daring of them ventured to make it their home. And the name

which they gave it was destined to retain its sombre

significance for the whites, when they should invade the

perilous Kentuckian wilds, and build their habitations in

this land of dread.



In 1767 John Finley, a courageous Indian trader, pushed far

into its depths, and returned with thrilling stories of his

adventures and tempting descriptions of the beauty and

fertility of the land. These he told to Daniel Boone, an

adventure-loving Pennsylvanian, who had made his way to

North Carolina, and built himself a home in the virgin

forest at the head-waters of the Yadkin. Here, with his

wife, his rifle, and his growing family, he enjoyed his

frontier life with the greatest zest, until the increasing

numbers of new settlers and the alluring narrative of

Finley induced him to leave his home and seek again the

untrodden wilds.



On the 1st of May, 1769, Finley, Boone, and three others

struck boldly into the broad backbone of mountain-land which

lay between their old home and the new land of promise. They

set out on their dangerous journey amid the tears of their

families, who deemed that destruction awaited them, and

vainly besought them to abandon the enterprise. Forward, for

days and weeks, pushed the hardy pioneers, their rifles

providing them with game, their eyes on the alert against

savages, until, after what seemed months of toil, the

mountains were passed and the fertile plains and extended

forests of Kentucky lay before them.



"We found everywhere" says Boone, "abundance of wild beasts

of all sorts, through this vast forest. The buffalo were

more frequent than I have seen cattle in the settlements,

browsing on the leaves of the cane, or cropping the herbage

of these extensive plains, fearless, because ignorant of the

violence of man. In this forest, the habitation of beasts of

every kind natural to America, we practised hunting with

great success until the 22d day of December following."



On that day Boone and another were taken prisoner by a party

of Indians. Seven days they were held, uncertain as to their

fate, but at length, by a skilful artifice, they escaped and

made their way back to their camp, only to find it deserted,

those whom they had left there having returned to North

Carolina. Other adventurers soon joined them, however,

Boone's brother among them, and the remainder of the winter

was passed in safety.



As regards the immediately succeeding events, it will

suffice to say that Squire Boone, as Daniel's brother was

called, returned to the settlements in the spring for

supplies, the others having gone before, so that the daring

hunter was left alone in that vast wilderness. Even his dog

had deserted him, and the absolute solitude of nature

surrounded him.



The movements we have described had not passed unknown to

the Indians, and only the most extraordinary caution saved

the solitary hunter from his dusky foes. He changed his camp

every night, never sleeping twice in the same place. Often

he found that it had been visited by Indians in his absence.

Once a party of savages pursued him for many miles, until,

by speed and skill, he threw them from his trail. Many and

perilous were his adventures during his three months of

lonely life in the woods and canebrakes of that fear-haunted

land. Prowling wolves troubled him by night, prowling

savages by day, yet fear never entered his bold heart, and

cheerfulness never fled from his mind. He was the true

pioneer, despising peril and proof against loneliness. At

length his brother joined him, with horses and supplies, and

the two adventurers passed another winter in the wilderness.



Several efforts were made in the ensuing years to people the

country, but numbers of the settlers were slain by the

Indians, whose hostility made the task so perilous that a

permanent settlement was not made till 1775. The place then

settled--a fine location on the Kentucky River--was called,

in honor of its founder, Boonesborough. Here a small fort

was built, to which the adventurer now brought his family,

being determined to make it his place of abode, despite his

dusky foes. "My wife and daughter," he says, "were the first

white women that ever stood on the banks of Kentucky River."



It was a dangerous step they had taken. The savages, furious

at this invasion of their hunting-grounds, were ever on the

alert against their pale-faced foes. In the following spring

Boone's daughter, with two other girls, who had

thoughtlessly left the fort to gather flowers, were seized

by ambushed Indians and hurried away into the forest depths.



Their loss was soon learned, and the distracted parents,

with seven companions, were quickly in pursuit through the

far-reaching forest. For two days, with the skill of trained

scouts, they followed the trail which the girls, true

hunters' daughters, managed to mark by shreds of their

clothing which they tore off and dropped by the way.



The rapid pursuers at length came within sight of the camp

of the Indians. Here they waited till darkness descended,

approaching as closely as was safe. The two fathers, Boone

and Calloway, now volunteered to attempt a rescue under

cover of the night, and crept, with the acumen of practised

frontiersmen, towards the Indian halting-place. Unluckily

for them they were discovered and captured by the Indians,

who dragged them exultingly to their camp. Here a council

was quickly held, and the captives condemned to suffer the

dreadful fate of savage reprisal,--death by torture and

flame.



