University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.
THE SCOUTS.

Probably no region of the globe ever presented
more attractions to the genuine hunter and lover of
the backwoods, than the territory known as Kentucky
previous to its settlement by the race that
now holds possession of its soil. Its location, happily
intermediate between the extremes of heat and cold,
afforded a most congenial climate; its surface was
diversified by steep hills and deep valleys, stupendous
cliffs and marshy levels, dense woods and flowery
glades, immense caverns and tangled brakes, large
streams and wonderful licks; and hither came all the
beasts of the forest, to roam in unrestrained freedom
through wilds seldom trod by human feet, and gay-plumed
songsters from every region swept along the
balmy air and made the sylvan retreats ring with
their silvery strains. When first discovered by the
white man, no human beings claimed ownership of
this enchanting land. The red man of the North,
and the red man of the South, came here to hunt and
fight; but the victor bore off his spoils, and the vanquished

went back in dismay, and neither put up
his wigwam on the neutral ground. For years after
its discovery by the white man, Kentucky could not
boast a hundred of the race within its borders; but
then the tide of emigration set in strongly toward
this western land of promise, and a few years more
beheld its broad surface dotted here and there with
the rude fortresses and dwellings of incipient civilization.
Every step forward, however, was marked
with blood. The red man was jealous of the white,
and there was for a long period an almost continuous,
fierce, and sanguinary struggle for the mastery;
while the midnight yells, the wailing shrieks and
the burning homes, too often proclaimed the horrid
work of death and desolation.

The middle period between the first discovery of
Kentucky and that happy time when the savage
hordes of the North no longer found their way within
her limits, is the one we have chosen for the opening
of our story. At this time there was a number of
established forts or stations in different sections, some
of which had been sorely tried by long, fierce sieges,
and all of which had been more or less attacked;
and there was a still larger number of solitary
block-houses and ordinary log-cabins scattered over
the country, the owners and inmates of which had
boldly ventured upon the chances of living and cultivating
their lands beyond the protecting power of
a collected body of their fellow-beings. The Indians,
in large and small parties, had made frequent incursions

within the limits occupied by the settlers,
sometimes with success and sometimes with defeat,
and there was no telling what moment they might
again appear and assail those who had thus far escaped
discovery and harm. Such in brief was the
general condition of the country at the time we present
to notice the opening scene of our drama of life.

On a calm and beautiful day, just after the heats
of summer had been succeeded by the cooler and
more bracing airs of autumn, two men, in the garb
of border hunters, were pushing their way through
a dense thicket of cane, in what is now one of the
northeastern counties of Kentucky. There was no
path through this brake, the cane of which was at
least twelve feet high, and grew so close that our
adventurers were forced to part the stalks with their
hands to make a passage for their bodies. For
something like an hour they toiled on in this manner,
with scarcely a word being exchanged, when
they suddenly emerged into an open wood, where
the ground, clear of bushes and vines, presented a
beautiful carpet of green grass and bright flowers,
and the trees, in orchard-like regularity, stretched
upward their huge trunks, interlocked their heavy
branches, and spread deeply over all a delightful
canopy of leaves.

“There,” exclaimed the younger of the two, as he
made a nimble leap from the canebrake into the
open wood, and threw out his arms and brought
down the breech of his rifle with an air of satisfaction,

“thank Heaven, I have got where I can breathe
again! Ah! what a beautiful, enchanting place!”
he added, with enthusiasm, as his quick, bright eye
took in the scene; “a regular Eden! Tom, I must
make a sketch of it!”

“You'd better make tracks out on't!” growled the
other, as he went stalking forward in the most unromantic
manner possible. “You want to sketch
everything you see, and some day you'll hev a
bloody savage sketch off the top of your head.”

“Bah!” cried the younger, with a slight pout of
his lips and a roguish twinkle of his bright blue
eyes; “there is no more poetry in you, Tom, than
there is in a possum!”

“Wall, don't a possum know all as natur' wanted
him to?” queried Tom, half-facing round, but still
stalking onward.

“I suppose so,” smiled the other.

“Then whar's the use?” returned the woodman,
with a satisfied grunt. “I spect picturs and poetry
is well enough in thar places, in some old finiky settlement,
whar they sleep in feather-beds and git
skeered at thar shadders; but out yere they're no
more use nor wings is to tadpoles.”

“That is your sage opinion, Tom!” replied the
young man, with a good-natured smile; “but, fortunately
for me, everybody don't think as you do.
Different people have different tastes and educations.”

“Wall, I never had any edication,” rejoined Tom,
with an air of simplicity, “'cept what I picked up

in the woods; and whar's the use? I had a tomahawk
for a plaything when I war a baby, and a rifle for a
bed-feller; and when I growed up along, I larnt to
use 'em on beasts and Injuns. I kin hunt, fish, row,
trail Injuns and steal hosses; I can tell a skunk from
a beaver, a persimmon tree from a white-oak, a turkey-buzzard
from a chicken, and what more d'ye
want? One man can't know everything, I spect.”

