With Boone on the frontier
Date: 2023-09-14T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Adventure stories; Indians of North America -- Juvenile fiction; Voyages and travels -- Juvenile fiction; Boone; Daniel; 1734-1820 -- Juvenile fiction; Frontier and pioneer life -- Kentucky -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: With Boone on the frontier

Or, The pioneer boys of old Kentucky

Author: Edward Stratemeyer

Release date: September 14, 2023 [eBook #71642]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Grosset & Dunlap, 1903

Credits: David Edwards, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WITH BOONE ON THE FRONTIER ***

“LONG KNIFE WAS TAKEN FAIRLY AND SQUARELY IN THE BREAST.”—P. 63.

WITH BOONE ON
THE FRONTIER

OR

THE PIONEER BOYS OF OLD
KENTUCKY

BY
CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL
AUTHOR OF “THE BOYS OF THE FORT,” “WITH CUSTER IN
THE BLACK HILLS,” “WHEN SANTIAGO FELL,”
“THE YOUNG BANDMASTER,” ETC.

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1903

BY

THE MERSHON COMPANY

PREFACE

“With Boone on the Frontier” relates the adventures of two youths who, with their families, go westward into what was at that time the wilderness of Kentucky, to join Daniel Boone in settling what has since become one of the richest and most prosperous of our States.

The history of this movement, and the history of the man who was its greatest leader, are as fascinating as the most exciting novel ever written. Daniel Boone was a character almost unique in American history, a man the very embodiment of pluck and energy, and one who knew neither fear nor the meaning of the word fail. For years he had his eye on the great green fields of Kentucky, and he resolved, in spite of the dangers from natural causes and from the Indians, to open up this territory to the hundreds of pioneers who had become tired of life along the eastern seacoast or close to it, and who wanted to go where they would be less under the rule of those English who were making themselves offensive at that time. While those in the East were fighting the War for Independence he and his trusty followers were working equally hard to give to this nation a stretch of land of which any people might well be proud.

The first settlement in Kentucky was at Boonesborough, about eighteen miles to the southeast of Lexington, on the Kentucky River. To-day this village is of small importance, but at that time, in 1775, it boasted of a fort which, built under the directions of Daniel Boone, was a rallying point for all the settlers of that territory and a place to which they fled for safety at the first sign of an Indian uprising. It is in and around this fort that many incidents of the present tale occur.

It may be that some, in reading this story, will deem many of the statements made therein overdrawn. Such is far from being the fact. The days in which Daniel Boone lived were full of dire peril to those who lived on the frontier, or who attempted to push further westward over the hunting grounds of the jealous red men, and many were the outrages committed by the Indians, not alone on the men and boys among the pioneers, but also among the women and girls, and even the little children. Let us all be thankful that such days are now past never to return.

Captain Ralph Bonehill.

July 1, 1903.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER | PAGE
I. | Two Boys of the Wilderness, | 1
II. | Pursued by the Indians, | 11
III. | A Dismaying Discovery, | 20
IV. | Lost Underground, | 30
V. | The Escape of the Captives, | 40
VI. | Harry and the Bear, | 50
VII. | What Happened in the Rain, | 60
VIII. | Days of Peril, | 70
IX. | Daniel Boone, the Pioneer, | 80
X. | Boone Leads the Way, | 90
XI. | With No Time to Spare, | 100
XII. | Settling Down at Boonesborough, | 110
XIII. | Perils of the Young Hunters, | 120
XIV. | On the Trail of a Thief, | 130
XV. | Fighting the Flames, | 140
XVI. | The Fall of a Hickory Tree, | 150
XVII. | An Adventure on Snowshoes, | 166
XVIII. | Night with the Wolves, | 176
XIX. | The Hunters Hunted, | 185
XX. | Daniel Boone’s Great Shot, | 195
XXI. | The Foot Race at the Fort, | 205
XXII. | Who Was the Winner? | 222
XXIII. | The Rescue of Jemima Boone, | 231
XXIV. | A Night Raid by the Indians, | 240
XXV. | In a Forest Fire, | 250
XXVI. | The Attack on the Fort, | 266
XXVII. | Shot on the Roof, | 276
XXVIII. | The Retreat of the Indians, | 292
XXIX. | The Long-Lost at Last, | 302
XXX. | Back to the Cabin—Conclusion, | 312

WITH BOONE ON THE
FRONTIER

CHAPTER I
TWO BOYS OF THE WILDERNESS

“Hark, Joe, what was that?”

“It sounded like the report of a gun, Harry. But I didn’t imagine that anybody was within gunshot of this place outside of ourselves.”

“That was what I was thinking. Do you imagine any of those Indians we met yesterday had guns?” went on Harry Parsons thoughtfully.

“I didn’t see any,” answered Joe Winship. “And if they had ’em I think we would have seen ’em,” he added, as he took up his gun from where it was resting against a tree and looked at the priming.

“We didn’t come out here to have trouble,” continued Harry Parsons. “We only came to see if we couldn’t bag a fine deer or two. If those Indians followed our party——”

The youth came to a stop, for at that instant another gunshot rang out, somewhat closer than the first which had attracted their attention. Then came a rush through the forest and a few seconds later four beautiful deer burst into view.

“Deer!” cried Joe Winship, and leveled his gun at the nearest of the game.

“Don’t shoot, Joe!” cried his companion.

“Why not?”

“If the Indians are after ’em we may have trouble.”

There was no time to argue the matter, for even as Harry Parsons spoke the deer leaped the small brook which wound its way through the mighty forest and in a twinkling were out of sight again. Then all became as quiet as before.

“Don’t hear any Indians,” was Joe Winship’s comment, after straining his ears for a full minute. “And lost a tremendously good shot,” he added regretfully.

“Well, it’s best to be on the safe side. If half a dozen redskins were after those deer we wouldn’t stand any show at all against ’em,” said Harry Parsons, with a decided shake of his curly-haired head. “You remember what our folks told us—to keep out of trouble.”

“But what beautiful deer they were!”

“You are right. And it isn’t likely they’ll come back this way——”

“Hush!”

As Joe Winship uttered the word he caught his companion by the sleeve and pointed through the forest to where there was an opening, perhaps an acre in extent, dotted here and there with small brushwood.

“What did you see, Joe?”

“A couple of Indians. There they are again—getting ready to cross the brook!”

“They came up quietly enough. What shall we do?”

“Let us get behind yonder bushes. They are on the trail of the game, and I don’t think they’ll come this way. But if they do we’ll have trouble just as sure as you are born,” concluded Joe Winship, and led the way to the shelter he had mentioned, quickly followed by his companion.

Joe Winship was a youth of fifteen, tall and as strong as outdoor life can make a boy of that age. He was the only son of Ezra Winship, a hardy hunter and pioneer, one of the number who did so much to build up our country in years gone by. Besides Joe, the family consisted of the boy’s mother and his two sisters, named respectively Cora and Harmony, both of whom were younger than himself.

Harry Parsons was a few months older than Joe. He too was an only son, and had one sister, Clara, two years older than himself. His father, Peter, had in years gone by been a cattle dealer doing business in and around Philadelphia, and had there married his wife, Polly, of Quaker stock.

It was during a visit to Williamsburgh that Mr. Peter Parsons had fallen in with Ezra Winship, about four years previous to the opening of this story. A chance acquaintanceship had ripened into true friendship, which speedily spread from all the members of one family to all the members of the other.

From Williamsburgh the Winships and the Parsons migrated to a small settlement in North Carolina known by the name of Jackson’s Ford. Here log cabins were built and some planting was done by the boys and the others, while Mr. Winship and Mr. Parsons spent a good deal of their time in bringing down game in the almost trackless forests to the west of the rude settlement—the game being used to supply the table with meat and the pelts being sold or traded for household commodities at a trading-post thirty-five miles away.

In those days—just previous to the Revolution of 1776—the great West was an unknown country to the American colonists. There were settlements in plenty along the Atlantic seacoasts, and for several hundreds of miles inland, but beyond this was, to them, the trackless forests and the unknown mountains, inhabited by game of all sorts and Indians.

One of the leading pioneers of those times, and one who will figure quite largely in our story, was Daniel Boone. Boone had already gone into the wilderness beyond the Kentucky River, and had come back to tell of the richness of the land there and the abundance of game. As a result a company was formed to settle the territory now known as the State of Kentucky, and among the first of the pioneers to take part in this move westward was Peter Parsons, who helped to erect a fort at what was afterwards called Boonesborough.

The settlement at Boonesborough was quickly followed by other settlements at Harrodsburgh, Boiling Spring, and St. Asaph, and when it became an assured fact that Kentucky was to be settled and held by the bold pioneers who had followed in the footsteps of Daniel Boone, Peter Parsons sent back word to Jackson’s Ford asking Ezra Winship to join him in this “far western country,” and bring all the members of the two families with him. He stated that he had selected two fine grants of land upon which they could build, and that upon his arrival Mr. Winship should have his pick of the two prospective farms.

In those days to move, especially with one’s household effects, was no easy matter, and it was a good two months before all was in readiness for the start. The Winship and the Parsons family did not go alone, but were accompanied by four other pioneers and their families and a pack train of fourteen horses, for to get anything like a wagon or cart through the wilderness was utterly impossible.

To the boys the move westward seemed to promise no end of sport, and they willingly did all they could to further the project. But the girls and their mothers dreaded to think of this step into the great wilderness, and Mrs. Parsons shook her head doubtfully as she said in her quaint Quaker way:

“Friend Ezra, since Peter wishes me to come to him, I will go with thee. But I am of a mind that our journey will be a troublous one, and that the Indians will not be as friendly as thee imagines.”

“Have no fear, Mistress Parsons, but that we will get through in safety,” answered Ezra Winship. “The trail has now been used half a score of times, so we cannot very well get lost, and as for the Indians, if we do not harm them I doubt if they harm us.”

But even though he spoke thus, Ezra Winship knew that all who were to move westward with him were sure to encounter more or less of peril. Wild animals roamed the forest, and the Indians, although apparently friendly, were not to be trusted. To this were to be added the perils of storms and of forest fires, and the dangers of crossing rapidly flowing streams in such frail craft as they could build, or upon horseback.

All told, there were five men and six boys in the train that started out from Jackson’s Ford one warm and pleasant day. Before the exodus began Ezra Winship called the men and the older boys aside and gave them a little advice.

“We are moving into a strange territory,” he said. “There is no telling what perils we may have to face. You have made me your leader, and that being so, I feel it my duty to warn each one to be on his guard constantly. In traveling, always be sure to keep the rest of our train in sight, and never discharge your weapons without reloading immediately. If any Indians appear, treat them well so long as they are friendly, but do not trust them too far.”

The progress westward was slow, but twelve miles being covered the first day, fifteen the second, and ten the third. The trail—a narrow path used occasionally by the buffalo and by the Indians—was an exceedingly rough one, winding in and out of the forest and along the banks of rivers and small streams. At certain spots were huge rocks, over which buffalo and Indians could scramble with ease, but around which the pack horses had to make their way slowly and cautiously.

The party were out a week before any Indians appeared. Then one of the pioneers announced that he had discovered three red men looking down upon them from a nearby cliff.

“They disappeared the minute I spotted ’em,” said the pioneer, whose name was Pepperill Frost, generally shortened to Pep Frost.

“We must be on our guard against them,” said Ezra Winship, and that night a strict guard was kept, but no red men appeared.

But the next afternoon, about three o’clock, four Indians showed themselves at a spot where the trail crossed a shallow, rocky brook. They came up with their hands before them and with their bows and arrows and other weapons slung over their backs.

“To what place journey our white brothers?” questioned one of the Indians, after the usual greeting in his native tongue.

“To some place where they can live in peace with our red brethren,” answered Ezra Winship cautiously.

After this the Indians said little, but begged for some tobacco and some Indian meal, a small quantity of which was given to them. They then departed into the forest, disappearing as rapidly as they had come.

“I think we’ll see more of those Indians,” said Pep Frost.

“I believe you,” answered Ezra Winship. “And perhaps they’ll not be so friendly another time. But do not alarm the women folks, for it will do no good.”

Early the following morning an accident happened which came close to proving fatal to one of the boys, Chet Rockley by name. He was driving a pack horse loaded with provisions along the river bank when the horse slipped and fell into the stream, carrying the lad with him. In the struggle that followed the boy was kicked in the head by the animal. Chet Rockley was rescued by Ezra Winship, but the horse was carried away by the swift current and drowned, and the provisions were lost.

It was decided to rest for two days, to care for young Rockley, and to bring in some game to take the place of the provisions which had been lost. A temporary camp was established at the fork of two small streams, and as soon as this was done the men folks and the boys took turns in going out hunting and fishing.

Joe and Harry had been cautioned not to go too far, and to keep a close watch for Indians. But their anxiety to bring in at least one good-sized deer had caused them to roam further from the camp than at first anticipated. They had seen no game until the four deer burst into view, closely followed by the two Indians already mentioned.

CHAPTER II
PURSUED BY THE INDIANS

“Do you really think the Indians would prove unfriendly?” questioned Harry, as both boys crouched down behind a thick clump of bushes.

“I do—if they belong to the crowd who called upon us yesterday. There was one Indian in particular, a tall chap, who looked bloodthirsty enough for anything,” said Joe.

“You mean the fellow called Long Knife?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t deny he did look ugly, Joe. But then a redskin can’t help his looks.”

Here the talk came to a sudden end, for a splashing in the brook reached their ears, telling that the two Indians were not far away. They had not gone after the deer as the boys had imagined, but were coming closer. Harry clutched Joe’s arm, and both youths crouched lower than ever in the grass and brushwood.

In a minute more the two red men were less than a rod away, and the boys could hear them talking softly to one another. Peeping through the bushes, Joe made out the savage face of Long Knife, and saw that the Indian carried a musket of ancient pattern, and a horn of powder and ball, as well as his bow and arrows, and his tomahawk. The second Indian was similarly armed.

Hardly daring to breathe, the boys remained behind the bushes until the Indians had passed the spot and followed the course of the stream a distance of several rods further. Then Harry touched Joe on the arm.

“Did you see it?” he asked, in a low voice, but one full of suppressed excitement.

“See what, Harry?”

“The scalp Long Knife carried. I’m sure it was a fresh one, too!”

“A fresh scalp! Oh, Harry, are you sure?”

“Yes, and the best thing we can do is to get back to the train without delay.”

“But the Indians have gone up the brook——”

“We’ll have to take to the forest and trust to luck.”

“Supposing they have attacked the train? That scalp may be that of one of our party!”

“Let us trust not,” answered Harry, but with a face that showed his anxiety.

The youths had been following the course of the brook, which was lined on one bank with a series of large flat rocks. On these rocks their trail had been lost, so that the Indians had not discovered their footprints in the semi-gloom caused by the heavy forest growth overhead.

“But they’ll find some footprints before long,” said Joe, in speaking of this. “And when they do they may be after us hot-footed.”

Fortunately for the boys the brook, as they remembered, made a long semicircle, so that if they could make their way through the forest in anything of a straight line they would cut off a goodly portion of the distance to camp.

The gun of each was loaded and freshly primed, and each held his weapon ready for instant use should occasion require. Joe led the way, but Harry followed closely in his footsteps.

Less than a hundred yards had been covered when there came a shot from a distance, followed by several others.

“Where can they come from?” questioned Joe.

“I don’t believe we are in sound of the camp, Joe. But if we are, perhaps those other shots came from there, too.”

“No, they were off in that direction.” Joe pointed with his hand. “I can tell you what, I don’t like the looks of the situation, do you?”

“No, I don’t—and that is why I think we had best get back to camp with all speed.”

On and on they went, deeper and deeper into the forest. The summer day was drawing to a close and they knew that in another hour the darkness of night would be upon them.

Suddenly a small wild animal darted up in their path. This caused Joe to fall back upon Harry, and by accident the latter’s gun was discharged, the buckshot whistling past Joe’s left ear and tearing through the boughs overhead.

“Oh, Joe, are you shot?” cried Harry in keen alarm.

“I—I reckon not,” stammered his companion, as soon as he could recover from the shock. “But why did you fire over my shoulder like that? It was only a jack-rabbit.”

“I didn’t mean to fire. The gun—hark!”

Harry stopped short and both listened. From a distance they could hear one Indian calling to another. Then followed a crashing through some undergrowth.

“They are after us sure!” ejaculated Harry. “Come on.”

Both broke into a run without waiting for Harry to reload. As they went on, they heard more firing at a distance, and then a long yell that they knew could mean but one thing.

“The Indians are on the warpath!” exclaimed Joe. “There can be no doubt of it—they have attacked the camp.”

“How many do you suppose there are of them?”

“There is no telling. But if they number a dozen or more it will surely go hard with all of our party, Harry.”

They calculated that they had covered half the distance to the camp when they reached something of a hollow. Here the undergrowth was extra heavy and the ground wet and uncertain, and before they realized it they were in a bog up to their ankles.

“This won’t do,” came from Harry. “If we aren’t careful we’ll get in so deep we can’t get out again. We’ll have to turn back.”

“Turn back—with the Indians following us?” said Joe.

“I mean to walk around this hollow, Joe. It’s the only way.”

They turned back to dry ground and then moved to the southward, still further away from the brook. Here was something of an opening, but they avoided this and made for some rocks, gaining a new shelter just as three Indians burst into view.

“Keep to the rocks,” whispered Joe. “Don’t leave a trail if you can help it—and get away as far as possible from this place!”

He went on, over the rocks, and Harry followed. The way led deeper and deeper into the forest and soon the light of day was shut out entirely.

Both were now out of breath and glad enough to climb into a dense tree and rest. As they sat among the upper branches they listened intently for more signs of the Indians, but none reached them. Once Joe fancied he heard a cry in English at a great distance, but he was not certain.

“This is a pickle truly,” observed Harry, after a long spell of silence.

“It is what we get for straying away too far from camp,” returned Joe bitterly. “Father warned me to keep near, and he warned everybody else, too.”

“What do you say we should do next?”

“I hardly know, Harry. If we start to go on those Indians may be laying low for us.”

“Do you want to remain in the tree all night?”

“We may have to remain here all night. If we start out after it is real dark we may become hopelessly lost in the timber.”

“But the redskins can spot us twice as quick in the daylight as they can now.”

“I know that as well as you.”

After this came another long spell of silence, in which each boy was busy with his thoughts. The mind of each dwelt upon the camp. Had it been attacked, and if so had any of the loved ones been slain?

As night came on they heard strange sounds in the forest, sounds which would have frightened youths less used to woodcraft. From the hollow came the mournful glunk of frogs, and the shrill tweet of tree toads. All around them the night birds uttered their solitary notes, punctuated ever and anon with the hoot of an owl. And then they heard the rustling of underbrush as various wild animals stole from their lairs in quest of prey.

“I am going to climb to the top of the tree and see if I can locate the camp-fire,” said Harry, at length. “If that is burning as usual it will be a sign that nothing very wrong has happened.”

Leaving his gun hanging on a limb, he commenced to climb from one branch to the next. Joe was about to follow but concluded that it would be best for one to remain below on guard, for the top of this giant of the forest was fully eighty feet above the position he now occupied.

The climbing of such a tree is by no means an easy task. As Harry approached the top he found the branches further apart and quite slender, and he had all he could do to haul himself from one safe position to another above it.

His activity was rewarded at last, and he stood on a limb which gave him a free and uninterrupted view of the country for miles around. There was no moon, but the sky was clear, and countless stars served to brighten the early night. Far to the westward the clouds were still red from the setting sun.

Eagerly the youth turned to where he imagined the camp-fire of the pioneers must be located. Not a single light came to view, either camp-fire or lantern.

“That is certainly queer,” he told himself. “Not a flare of any kind.”

The thought had scarcely crossed his mind when his attention was attracted to a location about half a mile to the northward of the camp. The light of a torch had blazed forth and was now revolving rapidly in a semicircle.

“An Indian signal,” he muttered softly. “I wish I knew what it meant.”

The light was waved in a semicircle for fully half a minute. Then it bobbed up and down twice and vanished.

Scarcely had this light gone from view than Harry noticed another light, this time on the other side of the pioneers’ camp. This new light was bobbing up and down at a rapid rate, making it look almost like a streak of fire. Then it changed from side to side, and then to a circle. Inside of three minutes it was gone.

“If one could only read the Indian signs it might prove a big help,” mused the boy. “Perhaps I had better stay up here to-night and see if any more signs are made. Then, if we get back to camp in the morning, I can ask old Pep Frost what they mean.”

He sat in a crotch of the limb for the best part of half an hour. The position was far from comfortable, and he was on the point of changing it when he heard a noise some distance below.

“Is that you coming up, Joe?” he asked softly.

A low hiss of warning was the only reply, and Harry knew at once something was wrong. He leaned far down and presently made out his companion, coming up slowly and noiselessly and carrying both of the guns.

“What is it?” he asked, when he could get his mouth close to Joe’s ear.

“Three Indians are in the forest, close to the bottom of this tree,” was the answer. “Don’t make a sound or we’ll be discovered—if we haven’t been spotted already.”

CHAPTER III
A DISMAYING DISCOVERY

The announcement that Joe Winship made filled Harry Parsons with renewed fear. The three Indians in the forest below them must surely be on their trail, and for no good purpose.

In a low whisper Harry related what he had seen, and Joe agreed that they were Indian signals.

“More than likely they are surrounding the camp,” whispered Joe. “And as you didn’t see the camp-fire likely the folks are on guard. They are not going to make a light for the redskins to shoot by.”

This was all that was said for a long time. Joe passed up his companion’s gun and both sat in readiness to defend their lives at any instant it might become necessary to do so.

Presently the low murmur of voices came to their ears from the very root of the tree in which they were in hiding. Two Indians had met there and were discussing the situation.

“What are they saying?” whispered Harry, for he knew that Joe had learned considerable of the Indian tongue, both from some friendly red men and from his father.

“I can’t hear clearly,” replied Joe. “I might go down a little further.”

“Don’t do it—it isn’t safe,” was his companion’s warning.

But Joe was curious, and as the murmur of voices continued, he noiselessly lowered himself until he was halfway down to the roots of the monarch of the forest.

Leaning over a limb, he strained his ears to catch what was said. The dialect of the red men was somewhat new to him, yet he caught the words “camp of the palefaces,” “Long Knife has commanded it,” and a little later “his scalp shall be mine.”

It was a good half-hour before the Indians moved away, having been joined by three others. All were in warpaint, as Joe could see by a smoky torch which one of the number carried. Luckily the Indians had tramped around the bottom of the tree so much that the trail of the two youths was completely obliterated.

When Joe returned to where he had left Harry, the pair discussed the situation in an earnest whisper.

“The whole thing is clear in my mind,” said Joe. “Long Knife has ordered a raid on our camp, and one of the redskins has a particular grudge against one of our crowd and is going in to get his scalp. The question is: what are we to do?”

“What can we do, Joe?”

“I don’t know what we can do, Harry, but I know what we ought to try to do.”

“Get back to camp and warn everybody?”

“Yes. Of course I think they are on guard already, but we are not sure of it. And if the redskins fall on them by surprise they’ll kill all of the men folks, and kill the women and children too, or carry them off.”

“Then let us try to get back to camp, no matter how perilous it is.”

“I’m willing.”

It was not long after this that they were on the lowest branch of the tree. They strained eyes and ears for some sign of the Indians, but none appeared. Joe was the first to drop to the ground, and Harry speedily followed.

From the top of the tree they had “located themselves” with care, and now they struck out in the darkness directly for the camp.

“We are taking our lives in our hands,” was the way in which Joe expressed himself. “But it cannot be helped. I don’t want to see the others suffer if we can do anything that will save them.”

“Right you are, Joe,” was his companion’s reply.

Fortunately for the boys there was but little undergrowth in that portion of the great forest, and the ground was comparatively level. The trees, five to fifteen feet apart, grew up tall and as straight as so many arrows. Some had stood there for many, many years, and it did not seem possible that these veterans were later on to fall beneath the stroke of the woodman’s ax, to make way for the farmer and his crops.

But if brushwood was wanting, exposed roots were not, and more than once one boy or the other would go sprawling in the darkness.

“By George, what a fall!” panted Harry, after a tumble that had laid him flat on his breast. “It—it knocked the wind right out of me.”

“Be glad it didn’t knock out your teeth,” answered Joe, as he assisted him to his feet. “It is dark here for certain.”

“How far do you suppose we have still to go?”

“Not less than half a mile.”

A moment after this a distant shot rang out, followed by several others in quick succession.

Then came a muffled yell, which gradually became louder.

“The attack on the camp has begun!” ejaculated Joe. “Oh, Harry, we are too late!”

“You are right. More than likely the camp is surrounded.”

“Then we can’t get to the others even if we try!”

“Perhaps we can. Anyway I am not going to stay here when the others may be fighting for their lives. Think of your mother and mine, and of the girls.”

“Yes! yes!” Joe gave a groan which was echoed by his companion. “We must go on.”

And on they did go, running as fast as the trees and the darkness permitted. The land sloped slightly upward, but this they did not notice until Harry, who was slightly in advance, gave a cry of alarm. Then followed a crash of brushwood and a splash.

“Harry! Harry! what’s the matter?” asked Joe, and came to a halt.

No answer came back, and filled with added fear Joe crawled forward until he reached the brushwood. Then of a sudden he took a step backward. The brushwood was on the edge of a cliff and in front was a sheer descent of fully fifty feet.

“Harry went over that and most likely broke his neck,” was Joe’s first thought, and a shiver passed down his backbone. Then he remembered having heard a faint splash, and crawling forward on hands and knees, peered over the cliff into the darkness beneath.

At first he could see nothing. But then came a faint twinkling of stars as they were reflected in the surface of the water, and he knew that a pond or a stream lay at the bottom of the cliff.

“Harry! Harry!” he called out, first in an ordinary tone and then louder and louder. For the moment his own peril was forgotten in his alarm over the disappearance of his chum.

No answering cry came back, and again Joe shivered. What if his companion was drowned?

“I must get down to the bottom of the cliff,” he told himself. “And the sooner the better. Harry may not yet be dead.”

With extreme caution the young pioneer moved along the edge of the cliff, not leaving one footing until he was sure of the next. By this means he discovered something of a break, and here let himself down, foot by foot. The route was rough, and more than once he scratched his face and hands, but just then he gave no attention to the hurts.

Luckily for Joe there was at the foot of the cliff a small stretch of rocks and sand less than a yard wide. Standing on this the youth surveyed the surface of the dark water before him with interest.

It was no pond to which he had descended, but a good-sized stream which flowed rapidly to the northward, being hedged in on one side by the cliff, and on the other by a rock-bound forest. The stream disappeared around a curve of the cliff.

A rapid search along the sandy shore under the cliff revealed nothing more than Harry’s rifle, which had caught in a bush just over the water’s edge. This gave Joe a clew to where his companion had fallen, and he searched eagerly in the water at that point.

“Not a sign,” he murmured after reaching into the stream as far as possible. Then he cut down a sapling with his hunting knife and stirred up the water with that, and with no better result.

“The river is flowing so swiftly it must have carried Harry’s body away,” he reasoned. “Perhaps I had better move around the curve of the cliff and make a search there.”

All this while Joe had heard distant firing and yelling, and now, as he straightened up, he saw a glow in the sky, as of a conflagration.

“Something is on fire,” he thought. “And it isn’t a plain camp-fire either. Oh, I trust to Heaven that the others are safe!”

Slowly and painfully he crawled along at the foot of the cliff until the bend was reached. Here a footing was uncertain, and more than once he slipped into the stream up to his ankles.

Around the bend the water swirled and foamed, on its way to a series of rough rocks. Here was another cliff and the stream appeared to disappear beneath this, much to Joe’s wonder.

“If it’s an underground river good-by to poor Harry,” he told himself.

Again he called out, not once, but a score of times, and the only answer he received was an echo from the rocks.

“Poor, poor Harry!” he murmured, and the tears of sorrow stood in his eyes. He loved his chum as though the two were brothers.

Joe knew not how to proceed. He wanted to find Harry, and he also wanted to learn how his folks and the others were faring at the camp.

While he was meditating he saw the flare of a torch on the opposite side of the stream. He had just time enough to drop behind an outstanding rock when three Indians came into view. Each carried a bundle, but what the loads contained Joe could not tell.

From a hiding place beneath the trees the Indians brought forth a large canoe and two paddles. They placed their loads into the craft, and then entered themselves.

“Can they be coming over here?” Joe asked himself.

The question was soon answered in the negative, for the Indians turned up the stream. It was a difficult matter to paddle against the strong current, but the red men were equal to the task, and soon the canoe disappeared in the darkness.

“I’ll wager all I am worth those were things stolen from our camp,” reasoned Joe.

He sat down at the water’s edge to listen and to think. All had become quiet in the distance, and the red glow in the sky was dying away.

“I must do something,” he cried, leaping up. “If I stay here I’ll go crazy. Perhaps mother and father and the others need me this very minute.”

As quickly as he could he made his way along the rocks to the point where the stream disappeared under the cliff. Then he worked his way around to where the Indians had launched their canoe.

“There must be some sort of a route from this point to our camp,” he told himself.

He was about to move onward through the forest when another torch came into view. Again he ran for shelter, and was not an instant too soon. Four red men were marching forward to the river, and between each pair was a captive, disarmed, and with his hands tied tightly behind him.

“Pep Frost!” murmured Joe, as he caught a good look at the first of the captives. It was indeed the pioneer the youth had mentioned. His garb was torn and dirty, and his face streaked with blood, showing that he had fought desperately.

The second captive was also dirty and bloodstained, and walked with a limp, as if wounded in the left leg. As he came closer Joe could scarcely suppress a cry of horror.

“Father!” he gasped, and he was right. The second captive was Ezra Winship.

CHAPTER IV
LOST UNDERGROUND

“Oh!”

That was the single cry which Harry uttered as he plunged over the edge of the cliff into the stream below.

As he went down his gun was torn from his grasp by the bushes, and an instant later he struck the stream with a splash and went down straight to the bottom.

The breath was knocked out of him by the fall, and when he came again to the surface he was more than half unconscious. He felt himself borne along by the current, and there followed a strange humming in his ears. Then his senses completely forsook him.

When Harry was once more able to reason he knew little outside of the fact that he had a severe headache, and that all was pitch-dark around him. He lay in a shallow pool with the swiftly flowing river within an arm’s length. Absolute darkness was on all sides of the youth.

For a long time he lay still, gasping for breath and putting his hand feebly to his forehead. Then he sat up and stared about in bewilderment.

“Joe!” he stammered. “Joe!”

Of course there was no answer, and then Harry slowly realized what had happened—his rapid run through the forest, his coming to the cliff, and his unexpected plunge into the river beneath.

“I’m still in the water,” he thought. “But where?”

This question he could not answer, nor could he explain to himself how it was that he had not been drowned. But with even so much of peril still around him he was thankful that his life had been spared.

Feeling cautiously around the pool, he soon learned which side sloped to the river, and which toward a sandy underground shore, and slowly and painfully he dragged himself up to the higher ground.

“I am not at the cliff, that is certain,” he mused, as he tried to gaze upward. “I can’t see a star.”

The conviction then forced itself upon him that he was underground, and this being so he quickly came to the conclusion that the flow of the river had carried him to this locality. But how far he was from the spot where he had taken the fall he could not imagine.

He was too weak to travel, or even to make an examination of his surroundings, and having moved around a distance of less than a rod along the bank of the underground stream he was glad enough to sink down again to rest.

As Harry sat there, his head still aching, his mind went back to Joe.

“I suppose he thinks I am dead,” was his dismal thought.

Slowly the time wore away and Harry sat in something of a doze, too weak to either move or speculate upon his condition, very much as one does who is recovering from a long spell of sickness.

Thus the night wore away and morning came to view outside, with clear warm sunshine and singing birds. But in the cavern the darkness remained as great as before.

At last Harry felt that he must do something for himself. He was beginning to grow hungry, and he knew that many hours had passed since he had taken the plunge into the stream.

“I must see if I can’t follow the river back to where it ran under the rocks,” was what he told himself. “That ought o bring me back to the cliff, and perhaps I’ll find Joe looking for me.”

With extreme caution he felt of the water, to find in what direction it was flowing, and then essayed to follow the stream up its course between the rocks and along the sandy beach.

It was a difficult task, and more than once he had to stop to get back his strength. At certain points he had to climb rocks which were sharp and slippery, and twice he fell into the stream and pulled himself out only with much labor.

And then came the bitterest moment of all, when he reached a point where the beach came to an end and found that the opening further up the stream was completely filled with water, which roared onward, dashing the spray in all directions. Here Harry could see a faint gleam of daylight, but only sufficient to show him how completely he was a prisoner.

“I can’t get through that,” he muttered. “If I try it I’ll surely be drowned.”

But if he could not get through what was he to do? To remain where he was would be to starve like a rat in a trap.

“Perhaps the stream leaves this cave at the other end,” he reasoned. “But that may be a long way from here.”

There was no help for it, and with slow and painful steps he retraced his way along the underground river bank, often falling over the rough rocks and stopping every few rods to rest and get back his breath. He was now hungrier than ever, and eagerly gnawed at a bit of birch wood which he happened to pick up out of the water as he moved along.

As Harry journeyed onward, he came to a sharp turn of the stream. Here the water appeared to divide into several parts, and two of these sunk out of sight amid the rough rocks on all sides. A small stream flowed to the left. From some point far overhead a faint light shone down, just sufficient to reveal the condition of affairs to the youth.

“What a cave!” murmured Harry to himself, and he was right. It was certainly a large opening, but nothing at all in comparison to the great Mammoth Cave of that territory, discovered some years later, and which covers many miles of ground. The roof was fully fifty feet above the young pioneer’s head, and the walls were three or four times that distance apart.

Having even a faint light made walking easier, and once again he went onward, following the single stream that remained in sight. Twice he heard a rush of birds over his head, which made him confident that the open air could not be far off. The cave turned and twisted in several directions, and at last he saw sunshine ahead and fairly ran to make certain that he had not been deceived.

When he was really out into the open air once more, Harry sat down on the grass, trembling in every limb. To him the time spent underground seemed an age. Never before had the sun and the blue vault of heaven appeared to him so beautiful.

But it was not long before the pangs of hunger again asserted themselves. He had already taken note of some berry bushes, and he hobbled to these and ate what he wanted of the fruit. They stilled the gnawing in his stomach, but did not satisfy him.

In his pocket the young pioneer had some fishing lines and several hooks, and also a box with flint and tinder. He laid the tinder out to dry on a warm rock, and then with the line went to fishing, after having turned up some worms from under a number of small stones.

His catch of fish amounted to little, but soon he had enough for a single meal, and then he made himself a tiny fire. He could hardly wait to cook the fish, and it must be confessed that he gulped them down when still half raw,—for Harry’s appetite had always been of the best, and in those days pioneers did not dare to be over-particular concerning their food.

By the position of the sun Harry judged that it was nearly noon. As the orb of day was almost directly overhead it was next to impossible for him to locate the points of the compass.

“If I felt stronger I would climb a tree and take a look around,” he told himself. But he was still so shaky he felt that there would be too much danger of falling.

A grassy bank close to where he had cooked the fish looked very inviting, and he threw himself upon it to rest—for just about ten minutes, so he told himself. But the ten minutes lengthened into twenty, and then into half an hour, and soon he was sleeping soundly, poor, worn-out Nature having at last claimed her own.

When Harry awoke he felt much refreshed, and his headache was entirely gone. He sprang to his feet with an exclamation of surprise, for the sun was setting over the forest in the west.

“I must have slept all afternoon,” he murmured ruefully. “Well, I reckon I needed it. But I should have been on my way before dark.”

He now felt more like climbing a tree, and was soon going up a tall walnut that stood on a slight hill near by.

From the top a grand panorama of the rolling hills of Kentucky was spread out before him—that captivating scene which had but a few years before so charmed Daniel Boone and other pioneers who had entered that territory. Here and there a stream glistened in the setting sun, and at one point Harry could see an open stretch of grass with a small herd of buffalo grazing peacefully, while at another point, evidently a salt-lick, several deer were making themselves at home. As Daniel Boone had said, it was truly the land of plenty.

But Harry’s mind was just then centered upon but two things—to find Joe and to get back as soon as possible to the camp,—provided anything was left of the latter, which was questionable. As he thought of the Indians he shook his head doubtfully.

“They won’t give up this land to us if they can help it,” he told himself. “They will fight for it to the bitter end. For all I know to the contrary, all of the others, including Joe, may be either dead or prisoners.”

From his position in the tree Harry tried to locate the camp which he had left the morning before, but all he could see was a smoldering fire far in the distance.

“That looks as if it might be where the camp was,” he reasoned.

