A tall, muscular young fellow, dressed in hunter garb, came silently out of the woods from the north side of the Kentucky river, about a hundred years ago, and pausing by the bole of a gigantic beech tree, scanned the opposite shore with keen, silent attention.
There was a peculiar air of resolute fearless deviltry in the face of the young hunter, coupled with the piercing, roving glances of his intensely black eyes, that showed he was no novice to the trade of hunter and scout. He was in the midst of the hunting-grounds of Shawnee and Delaware, miles away from the then infant settlement of Boonesborough; and he was all alone with his rifle and knife, to take care of himself.
The look of his face abundantly evinced that he felt quite equal to the task, and only the acquired caution of his craft kept him from wading boldly into the river at once.
But as it was, he had learned the lesson of the successful Indian-slayer by hard experience. Therefore, now, it was with a long, deep scrutiny that he scanned the opposite banks, across the first open piece of landscape he had come on in a day’s travel. On the opposite bank all was still as death, save for the occasional note of a bird. It was late in May and the forest was all blinded with its canopy of leaves, while game was distant and hiding in the coverts.
As the young hunter looked, a black squirrel, shyest of all its kind, ran out on a limb of a tree on the other side of the river, and stood, whisking its tail and chattering, before his eyes, above the stream.
“Wal,” muttered the young man, as he stepped boldly out, “thar kurn’t be much to be skeered on when you’re thar, my little kuss. Go ahead, Simon.”
Without further ado he descended the bank, deep, brown, and bare, for some sixty feet, and then ran quickly across a bed of sand into the shallow stream.
The Kentucky river, in winter a broad and powerful stream, had dwindled under the summer heats to a rivulet not more than two hundred feet across, running over a sandy rocky bed walled in by high banks.
Into this stream waded the hunter, and soon found himself midway between the banks and up to his armpits in water. He was obliged to lift up rifle and powder-horn over his head as he waded along, and every now and then he would stop to brace himself against the current, and glance anxiously up and down either side of the river, as if anticipating the presence of enemies, ready to take him at advantage.
At last the water began to sink below his arms; and slowly he emerged from the river, strode through the shallows, and stood on the opposite shore.
“By the holy poker!” he muttered, as he climbed the further bank, “that ar’s a bad scrape fur to ketch a kuss in. You’d best git to cover right smartly, Simon, ef you’re the spy you used to was. Git!”
And, as he spoke, he hurried up the bank into the woods, and threw himself down under a tree, completely hidden from sight. With the hunter’s instinct, he lay still as death, listening intently for sounds. The presence of the squirrel had assured him of the quiet of things before, or he would not have ventured where he did. But, the hunter knew too well that a very few minutes were able to change the whole current of events around him, and that the chance passing of a single Indian might render his own situation very perilous.
It was therefore with the keenest attention that he looked and listened in the woods all round, before going further.
Presently came the sweet pipe of a red-bird from a tree not far off, and the hunter muttered:
“All right on that side.”
He knew the note, as belonging to one of the most wary of birds. Then several other birds chirped at intervals, and he heard the tiny chatter of squirrels all round him.
“Simon, you blamed ornary kuss, I reckon you kin git,” said the hunter deliberately, and he rose to his feet.
Hardly had he done so, when he sunk down again as if shot, for the loud snap of a dry stick sounded plainly in the air, and it came from the further bank of the river.
“Follered, by the holy poker!” he ejaculated, in a low tone. “Now, who the Old Scratch kin that be?”
As he spoke he threw himself down behind the tree, and, bringing all his intelligence to bear on the north bank, which he had just left, awaited the advance of the stranger.
There was no more noise now. The other, whoever he was, had evidently been startled by his own carelessness. Apart from the snapping of that single stick, there was no further sign of human presence on the north bank.
The man on the south bank lay there watching silently and eagerly, but saw nothing. The usual noises of the woods kept on around him, and he could see squirrels moving on the other side of the river.
There was a small deserted space on either side of him, and a patch of the same breadth on the opposite side that showed him that the wild animals were shy of human creatures, and revealed to him the locality of his enemy.
In those two places all were still, and, as unerringly as if he had seen the strange hunter, Simon guessed that the latter had come to the identical tree by which himself had first scanned the river.
“And by the holy poker, ef that’s so, the kuss kin see my trail,” he grumbled, half aloud. “Simon, Simon, you orter be ashamed of yourself fur leavin’ them huff-tracks in the mud, when ye mout ’a’ jumped from stone to stone.”
Even while he grumbled, his eyes were fixed on the great beech tree, and the heavy Kentucky rifle he carried was trained on its bole, while he watched with intense gaze for a motion of the foe he guessed to be there.
Suddenly he shifted his gaze and aim to a point on one side of the tree, and fired at something moving there.
Leaping to one side out of the smoke, he distinctly beheld the splinters of bark fly where his bullet struck, and the next moment felt the stinging whiz of a bullet, that grazed his own side, as an answering puff of white smoke came from the other side of the tree, followed by the sharp crack of a rifle. The bullet stung him sharply, and he dropped to the earth, catching a glimpse of the vanishing figure of a man on the other side of the river, flitting from tree to tree.
“By the holy poker, that’s a right smart kuss, whoever he is,” muttered Simon, ruefully, as he rubbed his side, “Who’d ’a’ thunk he’d ’a’ fooled me as quick as that, and with sich an old trick. By the holy poker, Simon, you’d better go and soak your head ef you ain’t smarter than that kuss. But, I’ll get even with him. Darn me ef he shall fool me ag’in like that. No, sir. Mister stranger, be you white or red, runnygade or Shawnee, I’ll hev your skulp fur that ar’ shot, or my name ain’t Simon Kenton.”
And the renowned ranger darted from tree to tree on his passage up the river, following the shadowy form of his antagonist, as he caught occasional glimpses of it, and both tending toward a spot a mile further up the stream, where a wooded island reduced the danger of crossing to a less degree.
The two enemies raced for that island, loading as they ran.
In ten minutes more, Kenton reached a bend of the river, in the midst of which stood the little wooded island at which he thought his foe would be likely to try to cross. At that turn he made a discovery which caused him to stop with a gratified chuckle.
He was on the inside of the curve, and the position of the island was such that he commanded the whole of the further side. No human being could cross there by daylight without being seen by an observer at the center of the curve.
Besides this, he could see the further bank of the river beyond for nearly two miles, and his enemy would be obliged to make a large detour if he expected to cross at all. That he wished to cross, the hunter felt certain, but he had totally gone out of sight now, and the opposite shore looked as silent and deserted as when Kenton first entered the river.
“By the holy poker, I’ve got ye, middlin’ sure,” muttered the ranger, gleefully. “Ef ye try to move off, I’m arter ye, like a painter arter a young shoat. Ef ye stay thar, durn me ef I kurn’t wait as long as you kin. So now.”
He sheltered himself under a great spreading tree and lay there watching the opposite shore. He knew well enough that his enemy had not gone thence. The practiced senses of the hunter would have detected a moving figure, however it tried to shelter itself among the trees; and moreover, the scouts of nature, the free wild creatures of the forest, served by their actions to indicate the whereabouts of each foe to the other, well used as both were to reading the open book of nature.
From various indications, Kenton came to the conclusion that his enemy was lying down behind the gnarled roots of a huge old oak at the edge of the bank opposite the end of the island; and Kenton was right.
There behind that tree lay his wily foe, watching the very tree at which Simon was posted. As far as woodcraft went, it was diamond cut diamond with the two.
Presently Simon chuckled to himself, as a thought struck him.
“Now ef that ar’s a Shawnee hunter, mebbe I kin fool him yit. He don’t know who the Old Scratch I am, and ef I give a Shawnee signal mebbe he’ll show.”
The hunter rose to his feet behind the tree, and shouted the Shawnee war-cry with the full force of his lungs.
It was instantly answered from the other side of the river, by the peculiar whoop of the Miamis.