“Of course not,” laughed the other; “and I suppose
I like you quite as well as if you were filled
with poetry and romance, and went into ecstasies
over every beautiful scene in nature. The fact is, as
I'm something of an enthusiast, I suppose it wouldn't
do for me to have a companion like myself out here
in this Indian country!”

“Not ef you spect to keep your head on your
shoulders, and your ha'r on top on't, Harry Colburn!”
rejoined the other, with a broad grin.

While thus conversing, the elder continued to lead
the way, with long and rapid strides, as if anxious to
reach some given point at a certain time, and the
younger followed on a few paces behind him. The
route pursued led directly through the open wood,
then down into a deep, rocky hollow, through which
flowed a rapid, roaring streamlet, and then up a bush-covered
ridge to a ledge of rocks that crowned its
summit, and from which the eye took in a range of
diversified country, filled with picturesque and beautiful
scenes.

“Oh, Tom,” cried the younger, as he leaped upon

the highest rock, “I don't care what you say, but
I'm going to make a sketch here if I die for it. Take
a seat, Mr. Sturgess, and make yourself comfortable
for a few minutes, and then I'll positively agree not
to bother you again to-day.”

“Wall,” returned the other, eying the young
man with a rough kind of fondness, such as an indulgent
father sometimes bestows upon a spoiled
child, “I spect you'll hev your way in spite of me;
but remember, ef we don't git to the place in time,
and anything haps to the colonel's darter, the fault
arn't mine—for this he-yar makes the tenth time
you've stopped for pictur' fooleries sence we left the
station!”

“That is true!” rejoined the young artist, half
disposed to thrust back into the deep pocket of his
hunting-shirt the drawing materials he had already
brought forth. “But then,” he added, as he threw
his eyes over the beautiful landscape, “I'll just make
a rough sketch, to fill up from memory, and will only
keep you a few minutes.”

With this he commenced his work, moving his
pencil in a very rapid manner over the paper.
While he is thus employed, and the rough woodman
is impatiently waiting, we will take occasion
to briefly describe the personal appearance, and say
a word of the early history of both.

Henry Colburn, the young artist, was a tall,
slender, well-formed young man of two-and-twenty.
He had long, light hair, that fell gracefully down

around his neck and shoulders, dark blue eyes, and
a very animated, intelligent, prepossessing countenance.
If anything, his smooth, almost beardless
face, was rather too effeminate for manly beauty;
yet the thin, well-chiselled nose, firm-set mouth, close,
compressed lips, and round, prominent chin, denoted
unusual strength of character, and, taken in connection
with his broad, noble forehead, and clear, soul-beaming
eye, bespoke the high-toned principles,
resolution and courage of the innate gentleman—for
indeed men are born gentlemen, just the same as
they are born poets, artists, or musicians. There
was enthusiasm in the young man, and a deep love
of nature in all her many forms—from the holy
beauty of a glorious sunset, to the sublime grandeur
of the thundering storm—from the placid quiet of
the dreamy lake, to the deafening roar of the
mighty cataract—from the level plain of billowy
grain, or waving blade and flower, to the rugged
steeps of towering mountain and precipitous ledge.
He was brimful of poetry, for his soul drew inspiration
from all around him. He was as artless as a
child, tender as a woman, gentle as a fawn, and yet
possessed the real courage of a lion. Judging from
appearance, you would have said the perilous wilderness
was no place for him; and yet few there were,
among the iron-nerved men of that region and time,
who could equal him in bravery, or surpass him in
endurance. The youngest son of a wealthy Virginian
(who prided himself on his adherence to the
English Crown, and believed in the right of sole inheritance
for the eldest male branch), he had received
a good education and little else, and had then boldly
struck off into the wilderness, to carve out a fortune
for himself. In company with a small, but intrepid,
band of adventurers, he had travelled hundreds of
miles to reach the land of promise; and during the
two years which had since passed, he had roved from
one extreme of the territory to the other; had mingled
freely with the rough borderers, sleeping in
stations and camping in forests; had hunted wild
beasts; had trailed savages and fought them; and,
in short, had made himself a universal favorite
among a class of people whose attachments were
rarely secured without merit. In his various wanderings
he had fallen in with an old hunter and
scout, his present companion, Thomas Sturgess by
name—though more familiarly known among the
borderers as Rough Tom—with whom he had been
a daily companion for the last six months, and
between whom and himself there existed an intimacy
and bond of affection that seemed very remarkable,
considering how widely opposite they were in appearance,
disposition, manners, habits, mind and
education. Young Henry was a poetical enthusiast
—old Tom was a practical woodman. The one
lived half his existence in an ideal realm—the other
never lost sight of the fact that his scalp was in
danger.