Descending to the ground once more he determined to make his way in the direction of the smoldering fire. Before setting out he cut himself a stout club. He mourned the loss of his gun, and wondered what he should do if confronted by the Indians, or by some wild beast.

But the forest seemed deserted, and he passed a good quarter of a mile without meeting anything but a few rabbits and a fox, and these lost no time in getting away.

The sun was already out of sight behind some trees when he struck another brook, that upon which the fated camp had been located. Here he stopped for a drink, getting down on his hands and knees for that purpose.

Having satisfied his thirst, Harry was on the point of rising, when a noise behind him attracted his attention. He whirled around, to discover a big black bear moving on him with great deliberation.

“Hi! get back there!” he yelled and swung his stick at the beast. He did not mean to throw the object, but it slipped from his hand and, sailing through the air, struck bruin fairly and squarely on the nose.

At once the bear let out a snort of pain and then an added snort of rage. His den was in that vicinity, and, thinking the youth had come to invade it, he arose on his hind legs and came for Harry in a clumsy fashion.

There now remained but one thing for the young pioneer to do, and this he did without stopping to regain the club. He started off on a run up the brook.

The bear immediately dropped down on all fours and came after him. Although totally unconscious of it, Harry was running directly for the bear’s den. This enraged the beast still more, and he did what he could to close the gap between the boy and himself.

The bear was almost on top of Harry when the young pioneer came to a wide-spreading tree with low-hanging branches. One of the branches was within easy reach, and as quick as a flash the youth swung himself up, just as bruin made a leap for him. The bear caught him by the toe, but the boy’s foot-covering gave way and the beast fell back.

Harry lost no time in climbing higher up in the tree. Then he made his way to the trunk, and, hanging to one of the limbs, drew his hunting knife and waited for the bear to climb up.

CHAPTER V
THE ESCAPE OF THE CAPTIVES

For the moment after making the discovery that the two captives in the hands of the Indians, were his father and Pep Frost, the old pioneer, Joe Winship could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses.

“Father!” he repeated hoarsely. “Father and Pep Frost!”

The sound of his voice reached one of the Indians, and the red man gazed around sharply. But Joe was wise enough to drop out of sight behind some brushes, and the Indian continued to move on, doubtless thinking that it was merely the wind that had reached his ears.

The two captives were marched down to the river front, and here another canoe was brought to light, similar to that used by the three Indians who had gone off with the three bundles.

“Whar are ye a-going to take us?” Joe heard old Pep Frost ask.

For answer one of the Indians raised his palm and struck the pioneer across the mouth.

“No talk now,” he said laconically.

The two captives were forced into the canoe, one being placed at the bow and one at the stern. Then two of the Indians took up the paddles and started up the stream, in the direction pursued by the first canoe.

Joe watched the proceedings with interest, but when the canoe began to disappear from sight his heart sank within him.

“If I could only follow!” he thought.

But to run along the river bank and thus keep the craft in sight was out of the question. The Indians were experts at using the paddle, and the shore of the stream was, as we already know, rough and uncertain.

Suddenly the youth was seized with a new idea. If there had been two canoes secreted in the bushes why not perhaps a third?

“I’ll hunt around and see,” he muttered, and began the search at once.

In a tiny cove he found just what he wanted, a small canoe boasting of a single paddle. Without hesitation he leaped into it, took up the paddle, and pushed the craft out into the river.

Joe had spent many of his boyhood days on the rivers near his home and could row and paddle just as well as he could shoot and ride on horseback. If it had but a single paddle, the craft was correspondingly light, and by working with vigor he managed to keep the larger canoe within easy distance, although being careful to keep out of reach of the enemies he was following.

As he worked at the paddle his thoughts were busy. What did the capture of his father and Pep Frost mean? Was it possible that the fight at the camp had ended in a general massacre of the others? Such a dire happening was not an impossibility. He remembered that only the summer before the Indians had fallen upon one Jack Flockley and his companions, six in number, and murdered all but one young girl, who had been carried off into captivity.

“I must save them if I possibly can,” he reasoned. “I’ve got my hunting knife and my gun, as well as this gun of Harry’s. They will all come in handy if I can but cut their bonds.”

Fortunately for Joe the Indians kept their torch burning, as a signal for those who had gone on ahead. Two turns of the stream were passed when they came in sight of another torch, waving to and fro on the left bank of the river. At once the canoe turned in that direction, and presently a landing was made at a point where those in the first canoe had gone ashore.

By the light of the two torches Joe saw all of the Indians assembled, with their captives and their bundles between them. He allowed his own little canoe to drift past the landing and then came ashore in the midst of some brushwood overhanging the stream.

By making a détour the young pioneer presently came to the rear of the enemy. He found that they were going into something of a camp and that they had already tied the two captives to separate trees some eight or ten feet apart. Between the two trees squatted a young warrior, placed on guard over the whites.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Joe crept closer and closer until he was less than five yards away from where his father stood, hands and feet fastened to the tree by means of a stout grass rope. For the present he did not dare go closer, but, lying full length in the grass, watched the Indians as a hawk watches a brood of chickens.

The red men were much interested in the contents of the bundles brought hither in the first canoe. Torches were stuck up in convenient places and the bundles were unrolled, revealing to Joe many of the smaller articles which the pioneers had been bringing westward on their pack horses. There was a dress belonging to his mother, a pair of slippers belonging to his sister Harmony, and a razor that he knew belonged to his father. The sight of the razor tickled the fancy of one of the Indians, and flourishing it in the air he approached Pep Frost and made a motion as if to cut the throat of the old pioneer.

“Oh, I reckon ye air ekel to it,” snorted Pep Frost. “You are a cowardly, miserable lot at the best!”

There was a small mirror in one of the bundles, and this pleased the red men more than did any other object. Running up to a torch, one after another would gaze into the mirror with expressions of wonder and admiration. Even the young warrior on guard wanted to look into the glass.

For the moment the prisoners were forgotten and, struck with a sudden determination, Joe crawled close up behind his father and cut the grass rope that bound the parent. Then he placed one of the guns into Mr. Winship’s hand.

“It is I, Joe,” whispered the boy. “Wait till I free Pep Frost.”

“Be quick, and be careful,” returned the astonished man in an equally low tone. And he added: “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

No more was said, and crawling backward Joe made his way to the tree to which Pep Frost was fastened. Two slashes of the knife and the old pioneer was also liberated, and Joe provided him with the second musket.

“Cut tudder man loose,” whispered Frost, as he fingered the gun nervously.

“He is free,” answered Joe.

So far the captives had not moved from their positions against the trees, and as the young warrior looked at them he imagined each as secure as ever. The Indians in general continued to look over the contents of the bundles until a light on the river caused a fresh interruption.

A third canoe was approaching filled with Indians and with at least two captives. The latter were evidently females, and one, a girl of twelve or fifteen, was crying piteously.

“Let me go! Please let me go!” she begged. “Oh, where are you taking me?”

“Better be quiet, Harmony,” said the woman in the canoe. “It will do thee no good to weep.”

“Harmony!” groaned Joe. “Harmony and Mrs. Parsons! Where can sister Cora be, and Harry’s sister Clara?”

All of the Indians had turned to the river front, and now Pep Frost made a motion to Ezra Winship. The pioneer understood, and, like a flash, both turned and fled into the forest, calling softly to Joe to follow.

Before the Indians discovered their loss the former captives were a good hundred yards away. They kept close together and Joe was by his father’s side. Presently a mad yell rent the air.

“They’ve found out the trick,” came from Pep Frost. “But I reckon as how we’ve got the best o’ ’em, Joey—and thanks to your slickness.”

“Did you see those in the canoe?” queried the youth. “Mrs. Parsons and Harmony!”

“Harmony!” ejaculated Mr. Winship, and stopped short. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, father; Mrs. Parsons called her by name.”

“Then I had best go back——”

“No, no!” put in Pep Frost. “It would be worse nor suicide, friend Winship.”

“But my daughter—the redskins will——”

“I know, I know! But we must bide our time,” interrupted Pep Frost again. “Remember, there were seven redskins on shore and at least four more on the river. We can’t fight no sech band as thet.”

They had reached a small brook, and along this Pep Frost forced the father and son, more than half against their will. Yet both realized that the old pioneer was right—that to fight eleven of the foe under present circumstances would be out of the question.

The Indians were already on the trail and the whites could hear them rushing along the tracks left in the forest. At the brook they came to a halt and then the force divided, some going up the stream and some down.

“I—I can’t walk much further,” came presently from Ezra Winship.

“By gum! I forgot about that wound in your leg,” exclaimed Pep Frost; “but we air a-comin’ to some rocks now an’ more’n likely they’ll afford us some kind o’ a hidin’-place.”

The old pioneer was right, and leaving the brook they crawled up a series of rough rocks and then into a hollow thick with brushwood. Here they felt comparatively safe, and Ezra Winship sank down exhausted, unable to take another step.

While Pep Frost remained on guard to give the alarm should any of the Indians appear in the vicinity, Mr. Winship gave Joe some of the particulars of the attack on the camp of the pioneers.

“We were caught at something of a disadvantage,” said he. “The horses were giving us a good deal of trouble because one of them stepped into a nest of hornets. While the men were trying to calm the beasts the Indians rushed at us without warning.”

“Was anybody killed?”

“Yes; at the first volley Jim Vedder was laid low and Jerry Dillsworth received a wound from which he cannot possibly recover. The Freemans’ baby was also struck in the shoulder while her mother was holding her in her arms. Those who weren’t struck ran for their guns, and we fought the redskins for fully quarter of an hour. But at last the tide of battle went against us, and I was laid low with an arrow wound in the thigh. I went down and a horse came down on top of me, and that was all I knew for about half an hour, when I found myself a prisoner and tied to a tree in the dark.”

“And mother and the girls——”

“I didn’t see anything more of them,” answered Ezra Winship sadly. “I know your mother was hit in the arm by a tomahawk, but I don’t believe the wound was very bad. The last I saw of Pep Frost he was fighting to save Clara Parsons from being carried away. But a blow from a club one of the redskins carried stretched him flat, and when I saw him again he was a prisoner like myself.”

“And what of all of the others, father?”

“I can’t say anything about them for certain, but I imagine about half of them escaped under cover of the darkness, and Pep Frost thinks that at least two men and two women got away on horseback. Besides that, Frank Ludgate was off on a hunt when the attack began, so that it is very likely he escaped too,” concluded Ezra Winship.

CHAPTER VI
HARRY AND THE BEAR

Hunting knife in hand, Harry waited for the black bear to mount the tree after him. He knew that if the beast came up he would have the bear at a disadvantage, and he hoped that one good stroke of the long blade would finish the fight.

But the bear did not come up. Instead he halted at the trunk, put his forepaws on the bark, and gazed thoughtfully upward. Then he dropped on his haunches, let out a growl of anger, and sat where he was.

“Don’t want to fight, eh?” mused Harry. “All right, but I hope you won’t stay where you are too long.”

For a while the bear kept his eyes fixed on Harry, as though expecting an attack. But as this did not come bruin lay down at the foot of the tree, resting his head on his forepaws.

This was certainly provoking, for it now looked as if the beast meant to keep the young pioneer a prisoner in the tree.

“Perhaps he thinks he can starve me out,” thought Harry. “Well, I reckon he can, if he keeps me up here long enough. But I don’t mean to stay—not if I can help myself.”

With the hunting knife Harry cut a small limb from the tree and dropped it down on the bear. With a snarl bruin snapped at the limb and buried his teeth into it. Then he leaped up and began to come up the tree in a clumsy fashion.

Harry’s heart thumped madly, for he knew that a perilous moment was at hand. Grasping the hunting knife firmly he leaned far down to meet the oncoming animal.

Bruin was suspicious and evidently did not like the looks of that gleaming blade. When still a yard out of reach he halted in a crotch and snarled viciously. Then he came closer inch by inch.

Leaning still further down Harry made a lunge at the bear. Like a flash up came a forepaw to ward off the blow. Paw and blade met and the bear dropped back a little with the blood dripping from his toes.

But the animal was not yet beaten, and soon he came forward once more, uttering a suppressed snarl and showing his gleaming teeth. He kept his body low down as though meditating a spring.

It came and Harry met it with the point of the hunting knife, which sank deeply into the bear’s right eye. This was a telling blow and the beast let a loud cry of pain. Then the bear dropped back, limb by limb, to the ground.

“That was a lucky stroke,” thought the youth, and he was right. He listened intently and soon heard the bear crashing through the forest and then climbing some rocks leading to his den. With the sight of one eye gone all the fight had been knocked out of him.

Not to be taken unawares, Harry descended to the ground cautiously. But the coast was now clear, and drops of blood on the grass and rocks told plainly in what direction the beast had retreated. Not wishing for another encounter without a gun, the young pioneer moved away in the opposite direction.

“Harry!”

The cry came from the rocks close at hand and made the young pioneer leap in amazement. Looking in the direction he saw Joe standing there, backed up by Mr. Winship and Pep Frost.

“Joe!” he ejaculated, and ran toward his chum.

“Oh, how glad I am to know that you escaped!” exclaimed Joe when they were together. “I thought you were drowned surely.”

“I had a narrow escape,” was the answer. “But where have you been, and what brings your father and Pep Frost here?”

In the next few minutes each youth told his story, to which the other listened with interest.

“You were lucky to escape from that cave,” said Mr. Winship to Harry. “I have heard of such places before but have never seen one.”

From Joe, Harry learned that his chum and the others had been in hiding among the rocks and trees all night and a part of the forenoon, not being able to leave the vicinity because of Mr. Winship’s wounded leg. The Indians had scouted around for them for hours, but without locating them, and they had slipped away to the present location less than half an hour before.

“I must say I am mighty hungry,” said Pep Frost. “An’ if ye don’t mind I’ll follow up thet air b’ar Harry wounded an’ finish him an’ git the meat.”

The others did not object, and the old pioneer was soon on the trail of blood-spots.

“So my mother is in the hands of the Indians,” said Harry, when this news was at last broken to him. “Oh, Mr. Winship, this is terrible! And your daughter Harmony, too! What shall we do?”

“I am going on the trail of the redskins as soon as my wound will permit, Harry.”

“And I am going along,” put in Joe.

“Then I shall go too. I wish we had two more guns.”

In less than an hour Pep Frost came back, bringing with him quite a large chunk of bear meat.

“Had a putty good fight with thet b’ar,” he said. “But the knocked-out eye bothered him a good bit. I knocked out tudder with the gun an’ then the rest was easy.”

In a deep hollow among the rocks a fire was kindled and here they broiled as much of the meat as they cared to eat. This meal was welcome to all and after it was over even Mr. Winship declared that he felt like a new person.

The want of weapons was a serious one, and Pep Frost declared that it was no use going after the Indians unless the two boys were armed with something. He cut for each a strong stick and fashioned it into a bow, and then cut a dozen or more arrows.

“Now try them,” he declared, and when they did so, and found the arrows went fairly straight and with good force, he was delighted.

“’Taint so good as a gun or a pistol,” he said, “but it’s a heap sight better’n nuthin’.”

As some of the Indians had been wounded and killed in the fight, the old pioneer declared that the red men would most likely remain in that vicinity for a week or perhaps even for a month.

“They know well enough that there aint nobuddy to come to our aid,” he said. “So they’ll hang around down by the river an’ give the wounded warriors a chance to patch up thar hurts.”

“And what will they do with their prisoners?” questioned Harry.

“Keep ’em with ’em, more’n likely, lad.”

“Can’t we rescue them in the dark?” asked Joe.

“Jest what I calkerlated we might try to do. But we must be keerful, or else we’ll be killed, an’ nobuddy saved nuther.”

It was late that evening when they started back for the river, Pep Frost leading the way, slowly and cautiously, with Harry’s gun still in hand, ready to be used on an instant’s notice.

The boys had been taught the value of silence, and the whole party proceeded in Indian file, speaking only when it was necessary, and then in nothing above a whisper.

It soon became evident that the clear night of the day before was not to be duplicated. There was a strong breeze blowing, and heavy clouds soon rolled up from the westward.

“A storm is coming,” whispered Joe to his father.

“I won’t mind that,” answered the parent. “It may make the work we have cut out for ourselves easier.”

Soon came the patter of rain, at first scatteringly, and then in a steady downpour. Under the trees of the forest it remained dry for a time, but at last the downpour reached them and they were soon wet to the skin.

“This isn’t pleasant, is it?” whispered Harry to Joe. “But if only it helps us in our plan I shan’t care.”

Before the river was gained they had to cross an open space. As they advanced Pep Frost called a sudden halt and dropped in the long grass, and the others followed suit.

Hardly were our friends flat than several Indians came in that direction, each carrying a bundle, the same that had been opened and inspected the night before. They passed within fifty feet of the whites, but without discovering their presence.

“That was a close shave,” whispered Joe when the last of the red men had finally disappeared in the vicinity of some rocks to the northward.

“Reckon they are striking out for some sort o’ shelter,” said Pep Frost. “I’m mighty glad on it, too,” he added thoughtfully.

“Why?” asked Harry.

“Thar was three o’ ’em, lad, an’ thet means three less down by the river a-guardin’ the prisoners.”

“To be sure,” cried the young pioneer. “I wish some more would come this way.”

The storm was now on them in all of its fury. There was no thunder or lightning, but the rain came down in sheets, and they were glad enough when the shelter of the forest was gained once more. They were now close to the river, and in a few minutes reached the spot where Joe had landed in the borrowed canoe. The craft still lay hidden where the young pioneer had left it.

“The canoe may come in very useful, should we wish to escape in a hurry,” said Ezra Winship.

While the others remained at the water’s edge, Pep Frost went forward once again on the scout. Joe begged to be taken along, but the old pioneer demurred.

“No use on it, lad, an’, besides, it’s risky. Sence you helped us to git away them Injuns is sure to be on stricter guard nor ever.”

Left to themselves, the others decided to float the canoe and hold it in readiness for use. This was an easy matter, and Joe remained in the craft, paddle in hand, while Harry and Mr. Winship stood on the river bank on guard.

Thus nearly half an hour went by. The rain came down as steadily as ever, and the sky was now inky black.

“It’s time Pep Frost was back,” said Ezra Winship at last. “I hope nothing has happened to him.”

A few minutes later they heard a murmur of voices in the Indian camp, and then a scream which, however, was quickly suppressed.

“I cannot stand the suspense,” declared Mr. Winship. “Boys, watch out until I get back,” and without further words he followed in the trail Pep Frost had taken.

The scream had excited Joe as well as his father, for he felt that it was his sister Harmony who had uttered the cry.

“I’m going to push the canoe out to the edge of the brushwood,” he whispered to Harry. “I think I can see the Indian camp from that point, if they have any torches lit.”

Noiselessly he shoved the light craft forward until the edge of the bushes was reached. He peered forward cautiously, and then went out a little further. Only the fierce rain greeted him, and the silent river seemed deserted.

At last he caught sight of the flare of a torch, spluttering fitfully in the rain and the wind. It was a good hundred yards away, and he made out the forms of several Indians with difficulty. Then he discovered another torch on the river and saw that it was fastened at the bow of a canoe which had just been set in motion.

“Save me!” came suddenly to his ears. “Oh, save me, Mrs. Parsons. Do not let this horrid Indian carry me away from you!”

“Harmony!” burst from Joe’s lips.

He was right, his sister was in the canoe, held there by the hand of a tall and fierce-looking warrior. With the other hand the red man was using his paddle to force the craft up the stream. As the canoe came closer Joe recognized the warrior. It was Long Knife, the savage chief who had led the attack on the pioneers’ camp.

CHAPTER VII
WHAT HAPPENED IN THE RAIN

It filled Joe’s heart with a nameless dread to see his sister being thus carried off by an Indian he knew was as cruel as he was bloodthirsty.

“I must save her,” was his thought. “I must save her, no matter what the cost!”

In haste he shoved his canoe back to the bank and called softly to Harry.

“What do you want, Joe?” asked his chum, in an equally low tone of voice.

In a few hurried words the situation was explained. “Tell father I have gone after the pair,” Joe added.

Without more conversation, Joe started his canoe forward again, and was soon on the river and in pursuit of the other canoe, which was now a hundred yards or more ahead.

By the aid of the torch in the bow he kept Long Knife’s craft in view with ease, while his own canoe was invisible to the red man on account of the rain and the darkness.

As he crept closer Joe could hear his sister begging piteously of the Indian to let her go back to Mrs. Parsons.

“Please, please, let me go back!” cried Harmony. “Oh, have you no heart?”

“White maiden be quiet,” growled Long Knife. “Can talk much after she is in Long Knife’s wigwam.”

“I do not want to go to your wigwam,” moaned the girl. “I want to go back to the lady I was with.”

“Bah! the old Quaker woman does not count,” was Long Knife’s comment. “She is not as good as the squaw that shall take care of the white maiden.”

“I don’t want any squaw to take care of me,” answered Harmony, and then fell to weeping silently.

So far Joe had formed no plan of rescue. Long Knife had dropped his hold of the girl and was now paddling vigorously with both hands, and it was all the young pioneer could do to keep him in sight.

When about half a mile of the river had been covered, they came to a spot where there was something of a lake. Here Long Knife paddled with less speed and Joe came closer rapidly.

In the canoe the youth had the bow and arrows made for him by Pep Frost, and also a stout club he had cut for himself.

“I wish I had a gun instead of the bow,” he thought. “I’d soon knock him over as he deserves.”

Picking up the bow and an arrow Joe adjusted the latter with care. Harmony had sunk to the bottom of the canoe, while Long Knife stood upright, trying, by the flare of the torch, to find a suitable landing.

The canoes were now not over a hundred feet apart. With a strong use of the paddle the young pioneer sent his craft thirty or forty feet closer. Then he leaped to the bow and aimed the arrow with all the accuracy at his command.

Whiz! the arrow shot forth, and had the object at which it was aimed not moved at that instant Long Knife would have received the shaft straight under the shoulder blade. But just then the canoe bumped on a part of the bank that was under water, and the Indian pitched slightly forward, which caused the shaft to graze his shoulder and his neck.

“What is the white maiden doing?” he cried in his native tongue, as he grasped the bow of the canoe to keep from going overboard.

Harmony did not answer, for she did not understand the question. But she saw the arrow before it caught the eye of the Indian, and turning to see who fired it, discovered her brother and set up a cry of joy.

“Oh, Joe! Joe! Save me!”

“I will if I can,” he answered, and reached for another arrow.

By this time Long Knife had recovered and was peering forth into the gloom to learn from what point the attack was coming, and how many of the whites were at hand.

It must be admitted that Joe was excited, and his hand trembled somewhat as he adjusted the second arrow and let it fly without stopping to take a careful aim.

But the hand of Providence was in that shot, and Long Knife was taken fairly and squarely in the breast.

The wound was not a mortal one, but it was enough to take all the fight out of the Indian. With a groan of pain he fell in the bow of the canoe. Then, fearing another shot, or perhaps a blow from a hunting knife, he slipped overboard, staggered ashore, and disappeared in the total darkness of the forest.

“Oh, Joe!” These were the only words that Harmony could utter, but as the two canoes glided together, she arose and threw her arms around her brother’s neck.

Just then the brother uttered no reply to this warm greeting. He had seen Long Knife disappear into the forest, and he did not know but that the Indian might return to the attack almost immediately.

Two steps took him to the bow of the other canoe, and with a handful of water he dashed out the light of the torch. Then he seized the paddle and began to work the craft out into midstream, shoving the other canoe along at the same time.

But Long Knife was in no condition to attack anybody, and soon the dim outline of the shore faded from view. Then Joe tied the smaller craft fast to the larger, and transferred his bow and arrows and club to the latter. He bent over his sister, and in the midst of the wind and the rain he kissed her.

“It was a close shave, Harmony,” he said. His heart was too full to say more.

“Oh, Joe!” She clung to him tightly. “Was it not terrible? Supposing he had carried me off, miles and miles away?”

“Don’t make too much noise, Harmony—there may be redskins all along this river bank.”

“Do you know anything of father and mother?”

“I was with father when I discovered you in the canoe with Long Knife. He and Pep Brown and Harry Parsons were all with me, and we were getting ready to do what we could to rescue you and Mrs. Parsons. I don’t know anything about mother.”

“She was carried off by two of the Indians—Mrs. Parsons saw it done.”

“It’s queer the redskins separated.”

“The attack was made by two tribes, one under Long Knife, and the other under an Indian called Red Feather, a horrible-looking savage with a broken nose.”

“I haven’t seen anything of that savage. But now we had best keep quiet, Harmony, for we are getting close to the Indian camp again.”

Joe was right. Caught by the current of the river the two canoes were drifting down the stream rapidly. The rain still descended steadily although not as heavily as before.

So far no sound had reached them from the vicinity of the camp where Mrs. Parsons was still held a captive, but now a distant shout could be heard, followed by a war-whoop, and then two gun shots.

“Some sort of an attack is on!” cried the boy. “I trust our side wins out.”

“Oh, so do I, Joe. Did you say father and Mr. Frost had guns?”

“Yes, and they most likely fired those two shots. Hark to the war-whoops! The redskins are making it lively. I’d like to know if Harry is in that mix-up.”

Joe turned the canoes toward the river bank, and after a careful survey of the locality discovered the spot where he had left his chum.

“Harry!” he called softly. “Harry!”

No answer came back, and with caution he shoved the leading canoe through the brushwood toward the bank.

“Keep quiet, Harmony, while I try to find out how the fight is going,” he said, and leaped ashore, hunting knife in hand.

“Oh, Joe, don’t leave me,” she pleaded, but he was already gone.

It was an easy matter to crawl to the vicinity of the Indian camp from where the canoes lay hidden. The whooping and the shots had ended as suddenly as they had begun.

Suddenly Joe stumbled over the dead body of an Indian, still warm, and with blood flowing from a wound in the breast. The discovery was a shock to the young pioneer, and he felt a great desire to jump up and fly from the scene.

Hardly had he made this discovery than he ran across Harry, leaning against a tree, gasping for breath.

“Harry,” he cried, and caught his chum just as he was about to fall in a heap. “Where are you hit?”

“Some—somebody struck me in the—the stomach with a—a—club,” was the gasped-out reply. “Oh!” And then Harry sank like a lump of lead.

Without stopping to think twice Joe picked up the form of his chum and started for the canoes once more. It was a heavy load, but the excitement of the moment gave the youth added strength.

“Who is there?” called Harmony, through the rain.

“I’ve got Harry, Harmony. He has been hit with a club.”

“And father and Mr. Frost?”

“I don’t know where they are.”

But scarcely had the young pioneer spoken when there came a rush of footsteps, and Pep Frost appeared on the scene, closely followed by Ezra Winship, who carried the unconscious form of Mrs. Parsons.

“Father!” burst from the girl’s lips.

“My daughter!” ejaculated the astonished parent. “How did you get here? I thought that Long Knife had carried you off in a canoe.”

“So he did, but Joe came after me and brought me back, after knocking Long Knife over with two arrows.”

“Got two canoes, eh?” came from Pep Frost. “By gum, but they air jest wot we need. In ye go, all of ye, an’ quick!”

But little more was said. All leaped into the canoes, taking the unconscious woman and boy with them. Then they shoved off into the river.

They were not a moment too soon, for as the darkness swallowed them up they heard the Indians in the brushwood, running forward and backward along the bank, and calling guardedly to each other. They did not imagine that the whites had the boats, and supposed they must be in hiding, most likely half in and half out of the water.

Not knowing what else to do the whites headed the two canoes up the stream for a short distance and then landed on the opposite shore, at a point where some walls of rock seemed to promise a little shelter from the driving rain.

As they went ashore Mrs. Parsons recovered her senses, for she had merely fainted from the excitement.

“What has happened to me?” she asked faintly.

“Don’t worry, you are now safe, Mistress Parsons,” answered Ezra Winship.

“Providence be praised for it!” responded the Quakeress piously. Then her gaze fell upon her son and she uttered a slight shriek. “Harry! Oh, tell me not that he is killed!”

“No, he isn’t dead,” answered Joe. And shortly after that Harry sat up, declaring that he was all right excepting that his stomach felt very sore.

“We knocked over three o’ the redskins,” said Pep Frost. “Then the rest dug fer the woods an’ we rushed in and freed Mrs. Parsons. But it was a lively fight, and I don’t know as we air out o’ it yet,” he added significantly.

CHAPTER VIII
DAYS OF PERIL

Although Pep Frost was as tired out as anybody in the party, yet the old pioneer did not rest until he had found a cave-like opening under some of the largest of the rocks in that vicinity.

To this spot all of the party retired, and here found shelter from the rain and wind, and here they remained until morning.

By that time the storm had passed away and the sun came out as brightly as ever. Joe and his father managed to find a little dry wood and with this a fire was kindled, all being careful to keep the smoke from ascending in a solid cloud. By the fire the remainder of the bear meat was cooked, and all partook of their share and washed down the meal with a drink from a nearby spring.

How to turn next was the all-important question, and nobody had a very definite answer.

“O’ course we can push on westward fer Fort Boone,” said Pep Frost. “But I aint allowin’ as how ye want to do thet.”

“Thee art right, friend Frost,” answered Mrs. Parsons. “I would first learn what has become of my daughter Clara, and I doubt not but what Friend Winship would like to learn what has become of his good wife, Mistress Winship, and his daughter Cora.”

“That is true,” answered Ezra Winship. “If they are dead I want to know it, and if they have been carried off I feel that I must do all I can to rescue them.”

“Yes, yes, we must learn the truth,” cried Harmony, while Joe nodded his head to show that he agreed.

A discussion followed that lasted fully an hour, and then it was decided that Mr. Winship and Pep Frost should go off on a scout, leaving Joe and Harry to watch over Mrs. Parsons and Harmony.

“We may not be back in two or three days,” said Ezra Winship. “For we will not only try to learn what has become of all the other members of the company that was with us before the attack, but also try to find some of the things that belong to us.”

“Never mind the things, father,” said Joe. “Just find mother and Cora and I’ll be content.”

“And I say to thee, find Clara and I will be content, Friend Winship,” added Mrs. Parsons.

In the canoe that Long Knife had occupied was a small bag containing Indian meal, and another containing pease, and a strip of jerked beef, so that those left behind would not starve during the absence of the men. The men themselves took nothing but the guns and horns of powder, ball and shot, with a tinder box, declaring that they would hunt down whatever they needed.

“Do not show yourselves on the river,” were Ezra Winship’s last words of caution. “Those redskins are still over there, and they may remain there for days, trying to locate us.”

After the two men had left, the spot seemed lonelier than ever. To occupy her time Mrs. Parsons soaked some of the pease in a hollow of water, and then set them to baking on a flat stone, rimmed with dried clay. On another flat stone she mixed some of the Indian meal into a dough which afterwards turned out into fairly good corn cakes. While this was going on Harry set to work fishing in a pool under the brushwood bordering the river, and caught several fish of fair size.

“To be sure, ’tis not eating fit for a king,” declared Mrs. Parsons, “but for such as ’tis, let us all be truly thankful.” And they were thankful.

While the others were thus occupied, with Harmony doing what she could to help the Quakeress, Joe took his way to the top of the rocks. Here grew a tree of good size, and this he easily climbed to the top.

The view he obtained from this elevation was a disappointment to him. As far as eye could reach stretched the hills and valleys, with here and there a stream of water and a tiny lake. Across the river directly in front of him he could see the late Indian camp, now deserted, and this was the only sign of life anywhere.

“Not even a deer, much less a white man or an Indian,” he murmured. “But then I suppose the redskins are keeping out of sight the same as ourselves.”

He looked long and earnestly in the direction his father and Pep Frost had taken, but neither of them appeared, and at last he descended and rejoined the others.

The day passed quietly until about four o’clock in the afternoon, when Harry, returning from another fishing expedition, a little further down the river, announced that two canoes were in sight, each containing at least half a dozen Indians.

“Oh, I hope they don’t attempt to land here!” cried Harmony, in dismay.

“We’ll put out the fire and hide,” said Joe, and this was done, Mrs. Parsons and the girl secreting themselves in a nearby split in the rocks, and Harry and Joe taking themselves close to the water’s edge where they might watch the progress of the canoes.

The canoes were large affairs, and as they came closer the two young pioneers saw that they contained other persons besides the Indians. There was a heap of goods in the center of each canoe, and likewise several captives.

“Clara is in the front canoe,” whispered Harry excitedly.

“And Cora is in the other,” announced Joe a moment later.

The other captives were men and women who had belonged to the unfortunate expedition. All had their hands tied behind them, and not a few were suffering from wounds made by arrows and tomahawks.

“Those Indians must belong to the tribe under Red Feather,” whispered Harry, and he was right, as it later on proved.

The boys were itching to do something for their captive sisters and the others of their friends, but such a move was, just then, out of the question. Their only weapons were their bows and arrows, and the canoes hugged the opposite shore, too far to be reached with any degree of accuracy.

“I am going to follow those canoes as far as I can,” declared Joe, and ran along the river bank behind the brushwood. But soon the rocks and a curve of the watercourse cut him off, and a little later the two canoes passed from sight.

When the craft were gone the two youths went back to where the others had been left. Both Mrs. Parsons and Harmony were, of course, surprised to learn that they had seen Cora and Clara.

“Where will they take them?” cried Harmony, wringing her hands, while the tears stood in the Quakeress’ eyes.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if there was an Indian village somewhere up this stream,” said Joe. “If you’ll remember, Long Knife spoke about taking Harmony to his wigwam.”

“Father said he had heard of an Indian village up there,” answered Harry. “Daniel Boone told him of it. Boone was at the village once, when the redskins were off on a hunt.”

“I wish Daniel Boone was here now,” answered Joe. “He knows how to fight Indians, if anybody does.”

“He may be in this vicinity for all we know,” put in Harmony. “He doesn’t stay at Fort Boone all the time.”

Harmony was very anxious to know if her mother had been in either of the canoes, but neither Joe nor Harry could answer that query.

“There were some folks we couldn’t see on account of the distance and the goods piled up in the canoes,” said Joe. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she was there.”

Night came on quickly and they remained in the dark, not caring to light another camp-fire.

Harry climbed a tree to see if he could detect any fire in that vicinity.

“Not even a torch,” he declared on coming below. “Everybody on both sides is keeping shady.”

“Those Indians that went by didn’t keep very shady, Harry.”

“That is true, Joe,—which proves that they didn’t belong to the party that we have been fighting. It’s more than likely they have met some of the others since passing here, and now they are on guard like ourselves.”

It was decided that the boys should take turns at picket duty, as Harry called it, for it was not deemed wise for all to sleep at once.

The two boys drew straws as to which should keep awake the first half of the night, and it fell to Harry’s lot. Worn out, Joe turned in immediately, if not to sleep at least to rest, and Mrs. Parsons and Harmony soon followed his example. But, though their minds were in sore distress, abused Nature soon claimed her own, and all slept the sleep of the exhausted.

To keep his own eyes open Harry moved around, up and down the rocks, and then along a stretch of the river bank which was comparatively free from brushwood and trees.

It was a lonely vigil, and more than once the youth’s eyes closed in spite of himself. To keep himself awake he decided to bathe his head and arms.

He was engaged in this agreeable occupation when something floating on the surface of the river attracted his attention. At first he could not distinguish what it was, but at last made it out to be a small tree, or large tree branch. On the top rested a dark object that looked like the huddled form of a man.

“Hullo, here is something new!” he thought. “If that is a man is it a white person or an Indian?”

As the object came nearer he strained his eyes to see more clearly. As he did this, the man on the driftwood raised himself slightly and gave a moan.

“A white man, and he is likely wounded,” said the young pioneer to himself, and without hesitation he ran for one of the canoes, launched it, and soon had the sufferer ashore.

Harry had called Joe while launching the canoe, and now the latter joined him and the two carried the unknown one to the shelter under the rocks. He was suffering from a wound in the shoulder, and from another in the left leg, and both of these were bound up by Mrs. Parsons, who in her younger days had been a famous nurse for the sick and wounded.

It was noon of the next day before the unknown man opened his eyes and attempted to sit up.

“You—you are kind to me,” he gasped—“very kind, madam, and I will not forget you for it.”

“How came you in such a situation?” questioned Harry.

“Nay, nay, my son, do not question so sick a mortal,” interposed Mrs. Parsons. “Time enough when he is stronger.”

“The story is soon told,” said the wounded man with an effort. “I was on my way from Fort Boone, with Daniel Boone and three others, to join a party which is expected there soon by a man there named Peter Parsons——”

“My husband!” ejaculated Mrs. Parsons.

“Then you are of that party?”

“Yes.”