In the same instant Simon stuck his cap on the end of his rifle and protruded it from behind his tree.
Hardly had he done so when a bullet whizzed through the cap, with an accuracy of aim that surprised even him.
The ranger stepped from behind the tree, and leveled his rifle at the white puff of smoke on the other side of the river. He saw the form of a man vanish as he fired, and was greeted with a derisive whoop of scorn.
Kenton sunk back to his old position to reload, muttering: “By the holy poker, mister, thur bean’t no discount on you fur a warrior. Kurn’t fool that kuss. He must ’a’ seen the cap. That skulp’s wuth hav’in’. Reckon it must be old Blackfish or Otter Lifter hisself. No common brave c’u’d be as smart as that.”
It certainly seemed as if matters were at a dead lock. Two shots had been fired by Simon Kenton, the best marksman of the border, after Boone, and each had brought nothing but a return as close as his own.
Reckless as the nature of the ranger was, he began to think that he couldn’t afford to try any more risks with such a foe. The chances were too evenly balanced. He threw himself down in a place whence he could command a good view of the north bank, and determined to wait. He was well aware that night would surely bring things to a crisis and end the suspense. For darkness he determined to wait, resolved not to give his foe another chance.
For at least an hour all was profoundly still, and not a motion on either bank betrayed the presence of the two wily antagonists. Then Simon Kenton started violently and muttered to himself:
“By the holy poker, what’s that?”
There was a distinct rustling of trees and bushes on the little island in the river.
“Is that kuss the devil himself?” queried Simon, wonderingly. “How in the Old Scratch did he get thar?”
The sound of rustling increased on the island, and at last the ranger saw a bush move.
Crack went his rifle on the instant.
It was blended with a report from the opposite side of the river, and Kenton saw the white smoke curl up from the very place whence his foe had not stirred.
But where went that bullet?
The question was answered ere asked.
Both foemen had arrived at the island, and a shower of splintered bark and twigs flew up from the midst of the bush at which both marksmen had aimed!
A loud shriek, in the unmistakable tones of a woman, rose from the island, and the rustling of bushes became violent, as some one fell back into cover.
Then all was still again.
Simon rubbed his eyes. For a moment he was so bewildered that he forgot to reload his rifle.
“By the holy poker, it’s a gal on the island, and we must ’a’ nigh shot her!” he ejaculated, aloud. “Wal, ef this don’t beat cockfightin’, I’m durned. So now!”
The words seemed to relieve him in some way, for the hunter-instinct returned, and he proceeded to reload his rifle.
But as he loaded, he muttered:
“Simon, Simon, go home and soak your head for a durned fool! Three shots fired, and nary hit. What would Boone say ef he knowed it. By the holy poker, I’d as soon face Old Scratch as face the cunnel arter this bout, ef I don’t git that kuss’s sculp. So now.”
He rammed home the bullet with a vicious thump as he said this, and resumed his weary watch. The situation had become more complicated.
A woman was on that island, a white woman, or she would not have shrieked. The squaw is well-nigh as stoical in danger as her warrior husband.
On the other side the river was a merciless savage, who would not hesitate to scalp her if he got a chance. In a moment the native chivalry of the Kentuckian was up in arms, and his face assumed an expression of grim ferocity, such as few men would have cared to face, as he scanned the opposite shore, muttering, as he clenched his rifle:
“Now may I never fire a shot ag’in as long as I live, ef I let you git your claws on that gal, Mister Stranger. Sink or swim I’m a-goin’ fur her jest as soon as it’s dark, an’ ef thar ain’t some clawin’ o’ wool on that there island about the time we git there, wallop me for a skunk. So now.”
He remained at his post, watching his enemy’s tree with a sleepless vigilance and ferocity, that told how much in earnest he was. Hour after hour passed; the sun sunk down to the west and fell behind the curtain of forest; the dark shadows sloped weirdly across the tree-trunks; the deer flitted about through the aisles of the woods, unconscious of the two statue-like figures that lay on the ground, each watching his enemy’s lair like a lurking tiger; squirrel and bird, cicada and snake, fox and rabbit, wandered about the vicinity perfectly undisturbed; for the two men lay so still that the animals had come to the conclusion they must be dead. Then at last the twilight faded into darkness, and the river and banks became indistinct. Suddenly Kenton leaped to his feet and dashed through the cover to a narrow place opposite the island. He used no caution, for now the island sheltered him from view entirely. But, as he dashed into the water, he heard his enemy thunder along on the opposite bank, and knew that it would be a race for the island.
The sturdy ranger uttered a fierce war-whoop, and struggled through the deep water toward the island.
At the place where he was, the stream was only some twenty feet broad, but, it was swimming deep and quite rapid.
On the other side it was five times as broad, but much more shallow, so that his opponent would have that advantage over him. Still, being on the arc of a circle, the distance to be traversed was much greater, and reduced the chances to evenness.
Simon Kenton leaped into the current, rifle in hand, and sunk over his head in a moment, striking out for the opposite shore with desperate energy. Twice the strong current carried him down, and twice he touched a rock and shoved against it so vigorously that he nearly reached the opposite shore. Each time, the weight of his long rifle ducked his head and nearly strangled him, while the struggle became fiercer than ever.
At last, just as he was passing the end of the island, he caught a friendly bough and dragged himself up to shore with dripping weapons, just as he caught sight of the dark figure of his enemy about the middle of the stream in the shallows, but up to his waist in water.
Simon Kenton uttered the Shawnee war-whoop once more and tore through the brushwood to intercept his foe.
“Now, ye ornary kuss, I’ve got ye, by the holy poker!” he growled savagely, as he stood on the bank above, and leveled his rifle at the other.
Click! fizz! sput!
The soaked powder missed fire, and Kenton uttered a savage growl as he flung the heavy rifle with all his force at his opponent, who was just raising his own weapon to fire back.
The ranger’s rifle hit the other as it went off, with such violence, that the man in the water staggered, slipped in the current, and fell back splashing and going under.
“Now we’re even, durn your painted hide!” yelled the irate Kenton, as he made one tremendous bound off the high bank into the water, drawing his knife as he leaped.
In another moment two strong men were grappling in water nearly up to their armpits, each having a knife in his right hand, and grasping his antagonist’s wrist with his left.
They tripped and stumbled, wrestled and struggled in grim silence, both being equally matched in strength and agility, and fighting with the deadliest ferocity. Twice they went under water, and stumbled up without relaxing their gripe, and still neither had gained the least advantage.
At last, almost at the same moment, Kenton and his foe wrenched away from each other to regain breath, and stood panting and glaring at each other for several seconds at about six feet apart.
The Kentuckian was the first to speak.
“You’re a tough cuss, stranger, I don’t deny it; but you and me’s got to settle this hyar business afore we go home, and by the holy poker, you kurn’t sculp that gal, ef you’re Blackfish hisself. So now.”
The stranger had been entirely silent so far in the struggle. As Kenton finished, he put out one hand and said:
“Simon, is that you? Well, this is a good story.”
The voice of the stranger was deep and powerful; he spoke better English than Kenton, and the latter seemed to recognize the tones in a moment.
The ranger sprung back in the water, with a cry of wonder, and shouted out:
“Gee-Christopher-cricket-and-blue-blazes! Wal, ef we arn’t be’n a couple of durndest jack-mules this side of ole Virginny. By the holy poker, it’s Cunnel Boone!”
Daniel Boone himself indulged in a short laugh, instantly checked, as he quietly said:
“And I took you for a Shawnee scout, Kenton, and thought you wanted to scalp the girl on the island. Well, well.”
Not another word passed between the two famous hunters, so strangely met, for some time. They returned their knives in silence, groped about in the water with their moccasined feet, and discovered their rifles, with which they slowly landed on the island, both buried in curious cogitations.
