Historical Tales [calibre 5.4.1]

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.