“’Tis a strange place for you, madam.” The wounded man looked at the rocks. “But as I was saying, I was with Boone and the others, when we became separated in the heavy rainstorm. The Indians tracked me, and I was wounded and captured. But some time ago I escaped and fled to the river. Then I swam to a tree that was floating by, and crawled on it more dead than alive. And now I am here, thanks——”

The wounded man got no further, for at that moment the form of a man appeared on the rocks above the shelter—a tall white man, dressed in the garb of a hunter.

“Hullo, who are you?” demanded Joe, leaping to his feet and feeling for his hunting knife.

“Why, that’s Daniel Boone!” cried the wounded man, before the newcomer could answer Joe’s question.

CHAPTER IX
DANIEL BOONE, THE PIONEER

At the time this story opens, Daniel Boone, known to history as the famous hero and pioneer of Kentucky, was about forty years of age. He was tall and well-formed, and had an eye that was as sharp as it was true. He could hit a bird on the wing, or a speeding deer with ease, and there was an old saying that if Boone drew bead on an animal the game was as good as dead.

Daniel Boone was born in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, in 1735. His boyhood days were spent on the farm, and in hunting and fishing, pastimes of which he was passionately fond. He also had a strong “fever” for roaming, and more than once was missing at night, having gone on a tramp miles and miles from home.

When Boone was about thirteen years of age, his family moved to a place called Holman’s Ford, on the Yadkin River, in North Carolina. Here the youth grew to manhood and married the daughter of a neighbor, a sweet and courageous girl by the name of Rebecca Bryan. It is well to remember that name, for, as Daniel Boone was the pioneer of Kentucky, Mrs. Boone—Rebecca Bryan—was the pioneer woman of that great commonwealth. It took courage on the part of a man to penetrate the wilderness, but it took even more courage on the part of a woman with children to do the same thing.

When Daniel Boone married he still made his home on the Yadkin, but further westward than where his father was located. At first he had a wide range of territory to himself, which was just to his liking, but presently other settlers discovered the richness of this land and came to settle near him.

“We are going to be crowded out, wife,” said he to Mrs. Boone. “From our doorstep I can see the smoke of five other cabins in the valley.” This great hunter loved solitude, and he thought he was being “crowded” even when he could but see his neighbors.

Boone’s thought had often turned to the West—to that vast, mysterious land which lay beyond the Cumberland Mountains—that land which to-day forms the State of Kentucky with its many cities and towns, but which only a hundred and twenty-five years ago was an unbroken wilderness, inhabited by wandering red men and vast herds of buffalo, deer, and other wild animals. A hundred and twenty-five years! Reader, how quickly our great country has grown to be what it is!

A well-known hunter of that time, John Finley by name, had made a short tour westward, and he brought back with him a wonderful account of what he had seen—the great forests, fertile fields, streams rich with fish, and the large quantities of game. Daniel Boone met this man and talked with him, and from that hour determined to move westward on his own account at the first opportunity.

It was on the first day of May, 1769, that Boone bade farewell to his wife and children, and started out on his explorations. He had with him five companions, all hunters and pioneers like himself, and including the John Finley already mentioned. The party traveled through the mountains and valleys for five weeks, often stopping to hunt and fish on the way, and then reached the Red River, and from a tall cliff looked for the first time on the beautiful plains and woodlands of Kentucky.

“What a grand, what a glorious prospect!” exclaimed Boone.

“It will prove a paradise on earth,” answered one of his companions.

A shelter was erected close to the river, and the whole party went into camp until late in the year, making many tours of discovery to the north, west, and south. On one of these tours Boone and one of his companions were surprised by the Indians and made prisoners. The Indians treated them roughly and threatened them with all sorts of torture. At the end of a week, however, the two captives watched their chance, and escaped. When they got back to their old camp they found it plundered, and the others of the party had gone home.

“We had better go home too,” said Boone’s companion, and they started without delay. On the way they met Squire Boone, Daniel Boone’s brother, and another man. Shortly after this the man who had been a captive with Boone was killed, and the hunter who had come West with Squire Boone returned to his home. This left the two brothers alone.

All winter the two Boones hunted and explored the region, keeping away from all the Indians of that vicinity. When spring came Squire Boone returned home, leaving Daniel alone to the solitude of the great forests.

This was what Daniel Boone really loved, and not a day was lost during the time he was left alone. He explored the territory for miles around, and paddled his way on many a stream. Thus three months passed, and then the brother returned with pack horses and a load of much needed provisions and a goodly supply of powder.

With all the time already spent in this vast wilderness, Daniel Boone was not yet satisfied to go back to his home on the Yadkin, and it was not until March, 1771, that he and his brother retraced their steps to civilization. In that time they had gained a wonderful insight into the country, and could now speak with authority of its formation and worth. They were familiar with every trail worth knowing, and could tell true stories of the richness of the soil.

But in those days things moved rather slowly, and it took two years to bring a number of the settlers up to the point of moving westward with their belongings. It was the end of September, 1773, that Daniel Boone and his brother, Squire Boone, with their families, moved to a place called Powell’s Valley. Here they were joined by five other families and forty men.

It was a hopeful beginning of the great work of settling the West, but it came to a speedy and disastrous termination. The pioneers had been but two weeks on the march when a band of Indians fell upon some of the young men who had gone out to round up the cattle. The fight was short and sharp, and six of the young men, including Daniel Boone’s oldest son, a lad of seventeen, were killed.

This was a great shock to the other members of the expedition, and despite the earnest protestations of Daniel and Squire Boone, it was decided to turn back.

“We can do nothing against the redskins,” said one timid hunter. “They will turn in some dark night and massacre the whole of us.”

But though this expedition turned back, the disaster did not dim the fame of Daniel Boone. He was known far and wide as Colonel Boone, the discoverer of Kentucky, and this fame reached even to the courts of Virginia, and he was often consulted regarding this “promised land” which he had explored. He was sent out at one time to assist a number of surveyors, and at another to open negotiations with the Indians, and his work in these directions served to increase his fame materially.

It was in the autumn of 1774 that a treaty was made with the Cherokee Indians by which all the land between the Cumberland and Kentucky Rivers passed into the control of a body known as the Transylvania Company. Immediately steps were taken to survey the territory, and to establish a trail which might be used by prospective settlers. It was a difficult task, and it fell to the lot of Daniel Boone to lead the way from a settlement on the Holston to the Kentucky River.

The Indians had been willing to negotiate the sale of the land, but when they saw an actual road being made through their beloved country they grew enraged, and soon there was a skirmish, in which two of Boone’s party fell, and he narrowly escaped death. But the expedition stood its ground, until it reached the site of the present village of Boonesborough, located about eighteen miles southeast of the city of Lexington. Here no time was lost in building a fort, and in making other defenses against the red men.

As soon as the stronghold was complete, Daniel Boone went back to the East and brought on his wife and children, and they were speedily joined by several other families. Then other settlements besides that of Boonesborough began to appear, and it was then that Peter Parsons went westward to see for himself if this “land of plenty” of which he had heard so much was really as good as pictured.

Mr. Parsons was delighted, both with the aspect of the country and with the kind-heartedness of Colonel Boone and the other hunters and pioneers that he met, and it did not take him long to reach the conclusion that a home here, if once the Indians could be brought to submission, would be most desirable. He was naturally a man who wanted freedom, and the troubles in the eastern settlements, where the discontentment that led to the Revolution was already in evidence, were exceedingly distasteful to him.

As soon as Mr. Parsons had sent for his family and that of Ezra Winship to come on, he set about clearing some of the land of the sites he had selected. He was hard at work one day felling some trees when an unexpected wind came along and knocked a tree over on him, hurting his leg. He was carried into the fort, and there he lay for several weeks while the hurt member grew better.

“It is too bad,” said he to Daniel Boone. “I was going out to meet my family and the others that are expected here. I have heard that the Indians are growing ugly again, and I am afraid that they will encounter trouble.”

“You must not think of standing on that hurt leg yet,” answered Colonel Boone. “I am going out myself, in company with Jerry Wright and several others of our best marksmen. We shall do our best to bring your family and the others to this fort in safety.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” answered Peter Parsons. “If you’ll do that I will rest content. When do you calculate to start?”

“Early to-morrow morning.”

Daniel Boone was as good as his word, and the party of five was several miles away from the fort by the time the sun rose. Each man was mounted on a good horse, and the only stop made that day was for the midday meal, and to feed and water the steeds.

For several days nothing out of the usual occurred excepting that they found the remains of several Indian camp-fires, which showed that the red men were in that vicinity in force.

“Perhaps they are gathering to attack the party under this Ezra Winship,” said Jerry Wright, who had been a great friend of Boone’s son—the one who had been killed—and who was well liked by the great hunter himself.

“I trust not, Jerry,” replied Daniel Boone. “We want no more massacres here.”

It was then that the great rainstorm came on, and during this Jerry Wright’s horse ran away from him. The young hunter went after the steed, and in the darkness became separated from his companions. His trail was discovered by some Indians, and before he could recover his horse he was discovered and the Indians set upon him with fierce shouts. He tried to defend himself, but was wounded, and then the red men made him their captive.

Jerry Wright fully expected death at the hands of his enemies, but it did not come, and watching his chance, he escaped from the Indians and ran for the river. Here he swam out to a floating tree and crawled on top; and it was from this position of peril that Harry rescued him, as already described in the last chapter.

CHAPTER X
BOONE LEADS THE WAY

“Daniel Boone!”

The cry came from several lips at once, and not only Harry and Joe, but also Mrs. Parsons and Harmony, leaped up to meet the newcomer on the rocks.

“Hullo! Reckon I’ve struck some sort of a camp,” were Colonel Boone’s first words. Then he looked at his late companion. “Where did you go to in the rain, and what is the matter of you?” he continued.

“Oh, Colonel Boone, how glad I am to see you!” exclaimed Harmony.

The great hunter nodded and descended to the shelter.

“Thank you, miss—but I don’t reckon I know you,” he said simply.

“I am Harmony Winship, and this is my brother Joe. This is Mrs. Parsons and her son Harry. We were all on our way to join Mr. Parsons at your fort.”

“Tell me, good sir, how is my husband?” put in the Quakeress quickly.

Before answering Boone removed his coonskin cap and bowed politely. “He is tolerably well, madam, but for his leg, which he hurt while felling trees in the forest. But for his hurt he might be with me this moment.”

“Is it serious?”

“Far from it, and I doubt not but that he will be up and around before we get back. But where are the others of the expedition, and why are you in such a place as this? And why are you here?” went on Colonel Boone to Jerry Wright.

It took the best part of half an hour to acquaint the great hunter with all that had occurred, both to the party under the leadership of Ezra Winship, and to his late companion. Boone listened quietly, but as he learned of the attacks by the Indians his brow grew dark and his lips were tightly compressed.

“They are nothing but fiends after all—after all the promises they have made,” he said at last. “To trust them even for a moment seems foolish.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “When do you expect Mr. Winship and Frost back?” he questioned of the boys.

“I suppose they will be back sometime to-day,” answered Joe.

Colonel Boone told them that he had left the others of his party on a trail quarter of a mile away, having come on foot to the river bank to see if any Indians were in sight, or to learn, if possible, what had become of Wright.

“I will go back and bring my companions to this place,” he said. “And then we can talk over what is to be done.”

“If thee will but get us safe to the fort I shall ask no more,” said Mrs. Parsons.

Before sundown the other hunters and pioneers came up and were introduced. They were glad to learn that Jerry Wright was not seriously wounded, and one brought the good news that the missing horse had turned up unharmed.

Fortunately for those in distress the party under Colonel Boone had brought with them a fair supply of provisions and also a couple of extra rifles and three long pistols, with ammunition. Each of the young pioneers was provided with a rifle and ammunition, and even Mrs. Parsons accepted one of the pistols, while Harmony took another.

Colonel Boone was of a humor to follow up the canoes with captives that had passed up the river, but after a talk with his companions it was decided to wait until morning to see if Mr. Winship and Pep Frost might not return.

“The Indians must not be allowed to go too far,” said Daniel Boone.

“But with even my father and Frost we will number but eight,” said Joe.

“True, lad; but I calculate that a good white hunter is worth four or five redskins,” answered Boone.

The well-known old hunter was dressed in the typical garb of that period—loose hunting shirt, or frock, of dressed deer skins, leggings of leather, fringed on the outer seam, and a coonskin cap, in which was stuck a curled feather or two, and on the feet a pair of coarse, heavy moccasins. Around his waist the hunter wore a substantial belt, with a tomahawk at his right side, and on the left his long hunting knife, powder horn, bullet pouch, and small metal case containing extra flints and tinder.

All were seated around a tiny camp-fire at about eight o’clock that evening, when Boone suddenly arose.

“Somebody is coming,” he said.

Neither of the boys had heard a sound out of the ordinary, nor had some of the others for that matter. But Daniel Boone’s ears were trained to woodcraft, and he had caught the cracking of some brushwood a good distance away. He picked up his rifle and moved out of the circle of light, and several of the other men followed his example.

It was soon seen that Ezra Winship and Pep Frost were approaching, followed by two men and several women and children—all members of that ill-fated band that had suffered so much but a short while before. One of the men was wounded in the shoulder, and one of the children had been partly scalped.

It can well be imagined that Ezra Winship was glad to meet Daniel Boone, whom he knew so well by reputation, if not personally.

“We need your assistance sorely,” said Mr. Winship. “Our whole party has been either killed, taken prisoners, or scattered, and I must say that I hardly know what to do.”

He listened closely to what Joe had to tell him about the canoes that had gone up the river.

“Your mother must have been of the party,” said he. “For I have learned that she and Cora and Clara Parsons were together.” He turned to Boone. “Colonel Boone, where do you think the captives will be taken?”

“’Tis hard to tell, Winship,” was the reply. “Perhaps to the village of Go-wan-shi-ska. That is a favorite spot with them at this season of the year.”

In their trip back to the former camp Mr. Winship and Pep Frost had seen but two Indians and they were a long distance off. In coming through a patch of timber they had heard the cry of a child and this had led them to a shelter where they had found those that they had now brought with them.

“We must rescue those who have been carried off,” said Ezra Winship. “I cannot consent to go on to the fort until that is done. My own wife and daughter are missing and so are five or six others. To leave them to the mercy of the savages would not be human.”

“We cannot go after the missing ones until we have seen the women and children who are here safe,” replied Daniel Boone. “But once they are at the fort I promise you that I will use every effort within my power to bring back the missing ones and avenge this great wrong.”

The great hunter spoke feelingly, for he had not yet forgotten the death of his beloved son nor the deaths of many of his old-time companions.

It was arranged that the whole party should move forward under the personal guidance of Colonel Boone without delay. The wounded and the small children were placed on horseback, and the men and boys, all armed, tramped on ahead and behind, Boone himself far in advance, making certain that the way was clear.

On the way two Indians were encountered. One was shot down and the other taken prisoner.

The captured red man was closely questioned by Colonel Boone and others. At first he refused to talk, but at last said that the tribe under Red Feather was journeying toward Go-wan-shi-ska. They had some captives, he did not know how many, nor did he know how long Red Feather intended to remain at the village before moving further to the north.

When the news reached the fort that the expected expedition had been attacked by the Indians under Long Knife and Red Feather there was great excitement, and a score of men, including Peter Parsons, rode out to meet those who were coming in.

“So you are safe,” said Mr. Parsons to his wife. “I am glad of that.”

“Yes, yes; but poor Clara!” groaned Mrs. Parsons, and then burst into tears on her husband’s shoulder.

The stories the various survivors of the expedition had to tell were listened to with interest by all at the fort, and under Colonel Boone’s command a party of twenty-two men, young and old, prepared to follow up the trail of the red men and give them battle if necessary. All were aroused to the necessity of swift action, and each man was prepared to fight to the last in defense of his own family and those of his companions.

With the men went Mr. Winship and Joe. Mr. Parsons wanted to go, but it was thought best to leave him and Harry behind to look after the women folks, for it was barely possible that, during the absence of so many of the garrison, the Indians might attack the fort itself.

“You must be on guard, day and night,” said Colonel Boone to the officer who was left in charge. “Keep pickets out constantly and do not allow any Indians to visit the fort proper. If they want to parley let them do it outside and not more than two at a time.”

The entire party went out on horseback, Joe riding a steed provided by Mr. Parsons. The young pioneer had been introduced to all of the others in the expedition and felt thoroughly at home among them. The men, young and old, were a whole-souled body and willing to do almost anything for each other.

It was now that Joe learned for the first time in his life what real hard riding meant. Daniel Boone allowed no dragging behind, and the hunters went forward as fast as their steeds could carry them, up trail and down, over stretches of deep grass and then along and over the rocks. Often a stream would have to be swum or forded, and the riders would have all they could do to get over and keep their ammunition dry.

The first night was spent in the open, without a camp-fire, and long before the sun arose the party was again the saddle, riding as hard as ever.

“I hope you are not tired out, Joe,” said his father, on the way.

“Not yet; but how long are we to keep this up?” questioned the son.

“Colonel Boone says until we see something of the Indians. And I am glad of it,” added Ezra Winship. “We can’t come up to those rascals too quick for me.”

On the third day out, however, the speed was slackened a little, and just before sundown Daniel Boone and two of the other skilled hunters went on ahead. They were moving up a hill, the ridge of which was located in some timber quarter of a mile away.

Colonel Boone and the others were gone the best part of an hour. The remainder of the party were then ordered to swing round to the left of the trail they had been following and halt just this side of the ridge of the hill.

“The Indians are encamped in the valley on the other side of the hill,” said Colonel Boone. “There are about thirty of them and they have at least some, if not all, of the captives with them.”

CHAPTER XI
WITH NO TIME TO SPARE

“The Indians are encamped in the valley beyond this hill!” cried Joe. “In that case we will soon find out whom they have as captives with them.”

With extreme caution the hunters and pioneers climbed the slope until about fifty feet from the ridge.

Then the men and boys were allowed to crawl among the trees and brushwood to the very top and look over into the valley below.

A plain of tall grass and low brush met their gaze, extending for quarter of a mile in width and several miles in length. In the very center was a small brook, moving peacefully along between the reeds and rushes.

The encampment of the red men was along the bank of the watercourse next to the hill occupied by the whites. Here several wigwams had been temporarily erected and here two camp-fires had just been started. On a slight rise of ground lay several bundles of goods which belonged to the ill-fated pioneers, and not far away several horses and mules were tethered.

But the gaze of those on the ridge of the hill was not directed to the Indians, the bundles, or the horses, but to the captives, who were in a group by themselves not far from one of the wigwams.

The captives were six in number—two women, two girls, and two men, one of the latter just grown to manhood. Each was bound, and it was plain to see that each had suffered much since being taken a prisoner.

“I see Cora!” exclaimed Joe in a low voice. “Do you see mother?”

“I do not,” answered Ezra Winship, and the tone of his voice showed keen disappointment.

“That other girl is Dorothy Reasoner, and the two women are Mrs. Landrop and Mrs. Gellott,” went on the boy.

“The men are old Hank Kassoway and young Paul Broker, the young fellow they said looked like you, Joe.”

“Do you suppose they have any other captives, father?”

“There may be some in one of the wigwams, but it is doubtful.”

Word was now passed along that the hunters must be silent, and for some minutes not a word was spoken.

During that interval several of the Indians were seen to run to the group of prisoners and bring forward the young fellow named Paul Broker.

In a twinkle the hunting shirt was ripped off the young pioneer and he was hurled flat on his back on the ground. While he was being held there by two red men others tied cords to his wrists and ankles and these were afterward secured to four short stakes driven securely in the soil.

“They are going to torture that young man!” exclaimed Mr. Winship in horror.

After the victim was so secured that he could scarcely move some of the Indians began to dance around him, uttering the words of a wild song and flourishing their tomahawks and scalping knives. Occasionally one would leap forward and make a move as if to cut off the nose or gouge out an eye of the victim.

They thought by this to make the young man cry out in fear and beg for mercy, but Paul Broker had learned the lesson that the Indian is merciless when it comes to torturing an enemy and so he remained mute.

The girl and women prisoners shrieked in horror at the scene and, unable to stand the sight, one woman fainted dead away.

Burning fagots were now brought forward and the Indians prepared to place them upon the naked breast of the victim. One fagot was held close to his face, so that his eyebrows were singed.

While this was going on, Boone crawled from one to another of his party and gave a few hurried directions.

It was now growing dark, and, keeping as much in the shadows of the hill as possible, the hunters moved over the ridge and down close to the Indian encampment.

The Indians around Paul Broker were just on the point of placing the fagots upon the victim’s breast when Daniel Boone gave the order to open fire.

Crack! crack! bang! went the rifles and shotguns, and at the first irregular volley three of the Indians were killed outright and five others badly wounded. In those days powder and ball were scarce, and no man discharged his weapon unless he was tolerably sure of his aim.

“Forward!” cried Daniel Boone, and led the way, reloading as he ran.

The red men had not yet thrown out their guards for the night and were taken completely by surprise. As the shots rang out and so many of their number fell, the others were almost panic-stricken.

“The palefaces! the palefaces!” they cried, and ran for their bows and arrows and other weapons.

Colonel Boone knew well how to fight Indians and had given instructions to make as much noise as possible. Consequently the hunters under him came onward with many loud yells and shrieks, uttered in all sorts of tones, giving the red men the impression that the attacking party numbered a hundred or more.

Guns and pistols were discharged and reloaded with all possible speed, and as the whites drew closer they brought forth their tomahawks and hunting knives. It was Boone himself who leaped to the rescue of Paul Broker, closely followed by Mr. Winship and others. Joe ran straight to his sister Cora.

Realizing that the battle was against them the Indians made but a feeble resistance, and then those who were able did what they could to escape across the valley to the hills.

As one tall red man dashed past the captives he aimed a blow with his tomahawk at Cora. But before the hatchet could reach the girl’s head Joe swung around the butt of his gun and struck the Indian’s arm a crushing blow, breaking that member and causing the tomahawk to fall to the ground.

“Joe! Joe!” burst from Cora Winship’s lips. She could not say more.

Some of the Indians attempted to reach the horses, but were blocked and two others were shot down. Then the rest ran in all directions, their only idea being to hide themselves under cover of the coming night.

But the pioneers were thoroughly aroused to the situation, and, under the leadership of Daniel Boone, those left of the evil band were hunted not only during the night, but all of the next day. In this hunt Joe took no part, preferring to do the duty assigned to him and four others, namely, that of looking after the women and girls and the horses and goods in the camp. But Ezra Winship went with Boone and his men, and this following of the red men’s trail resulted in the downfall of two more Indians and the taking prisoner of the chief, Red Feather, who had been wounded at the very start of the fight.

In the battle four of the whites had been wounded and one man—a very old frontiersman named Hollenbeck—was killed. The wounds of those hurt were not serious and were dressed with care by the women and girls who had been rescued.

It was a long story that Cora Winship had to tell concerning her captivity, but it need not be repeated here, for it is very similar to hundreds of such stories which have already been told. The Indians had treated her with alternate kindness and harshness, and she had been given to understand that she was to be taken to some Indian village far to the northward, along one of the lakes.

“I do not know what has become of mother or of Harmony,” she said.

“Harmony is safe at the fort,” answered Joe. “Do you know what has become of Clara Parsons?”

“I do not, Joe. We were together at first, but the Indians soon separated us, just as they separated Harmony from the others. So Harmony is safe? Well, I am glad to learn that. But poor dear mother!” And the girl shook her head sorrowfully.

When Mr. Winship came back from the hunt after the fleeing Indians Cora sprang into his arms with a joyful cry. It was a happy moment for all despite the fact that the mother and wife was still missing.

The Indian chief, Red Feather, refused to talk when brought in, nor would any threats induce him to open his mouth.

“HIS GUN STRUCK THE INDIAN’S ARM A CRUSHING BLOW.”—P. 104.

“The palefaces may do as pleases them,” were his words. “Red Feather, the mighty chief of the Cherokees, has nothing to say to them.”

But one of the other Indians was not so close-mouthed, and from this warrior it was learned that the reason Paul Broker had been tortured was because he had attacked and attempted to kill Long Knife, Red Feather’s brother chief.

“Long Knife was in a canoe with a white maiden when the paleface shot him with an arrow,” said the Indian to Daniel Boone, in his native language.

The old pioneer had heard Joe’s story, and he quickly turned to the youth and told him what the Indian said.

“That was not Paul Broker, but myself,” said Joe.

“Ha! now we have the truth of it!” cried Paul Broker, who was standing near. “I told the redskins that I had done nothing of the kind, but they would not believe me. In the darkness Long Knife probably mistook Joe for myself.”

As the youth and the young man looked so much alike, this was accepted as the true explanation of the affair.

“It is lucky we came along as we did,” said Joe to Paul Broker. “If we hadn’t you would have suffered horribly on my account.”

None of the Indians could tell what had become of Long Knife further than that he had appeared at the camp badly wounded and that he had been taken away by two warriors acting under Red Feather’s orders.

“Red Feather and Long Knife are related,” said Daniel Boone. “If either suffers the other will do what he can to right the injury. Now that Long Knife has escaped he will probably keep shady until he is well again, and then he will do what he can to cause us more trouble. But I have a card I shall play against him.”

“You mean Red Feather?” said Ezra Winship.

“Yes. I shall keep him a captive and notify the Indians for miles around the fort that if an attack is made Red Feather shall suffer most horribly for it, but if they keep the peace Red Feather shall be released at the end of six months and be given half a dozen best blankets and a fine horse.”

“But what will you do about my wife and the others who are still missing?” asked Mr. Winship anxiously.

At this Daniel Boone shook his head slowly and thoughtfully.

“I hate to say it, friend Winship, but—but——”

“But what?”

“I am sorely afraid that all of the others who were taken captives are dead,” answered Daniel Boone.

“Do you really mean that?” cried Joe, with a sinking heart.

“I do. I have tried my best to find some trace of them, but there is none, and when a redskin refuses to speak on that subject after talking about all others it is pretty safe to say that the truth is too awful to mention.”

CHAPTER XII
SETTLING DOWN AT BOONESBOROUGH

It was with sorrowful hearts that Mr. Winship and Joe accompanied the party under Colonel Boone back to the fort. Even the presence of Cora, who had always been the particularly bright member of the family, did not serve to dispel the gloom caused by the continued absence of Mrs. Winship.

“I cannot believe that she is dead, father,” said the young pioneer. “Such a fate would be horrible!”

“I am of the same mind, Joe,” answered Ezra Winship. “Yet Colonel Boone has had a vast experience with the red men, and he must know what he is talking about.”

“The best of men make mistakes sometimes,” put in Cora hopefully.

The party moved onward as fast as possible, but with the women and girls along, as well as the wounded and the goods recovered from the Indians, it took twice the time to reach the fort as it had to ride from there to the encampment in the valley.

Those at the fort saw them when yet a long distance away, and Peter Parsons and Harry rode out to meet the Winships.

“My Clara still missing!” groaned Mr. Parsons. It was like a blow in the face to him.

“Yes, Peter, and my wife, too,” replied Ezra Winship.

The news that Clara Parsons was still missing was an added shock to the girl’s mother, and it was several days before the Quakeress recovered sufficiently to go about her duties.

“She must be dead, just as Colonel Boone says!” moaned the stricken mother. “Oh, why has this cross fallen upon us? Is it that we have been so sinful?”

On his part, Harry said but little. But he felt the loss as keenly as did anybody, for his sister Clara had been his constant companion all his life, and he loved her dearly.

But every period of mourning and lamenting must have an end, and there was plenty to do for all hands in Boonesborough.

“I think the best we can do is to get settled down,” said Peter Parsons. “That will give my wife and the girls something to do and keep their mind off of this trouble. As soon as we are settled you and I, friend Winship, and Joe and Harry, too, for that matter, can do our best to find some trace of your wife and my Clara.”

“But they may be suffering at this moment,” said Ezra Winship.

“I hardly think that. Now that the fight is over, if they have not been killed, they are most likely living quietly at some Indian village far away.”

As already mentioned, Peter Parsons had selected two sites for farms adjoining each other. There was scarcely a choice between the two, and to be perfectly fair in the matter Mr. Winship insisted upon drawing lots to decide which should be his and which Peter Parsons’.

It was decided that for the present only one cabin should be built, as close to the fort as possible, in which the Winships and the Parsons might dwell together until the following summer. This would keep Mrs. Parsons and the two Winship girls together while the boys and their fathers were away from home.

It was no easy task to fell the trees and build such a cabin as was needed for the united families, but the men and the boys went to work with a will, and inside of several weeks the cabin was finished in the rough. It was of logs and was about fifteen feet deep by thirty feet long. The interior was divided into a living room fifteen feet square, and opening off of this were two bedrooms of half that size. The living room boasted of a door front and back and a window, and there was also a window in each of the sleeping apartments.

No furniture of large size had been brought to this settlement, and it was consequently necessary to furnish the living room with a table built of a rough slab and two benches of the wooden-horse variety, commonly called puncheons. The floor was likewise a puncheon floor, that, is, made of the halves of a split log, the flat side smoothed off. In the bedchambers a long low frame was built, running parallel with the inner wall, and on these the beds were placed, foot to foot, two in each room.

The chimney of the cabin was rather a large affair, built of rough stone and such mortar as the settlers could make themselves. It was on the side of the living room, directly between the two doors opening into the bedrooms. Above the open fireplace was a shelf and several hooks for cooking utensils, and in the fireplace itself were several chains and hooks upon which to hang pots and other things. It may be added that the settlers had brought with them half a dozen knives and an equal number of spoons, cups, and plates. Forks were hardly known in those days, and many of the old pioneers preferred to cut their food with their hunting knives.

After the woodwork of the cabin was finished, the chinks were carefully plastered with a clayey mud which soon hardened in the hot weather and sunshine. In the meantime the women folks set to work to place the interior in order with such means as were at hand. Not many things had been brought along, and of these a number were still missing because of the Indian raid, and at the proper time Mrs. Parsons and the girls would have all they could do to spin, weave, or knit towels, bed-linen, and clothing.

The hard work brought with it one blessing. It took the minds of the workers from their sorrow, and had it not been for that one dark cloud all of the party would have been very happy.

“It’s an ideal spot for a home,” said Ezra Winship more than once. “I doubt if a better can be found anywhere.”

“I thought the soil amazingly rich,” answered Peter Parsons, “and the things that have been planted prove it. Everything is growing nicely.”

In those days a man could live only by what he planted and by what he hunted and fished, and, although no wheat or corn was sown that season by the Winships and the Parsons, a small tract of land was cleared and here the precious seeds of numerous kinds of vegetables were planted, peas, beans, onions, carrots, parsnips, turnips, as well as squashes, pumpkins, and the like, and some cuttings of vines which had been brought along.

One day a week was spent in hunting and fishing, the two boys going out one week and the two men folks the next.

“I saw the track of a number of deer this morning,” said Harry to Joe, on a Friday before the Saturday on which the pair were to go out and try their luck. “I wish we could spot some of ’em to-morrow.”

“Where did you see them, Harry?” questioned Joe with interest, for he was as anxious to add some venison to the home larder as was his chum.

“Up that little side stream, near the fallen walnut. I was up there after some sassafras and birch, and I counted at least six tracks leading from the turn of the brook.”

“We ought to go down early and try our luck with them.”

“Just what I was thinking. We ought to get on the ground before sun-up.”

The boys spoke to their parents about going away early and, receiving consent, set to work that evening at cleaning and oiling up the two rifles to be taken along, and also arranging their fishing lines, for they did not intend to rely upon hunting entirely to fill the household larder.

It was not yet four o’clock when Joe pinched Harry’s arm and awoke him. Silently, so as not to awaken the other sleepers, the boys slipped into their clothing and went into the living room.

Here Mrs. Parsons had left a cold breakfast for them, and this they swallowed with all speed. Then, with a drink of water to wash down the food, they took up their weapons and their lines and sallied forth in the early dawn.

The grass was heavy with dew and the early morning birds were just beginning to pipe up when they passed out of sight of the cabin and along the tiny brook Harry had mentioned. They walked with caution and when they spoke it was in a whisper.

“The wind is just right,” said Harry. “If it was blowing the other way they’d spot us before we so much as caught a sight of ’em.”

As they drew closer to the spot where Harry had seen the tracks they moved with increased caution and finally threw themselves down in the grass and wormed along behind some low bushes and rocks.

When Harry had gained a position he considered just right he halted and motioned for Joe to do the same. Each examined his rifle to make certain it was ready for use, and then each set his gaze on a spot which Harry indicated with his finger to his chum.

A half-hour went by, and there was no sight of a deer or anything else coming down to the brook. But these young pioneers had learned the value of patience in hunting, and each remained in his position without a word of complaint.

Ten minutes more and Joe saw something moving in the bushes just above the spot his chum had pointed out. It was a beautiful buck with graceful antlers and a skin that shone finely in the early dawn.

Slowly the buck came down to the water’s edge, raising his head every few steps, and sniffing the air suspiciously. Behind him came six deer, all of fair size and all equally timid.

As the game came closer the boys’ hearts began to thump madly within their bosoms. Never had they seen such a fine collection of deer, and never had they had a better chance to bring down the game.

“Which will you take?” whispered Joe, when he could remain silent no longer.

“I’d like to try for the buck, but——” Harry hesitated.

“We’ll have to let him go, Harry. His meat would be as tough as leather. Take the one next to him, and I’ll take one further back.”

So it was agreed, and resting their long rifles on the rocks in front of them the two young pioneers took careful aim at the game.

“Ready, Harry?”

“Yes.”

Crack! crack! the two rifles spoke almost as one piece, and as the echo arose on the air two of the deer were seen to leap and shiver, and then pitch over on their sides.

“Hurrah! we’ve got ’em both!” shouted Joe, and sprang to his feet.

“Let’s try for another,” answered Harry, and pulling out an old pistol he had brought along he aimed it at the big buck and fired.

His aim was only partly true, and the buck was struck a glancing blow in the left foreleg. He slipped down on his knees, but soon arose again. In the meantime the unshot deer fled to the forest with a speed that can better be imagined than described.

While Harry was shooting at the buck Joe had started to reload his rifle. Harry dropped his empty pistol and pulled out his hunting knife, thinking to rush in and cut the buck’s throat.

“Look out for him, or he’ll gore you!” yelled Joe, and his warning came none too soon, for just then the buck leaped forward and rushed at Harry with lowered antlers. The young pioneer knew he could not withstand such a shock and leaped to one side.

“He has got lots of fight in him yet, even if he is clipped,” panted Harry, rushing to the top of some rocks. “Look out for him, Joe!”

“I mean to look out,” was the answer, as Joe continued to load with all possible speed.

The retreat of Harry caused the wounded buck to pause for an instant. But it was only for an instant; then his gaze turned to Joe, and with a snort of rage he hopped rather than leaped forward, as if to prod Joe to death on the spot.

CHAPTER XIII
PERILS OF THE YOUNG HUNTERS

It was a moment of extreme peril, and none could have realized it better than did these two young pioneers. They had often heard of the rage of a wounded buck, and had heard of how one old friend of Harry’s family had once been gored to death in scarcely more time than it takes to tell it.

“Run, Joe, run!” came from Harry. “Don’t let him strike you!”

For one instant Joe had been of a mind to stand his ground and finish the loading of his gun. But now he saw that there would not be time in which to prime the weapon, and he made a rush behind some of the nearest bushes.

The buck came on and struck the bushes with terrific force, almost reaching the youth in spite of the thickness of the growth. Joe leaped further back and then ran for the rocks upon which Harry was standing.

“He means business, doesn’t he?” the young pioneer gasped.

“Yes, and you want to look out for his prongs,” answered Harry.

He, too, had been trying to reload his gun, but had not as yet been able to attend to the priming.

Again the buck turned, and, having disentangled himself from the bushes, rushed toward the rocks.

“Jump!” called Joe, and made a leap to the ground in the rear.

Instead of doing as his chum had done, Harry made a leap for a nearby tree and caught hold of one of the bottom branches. His weight, however, proved to be too much for the branch, and it sagged down to within four feet of the ground.

Once on the rocks the buck stared at first one boy and then the other, as if trying to decide which he should attack first. Then he saw Harry clutching the branch, and made a leap straight in that direction.

But Harry was not to be caught thus easily, and sliding around he faced the buck, still holding on to the limb with both hands.

Again there was a rush, and this time, instead of striking the bushes, the animal came pell-mell into the end of the tree branch. There was a quiver and a crash, and the branch snapped into pieces, hurling Harry backward almost against the tree trunk.

The buck could easily have followed Harry to the trunk, and have there finished him, but for one reason, and that was, when the crash came a part of the tree limb caught the animal directly in the mouth. This is a sensitive part, even in an old buck of the deer tribe, and the animal lost no time in pulling back to clear himself of this new difficulty.