Morning had but fairly dawned when speedy preparations were

made by the savages for their deadly work. They had no time

to waste, for they knew not how many pursuers might be on

their trail. The captives were securely bound to trees,

before the eyes of their distracted daughters, and fagots

hastily gathered for the fell purpose of their foes.



But while they were thus busied, the companions of Boone and

Calloway had not been idle. Troubled by the non-return of

the rescuers, the woodsmen crept up with the first dawn of

day, saw the bloody work designed, and poured in a sudden

storm of bullets on the savages, several of whom were

stretched bleeding upon the ground. Then, with shouts of

exultation, the ambushed whites burst from their covert,

dashed into the camp before the savages could wreak their

vengeance on their prisoners, and with renewed rifle-shots

sent them away in panic flight. A knife-stroke or two

released the captives, and the party returned in triumph to

the fort.



The example of Boone and his companions in making their

homes on Kentucky soil was soon followed by others, and

within a year or two a number of settlements had been made,

at various promising localities. The Indians did not view

with equanimity this invasion of their hunting-grounds.

Their old battles with each other were now replaced by

persistent hostility to the whites, and they lurked

everywhere around the feeble settlements, seizing

stragglers, destroying cattle, and in every way annoying the

daring pioneers.



In April, 1777, a party of a hundred of them fiercely

attacked Boonesborough, but were driven off by the rifles of

the settlers. In July they came again, now doubled in

numbers, and for two days assailed the fort, but with the

same ill-success as before. Similar attacks were made on the

other settlements, and a state of almost incessant warfare

prevailed, in which Boone showed such valor and activity

that he became the terror of his savage foes, who, in

compliment to his daring, christened him "The Great

Long-Knife." On one occasion when two Indian warriors

assailed him in the woods he manoeuvred so skilfully as to

draw the fire of both, and then slew the pair of them, the

one with his rifle, the other, in hand-to-hand fight, with

his deadly hunting-knife.



But the bold pioneer was destined soon to pass through an

experience such as few men have safely endured. It was now

February, 1778. For three years the settlers had defied

their foes, Boone, in despite of them, hesitating not to

traverse the forest alone, with rifle and hunting-knife, in

pursuit of game. In one of these perilous excursions he

suddenly found himself surrounded by a party of a hundred

Shawnese warriors, who were on their way to attack his own

fort. He fled, but was overtaken and secured. Soon after,

the savages fell in with a large party of whites who were

making salt at the Salt Lick springs, and captured them all,

twenty-seven in number.



Exulting in their success, the warriors gave up their

original project, and hastened northward with their

prisoners. Fortunately for the latter, the Revolutionary War

was now in full progress, and the Indians deemed it more

advantageous to themselves to sell their prisoners than to

torture them. They, therefore, took them to Detroit, where

all were ransomed by the British except Boone. The governor

offered a large sum for his release, but the savages would

not listen to the bribe. They knew the value of the man they

held, and were determined that their illustrious captive

should not escape again to give them trouble in field and

forest.



Leaving Detroit, they took him to Chillicothe, on the Little

Miami River, the chief town of the tribe. Here a grand

council was held as to what should be done with him. Boone's

fate trembled in the balance. The stake seemed his destined

doom. Fortunately, an old woman, of the family of Blackfish,

one of their most distinguished chiefs, having lost a son in

battle, claimed the captive as her adopted son. Such a claim

could not be set aside. It was a legal right in the tribe,

and the chiefs could not but yield. They were proud, indeed,

to have such a mighty hunter as one of themselves, and the

man for whose blood they had been hungering was now treated

with the utmost kindness and respect.



The ceremony of adoption into the tribe was a painful one,

which Boone had to endure. Part of it consisted in plucking

out all the hairs of his head with the exception of the

scalp-lock, of three or four inches diameter. But the shrewd

captive bore his inflictions with equanimity, and appeared

perfectly contented with his lot. The new son of the tribe,

with his scalp-lock, painted face, and Indian dress, and his

skin deeply embrowned by constant exposure to the air, could

hardly be distinguished from one of themselves, while his

seeming satisfaction with his new life was well adapted to

throw the Indians off their guard. His skill in all manly

exercises and in the use of arms was particularly admired by

his new associates, though, as Boone says, he "was careful

not to exceed many of them in shooting, for no people are

more envious than they in this sport."



His wary captors, however, were not easily to be deceived.

Seemingly, Boone was left free to go where he would, but

secretly he was watched, and precautions taken to prevent

his escape. He was permitted to go out alone to hunt, but

the Indians always carefully counted his balls and measured

his charges of powder, determined that he should have none

to aid him to procure food in a long flight. Shrewd as they

were, however, Boone was more than their match. In his

hunting expeditions he cut his balls in half, and used very

small charges of powder, so that he was enabled to bring

back game while gradually secreting a store of ammunition.



And thus the days and weeks went on, while Daniel Boone

remained, to all outward appearance, a contented Shawnee

warrior. But at length came a time when flight grew

imperative. He had been taken to the salt-licks with a party

of Indians to aid them in making salt. On returning to

Chillicothe he was alarmed to see the former peaceful aspect

of the village changed to one of threatened war. A band of

four hundred and fifty warriors had been collected for a

hostile foray, and to his horror he learned that

Boonesborough was the destined point of attack.



In this fort were his wife and children. In the present

state of security of the inmates they might easily be taken

by surprise. He alone could warn them of their danger, and

to this end he must escape from his watchful foes.



Boone was not the man to let the anxiety that tore his heart

appear on his face. To all seeming he was careless and

indifferent, looking on with smiling face at their

war-dances, and hesitating not to give them advice in

warlike matters. He knew their language sufficiently to

understand all they said, but from the moment of his

captivity had pretended to be entirely ignorant of it,

talking to them only in the jargon which then formed the

medium of communication between the red men and the whites,

and listening with impassive countenance to the most

fear-inspiring plans. They, therefore, talked freely before

him, not for a moment dreaming that their astute prisoner

had solved the problem of their destination. As for Boone,

he appeared to enter with whole-souled ardor into their

project and to be as eager as themselves for its success,

seeming so fully in sympathy with them, and so content with

his lot, that they absorbed in their enterprise, became less

vigilant than usual in watching his movements.



The time for the expedition was at hand. Whatever the

result, he must dare the peril of flight. The distance to be

traversed was one hundred and sixty miles. As soon as his

flight should become known, he was well aware that a host of

Indian scouts, thoroughly prepared for pursuit and full of

revengeful fury, would be on his track. And there would be

no further safety for him if captured. Death, by the most

cruel tortures the infuriated savages could devise, was sure

to be his fate.



All this Boone knew, but it did not shake his resolute soul.

His family and friends were in deadly peril; he alone could

save them; his own danger was not to be thought of in this

emergency. On the morning of June 16 he rose very early for

his usual hunt. Taking the ammunition doled out to him by

his Indian guards, he added to it that which he had secreted

in the woods, and was ready for the desperate enterprise

which he designed.



Boone was now forty-three years of age, a man of giant frame

and iron muscles, possessed of great powers of endurance, a

master of all the arts of woodcraft, and one of the most

skilful riflemen in the Western wilds. Keen on the trail,

swift of foot, and valorous in action as were the Indian

braves, there was no warrior of the tribe the equal in

these particulars of the practised hunter who now meditated

flight.



On the selected morning the daring woodsman did not waste a

moment. No sooner had he lost sight of the village than he

headed southward at his utmost speed. He could count on but

an hour or two to gain a start on his wary foes. He well

knew that when the hour of his usual return had passed

without his appearance, a host of scouts would follow in

swift pursuit. Such was the case, as he afterwards learned.

No sooner had the Indians discovered the fact of his flight

than an intense commotion reigned among them, and a large

number of their swiftest runners and best hunters were put

upon his trail.



By this time, however, he had gained a considerable start,

and was pushing forward with all speed taking the usual

precautions as he went to avoid making a plain trail, but

losing no time in his flight. He dared not use his

rifle,--quick ears might be within hearing of its sound. He

dared not kindle a fire to cook game, even if he had killed

it,--sharp eyes might be within sight of its smoke. He had

secured a few cuts of dried venison, and with this as his

only food he pushed on by day and night, hardly taking time

to sleep, making his way through forest and swamp, and

across many streams which were swollen by recent rains. And

on his track, like blood-hounds on the scent of their

victims, came the furious pursuers now losing his trail,

now recovering it; and, as they went, spreading out over a

wide space, and pushing steadily southward over the general

route which they felt sure he would pursue.



At length the weary fugitive reached the banks of the Ohio

River. As yet he had not seen a foe. As yet he had not fired

a gun. He must put that great stream, now swollen to a

half-mile in width by the late rains, between him and his

foes ere he could dare for a moment to relax his vigilance.



Unluckily, expert as he was in woodcraft, Boone was a poor

swimmer. His skill in the water would never carry him across

that rushing stream. How to get across had for hours been to

him a matter of deep anxiety. Fortunately, on reaching its

banks, he found an old canoe, which had drifted among the

bushes of the shore, and stranded there, being full of water

from a large hole in its bottom.