The old hunter was a far better representative of

the borderers of that region than the young poet-artist.
His appearance was not prepossessing. He
was rising of forty years of age, and possessed a
large, heavy frame, full of bone and sinew. His
strength was great, and his physical endurance equal
to any man living. His face was covered with a dull,
reddish beard, and his long, matted hair was of a
similar color. His nose was short and broad, and
his mouth large, with massive jaws. His eyes were
small and dark, and gleamed out through the thick,
shaggy brows like two coals of fire. He was unlettered
and superstitious, for his whole life had been
passed in the wilderness. He was rough and uncouth
in every sense of the term, and yet he had his good
points, and was rather a favorite than otherwise with
the settlers of Kentucky. He was always true to his
friends; was a good hunter and trailer, and knew the
wilderness thoroughly; was brave without being
rash, and bold without being fool-hardy; was skilful,
resolute, decided, energetic, and withal a good Indian
hater. For the last year he had been employed by
the authorities, convened at Harrod's Station, to act
as Indian scout and spy along the Ohio River, for the
better protection of parties coming down in boats,
and to warn the more exposed settlers of any signs
of savage incursion. His last instructions had been
to join some five or six other scouts and spies, at a
place called Limestone (now Maysville), and proceed
with them to the mouth of the Great Kanawha, there
to meet and act as escort to a small company of Virginians,
the majority of them women and children,
who were coming out to unite with their relatives
and make their future home in the wilderness. One
of these, the daughter of a colonel who held a prominent
position among the borderers, and with respect
to whom the old woodman and his companion had
received a special charge, was the lady he had alluded
to in the conversation recorded.

The dress of our two adventurers was such as was
usually worn by the borderers of that day—a hat of
felt, a hunting-shirt of linsey-woolsey, with a broad
cape gayly fringed, leggins of deer-skin, trimmed
down the outer seams, and moccasins of the same
material. A strong belt around the waist supported
tomahawk and hunting-knife; while under the right
arm was slung the powder-horn, and under the left
the bullet-pouch. Across the shoulders were strapped
a small knapsack and blanket, which were
generally carried on a long journey like the present.
Each, of course, was provided with a good rifle, for
that in the wilderness was always a necessary weapon
to supply the hunter with food and defend him
against wild beasts and savages.

The few minutes asked for by the young artist
had extended to an hour, and he was still busy, his
eyes ever and anon glancing at the scene before him,
and his pencil moving rapidly over the paper. During
this time the old hunter had not disturbed him
by a word; but he was now evidently becoming
quite impatient—turning restlessly from side to side,

looking often at the sun, and playing nervously
with the lock of his rifle. At last he started to his
feet, with his favorite exclamation:

“Whar's the use?”

“Only a few minutes more, Tom, my good friend!”
said Henry, in a pleading tone.

“I spect that's till sundown!” growled the woodman.

“Oh, no, upon my honor! only a few minutes
more!” said Henry. “See! I am almost done!”

“Look a he-yar, younker,” rejoined Tom, “you
know I hates to disturb you when you're at your
finikies; but it arn't right for me to squat around
doing nothing, when every minute's wanted; and
though I don't like to say nothing to hurt your feelings,
yet I will say, that this has got to be the last
time with your sort of foolery afore we git to jine
the t'other scouts, or else I'll tramp on and leave
you!”

“Very well, Tom, this shall be the last time!”
promised Henry.

“Wall, then, go ahead! and as I know you'll want
a good hour at least, I'll jest drap down behind the
hill yere, and see ef I can't strike a lettle fresh meat
for supper.”

“Ay, do, Tom, that's a good soul! and by the
time you get back I'll be ready to start!” said
Henry.

The old hunter disappeared, and the young artist
went on with his sketch, his mind becoming so completely

absorbed with his work that the time passed
by unnoticed. Had he been put under oath, he
could not have told whether it was five minutes,
fifteen, or thirty, after Tom left, when he heard the
crack of a rifle in the direction the latter had gone.
Shortly after this he was startled by a wild, prolonged
shriek, that sounded as if made by the throat
of a woman. He stopped and listened, but heard no
more. What could it mean? Surely such a strange,
fearful scream as that never issued from the lips of
a man, much less from those of Tom; and if from
another, did it not indicate distress, or bode danger?
Thrusting his unfinished drawing into his pocket,
Henry caught up his rifle, ready to assist another or
defend himself, and then threw his eyes rapidly over
the whole scene, but more searchingly in the direction
from which the sound had reached him. His
eyes rested upon rocks, hills, trees and bushes; but
the only living thing he saw was a large, black bird,
of the vulture species, which was lazily flapping its
way above the tops of the trees in the valley below.
As there was nothing for him to do till he could
hear or see more, he remained for some ten or fifteen
minutes on the watch, wondering over the mystery,
when suddenly the old hunter made his appearance,
coming up the side of the hill opposite to that of his
descent. He looked like a man who had received a
terrible fright, and threw himself down on a rock
and drew a long breath without saying a word.