But the buck still had his eye on Harry, and rushing around the broken tree branch he prepared for another plunge forward.

As soon as the animal turned from him to Harry, Joe lost no time in finishing the loading of his gun. With the weapon now properly primed he leaped around to a position where he could get a good shot at the buck.

Again the animal came forward, straight for Harry, who, in trying to leap to the opposite side of the tree, had slipped and fallen.

Crack! It was Joe’s rifle that spoke up, and this time the boy’s aim was all that could be desired. The buck received the ball straight in the heart and leaped high in the air. Down he came with a crash, directly at Harry’s side and lay still, stone-dead.

As the buck fell Harry tried to roll out of the way, thinking there might still be some life left in the animal. Joe drew his hunting knife and leaped in.

“Is he—he dead?” panted Harry.

“Yes,” was Joe’s slow answer. “That shot fixed him.”

For fully half a minute both youths stood by the side of the fallen game, surveying the animal with interest. Harry was trembling slightly, and Joe was several shades paler than his usual color.

“He’s a big one, isn’t he?” said Joe at length.

“Yes, Joe, and I reckon we both had a close shave, eh?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t want another such fight, do you?”

“Not at quite such close quarters,” came from Joe. He bent lower. “I must have taken him right through the heart.”

“Three deer! What will the folks say to that?”

“I reckon they’ll think it is something wonderful.”

“Well, it is wonderful for boys. I never heard of it being done before. But don’t let us brag.”

“That’s right, I hate bragging. But, say, let us get home with the meat at once. Then, if we want to, we can go fishing this afternoon.”

This plan was agreed on, and then came the question of how best to get the deer home. All told, there were several hundreds of pounds of venison in the pile, no light load to be dragged a distance of over a mile.

“Let us each take a deer on a drag at first,” said Joe. “We can come back for the buck later.”

“But some wild beast may make way with the buck. We don’t want to lose him after all the trouble we had in bringing him down.”

“Let us haul him up into the tree.”

They looked around, and close at hand found a convenient limb, over which they threw a bit of rope one of the boys had brought along. Soon the buck was tied to the rope and hoisted a distance of eight feet from the grass.

When this task was finished, the boys cut two drags, and on the top of each fixed one of the deer. Then both started for the cabin, each dragging his load behind him.

The way was rough and long before the cabin came into view, the boys were more than tired of hauling the tree limbs with their dead weights along. But the thought of how the good news of the hunt would be received by their folks kept them up, and at last they came in sight of the home in the little clearing, and raised a shout which was at once answered by Ezra Winship, who came from the kitchen, gun in hand.

“Well, by the great pewter candlestick!” cried Mr. Winship. “Is it possible! Two deer, and each as plump as one would wish. You’ve certainly had luck, boys.”

The shouting now brought Mr. Parsons from a neighboring bit of brush, and Mrs. Parsons and the girls from the house, and all gazed in admiration at the game.

“How many shots for each?” questioned Mr. Parsons.

“Only one for each,” answered Harry proudly. “Joe brought down that one, and I brought down this.”

“You’ve done well, lads, mighty well—in fact, no old hunters could do better.” And Peter Parsons’ face showed his pleasure.

“How many deer were there?” asked Ezra Winship.

“Six, and a magnificent old buck,” answered Joe.

“Oh, why didn’t you try for the buck?” cried Harmony. “I’d like to have a pair of prongs for your coats and hats to hang on.”

“The deer meat is best,” said Mrs. Parsons. “’Tis likely to be very sweet and tender.”

“Yes, but we got the old buck after all,” said Joe, and he could scarcely disguise the tone of triumph in his voice.

“Got the buck?” came from the lad’s father and several of the others.

“Yes,” said Harry. “Joe shot him right through the heart.”

“But not until Harry had wounded him in the leg with a pistol shot,” came quickly from Joe.

And then the two boys had to tell the particulars of the brief hunt. But they did not tell how closely they had been in danger of death, being afraid that if they told all they might be kept from going on another hunt in the future.

“Boys, you are regular hunters and no mistake,” said Peter Parsons warmly. “Three at once! Winship, it is wonderful!”

“You are right,” answered Ezra Winship. “These deer are of good size, and from what they say of the buck he must have been in his prime.”

“Then we’ll have the hat and coat rack after all,” said Harmony brightly.

“And three good rugs in addition,” came from Cora.

Neither Mr. Parsons nor Mr. Winship advised letting the buck hang in the tree too long, and both volunteered to go after the game. But the boys preferred to go after it themselves, after they had had a short rest. While they were resting, Mrs. Parsons treated them to some fresh sugared corn cookies she had just made, while Cora brought them each a glass of nice birch beer of their own make. In those days beer made of birch, spruce, and various roots was a common drink.

Leaving their fathers to dress and cut up the venison brought in, Joe and Harry set out on the return to the hunting ground. Neither expected to see any more game that day, yet each had loaded his gun, and Harry his pistol in addition, and the weapons were carried in such a fashion that they could be brought into use at short notice if required.

“If we go fishing this afternoon, I wonder if we’ll have such luck as we had hunting,” remarked Harry, as they strode forward in the direction of the brook.

“You mustn’t expect too much good luck all at once,” responded his chum with a short laugh. “Besides, with so much meat we won’t want so much fish.”

“I’ll never expect to bring down a larger buck, shall you?”

“Hardly. Yet we are both young, and there is no telling what luck we’ll have before we die.”

“Tell you what,” went on Harry, after a pause. “What fine times we could have if only—if only my sister and your mother were with us.” His voice sank low as he finished.

“Yes, Harry, whenever I think of them it takes the fun right out of everything,” answered Joe; and then both boys heaved a long sigh.

“If we only knew where to look for them.”

“That’s it. But father is going on a hunt soon, with your father and old Pep Frost and some others. Let us hope they’ll get news of some kind.”

“Speaking of Pep Frost puts me in mind of some news he brought in yesterday. He says that things are getting hot down Boston way between the citizens and King George’s officials, and almost everybody is speaking of war. I wonder if it will really come to that?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised. What is the use of our paying taxes if we aren’t to get anything for doing it? I think we ought to be allowed to run this country as we please.”

“If war comes it may make more trouble out here. The French and the Indians who used to train with them wouldn’t like anything better than to give us a rub.”

“The French won’t do much—they are quite friendly now. But it might be an excuse for another Indian uprising. They hate it like poison to see us occupying these lands.”

“Colonel Boone says he is going to stick here no matter what comes. And I reckon he’ll keep his word.”

“Well, we’ll all stand by him. There is nothing else to do. We are too far away from any other fort to look for aid from such a quarter. We’d have to fight to a finish.”

So talking, the two boys hurried on through the woods and along the brook where the deer had first been sighted. The sun was now fairly high in the heavens, and the day promised to be an unusually warm one.

At last they reached the tree from which the carcass of the big buck had been suspended. Both stared up into the branches in wide-eyed amazement.

The carcass of the buck was gone.

CHAPTER XIV
ON THE TRAIL OF A THIEF

“The buck is gone!”

It was Joe who gasped out the words, after several seconds of painful silence.

“Yes, but to where?” came from Harry. “That meat didn’t walk off by itself.”

“Perhaps some wild animal carted it away, Harry.”

“If so, it was a pretty big animal, and we had best look out for our own hides, Joe.”

Both looked around the spot, and up the brook, but neither man nor beast was in sight.

As Joe continued to look around the vicinity Harry dropped on his hands and knees and examined the damp ground under the tree.

“What do you see?” called out Joe.

“Here are plenty of footprints,” was the slow reply. “But perhaps they are only our own.”

Joe came closer, and some of the footprints were followed out of the tangle in the shade. Then Joe uttered a cry.

“Harry, we didn’t come in this direction, and those marks are neither yours nor mine.”

“You are right. See, they lead along behind these bushes and then directly into the brook.”

“Yes, and they move up the brook, too!”

“It was a two-legged thief who ran away with our game!”

“Exactly.”

“Do you think it was an Indian or a white man?”

“I really can’t say. I haven’t seen an Indian here since that fellow called Yellow Blanket called on Colonel Boone. And who of the settlers around here would be mean enough to take our game is more than I can surmise. But I know one thing.”

“And that is——”

“I’m going after the chap in double-quick order.”

“I am with you. We are two to one and well armed. I suppose he didn’t think we would come back so soon.”

“More than likely.”

Just above the spot where the deer had been shot, the brook widened out and became more or less of a shallow stream, with here and there a dirt instead of a stone bottom. Bending low they could, by the aid of the strong sunlight, occasionally catch sight of a footprint where the thief had missed his footing from one stone to the next.

“He would have kept to the stones entirely, and thus cut off his trail,” said Joe; “but his load was almost too much for him. And by that same token, I imagine he won’t go very far before he sits down to rest.”

“If that is so, we may be close to him already. Perhaps we had best keep quiet, and keep our eyes wide open.”

After that but little was said, and each youth kept his ears on the alert. The brook now ran upward, and consisted of a series of tiny waterfalls. Just ahead were a series of rocks.

As they approached the rocks, Joe, who was in advance, held up his hand as a warning. Then he crawled forward as noiselessly as a ghost, and looked over the top of the rocks.

On a fallen tree he saw an Indian resting, with the carcass of the buck beside him. The warrior was Yellow Blanket, the red man who had called on Daniel Boone at the fort about a week before, bringing a message for Red Feather, which, however, had not, by Boone’s order, been delivered.

Yellow Blanket was alone, and was evidently getting ready to continue his journey. He had been carrying the buck across his shoulders, and his bow and arrows were slung over his breast so as not to interfere with his load.

By signs Joe gave Harry to understand that both should cover the red man with their guns, and this was done without delay. The two young pioneers leaped on the rocks and confronted the Indian.

Yellow Blanket had been in a contemplative mood, not dreaming that he would be thus quickly followed up. He started in amazement, and leaped to his feet.

“Raise your hands!” called out Joe, as one hand of the enemy went toward the tomahawk at his belt. “Raise ’em or I’ll fire!”

“And so will I fire!” added Harry.

The Indian understood very little English, but the truth of the situation was plain to him, and letting go of the tomahawk he spread out his arms wide, as if to show a friendly spirit. Then the youths came closer, each keeping the Indian still covered.

“So you thought you would run off with our meat, eh?” questioned Joe sharply.

The Indian looked blankly at them and shrugged his shoulders.

“Yellow Blanket cannot speak the tongue of the paleface,” he said in his own language.

“This is our game,” went on Joe, and still keeping his gun leveled with one hand, he took the other and pointed first at the dead buck and then at himself and Harry.

Again the Indian shrugged his shoulders, and then shook his head slowly. At last he pointed to a tree, and then at himself, and then at Joe and Harry, and shook his head.

“He means to say he found it in a tree, and didn’t know it belonged to us,” said Harry. “Well, that’s the truth, I suppose, but it wasn’t his game, even so.”

“What shall we do with the fellow, Harry? We can’t shoot him down in cold blood, and it wouldn’t do much good to march him back to the fort.”

“Well, take his arrows from him, and march him off about his business, Joe. That’s the best I can think of.”

While Joe kept the Indian covered with his gun Harry strode forward and made the fellow give up eight fine arrows he carried. The bow he let the red man retain, since it would be useless until he could provide more arrows for it.

To show that they did not take the arrows for their own use, Harry broke the shafts over his knee. This caused the Indian to scowl deeply, but he said nothing.

“Now march, and don’t you turn around to look back,” said Joe, and he pointed up the brook beyond the rapids. Yellow Blanket understood, and with downcast countenance walked off.

They watched him out of sight, and then, without loss of time, picked up the buck between them and hurried towards home, but not by the route they had previously traveled.

“That Indian may take it into his head to come back on the sly,” said Joe. “We don’t want to run the risk of having our heads split open by his tomahawk.”

“We can keep an eye to the rear and on both sides,” answered his chum, and this was done, but Yellow Blanket failed to reappear, probably thinking that one Indian with only a tomahawk was no match for two strong-looking youths with guns and hunting knives.

When the boys got back and told of the adventure with the Indian, both Mr. Winship and Mr. Parsons said it would not be advisable for them to go out fishing that afternoon.

“There may be more Indians in the neighborhood,” said Ezra Winship. “And if there are, it won’t do for you to run unnecessary risks.”

It was thought best to report the occurrence to Colonel Boone, and Joe walked over to the fort for that purpose.

In those days, the fort at Boonesborough was a rude but strong one. It was about two hundred and sixty feet in length by about one hundred and fifty feet in width, with one corner resting on the bank of the river. It had a strong stockade of pointed timbers planted deeply into the ground, and a similar stockade ran around most of the cabins occupied by those who had first come westward with Daniel Boone, so that they were in close communion with the fort proper. Inside of the main stockade were several log cabins, and a shelter for ammunition and another for garrison stores.

Joe found Daniel Boone at work writing a letter to one of the superior officers of the land company which he represented, telling of what had recently happened at the settlement, and what he thought the Indians would do next.

“So Yellow Blanket is still sneaking around this vicinity,” said the great hunter, on hearing the youth’s tale. “I am glad that you and young Parsons sent him about his business.”

“Do you think he will harm us further?” asked the young pioneer.

“It is not likely, Winship. Yellow Blanket is a cur, nothing more. If he strikes at all it will be in the dark. I will send out Pep Frost and Raystock to see if they cannot capture him. A month of captivity will make him glad enough to shake the dust of this vicinity from his feet.”

Pep Frost, who was close at hand, was called in. Joe had not seen this old hunter for some time, and the two were glad to meet again.

“What! You an’ Harry got two deer an’ an old buck one trip?” he ejaculated. “By hemlock! but it won’t be no ust fer us old fellows to go out no more; eh, colonel?”

“It’s the air that is doing it,” returned Daniel Boone with a laugh. “Such purity can’t help but make a good shot and a good trailer out of most anybody.”

“I’ll bring in Yellow Blanket ef I kin,” said Pep Frost. “But he’s a cur, as the colonel says, an’ more’n likely he’s lit out long ago fer his wigwam.”

When Joe returned home he found Harry hard at work dressing the deer skins, and he went to work to fix up the head and antlers of the buck, so that they might be hung up in the living room for a coat and hat rack, as Harmony had suggested.

As mentioned before, it had been a hot day, and when the sun went down it was hardly any cooler. There was scarcely a breath of air stirring, and, as a consequence, scarcely anybody felt like retiring to the rather stuffy bedchambers of the log cabin until sleep could no longer be put off.

As tired as he was, Harry could not sleep until long after he had gone to bed. He lay with Joe, and he rather envied his chum, who slept peacefully. When at last Harry did go to sleep he dreamed of shooting deer, and of being gored by the big buck, and about an hour later he awoke with a start and dripping with perspiration.

“Oh, what a dream!” he murmured to himself, and sat bolt upright, he could not tell why.

Joe still slept, and so did the youth’s father and Ezra Winship, who occupied the second bed in the room. From outside the faint rays of the old moon cast a dim light into the room.

Feeling thirsty, Harry resolved to go out to the living room for a drink. Not to awaken the others, he crawled from the bed as silently as possible, and tiptoed his way to the other part of the cabin.

The water in the crock was warm and stale, and having tasted of it Harry spit it out into the fireplace.

“I’ll go out to the spring and get a fresh drink. The air will do me good,” he reasoned, and tiptoeing his way back to the bedchamber he slipped on his outer garments for that purpose.

As he made his way to the living room door he saw a shadow glide over the floor, as if something had come in between the rays of the moon and the window close at hand. He looked up, but on the instant the shadow was gone.

Harry stopped short and caught his breath. Was he half asleep still, or had somebody really passed the window? Several times he asked himself that question, but could frame no satisfactory answer.

“I’ll soon make sure,” he murmured, and reached for his gun, which at night was laid on a shelf, loaded and primed for immediate use.

As he caught up the weapon a scraping sound from outside reached his ear. Then came a flare of light through a crack between the cabin logs, and like a flash he realized the truth.

Some enemy was outside, and was on the point of setting the cabin on fire.

CHAPTER XV
FIGHTING THE FLAMES

“Stop, you rascal, stop!”

Such was Harry’s exclamation as he saw the flare of fire and realized what the person outside of the log cabin was bent upon doing.

He knew that the cabin was dry from the hot sun of the day before, and that the timber, once started, would burn like tinder. Moreover, he knew that to obtain sufficient water to put out such a conflagration would be difficult.

Without stopping to think of possible peril, he leaped for the door and threw it open.

In the dim moonlight he made out the form of a man running across the dooryard to the nearest patch of timber.

“Stop!” he called loudly. “Stop, or I will fire on you!”

Instead of heeding the command the fellow ran faster than ever.

Up came Harry’s gun, and, taking a low aim at the retreating form, he fired. A yell of pain followed, and he saw the man stagger and fall headlong.

By this time the cabin was in an uproar, and Ezra Winship and Peter Parsons came rushing from the bedroom, followed by Joe, and all leaped for their guns, thinking that an attack by the Indians had been begun. A moment later the girls and Mrs. Parsons followed, wrapped in such garments as had been handy.

“Harry, who are you firing at?” demanded the youth’s father.

“Some rascal who set the cabin on fire,” was the answer. “Quick, get some water, or the place will be burnt down!”

The others now saw the fire, which was burning fiercely in a heap of pine brush stacked against the side of the cabin. Rushing for a pitchfork, Ezra Winship threw the burning brush away from the building.

While this was being done Mr. Parsons and Joe hurried for buckets of water from the spring. They had to work lively, for the flames were creeping up the whole side of the log cabin toward the highly inflammable roof.

“The house will be burnt down!” screamed Cora, while Harmony wrung her hands in mute despair.

Mrs. Parsons was more practical, and, catching up a blanket, she saturated it in a pail of water, and then began to beat out some of the flames with this.

A few minutes of energetic work and the danger was over. But the smoke filled the cabin, and all the windows and the two doors had to be opened wide to clear the interior.

While this was being done, Harry, having slipped on some of his clothes, ran forward to where the unknown had fallen. He was followed by his father.

As they neared the spot they saw that the intruder was limping away, casting anxious glances backward as he did so.

“Come back here!” cried Harry, raising his gun once more. “Come back here, or I’ll give you another shot.”

Upon hearing this threat the unknown hesitated for an instant. Then he dove into the bushes.

But Harry and Peter Parsons were too quick for the evildoer, and in a moment more they were beside him, and each had a gun pointed at the fellow’s head.

“Yellow Blanket!” exclaimed the young pioneer. “I suspected as much.”

“Is this the redskin who tried to rob you of the buck?” questioned Mr. Parsons.

“The same, father. He got mad because Joe and I stopped him, and because we took his arrows away and broke them up. He was going to revenge himself by burning down our cabin.”

At these words Yellow Blanket scowled, but to them he made no reply. Indeed, having been caught red-handed, as the saying is, it was impossible for him to make any defense.

The Indian had been wounded in the right thigh, and was undoubtedly suffering much pain. Regardless of this, however, he was made to march back to the cabin and a rope was brought forth.

“We ought to shoot him on the spot, and have done with the viper,” said Ezra Winship. “But we’ll be a little more merciful and merely make him a prisoner. In the morning we can lay the case before Colonel Boone.”

The shot and the fire had aroused a number of the neighbors, and soon several came to the place to learn the trouble. When they heard of Yellow Blanket’s actions they were thoroughly enraged, and a number wanted to kill the Indian immediately, but Ezra Winship told them of what he had decided to do, and there the matter rested.

Daniel Boone came over himself at dawn, having just learned of the affair.

“It was a dastardly piece of business,” said the great hunter. “And I must say I didn’t think it of Yellow Blanket. He is a cur, but not so cowardly as I imagined. We will march him over to the fort and see what he has to say for himself.”

Colonel Boone’s orders were carried out, and the Indian was subjected to a rigid examination, lasting fully an hour.

At first Yellow Blanket would not talk, but when he was given to understand that he might suffer death for his crime he shrank back with fear.

Then he begged Boone to spare him, and intimated that he could tell a great deal concerning the raid on the late expedition to Boonesborough if the great hunter would promise him his life and his liberty.

At first Daniel Boone was not inclined to listen to the rascal, but he remembered how anxious Ezra Winship was concerning the whereabouts of Mrs. Winship, and how much the Parsons were worried over the loss of Clara Parsons, and he at last consented to be easy on the Indian provided he would tell the plain truth.

“And remember,” he said, “I shall not let you go until I have proved your words.”

Yellow Blanket then went into many details of the late raid. He said that the news of the expedition had been brought in by Long Knife, and that it was this chief who induced Red Feather to join in an attack on the whites. Long Knife was particularly anxious to carry off some pretty white maiden whom he might make his squaw. After the fight he had tried to carry off Harmony Winship, but she had been rescued, and Long Knife had been seriously wounded by some white person, the Indian had supposed was Paul Broker, but who, later on, proved to be Joe Winship, as already related.

“And what has become of Mrs. Winship and Clara Parsons?” questioned Daniel Boone. “And of the other captives?”

“They are at the lodges of Long Knife, Leaping Waters, and Elk Head,” answered Yellow Blanket. “But remember, the great hunter has promised not to tell anybody that Yellow Blanket revealed this,” he added.

“Where are those lodges located?” went on Boone.

At this Yellow Blanket described the spot as best he could. It was a place entirely new to Colonel Boone, and one not yet visited by any of the settlers at Boonesborough.

“How long do they expect to stay at the lodges?” was Boone’s next question.

Yellow Blanket could not answer definitely, but said he supposed they would remain there during the winter, at least.

After the examination, the news the Indian had imparted was told to Ezra Winship and Peter Parsons.

“If you wish you may head an expedition against the Indians,” said Daniel Boone. “I would go myself, but at present that is impossible. More settlers are coming in every day, as you can see, and Colonel Henderson is anxious to open a regular land office and form a permanent local government.”

What Boone said about new settlers was true. Nearly every day some pioneers came straggling in, and once or twice a month a body of six or eight families would appear. These settlers located at various points, but all looked to the fort at Boonesborough for aid in time of peril. A government was formed, which, though crude, succeeded in preserving some sort of law and order. Various officers were elected, but the majority of the settlers looked to Boone as their most reliable leader, especially when dealing with the ever-present Indian question.

From Yellow Blanket it was learned that the Indians under Long Knife and the other chiefs now amounted to perhaps a hundred all told. Of these less than thirty were full-fledged warriors, the balance being women, children, and old men incapable of fighting.

“Fifteen or twenty good shots ought to be able to whip them, and whip them well,” said Ezra Winship to Peter Parsons.

“I believe you,” answered Mr. Parsons. “And if we can get together that many pioneers I am willing to go out with you and see if we cannot rescue my daughter and your wife, and also the other captives.”

It was no easy matter to find so many good shots willing to enlist for the venture. Those who had members of their families missing were eager enough, but others held back, saying that they must remain at home to protect their own folks and provide food for the coming fall and winter. Many had not yet built their cabins, having lived during the summer under tents, and these felt that their first duty was to provide suitable shelters against the snow and cold weather that was coming.

“We should have started sooner, when the feeling against the redskins was more bitter,” said Peter Parsons. “Now the folks have grown accustomed to what has been, and it doesn’t look so cruel to them.”

But he and Ezra Winship persisted, and at last they gathered together seventeen men who were willing to undertake the trip. Of this number, four were men who had lost various members of their families by death during the raid, five, including Mr. Winship and Mr. Parsons, wanted to find, if possible, relatives who were lost, and the others went merely from a sense of duty, or for the excitement.

“We’ll teach ’em a lesson they won’t forgit in a hurry,” said old Pep Frost, who was of the number. “We’ll come down on ’em like a reg’lar hurricane, hear me!” The prospect just suited this man, and he went around whistling gayly as though getting ready for a pleasure outing.

Joe and Harry had both begged hard for permission to go along, but their fathers would not listen to their pleadings.

“I know you are brave enough to go, Joe,” said Mr. Winship. “But I want you to remain behind and look out for Cora and Harmony.”

“And you, Harry, must look after your mother,” put in Peter Parsons. “And, besides, both you boys want to prepare all the food you can for the long winter that will soon be on us. If by some cause we do not get back as soon as expected, we don’t want anybody here to starve to death.”

“Ah, husband, if thee will take good care of thy body we will take care of ours,” answered Mrs. Parsons. “And the same to thee, friend Winship.”

“We’ll try to come back safe and sound,” answered Mr. Parsons. “And, God willing, we will bring back the lost ones with us.”

The last night together in the log cabin was a sober one. Mrs. Parsons, a truly good woman, insisted on holding a Quaker meeting, and she and her husband prayed most earnestly for all present, that they might pass through the coming months unharmed, and might at last come together again with the lost ones with them.

The expedition started at sunrise. Joe and Harry saw them a mile or more on the way. Then came a final handshake, and the expedition continued on its way to the northwestward, while the two young pioneers turned back toward the log cabin, never dreaming of all that was to happen ere they should see their fathers again.

CHAPTER XVI
THE FALL OF A HICKORY TREE

After the departure of Ezra Winship and Peter Parsons, affairs at the log cabin took on a more sober look than ever. Although but little was said on the subject all felt that the expedition that had been undertaken was a most serious one. Should the pioneers be led into ambush by the Indians it might be that not one of them would come back to tell the tale.

But with so much work to be done, the boys had no time for idle speculation. They felt the responsibility that had been thrust upon them, and they determined to do their duty to the best of their ability.

The first work at hand was to gather in what remained of the somewhat scanty summer harvest. This was comparatively easy work, and the young pioneers were at it early and late.

During those days they were not without alarms, and on two occasions left the field to join the others at the fort. But one alarm was entirely false, and the other made by two drunken red men who were easily subdued, so there was no serious trouble.

After the last of the vegetables had been brought in and stored away, and the pease and beans dried, the boys turned their attention to firewood, and day after day found them at the edge of the clearing, hewing down the trees which were to keep them warm during the winter, and were also to help enlarge the fields which in the future were to produce the best of garden truck, as well as corn and rye.

Each boy was skillful with his ax, and they often wagered between themselves as to which could bring down a tree first. Sometimes the girls or Mrs. Parsons would come out to watch them for a brief spell, but usually these persons had all they could do in and around the cabin, where they were constantly spinning and weaving, knitting and sewing, on the various garments necessary for the approaching winter.

One day, when the boys were hard at work cutting down two tall hickory trees, a messenger rode into Boonesborough with news of the expedition that had gone forth. At once the lads dropped their axes and ran after the man to learn what he might have to tell.

“We have not seen the regular body of Indians yet,” said the messenger. “But we met three redskins on a river about a hundred miles west of here. Two of ’em were shot down in the fight, and the third man captured. He didn’t want to talk at first, but later on he thought better of it, and promised to lead us to Long Knife’s hang-out.”

The messenger had come in to have a wound in the shoulder attended to, and to obtain two more rifles and some special ammunition. He spent two days at Boonesborough, and during that time Joe and Harry learned from him that Mr. Winship and Mr. Parsons were as well as ever, and that they had great hopes of the ultimate success of the march against the enemy.

“They are moving rather slowly,” said Joe. “Do you know what I am inclined to think? That neither father nor the others want to attack the Indians until they have gone into winter quarters.”

“Well, if they do that, it’s more than likely they will catch the redskins off their guard,” answered Harry. “As a general thing an Indian don’t care to fight in the winter.”

It was not until the day following that the two young pioneers went to work to finish cutting down the two hickory trees. Each was anxious to have his tree fall first, and each worked away with vigor, making the broad chips fall in all directions.

“My tree is quivering!” cried Joe presently. “She’ll be down in another five minutes, and I know it!”

“Mine is coming too!” returned Harry, and worked away with renewed energy. Although they would not have admitted it, each youth was highly excited over the prospect of winning the novel race.

Harmony had come to the spring to get a bucket of water, and now, seeing the tops of the two tall trees quivering, she called Cora and Mrs. Parsons to come out and see the sight.

“They are coming,” she announced. “And I believe both are coming together.”

“I believe Harry’s is coming first,” said Cora, after a keen glance at each shivering tree.

“Boys! boys!” called Mrs. Parsons from the doorway of the cabin. “Be careful when they come down!”

Neither of the youths heard the warning, for each was chopping away madly. Then of a sudden a chip flew up and hit Harry in the eye.

“Oh!” he cried. “Oh, I’m hit!”

“Where?” demanded Joe, and looked toward his chum.

At that moment each tree began to come down with a mighty crack and a crash. Harry, holding his hand to his scratched eye, managed to leap out of the way of danger. But Joe, looking toward the other tree, was taken for the moment off his guard.

“Joe! Joe! jump!” screamed Harmony. “The tree is coming down on your head!”

The young pioneer now realized his danger and tried to leap away as bidden. But it was too late, and in an instant more he was caught by one of the tree limbs and pinned to the earth.

All who were looking on gave cries of horror, and even Harry forgot that one of his eyes had been scratched. He ran toward his chum with all speed.

“Joe!” he called. “Joe, get up and out of the way before the tree turns over on you!”

But Joe did not answer, for the reason that he was almost senseless from the shock. Coming closer, Harry saw that one of the branches of the hickory lay directly across his throat, pinning him down to the ground and strangling him!

“Is he—is he dead?” came from Harmony. Her face was ghastly white.

“I—I hope not,” answered Harry. “But he will be soon if I don’t get him free!”

Joe’s ax lay but a few steps away, and Harry caught it up without delay. There was a grave peril there between the limbs of the hickory, for the tree might turn over at any moment, carrying Harry down under it, but just then Harry gave no thought to this. His one idea was to save Joe from strangulation.

But if Harry was brave, the girls and Mrs. Parsons were equally so, and all rushed in to offer what assistance they could. While they held the limb as far up as possible Harry gave it a blow or two with his sharp ax and then the branch was bent back until it snapped and broke.

“Now out of the way, all of you!” panted Harry, and caught Joe up in his arms.

The others leaped away from the tree and Harry followed with his burden. Then the hickory began to crack and groan, and in half a minute more it rolled partly over into a slight hollow and lay still.

“Oh!” murmured Harmony, after the tree had stopped moving. “If—if Joe was under there now he’d be smashed to a—a jelly!” And she covered her face with her tier, or pinafore.

Harry had not stopped, but was on his way to the spring. Here he laid Joe down and washed his face with cold water. But it was several minutes ere Joe gave a gasp and sat up, staring around him.

“Oh, my neck!” were his first words, and then he added innocently: “Did the tree fall on me?”

“That it did,” answered Mrs. Parsons, who was kneeling beside him. “Thee can be thankful, Joseph, that thy life has been spared to thee.”

“Some—something feels as if it had—had me by the throat.”

“The tree had you by the throat,” said Harry, and then, while Mrs. Parsons and the girls attended to Joe, Harry bathed his bruised eye.

Fortunately for both boys neither was hurt much by the double accident, but Joe felt rather shaky when he got up on his legs.

“I reckon it was a narrow shave,” said he, and added: “Harry, it was brave of you to jump in and help me.”

“Pooh! you would have done the same for me,” was the light answer.

“I see both the trees are down.”

“Yes, they came down exactly the same time—so Cora says.”

“Then the wager is a tie, Harry. Well, I don’t care, do you?”

“No. After this, I reckon we had best attend to business and leave matches at tree-cutting alone.”

It was not until the next day that the boys went at the wood-cutting once more, and they were careful to keep out of danger, and Harry was especially careful as to where he let his chips fly when chopping.

At the end of two weeks the boys had a large pile of wood stacked up close to the rear door of the cabin. This was made up mostly of tree branches chopped and sawed into convenient lengths for the open fireplace. The large tree-trunks were left where they fell, to be cut up after the sap was partly out of them and to be hauled to the dooryard on a sled during the winter, when the ground was covered with snow.

As long as there was good fishing the boys spent one day a week at this sport, and always managed to bring in a fine mess. By using the fish Mrs. Parsons was able to economize with her salt and smoked meats, which would give them so much more food for the long winter months.

Before long the nights became nipping cold and there was a heavy frost on the ground in the morning. The frost opened the burs of the nuts in the woods and the two young pioneers spent two afternoons bringing in nuts of several varieties, which were spread out on the flooring of the cabin loft.

During the autumn Harry had located a bee tree, and he was very anxious to find out what amount of honey it contained.

“Let us go out to-morrow after the honey,” he said, one day.

“I’m willing,” answered Joe. “But we’ll have to be careful, or the bees will sting us up well.”

“If you go after that honey, you had best tie some netting over your faces,” said Harmony; and Mrs. Parsons said the same.

The tree was located nearly a mile from the cabin, and the start was made from home just as the sun was rising. Each of the young pioneers carried his gun, and also a torch, thick with pitch pine, and the netting already mentioned.

For some distance their walk took them along the watercourse where they had brought down the deer, but presently they turned to the left, and plunged into a thicket where the trees grew tall and straight, and where the brushwood was of small account.

Boys less accustomed to the wilderness would have become hopelessly lost in that thicket, but Joe and Harry advanced with the utmost confidence, for their many outings had made them thoroughly acquainted with this bit of territory.

“Do you know, I really think the game is beginning to thin out here,” remarked Harry, as they trudged along. “I haven’t seen even a rabbit so far.”

“Well, that is not to be wondered at, Harry—with so many of the settlers out after the game almost every day.”

“It would be a great pity if the game should give out altogether.”

“Oh, that won’t happen for a good many years. As the game grows more scarce, the old hunters will drift elsewhere for shots, and that will give the game here a chance to catch up again.”

At last they came in sight of the bee tree, standing in a little clearing by itself. The tree was not as tall as those around it for which they were thankful. It was hollow, and near the top flew a few bees, basking idly in the sunshine.

“Their work for the season is over,” remarked Harry.

“It seems a pity to rob them of their store of honey,” returned Joe. “But there is no help for it—unless we want to go without.”

“And I don’t want to do that, Joe,” came quickly from Harry, who had a great liking for sweet things.

Putting down their guns, they brought forth the nettings, and covered their faces and necks. Then they slipped old mittens on their hands.

“Now for the attack!” cried Joe, and brought out his flint and tinder. He soon had a light, and with this set fire to the pine torches.

Neither of the boys had ever smoked out bees before, and they went at it in their own way. At the bottom of the hollow tree was an opening, and into this they thrust the lighted torches.

“Whoop! Here they come!” cried Joe, and as he spoke a swarm of bees swept from the upper portion of the hollow. Then came the thick smoke and more bees—a swarm much larger than they had anticipated.

“They are going to fight for their home!” cried Harry, and he was right. Having emerged from the smoke the bees swept around and around the tree in a circle, and then swooped downward upon the two young pioneers.

“Oh!” came in a yell from Joe, for he was stung in the back of the neck, where the netting failed to cover him.

“Oh!” answered Harry, stung in the left hand, through a hole in his mitten. “Get away from me!” he added. “Shoo! shoo!”

But the bees did not want to go away, and in order to fight them off the boys pulled their torches from the hollow tree and swung them around their heads.

This soon made a dense smoke outside of the tree, and the bees moved away, leaving some of the ground burnt by the fire.

“Let us leave one torch in the tree, and defend ourselves with the other,” said Harry.

This was done, and they continued to wave the single torch around them, which made the bees keep their distance. The smoke pouring from the top of the tree brought forth more bees, until they felt fairly certain that the hive within was now totally deserted.

“The tree is catching fire!” exclaimed Joe presently.

“So it is! That won’t do, Joe! Our honey will be burnt up!” groaned Harry.

Here was a new difficulty, and, regardless of more stings, Harry leaped toward the tree again, and pulled away the torch. In the meantime Joe ran for some water from a stream in that vicinity. This was thrown up into the hollow by the aid of a cup they carried, producing a denser smoke than ever.

“Hurrah! the fire is out!” declared Harry, five minutes later. “Oh, but wouldn’t I have been mad if the honey had been burnt up!” he said.

“That smoke has driven away the last of the bees,” announced Joe, after a careful look around.

“Don’t be too sure, Joe. My hand burns worse than fire where I was stung!”

“And how do you suppose my neck feels? I’ve got a lump on it as big as a walnut. Those bees meant business, I can tell you that.”

“So would you mean business, if you were being smoked out of your home.”

They stood by the tree for quarter of an hour longer, still letting the smoke ascend. Far overhead they saw the bees circling around and around, but at last they flew away to the westward, in an almost solid swarm.

“They are all gone away now, and now we had better get the tree down as soon as possible,” said Joe.

Each had brought an ax along, and, sticking the smoking torches into the ground close beside them, they set to work with a will. The tree, being hollow, fell an easy prey to their blows, and soon it began to quiver, and then came down in exactly the manner they expected.

“Down at last!” cried Harry. “Now to split it open.”