They ascended the bank together and entered the thick cover of bushes before either of them spoke, and then Kenton, in a sort of sheepish tone, said:
“’Twon’t do to tell this story too permiskus, cunnel, I reckon. I’m clean ashamed o’ myself fur not pluggin’ ye, when ye give me such a chance. I war a-sayin’ to myself, what would cunnel say ef he knowed I’d made sich a show o’ myself to a Injun varmint, leave alone a white man, and sich a white man as you, cunnel.”
Boone again uttered one of his low laughs.
“To tell you the truth, Simon, I was thinking that I was the man to feel ashamed. You never saw me, and you put two holes into my old cap, for all that. I saw you, and missed you. Simon, I thank God for my erring hand.”
There was a short silence, both hunters being busily employed in drawing the charges from their wet rifles, and wiping the same. Then Kenton spoke, with a curious mingling of pride and regret in his voice, hesitating in a manner not usual with the reckless borderer.
“Then ye don’t think I did so bad arter all, cunnel. I swow I feel amazin’ glad I didn’t hit yer, but still—ye don’t think I acted like a greeny—eh, cunnel?”
“You did what no other woodman in Kentucky could do, Simon. You fooled Daniel Boone,” said the elder hunter, in a grave tone. “I didn’t believe it lay in ye, and I don’t want to meet ye again in such a fashion. But one thing we forget. There’s a white woman on this island, and we have to find her; and, besides that, we haven’t a dry thread till we light a fire. Take one side the island, and I’ll take the other, and hunt till we find her.”
The young ranger raised his hand to his cap in a military salute, as he turned away.
“All right, cunnel. We’ll git her.”
The two hunters moved off on either side of the island in a circuit, which speedily brought them face to face at the upper end, for there was not more than an acre of ground embraced in its limits.
Neither of them had come across any traces of a human being.
Again they turned and searched in the opposite direction, moving cautiously and stopping frequently to listen for the rustle of bushes. At last it became plain that the former occupant of the island, whoever it might be, had decamped in some manner, probably during the noise and confusion of their struggle in the river. At all events, she was not to be found, and the two hunters gave up the search in their second round.
It was altogether too dark to trail, and both concluded to wait till morning for the purpose. Meantime a fire was kindled in the midst of a dense thicket in the middle of the island, screened on all sides by brushwood, and made of dry punk gathered from a rotten fallen tree. Then, by the side of the glowing embers, the wearied hunters dried clothes and arms, cleaned their guns, and consulted on their future movements, after detailing to each other the results of their separate scouts through the Shawnee hunting-grounds, up to the time when they had so unexpectedly met on the banks of the Kentucky.
It took but a little time to exchange news, and then both composed themselves to slumber, with their feet to the fire, and slept till the first streaks of dawn appeared in the eastern sky.
Simon Kenton was the first to wake in the morning. Instead of experiencing the usual feeling of chilliness which assails the camper-out in the early hours by a dying fire, he was sensible of a glowing and comfortable warmth at his feet, and his eyes opened on the leaping white flames of a pleasant fire, the brands crackling merrily, as if lately put on.
“By the holy poker, cunnel,” quoth the borderer, rubbing his eyes and stretching, “you’re ahead of me this hyar mornin’. Wal, let’s get up and make tracks.”
As he spoke, he yawned portentously, and sat up, only to fall back the next moment with a loud exclamation of:
“Who in the Old Scratch be you, anyhow?”
Boone lay fast asleep opposite, and by the fire, between them, sat a young girl, looking intently at Kenton.
“I am Ruby Roland,” said one of the sweetest voices he had ever heard; and the girl smiled in his face, fearlessly.
Simon Kenton slowly rose up to a sitting posture and stared at the new-comer in utter amazement, just as Boone also awoke, and rolling half over, fixed his steady gaze on the girl, but without exhibiting the surprise displayed by Kenton.
The girl was a little creature of some seventeen summers, with a dark, foreign-looking face, very pretty, lighted with black eyes, and set off with black hair, arranged in two long plaits. She was attired in the costume of an Indian chief’s daughter, of the richest materials in use among the Shawnees, and carried with her a bow and arrows.
First Simon drew in his feet, and sat up in a more polite position, then Daniel Boone slowly rose and sat looking at the strange maiden; and then a deep silence fell on all three, which was first broken by the girl who called herself Ruby Roland.
“You two are Simon Kenton and Colonel Boone, are you not?” she asked, in her musical voice, slightly accented with a French intonation.
Boone himself answered her with great respect:
“We are, Miss. I am Colonel Daniel Boone, and this is Captain Simon Kenton.”
The Kentucky borderers were always remarkably tenacious of their military titles, and very proud of them. In reality they represented deeds requiring courage and conduct of a kind such as few regular soldiers could have boasted of.
Ruby Roland smiled graciously on the two Kentuckians.
“I suppose, then, you will not be afraid to run into danger on my account, will you? I warn you that a deadly peril is round us all three, which you can only escape by leaving me to face it alone. Will you do that?”
“Simon Kenton will not, madam; I will answer for that,” said the quiet voice of Boone.
“And Cunnel Boone ’ll let the red varmints chaw him up ter fiddle-strings, afore he deserts a lady. I’ll go a house and farm on that. So now,” was Kenton’s characteristic reply.
Ruby smiled at them both as she said:
“I knew I was not wrong. You have heard of Tabac, the Grand Door of the Wabash. I am his daughter.”
Kenton looked more and more astonished. He scratched his head in a dubious manner, and observed:
“Then, by the holy poker, Miss, all I kin say is that the Grand Door opens into a very pretty place; but—”
Ruby smiled as he hesitated.
“But you wonder how I come to talk English so well, and how I come here; is it not so?”
“Wal, Miss, I ain’t denyin’ that same,” said Kenton, frankly.
“I will tell you, then. The Grand Door is not my own father. No, alas! he died when I was a baby. But, I have been adopted by the chief since then, and my mother reigned over all the tribes of the Wabash till her death, last year. It was only six weeks ago when I escaped from the Indian town by St. Vincent’s, and came here. Gentlemen, I want to see Colonel George Rogers Clark.”
Both the scouts uttered an involuntary exclamation of wonder, the first that had escaped the lips of Boone.
“Colonel Clark is at Harrodsburg, Miss,” said the elder hunter, gravely; “and we shall find it difficult to penetrate there, for Blackfish, the Shawnee chief, is round it with his band.”
Ruby Roland smiled with some little appearance of scorn.
“My father was a French officer, and I am the adopted child of the first war-chief of the West,” she said. “I suppose you think you could get into Harrodsburg, do you not?”
“I suppose so, Miss,” said Boone, quietly.
“Very well; then I will go with you,” said this little fragile-looking girl, with equal calmness. “You are both good warriors and scouts, and yet I fooled you both last night.”
“What! was it you, then, as was on this hyar island?” asked Kenton, in amazement. “Why, whar in the Old Scratch did ye hide, Miss, ef it ain’t axin’ too much?”
Ruby laughed, and pointed to a great tree that overhung the camp-fire itself.
“Up there in a hollow, and heard every word you said. Had you been Shawnees, as you made me think by your whoops, both would have been dead long ere this. I made up this fire half an hour ago, and neither of you waked.”
Boone and Kenton looked at each other in silence for several minutes. The practiced woodmen had been outwitted by this quiet, modest little girl, and both instinctively felt that she was no common personage.
Daniel Boone rose to his feet and shook himself, then looked to the priming of his rifle and examined his weapons before he spoke. At last he said:
“I am at your orders, Miss. What do you wish us to do?”
“I am very hungry,” said the girl, simply. “I want something to eat first. The Shawnees are on my trail, and I must get to Harrodsburg in some way. I have no rifle, and I am too weak to shoot well with the bow. I want you to take me to see Colonel Clark.”
Boone made a sign to Kenton, and the latter disappeared among the bushes on the shallow side of the river. As soon as he was gone, the veteran hunter asked:
“How do you know the Shawnees are on your trail, Miss?”
“I saw them, only yesterday morning,” she answered. “I threw them out by floating down the river on a log, and they are by this time ranging up and down the river to find me.”
