckon,” returned the other; “for that

thar wound o' yourn arn't none o' the slightest; though I don't want you
to be skeered, for I've seen many a worse one cured;—but come, I'll assist
you down to you cabin, and then I must be off, for I've got a good distance
to travel afore daylight to morrow;” and bending down as he spoke, the veteran
hunter placed his arm under the armpits of the wounded man, and gently
raised him upon his feet.

Although extremely weak from loss of blood, the latter, by this means of
support, was enabled to walk at a slow pace, and the two descended the hill
—the elder, the while, talking much, and endeavoring by his discourse to
amuse and cheer the spirits of the other.

“Why,” he continued, “you think your case a hard one, no doubt, stranger,
but it's nothing compared to what some of us old settlers have seen and
been through with, without even winking as one may say. Within the last
few year, I've seen a brother and a son shot by the infernal red-skins—have
lost I don't know how many companions in the same way—been shot at fifty
times myself, and captured several; and yet you see here I am, hale and
hearty, and just as eager, with Betsey's permission, to talk to the varmints
now as I war ten year ago.”

“But do you not weary of this fatiguing and dangerous mode of life?”
inquired the other.

“Weary, stranger? Lord bless ye! you're but a young hunter to ax such
a question as that. Weary, friend? Why I war born to it—nursed to it—
had a rifle for a play-thing, and the first thing I can remember perticularly,
war shooting a painter,[2] and it's became as nateral and necessary as breathing;
and when I get so I can't follow the one, I want to quit the other. Weary
on't, indeed! Why, thar's more rale satisfaction in sarcumventing and scalping
one o' them red heathen, than in all the amusement you could scare up
in a thick peopled, peaceable settlement in a life time.”

“By the way,” said the other, “pray tell me how you chanced to be so opportune
in saving my life?”

“Why, you must know, I war just crossing through the wood back here
about a mile, on my way home from the Licks, when I came across the trail
of two Indians, whom I 'spected war arter no good; and as Betsey war itching
for something to do, I kind o' kept on the same way, and happened round on
the other side o' this ridge, just as the red varmints fired. I saw you fall,
but could'nt see them, on account o' the hill; but as I knowed they'd be for
showing themselves soon, I got Betsey into a comfortable position, and waited
as patiently as I could, until the ugly face of that rascal yonder showed clar,
when I told her to speak to him, which she did in rale backwood's dialect,
and he died a answering her. I then hurried round on the skirt of the wood,
loading Betsey as I went; but finding the other varmint had got off, I hastened
to you and found you senseless: the rest you know.”

By this time the two had reached nearly to the foot of the hill, and within
a hundred yards of the cabin, when they were joined by a tall, lank, lanternjawed,
awkward young man, some twenty years of age, with small, dark eyes,
a long, peaked nose, and flaxen hair that floated down over his ungainly
shoulders like weeping willows over a serub oak, and who carried in his
hand a rifle nearly as long and ugly as himself.

“Why colonel, how are ye? good even' to ye, stranger,” was his salutation,
as he came up. “I war down by the tangle yonder, when I heerd
some firing, and some yelling, and I legged it home, ahead o' the old man, just
to keep the women folks in sperets, in case they war attacked, and get a pop

or so at an injen myself; but thank the Lord, they warn't thar; and so I
ventered on with long Nance here, to see whar they mought be.”

“Well, Isaac,” returned the one addressed as colonel, “I don't doubt your
being a brave lad, and I've had some opportunity o' seeing you tried; but
being as how thar's no Indians to shoot just now, I'll ax you to show your
good qualities in another way. This young man's been badly wounded, and
of you'll give him a little extra care, you'll put me under obligations which
I'll be happy to repay whensomever needed.”

“It don't need them thar inducements you've just mentioned, colonel, to
rouse all my sympathies for a wounded stranger. Rely on't he shan't suffer
for want o' attention, I assure you.”

“Rightly said, lad, rightly said; and so I leave him in your care. Tender
my regard to your family, for I must be off, and can't stay to see them.”
Then turning to the wounded man, he grasped his hand and said: “Stranger,
thar's something about you I like; I don't say it of every man I meet;
and so you may put it down for a compliment or not, just as you please.
Give me your name?”

“Algernon Reynolds.”

“Algernon Reynolds, I hope we shall meet agin, though in a different
manner from our introduction; but whether or no, ef you ever need the assistance
of either Betsey or myself, just make it known, and we'll do our
best for you. Good bye, sir—good bye, Isaac!” and without waiting a reply,
the speaker sprang suddenly behind a cluster of bushes near which
the party stood, and the next moment he was lost to view in the approaching
darkness.

“A great man, that thar, sir!—a might greaty man,” observed Isaac, gazing
with admiration after the retreating form of the hunter. “Always doing
good deeds, and never looking for pay nor thanks; may God give him
four-score and ten.”

“Amen to that!” returned Reynolds. “But pray tell me his name.”

“And you don't know him?”

“I do not.”

“And you didn't inquire his name?”

“I did not.”

“And ef you had, sir, ten to one but he'd a given you a fictitious one, to
keep clar o' your surprise and extra thanks. Why that, sir, war the great
white hunter, Colonel Daniel Boone.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Reynolds, in no feigned surprise—“the very man I
have so longed to behold, for his fame has already extended far beyond the
Alleghanies. But come, friend Isaac, my wound grows painful; my exertions
thus far have weakened me exceedingly; and with your permission, I will
proceed to the cottage. Ah! I feel myself growing faint—fainter—fa—i—n—t”
and he sunk senseless into the other's arms, who, raising him apparently
without an effort, bore him into the house.