Their experience at wood-cutting stood them in good stead, and by being careful they managed to split the tree from end to end without damaging the honey-combs to any extent.

“Oh, what a fine haul!” came from Harry, as he saw the combs. “How much do you think is here?”

“Seventy-five or a hundred pounds, Harry. Honey is pretty heavy stuff.”

“We’ll have a task getting it home.”

“Never mind. We got the deer home, and we’ll get this home, too.”

A few bees were now coming back, and again they had a fight, that lasted the best part of an hour. But then the bees went off, and that was the last they saw of them.

To get the honey home safely the boys cut a number of withes, and of these formed a fairly good basket, weaving the affair after the manner of some Indians they had watched at work on more than one occasion. This basket was placed on a broad drag, and into it they put the honey. Some honey, from the broken combs, was lost, but this could not be helped.

“We should have brought a big kettle,” said Joe. “Next time we will be wiser.”

“The trouble is, honey-bees are not located every day, Joe. We may not see another for years.”

Their success at honey gathering made them light of heart, and both whistled merrily as they hurried back to the cabin. They reached home shortly after noon, and a shout brought Mrs. Parsons and the girls out in a hurry to meet them.

“Oh, but this is splendid!” cried Cora. “We’ll have honey all winter!”

“’Tis truly good,” came from Mrs. Parsons. “But there is more here than we need. We can trade some with the neighbors for other things;” and this was, later on, done.

With the coming of cold weather rabbit hunting became extra good, and the boys would often go out in the early morning and bring in enough for a stew or a pot-pie. Each was now a skillful marksman, and it was rarely that a shot was wasted. Often they would bring in some other small animal, as well as partridge and wild turkeys.

During the autumn the inhabitants of Boonesborough organized an expedition to search the woods around the fort for some signs of the Indians. But, though many miles of territory were covered, no red men were brought to view, and it was at last concluded that the Indians had withdrawn to their winter quarters miles and miles away.

“It’s a good work done if they have,” said Harmony, when she heard the news. “I declare I never want to see another Indian as long as I live.”

“I’m afraid, Harmony, that wish won’t come true,” said Joe.

“Oh, I know it won’t.”

“I don’t mind the Indians so much—if they would be friendly.”

“I believe as Colonel Boone does,” put in Harry. “A redskin can be trusted just so far and no further.”

“And how far is that?” asked Cora.

“As far as you can see to watch him.”

It was a week later that the persons living in the log cabin awoke to find the ground covered with a heavy fall of snow. The snow was still coming down, but it let up about noon and the sun struggled through the clouds.

“That settles outside work for a while,” said Joe. “All we can do is to fix up that sled and haul in those big logs.”

“And go out for more deer, or for a bear,” answered Harry.

“Right you are, Harry. I wish we could get a bear—the skin would make a good cover for one of the beds.”

CHAPTER XVII
AN ADVENTURE ON SNOWSHOES

The boys had talked bear for a long time—in fact ever since they had heard of two other boys of the settlement bringing in a pair of cubs they had found in a hollow tree in the forest. They had not said much in Mrs. Parsons’ presence, but they had told the girls that they meant to get a bear, big or little, before the winter was over.

At the fort they had fallen in with a French-English trapper named Marquette. Marquette was a happy-go-lucky fellow who loved hunting and fishing better than he did eating and sleeping. He was on good terms with everybody, and all of the pioneers thought a good deal of him.

Marquette came to the log cabin one day bringing in some sweet herbs that Mrs. Parsons desired very much, and in return was given his supper and a place to sleep. From this meeting the boys were much interested in the hunter and he in the boys.

“I will show you how to make snowshoes and how to wear them,” he said one day. “Then you can go anywhere, no matter how deep the snow is.”

He was as good as his word, and when the French-Englishman went away both Joe and Harry were provided with a substantial pair of snowshoes and had been out on them three times and could use them fairly well.

It was about Christmas time that there came an extra heavy fall of snow—for in those days the snow fell heavier in Kentucky than it does to-day—why, nobody can tell, exactly. Then followed a day of thawing and then more cold weather, so the surface of the snow was covered with a thick crust.

“Just the thing for snowshoes!” cried Joe. “We can travel almost anywhere and not break through.”

“Yes; and a deer will break through at every step and so will a bear,” returned Harry. “Just the right snow for hunting.”

“If we can only find the deer and the bear.”

It took several days of hard talking on the part of both boys to bring Mrs. Parsons and the girls over to the point of letting them go off on a hunt which was to last at least three days. But at last the lady of the cabin learned from Colonel Boone that there was no danger from Indians just then, and she consented and the girls followed suit.

“But you must be sure and keep out of danger, Joe,” said Cora.

“Yes, better let the bear go than have him eat you up,” added Harmony.

“Thee must be very careful,” said Mrs. Parsons to Harry. “Remember, with thy father gone I rely much upon thee, my son.” And she kissed him affectionately.

Each of the young pioneers went out provided with a rifle and plenty of ammunition, a hunting knife, and a tomahawk, and also a game bag containing some provisions, and a tinder box with an extra flint and steel. Their snowshoes were donned in the living room, and everybody turned out to see them off.

They had already decided in what direction to strike out—up the brook where they had brought down the two deer and the old buck. The watercourse was now deeply covered with snow. They walked on the top of this snow with care, determined not to take a tumble while in sight of those left behind.

Quarter of an hour’s walking took them around a curve of the stream, and looking back they saw that the homestead was no longer to be seen.

“Now we can strike out more boldly,” came from Harry, and he did so, followed closely by Joe. But their pride soon had a fall, and one went down directly after the other, Joe forwards and Harry backwards. There was a great floundering, and several shrieks of laughter, and both boys got up sadder and wiser.

“No use of talking, snowshoes are tricky things,” said Joe. “The very moment you think you are safe you aren’t at all.”

“We have got to get used to them, Joe. Remember, Marquette has used snowshoes for years—probably ever since he was a little boy.”

After this they walked on with more caution. The day was a perfect one, the sun being clouded just enough to take away the dazzling glare of the snow’s crust. On every side arose the tall, gaunt trunks of the leafless trees, with here and there the tops of bushes and the sharp points of windswept rocks.

As they advanced they kept their eyes open for the appearance of game. The first thing to come to view was a partridge sitting low on a hemlock.

“Don’t fire!” cried Joe, as Harry caught hold of his gun.

“Why not?”

“We are out for big game this trip, and if you fire you may scare away something much better.”

“That’s true,” said Harry, and let the gun down. “But it was a fine chance,” he grumbled.

“When a gambler plays for pounds he doesn’t mind the pennies, Harry. Come on after those deer and that bear.”

The partridge flew away, and the landscape became as lonely as before. At a great distance they saw some birds circle in the air, but the game did not pass anywhere near them.

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid,” growled Harry, “we are not going to harm a feather of you to-day. Sir Joseph is after six deer and nine bear.”

“See here, Harry, do you want the birds?” demanded Joe sharply; “if you do, blaze away.”

“No, Joe, I was only fooling. But I believe the little beggars know we won’t hurt them, and that is why they show themselves. If we wanted birds or a partridge we wouldn’t see a feather of either.”

“It is tantalizing, but we—oh!”

Joe’s talking came to a sudden end. He was walking along a windswept ridge, where the surface was covered with a thin icy snow. He had taken a misstep and now he rolled over and over into a hollow twenty or more feet deep. The force of the tumble broke the crust of the snow, and with a shout for help he suddenly disappeared from view.

At first Harry was inclined to roar with laughter, for it was a comical sight to see Joe go down, head first, dragging the snowshoes after him. But suddenly Harry’s mirth came to an end, for Joe did not reappear as he had expected.

“Joe! Joe!” he called out; “Joe, what’s the matter?”

No answer came back, and in increased alarm Harry commenced to climb down into the hollow, taking care, however, not to pitch over as his companion had done.

When he reached the bottom he caught sight of a snowshoe and began to pull upon it. This nearly threw him over, but he continued to pull, and presently uncovered one of Joe’s lower limbs. Then Joe turned around, his head came up, and he uttered a cry.

“Wouw!” came from his lips. “Gosh! I thought I was going straight down to kingdom come.”

“I thought you were buried alive,” returned Harry.

The loose snow had gone down Joe’s back and up his sleeves, and it took a deal of shaking to free himself from a feeling that he declared was the very opposite of comfortable. He got upon his feet with difficulty, and then both boys wondered how they were to get to the top of the ridge again.

“We can’t climb up here,” said Harry, in dismay. “If we do we’ll both take a tumble.”

“Let us walk along near the foot of the ridge,” answered Joe. “This is as good a spot to hunt as it is higher up.”

The foot of the ridge led to something of a hollow. Here was a long stretch of high brush, the tops sticking out of the snow for several feet.

An hour’s tramp brought them to a still deeper hollow where even the small trees were mostly covered with snow. Here they had to walk with extra care, for they knew the snow must be at least ten feet deep, and neither had any desire to fall once more and go floundering to the bottom under the crust.

“I don’t like this,” said Joe presently. “It worries me. Let us get to higher ground.” And so they made their way back to the ridge and then began, with extreme caution, to climb something of a hill.

Noon found them in the shelter of a clump of walnut trees. Their tramp had made them as hungry as bears, and both willingly sat down to rest on a fallen tree and to eat a portion of the provisions their game bag contained.

“If we were depending on bear’s meat or venison we’d go hungry,” was Joe’s comment, as he munched a biscuit.

“Oh, don’t worry, Joe. A half a day isn’t three days, you know. Besides, we could have had that partridge if we had wanted it.”

“I haven’t seen the first sign of a deer or a bear yet.”

“Neither have I; but we are bound to strike luck sooner or later,” answered Harry cheerfully.

Having rested themselves and eaten as much of the provisions as they deemed advisable, they went on their way once more. The timber now became thicker, and at certain points the undergrowth looked much greener than it had further back.

“Just the spot for deer to come,” said Joe.

“Yes, and there are the signs,” answered Harry, somewhat excitedly, and pointed to a number of bushes that had been stripped of the tenderest of their bark.

Back of the bushes the hoofprints of at least three deer were plainly to be seen. How old the trail was there was no means of telling, but for the want of something better to do the two young pioneers agreed to follow the marks, at least for a mile should the traveling permit.

They now moved forward in utter silence, each with his gun in his hand and eyes on the alert in first one direction and then another. The trail was by no means a straight one, and this gave them encouragement.

“It shows that the deer took their time in moving along,” said Joe. “You can see where they stopped to nibble at every soft bush or tree that showed itself.”

Just ahead was a heavy belt of timber not over a hundred feet in width. Thinking that the game might be on the other side they advanced with greater caution than ever.

“I see one!” cried Harry softly.

“And I see another,” answered Joe.

They rushed forward and were almost on top of the deer before they were discovered by the animals. Then the deer tried to break away through the snow, but soon came to a halt, panting for breath.

“We could almost kill them with our hunting knives,” said Harry, for he had heard of such things being done. But the boys took no chances. Each aimed for the eye and fired, and each shot proved true, and the game was their own.

In the meantime the third deer of the party had been lost to view in the thickets, and they did not attempt to go after it. Now they had been so successful they realized that they were “dog tired,” as Joe expressed it.

“I move we build some sort of shelter and go into camp for the night,” said he, and Harry readily agreed.

In the timber belt they easily found several trees growing in a rough semicircle. Here they cut boughs, and laced them together, and over all packed the snow and slabs of ice. They also chopped some wood for a fire and soon had a comforting blaze in front of the shelter. By this time it was dark, and both were hungry again, and they proceeded to cook themselves some venison steaks for the evening meal.

CHAPTER XVIII
NIGHT WITH THE WOLVES

“We might spend a good while out in a camp like this, provided we weren’t caught in too heavy a snowstorm,” remarked Harry, while he and Joe were disposing of the meal they had cooked for themselves.

“Right you are, Harry. I believe we could scare up lots of game, big and little.”

“How far do you imagine we are from home?”

“Not less than five miles. We did pretty well on the snowshoes, all things considered.”

“Not counting the tumbles, you mean,” answered Harry with a laugh.

The meal finished, they put away what was left of the steaks for the morrow. They resolved to keep a camp-fire burning all night, and for that purpose chopped quite a pile of wood.

The shelter they had built was not over eight feet in diameter, and on one side of this they placed the carcasses of the deer, being afraid to leave them outside, for fear that some wild animal might come up and rob them of the prizes. They lay down on the other side of the shelter, close to the tiny doorway they had left. Just outside of this doorway was the fire, which they heaped up with chunks of wood piled as high as the limbs overhead permitted.

“We must be careful of the flames,” cautioned Joe. “We don’t want to set the forest on fire.”

Utterly worn out from the tramp on snowshoes, they were both willing to retire early, and an hour after sunset found them both at rest, almost in each other’s arms. They had but scant covering from the cold, but with the shelter and the fire this was hardly necessary.

Harry was the first to fall asleep, and a little later Joe, with a last glance at the fire, followed suit.

An hour went by, followed by another. Outside, scarcely a sound broke the stillness of the night. The fire blazed away merrily as stick after stick was consumed, and then gradually sank lower and lower until only a flicker illuminated the surroundings.

Then, from a distance, a lone wolf appeared, on the trail of the deer that had been shot. The wolf sniffed the air, and uttered a lonely howl that was taken up by other wolves still further away. In a very few minutes ten or a dozen of the animals were gathered on the trail, and the pack moved slowly and cautiously toward where the deer had been taken.

When the wolves came in sight of the fire they paused again, and more lonely howls rent the night air. But the scent of the deer was now strong, and the wolves were desperately hungry, and gradually they grew bolder and formed a circle around the shelter.

Not far from the fire lay some of the bones of the deer, and a bit of the meat that Harry had burned in cooking the steaks. One wolf sneaked in and gobbled up this, and on the instant a wild howl of jealousy arose from the rest of the pack, as they sprang in to get their share.

It was this howl which awoke Joe and Harry with a start. Both sat up and rubbed their eyes, for some of the smoke of the fire had drifted into the shelter, and they could see but little in the semi-darkness.

“Wolves!” The exclamation came from Joe, and scarcely had he spoken when another howl went up.

“There must be a whole pack of them,” cried Harry. “And if that is so we are bound to have a lively time of it.”

Each young pioneer had placed his gun where he could put his hands upon it, and each caught up his weapon.

The wolves now came closer, and, in their fight among themselves, three of the pack tumbled up against the shelter and broke through the snow piled there.

“Hi! here they come!” ejaculated Joe, and, taking aim at the nearest wolf, he let drive with his rifle.

His aim was true, and the wolf fell back dead.

The report of the rifle caused the wolves to howl louder than ever, and some of them retreated to a position beyond the flicker of the camp-fire. But they now had the scent of blood in their nostrils, and the boys saw that another attack was coming.

“Get a brand from the fire!” shouted Harry, and shot at the nearest of the beasts, sending a second wolf to the ground.

The wolves were now snapping and snarling on all sides, and before Joe could turn to the fire one leaped for him, and fastened his teeth in the heavy coat the youth wore.

Seeing this attack Harry leaped in to the rescue. He had his gun by the barrel, and around came the stock with a sweeping blow that crushed in the beast’s skull.

Joe was near to the fire now, and caught up a blazing brand and waved it in the air. Then he kicked the other brands together, and threw on some dry brushwood which was handy.

“They are going to carry off the deer!” shouted Harry, and he was right. Two wolves that had not taken part in the attack on the lads were trying their best to haul away one of the carcasses.

Catching up another firebrand, Joe hurled it at the wolves, and it landed between them, directly on the deer meat. At once the wolves dropped their hold, and slunk back into the circling pack.

The young pioneers were now both at the fire, and did what they could to make it blaze up. As the light grew brighter the wolves slunk still further back, and the fighting, for the time being, came to an end.

“That was a struggle, wasn’t it?” panted Harry, piling more wood on the flames. “At the start I thought we’d be eaten up alive. Did he bite you much?”

“No; his teeth only got into my coat,” answered Joe.

“Do you think they’ll come back?”

“They will if we give them the chance.”

“Let us throw out the dead wolves. That will give them something to feed on.”

The carcasses of the wolves were dragged from the shelter, and while Joe carried two bright torches Harry dragged the dead wolves toward a nearby hollow.

Hardly had the first carcass gone down than the live wolves were on it, rending and tearing it apart in a mad fury to get the meat.

“I’m glad it’s that meat instead of ourselves,” was Harry’s comment, and he gave a shudder.

The dead wolves disposed of, they returned to the camp-fire, and while Joe piled on what was left of the wood Harry cut more, so that the blaze might not die down even for a moment.

“Wild beasts hate fire worse than anything else,” said Joe. “A good blaze will prove our greatest protection.”

For over an hour they saw nothing more of the wolves, for each of the pack had gotten his portion of the dead ones, and was disposing of it greedily.

But now came a howl from a distance, and this drew closer slowly. The scent of blood was in the air, and another pack had found it and was tracing it to its source.

“More wolves are coming!” ejaculated Joe, and now his face turned pale. “Oh, Harry, do you think there will be too many for us?”

“Let us make a half-circle of the fire and get in it,” was the reply. “I think we can keep them off if we try.”

A little later came a fierce howling from the hollow. The second pack had come up and was fighting for what was left of the wolves’ meat.

“It’s too bad there isn’t enough of that wolves’ meat to go around,” said Joe.

“Let us sneak up and knock over a couple more of the beasts,” answered his chum.

This was agreed to, and, leaving the fire blazing brightly, they sneaked through the snow to a spot where they could catch sight of the howling and struggling beasts.

Two clever shots caused two more of the wolves to go down. They were the largest and heaviest of the packs, and in a twinkling their fellows leaped upon them, rending them limb from limb.

“What horrible creatures!” said Harry. “They haven’t the slightest feeling for one another!”

“They have been half starved by the heavy fall of snow, Harry. They wouldn’t be that way if they could get anything else.”

Returning to the fire, they reloaded and chopped more wood. In the hollow the wolves continued to snarl and yelp, each trying to get the best of the meat. Occasionally there would be a fierce fight between two wolves lasting for several minutes.

The fire had now dried out the branches hanging over the shelter, and the boys had their hands full keeping the blaze from mounting among the trees. Twice it did catch, but they put out the flames before they gained much headway.

It was not until early morning that the sounds in the hollow ceased. Both of the boys could scarcely keep their eyes open, yet each had refused to go to sleep again.

“I’m going to take another look at those wolves,” said Joe, and walked forward, gun in one hand and firebrand in the other. He moved with caution, but this was unnecessary. Every wolf had vanished.

“They are gone!” he cried joyfully.

“Gone?” queried Harry. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Harry, they are gone, and have left nothing but the bones and bits of hide behind them.”

Both young pioneers inspected the hollow with interest. The snow was churned up in all directions, and hither and thither lay the bones, skulls, and bits of hide and hair. By the tracks they could see that what remained of the packs had gone off to the southward.

“That was a night I don’t wish to duplicate,” said Joe. “It’s enough to make one’s hair stand on end to think about.”

“Perhaps they’ll come back again to-night.”

“That is true. We must be prepared for them.”

Having had such an experience, the two young hunters resolved to go no further from home, but remain in that vicinity for the rest of their hunting tour. This being so, they spent several hours in strengthening the shelter, so that it might resist another attack should it come.

Breakfast disposed of, they brought out a couple of ropes they had carried along, and hoisted the deer up into the branches of one of the trees, so that the wolves would not be able to get at them. Then they left a low, smudge fire burning, and set off once more in quest of game.

CHAPTER XIX
THE HUNTERS HUNTED

With the rising of the sun the young pioneers felt once more like themselves. The dangers of the night were past, and they imagined that but little could come to disturb them until darkness had once again set in.

“It has got to be a bear to-day,” said Harry. “If it isn’t I shall be much disappointed.”

“Reckon we’ll have to take what comes,” answered Joe. Still he wanted to bring down a bear as much as did his chum.

They resolved to strike out to the westward, over the ridge and toward a hill topped with a heavy growth of timber. Here was a series of rough rocks which, according to Harry’s idea, would make an ideal hiding place for a bear.

They set out on their snowshoes, and it was not long before the ridge was gained, and then they started directly for the hill, at a point where there was something of a gorge or gully, where in the summer time flowed a deep brook. But this watercourse was now frozen over, and the surface was covered with snow ten feet in depth.

A light breeze was blowing, otherwise the weather was as it had been the day before. The way up the hill was rather hard, and having reached the top they were glad enough to sit down on a fallen tree and rest.

Thus quarter of an hour went by, and they were on the point of resuming their journey when Joe caught sight of something moving through the timber on the other side of the hill.

“Harry, what do you make out that to be?” he whispered.

His chum took a careful look.

“I believe it’s a bear!”

“That is just what I was thinking.”

“If it’s a bear, how are we to get up to him?”

“We had better skulk along behind the trees. I can go to the right, and you can go to the left. But don’t fire until you are sure of what you are aiming at.”

“All right.”

With their guns before them the two young hunters left the vicinity of the fallen log, and proceeded in the direction of the object. They soon separated a distance of a hundred feet.

It was not long before Joe made out the object to be a black bear beyond any doubt. The big fellow was lumbering along clumsily as if either tired or wounded. As a matter of fact he had been in a fight with some other wild animals the day before, and had received severe nips in the shoulder and the left foreleg.

It was not long before the bear saw that he was being pursued, and then he started off on something of a gallop through the snow, sending the latter flying in all directions.

“Fire on him!” shouted Joe, and let drive, followed immediately by his companion.

Both shots took effect, but neither was serious, and they only caused the bear to utter a savage roar of pain and rage. He turned as if to attack Harry.

“Look out, he is coming for you!” yelled Joe, who was reloading with all possible speed.

At the sound of his voice the bear turned and, seeing Joe, paused. Then he changed his course.

“He is coming for you!” screamed Harry. “Get out of the way, unless you want to be hugged to death!”

Joe had scarcely time enough to throw some powder and a bullet into his rifle, and fix the priming, when the huge black beast made a leap for him. Crack! went the firearm, and the bear was struck on the side of the neck. With a snort of pain he stopped once more, then turned and hurried away as before.

By the time Harry was ready to fire again the bear was out of reach of his gun, behind a growth of trees and brushwood. He was keeping to a stretch of ground swept clear of snow by the wind. When the boys reached the timber he had disappeared in the vicinity of a pile of rocks.

“More than likely his den is in there,” said Joe. “We want to go slow now, or we’ll fall into a trap.”

The tracks of the bear were plainly to be seen. They led over the very roughest of the rocks, where it was utterly impossible to follow with snowshoes.

“We’ll have to take the shoes off and strap them to our backs,” said Joe, and this they did, keeping an eye open for the black bear in the meantime.

The rocks were covered with slippery ice, and both had not progressed far before they began to slide in one direction or another.

“Take care,” said Harry. “Give me your hand,” and they moved forward holding tightly to each other.

All might have gone well had not the bear suddenly appeared when least expected. This caused the young pioneers to start back, and both lost their balance and slipped from the rocks to an opening far below.

“Help! help!” cried Harry, and then plunged into a snowbank, with Joe after him.

When the boys recovered from the shock, they found themselves under the side of a large sloping rock. In front of them was the snowbank that had probably saved each from a broken neck. Behind them was a rough opening, leading partly between and partly under the rock.

“Are yo—you all—all right?” panted Joe, when he could catch his breath.

“I—I reck—reckon so,” was the answer. “I—I aint sure yet,” and Harry shook himself to find out if any bones were broken.

“It looks to me as if the bear was hunting us instead of us hunting the bear,” went on Joe grimly.

“Do you see anything of him now?”

“No.”

Harry had lost his gun in the snow, and it took a minute to find this and put on a fresh priming. Then both kept a sharp lookout for the bear, but the animal did not appear.

“What shall we do next?” asked Joe, rather blankly.

“Well, one thing is certain, Joe, we can’t stay down here all day.”

“Do you think the bear is up there above us?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised.”

After another wait Joe proceeded to explore the opening behind them. He found it of no great depth, with a passageway leading upward between two of the larger rocks.

Just as he made this discovery he made another, more important. The black bear was squeezing his way downward through the passageway!

“He is coming down after us, Harry!”

“Where?”

“Back here! Come, let us both give him another shot!”

Joe already had his gun leveled, and he blazed away the moment his chum was beside him. Harry followed suit, filling the small opening with dense smoke.

A roar followed the shots, ringing loudly in their ears in that confined space. As they could no longer see the bear they took no chances, but leaped back into the snowbank, and then began to scramble up the rocks as fast as they could. Joe reached the top first, and gave a willing hand to his companion.

The first work of the young pioneers was to reload once more. In the meanwhile they heard several roars and grunts from the bear, the sound reaching them as from under the ground.

“If he backs out, we can give him two more shots in his hind quarters,” said Harry. “Those ought to finish him unless he is as tough as sole leather.”

They waited for the appearance of the bear, but the animal did not show himself. Something like a prolonged grunt came up to them, and after that all was quiet.

“Do you think we really killed him after all?” came from Harry, as he attempted to look into the opening from the top.

“It’s possible. But let us wait a while, and see if he makes another move.”

Five—ten—fifteen minutes passed, and at last they came to the conclusion that the game must be either dead or mortally wounded.

“I’m going to poke into the hole and see,” said Joe. “I’ll do it with the muzzle of the gun, so if he has turned around he’ll get the ball directly down his throat.”

With caution he approached the opening, and poked down into it with his firearm. At first he could feel nothing. Then he grew more daring, and crawled down several feet.

“Here he is,” he cried, a moment later. “He seems to be stuck fast between the rocks, and I reckon he is stone-dead.”

Growing bolder, both went as far into the opening as possible. They found the bear wedged in tightly, and he uttered no sound when shoved sharply with the gun barrels, or when stabbed with Harry’s hunting knife.

“He’s dead, sure enough,” said Harry. “But we might as well crawl down the rocks again, and take a look at him from the front.”

Instead of crawling down, each took a leap into the snowbank. They felt strangely elated over bringing the bear low, and now approached him boldly, yet with their guns once more ready for use.

But there was no need for further fear. The game was dead beyond all doubt, and had probably died when they heard the last groan from him.

“He is ours!” cried Harry. “And what a big fellow he is, too.”

“It’s a great haul, Harry.”

“I reckon the haul is still to come, Joe. We’ll have to yank him out of that hole somehow.”

“Or bring up a horse to do it,” was the gay answer. Both of the boys felt like whistling and singing over their luck. And small wonder, for to bring down such game was not an everyday occurrence.

After inspecting the situation, both came to the conclusion that the easiest way of getting the bear out of the hole would be to haul him forward to the front of the rocks, and then slide him along the snow and over a patch of ice to where there was something of an incline leading to the top of the hill.

It was hard work, and it took all of an hour to get the bear half the distance. Both boys were perspiring freely, and very soon had to stop for breath.

“We are earning this bear,” said Joe, while wiping his forehead. “I never worked so hard before in my whole life.”

“That’s the fun of hunting,” answered Harry. “Of course, you wish the bear was only half as large.”

“Do I? Not much! I want him just as big as he is. Won’t they be surprised at home and at the fort when they hear of this?”

“It’s the biggest bear brought down, so far as I know.”

“After this I think we may as well start right for home.”

“I am willing.”

At the top of the hill they found a long and sweeping pine branch, and of this made the best drag they could, and then fastened the bear on top with withes.

“Now for a long and hard pull,” said Joe. “We must get him home to-night. If we don’t the wolves may steal him from us.”

“What about the deer?”

“We can come back for them to-morrow.”

“But if some wildcats come at them in the meanwhile?”

“We’ve got to stand the risk of that.”

And then, after a lunch in the open, they started for home, dragging their splendid prize after them.

CHAPTER XX
DANIEL BOONE’S GREAT SHOT

“Oh, Harmony, the boys are coming back!”

“So I see, Cora. What is that they are dragging on the snow behind them?”

“Some game, I suppose. Mrs. Parsons, can you make it out?”

The Quakeress gave a long look.

“It looks to me as if ’twere a bear,” she answered slowly. “But we shall soon know for certain, girls, so be patient.”

Throwing on their capes and hoods, Cora and Harmony rushed out of the log cabin, and to the end of the path that had been shoveled through the snow.

“It is a bear!” cried Harmony.

“And a big one, too!” put in her sister.

When the young pioneers reached the girls they were all but exhausted over the long, hard pull.

“Oh, Joe, what a splendid success!” ejaculated Harmony. “Who brought him down?”

“Both of us,” answered the brother. “And we had a hard time of it, too, I can tell you. We hunted the bear and then he hunted us, and we might not have had him at all only he got stuck fast between the rocks.”

The youths decided to bring the bear directly up to the cabin door. Here Mrs. Parsons came out with a torch, for it was now dark.

“Thee has done well, my son,” said she. “And thee, too, Joseph. ’Twill give us meat for many a long day to come.”

“And what a splendid robe the bear-skin will make,” came from Harmony.

The boys were too tired to skin and cut up the bear that night, so the game was hauled into the cabin, and placed in the coldest corner the building boasted. Then all the others bustled about to get the young hunters a substantial supper.

And how good that meal tasted! It was well enough to camp in the open, but nothing at all compared to what Mrs. Parsons and the girls were able to set before them. They ate and ate, and in the meantime told of their several adventures.

It was well for the lads that they were under a roof that night, for with the setting of the sun the temperature began to drop steadily until the night became one of the coldest Kentucky had ever experienced. The wind arose and hummed, and shrieked through the trees of the forest so that sound sleeping was almost out of the question.

“Had we remained in the woods we would have been frozen to death,” said Joe, and Harry agreed with him.

Fortunately the bitter cold spell did not last over forty-eight hours, and on the third day the sun came out as bright and warm as ever.

“We must get out to-day for those deer,” said Joe. “If we don’t go soon some wild animals will get at them sure.”

The high winds had swept the rocks free of all loose snow, so traveling was not as difficult as it had been. They went again on snowshoes, and took their firearms as before.

“As we are not after any big game we can now shoot anything that strikes our fancy,” said Joe, and on the way bagged several rabbits and a wild turkey, while Harry knocked over several ruffled grouse, or pheasants.

“Not a bad haul in itself,” said Joe, when their game bags were fairly stuffed with their quarry. “Counting these, and the deer, and the bear, I reckon we have done as well as many older hunters could do.”

On and on they went until, about noon, they came to the patch of forest in which they had formerly camped.

“Here are some fresh tracks!” cried Harry, presently. “Some hunter has been around here, either this morning or yesterday.”

“I don’t see anybody,” answered his companion, after a long look around.

“Nor do I.”

“Hope our deer are safe,” went on Joe, suddenly, remembering the trouble they had had with Yellow Blanket.

They pushed on and soon reached the site of the former camp. The two deer hung as they had left them, and the boys drew a long sigh of relief.

“We got scared over nothing,” was Harry’s comment.

“But those tracks were there!”

“Oh, yes, plain enough.”

“Then the hunter must have turned in some other direction.”

“Yes; I couldn’t see the trail after passing over yonder rocks.”

The tree branches were thick in this vicinity, so that the boys could see but little of what was above them. They set to work without delay, and soon one deer was lowered to the ground and then the other. Then two drags were cut down and the game was tied fast with ropes.

“Now for dinner and then for home,” said Joe. “By the time we get back I reckon we’ll be as tired as we was when we hauled in the bear.”

The young pioneers had brought along some cooked food, so they did not bother with starting up a fire. The tramp had kept them warm, and they sat down on some rocks to eat their midday meal.

While they were eating they did not notice a dark form circling about them and drawing closer and closer with every step. Yet such was the fact, and the form was that of a brownish-black wolverene.

It may be remarked here that the wolverene, often known by the name of glutton, is one of the wildest and fiercest beasts ever met with in any North American forest. It is similar to a small bear in appearance, but has a larger mouth and teeth and larger and sharper claws. It is a great lover of raw meat, and will fight sometimes to the bitter end to obtain what it desires. It has an especial fondness for the meat of the deer and the beaver.

This wolverene had scented the two deer in the tree the day before and all night long and during the morning it had tried to get at the meat, but could not, on account of the swinging ropes. Now it saw the game lying on the drags, and the young hunters several yards away, and it was meditating a leap forward in an effort to secure at least part of the longed-for prey.

Nearer and nearer came the beast, its eyes gleaming wickedly and its cruel jaws working convulsively. It crawled on the ground with the stealthiness of a panther.

When it was less than twenty feet away, Harry suddenly arose and walked toward the game, to examine the deer heads, to see if they would be worth preserving.

The wolverene saw the movement and its hopes of getting at the coveted prey sank. Then it grew furious at the advance of the young hunter and crouched still lower, with the intention of leaping straight for Harry’s throat.

All unconscious of his danger, Harry turned around, and then for the first time saw what he was facing. At the same instant the tail of the wolverene gave a swish, and the beast rose high into the air as it leaped for Harry’s throat.

But the wolverene never landed as expected. While it was yet in mid-air, the report of a rifle echoed through the forest and the beast fell to the ground with a strange snapping and snarling, and then of a sudden stretched itself out in death.

“Oh!” It was all Harry could say for the time being. He gazed at the wolverene in a dazed sort of way.

“Harry!” burst out Joe, and ran forward, rifle in hand. “A wolverene, and dead, too! How did you do it?”

“I—I didn’t do it, Joe.”

“But he is shot—right through the left eye,” went on Joe.

“So I see. But I haven’t any gun with me. Mine is over on the rock.”

“Fetched him, didn’t I?” came in a clear voice, from the trees behind the young hunters, and turning swiftly they found themselves confronted by Daniel Boone, whose long rifle was still smoking from the shot.

“So you shot him, Colonel Boone?” said Harry.

“I did, lad. It was a hard shot too, I admit—firing right over your shoulder at him. If the rifle had swung around you might have got the ball in the neck.”

“You—you saved my life, colonel.”

“We won’t speak of that, lad. I’m glad I came up in time. I was out hunting myself, just for the fun of it, and I saw you coming this way and thought I’d find out if you had had any luck. That wolverene must have been all-fired hungry, to come at you in that fashion. But the deer meat worried him, I suppose.”

It was some time before Harry could get over his scare, and the party of three sat down on the rocks to compare notes. Daniel Boone had brought down three deer since early morning, and had placed them where he could send out other hunters to bring them in later on.

“There are only a few wolverenes left around here,” he said. “I doubt if you are troubled by any more of them, but after this you had better be on guard all the time.”

“I will be,” answered Harry.

“Is the meat good for anything?” questioned Joe.

“Some of the old-time hunters eat it,” answered Daniel Boone. “I never did. Better leave it for the wolves,” and this they did, after cutting off the long, white claws, which Boone told them were valuable, the Indians thinking more of such things than of money in making a trade.

The two young hunters were glad enough to have Daniel Boone accompany them home, and the great hunter willingly helped them along with their drags. He was much interested in the story about the big bear.

“You are both doing well,” he said. “In fact, I doubt if any old hunters in these parts have done better.”

“THE REPORT OF A RIFLE ECHOED THROUGH THE FOREST.”—P. 200.

They asked him if he had heard anything more of the expedition that had moved westward in search of the Indian captives.

“Not a word,” replied Daniel Boone. “And I don’t expect to hear anything until spring. Nobody is going to travel very far in such weather as this, in a country where there isn’t anything better than an Indian or a buffalo trail.”

“I don’t care how long we have to wait, if only when the news comes it is good news,” said Joe soberly.

“I suppose you miss your mother a good bit, lad. Well, I can’t say as I blame you. A good mother is the best blessing a boy ever had.”

“And I miss my sister,” came from Harry.

“That is the one bad feature of moving into the Indian country, boys. It is bad enough to be wounded in a fight, but it is far worse to have those we love carried off to we don’t know where, and treated we don’t know how.”

“Has Red Feather said anything more?” asked Joe.

“No. He is waiting patiently for his release.”

“Don’t you suppose he will go on the warpath as soon as you let him go?”

“Perhaps. But if he does I shall hunt him down and have no mercy on him.”

“I wish all the fighting would come to an end,” said Harry, with a sigh. “I think I’d just like to have a few years at quiet farming and nothing else.”

“It would be nice, but I am afraid we are a long way from that yet,” answered Daniel Boone. And he was right, as later events on the bloodstained soil of Kentucky proved.

CHAPTER XXI
THE FOOT RACE AT THE FORT

The remainder of the winter passed without special incident. The cold weather seemed to come “all in a bunch,” as Joe put it, and after that it was quite mild, so that they could come and go as they pleased.

During those days of waiting the young pioneers were not idle. There were many things to do in and around the frontier home, and when not employed there the two youths went gunning or fishing, or else set traps. It was Daniel Boone himself who showed them how to make several traps of a superior sort, and with them the game captured was by no means to be despised.