Boone frowned thoughtfully and remained silent for some minutes, when he asked:
“How far off did you leave them, do you think?”
“About thirty-five miles up the stream,” was the quiet reply.
The old hunter looked with grave admiration at the girl.
“You are a brave girl!” he said. “I have known warriors not half as brave and skillful. Simon and I did not find a single sign all of yesterday, and we were on different tracks too. Do you think they will follow you close?”
“I know it,” said Ruby, quietly. “They will follow me to kill me, till I am safe in Harrodsburg!”
Another man might have asked “why.” Boone had no idle curiosity; he judged unerringly that the girl was telling the truth, and wished for no reasons. She gave them herself a moment later.
“They know my errand to Colonel Clark, and Governor Hamilton has sent them after me,” she said, meaningly.
Then Boone knew all. The great chief of the Wabash tribes had doubtless sent his daughter to open negotiations with the Americans, and the English Governor at Detroit had got wind of it in some manner, and was resolved to intercept the fair messenger; for the Revolutionary War was at its hight, and the British were reckless in subsidizing savages.
As he thought over the atrocious scheme, the old hunter’s lips compressed themselves into an iron line, and he growled:
“If the dogs cross my path to Harrodsburg, they must look to themselves. You shall go there safe, Miss.”
The report of a rifle a short way off, was followed by the cheery shout of Kenton, “A fat buck, and no Injun sign yet.”
Half an hour after, three persons rose from a full meal of broiled venison, comforted and refreshed, and little Ruby Roland asked:
“Now, gentlemen, which way?”
“Straight across that thar stream,” said Kenton, pointing to the deep but narrow channel which separated them from the south bank. “I’ve been lookin’ fur a place to cross dry-shod, and thur ain’t but two ways: uther to swim, or to make a ring-tailed squealer of a jump, which we mout do, but the lady kurn’t.”
“I will show you a better way than that,” said Ruby, smiling, “if you will follow me.”
She led them to the south side of the island, where the swift current had undermined the bank, till it overhung considerably. At this point the stream was not over twenty feet wide, and a clump of young chestnut trees overhanging the water, almost met with their foliage the boughs of a water-elm on the other bank.
The girl threw her bow and quiver to her back, swung herself up one of the young trees like a monkey, and immediately her weight caused it to bend down and touch the boughs of the elm-tree.
Light as a mountain-cat, she walked along the swaying perch, caught hold of a long, slender bough of the elm, and swung safely on her feet on the south bank of the river.
“Well done, by the holy poker!” said Kenton, admiringly. “Ef I’d ’a’ thunk of that last night, whar would you ha’ be’n, cunnel? No miss fire, then.”
And the reckless borderer crossed the stream, followed by his companion, both laughing at the recollection of the ludicrous mistake of the night before.
Arrived on the other side, both became grave and professional at once; and the girl Ruby, who had hitherto taken the lead, remained subject to the further direction of her protectors.
“Now, Simon,” said the elder scout, “there are no sign about here yet, but that doesn’t say there won’t be before long. We’ve a good day’s tramp to Harrodsburg, and, tew chances to one, the Shawnees will take a short cut and lie in wait for us at the town, leaving a small party to follow the lady’s trail. It’s a chance if they hit upon ours. So you take the right hand, I’ll take the left, and Miss, here, shall have the middle. Forward.”
Without another word the three set out on their perilous tramp through the silent woods, at a long distance from each other, stealing like shadows among the trees, and glancing from side to side as they went, suspicious of every rustling leaf.
Boone was at least a hundred yards to the left and in front, very rarely visible at all, but all eyes and ears in the direction he was guarding, the quarter from which he himself thought the danger most imminent.
Simon Kenton was at an equal distance from Ruby on the other side, and never allowed a glimpse of himself, the only announcement of his presence being the occasional whistle of a robin from the leafy covert.
Little Ruby, in the center, held her own course fearlessly, flitting from tree to tree, and always peering ahead from behind every trunk, to see that the coast was clear, before flitting to another. As noiseless as a startled bird, she passed through the dense forest toward Harrodsburg, without a sounding footfall, and many a time her two companions would have thought she had disappeared, but for the answering signals which she sent back to Kenton, whenever he was doubtful.
Instead of finding the little girl an incumbrance, both hunters were compelled to admit that her Indian education had made her a more skillful hider than they.
Thus the three companions pressed through the silent forest in a south-westerly direction, cutting across the bend of the stream which separated them from Harrodsburg. They had only about twenty-five miles to go in a direct line, but in the woods, and among wily foes like the red-men, such a distance took double the time to traverse that it would on a high-road in a quiet country. Every half-hour they called a halt, while the two scouts went on a circuit on either hand, to look for sign of enemies in pursuit.
For a long time nothing was found. The sun climbed up overhead, and darted his flaming arrows through the leaves, the birds ceased to sing, and only the sleepy whirr of the cicada recurred at intervals to make the silence deeper. Far away in the woods they could hear the occasional mournful boom boom of the wood dove, but the squirrels and deer were all silent and hidden away.
At noon Boone uttered the cry of the wood dove three times in succession, as a signal to close, and the three friends met together under a great tree.
“The enemy have passed ahead toward Harrodsburg,” said the hunter, in a low tone. “I have just come on a trail not more than three hours old, off to the left. They have twenty warriors with them, and have gone to join Blackfish and his band at Harrodsburg.”
“What do you propose doing, then?” asked little Ruby, quietly.
Boone looked at her several minutes before answering.
“You tell me these men are after you, Miss. Well, nothing is surer than that we can’t get into the fort by daylight. We are only seven miles from Harrodsburg now, and if we run too fast, we shall only fall into a well-prepared ambush.”
“Shall we wait here, then?” she asked, glancing round her with a quick catch of her breath.
“Not by a jugfull,” said bluff Kenton, interrupting. “See hyar, cunnel, ef you’ve come acrost a trail ahead, I’ve found ’nuther. Them ornery cusses is arter us; and ef we wait hyar, we’ll hev to fight afore we’re two hours older. So now.”
Boone looked keenly at his friend.
“How do you know, Simon?” he asked.
“I heern ’em,” said Kenton, laconically.
“Heard what?—shots, yells? I heard nothing.”
And the great hunter looked doubtfully at Kenton, for he had never yet met his own match for keenness of senses.
Kenton held up his hand for them to listen. A moment after the faint crack of a rifle echoed far away in the rear.
Boone looked grave, Ruby turned a shade paler, and Kenton smiled grimly.
“Ye see, cunnel,” said the scout, “I’ve b’en suspicioning them cusses mout be arter us all the while, and I’ve b’en kinder on the watch to the rear. Thar’s a party of the imps arter the little gal, and they’ve got good trackers. Guess they’ve b’en huntin’ up and down stream arter her trail, and got to the island at last. Ef they have, they know the hull thing now, and they’re comin’ arter us hellaty-clip. ’Tain’t so middlin’ difficult to pick up our trail, ye know, and what with them behind, and them in front, we’ll hev a right smart chance of trouble to flax ’em all, and git into the fort to-night.”
“That shot was not three miles off,” said Ruby, suddenly. “What do you think it was, Mr. Kenton?”
“That? Oh, that was a signal from the cuss as found our trail,” said Kenton, carelessly. “It’s middlin’ likely thur spread out all over the woods huntin’ your trail, Miss; and that shot ’ll call ’em in.”
“I thought so,” said the girl, quietly. “Well, then, gentlemen, why shouldn’t we cross the trail of the party ahead, make a circuit, and come into the town on the other side? They won’t watch that so closely.”
Boone, who had been leaning thoughtfully on his rifle all this time, now raised his head.
“Little gal,” he said, gravely, “it’s our only chance. But are you able to take the tramp? ’Twill be a tough one.”
“I am a chief’s daughter,” said the girl, proudly. “Try me, and see.”
Kenton was about to speak, when Boone checked him with a wave of his hand.