The skilled hunter was not long in emptying the canoe and

closing the hole. Then, improvising a paddle, he launched

his leaky craft upon the stream, and succeeded in reaching

the southern shore in safety. Now, for the first time, did

he feel sufficiently safe to fire a shot and to kindle a

fire. He brought down a wild turkey which, seasoned with

hunger, made him the most delicious repast he had ever

tasted. It was the only regular meal in which he indulged in

his flight. Safety was not yet assured. Some of his pursuers

might be already across the river. Onward he dashed, with

unflagging energy, and at length reached the fort, after

five days of incessant travel through the untrodden wilds.



He was like a dead man returned to life. The people at the

fort looked at him with staring eyes. They had long given

him up for lost, and he learned, much to his grief, that his

wife and children had returned to their old home in North

Carolina. Just now, however, there was no time for sorrow,

and little time for greeting. The fort had been neglected,

and was in bad condition. The foe might even then be near at

hand. There was not a moment to spare. He put the men

energetically to work, and quickly had the neglected

defences repaired. Then determined to strike terror into the

foe, he led a party of men swiftly to and across the Ohio,

met a party of thirty savages near the Indian town of Paint

Creek, and attacked them so fiercely that they were put to

rout.



This foray greatly alarmed the Indians. It put courage into

the hearts of the garrison. After an absence of seven days

and a journey of a hundred and fifty miles, Boone and his

little party returned, in fear lest the Chillicothe warriors

might reach the fort during his absence.



It was not, however, until August that the Indians appeared.

They were four hundred and forty-four in number, led by

Captain Duquesne and other French officers, and with French

and British colors flying. There were but fifty men in the

fort. The situation seemed a desperate one, but under

Boone's command the settlers were resolute, and to the

summons to surrender, the daring commander returned the

bold reply, "We are determined to defend our fort while a

man of us lives."



The next proposition of Duquesne was that nine of the

garrison should come out and treat with him. If they could

come to terms he would peacefully retire. The veteran

pioneer well knew what peril lurked in this specious

promise, and how little safety they would have in trusting

their Indian foes. But, moved by his bold heart and daring

love of adventure, he assented to the dangerous proposition,

though not without taking precautions for safety. He

selected nine of the strongest and most active of his men,

appointed the place of meeting in front of the fort, at one

hundred and twenty feet from the walls, and stationed the

riflemen of the garrison so as to cover the spot with their

guns, in case of treachery.



These precautions taken, Boone led his party out, and was

met by Duquesne and his brother officers. The terms proposed

were liberal enough, but the astute frontiersman knew very

well that the Indians would never assent to them. As the

conference proceeded, the Indian chiefs drew near, and

Blackfish, Boone's adopted father, professed the utmost

friendship, and suggested that the treaty should be

concluded in the Indian manner, by shaking hands.



The artifice was too shallow to deceive the silliest of the

garrison. It was Blackfish's purpose to have two savages

seize each of the whites, drag them away as prisoners, and

then by threats of torture compel their comrades to

surrender the fort. Boone, however, did not hesitate to

assent to the proposition. He wished to unmask his wily

foes. That done, he trusted to the strength of himself and

his fellows, and the bullets of his riflemen, to bring his

party in safety back to the fort.



It proved as he expected. No sooner had they yielded their

hands to the Indians than a desperate attempt was made to

drag them away. The surrounding Indians rushed to the aid of

their fellows. From behind stumps and trees, a shower of

bullets was poured upon the fort. But the alert pioneers

were not taken by surprise. From the rifles of the garrison

bullets were poured back. Boone easily shook off his

assailant, and his companions did the same. Back to the fort

they fled, bullets pattering after them, while the keen

marksmen of the fort sent back their sharp response. In a

few seconds the imperilled nine were behind the heavy gates,

only one of their number, Boone's brother, being wounded.

They had escaped a peril from which, for the moment, rescue

seemed hopeless.



Baffled in their treachery, the assailants now made a fierce

assault on the fort, upon which they kept up an incessant

fire for nine days and nights, giving the beleaguered

garrison scarcely a moment for rest. Hidden behind rocks and

trees, they poured in their bullets in a manner far more

brisk than effectual. The garrison but feebly responded to

this incessant fusillade, feeling it necessary to husband

their ammunition. But, unlike the fire of their foes, every

shot of theirs told.