“He is a natural-born hunter and trapper,” said Harry, in speaking of Boone. “He takes to it like an Indian to a buffalo trail.”

Among the traps made by Joe was a large one, strong enough to hold a catamount, and possibly a bear. It was of the old-fashioned chain variety, with a powerful jaw, and set close to the ground. Joe had seen the footprints of some wild animal midway between the edge of the clearing and a small pond that, in summer, connected with the watercourse near the cabin, and here he set up the trap one day when Harry was busy around the house.

On the following day Harry started to go fishing through a hole in the ice on the pond. Joe had work to do at home, so did not accompany him.

“Do not stay away after dark, Harry,” cautioned his mother. “I think it will snow before morning.”

“I’ll be back by supper-time,” answered the son.

It did not take him long to reach the pond. He had brought his ax with him, and soon had a hole in the ice a foot or more in diameter. Then he brought forth some bait, and also a spear, and did his best to catch some of the fish he knew must be in the pond.

But the specimens of the finny tribe were not biting, and, although he fished for two hours steadily, he got nothing. Then, in disgust, he wound up his line.

As usual he had his gun with him, and now he determined to look for a little game.

“I’m not going home empty-handed,” he told himself. “If I do Joe will have the laugh on me.”

It was growing colder, and the standing still over the hole in the ice had chilled Harry not a little. To get his blood into circulation he started to run, and did not stop until he stumbled over a tree root and pitched headlong.

“Oh, what a tumble!” he muttered, when he could get back his wind. He arose slowly, and after that walked with care.

But luck was against poor Harry that day, and only two rabbits appeared in sight. One disappeared before he could take aim, and the other he missed entirely.

“Just so much powder and shot wasted,” he thought. “Reckon I had better go home.”

The winter day was drawing to a close, and there was a dampness in the air that made him shiver. Several times he had to slap his hands together to get them warm, but after that he grew colder and colder.

“Wish I was back home in front of the fire,” he said to himself. “There is no fun in hunting or fishing alone, anyhow.”

In the semi-darkness he stumbled along in the direction of the cabin. A light fall of snow had started, and this kept growing heavier and heavier. The snow made it darker than ever, and he could see his way only with difficulty.

Harry reached the pond to find the surface covered with the flying flakes. Instead of going around he started to cross the ice.

When in the very middle of the pond, the next misfortune of the outing came upon him. Down went one foot into the hole he had cut a short while before, and ere he could save himself he received a wetting up to the knee.

“What an all-around fool I am making of myself!” he cried, half aloud. “To cut the hole in the first place, and then step into it afterward! How Joe will laugh at me if I tell him. But I just won’t open my mouth about it.”

The wet leg and foot grew colder rapidly, until Harry was afraid both would freeze. He stamped on the foot many times, and then started onward again.

But his chapter of misfortunes had not yet reached its climax. That came when he stepped into the trap Joe had set. There was a click, and of a sudden Harry felt something press his dry ankle as if the member was in a vise.

“Oh! oh!” he yelled. “Let go! Oh!”

But the trap did not let go, and, dropping his gun, the young pioneer clutched at the grip and the chain, and tried to force the former open.

But Joe had calculated that that grip should “stay put” if once it caught hold of anything, and the more Harry tried to release himself the tighter the trap seemed to fasten on his ankle, until the pressure became positively painful.

“What in the world am I to do now?” thought the youth, and gazed at the trap in dismay.

The trap was a “long” one—that is, the end of the release chain was out of Harry’s reach, so that unfastening himself by such means was out of the question.

“I’m as much of a prisoner as if I was a wild animal,” thought the young pioneer. “I’ll have to remain here until Joe or somebody else comes along to set me free.”

The snow now covered the ground to the depth of over an inch, and came down more thickly than ever. Poor Harry’s feet were almost frozen, one on account of the wet, and the other because of being clutched in the trap. He stamped the wet foot vigorously, but even this helped him little.

“If I have to stay here all night, I’ll die,” he thought, and his heart sank within him.

Half an hour went by. He tugged, twisted, and pried on the trap, but all to no purpose. Then he imagined he heard the howl of a wolf in the distance, and he saw a lean fox come out into a clearing, and gaze wonderingly at him.

“They’ll make short work of me if they learn I am helpless,” he thought dismally. “Oh, I must get away somehow!”

When the fox came closer Harry raised his gun and fired on the creature, killing it. This gave the youth a new idea.

“I’ll fire off a number of light charges,” he said to himself. “Perhaps Joe will hear them, and come here to learn what they mean.”

He had powder enough in his horn for ten half-charges, and he began to discharge his firearm at intervals of three or four minutes each. Then he listened eagerly for some answering sound that would tell him his signals had been heard.

But no answering shot came back, and once again his heart sank, this time lower than ever.

“If Joe heard those shots he would surely fire in return,” he told himself.

Another hour went by, and now it was very dark around him. Harry felt so cold he could stand no longer. He sank down in the snow, his teeth chattering. Then a drowsy feeling crept over him, and he found himself strongly inclined to sleep.

The youth knew he must fight off the feeling—that if he gave way it would probably prove his last sleep on earth.

“They’ll find me frozen stiff, if they ever do get here before the wild animals,” he said to himself. And to keep himself awake he began to sing at the top of his lungs.

“Harry Harry! Have you gone crazy?”

The cry came from the thicket close at hand, and on the instant Joe burst into view. Harry did not see him at once, and kept on with his snatch of a song.

“Harry, don’t you hear me? What on earth is the matter? Have you lost your senses?”

“Joe!” The song came to an abrupt conclusion. “Oh, how thankful I am you have come. Release me from this trap of yours, and get me home, before I freeze to death.”

“Are you in the trap? By George, you are! Of course I’ll release you!”

Dropping his gun, Joe leaped to the end of the chain, and in a second more the trap was opened, and Harry withdrew his foot slowly and painfully. Then he tried to walk a step, but his feelings overcame him, and he fell in the snow in a death-like faint.

Joe was now more alarmed than ever, and picking his companion up he placed Harry over his shoulder, and set out for home.

It was a hard walk that Joe never forgot. The snow came down so thickly that he was nearly blinded. He staggered up to the cabin clearing, and caught Mrs. Parsons just as the good woman was peering anxiously from the doorway.

“I’ve got him, and he is half frozen,” said Joe, and staggered into the cabin.

“Mercy on us!” cried Harmony. “See, his foot is bleeding!”

“He got into my trap by accident,” said Joe.

All set to work to restore the sufferer, but it was several hours before Harry was once more himself. Then he told the tale of his various misfortunes.

“I want no more fishing through the ice, or nothing more of your traps,” he said.

“Better break the trap up,” said Mrs. Parsons, and to please her Joe took the trap to a more remote part of the wood, and placed over it a sign of warning. Later on he caught in it two wolves, but that was all.

During the winter nothing was heard of the party who had gone after the Indians, and only once did the people of Boonesborough hear from the red men themselves, and that was when a party of four came to the fort more dead than alive and asked for shelter and something to eat. They were given something to eat and allowed to sleep in front of one of the fires, and went off the next day apparently grateful for this kindness.

It was not until the middle of March that word came in from the expedition that had gone to hunt for the missing whites. One of the men rode into the settlement at about noon. He was wounded in the shoulder and rode a horse that was utterly fagged out.

“We had two engagements with the redskins,” said this man. “One about ten days ago and one three days ago. We drove them from their village on the bank of a small river into a belt of timber eight or ten miles away. We killed not less than twelve of the band.”

“How many of our side were killed or wounded?” questioned Colonel Boone.

“That I can’t say exactly. I saw Hassock killed and Peter Parsons got an arrow through his left arm. That was at the first fight. At the second I was knocked over almost the first thing and fell into a gully. When I got around again the fighting was off in another direction. I tried to find the rest of the party, but could not, so I came home.”

Harry was anxious to learn if his father had been seriously hurt, but the messenger could give no particulars. He said that the Indians had been living in two villages about half a mile apart, and that there were prisoners at each village, although nobody had been able to find out exactly who the captives were.

These tidings only served to cast an additional gloom upon those living at the home of the Parsons and Winships.

“’Tis hard to think that thy father has been sorely wounded,” said Mrs. Parsons to Harry. “Perhaps it had been better had he remained at home.”

“Well, mother, all we can do is to hope for the best,” was the son’s reply.

“When are the others coming back?” questioned Harmony.

“The messenger could not say,” answered Joe. “I reckon he was too weak to take much account of what was going on, after he was knocked over.”

With the first sign of spring the boys prepared to go ahead with the work of clearing and tilling the land. This was hard labor for those so young in years, yet they went at the task manfully. They worked from five o’clock in the morning until sundown, with only a short rest for dinner.

One thing was in their favor—they remained perfectly healthy. While others got chills and fever and dumb ague, and other ailments incident to turning up new ground and working in meadow-like places, Joe and Harry hardly knew what a sick day was. Their appetites remained good, and gradually their muscles became as hard as iron.

They were not without their days of sport. Saturday was generally more or less of an “off day,” and if the youths did not go hunting, fishing, or swimming, they would join the other lads of the settlement in games or friendly contests—rowing, running, jumping, wrestling, or shooting at a target. The target-shooting made each a good shot, much to their own satisfaction.

“It’s a great thing to know you can depend on your eye if you are ever placed in a tight hole,” said Joe. “A clever shot may sometime save a fellow’s life.”

“As that shot of Colonel Boone’s saved mine,” added Harry.

Harry prided himself somewhat on his running, and when, one Saturday afternoon, a race was arranged between the young men and boys of the settlement he entered eagerly. The race was presided over by an old settler named Leary, who put up two prizes, a polished powder horn and a brass bullet-mold, the first one in to take his choice of the offerings.

Around Boonesborough there was no straight road for such a race, so it was decided that the contest was to be a go-as-you-please affair, extending half a mile up the river trail and back. The turning point was a large flat rock, at which was stationed a man who checked off the runners as they came up and made the turn.

Seven boys and young men took part in the contest, the youngest being fifteen and the oldest twenty-two. The boy of fifteen was tall and slim, with a pair of legs that were almost as nimble as those of a deer, and more than one spectator picked this lad, whose name was Darry Ford, as a winner. A young man of twenty named Jackson, and another named Ferris, were also favorites.

“Harry, you have got to run well to come in ahead on this race,” said Joe as he and his chum put off to the starting point. “Both Jackson and Ferris have entered, and Darry Ford is to be in it, too.”

“I’m going to run as well as I can,” answered Harry.

“If I was you I’d take it a bit easy going down to the rock. Remember, the way back is uphill.”

“Yes, I’ll remember that, Joe. Do you know the one I fear the most?”

“Jackson?”

“No.”

“Then Ferris?”

“Neither. It is Darry Ford. He has such long legs, and his wind is splendid. He’ll get back uphill without trouble,” said Harry.

When the pair arrived at the spot where the contest was to take place they found a goodly crowd assembled. The other contestants had just come in, and each was surrounded by a little band of admirers. Not a few bets were made on the result.

“Do you think you have got any show against Jack Ferris?” demanded one of the crowd of Harry.

“I’m going to try my luck, Luke Stout.”

“You’ll get left.”

“Perhaps.”

“Want to bet against Ferris?” went on Luke Stout loudly.

“I don’t bet, Luke.”

“Afraid?”

“No, but I don’t bet.”

“Humph! That shows you are afraid,” sneered the big youth, and shuffled off.

Joe could not stand this, and running forward he touched Luke Stout on the shoulder.

“I will bet with you that Harry comes in ahead of Jack Ferris,” he said calmly. “What will you bet?”

“I was going to put up my pocket knife,” said Stout, hauling it out. “She’s a good three-blader.”

“Mine is as good,” said Joe, and brought the article forth. “Three blades, too, and a Boston knife at that.”

“I’ll take you up,” came eagerly from Luke Stout. And the knives were deposited with another party who said he would act as stakeholder.

“Oh, Joe, why did you put up that knife,” whispered Harry. “It’s the one your father gave you on your last birthday.”

“I don’t expect to lose it, Harry. You must win Stout’s knife for me.”

“But he may come in ahead.”

“You said you didn’t fear anybody but Darry Ford. I wagered that you would come in ahead of Jack Ferris, not that you would win the race.”

“Well, that is something. But still—he may come in ahead of me.”

It was now time to start, and the contestants were called together by Andrew Leary, who explained to them the conditions under which they were to run.

“You are to start when I clap my hands,” he said. “And you must pass around to the right when you reach the rock on which Frank Fordham is standing. The first one over this line on the return is the winner, and the second takes second prize. Now line up, all of you.”

The seven contestants lined up, Harry in the center, with Darry Ford on his left, and Ferris and Jackson on his right.

“Are you all ready?” asked Andrew Leary. There was a moment of intense silence. “Go!” he roared, and clapped his hands loudly.

Away went the seven at a bound, side by side, and each running swiftly and gracefully. The pace was a “hot” one from the beginning, for just beyond the starting point the trail narrowed down, so that not more than three or four could run abreast, and all wanted to keep in the lead.

It was a runner named Brown who forged ahead first, followed by another named Wilson. Both were heavy-set fellows, and crowded Darry Ford a good deal as they sped along.

“Go it, fellows, go it!” was the cry of the onlookers.

“Get to the front, Darry!” shouted one.

“Show ’em what you can do, Ferris!” yelled Luke Stout.

“Save your wind, Harry,” came from Joe. “Remember, the race is for a mile!”

On and on, and still on, sped the runners over the rough trail, leaping many a rough rock or fallen log, in steeplechase fashion. The roughness of the way now told on Brown, and gradually he dropped behind, and Wilson followed. Then it was seen that Jackson and Ferris were in the lead, with Darry Ford third, and Harry fourth.

“Jackson will win!”

“Ferris is crawling up to him!”

“I’ll bet on Darry Ford. Just you wait until he begins spurting.”

It was now that a turn in the trail hid the runners from view for a moment. When they came again into the open it was seen that Ferris and Jackson had changed places, and that the others were as before.

“What did I tell you?” roared Luke Stout. “I knew Jack Ferris would win. Winship, that knife is as good as mine.”

“The race isn’t over yet, Stout.”

“Pooh! Ferris is first and Harry Parsons is fourth. Do you think he is going to crawl into the lead? Not much!”

A minute later came another cry, from those further up the trail.

“They are rounding the rock!”

“Ferris is in the lead!”

“Darry Ford has jumped to second place! Jackson is third.”

“Hullo, Harry Parsons has taken a tumble! There goes Wilson ahead of him!”

It was true, Harry had stumbled over a loose stick. But he was up in a moment. Then he rounded the rock, and, fifth in the race, started on the home-stretch.

CHAPTER XXII
WHO WAS THE WINNER?

It must be acknowledged that the pace was now beginning to tell upon all in the race. On even ground it would not have been so trying, but it took wind, and plenty of it, to clear some of the rocks, gullies, and fallen logs that marked the novel racecourse.

One racer was out of it entirely, having sprained his foot by an unlucky slip on a rock, and another dropped so far behind that he soon after gave up entirely.

This left five, and of these Harry was the last as the halfway rock was rounded and the racers sped for the finishing line.

But Wilson, the man who had leaped to fourth place, could not keep the pace set for him, and soon he, too, dropped behind and out, thus making Harry fourth, with Ferris first, Darry Ford second, and Jackson third.

This position was maintained until the runners were not over a quarter of a mile from the goal. Then it was seen that Jackson could no longer keep up with the others. He leaped a log, slipped, and sat squarely on the ground.

“Go on, all of you!” he panted. “I’ve got all I want of racing!”

Harry was now in third place, and running as he had never run before. His “second wind” had come to him, and he was within four yards of Darry Ford, with Jack Ferris three yards further in advance.

Ferris was running well, and those at a distance felt that he would surely come in the winner. But now Darry Ford gradually closed the distance between them, and Harry began to crawl up also, until the three were almost in a bunch.

“Here they come!”

“Jack Ferris still leads!” yelled Luke Stout. “Told you he’d win out!”

“Darry Ford is a close second. See, he is pulling up to Ferris by inches!”

“Harry is coming up, too,” came from Joe. His face was flushed with excitement. “Run, Harry, run!” he yelled. “You can make it yet!”

Harry heard the cry, and it nerved him to do his utmost. He leaped on with steps almost equaling those of long-legged Darry Ford, and soon he was on the very heels of the leaders, who were now rushing on side by side.

“It will be a tie!” cried the crowd.

“Go it, Ferris; don’t let the boy beat you!”

“Show him what your long legs can do, Darry!”

“Huzza! Darry is in the lead! He has left Ferris behind!”

“See, see! Harry Parsons is crawling up! He is neck and neck with Jack Ferris.”

It was true. While still fifty yards from the finish Harry had gradually cut away the distance between himself and the older runner.

Now the two were running side by side, with Darry Ford but a few feet in advance.

Suddenly Ferris put on a burst of speed which took him once more beside Darry Ford. Then Harry spurted, and in a twinkling all three runners were abreast.

“Here they come!”

“It’s going to be a triple tie!”

“Look! look! Darry Ford is going ahead!”

“Harry Parsons is coming up with him!”

A dozen cries rang out, Joe shouting with the rest. Harry heard nothing but a strange roaring in his ears. He had passed Ferris, and now he was beside Darry Ford. Then he put on his last ounce of muscle and leaped to the front, passing the line a winner by two yards, with Ford second, and Ferris four yards further to the rear.

“Whoop! Harry Parsons has won!”

“It was a plucky run for young Darry Ford!”

“What’s the matter, Ferris; did your wind give out?”

In the midst of the excitement Joe ran up and caught Harry in his arms.

“I knew you could do it!” he exclaimed, his face shining with joy. “I knew it.”

“It—it was a—a hard race,” panted Harry. “Darry and Ferris shoved me to the limit of my endurance.”

“Wonder what Luke Stout will say now,” went on Joe. He tried to catch Stout’s eye, but the fellow who had wagered his pocket knife on Jack Ferris slunk out of sight behind his beaten champion.

The crowd surrounded Harry, and insisted on carrying him around the fort on their shoulders. Then Andrew Leary gave him his choice of the prizes, and Harry took the powder horn, for his old one was cracked.

“I’m glad you took that,” said Darry Ford. “I’ve been wanting a bullet-mold.”

“You ran well, Darry,” said Harry heartily. “When you are as old as I am you’ll outrun me without half trying.”

“I reckon it was something to best Ferris and the rest,” answered Darry simply.

“Ferris stubbed his toe on some rocks,” put in Luke Stout. “If it hadn’t been for that he wouldn’t have dropped behind at the last minute.”

“I reckon I won your knife fairly enough, Luke,” came from Joe. “But as I still have my own knife you can keep yours if you want it.”

“Oh, I don’t have to keep it,” responded Luke Stout; nevertheless later on he gladly enough took the knife back, saying he would square up another time. But he never did.

More settlers were now coming into the territory, and these included several old friends of the Parsons family, so those at the log cabin did not feel quite so lonely as before. Some of the settlers put up at the fort, but others staked out holdings up or down the river, and began to build homes of their own without delay.

This was the greatest year in all American history—the year 1776—when the colonies threw off the English yoke and declared themselves free and independent. News had already reached the frontier of the skirmish at Lexington, the battles of Concord and of Bunker Hill, and of how Washington was holding the British troops fast in Boston. Now came the news that the redcoats were to evacuate Boston, and the settlers at the fort went wild with excitement.

“It is a great victory for our colonies,” said Daniel Boone.

“It certainly means much,” said an officer under him. “We now know something of our own strength.”

Nevertheless, Daniel Boone was much disturbed by the tidings that war with England was a stern reality. It had been difficult in the past to subdue the Indians, now it would be doubly hard, for the red men would feel that the English soldiers would no longer help the colonists, and the colonists, having to fight the foe from over the ocean, would be in no position to send troops to the West to aid the settlers on the frontier.

“They will dig up the war hatchet,” said Boone. “For they will think they have us at their mercy.” And his words proved true.

On the Fourth of July the Declaration of Independence was signed at Philadelphia, amid the ringing of bells, the blazing of bonfires, and the loud shouting of the people. But this news did not reach Boonesborough till sometime later, and when something was happening which stirred the settlers at and near the fort greatly.

At the fort lived a Colonel Callaway, who was an intimate friend of Daniel Boone. Callaway had two daughters, Betsey and Frances, both of whom were warm friends of Colonel Boone’s daughter Jemima. All of the girls loved to play in and near the water, and one day they got into a canoe that was handy and began to paddle up and down the river.

Nobody missed the merry party until a loud shrieking from the other side of the stream caught the ears of those who happened to be near the river front. Looking across, they saw that the girls had fallen into the clutches of a number of red men.

“The Indians! The Indians!” was the cry. And from all directions the settlers came pouring toward the fort.

The matter was quickly explained, but nobody dared to attempt crossing the river, believing that a large party of the enemy must be concealed behind the bushes. Colonels Boone and Callaway were both away, and a messenger was sent post-haste after them to acquaint them with the situation.

“So they have stolen my daughter, eh?” demanded Daniel Boone, on hearing the news. He said little more, but his eyes blazed with a determination that meant much.

It was too late to follow the Indians that night, but early in the morning Boone set off, taking with him eight men, young and old. With this party went Joe, having asked permission of the great hunter to go along.

“I will fight my best,” said Joe. “Please do not refuse me. As you know, my mother is still missing among the Indians, so you know how I feel in a matter of this kind.”

The river was crossed at a point some distance away from the fort, and it was not long before the trail of the fleeing Indians, five or six in number, was found among the cane-brake. It was rather hard to follow this trail, and Daniel Boone cautioned all to be careful how they moved forward.

“If the Indians find that they are being pursued, they may murder the girls, and then run for it,” he said. “We must save the girls unharmed if we possibly can.”

It was hard walking through the brake, but Joe was toughened to it, and did not murmur. Boone went in advance, his eyes and ears as keenly on guard as those of any Indian. Thus nearly thirty miles were covered, with only a halt for dinner. No fire was built, Boone being afraid that the enemy might see the smoke.

Nightfall found the hunters in the midst of a timber belt. They had gone on until even Boone was tired out, and so rested, satisfied that they would come up with the Indians sometime on the morrow.

Joe was glad enough to rest, and hardly had his head touched the ground than he sank into slumber, from which he did not awaken until dawn.

A hasty breakfast was prepared and eaten, and the little band of whites pushed forward once more, Daniel Boone again in the lead, his rifle in both hands, and his eyes on the trail.

“It is growing fresher,” he said presently. And a moment later: “Here is where they encamped for the night, and the girls with them.”

He was right, and, satisfied that they were now but two hours behind the Indians on the trail, they went on faster than ever. The route lay along a buffalo path, and in many spots was rough and uncertain.

It was almost noon when Boone, who was still in advance, held up his hand for those behind him to stop. All dropped low in the grass beside the trail, and then the great hunter wormed his way forward on his breast and stomach until he reached the edge of a small opening beside a brook that flowed into the river.

The sight that met his gaze thrilled him to the heart. The Indians were there, having built a tiny fire over which they were cooking their midday meal. Close beside the fire, and sitting on a log weeping bitterly, were the three girls that had been made captives two days before.

CHAPTER XXIII
THE RESCUE OF JEMIMA BOONE

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.

CHAPTER XXIV
A NIGHT RAID BY THE INDIANS

Several weeks later Mrs. Parsons was at the spring getting a bucket of water when, without warning, an arrow came whizzing in her direction, and buried itself in the ground close by.

With a shriek the good woman let fall her bucket and rushed for the cabin, shrieking that the Indians were at hand.

“The Indians!” cried Harmony, who had her hands deep in a batch of dough she was kneading.

“Yes, the Indians!” panted the Quakeress. “They just shot an arrow at me. Get thee gone, Cora, and tell Harry and thy brother.”

Cora needed no second notice, but leaping up from her spinning frame rushed to the opposite side of the cabin, where Joe and Harry were working in the garden.

“The Indians! the Indians!” she called loudly. “Come into the house!”

At the announcement both young pioneers dropped their garden tools and caught up their muskets, leaning against a stone wall.

“Where are they?” demanded Harry, who was the first to reach the cabin.

“I don’t know. But one shot an arrow at your mother.”

“Mother, are you hurt?” asked Harry.

“No,” was the answer. “But the arrow came close to me. See, there it is,” and she pointed it out with her hand.

“I see the Indian!” cried Harry, and pointed to the distant forest. A red man had crossed an open place on a run.

Eagerly those in the cabin watched for the reappearance of the Indian, and in the meantime all armed themselves, the boys with their rifles, Mrs. Parsons with a shotgun, and the girls with pistols. The outer doors of the cabin were closed and barred, and also the windows, leaving only the loopholes open.

“It must mean an uprising,” said Joe, who had his eye glued to a loophole on one side of the cabin, while Harry kept guard at a loophole opposite.

“This is some of Red Feather’s work,” came from Harry bitterly. “I knew it was a mistake to let him go.”

“More than likely Yellow Blanket has got Long Knife to make the attack,” answered Joe.

Ten minutes went by, and they saw nothing of the Indians. Then a yell from a distance rent the air, followed by a number of scattering shots.

“That is over to the Ford cabin,” said Joe. “I hope they haven’t caught Mr. Ford and Darry in the open. If they have it’s good-by to them.”

“I’m going up to the roof to take a look around,” said Harry, and lost no time in climbing the ladder to the loft.

The roof was a sloping one, and near the ridge was a trapdoor or scuttle. Standing on a block of wood that was handy, Harry raised the trapdoor and looked out.

Hardly had he done so than there followed the flight of two arrows directed at him. One struck the roof just below the lad, and the other grazed his hair. He tumbled back and let the trapdoor fall into place with a bang.

“See anything?” queried Joe from below.

“All I want to,” answered Harry, when he could recover sufficiently to speak.

“What do you mean?”

“Two of the wretches fired arrows at me, and they came altogether too close for comfort.”

“Phew! Then this cabin is being watched surely, Harry!”

“Be careful, my son,” pleaded Mrs. Parsons. “Thee must not expose thyself again.”

“I’m not going to,” answered Harry.

Once more the young pioneer took his station at a loophole. He and Joe were at opposite sides of the living room, while Mrs. Parsons and the girls were on the watch from the bedchambers.

“How much water have we on hand?” asked Joe, presently.

“The cask is full,” answered Harmony. “I looked only this morning.”

She referred to a cask that had been sunk under the living room floor sometime before. This cask had been fitted with a cover, and the water in it was changed once a week by either Joe or Harry. It was not used ordinarily, but had been placed there for possible use in just such an emergency as now seemed at hand.

“Do you—do you think they’ll keep on the watch until to-night?” faltered Cora.

“Possibly—unless they are defeated in other directions,” answered Joe.

Slowly an hour went by, and still none of the red men appeared. Twice they heard rifle-shots at a great distance, but that was all.

“They seem to have moved in another direction,” said Harry.

“Don’t give up watching,” was his chum’s caution.

A little later they heard a dozen or more shots in the direction of the fort. Then came a yell, and more shots lasting the best part of a quarter of an hour.

“I see an Indian!” cried Harmony, later still. “He is crossing the clearing where you cut down the last tree.”

Both Joe and Harry rushed to look, but before they could get an eye at the loophole the enemy had disappeared.

“We’ve got to continue on guard,” said Joe. “Those wretches wouldn’t like anything better than to catch us unawares.”

The first alarm had come shortly after midday, and the balance of the afternoon wore away slowly. To relieve the monotony of the lookout, those on guard shifted from one loophole to another. When it grew dark Mrs. Parsons prepared a hasty supper.

“We had best eat now,” she said. “Later on there may not be a chance.”

Although outwardly calm, each person in the cabin was tremendously excited. The girls were particularly nervous, for they well knew what capture by the Indians might mean.

“I’d rather die first,” whispered Harmony to her sister.

“So would I,” Cora answered. And then they both thought of their mother and of Clara Parsons. Where were these loved ones now?

“If they are going to attack at all it will be to-night,” said Joe. “We’ll have to remain on guard until morning.”

Slowly the mantle of night fell. The Indians had timed their raid on the settlement well. There was no moon, and the drifting clouds cut off many of the stars.

Mrs. Parsons’ eyesight was not of the best, and it was decided that Joe and Cora were to take up the first watch, lasting three hours, and were then to give place to Harry and Harmony for the next three hours. This would give each a much needed rest, for to watch at a loophole proved very tiring both to eyes and nerves.

With the coming of night all became silent around the cabin. No candles were lit and all the lower cracks in the cabin logs were covered by having articles of furniture placed against them. Thus it would be impossible for the Indians to look inside, even if they came up close to the building.

An ordinary eye would have distinguished little outside during that watch. But Joe’s eye was trained by constant usage, and he made a note of many things—the flight of birds and the slinking of a fox across one of the clearings.

The sight of the fox was a little cheering. “If he can sneak around the Indians must be pretty far away,” was the way the young pioneer reasoned.

At last Joe’s watch came to an end, and he and Cora laid down to rest, leaving Harry and Harmony on guard. Then another hour dragged by, seeming little short of an age.

Harmony had just uttered a long sigh of weariness when something caught her eye and caused her to become once again on the alert. Something was moving among the trees nearest to the cabin.

“I see something!” she whispered. “Whether it is an Indian, or a white man, or an animal, I cannot tell.”

“We’ll take no chances,” said Harry, and ran to the loophole, at the same time rousing Joe and the others.

It was an Indian Harmony had seen. He was now behind a tree, but soon they saw him come forth once more, drop into the grass, and worm his way along toward the cabin.

“He is coming this way,” cried Harry softly.

“Alone?” queried Joe.

“Yes.”

“Then give him a shot, as soon as he is in range.”

“Be sure he is an Indian,” came from Mrs. Parsons. “You do not want to shoot a friend.”

“A friend would come forward boldly,” answered Joe.

Trembling with excitement, Harry pushed the muzzle of his rifle through the loophole. Then he took careful aim at the uncertain figure in the grass and fired.

There was a shriek of pain and the red enemy leaped up and swung around one arm as if in intense pain. Then he dropped down again and loped back to the protection of the forest.

“I hit him—but I didn’t kill him,” said Harry, as he pulled in his smoking firearm; and then he set to work to reload the rifle with all speed.

Once more they went on watch, and slowly the minutes went by. Then Joe suddenly thrust out his gun-barrel and discharged the weapon.

Another yell followed, and an Indian who had been in hiding behind the stone wall of the garden fell forward, shot through the shoulder. But he, too, managed to crawl away and disappeared into the forest.

This was the last of the alarms. Evidently the Indians imagined the cabin well protected, and they did not dare to make a rush. Slowly the morning dawned, and hardly had the sun peeped over the trees than they saw Daniel Boone riding toward the cabin at full speed, followed by half a dozen frontiersmen.

“Hurrah, here is Colonel Boone!” cried Joe, and he threw open the door to receive the great hunter.

“Are you all safe here?” demanded Boone, with a quick glance around.

“Yes, we are all safe,” answered Harry; “but we have had a pretty hard night of it,” and he told their story.

“The Indians attacked seven of the cabins in this settlement and some cabins further off,” said Daniel Boone. “A small party of ’em also came to the fort. But we have sent them about their business with the loss of but one man—old Wimbley—who was brutally murdered in the woods. Three of the redskins were killed in the various fights and there are probably a dozen wounded.”

“Who led the raid, do you know that?” asked Joe.

“Long Knife. He is now at the head of all the tribes in this neighborhood. Red Feather is dead.”

Daniel Boone was out rounding up the settlers to go after the Indians. Joe readily agreed to go along, leaving Harry to watch over those at the log cabin.

“Take care of yourself, Joe,” said Harry, as the pair parted.

“And you take care of yourself and the others, Harry,” was the answer.

It was nearly noon before the settlers started out, sixty-five strong, and led by Colonel Boone. Each man carried a rifle and plenty of ammunition, and in addition rations for two days. If more food was needed the settlers felt that they could easily supply themselves from the game in the forest and the plenteous fish in the numerous streams.

CHAPTER XXV
IN A FOREST FIRE

This period has well been called the “dark and bloody” years of life in Kentucky. Raids by the Indians occurred frequently, not only at Boonesborough, but also at the other settlements, until more than one pioneer became so disheartened that he gave up the contest and returned to the East.

The war with England was at its height and the red men knew that it was impossible for the colonists to send any troops to the West to subdue them. More than this, the English were only too glad to give the Indians a hand against the settlers at every opportunity.

Daniel Boone felt that a stand must be taken, and the Indians must be taught a lesson they would not readily forget. He was very silent on the march, but his head was busy with his plans.

“I reckon he means business this trip,” observed Joe to one of the others.

“That he does, lad,” answered the pioneer. “And can you blame him?”

“Blame him? No, indeed, Mr. Pembly. We have good cause to bring the redskins to terms.”

“To my mind we have a hard fight afore us,” went on Andrew Pembly. “The Injuns must know we are after ’em.”

“Perhaps not.”

The way was rough, and more than once the party had to make a détour, to avoid some great fallen monarch of the forest, or get out of the way of some sharp rocks next to impossible to climb over.

The pioneers did not keep very close together, and presently Joe found himself in the company of three others on the side of a little cliff fronting a small gully thick with brushwood and weeds.

Joe had dropped a little behind, and was on the point of starting to catch up when he heard a faint sound in the gully.

“What was that?” was the question he asked himself.

Instantly he thought of but two things, a wild animal or an Indian. The sound must have come from one or the other.

“I’ll have to investigate,” he reasoned.

He would have called to his companions, but they had gone ahead, and were out of sight around the end of the little cliff.

“If I call out loud it may serve as a warning to some enemy,” he thought.

Gun in hand, he stepped nearer to the gully, and peered searchingly among the brushwood and weeds.

At first he could see nothing, but at last he made out a dark object lying in the midst of a clump of bushes.

“A man, or I am greatly mistaken,” he told himself. “But if he is a white man, what is he doing there?”

Not to be taken by surprise, Joe dropped into the bushes himself, expecting to crawl away and tell his friends of his discovery.

But just as he was on the point of leaving the spot he heard the man below give a prolonged groan.

“Help! help!” he murmured feebly. “For the sake of Heaven, help me!”

“What is the matter with you?” called out the youth.

“An English voice! Heaven be praised. Help me, please!”

“I say, what is the matter with you?” repeated the young pioneer.

“I am badly wounded in the leg. I have been in this dismal hole three days, and I am half starved. Help me!”

“I certainly will,” answered Joe, and went forward boldly, although with his gun ready for use, in case of possible treachery.

As he got closer to the sufferer he recognized the man as a hunter named Brinker, one who had spent considerable time at Boonesborough the year before. The hunter was indeed in a sad plight, and with him walking was entirely out of the question. All that had passed his lips for three days was a biscuit he had happened to have in his game bag, and some water he had found in a nearby hollow.

“Well, you certainly are in a bad fix,” said Joe kindly. “Wait until I tell some of the others, and then we’ll try and do what we can for you.”

“Please don’t go away too far,” pleaded Brinker.

“I shall not.”

Joe ran forward with all speed, and soon caught up to those who had gone ahead. He reported what he had discovered, and four men went back with him to Brinker’s assistance.

When they reached the sufferer they found he had fainted from exhaustion, and it took tender nursing to bring him around. His wound was washed and bound up, and he was given some liquor.

“I’m downright glad you came,” he said, when he could speak again. “I don’t reckon as how I could have held out another day.”

“How came you there, Brinker?” asked Daniel Boone, who had come up to interview the man.

“It’s a long story, Colonel. I was out hunting deer when I ran into a party of eighteen or twenty redskins. They were encamped in a hollow, and I came on ’em before I knew what was up.”

“And they started to capture you?”

“Three of ’em did capture me, but I knocked one of ’em over and broke away. They fired on me, and one shot passed through my hair.” The hunter pointed to where several locks had been cut away. “It was a close hair-cut, Colonel.”

“But how did you get hit in the leg?”

“That came later. I got away, as I said, and hid in a hollow log. But the redskins followed my trail, and I had to leave the log and take to the woods. When I came out on the cliff one of ’em took a long shot at me with a rifle, and hit me as you see. I fell off the cliff, and nearly broke my other leg doing it. Then I crawled into the bushes and laid low. They tramped all around the spot, but good luck was with me, and they passed me by. They might have remained around here only, I reckon, they knew you were on the trail,” concluded Brinker.

“We’ll have to send you back to the fort,” said Colonel Boone. “You are not fit to go forward with us.”

“Can you send me back?”

“I think so. There are two others going back. They can take you.”

Brinker was then questioned concerning the Indians he had encountered. He said they were part of Long Knife’s warriors, but that the chief had not been with them.

“They had two captives with them,” he continued.

“Two captives!” exclaimed Joe. “Who were they?”

“I didn’t git a good look at ’em, lad. They were a man and a woman.”