“Left wheel,” he said, in military fashion, “and follow your leader.”
As he spoke he threw his rifle to his shoulder, and started off at a slow trot of some seven miles an hour into the depths of the woods, followed, without a word, by the others at long intervals. Kenton remained behind to bring up the rear, and away they went into the woods. In a few minutes they crossed the trail of which Boone had spoken, and Kenton stopped to examine it carefully. As the elder hunter had said, it led straight to Harrodsburg, and they crossed it at right-angles, plunging deep into the woods toward the south, where, at least, they were certain the country was comparatively free of enemies.
For at least half an hour they continued their course to the south, and then Boone turned again, sharp to the west, and proceeded in the direction of Harrodsburg without more ado. Kenton remained at least a quarter of a mile nearer the march of their suspected foes, and chuckled with satisfaction as he came across several bear and deer-tracks.
The tracks were recent and very regular, unanswerable evidence to the keen hunter that the animals had been undisturbed that morning.
When Boone turned, Ruby and Kenton turned likewise, so that the former Indian file became, once more, a skirmish-line of three people, stretching over a space a quarter of a mile wide.
Again they glided cautiously but swiftly along, on the way to Harrodsburg, the post of honor, nearest the foe, belonging to Kenton.
The sun was long past the meridian, and sunk rapidly as they pressed along, till at last his level rays pierced through the covert of the forest, and announced that the king of day was about to take his departure.
By that time they judged that they must be nearly abreast of Harrodsburg, but, so still was the forest, that they could not tell its position with any certainty.
This very stillness, however, supplied them with one piece of information which they needed.
It told them they were nearing their enemies.
The birds had ceased to sing, and not a living creature of the usual denizens of the forest made its appearance on their right flank.
They knew that the Indians must be there.
Just as the sun set, they heard the reports of several rifles, a little way off on their right front, and Kenton, immediately after, sheered off to the left, and came near to Ruby and Boone.
The three, as if by a common impulse, turned their course once more to the south, and had the satisfaction of hearing a brisk fire of rifles beginning, which revealed to them the only thing they wanted to know, the position of the fort of Harrodsburg.
As they went on and the shots became more distant, Kenton and Boone closed in on Ruby, so that all three were within whispering distance, and Kenton panted out:
“Thur havin’ a little muss thar, cunnel. Bully for us!”
Boone made no answer, but kept on his course till they had left the sounds of conflict far to the rear, when he turned sharp to the north, motioning the rest to keep behind him.
Now at last the twilight began to fade.
As the twilight faded, the sounds of conflict grew less and less frequent. Only an occasional rifle-shot rung out at intervals; but every one came closer and closer as they advanced.
At last it was dark.
Then the veteran borderer stopped and allowed his two companions to come up alongside of him, when a short whispered conversation took place.
So cautious were all of being overheard that they were obliged to put their lips to each other’s ears to tell and hear, and the sharpest scout might have lain twenty feet off without hearing a sound.
“We are close to the imps,” said Boone; “and the fort gate lies right in front of us. We must keep close together now.”
“Do you think they know we are around?” said Ruby.
“The Indians must,” said the borderer. “The only trouble is that the people inside don’t.”
“Ef they’ll fire a few more shots,” said Kenton, “I’ll be bound to go through safe.”
“They won’t do it,” whispered Boone, in answer.
Hardly had he spoken, when, as if to give the lie to his words, the flash of a rifle came from the black woods toward the fort, not a hundred yards off.
It was immediately answered by a line of flashes some distance further on, and the crackling reports of the rifles were followed by the spiteful plug, plug, plug, of several bullets slapping into the ground and tree-trunks round them, in very unpleasant proximity.
“That feller war some young brave on his fust war-path, cunnel,” whispered Kenton, delightedly, “Ef I don’t flax him, call me a skunk.”
“Now we know where the fort is, thanks to him,” was the answer. “There must be a big crowd, Simon, when they let the youngsters stand picket.”
“I’m goin’ to fotch that feller’s skulp, by the holy poker,” muttered Kenton. “Ef so be he’s alone thar, we kin creep through the gap.”
“Be careful, Simon,” replied Boone, cautiously. “Remember we’re not alone, and the lady can’t run like we can.”
“All right, cunnel,” said the borderer; and as he spoke he glided away on his belly like a snake toward the point from whence the flash had proceeded.
It needed very small indications to point out to these astute frontiersmen the position of affairs round them. As well as if he had been at the side of the Indian chief, Kenton knew that a circle of savages was lying round the fort, some near, some far, according to the cover. He felt certain that the Shawnees on Ruby’s trail had arrived long before and that the Indian besiegers were watching for his arrival. Their dead silence argued that.
The warrior who had just fired was probably young, and ambitious of slaying a “Big-Knife.” What he had seen to fire at was uncertain, but Kenton knew that some cunning old hand would very soon be down upon his post to scold him for his carelessness.
It was therefore with senses morbidly alive to external objects that the borderer crept noiselessly toward the foe.
He took care to feel every place with his hand before he dared to trust his weight upon it, and in this way it was fully twenty minutes ere he had traversed the hundred yards that separated him from the Indian line.
At last he judged himself there, and then he lay quite still and listened intently.
Presently, just as he had anticipated, there was a faint rustle of dry grass on his right, as if some one were coming cautiously toward him. He turned his head sharply and caught the outline of a figure on all fours not twenty feet off, by the bole of a tree.
The figure was stationary, and presently the low hoot of an owl resounded from it. The hoot was answered from the right and left, and the borderer found that he was in the very midst of his foes.
The creeping Indian moved on a little, and a second figure rose to meet it, about ten feet in front of Kenton.
It was the figure of the imprudent youngster.
The two Indians sat down side by side, and proceeded to hold a short conversation in low tones, the scout seeing every motion. The outline of one of them was that of an old chief, for Kenton could distinguish the eagle-feathers, only worn by chiefs.
This warrior seemed to be gravely lecturing his heedless companion on his folly in firing, and the young one seemed to be excusing himself, although Kenton did not fully understand their words.
The conversation did not last long, for the old chief finally stole away to the left along the line, as if on a tour of inspection, and, covered by his rustling, for he moved carelessly, the borderer crept forward.
It was evident that the old chief, astute as he was, did not suspect that his enemies were anywhere in the immediate vicinity, or he would not have made so much noise.
He was simply going “grand rounds,” to keep his sentries on the alert for a possible contingency.
Simon Kenton, leaving his rifle at about four feet from his enemy, drew his knife, and prepared to spring on the young Indian, who sat looking at the fort, with his back to the Kentuckian.
Just at that moment the blood rushed to the ranger’s heart with a terrible throb, for he felt a hand laid on his extended foot!
Most men, at such a time, would have started.
Simon lay still. He could not afford to start. He did not know who touched him, but he did know that while he kept silence there was still hope in that darkness.
Slowly and noiselessly he turned his head, and felt a thrill of relief as he distinguished the black outline of Boone’s coon-skin cap. He knew that his friend had followed him, and wanted to say something.
The position was now frightfully dangerous. Within a few yards were twenty Indian warriors listening for them.
Within three feet was one more, with his back turned to them.
Could the scouts communicate without being heard?
Kenton thought not, but he lay still, trusting to Boone’s sagacity. In a moment more, the hand was removed, and the form of Boone glided forward with no more apparent effort than if he had been floating in water.
He said not a word, but he raised his left hand, and laid a finger on the back of Kenton’s neck at the base of the skull, then pointed to the Indian and tapped his knife.
Simon nodded his head in token of comprehension, and slowly drew up, first one knee; then the other, till he was crouching behind a tree not two feet from the Indian. Boone lay quite still, while his comrade rose.
Then Kenton, holding his great knife-blade upwards, made a single step forward, and lunged out at the back of the Indian’s neck, dividing the spinal marrow with the skill of a matador.
The head of the sentry fell forward on his breast, and he slowly rolled over on his side, as if he had been dropping off to sleep. He was stone dead.
Boone, listening intently, heard nothing but the low thud of the knife as it cut through the soft bone and cartilage of the spine, and the rustle in the dry grass as the Indian rolled over.
As for Kenton, he was down on one knee the moment the blow was struck, picking up the rifle that Boone had pushed up to him, and glaring fiercely round through the darkness.
For fully a minute there was a dead silence, both rangers with their senses keenly on the alert for the slightest noise.
Then there was a rustle in the grass not far off, and the low owl-hoot again broke the stillness.
Kenton himself answered it, and all was still again.
He knew well what it all meant. The nearest Indian on the line had heard the plunge of the knife!
Doubtless he had suspected something, and called to his neighbor.
The answer must have reassured him, for there were no more signals for some time.
Then the ranger crept forward, and softly withdrew the knife from where it stuck in the neck of the unhappy wretch, replacing it in his own belt.
As he did so, Boone touched his foot once more, and he looked back. Both the borderer and Ruby Roland were close behind him crouching to the earth, and Boone silently pointed to the fort, as if to urge a sudden dash forward.
Kenton beckoned them forward, and whispered:
“Run! both of ye. I’ll cover the rear and sculp this hyar varmint.”
Boone nodded softly, and took Ruby by the hand.
From where they were, they could distinctly see the sharp outlines of the pointed palisades that surrounded the fort, for as Kenton had guessed, the line had been drawn in very close during the darkness.
The only question that remained was whether there were a second line of Indians close in or not.
If not, they were almost out of danger. If there were, there was much yet to be done.
Daniel Boone and Ruby Roland crept toward the fort, not without some little noise, but crouching low and making the best speed they could.
The moment they started Kenton knew they were heard. He heard a quick rustle of dry grass and dead leaves, a heavy rushing through the brushwood, and a score of dark forms leaped up and dashed toward the fort, yelling furiously. He heard Boone utter the Shawnee war-whoop, to confuse his enemies, and saw him and Ruby go flying among the stumps that surrounded the fort, just as a ring of spitting red flashes lighted up the woods, followed by a rattling volley of rifles. Covered by the racket, and himself unobserved, the reckless borderer passed his knife round the head of the slain sentry and scalped him without more ado.
Then he picked up the slain man’s rifle, and rushed forward into the melee, whooping louder than any of them, and so far unrecognized in the thick darkness.
But now, on a sudden, the people of the fort opened a warm fire on the Indians outside, and the bullets began to fly very unpleasantly near our three friends.
Kenton bounded forward, and beheld a confused group of dark figures close under the walls, which he recognized in a moment as Boone and Ruby surrounded by foes.
“Hooroar for ole Kaintuck!” shouted the ranger, throwing all disguise to the winds, and exerting his powerful voice to the utmost. “Go it, cunnel! Give ’em fits! Knock the daylights out of the painted imps! So now!”
As he spoke, he leveled the Indian’s rifle at the thickest of the Indian group, fired, dropped it, leveled his own at a chief who was rushing at him, and shot him dead, just as Boone himself fired for the first time.
Then the two renowned Indian-fighters clubbed their heavy rifles and fought like ten men to drive off the enemy and protect little Ruby.
The girl was crouched on the ground between them, the guns of the whole party were empty, and the conflict between the two muscular borderers and the confused Indians was by no means so unequal as might seem.
Suddenly a clear, commanding voice from the fort shouted:
“White men, drop, quick!”
Like lightning both scouts obeyed, and a rattling volley was fired, the bullets tearing through the Indians, and sending the whole crowd to cover in a moment.
“To the gate, quick!” shouted the same voice.
“Ay, ay, cunnel, here we come!” cried Kenton.
As he spoke he snatched up Ruby like a child, and dashed away with her, followed by Boone.
A moment later the open gate of the fort was before them.
The morning dawned clear and bright over the fort and village of Harrodsburg; and to the eye of a novice there remained nothing to indicate that the Indian besiegers were anywhere in the vicinity. The forest was quiet, and yet full of life, the robins and blue birds came flitting round the houses, and the smaller “chippy” birds came down into the inclosure of the fort, and pecked about for scattered crumbs.
Harrodsburg was a typical village of its kind, the old frontier post fortified against Indians. Its houses were built in close rows around a square, the intervals between them protected by heavy palisades, forming a continuous line with the walls. At each angle rose a large block-house, flanking the bare curtains, and a small ditch encompassed the whole.
On the morning succeeding the daring entrance of Ruby and her two protectors to the fort, a handsome and distinguished looking man of about twenty-five, dressed in a curious but very picturesque mixture of military uniform and backwoods frock and leggins, stood in the upper story of one of the block-houses, looking out over the gate through a loophole, and talking to Ruby Roland.
This young man, whose peculiar air of intelligence and resolution marked him as a person of no common mold, was none other than the afterward celebrated George Rogers Clark, a man who had already inspired more hope and confidence in the breasts of the people of Kentucky than any other leader had yet succeeded in doing.
Colonel Clark had just returned from the parent State of Virginia, with twelve hundred pounds of Continental money, a colonel’s commission, public orders “to defend Kentucky,” and private orders to—ah! that no one knew, though many would have given much to satisfy their curiosity. He had issued a call to the settlers of Kentucky to organize for a secret expedition, and companies had been formed at different points all along the frontiers of the present States of Pennsylvania, Virginia and Ohio.
And now, when his plans were almost ripe, the ardent young leader was caught and caged in Harrodsburg, by a miserable Shawnee chief named Blackfish, and less than three hundred warriors. Such are the accidents that conspire against the most successful military chiefs.
Colonel Clark was looking thoughtfully out of the loophole, but listening to the words of his fair companion with great attention, nevertheless. There were no eavesdroppers near, and the girl appeared to be talking very earnestly.
“If you will come, colonel,” she said in conclusion, “I can promise that you shall be welcomed by all the tribes of forest and prairie that obey my father. You will only have to contend with the British, for our people are already tired of the yoke, and long to throw it off.”
Colonel Clark remained silently looking out of the loophole, as if he had not heard what she said. He seemed to be absorbed in watching the maneuvers of a herd of cattle that had been driven out of the fort-gate as soon as daylight advanced, and when the besiegers had retired to a respectful distance.
This was done every day, and, curiously enough, the Indians seldom or never molested the herdsmen, as long as they kept within the clearing surrounding the fort.
Without answering Ruby, the young colonel pointed to the cattle, and said:
“There are Indians in the high grass behind those cows. See how they act.”
Ruby frowned a little impatiently, and answered:
“We are not talking of that, colonel. I brought you a certain proposition from Tabac, the Grand Sachem and Grand Door of the Wabash. Have you any answer for it?”
Clark smiled provokingly. He was a man of great penetration and tact, as the reader will discover in the course of this book, and for some reason he did not see fit to give the girl a full answer at the moment.
“You see that field,” he said, pointing; “now, Mademoiselle Roland, if you wait here half an hour I’ll show you some of the tallest kind of fun that you ever saw. And after that, I’ll be ready to talk business to you.”
So saying, he vanished from the block-house, with very scant ceremony for the lady it contained, leaving her overwhelmed with surprise and mortification, not unmixed with great anger at herself.
Ruby Roland, left to herself, clenched her little hands and stamped her foot angrily, saying:
“Why did I come here through all these dangers to meet this handsome, insolent American, who laughs at me? Does he think I am some common squaw, that he leaves me thus? Now, by heavens, if he does not treat me better at our next interview, he shall find that Ruby Roland can go out as she came in, and woe betide all here if she does, and his handsome, insolent face worst of all. Oh, I could strike him dead!”
From all which tirade, it became evident that Miss Ruby was very much piqued at Colonel Clark’s neglect, while, at the same time, much struck with his personal appearance. Whatever her proposition might have been, she was not destined to obtain an answer to it that morning, for events speedily took place which interested her in spite of herself.