During this interval the assailants began to undermine the

fort, beginning their tunnel at the river-bank. But the clay

they threw out discolored the water and revealed their

project, and the garrison at once began to countermine, by

cutting a trench across the line of their projected passage.

The enemy, in their turn, discovered this and gave up the

attempt. Another of their efforts was to set fire to the

fort by means of flaming arrows. This proved temporarily

successful, the dry timbers of the roof bursting into

flames. But one of the young men of the fort daringly sprang

upon the roof, extinguished the fire, and returned unharmed,

although bullets had fallen like hailstones around him.



At length, thoroughly discouraged, the enemy raised the

siege and departed, having succeeded only in killing two and

wounding four of the garrison, while their dead numbered

thirty-seven, and their wounded a large number. One of these

dead was a negro, who had deserted from the fort and joined

the Indians, and whom Boone brought down with a bullet from

the remarkable distance, for the rifles of that day, of five

hundred and twenty-five feet. After the enemy had gone there

were "picked up," says Boone, "one hundred and twenty-five

pounds' weight of bullets, besides what stuck in the logs of

the fort, which certainly is a great proof of their

industry," whatever may be said of their marksmanship.



The remainder of Daniel Boone's life we can give but in

outline. After the repulse of the enemy he returned to the

Yadkin for his family, and brought them again to his chosen

land. He came back to find an Indian war raging along the

whole frontier, in which he was called to play an active

part, and on more than one occasion owed his life to his

strength, endurance, and sagacity. This warfare continued

for a number of years, the Indians being generally

successful, and large numbers of soldiers falling before

their savage onsets. At length the conduct of the war was

intrusted to "Mad Anthony" Wayne, whose skill, rapidity, and

decision soon brought it to an end, and forced the tribes to

conclude a treaty of peace.



Thenceforward Kentucky was undisturbed by Indian forays, and

its settlement went forward with rapidity. The intrepid

Boone had by no means passed through the fire of war

unharmed. He tells us, "Two darling sons and a brother have

I lost by savage hands, which have also taken from me forty

valuable horses and abundance of cattle. Many dark and

sleepless nights have I been a companion for owls, separated

from the cheerful society of men, scorched by the summers'

sun, and pinched by the winter's cold, an instrument

ordained to settle the wilderness."



One wilderness settled, the hardy veteran pined for more.

Population in Kentucky was getting far too thick for his

ideas of comfort. His spirit craved the solitude of the

unsettled forest, and in 1802 he again pulled up stakes and

plunged into the depths of the Western woods. "Too much

crowded," he declared; "too much crowded. I want more

elbow-room."



His first abiding place was on the Great Kanawha, where he

remained for several years. Then, as the vanguard of the

army of immigrants pressed upon his chosen home, he struck

camp again, and started westward with wife and children,

driving his cattle before him, in search of a "promised

land" of few men and abundant game. He settled now beyond

the Mississippi, about fifty miles west of St. Louis. Here

he dwelt for years, hunting, trapping, and enjoying life in

his own wild way.



Years went by, and once more the emigrant army pressed upon

the solitude-loving pioneer, but he was now too old for

further flight. Eighty years lay upon his frosted brow, yet

with little diminished activity he pursued his old mode of

life, being often absent from home for weeks on hunting

expeditions. Audubon, the famous ornithologist, met him in

one of these forays, and thus pictures him: "The stature and

general appearance of this wanderer of the Western forests,"

he says, "approached the gigantic. His chest was broad and

prominent; his muscular powers displayed themselves in every

limb; his countenance gave indication of his great courage,

enterprise, and perseverance, and, whenever he spoke, the

very motion of his lips brought the impression that whatever

he uttered could not be otherwise than strictly true."



Mr. Irving tells a similar story of him in his eighty-fifth

year. He was then visited by the Astor overland expedition

to the Columbia. "He had but recently returned from a

hunting and trapping expedition," says the historian, "and

had brought nearly sixty beaver skins as trophies of his

skill. The old man was still erect in form, strong in limb,

and unflinching in spirit; and as he stood on the river bank

watching the departure of an expedition destined to traverse

the wilderness to the very shores of the Pacific, very

probably felt a throb of his old pioneer spirit, impelling

him to shoulder his rifle and join the adventurous band."



Seven years afterwards he joined another band, that of the

heroes who have gone to their rest. To his last year he

carried the rifle and sought the depths of the wood. At

last, in 1818, with no disease but old age, he laid down his

life, after a most adventurous career, in which he had won

himself imperishable fame as the most daring, skilful, and

successful of that pioneer band who have dared the perils of

the wilderness and surpassed the savage tenants of the

forest in their own chosen arts.