“Perhaps the woman was my mother.”

“Is your mother missing?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I didn’t see the woman very closely. Fact is, I had all I could do to get away. They wanted to either kill or capture me the worst way,” added Brinker.

“Then you can’t describe the prisoners at all?”

“The man was tall, and looked rather old. The woman was sitting down, and had her back to me, so I can’t tell how tall she was, or how she looked.”

This was all Brinker could tell, and he was so weak that to make him talk more would have been cruel. He was placed in charge of a pioneer who had once served as a nurse in an army hospital, and later on returned to Boonesborough with the others Colonel Boone had mentioned.

“He can be thankful he escaped with his life,” said Joe to Andrew Pembly.

“He can thank you for finding him,” answered the pioneer. “Had you passed him by he would most likely have died in the hollow.”

“I wish he had seen that woman who was a captive.”

“I don’t think it was your mother, Joe. She is probably miles and miles away from here.”

“That is true. But she might have heard something of my mother—through the Indians.”

“’Taint likely—the redskins won’t tell much about their prisoners. They are too afraid of having their captives followed up by friends.”

The march was once more forward, over a stretch of ground thick with thorny underbrush where more than one hunting garb became badly torn. Here Joe took two tumbles, and scratched both his hands and his face. But he did not complain, knowing that many of his companions were in a similar plight.

At the end of the day the hunters found themselves on the bank of a stream that flowed into the main river a dozen miles away. It was an ideal spot for resting, and a long and careful search revealed no Indians in the immediate vicinity.

Nothing came to disturb the camp that night, although a strict watch was kept, and by daybreak the hunters were again on the march. Soon they struck the trail of the Indians, and Daniel Boone calculated that the enemy were not less than two hundred in number. Only a few were on horseback.

As the hunters advanced scouts were sent out ahead, and presently two of these came running back with the information that the Indians were making for a long valley straight ahead.

“That is Bear Valley,” said Daniel Boone. “I know it well. Beyond is a heavy forest. If they reach that they will surely get away. We must try to come up to them before the end of the valley is reached.”

It was a hot, dry day, but a lively breeze was blowing, which made the air seem somewhat cooler than it really was. The breeze had been on the hunters’ backs, but now it began to swerve around until it came almost from their front.

More than half the valley had been traveled when the hunters came to a somewhat narrow pass, hemmed in with hemlocks and cedars, and large quantities of small brush. As they entered this pass Boone suddenly called a halt.

“Stop, men!” came in a loud voice, and then he continued, “What do you smell?”

“Smoke!” came promptly from a dozen of the party.

“It’s coming from the left, colonel.”

“It’s coming from dead ahead.”

“I believe they have set the forest on fire,” went on Daniel Boone.

“That is just what they have,” cried one old frontiersman. “And set it on fire in half a dozen places, too!”

The hunters could now see the smoke plainly. It came from ahead and from both sides of the valley. The brisk breeze was fanning the flames, which spread with marvelous rapidity.

“They want to hem us in,” said Colonel Boone. “Well, we’ll see if they are able to do it.”

The Indians were shouting defiance to their enemies. They had withdrawn to the sides of the valley, and now they sent in a dozen or more shots from the few rifles they possessed.

With fire ahead and on both sides, there was nothing to do but retreat, and, much as he hated to give the order, Boone told his men to fall back.

“We can circle the hill on our left,” he said. “I know a deer trail running to the river ahead.”

The whole party turned and began to retrace their steps. The smoke was thick about them, and the breeze began to send the burning embers flying in all directions.

“I wonder if we’ll be able to get out of this alive,” said Joe.

“We’ll be all right unless the redskins have set fire to the brush behind us,” answered one of the hunters.

None of the party lost time in turning back. The breeze was increasing, and soon the thick smoke swept downward, filling the narrow valley from end to end.

“Oh, but this is awful!” gasped Joe, and then began to cough.

“Don’t stop, men!” shouted Daniel Boone. “Don’t stop, or it may be the death of you!”

With so many men crowding the narrow trail, progress was not near as rapid as it might otherwise have been, and long before the back end of the valley was gained more than one settler was ready to drop from the effects of the smoke.

Joe went on half blindly, the tears running from his eyes. He knew that the fire was sweeping down from the other end of the valley, and that the breeze would soon carry it in their very midst unless they made a rapid escape.

He was almost ready to drop, when the wind shifted, and for a minute gave him and the others a draught of fresh air. This revived all of the hunters, and they pushed onward with renewed energy.

“If we ever git out o’ this air trap, them redskins shall pay dearly fer the trick,” announced one old frontiersman, and many of the party agreed with him.

The wind was shifting to the other end of the valley, and now came a cry from ahead that caused every heart in the party to jump with renewed fear.

“They have set fire to this end of the valley, too! We are hemmed in by the flames!”

The report was true. Some of the Indians had secreted themselves in the bushes, and they had not been discovered by the guards sent out by Boone. As soon as the whites had passed, they had set fire to some bushes in the vicinity, and then ran around to the front by means of a narrow trail which was well known to them leading over one of the hills.

“We’ll have to make a dash right through the fire, I am afraid,” said Daniel Boone.

“Unless we can find some spot where the bushes haven’t caught yet,” said another old hunter.

“Here is a small brook!” cried a third. “I’m going to souse myself in that.”

This last suggestion was considered good, and in a twinkling all of the party had leaped into the brook and wet themselves from head to feet.

It was well that they did this, for the burning embers were now blowing about more thickly than ever. Joe caught some of the fire on his neck and some on his left hand, and his eyebrows were singed.

It was now a mad rush, each man for himself. The crowd had scattered to the right and the left of two patches of brushwood that were blazing fiercely.

At last Joe found himself face to face with the belt of fire. It stretched far to the left and the right.

“No loophole there,” he thought grimly, but a moment later saw a spot where the brushwood had already burnt to the ground. The spot was a hundred feet wide and still hot and smoking, yet he did not hesitate, but leaped over it with the best rate of speed that he could command.

With his eyes half filled with smoke, the young pioneer could see but little, and consequently he did not notice a sink-hole in the very center of the burnt-over tract. Down he went into this morass up to his waist, and there he stuck as firmly as if in so much glue.

It was a moment of peril, and it must be admitted that Joe’s heart sank within him. The smoke was rolling all around him, and he expected to be smothered in short order. In vain he tugged to get of the sink-hole. The more he tried the deeper he appeared to sink.

“Help! help!” he cried, with all the vigor that he could command. “Help! I am fast in a sink-hole!”

Again and again he cried out, but nobody appeared to hear him, and through the drifting and swirling smoke he could see next to nothing.

In the meantime the hunters were rushing in half a dozen directions. The majority were following the watercourse, and by bending low in this they managed to pass the belt of fire. The Indians had piled some brushwood over the stream and set it on fire, but this was kicked away by the running settlers.

Joe felt his senses leaving him, when he fancied he saw a man running close to where he was held a prisoner.

“Help!” he called feebly. “Please help me!”

“Who calls?” came back, in a thick voice, as though the speaker himself could scarcely use his voice.

“It is I, Joe Winship. I am fast in a sink-hole. Help me!”

“Where are you, Joe?” and now the lad recognized the voice of Daniel Boone.

“Here! Oh, Colonel Boone, save me!”

The form came closer, and presently Joe saw Boone. The young pioneer stretched out his arms eagerly.

“Hullo, this is a bad fix,” murmured Boone, as he took in the situation at a glance.

Coming to the edge of the sink-hole he placed his feet on the firmest spot to be found, and then caught Joe under the arms. A long, hard pull, that made the lad think he was going to be disjointed, followed, and then up he came.

“Can you stand?” asked Daniel Boone, and then as he saw the boy falter, he caught up the body, slung it over his shoulder, and made off amid the smoke and the flying embers.

In another five minutes both Boone and Joe were out of danger. They had reached a spot a fair distance from the burning forest, and each squatted in the brook up to their armpits and washed their flushed and scorched faces and hands in the cool liquid. About half of the party that had gone out after the Indians were doing the same. What had become of the other hunters nobody knew.

It was not until nightfall that Daniel Boone was able to get his men together again. It was found that one had been burnt up by the fire, and half a dozen seriously injured. Three Indians had been shot, but the others had departed for parts unknown.

The body of the dead man had to be taken back to the settlement, and the wounded cared for, so that immediate pursuit of the Indians was out of the question—and, indeed, nobody of the party just then felt like moving. The smoke in the valley was as thick as ever, and this now covered both hills.

“We will go into camp here,” said Colonel Boone, and this was done, and the pioneers rested for the best part of a week. During those days the injured returned home, and ten other settlers came from another settlement to take their places.

On the eighth day the men under Boone prepared to move forward once again. A heavy rain had drowned out the forest fire, and the trail over one of the hills was found to be perfectly safe to travel.

The order to march had just been given when one of the sharpshooters who was in advance came running back with news of importance.

“A body of white men are approaching!” he cried. “And unless I am greatly mistaken they are the men who left the fort last fall to see if they couldn’t rescue the captives the Indians took at that time.”

CHAPTER XXVI
THE ATTACK ON THE FORT

“My father must be with that party!”

Such was the thought which rushed into Joe’s mind when he heard the announcement made by the sharpshooter.

The news created a stir among the followers of Daniel Boone, and all of the party hurried forward to meet the newcomers.

The other party looked travel-stained and weary. Their hunting garbs were almost reduced to rags, and more than one was suffering from wounds.

Joe looked at the men eagerly, and his heart fell when he realized that neither his father nor Mr. Parsons was among them.

“We have had a long, hard siege of it,” said one of the hunters. “We have had half a dozen battles with the redskins and had a last brush with them day before yesterday while on our way to this spot. They seemed to be coming from here.”

“That must have been the band that set fire to this forest,” said Daniel Boone.

From one of the hunters, old Pep Frost, Joe obtained the particulars of the advance on the Indians.

“We had two fights with ’em afore winter closed in on us,” said Frost. “Then we went into quarters on the sunny side o’ a cliff and went to shootin’ game to keep us alive.”

“But what of my father and of Mr. Parsons?” asked Joe impatiently. “And did you see anything of my mother and Clara Parsons?”

“One question at a time, lad. Yes, we saw both your mother and Clara Parsons, and two other captives, and we got ’em all away from the Injuns. That was a month ago. But two days later the redskins came down on us stronger nor ever and took the captives back. Your father and Mr. Parsons were fer following ’em up at once, and did so—an’ thet’s the last any o’ us saw o’ ’em.”

“Then you don’t know what has become of my father?”

“Nuthin’ further nor thet, Joey. It’s too bad, but I can’t give ye nuthin’ but the truth,” answered Pep Frost.

It was a great blow, and, coming after such a long wait, was doubly telling. The young pioneer covered his face with his hands and gave a long, deep sigh.

“I don’t know what the folks at home will say of this,” he remarked, after a silence.

“I am truly sorry for ye, Joey, indeed I am. Let us hope it all turns out for the best.”

Again the party under Daniel Boone went forward, and two days later a small part of the Indians under Long Knife were engaged. Joe was in the thick of this contest, and had the satisfaction of bringing down one Indian, who was afterward finished by Boone with a hunting knife.

This was the end of the pursuit. From one of the Indians it was learned that another attack was contemplated on the fort at Boonesborough, and so the settlers returned to that vicinity, unwilling to remain away and leave the fort and the homesteads unprotected.

When Joe came back with the news brought in by Pep Frost and the others who had gone away the year before, there was a good deal of crying on the part of Mrs. Parsons and Harmony and Cora.

“The hand of Providence is surely against us,” said the Quakeress. “We have done wrong by coming here and settling on the lands of the Indians. Would that the others were back once more, and that we might return to the East.”

Harry had but little to say, but Joe understood his chum.

“It’s awful,” said Joe, when the two were alone in the garden. “I can’t imagine what is going to happen next.”

“Nor I,” returned Harry. “Perhaps mother is right and we did wrong to settle on these lands.”

“No. I can’t believe that. If we didn’t come, others would. There will be cities and towns without number here some day, Harry.”

The threatened attack on the fort at Boonesborough did not take place, for Long Knife was afraid to march against the garrison now stationed there. But other settlements were visited, and during that summer and winter eight settlers were killed by the red men. More than two dozen families grew utterly discouraged and sold off their belongings for a song and returned to the East.

It was a dark winter all around—dark for these pioneers who had done so much to make a home for themselves in the wilderness, and doubly dark for the ragged and ill-fed army under General Washington who were doing their best to drive the soldiers of England from American soil.

As the winter passed away the Indians grew bolder, and hardly a week passed that they did not raid some settlement. Sometimes they only drove away the horses and cattle, but often they would kill and scalp every man, woman, and child they could lay their hands upon. The battles were not always one-sided, and twice the Indians were surrounded and fully a score of them were killed or made prisoners.

During those days it was almost impossible to do much around the cabin home. When the boys worked in the garden—for the time to plow was now at hand—they had their firearms close by, ready for use, and when they went to the forest for wood, they always surveyed the locality with care and retreated to the cabin at the first indication of danger.

Inside the cabin it was the same. A rifle stood behind the door loaded all the time, and neither Mrs. Parsons nor the girls thought of going to the spring for a bucket of water unless they were satisfied the coast was clear. Often the various inmates of the cabin would stand watch during the night, fearing a raid or another attempt to burn the home over their heads.

“We can’t stand this very long,” remarked Joe one day. “I’m getting to be as nervous as a cat.”

“I am the same,” answered Harry. “Every sound makes me jump as if a pistol had exploded at my ear.”

“If only father would come home—and your father and the others.”

That was always the way their talk ended—if only the others would return. And it made them heartsick beyond description.

“If it wasn’t for the women folks we could go on a hunt for them,” said Joe. “But it wouldn’t be right to leave them here alone.”

This was in the early spring, and a few days later a scout came in with the information that the Indians were once more gathering for an attack on the fort.

At once messengers were sent in all directions, and the settlers were told to hasten into Boonesborough without delay. Some few remained at their homes, but the Parsons and the Winships decided to seek the protection of the fort.

The attack came on the 15th of April, 1777. The Indians were about a hundred strong, and the garrison at that time numbered less than fifty,—some writers state less than forty,—for many of the settlers were away on a hunting tour.

The first assault of the red men was a fierce one. A shower of arrows were sent against and over the stockade that did no damage, and then the warriors came forward, uttering their shrill war-whoops, and flourishing their tomahawks and hunting knives.

“Here they come!” cried half a dozen of the settlers who were at the loopholes.

“Stand firm!” was the command. “Don’t fire until you are sure of your man!”

On came the red men, shouting and dancing, and another flight of arrows came over the stockade. Then the pioneers opened fire, and down went three Indians, two killed instantly.

After that the smoke and din of battle were terrific. The Indians ran from one end of the stockade to the other, trying to climb the barrier or break it down. A log was brought and used as a battering-ram against the heavy gates. But they were securely barred on the inside, and before those at the log could use the ram more than once two of them were laid low, and then the others dropped the log and ran for shelter.

“Hurrah! they are on the run!” was the cry, and the settlers reloaded their guns with all possible speed.

But the Indians were not yet defeated. Soon they came forward again, and this attack lasted quarter of an hour. A good number of stones were hurled into the fort, and one hit Joe on the shoulder, causing him to cry out from pain.

“What is it?” came quickly from Harry.

“A stone hit me. Oh!” And Joe dropped his gun and rubbed the hurt. Fortunately no bones were broken, and he soon picked up his weapon and went to his loophole again.

The temper of the settlers was now thoroughly aroused, and they met the second onslaught of the Indians with vigor. There was a constant rattle of musketry, and soon the red men grew disheartened and retreated once more. Then the pioneers opened the gates and made after their foe, and the Indians ran helter-skelter in all directions, taking their dead and dying with them.

It is a most remarkable fact that in this battle but one pioneer lost his life, and only two or three were seriously wounded. How many the Indians lost will never be known, for, as stated before, they took all their dead and dying with them. A fair estimate, however, places their dead at not less than twenty.

As night was coming on, it was not deemed advisable to let the settlers return to their homes, so the families remained in the fort until the next day. During the night a rainstorm came up, and in the morning the downpour was heavy. But by noon the clouds drifted westward and soon the sun shone as brightly as ever.

The storm was a blessing to many a settler, for it prevented his cabin from being burnt down by the Indians, who ran around from place to place, with big torches, doing all the damage they could.

After the contest was over, Joe uncovered his shoulder and found it considerably bruised. Mrs. Parsons dressed it, and though it hurt for several days afterward, no serious results followed.

“I reckon I can be thankful that I wasn’t touched,” said Harry. “An arrow passed right alongside of my left ear—but a miss is as good as a mile.”

“I’ll wager a pound that the redskins come back before long,” said Joe. “They are bound to wipe this settlement out if they possibly can.”

It was decided that Joe and Harry should return home first, leaving Mrs. Parsons and the girls at the fort until the morning following.

“There is no telling in what condition the Indians have left the cabin,” said Joe. “For all we know it may be burnt to the ground.”

“That is true,” answered his chum. “Although I saw no fire in that direction, did you?”

“To tell the truth, I didn’t look—my shoulder pained me so much.”

The boys were soon on the way, going part of the distance with some other settlers. The heavy rains had left the trail ankle deep with mud, so their progress was somewhat slow. At last, however, they came in sight of the cabin.

“Hurrah! it is still standing!” cried Harry. “That is something to be thankful for.”

“But they tried to burn it down, Harry. See, here is a mass of half-burnt brushwood heaped up against the north side. If it hadn’t been for the storm our cabin would now be in ashes.”

“They have burst in the back door, Joe!” was the next cry. “And see, the living room is about empty.”

Both ran into the cabin and gazed around them in dismay. One glance told the truth. The cabin had been looted from end to end, and all the small articles of value, including all of their cooking utensils, had been taken away.

CHAPTER XXVII
SHOT ON THE ROOF

“The rascals!”

Such were Joe’s words, as he gazed around the looted cabin. Yes, every small article of value was gone, including the knives and spoons, the trinkets belonging to the girls, and Mrs. Parsons’ sewing outfit.

“Even the fishing poles are gone—and those new hooks I got last week,” said Harry.

“They took that old Dutch pistol, too,” added Joe. “I hope it bursts to pieces the first time they try to use it,” he went on bitterly.

“Do you suppose they found the money?”

“I don’t know. We can soon see.”

Between them Mr. Winship and Mr. Parsons had had about thirty pounds—a hundred and fifty dollars—in cash. Before leaving to hunt up the Indians they had placed this money in an earthen jar and secreted it under the flooring of one of the bedrooms. Without delay the boys ran into the bedroom and pulled up the puncheon log under which the jar had been hidden.

“It is gone!” came from Joe’s lips.

“Gone?” groaned his chum. “Are you certain?”

“Of course I am. Here is the very spot where the jar rested in the ground.”

“Perhaps my mother took up the jar before she left the cabin.”

“Did she say anything about it to you?”

“No.”

“Then I reckon your mother didn’t touch it. But I would like to be sure.”

They hunted around the cabin, but could see nothing of the jar. Then they visited the loft of the home. This had also been robbed of the few articles of value that it had contained.

“They came pretty close to making a clean sweep of it,” remarked Joe disconsolately.

“They are bound to make us give up living here, Joe.”

“It looks like it, Harry, but”—Joe drew a deep breath—“they shan’t scare me away—at least, not as long as anybody else is willing to remain in Boonesborough.”

“I say the same.”

A little later they returned to the fort and acquainted Mrs. Parsons and the girls with the conditions of affairs.

“I feared as much,” said Mrs. Parsons, with a shake of her head. “’Tis truly awful. But, Harry, art thee sure the jar is missing?”

“Yes, mother.”

“I touched it not, my son. If thee has not seen it, then the Indians stole it.”

“And all the cooking things gone!” put in Harmony. “However are we going to cook?”

“You’ll have to do as we do when we are on a hunting tour,” said Harry. “I believe they left one old iron pot—the one with the broken side.”

“It’s enough to wish you were back in the East again,” said Cora. She was more hurt over the loss of a brooch than over anything else. This had been given to her by her grandmother, and was considered valuable.

There was nothing left to do, however, but to go back to the cabin, and this they did, and all hands searched around to find such things as were absolutely necessary. Then Harry and Joe paid a visit to two neighbors who had not been robbed, and borrowed several pots and kettles, and a few knives and spoons, and also several towels.

“It is as bad as beginning all over again,” said Mrs. Parsons. “But let us thank God that our lives have been spared,” she added reverently.

Not long after this attack on the fort at Boonesborough, Colonel Boone called the settlers together for a “war talk,” as it was called.

“The Indians mean to do their best to wipe us out,” said Boone. “I feel certain that before a great while they will attack us again, and with increased numbers. Now, I want to know what you wish to do. If you want to retreat, there is yet time to do so. If you want to stay, we must set to work to strengthen the fort.”

There was a moment of silence, and then an old pioneer with white locks and beard arose.

“Colonel Boone, ye listen to me,” he said, clearly and almost harshly. “I kem out hyer to settle, an’ I hev settled, an’ no Injuns is gwine ter unsettle me, onless they kill me fust. Ye kin go back if ye want to, but ole Bob Chassey stays hyer.”

“Hurrah for Bob Chassey!” cried several.

“That’s the talk,” said another pioneer. “Talk about going back! Whar are we a-going back to? I aint got no place to go to. I sold out, clean and clear. I’m a-going to stay here.”

“So am I! So am I!” was heard on every side.

“If the Injuns want to fight, let’s fight ’em,” said another.

These various speeches made Daniel Boone smile broadly. “I see you are of one heart,” he said. “And I am with you. We’ll stick and fight it out, if it takes years to do it. I believe if we give the Indians one good sound licking when they come again, they will leave us alone for a good long spell.”

The very next day men were set to work to strengthen and extend the stockade of the fort, which now took in not only the defense proper, but also a number of cabins close by. Each man and boy had to work two days per week on the fort, and some worked more, so anxious were they to have all in readiness should another attack come in the near future.

For the stockade of the fort a goodly number of small trees were needed. All those in the immediate vicinity of the stronghold had been cut down, so the pioneers had to go up and down the river for more logs. Trees growing close to the water’s edge would be cut, and a number would be formed into a raft, to be floated or poled to the spot desired.

One day in the middle of the week found Joe, Harry, and Darry Ford hard at work up the river. They had already brought down six trees of fair size, and were at work on three more. When these were down they intended to build a rude raft of the nine logs, and float them to a spot Colonel Boone had mentioned to them.

Not far from where the three pioneers were working was the log cabin of Andrew Pembly. Here the pioneer resided with his wife and six small children. The trees that were being cut were on Pembly’s land, but he was perfectly willing to have them taken away for purposes of defense.

Pembly was not at home, but his wife and children were, and several of the little ones came down to the river front to see the boys at work.

“I don’t think you ought to be down here,” said Joe to a little girl of six, Mary by name.

“Why can’t I be here?” questioned Mary innocently.

“I don’t think it is quite safe. There may be Indians around watching us.”

“Oh, I am not afraid,” was the ready reply.

“But you ought to be. Better run up to the house where your mamma is.”

“No, I am going to stay here,” answered the little girl, tossing her yellow curls. “If the bad Indians come you can shoot them all down with your big gun.”

“Well, if that isn’t cool!” exclaimed Harry, with a laugh. “Joe, she has cut out a neat bit of work for you.”

“And it’s such an easy thing to do, too,” put in Darry Ford. “Of course, the Indians will all stand up in a row for you, so that you won’t have any trouble in knocking them over.”

“If I had a gun I could shoot an Indian,” went on little Mary. “Let me have your gun, and I’ll show you.”

“No, no, don’t you touch the gun,” answered Joe hastily.

Presently the little children began to pick up the chips of wood. These they carried to the stream, and tossed them in to see them float away.

“That’s a waste of good chips,” said Harry. Then he continued to one of the little boys: “Here, Freddy, you go to the house, and get a basket for those chips. Your mother will want them for the fire.”

At once Freddy started off, and all of the others but little Mary went with him. The little girl continued to throw chips into the stream, a proceeding that seemed to interest her very much.

The three trees were now almost down, and the young pioneers worked with a will to complete their day’s labor in the forest. Harry’s tree came down first, and Darry’s was quick to follow. Joe had five minutes more of work, and went at it with renewed energy.

Just as the third tree came down a scream from the river bank startled all three of the boys.

“It’s Mary Pembly!” cried Darry.

Darry was right; the scream had come from the little girl. She had ventured too close to the water, her feet had slipped, and down she had gone, over her head.

The current was swift, and by the time the boys reached the water-front the little girl was fully fifty feet away. She had come to the surface, and was spluttering and crying wildly.

“Take me out!” she cried. “I don’t like the nasty water!”

“She’ll be drowned!” ejaculated Darry.

“Not if I can help it!” came from Harry.

He flung off his jacket and shoes, and without hesitation ran down the river bank a hundred feet or more. Then he plunged in and began to swim toward the little girl with all the strength at his command.

Ordinarily Harry was a good swimmer, but the chopping down of three trees had tired him, and by the time he gained the middle of the river Mary Pembly had floated past the spot. Panting somewhat for breath, Harry made after her.

She was going down again, when he caught hold of her arm, and drew her toward him.

“Oh, help me, please!” she spluttered, and then caught him around the neck in a tight embrace.

“Don’t—don’t hold me so tight!” he gasped. “I’ll—I’ll save you.”

But he could not reason with her, and in her fright she only clung tighter than ever, until he was nearly strangled.

“Harry is having his hands full,” cried Joe, as he ran along the river bank watching the scene.

“If he isn’t careful, they’ll both go down,” put in Darry.

“I’m going to run ahead to the bend, Darry. Perhaps I can give him a lift there.”

The bend was two hundred feet further down the river, and Joe sped to the spot with all speed.

Here there was a low-bending tree, with branches spreading far over the watercourse.

Without hesitation the young pioneer leaped into the tree, and made his way out on the branches, that hung but a couple of yards above the surface of the river.

At first, owing to the thick growth in that vicinity, he could see little or nothing.

“Harry, where are you?” he called.

“Help, Joe, help!” was the answer. “She is dragging me down!”

With these words Harry and his burden came into view. Little Mary clung as tight as ever, and it was next to impossible for Harry to do any swimming. He was treading water, but had gone down over his head twice.

Nearer and nearer swept the pair in the stream, and bending low Joe managed at last to catch little Mary by the arm.

“Come up here,” he said. “I will save you.”

She hardly understood the words, so great was her terror. But she saw the tree and Joe, and, letting go her hold of Harry, clutched both in a death-like grip. Then Joe caught her tight and soon carried her to the shore.

“My, but that was more than I bargained for!” gasped Harry, when he managed to crawl from the stream.

“I don’t like the river at all,” came from little Mary. Then she looked at her wet and muddy frock. “Oh, my beautiful dress! What will mamma say?”

“Never mind the dress,” answered Joe.

He took her to the log cabin, and Harry followed. One of the children had just brought in word that Mary had fallen into the river, and Mrs. Pembly was highly excited.

“My child! my child!” she exclaimed. “Is she safe?”

“Yes, she’s all right,” answered Joe. “Harry saved her.”

“Joe had something to do with it,” put in Harry.

The story was soon told, and Mrs. Pembly thanked them over and over again for their services.

“I have warned Mary not to go near the river,” said she. “She was a naughty girl to go.”

“Mary will never, never go there again,” said the child. “The river is all muddy and wet—it aint a nice river at all!”

Harry was given a shift of clothing belonging to Andrew Pembly, and this he put on while his own were drying at the fire. Fortunately neither the youth nor the little girl suffered from the wetting received.

“I shall never forget your kindness,” said Mrs. Pembly. And she never did.

It was no easy work to bring the nine logs together and float them down to the fort, and it was after dark when the task was finally accomplished.

The news of the rescue had preceded them, and Harry was hailed as a hero, something that made him blush a good deal.

“I reckon I only did my duty,” he said. “It wasn’t much either. I could have gotten to shore easily if she hadn’t caught me by the neck and cut off my wind.”

“You’re a hero right enough,” said Darry. “And Joe deserves some credit, too.”

The time for planting was once again at hand, and Joe and Harry worked early and late, and always with their weapons where they could lay hands upon the guns at the first intimation of danger. How little do boys of to-day realize the perils and hardships of the years gone by!

In the cabin Mrs. Parsons and the girls were equally busy. All arose at four o’clock in the morning, and it was rarely that anybody turned in to sleep before nine or ten in the evening. In those days there were no such things as amusements, for the dread of another attack by the Indians was on every mind. Every Sunday a service was held at the fort by a traveling preacher, who had come there some months before, and this service was the only gathering Mrs. Parsons and the girls attended.

On the Fourth of July—just one year after the Declaration of Independence had been declared—Joe and Harry were hard at work in the field, when a horseman, his steed covered with foam, dashed up to the cabin.

“The Indians are coming!” he shouted. “To the fort with all speed!” And then, having made sure that his message was heard, he rode off as rapidly as he had come.

“The Indians! The Indians!” shouted one and another.

It had been decided long before what should be done in case of such a warning, so there was little confusion. Mrs. Parsons had a large cloth handy, and into this she and the girls dumped such things as they wished to take along. In the meantime the boys came running up, obtained all their available weapons, and then shut up and otherwise secured the cabin.

Inside of ten minutes all were on their way to the fort. They were soon joined by several neighbors, and from one of these learned that Colonel Boone had discovered that the red men were marching on Boonesborough, not less than two hundred strong.

“And they are sending other bands of Indians to the other settlements,” went on the pioneer.

“That is too bad,” answered Joe. “For in that case we can’t look for outside help.”

“It’s going to be a fight to a finish, this time, Joe.”

When they arrived at the fort they found but a handful of hunters and pioneers present. Many men were off a great distance, and although they were notified, they did not come in until several days later. All told, there were exactly twenty-two men on hand, and nine youths over the age of twelve.

Soon the outposts announced that the Indians were less than a mile away, and coming toward the fort as fast as they could travel. Colonel Boone immediately assembled his force and gave each man and youth his station, and also told the women and girls what they might do if called on for assistance. Every part of the fort and grounds was wet down, so that there might be no danger of fire.

The first shock of the attack was not long in coming. Relying upon their superior force, the Indians advanced boldly, sending a flight of arrows against and over the stockade, and also firing off the few muskets they possessed. Their yells and war-whoops were deafening, and the pioneers answered with a ringing shout of defiance.

Boone’s men had been cautioned, time and again, to save their powder and bullets, and not one fired until he could make sure of his aim. As the Indians hurled themselves against the stockade the rifles of the pioneers spoke up and fully a dozen red men were either killed or wounded.

After this first savage assault, the red men retired to the shelter of the forest, and for half an hour nothing was seen or heard of them.

“They are up to some new trick,” said Joe. “The Indian is at his worst when he is quiet.”

Several sharpshooters were in the trees inside the stockade and they now announced that the red men had built several camp-fires at a distance.

Then came another shout from the forest, and fully thirty Indians appeared. Each had a flaming arrow fixed to his bow, and this he let drive over the stockade among the various buildings within.

“They are going to try to burn us out!” called out a number of the pioneers.

“Put out the fires!” ordered Daniel Boone, and he himself went around stamping out one arrow after another. The women appeared with buckets of water and wet swabs, and soon every arrow but one was extinguished. This arrow was on a sloping roof and burned fiercely.

“I reckon I can get that,” called out Harry, and, throwing down his musket, he started to climb to the top of the building.

“Have a care there!” called out Daniel Boone.

“I’m on the watch,” answered Harry.

It was no mean task to reach the roof of the log building, and once there Harry had a hard task of it to put out the flames, which were spreading in spite of the wetting the building had received.

“Here is a wet cloth,” called out Joe, and threw the object up to his chum.

“HE DROPPED, A DEAD WEIGHT, INTO JOE’S ARMS.”—P. 291.

Harry caught the cloth and was just on the point of pounding out some more of the fire with it, when another flight of arrows came into the inclosure.

One arrow struck the young pioneer in the leg, and another in the arm.

“Oh!” he cried. “I am struck!”

“Harry! Harry! come down!” called out Joe.

He had scarcely spoken when Harry pitched headlong on the roof of the building. Then he rolled over and over down to the edge and dropped a dead weight into Joe’s arms.

CHAPTER XXVIII
THE RETREAT OF THE INDIANS

“Oh, Mrs. Parsons, Harry is killed!”

It was Harmony who uttered the cry, for she had seen Harry go down with the two arrows sticking into him.

“My son killed!” screamed Mrs. Parsons, rushing forward to where she could catch sight of the form in Joe’s arms. “Oh, Harry! Harry! is it true that the Indians have slain thee?” she wailed.

“I don’t believe he is dead,” said Joe, his own face white and drawn. “He is struck in the leg and the arm.”

“Bring him to yonder cabin,” said the distracted mother, and Joe did as directed. Blood was flowing freely from Harry’s wounds and it was seen that he had fainted from the shock and from weakness.

“If those arrows are poisoned he will surely die,” came from Cora.

“They are not poisoned,” said Daniel Boone, who had walked up and who examined the shafts closely. “Bind up his wounds with care, and I warrant he will pull through.”

At once Mrs. Parsons and the girls did all they could for the sufferer. In the meantime other flaming arrows were coming into the inclosure, and Joe had to rush away once more, to do his full share in extinguishing the fires that sprang up.

Luckily the pioneers had a never-failing supply of water direct from the river on which the fort was located, so in spite of the flaming arrows they managed to keep the various conflagrations under control. Seeing this, the Indians withdrew once more, to consider another plan for defeating the hated palefaces.

It was now sometime after noon and all were hungry. A hasty meal was prepared, and as hastily eaten, and the men continued on guard. As all remained quiet, Joe stole to the cabin, to see how Harry was faring.

“I—I’m not yet dead,” the sufferer managed to say. “But I reckon I am out of th—this fight.”

“I am so thankful he was not killed,” said Mrs. Parsons. “But oh, if this cruel fighting was only at an end!” And she covered her face with her apron.

Slowly the afternoon dragged by and not a single sign of an Indian was seen.

“Goin’ to wait until night,” said Pep Frost “Injuns allers like to fight after dark. Reckon we’ll have an all-fired hot time atween now an’ sun-up to-morrow.”

“Well, we must take what comes,” answered Joe. His own heart felt like a lump of lead in his bosom. With his father and his mother missing, and also Mr. Parsons and Clara, and with Harry seriously wounded, the future looked black indeed.

“If the Indians manage to get in here it will be all up with us,” he reasoned.

Pep Frost was right, the Indians were waiting for nightfall, and hardly had darkness come over the fort, than the attack was renewed with vigor. Arrows flew in all directions, and more than one tomahawk came whizzing over the stockade and close to some pioneer’s head. As in the daytime the yells of the red men were frightful.

Joe and Pep Frost had been stationed at a certain angle of the fort. Just beyond was a high rock, and half a dozen of the enemy were secreted behind this. Two had muskets, and they fired whenever they caught the least sign of anybody in the stronghold.

“We must try to plug them Injuns,” said Frost. “Joey, you keep yer eye glued on the right o’ the rocks an’ I’ll watch the left. Shoot the fust rascal ez shows himself.”

Joe did as he was bidden, and stood at the loophole with his hand ready on the trigger of his rifle.

Suddenly an Indian bobbed up, bow and arrow in hand. He let drive directly for the loophole, and the arrow hit the edge of Joe’s rifle barrel. At the same time the youth pulled the trigger of the weapon.

Joe’s aim was true, and the Indian fell with a serious bullet wound close to his ear. Then Pep Frost’s rifle also cracked, and a second Indian fell, shot through the throat.

“Thet’s the time we cotched ’em,” chuckled the old frontiersman. “They can’t play any o’ their funny games around here, ha! ha!”

Again the Indians found their assault on the fort unsuccessful, and again they retreated. Long Knife was at their head, and some of the warriors complained bitterly to him of their want of success.

“Long Knife said the fort would be taken with ease,” said one warrior. “But we have not captured it, and thirteen of our braves are already slain.”

“We have approached too openly,” said Long Knife. “We must come up as panthers in the dark. We will rest and throw them off the watch.”

No other attack was made until nearly four o’clock in the morning. Then half of the Indians entered their canoes and put out on the water. Their idea was to paddle to that part of the fort which rested on the river bank, and then try crawling through the ditch that let the water into the stockade.

But the pioneers were on the watch, and no sooner had the swarm of canoes appeared than several of the warriors were shot down. Two of the craft were sunk, and the occupants had a lively time of it swimming for their lives.

Two canoes reached the ditch, and five Indians dived down under the stockade. When they attempted to come up on the inside they were stopped by a row of long stakes that Daniel Boone had had planted there the day previous. Not wishing to be drowned like rats in a trap, the Indians had to retreat; and then the whole body left the river, not to return.