Looking down toward the gate, she saw reckless Simon Kenton standing by its open leaves, with two or three other men, and saw Colonel Clark approach and give the scout some orders. Simon nodded, sauntered out of the gate, with Boone and five or six hunters, and strolled carelessly toward the field in front of the gate where the cows were feeding, and where the animals appeared to be very uneasy—a sure sign of Indians being near them.
Ruby, watching the length of the palisades, soon after saw the colonel himself, with a long file of men, emerge from behind the block-house at the further angle of the fort, and steal off into the woods, in the very direction from which she had come the night before.
Interested in spite of herself, she watched and listened for signs of the enemy. All was quiet, and it seemed as if the besiegers must have retired from the place but for the behavior of the cattle.
She saw Simon and the hunters stop short in a turnip-patch which had been cleared close under the fire of the fort, and begin to thin the vegetables, as if at their ordinary work.
Every now and then one of the men in the field would shout out some witticism to those in the fort about the Indians having run away, and all this time the lurking savages gave no token of their whereabouts.
All of a sudden, a loud yell was raised from the woods, in rear of the field where the cattle were feeding, followed by a rattling volley of rifles; and the next moment Clark and his Kentuckians darted out of the cover, routing out some fifty Indians, who leaped up and stood bewildered.
At the same moment Kenton and the men in the turnip-patch raised a yell of triumph, and poured a second volley into the now demoralized savages, charging in at the instant of firing.
The Shawnees made a feeble, scattering return, and then fled in great haste, the borderers rushing out after them in hot pursuit—the sound of yells and shots dying away in the distance.
At least an hour elapsed before they returned, and then Ruby was at the gate to meet them. She was anxious to know what had happened. The first person she saw was Colonel Clark, who came up at the head of his men, smiling, as if greatly pleased.
He came straight to Ruby, and addressed her before all the people:
“Mademoiselle Roland, Blackfish decamped last night, as soon as he heard you had got in. We have driven away this little body of spies, and Harrodsburg is safe. Mademoiselle, I accept your proposition.”
The day was hot and sultry, in early summer, about a year afterward, on the broad, shallow stream of the Kanawha River, as a flotilla of large flat-boats, known to the voyageurs as bateaux, was steadily following its way down the stream, assisted by the current, and urged by four or six long sweeps in each boat, pulled by two or three men apiece.
The bateaux were long, broad flat-boats, square at each end, hastily constructed from green plank, on the borders of the river, like nothing but great scows. There were seven of these rude but effective craft, all full of armed men, and holding about two hundred and fifty souls, all told.
Among these was a very small sprinkling of women and children; but the far greater proportion were stout, bronzed backwoodsmen, apt at a fight, and unerring in aim.
The leading boat of the flotilla was distinguished by a little house, or cabin, built in its center, on the summit of which rose a flag-staff, from which drooped a small white flag, bearing the pine-tree and coiled rattle-snake of the infant nation, which had not as yet been replaced by the memorable Stars and Stripes.
By this flag-staff, glass in hand, stood the leader of the expedition, Colonel George Rogers Clark, and by him a lad of about fifteen, slender in figure, of very dark complexion, who wore the same half-military dress as his leader—the hunting-shirt and leggings being fringed with gold lace, and the fur cap faced with a gilt plate of military device. Both wore swords and pistols, with officers’ scarlet sashes around the loins, to indicate authority.
“We shall get to the Ohio in an hour hence, colonel, if we keep up this speed,” remarked the boy officer, as Clark put down the glass with which he had been scanning the river ahead.
“I think so,” said Clark, gravely. “We shall get news there, at all events, Mr. Frank. Have you the morning report yet, sir?”
“Yes, colonel,” replied young Frank, promptly; “there are but three sick in the command, and one of them is a woman.”
Clark frowned, and made an impatient movement.
“These women are always in the way,” he said. “One would think that an expedition of this sort would put them out of conceit to come; but there’s no stopping the willful hussies—and they’re sure to fall sick just when we don’t want them. I wish they’d stay where they belong.”
The boy officer—he was Clark’s adjutant—laughed, as he said:
“Well, colonel, you know it’s no use fighting them. They will have their own way, as you say. This one I speak of isn’t rightly sick, but she met with an accident, yesterday, in passing the rapids. To save her husband, who was tired out, she took his place at the oar, with two of Captain Helm’s men, and when the oar struck a rock, during the passage, all three were sent flying and badly bruised. That’s all of our sick-list.”
“Well, well,” said the commander, a little mollified, “that’s not so bad; but one thing I’m determined on, adjutant: when we get to the falls, I ship every blessed woman in the command. I won’t be bothered with them. And as for the married men, if they grumble, by Jove, they shall go, too. I wish there wasn’t a woman left to get in the way. They are unmitigated nuisances.”
The little adjutant laughed.
“Why, colonel, they told me you left Kentucky in company with a woman—old Tobacco’s daughter. How’s that?”
“Oh, she was only a child,” said Clark, carelessly; “a plucky child, too, by the bye, and as good at hiding as an old Shawnee warrior. But we didn’t travel long together. She brought me certain propositions from—well, never mind who, sir; that’s my affair—and when we had talked over the business, I packed her off to her adopted father. I may see her again, if this expedition succeeds, but I doubt if I should know her again. So much for your sneer, youngster.”
The boy adjutant laughed again, and said:
“So you’ll see her again, if the expedition succeeds, sir? Then I suppose we’re going to St. Vincent’s?”
Clark, who was again looking out ahead, put down the glass, and turned abruptly on his small adjutant, laying his hand heavily on his shoulder with a grim smile, as he said:
“Look here, young man, you’re a smart lad, but not so smart as you think. This expedition is going—where I choose. Do you quite comprehend? You’re as curious, sir, by Jove, as if you were a woman. Ask me no questions, if you don’t want to be put under arrest. I dare say the whole lot of you would like to know my intentions; but you will have to find me out of my wits first. Now, sir, take the canoe, and pay your morning visit to the fleet. Bring me back a report of the condition of the arms and ammunition, by the time we reach Arbuckle’s Station, and be quick.”
It was evident that the commander was somewhat irritated with his staff officer for presuming to question him, and the lad turned away very promptly, for the colonel was universally dreaded when he looked angry, which was not often.
Adjutant Frank descended to the deck, and jumped overboard into a canoe towing alongside, with which he proceeded to visit the other boats of the fleet; while Clark, left alone, paced the roof of the little cabin in silence.
In a short time the river began to grow much broader, the current slower, and the monotonous waste of forest on either bank was broken in places by clearings. At last they saw before them a lofty point, nearly bare of timber, jutting out on the right, and beheld the straight brown banks of the broad Ohio, barring their further progress in a straight line. The Kanawha became merged in the Ohio.
On the point to the north, known as Point Pleasant, stood a straggling collection of log-houses, inclosed with a palisade, and bearing the usual appurtenances of a frontier fort, including a pine-tree flag. As the people on the bateau caught sight of the fort, they gave three ringing cheers, responded to by the instant rushing out of a crowd of people from the houses, running pell-mell to see what was coming.
Half an hour after, they were passing in front of the fort, when a boat, containing a military officer and a dozen rowers, pulled out to intercept them, and Captain Leander Arbuckle, commandant and principal owner of the settlement, boarded Clark’s boat, and saluted the colonel as if he knew him well.
“Whither bound, colonel?” he asked.
“Down the river to defend Kentucky,” said Clark. “Secret orders.”
“Well, sir,” said the captain, eagerly, “then I can put you in the way to checkmate an Indian raid, if you will join me. Only the day before yesterday I beat off a great war-party of two hundred and fifty men of the Six Nations. They crossed the river here, and have gone on for the settlements on the Greenbrier river, so as to take your friends in Kentucky in the rear. Now, colonel, if you will join me, we can overtake these fellows and utterly exterminate them. Will you?”
“No, sir,” said Clark, gravely; “I can not do it. My orders, if obeyed, will punish these fellows better than by following them. The settlers must take care of themselves.”
Captain Arbuckle drew himself up stiffly.
“Am I to understand that you refuse to help me save our imperiled fellow-citizens, colonel?”
“You are, sir,” said Clark, firmly. “If you want to follow a will-o’-the-wisp, you must do it alone. I must do my duty, which forbids me to stop a single hour on my way.”
Arbuckle looked perplexed and vexed.
“But where, then, are you going?”
“Where my orders take me, sir; and that is a secret.”
Arbuckle looked angry. He lifted his hat with very stiff courtesy, and said, as he turned away:
“Then I have the honor to bid you farewell, Colonel Clark, and to wish you better manners.”
“And I, sir,” said Clark, with equal bantering, “shall have the honor to demand an apology for those words, when I have done my duty.”
Arbuckle wheeled round haughtily.
“Prove me wrong, sir, and I’ll give you any satisfaction you wish. Good-morning, sir.”
A moment after, captain and colonel parted, like two peppery Southerners, as they were, ready to cut each other’s throats on a point of etiquette.
The site of the present city of Louisville was but a desolate wilderness a hundred years ago; when forest and prairie divided the banks of the river, and the game roamed, unfrightened by white or red. Here, late in the month of June, 1778, a considerable camp was pitched, the rows of fires and tethered horses announcing the presence of several hundred men, while the woodland costume of the occupants proclaimed them to be unmitigated backwoods settlers and hunters.
A large, powerful man, black-haired and bearded, with tremendous shoulders, stood by the banks of the Ohio, in company with Boone and Kenton, all three watching the stream above them, where the outlines of Clark’s bateaux were readily discernible, coming down the river. Below them could be heard the roaring noise of those steep and dangerous rapids, now known as Louisville Falls; and at this point had Clark ordered a concentration of all the forces raised to defend Kentucky.
The big man was the renowned Captain Harrod, of Harrodsburg, whose company was one of those designed for the secret expedition, whose purpose was as yet unknown to all but the leader.
“I’m thinkin’ we’ll know all about the colonel’s plans middlin’ quick, when he comes in,” remarked Kenton, as he leaned on his rifle. “The boys are in fur a scrimmage, but they won’t go unless they know whar they’re goin’ to.”
“You may bet your boots on that,” said Harrod, dryly. “I hain’t no objections to tacklin’ Old Nick, ef I know whar I’m goin’; but I ain’t to be fooled with secret orders by no George Clark, when I c’u’d turn him over my knee and spank him.”
Daniel Boone turned his quiet blue eyes on Harrod, saying:
“Ain’t you a little hard on Colonel Clark, Billy? He ain’t asked you to go on a wild-goose chase yet. I know you’re a good man of your hands, Billy, but Clark’s no boy. Wait till he tells us where we are to go, before you get mad. He holds the State commission, remember, to order us all.”
Harrod shook his head sulkily.
“He’s a good sodger, Dan’l, no discount on that; but I don’t like these hyar secret orders. Why don’t he come out and tell us whar he’s goin’ like a man?”
“Because there are spies round, Billy,” said Boone, boldly. “Who knows but what the British General at Detroit would hear all about his doings, if he divided the secret with a lot of fellows like them?” indicating the camp with a scornful gesture; “so full of whisky—when they can get it, that a child might suck them dry.”
“There are reason in cunnel’s words, Billy,” said Kenton, quietly. “Leastwise there ain’t no use talkin’, till Cunnel Clark comes. See, the head boat’s landin’ on Corn Island, and I guess we’ll hev to foller them into camp there.”
In fact, at this moment, Clark’s boats put in to an island that lay in the center of the river, and proceeded to disembark their crews, in sight of the Kentuckians.
Shortly after, a bark canoe shot out from the island, crossed the shallow belt of water that separated it from the south bank, and landed the same little officer already referred to as Adjutant Frank.
This smart little officer came strutting up to Big Bill Harrod, with a slender rapier clanking at his heels, and asked:
“Where shall I find Captain Bowman, the commandant, sir?”
Harrod looked down, half-contemptuously, at this tiny officer, whose head about reached his breast, and answered with a question:
“And what the Old Nick do you want of Joe Bowman, bubby? He ain’t used to suckin’ ’lasses candy.”
The little officer laughed merrily, without seeming in the least abashed.
“I see, you’re not Bowman, my man, for I was told he was a gentleman. Captain Kenton, where is Bowman?”
Kenton started.
“Why, how the Old Scratch do you know my name, sonny? I disremember ever seeing you before.”
“I am Colonel Clark’s adjutant, gentlemen,” said Frank, pulling up with considerable dignity, notwithstanding his small size. “If you’ve no civil answer to give me, I’ll go elsewhere! I carry orders!”
“Captain Bowman is down in camp, with Captain Dillard, sir,” said Daniel Boone, suddenly stepping forward and saluting the other with respect. “Don’t mind these rough fellows, adjutant; it’s their Kentucky way, and they mean no harm. I’ll go to the camp with you.”
“Hold on,” said Harrod, gruffly. “That younker said something about my not bein’ a gentleman. I ain’t goin’ to be talked to that way by none of George Clark’s whipper-snappers.”
In a moment the little officer had wheeled sharp round, and marched up to the huge borderer.
“Well, sir,” he said, defiantly, “I said you were no gentleman, to answer a civil question as you did. I repeat it. Now then, name your time and place, and I’ll fight you!”
For a moment the giant looked down at the slender form of this incarnation of pluck, pure and simple, as if he was puzzled. At last he burst into a roar of laughter, for he was a good-natured fellow after all, and said:
“I guess you’re right, arter all, little bantam. I durstn’t fight ye, that I know, for I couldn’t see to hit ye, ef ye stood edgewise. Let’s shake hands. I’m Bill Harrod of Harrodsburg, and by Gosh, I’m sorry I riled ye. Put it there.”
He held out a broad and horny palm, into which Frank insinuated his own diminutive hand, enduring a painful squeeze with great fortitude. Then all four, in perfect harmony, proceeded to the camp, where the senior captain, Joseph Bowman of Virginia, welcomed the little adjutant with great courtesy, and received the latter’s message.
“Colonel Clark’s compliments, gentlemen, and he has gone into camp on Corn Island. The river is fordable here, and he wishes you to bring over your companies and camp with him, when he will announce the object of the expedition, and call for volunteers.”
The news was spread from mouth to mouth with wonderful rapidity, the half-disciplined frontiersmen crowding round their commanders to hear the message, in a manner that would have caused a martinet to despair of their military character.
Nevertheless, Bowman issued the order, like an old officer.
“Git ready to move camp, boys; and look sharp.”
Inside of ten minutes, three companies of mounted riflemen stood by their horses’ heads, silent and obedient, and when Bowman rode into the ford, there was not a single straggler left behind.
The little adjutant crossed in his canoe, and on the further bank they found three more companies, drawn up in front of their camp, all silent and orderly, and anxiously expecting the news, about to be promulgated, of the destination of the expedition.
Colonel Clark was the only mounted man on the island, and he rode up, and greeted his allies with great courtesy.
“You will go into camp at the other end of the island, captain,” he said, to Bowman. “There are too many of the enemy’s Indians about, to trust a camp on shore to their annoyances. Go into camp, dismount your men, and be ready for dress parade at sunset. I will then announce the orders.”
There was an evident disposition, among the rough borderers of Harrod’s and Dillard’s companies, to grumble at this order, but Clark checked it in a manner that showed his knowledge of frontier nature. Riding down the column, he called out:
“What, gentlemen, have we a lot of curious old women in the ranks? If so, please to ride home. I want nothing but brave men, where I am going. For shame! Don’t you know me well enough to know that George Clark has a meaning for whatever he says? Forward, gentlemen, and obey orders like men!”
In a moment a dead silence fell on the three companies, and the camp was formed with marvelous expedition and order.
An hour after that, at the call of the bugle, six hundred men were under arms in a hollow square, and the backwoods leader addressed them, amid intense anxiety from all to hear the news.