“Whoopee!” shouted Pep Frost, throwing up his cap in his delight. “Put down another failure fer ’em! It’s a pity they didn’t come in, so ez we could have killed ’em off one at a time!”

When the sun rose it found the pioneers still on guard. All were much worn by what they had passed through, yet nobody felt like lying down to sleep. Strong coffee and hearty rations were served, and Boone divided his force into two parties, one to remain on guard, and the other to take it easy until another alarm should sound out.

So far there had been but one man killed and two wounded, including Harry. The wounded youth lay resting quietly, and Mrs. Parsons was close by, ready to minister to his wants so far as her limited means permitted.

Slowly the hot July day passed. In the stockade it was almost suffocating, and one girl fainted from the heat. But water was plentiful and cool, and nobody complained.

It was not until the middle of the afternoon that the Indians massed their forces for a final assault. On they came yelling and whooping like demons, and again the arrows flew all around and in the stockade. Large stones were also hurled at the fort, and more than a score of the red men climbed into the nearby trees, and tried to pick off the whites from these points of vantage.

The red men in the trees could hardly be seen, and to make sure of them Daniel Boone had half a dozen muskets heavily loaded with buckshot.

In the old-fashioned bores of that period this shot scattered itself over a wide space, and the Indians came down from the trees in a hurry, some literally “peppered” to death, and all more or less wounded.

“Gosh! but this beats bird huntin’,” observed Pep Frost. “See ’em tumble. Whoop! but it’s jest the thing!” And he let drive another dose of the shot.

Down at the east end of the fort the fight was more desperate than it had been for the whole two days. Six or seven of the red men succeeded in climbing the stockade, and a fierce hand-to-hand struggle ensued, in which four were thrown down and mortally wounded. The other two ran toward the heavy gate, with the idea of throwing off the bars and opening the barrier.

“No you don’t!” cried Daniel Boone, and with a few leaps he was on the red men. Each threw a tomahawk at the old hunter. But he dodged the weapons, and sent one Indian to the earth by a blow from his gun-stock. Then he grappled with the other fellow, and both rolled on the ground.

“Boone is down!” cried a woman, and, turning, Joe saw the struggle that was taking place. He ran for the spot with all speed, and just as the Indian was trying to stab Daniel Boone with his hunting knife the youth kicked out and struck the enemy in the head, completely stunning him. Then Boone arose, and another blow put the red man out of the fight forever.

The fall of the six men who had mounted the stockade, and of those who had climbed the trees, was a great blow to the Indians, and soon one of the old warriors sounded the retreat. This command made Long Knife furious, for he wanted to continue fighting, but nobody would listen to him, and at last the Indians retreated, and the enraged chief followed. It may be added that in the forest the chief tried to argue the point with the old warrior, who, instead of talking, struck Long Knife in the mouth, and told him to be quiet.

“Black Wolf is right,” said another warrior. “Long Knife would lead us to death. We have had enough of fighting the white man in his strong box. Henceforth Arrowhead shall fight the white man only in the forest.”

From the manner in which the Indians left the vicinity of the fort Daniel Boone was satisfied that they had almost enough of the fighting.

“Had we a few more men, we could follow them and bring them to terms,” he said. “But as it is we will have to continue on guard until we are certain they have left this locality.”

Three days were spent in the fort, and then some settlers from another locality arrived. They brought news that four other points had been attacked, but in each contest the enemy had been driven off with a heavy loss.

“Long Knife has encamped up at Flat-Rock Run,” said the pioneer. “A good many of his followers have deserted him. We are going up there after him. If we can capture him perhaps we can then learn what has become of the women and children he made captives a long while ago.”

“Let me go with you!” cried Joe eagerly.

“You?”

“Yes! yes! My mother was made a prisoner, and one of my girl friends, Clara Parsons, is missing, too.”

“I’ll go,” put in Pep Frost. “Joey can go with me.”

Six others volunteered for the expedition. The other pioneers, by Daniel Boone’s advice, remained at the fort, to defend that stronghold.

The distance to Flat-Rock Run was not over eighteen miles, but the trail was exceeding rough, and progress was necessarily slow.

“Long Knife knows what he is doing,” said Pep Frost, as he and Joe trudged along side by side. “If he can’t fight he’ll hide in the hills, an’ we won’t have no fool o’ a task routin’ him out nuther!”

“We can stick to his trail until we catch him,” answered the young pioneer simply. “I don’t care how much I suffer, so long as I learn what has become of my mother and father and the rest.”

“Spoken jest like a good boy, Joey. Wall, I’m with ye to the finish, ye kin jest wager yer last shillin’ on that!”

That night the pioneers and hunters went into camp in something of a hollow. A strict guard was kept, and before sunrise the march forward was resumed. Two hours later a sharpshooter who had been in advance came back with the news that the band under Long Knife was in sight, camping at the edge of a small stream running through the hills.

CHAPTER XXIX
THE LONG-LOST AT LAST

At once there was great excitement among the men who had thus followed Long Knife and his warriors to their newly made camp. Every pioneer and old hunter felt that a crisis was at hand.

“I think we have the redskins at a disadvantage,” said one old hunter. “We ought to teach them a lesson they will never forget.”

“Have they any captives with them?” questioned Joe.

This question could not be answered, for part of the Indians’ camp was concealed by a dense mass of brushwood.

The old hunters now resorted to strategy. The party was divided into three parts, which were to station themselves around the Indian encampment at equal distances. At a given signal two of the parties were to rush forward, and open on the red men. This would most likely drive the warriors under Long Knife to the shelter of another part of the forest, and here the third party was to open fire when they had the Indians at close range.

The hunters and pioneers moved to their stations without the slightest noise. Each man carried not only his rifle, but also a pistol and a long hunting knife.

Joe’s heart was thumping wildly, for he knew that this was to be the most dangerous battle in which he had so far taken part. But his teeth were firmly set.

“I’ll do my duty if I die for it,” was what he told himself—not once, but many times.

At last all was in readiness for the attack. The signal was given, and the whites of the two parties swept in closer still, and then opened fire.

At the first volley three Indians fell, one killed and the others mortally wounded. Then a fierce war-whoop sounded, and the braves caught up their own weapons.

The whites had calculated well, and, as they expected, the red men did their best to gain the forest ahead of them. As they came on, the third party of hunters met them, and in this onslaught six Indians fell to rise no more.

All of the guns and pistols had now been discharged, and a thick smoke filled the vicinity. In the midst of this, whites and Indians leaped at each other in a hand-to-hand encounter that was bloody in the extreme. Blood flowed freely, and Joe saw two old pioneers scalped before his eyes.

At the first shock of battle the young pioneer was stunned. But soon his presence of mind returned to him, and he became unusually cool and collected. He discharged his pistol almost in the face of one brawny Indian, and then engaged another with his hunting knife.

It was a sharp struggle, and as the pair grappled, the Indian slipped and dragged Joe down with him. Over and over they rolled, and the red man at last succeeded in wounding Joe in the shoulder. But the youth was game and struck out wildly, and by a lucky stroke caught his opponent in the ribs. Then, as another white came running up, the Indian arose and staggered off. Joe also tried to get up, but a foot suddenly struck him a heavy blow back of the ear, and he fell on his face, unconscious.

The tide of war was now shifting to another part of the forest, and for the time being the young pioneer lay where he had fallen with nobody coming to disturb him. The fighting was as fierce as ever, but was gradually lost in the distance.

At last Joe stirred and opened his eyes in a dazed, uncertain way. Then, thinking his enemy still at hand, he threw up one arm, as if to defend himself.

“Fight fair,” he murmured, and soon sat up, staring around him.

He was much surprised to find himself alone. The blood was flowing from the wound he had received, but fortunately the hurt was not severe.

He remembered that there had been a stream at hand, and he crawled rather than walked to this, to bathe his wound and get a drink of water.

“I must have been completely knocked out,” was his thought. “I wonder what became of that Indian?”

After bathing and drinking his fill, he sat down by the edge of the stream to collect his scattered senses. He could not tell how long it was since he had been fighting.

“Must be an hour or two at least,” he told himself. “Anyway, everybody seems to have cleared out, and left me to myself. I wonder if we whipped them?”

Joe was sitting on the river bank, when presently something up the stream attracted his attention. It was a canoe coming around a bend, and the craft contained two Indians.

“Hullo, I’ll have to get out of sight,” he muttered, and started to move back, when he received a push that sent him headlong into the river.

By the time he came to the surface, the canoe was drawing close. Looking on the river bank he saw three Indians standing there, each armed with a rifle and a tomahawk. One of the red men was Long Knife.

“White boy is a prisoner,” cried the Indian chief, his eyes gleaming wickedly. “If try to run Long Knife will tomahawk him.”

There was no help for it, and Joe walked out of the river, and submitted to having his hands tied behind him. Then he was ordered into the canoe, which was a large craft, and Long Knife and the others followed.

The course of the canoe was along the stream, which was not over fifteen feet in width, and very winding. The primeval forest arose on both sides, and in many places the branches of the trees interlaced, making the surface of the watercourse dark and cool.

Joe had no idea where he was being taken, and the Indians would answer no questions. Long Knife and his followers seemed unusually silent and bitter, and from this the young pioneer came to the conclusion that the battle had gone against them, and with heavy loss.

“If that’s the case they won’t have much mercy on me,” he reasoned.

The canoe kept on its way for many miles and then took to another watercourse, which was twice as wide as the first. The Indians were now approaching one of their regular villages, and they passed along in absolute silence, doubtless thinking that the whites might be there awaiting their coming.

But none of the hunters who had gone forth to fight them were in the vicinity, and soon an old Indian met them and told them that all so far was safe.

“It is well,” said Long Knife gruffly. Then he ordered the canoe brought around to another bend, and here the party went ashore, taking Joe with them.

The village was rather a straggling one, extending from the river to a spring far up among the rocks. Here the Indians had erected a rude stockade and inside were half a dozen prisoners.

“You shall remain there until another sun,” said Long Knife. “And let not the white boy try to escape,” he added. “Long Knife knows how to torture those who will not obey him.”

“I reckon you are bloodthirsty enough for anything,” muttered Joe in return.

He entered the rude stockade with downcast heart, but hardly was he within than he gave a sudden shout of half wonder and half joy:

“Mother!”

“Joe! my Joe!” was the answer, and in a moment more mother and son were in each other’s arms.

It was indeed Mrs. Winship, but so thin and careworn that none but one closely connected with her would have recognized the lady. With Mrs. Winship was Clara Parsons, who was also amazed to see the lad she knew so well.

“How came you here?” asked Mrs. Winship, after their greeting was over.

“It’s a long story, mother,” Joe answered, and then he told her of the fight and of his capture, and then of life in Boonesborough and at the fort, and of how the others were faring.

“We have had many ups and downs since we were captured,” said Mrs. Winship. “Our adventures would fill a book. We escaped twice, and three times your father and others tried to rescue us. But it has all been of no avail, and here we are still, and likely to remain, I suppose.” And the good woman heaved a long sigh.

“Well, so long as we are alive let us hope for the best,” answered Joe, as cheerfully as he could. “Of one thing I am sure. The Indians were defeated in that last battle, and it may be that our friends will now take steps to round them all up and make them give up all their captives.”

“Oh, I hope that happens!” cried Clara Parsons. “I am almost crazy to see mother and Harry and father again—and to see that cabin you say you have built.”

On the whole Mrs. Winship and Clara had been treated fairly well. The woman had been made to work with the squaws, and Long Knife had urged Clara many times to become his wife. But the girl had refused him, and this had pleased Cornball, an old dame who was already the chief’s spouse.

“Cornball wants me to keep on refusing him,” said Clara. “She says that as long as I do so she will protect both me and your mother. She doesn’t care much for Long Knife, but she says he has no right to marry anybody else.”

“Good for the old squaw,” answered Joe. “I hope she sticks by you until we are all rescued.”

That night a strict guard was kept, not alone around the village, but also over the prisoners in the stockade. Long Knife expected an attack hourly by the whites, but it did not come.

“They have missed the trail,” he said at last to some of his warriors. “Sleeping Bear has thrown dust into their eyes.” He referred to a brave who had gone off with the express purpose of “working” a blind trail, thus throwing the whites off the track.

It was nearly noon of the next day that Long Knife came in to see Joe. His face was more sour than ever, for a report had come in that his loss in the last battle was nearly twice as large as at first anticipated.

“Does the white boy remember Long Knife?” he asked abruptly, as he stood before Joe with folded arms.

“I do,” answered Joe, knowing that nothing was to be gained by evasion.

“Does the white boy remember when he saw Long Knife in a canoe with a white maiden?”

“Yes.”

“The white boy tried his best to kill Long Knife.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” cried Joe. “The white maiden was my sister. Long Knife had no right to carry her off.”

“Long Knife has a right to do as pleases him,” answered the Indian coldly. “He bows to no law of the white man.”

To this Joe did not answer.

“The white boy has found his mother here?” went on the Indian.

“Yes. And you have no right to keep her a captive either.”

“Bah! The white boy must not talk in that manner to a chief of the red warriors. Does the white boy know why I have brought him here?”

“To keep me a prisoner, I suppose.”

“No; Long Knife wants him not as a prisoner. Long Knife looks for more than that. He wants some sport—and he is going to have it.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“Long Knife will give to the white boy’s mother a sight that will please her eyes. She shall see her son burnt at the stake.”

CHAPTER XXX
BACK TO THE CABIN—CONCLUSION

Joe had often heard of the extreme cruelties of the Indians, and now he was brought face to face with what might be expected of such a black-hearted warrior as Long Knife.

It was not enough that this rascal contemplated burning the young pioneer at the stake,—the most cruel death devised by the savages,—but he also calculated to inflict equal if not deeper pain on the youth’s mother by making the woman witness the torture of her offspring.

“Long Knife, you are a—a monster!” cried the boy, when he could find his tongue.

At these words the eyes of the Indian chief gleamed with cruel pleasure.

“The white boy is joyful over the news that Long Knife brings to him,” he remarked dryly.

“If you do this thing you will surely suffer for it.”

“In what way will Long Knife suffer? The cries of his enemies is sweet music to his ears.”

“Daniel Boone and my other friends will hear of this and they will, sooner or later, bring you to justice for it.”

“The whites must conquer the red men first, and they have not yet done so.”

“They came pretty close to doing it yesterday.”

At this Long Knife could no longer suppress his anger over the outcome of that contest. Stepping forward, he hit Joe a savage blow in the mouth.

“The white boy’s tongue runs too much,” he said, and strode away out of the stockade.

Mrs. Winship and Clara had not heard this conversation, so they knew nothing of what was in store for Joe. Several times he tried to tell them, but each time the words stuck in his throat.

It was awful to think of suffering such a death, but Joe had to think of his mother quite as much as of himself.

“The shock will kill her, too,” he told himself. “To see me die by inches will set her crazy.”

At last he managed to call Clara Parsons to one side and tell her of what Long Knife had said.

“Oh, Joe, will he really be as wicked as that?” asked the frightened girl, her face growing deadly pale.

“I think he means to keep his word, Clara.”

“But—but—oh, Joe, it is dreadful!” And she burst into tears.

“I know it, Clara. But if I’ve got to die I’ll do it as bravely as I can. It’s mother I am thinking about. You must comfort her all you can.”

“You must tell her at once, Joe. She’ll want to talk to you before—before——” The girl could not finish.

“I can’t tell her, Clara—the words won’t come.”

“Then I’ll do it for you,” was the slow answer.

As expected, it was a great shock to Mrs. Winship, and when she realized the situation fully she fainted dead away. On recovering she clasped her son to her breast, refusing to let him go.

“They shall not separate us,” she cried firmly.

“Mother, perhaps it is all—all for the best,” said the youth, as bravely as he could. “Everybody has got to die sometime. Long Knife wants to make you suffer. I want you to be brave. He’ll be disappointed if you take it calmly.”

But the mother only shook her head.

“It is too much, Joe,” she wailed. “You are my only boy. I’d rather die in your stead.”

It was less than an hour after this that an Indian guard came in and separated Joe from the other captives. The boy was taken to a wigwam and there bound hands and feet to a post planted firmly in the ground.

Slowly the afternoon wore away and nobody came near the young pioneer. The wigwam was very close and he was hot and thirsty, yet none came to give him even a drink of water. Long Knife was trying to weaken him, so that his torture at the stake might be so much the greater.

In vain the youth tugged at the thongs that bound him to the post. The Indians had done their work well, and although he cut both his wrists he could not release either hand.

Long Knife had gone off on a scout, but returned an hour before sunset. Many of his warriors were angry over the way the battle against the whites had terminated, but when he announced that the young paleface was to be burnt at the stake the young braves set up a howl of pleasure, and the defeat was forgotten.

It was settled that the burning was to take place at sunset, and this awful ceremony was preceded by several incantations by the medicine man of the village, and then by a fire dance of the Indians themselves.

While the dance was in progress Mrs. Winship and Clara were brought out and their hands were bound behind them. Four squaws stood close by, each with a whip in hand, ready to flog either of the captives should they show any signs of disobedience.

In the center of a clearing another post was planted, and presently Joe was led forth from the wigwam and stood up against this. Then a rope, soaked in water, was tied around both the youth and the post, making him a prisoner once more.

The Indians had a pile of brushwood handy, and this was speedily shoved up around the captive. Then Long Knife stepped forward and faced Joe, his black eyes gleaming more maliciously than ever.

“The white boy is trying to be brave, but he is a coward at heart,” began the Indian chief.

To this Joe made no answer.

“Why does not the white boy beg for mercy?”

“What would be the use?” answered Joe. “Long Knife doesn’t know what mercy means.”

“The white boy is right. Long Knife is merciless—and Long Knife does not forget.”

So speaking the Indian chief took a torch from the hands of one of his braves and set fire to the brushwood.

As the flames began to mount around Joe’s lower limbs Mrs. Winship let out a scream of anguish and then fainted in Clara’s arms.

But scarcely had that scream rent the air than there came a cry of alarm from an Indian guard. Then followed half a dozen rifle-shots, and with his torch still in hand Long Knife pitched over into the burning brushwood, dead!

“The palefaces! The palefaces!” was the cry. “They have surrounded the village!”

The rifle-cracks increased, and then came a yell from the throats of fully twoscore of hunters, and Daniel Boone, Ezra Winship, Peter Parsons, and some others appeared. Mr. Winship made straight for the burning brushwood and kicked it in all directions. Then came several slashes of his hunting knife, and Joe was free.

“Father!” cried the boy. He could scarcely believe the evidence of his eyes.

“Yes, yes,” answered Ezra Winship. “Here, take this pistol and defend yourself.”

The fighting on all sides was now fearful, and hunting knives and tomahawks were freely used. The whites lost no time in seeing Mrs. Winship and Clara to a place of safety, and in caring for the other captives.

For once the red men had been caught napping, and the battle went against them from the very start. With Long Knife dead they speedily became demoralized, and in less than quarter of an hour after the first shot was fired they were fleeing in all directions.

But the blood of the pioneers was now up, and the chase after the Indians was kept up all of that night and also the day following. How many were killed and wounded will never be known, but it is a fact that from that time forth the bands that had formerly been headed by Long Knife and Red Feather became a thing of the past. Those who were not killed left that vicinity entirely and their squaws and children went after them.

Wounded though he was, Joe went with his father after the Indians, so that he did not return to his mother’s side until sometime after his rescue from the flames.

It was a happy reunion and one long remembered, both by the Winships and the Parsons. And all of the other captives who had at last escaped from the clutches of the red men were equally joyful.

At the Indian village were found the most of the things stolen from the whites, and these articles were, later on, returned to their respective owners.

It was a happy band that returned to Boonesborough about a week later. Those left at the fort turned out to meet those who were coming in, and a celebration was held that lasted far into the night. Mrs. Parsons was especially glad to see her daughter alive and well, and Harry was equally pleased.

“I hope we may never be separated again,” said Harry, who was doing as well as could be expected.

“Amen to that,” returned Joe. “And I also hope that we have had our last fight with the Indians.”

Here let me draw to a close this tale of adventures while “With Boone on the Frontier.”

The return to the cabin by our friends was the cause of another celebration. Mrs. Winship was much pleased by the new homestead, and it was decided that rather than build another cabin the old one should be enlarged and the two families should remain together until times became more settled.

The fights with the Indians continued for several months, but there were no engagements of importance, and in the fall some troops came in from the East, and then the uprisings became largely a thing of the past.

It was not long before Harry was able to be around again, and then the work of enlarging the cabin was begun in earnest. In the end the building was made nearly twice as large as before, and here the Parsons and the Winships dwelt for three years. Then Mr. Parsons, aided by the Winships, built another cabin for himself, and also started to cultivate an extra stretch of land.

During those years a warm attachment sprang up between Harry and Harmony, and one spring they became man and wife and went to settle on a farm of their own. A year later Joe was married to Clara Parsons, and they took a tract a little further west. At the same time Cora married Darry Ford, and the pair settled down beside Joe and Clara. It may be mentioned here that all were prosperous, and in later years Joe served in the State Legislature of Kentucky with much honor. Daniel Boone was especially proud of him, and often spoke of the young representative as “one of my boys, and a good one, too!”

The days of peril and privation are now a thing of the past in Kentucky, and prosperity flourishes on every hand. Yet it is well at times to look back and learn something of what the men of those days endured in order that the present generation might receive the blessings bestowed upon them.

THE FAMOUS ROVER BOYS SERIES

By ARTHUR W. WINFIELD

American Stories of American Boys and Girls

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THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL
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THE ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN
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THE ROVER BOYS IN THE JUNGLE
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THE ROVER BOYS OUT WEST
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THE ROVER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES
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THE ROVER BOYS IN THE MOUNTAINS
Or A Hunt for Fame and Fortune

THE ROVER BOYS ON LAND AND SEA
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THE ROVER BOYS IN CAMP
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THE ROVER BOYS ON THE RIVER
Or The Search for the Missing Houseboat

THE ROVER BOYS ON THE PLAINS
Or The Mystery of Red Rock Ranch

THE ROVER BOYS IN SOUTHERN WATERS
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THE ROVER BOYS ON THE FARM
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THE ROVER BOYS ON TREASURE ISLE
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THE ROVER BOYS AT COLLEGE
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THE ROVER BOYS DOWN EAST
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THE ROVER BOYS IN THE AIR
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THE ROVER BOYS IN NEW YORK
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THE ROVER BOYS IN ALASKA
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THE PUTNAM HALL MYSTERY
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THE PUTNAM HALL ENCAMPMENT
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A story full of vim and vigor, telling what the cadets did during the summer encampment, including a visit to a mysterious old mill, said to be haunted. The book has a wealth of fun in it.

THE PUTNAM HALL REBELLION
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The boys had good reasons for running away during Captain Putnam’s absence. They had plenty of fun, and several queer adventures.

THE PUTNAM HALL CHAMPIONS
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In this volume the Putnam Hall Cadets show what they can do in various keen rivalries on the athletic field and elsewhere. There is one victory which leads to a most unlooked-for discovery.

THE PUTNAM HALL CADETS
Or Good Times in School and Out

The cadets are lively, flesh-and-blood fellows, bound to make friends from the start. There are some keen rivalries, in school and out, and something is told of a remarkable midnight feast and a hazing that had an unlooked-for ending.

THE PUTNAM HALL RIVALS
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DICK HAMILTON’S CADET DAYS

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The hero, a very rich young man, is sent to a military academy to make his way without the use of money. A fine picture of life at an up-to-date military academy is given, with target-shooting, broad-sword exercise, trick riding, sham battles, and all. Dick proves himself a hero in the best sense of the word.

DICK HAMILTON’S STEAM YACHT

Or A Young Millionaire and the Kidnappers

A series of adventures while yachting in which our hero’s wealth plays a part. Dick is marooned on an island, recovers his yacht and foils the kidnappers. The wrong young man is spirited away, Dick gives chase and there is a surprising rescue at sea.

DICK HAMILTON’S FOOTBALL TEAM

Or A Young Millionaire on the Gridiron

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Other volumes in preparation.

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WITH BOONE ON THE FRONTIER, Or The Pioneer Boys of Old Kentucky.

Relates the true-to-life adventures of two boys who, in company with their folks, move westward with Daniel Boone. Contains many thrilling scenes among the Indians and encounters with wild animals.

PIONEER BOYS OF THE GREAT NORTHWEST, Or With Lewis and Clark Across the Rockies.

A splendid story describing in detail the great expedition formed under the leadership of Lewis and Clark, and telling what was done by the pioneer boys who were first to penetrate the wilderness of the northwest.

PIONEER BOYS OF THE GOLD FIELDS, Or The Nugget Hunters of ’49.

Giving the particulars of the great rush of the gold seekers to California in 1849. In the party making its way across the continent are three boys who become chums, and share in no end of adventures.

WITH CUSTER IN THE BLACK HILLS, Or A Young Scout Among the Indians.

Tells of the experiences of a youth who, with his parents, goes to the Black Hills in search of gold. Custer’s last battle is well described.

BOYS OF THE FORT, Or A Young Captain’s Pluck.

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THE YOUNG BANDMASTER, Or Concert, Stage and Battlefield.

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OFF FOR HAWAII, Or The Mystery of a Great Volcano.

Several boys start on a tour of the Hawaiian Islands. They have heard that there is a treasure located in the vicinity of Kilauea, the largest active volcano in the world, and go in search of it.

A SAILOR BOY WITH DEWEY, Or Afloat in the Philippines.

The story of Dewey’s victory in Manila Bay as it appeared to a real, live American youth who was in the navy at the time. Many adventures in Manila and in the interior follow.

WHEN SANTIAGO FELL, Or The War Adventures of Two Chums.

Two boys leave New York to join their parents in Cuba. The war between Spain and the Cubans is on, and the boys are detained at Santiago, but escape across the bay at night. Many adventures follow.

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BY ALLEN CHAPMAN.

Ralph Fairbanks was bound to become a railroad man, as his father had been before him. Step by step he worked his way upward, serving first in the Roundhouse, cleaning locomotives; then in the Switch Tower, clearing the tracks; then on the Engine, as a fireman; then as engineer of the Overland Express; and finally as Train Dispatcher.

In this line of books there is revealed the whole workings of a great American railroad system. There are adventures in abundance—railroad wrecks, dashes through forest fires, the pursuit of a “wildcat” locomotive, the disappearance of a pay car with a large sum of money on board—but there is much more than this—the intense rivalry among railroads and railroad men, the working out of running schedules, the getting through “on time” in spite of all obstacles, and the manipulation of railroad securities by evil men who wish to rule or ruin.

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RALPH, THE TRAIN DISPATCHER
Or The Mystery of the Pay Car.

RALPH ON THE OVERLAND EXPRESS
Or The Trials and Triumphs of a Young Engineer.

RALPH ON THE ENGINE
Or The Young Fireman of the Limited Mail.

RALPH OF THE ROUND HOUSE
Or Bound to Become a Railroad Man.

RALPH IN THE SWITCH TOWER
Or Clearing the Track.

12mo. Illustrated. Handsomely bound in cloth.

Price, 60 Cents per Volume. Postpaid.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, — NEW YORK

THE TOM SWIFT SERIES

By VICTOR APPLETON

12mo CLOTH, ILLUSTRATED. PRICE PER VOLUME 40 CENTS, POSTPAID

These spirited tales convey in a realistic way the wonderful advances in land and sea locomotion. Stories like these are impressed upon the youthful memory and their reading is productive only of good.

TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR CYCLE
Or Fun and Adventure on the Road

TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR BOAT
Or The Rivals of Lake Carlopa

TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIRSHIP
Or The Stirring Cruise of the Red Cloud

TOM SWIFT AND HIS SUBMARINE BOAT
Or Under the Ocean for Sunken Treasure

TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RUNABOUT
Or The Speediest Car on the Road

TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIRELESS MESSAGE
Or The Castaways of Earthquake Island

TOM SWIFT AMONG THE DIAMOND MAKERS
Or The Secret of Phantom Mountain

TOM SWIFT IN THE CAVES OF ICE
Or The Wreck of the Airship

TOM SWIFT AND HIS SKY RACER
Or The Quickest Flight on Record

TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RIFLE
Or Daring Adventures in Elephant Land

TOM SWIFT IN THE CITY OF GOLD
Or Marvellous Adventures Underground

TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIR GLIDER
Or Seeking the Platinum Treasure

TOM SWIFT IN CAPTIVITY
Or A Daring Escape by Airship

TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIZARD CAMERA
Or The Perils of Moving Picture Taking

TOM SWIFT AND HIS GREAT SEARCHLIGHT
Or On the Border for Uncle Sam

TOM SWIFT AND HIS GIANT CANNON
Or The Longest Shots on Record

TOM SWIFT AND HIS PHOTO TELEPHONE
Or The Picture that Saved a Fortune

Grosset & Dunlap, 526 West 26th St., New York

THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH SERIES

By GRAHAM B. FORBES

Never was there a cleaner, brighter, more manly boy than Frank Allen, the hero of this series of boys’ tales, and never was there a better crowd of lads to associate with than the students of the School. All boys will read these stories with deep interest. The rivalry between the towns along the river was of the keenest, and plots and counterplots to win the championships, at baseball, at football, at boat racing, at track athletics, and at ice hockey, were without number. Any lad reading one volume of this series will surely want the others.

The Boys of Columbia High;
Or The All Around Rivals of the School.

The Boys of Columbia High on the Diamond;
Or Winning Out by Pluck.

The Boys of Columbia High on the River;
Or The Boat Race Plot that Failed.

The Boys of Columbia High on the Gridiron;
Or The Struggle for the Silver Cup.

The Boys of Columbia High on the Ice;
Or Out for the Hockey Championship.

12mo. Illustrated. Handsomely bound in cloth, with cover design and wrappers in colors.

Price, 40 cents per volume.

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK

The Outdoor Chums Series

By CAPTAIN QUINCY ALLEN

The outdoor chums are four wide-awake lads, sons of wealthy men of a small city located on a lake. The boys love outdoor life, and are greatly interested in hunting, fishing, and picture taking. They have motor cycles, motor boats, canoes, etc., and during their vacations go everywhere and have all sorts of thrilling adventures. The stories give full directions for camping out, how to fish, how to hunt wild animals and prepare the skins for stuffing, how to manage a canoe, how to swim, etc. Full of the very spirit of outdoor life.

THE OUTDOOR CHUMS
Or, The First Tour of the Rod, Gun and Camera Club.

THE OUTDOOR CHUMS ON THE LAKE
Or, Lively Adventures on Wildcat Island.

THE OUTDOOR CHUMS IN THE FOREST
Or, Laying the Ghost of Oak Ridge.

THE OUTDOOR CHUMS ON THE GULF
Or, Rescuing the Lost Balloonists.

THE OUTDOOR CHUMS AFTER BIG GAME
Or, Perilous Adventures in the Wilderness.

12mo. Averaging 240 pages. Illustrated. Handsomely bound in Cloth.

Price, 40 Cents per Volume

GROSSET & DUNLAP — NEW YORK

The Young Reporter Series

BY HOWARD R. GARIS

The author is a practised journalist, and these stories convey a true picture of the workings of a great newspaper. The incidents are taken from life.

12mo. Bound in Cloth. Illustrated.

Price, 40 Cents per Volume. Postpaid.

FROM OFFICE BOY TO REPORTER
Or The First Step in Journalism.

LARRY DEXTER, THE YOUNG REPORTER
Or Strange Adventures in a Great City.

LARRY DEXTER’S GREAT SEARCH
Or The Hunt for a Missing Millionaire.

LARRY DEXTER AND THE BANK MYSTERY
Or A Young Reporter in Wall Street.

LARRY DEXTER AND THE STOLEN BOY
Or A Young Reporter on the Lakes.

The Sea Treasure Series

BY ROY ROCKWOOD

No manly boy ever grew tired of sea stories—there is a fascination about them, and they are a recreation to the mind. These books are especially interesting and are full of adventure, clever dialogue and plenty of fun.

12mo. Bound in Cloth. Illustrated.

Price, 40 Cents per Volume. Postpaid.

ADRIFT ON THE PACIFIC
Or The Secret of the Island Cave.

THE CRUISE OF THE TREASURE SHIP
Or The Castaways of Floating Island.

THE RIVAL OCEAN DIVERS
Or The Search for a Sunken Treasure.

JACK NORTH’S TREASURE HUNT
Or Daring Adventures in South America.

GROSSET & DUNLAP — NEW YORK

The Rise in Life Series

By Horatio Alger, Jr.

These are Copyrighted Stories which cannot be obtained elsewhere. They are the stories last written by this famous author.

12mo. Illustrated. Bound in cloth, stamped in colored inks.

Price, 40 Cents per Volume, Postpaid.

THE YOUNG BOOK AGENT, Or Frank Hardy’s Road to Success

A plain but uncommonly interesting tale of everyday life, describing the ups and downs of a boy book agent.

FROM FARM TO FORTUNE, Or Nat Nason’s Strange Experience

Nat was a poor country lad. Work on the farm was hard, and after a quarrel with his uncle, with whom he resided, he struck out for himself.

OUT FOR BUSINESS, Or Robert Frost’s Strange Career

Relates the adventures of a country boy who is compelled to leave home and seek his fortune in the great world at large.

FALLING IN WITH FORTUNE, Or The Experiences of a Young Secretary

This is a companion tale to “Out for Business,” but complete in itself, and tells of the further doings of Robert Frost as private secretary.

YOUNG CAPTAIN JACK, Or The Son of a Soldier

The scene is laid in the South during the Civil War, and the hero is a waif who was cast up by the sea and adopted by a rich Southern planter.

NELSON THE NEWSBOY, Or Afloat in New York

Mr. Alger is always at his best in the portrayal of life in New York City, and this story is among the best he has given our young readers.

LOST AT SEA, Or Robert Roscoe’s Strange Cruise

A sea story of uncommon interest. The hero falls in with a strange derelict—a ship given over to the wild animals of a menagerie.

JERRY, THE BACKWOODS BOY, Or the Parkhurst Treasure

Depicts life on a farm of New York State. The mystery of the treasure will fascinate every boy. Jerry is a character well worth knowing.

RANDY OF THE RIVER, Or the adventures of a Young Deckhand

Life on a river steamboat is not so romantic as some young people may imagine, but Randy Thompson wanted work and took what was offered.

JOE, THE HOTEL BOY, Or Winning Out by Pluck

A graphic account of the adventures of a country boy in the city.

BEN LOGAN’S TRIUMPH, Or The Boys of Boxwood Academy

The trials and triumphs of a city newsboy in the country.

GROSSET & DUNLAP — NEW YORK

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

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Table of Contents

- WITH BOONE ON THE FRONTIER
- PREFACE
- CONTENTS
- CHAPTER I TWO BOYS OF THE WILDERNESS
- CHAPTER II PURSUED BY THE INDIANS
- CHAPTER III A DISMAYING DISCOVERY
- CHAPTER IV LOST UNDERGROUND
- CHAPTER V THE ESCAPE OF THE CAPTIVES
- CHAPTER VI HARRY AND THE BEAR
- CHAPTER VII WHAT HAPPENED IN THE RAIN
- CHAPTER VIII DAYS OF PERIL
- CHAPTER IX DANIEL BOONE, THE PIONEER
- CHAPTER X BOONE LEADS THE WAY
- CHAPTER XI WITH NO TIME TO SPARE
- CHAPTER XII SETTLING DOWN AT BOONESBOROUGH
- CHAPTER XIII PERILS OF THE YOUNG HUNTERS
- CHAPTER XIV ON THE TRAIL OF A THIEF
- CHAPTER XV FIGHTING THE FLAMES
- CHAPTER XVI THE FALL OF A HICKORY TREE
- CHAPTER XVII AN ADVENTURE ON SNOWSHOES
- CHAPTER XVIII NIGHT WITH THE WOLVES
- CHAPTER XIX THE HUNTERS HUNTED
- CHAPTER XX DANIEL BOONE’S GREAT SHOT
- CHAPTER XXI THE FOOT RACE AT THE FORT
- CHAPTER XXII WHO WAS THE WINNER?
- CHAPTER XXIII THE RESCUE OF JEMIMA BOONE
- CHAPTER XXIV A NIGHT RAID BY THE INDIANS
- CHAPTER XXV IN A FOREST FIRE
- CHAPTER XXVI THE ATTACK ON THE FORT
- CHAPTER XXVII SHOT ON THE ROOF
- CHAPTER XXVIII THE RETREAT OF THE INDIANS
- CHAPTER XXIX THE LONG-LOST AT LAST
- CHAPTER XXX BACK TO THE CABIN—CONCLUSION
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE