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THE STRANGER.

That portion of territory known throughout Christendom as Kentucky, was, at an early period, the theatre of some of the wildest, most hardily contested, and bloody scenes ever placed on record. In fact its very name, derived from the Indian word Kan-tuck-kee, which was applied to it long before its discovery by the whites, is peculiarly significant in meaning—being no less than "the dark and bloody ground." History makes no mention of its being inhabited prior to its settlement by the present race; but rather serves to aid us to the inference, that from time immemorial it was used as a "neutral ground," whereon the different savage tribes were wont to meet in deadly strife; and hence the portentious name by which it was known among them. But notwithstanding its ominous title, Kentucky, when first beheld by the white hunter, presented all the attractions he would have envied in Paradise itself. The climate was congenial to his feelings—the country was devoid of savages—while its thick tangles of green cane—abounding with deer, elk, bears, buffaloes, panthers, wolves and wild cats, and its more open woods with pheasant, turkey and partridge—made it the full realization of his hopes—his longings. What more could he ask? And when he again stood among his friends, beyond the Alleghanies, is it to be wondered at that his excited feelings, aided by distance, should lead him to describe it as the El Dorado of the world? Such indeed he did describe it; and to such glowing descriptions, Kentucky was doubtless partially indebted for her settlement so much in advance of the surrounding territory.

As it is not our purpose, in the present instance, to enter into a history of the country, further than is necessary to the development of our story, the reader will pardon us for omitting that account of its early settlement which can readily be gleaned from numerous works already familiar to the reading public. It may not be amiss, however, to remark here, what almost every reader knows, that first and foremost in the dangerous struggles of pioneer life, was the celebrated Daniel Boone; whose name, in the west, and particularly in Kentucky, is a household word; and whose fame, as a fearless hunter, has extended not only throughout this continent, but over Europe. The birth place of this renowned individual has been accredited to several states, by as many writers; but one, more than the rest, is positive in asserting it to have been Bucks county, Pennsylvania; and the year of his birth 1732; which is sufficient for our purpose, whether strictly correct or not. At an early period of his life, all agree that he removed with his father to a very thinly settled section of North Carolina, where he spent his time in hunting—thereby supplying the family with meat and destroying the wild beasts, while his brothers assisted the father in tilling the farm—and where he afterwards, in a romantic manner, became acquainted with a settler's daughter, whom he married; and whence, in the spring of 1769, in company with five others, he set out on an expedition of danger across the mountains, to explore the western wilds; and after undergoing hardships innumerable, and losing all his companions in various ways, he at last succeeded in erecting the first log cabin, and being the first white settler within the borders of Kentucky. To follow up, even from this time, a detail of his trials, adventures, captures by the Indians, and hair-breadth escapes, to the close of his eventful career, would be sufficient to fill a volume; therefore we shall drop him for the time—merely remarking, by the way, that he will be found to figure occasionally in the following pages.

From the first appearance of Boone in the wilds of Kentucky, we shall pass over a space of some ten or twelve years, and open our story in the fall of 1781. During this period, the aspect of the country for a considerable distance around the present site of Lexington, had become materially changed; and the smoke from the cabin of the white settler arose in an hundred places, where, a dozen years before, prowled the wolf, the bear, and the panther, in perfect security. In sooth, the year in question had been very propitious to the immigrants; who, flocking in from eastern settlements in goodly numbers, were allowed to domiciliate themselves in their new homes, with but few exceptions, entirely unmolested by the savage foe. So much in fact was this the case, that instead of taking up their residence in a fort—or station, as they were more generally called—the new comers erected cabins for themselves, at such points as they considered most agreeable; gradually venturing further and further from the strongholds, until some of them became too distant to look hopefully for succor in cases of extreme necessity.

Among the stations most prominent at this period, as being most secure, and against which the attacks of the Indians were most frequent and unsuccessful, may be mentioned Harrod's, Boone's, Logan's, and Bryan's, so called in honor of their founders. The first two named, probably from being the two earliest founded, were particularly unfortunate in drawing down upon themselves the concentrated fury of the savages, who at various times surrounded them in great numbers and attempted to take them by storm. These attacks not unfrequently lasted several days, in which a brisk fire was maintained on both sides, whenever a foe could be seen; until wearied out with fruitless endeavors, or surprised by a reinforcement of the whites, the Indians would raise the siege, with a howl of rage, and depart. One of the longest and most remarkable of these on record, we believe, was that of Boonesborough, which was attacked in June, 1778, by five hundred Indians, led on by Duquesne, a Frenchman, and which, with only a small garrison, commanded by Boone himself, nobly held out for eight days, when the enemy withdrew in despair. But, as we before remarked, it not being our purpose to enter into a general history of the time, we will now proceed with our story.

It was near the close of a mild, beautiful day, in the autumn of 1781, that a young man, some twenty-two years of age, emerged from a wood into an open space or clearing, at a distance of perhaps fifteen miles eastward from Lexington. The general appearance of this individual betokened the hunter, but at the same time one who followed it for pleasure, rather than as a means of support. This was evident from his dress, which although somewhat characteristic of the time, was much superior to that generally worn by the woodsman. He had on a woolen hunting frock, of fine texture, of a dark green color, that came a few inches below the hips. Beneath this, and fitting closely around his shoulders, neck and breast, was a scarlet jacket, ornamented with two rows of round, white metal buttons. A large cape, with a deep red fringe, of about inch in width, was attached to the frock, and extended from the shoulders nearly to the elbow. Around the waist, outside the frock, passed a dark leather belt, in which were confined a brace of handsome pistols, and a long silver-hilted hunting knife. Breeches of cloth, like the frock, were connected with leggins of tanned deer skin, which in turn extended over, and partly concealed, heavy cow-hide boots. A neatly made cap of deer skin, with the hair outside, surmounted a finely shaped head. His features, though somewhat pale and haggard, as if from recent grief or trouble, were mostly of the Grecian cast. He had a high, noble forehead; a large, clear, fascinating gray eye; a well formed mouth, and a prominent chin. In height he was about five feet and ten inches, broad shouldered, straight, heavy set, with handsome proportions.

Upon the shoulder of the young man, as he emerged from the wood, rested an elegant rifle; which, after advancing a short distance, he brought into a trailing position; and then pausing, he dropped the breech upon the ground, placed his hands over the muzzle, and, carelessly leaning his chin upon them, swept with his eye the surrounding country, to which he was evidently a stranger.

The day had been one of those mild and smoky ones, peculiar to the climate and season; and the sun, large and red, was near to sinking behind the far western ridge, giving a beautiful crimson, mellow tinge to each object which came beneath his rays. The landscape, over which the stranger gazed, was by no means unpleasing. His position was on an eminence, overlooking a fertile valley, partly cleared, and partly shaded by woods, through which wound a crystal stream, whose gentle murmurs could be heard even where he stood. Beyond this stream, the ground, in pleasing undulations, took a gentle rise, to a goodly height, and was covered by what is termed an open wood—a wood peculiar to Kentucky at this period—consisting of trees in the regularity of an orchard, at some distance apart, devoid of underbrush, beneath which the earth was beautifully carpeted with a rank growth of clover, high grass, and wild flowers innumerable. In the rear of the young hunter, as if to form a background to the picture, was the wood he had just quitted, which, continuing the elevation spoken of, but more abruptly, rose high above him, and was crowned by a ledge of rocks. Far in the distance, to his right, could be seen another high ridge; while to the left, spreading far away from the mouth of the valley, if we may so term it, like the prairies of Missouri, was a beautiful tangle, or cane-brake, containing its thousands of wild animals. The open space wherein the hunter stood was not large, covering an area of not more than half a dozen acres. It was of an oblong form, and sloped off from his position to the right, left, and front, and reached from the wood down to the stream in the valley, where stood a rather neat log cabin, from which a light blue smoke ascended in graceful wreaths. The eye of the stranger, glancing over the scene, fell upon this latter with that gleam of satisfaction which is felt by a person after performing a long fatiguing journey, when he sees before him a comfortable inn, where he is to repose for the night; and pausing for a couple of minutes, he replaced his rifle upon his shoulder, and started forward down the hill, at a leisure pace.

Scarcely had the stranger advanced twenty paces, when he was startled by a fierce yell, accompanied by the report of a rifle, the ball of which whizzed past him, within an inch of his head. Ere he could recover from his surprise, a sharp pain in the side, followed by another report, caused him to reel like one intoxicated, and finally sink to the earth. As the young man fell, two Indians sprung from behind a cluster of bushes, which skirted the clearing some seventy-five yards to the right, and, with a whoop of triumph, tomahawk in hand, rushed toward him. Believing that his life now depended upon his own speedy exertions, the young hunter, by a great effort, succeeded in raising himself on his knees; and drawing up his rifle with a hasty aim, he fired; but with no other success than that of causing one of the savages to jerk his head suddenly aside without slackening his speed. There was still a chance left him; and setting his teeth hard, the wounded man drew his pistols from his belt, and awaited the approach of his enemies; who, when within thirty paces, discovering the weapons of death, suddenly came to a halt, and commenced loading their rifles with great rapidity.

The young hunter now perceived, with painful regret, that only an interposition of Providence could save him, for his life was hanging on a thread that might snap at any moment. It was an awful moment of suspense, as there, on his knees, far, far away from the land of his birth, in a strange country, he, in the prime of life, without a friend near, wounded and weak, was waiting to die, like a wild beast, by the hands of savages, with his scalp to be borne hence as a trophy, his flesh to be devoured by wolves, and his bones left to bleach in the open air. It was an awful moment of suspense! and a thousand thoughts came rushing through his mind; and he felt he would have given worlds, were they his, for the existence of even half an hour, with a friend by, to receive his dying requests. To add to his despair, he felt himself fast growing weaker and weaker; and with an unsteady vision, as his last hope, he turned his eye in the direction of the cottage, to note if any assistance were at hand; but he saw none; and nature failing to support him longer in his position, he sunk back upon the ground, believing the last sands of his existence were run.

Meantime, the Indians had loaded their rifles; and one of them, stepping a pace in front of his companion, was already in the act of aiming, when, perceiving the young man falter and sink back, he lowered the muzzle of his gun, and, grasping his tomahawk, darted forward to despatch him without further loss of ammunition. Already had he reached within five or six paces of his victim, who, now unable to exert himself in his own defence, could only look upon his savage enemy and the weapon uplifted for his destruction, when, crack went another rifle, in an opposite direction whence the Indians approached, and, bounding into the air, with a terrific yell, the foremost fell dead by the young man's side. On seeing his companion fall, the other Indian, who was only a few paces behind, stopped suddenly, and, with a yell of fear and disappointment, turned and fled.

Those only who have been placed in peril sufficient to extinguish the last gleam of hope, and have suddenly been relieved by a mysterious interposition of Providence, can fully realize the feelings with which the wounded hunter saw himself rescued from an ignominious death. True, he was weak and faint from a wound which was, perhaps, mortal; still it was a great consolation to feel that he should die among those who would bury him, and perhaps bear a message to friends in a far-off land. With such thoughts uppermost in his mind, the young man, by great exertion, raised himself upon his elbow, and turned his head in the direction whence his deliverer might be expected; but, to his surprise and disappointment, no one appeared; and after vainly attempting to regain his feet, he sunk back, completely exhausted. The wound in his side had now grown very painful, and was bleeding freely; while he became conscious, that unless the hemorrhage could be stanched immediately, the only good service a friend could render him, would be to inter his remains. In this helpless state, something like a minute elapsed, when he felt a strange sensation about his heart—his head grew dizzy—his thoughts seemed confused—the sky appeared suddenly to grow dark, and he believed the icy grasp of death was already settling upon him. At this moment a form—but whether of friend or foe he could not tell—flitted before his uncertain vision; and then all became darkness and nonentity. He had swooned.

When the young stranger recovered his senses, after a lapse of some ten minutes, his glance rested on the form of a white hunter, of noble aspect, who was bending over him with a compassionate look; and who, meantime, had opened his dress to the wound and stanched the blood, by covering it with a few pieces of coarse linen, which he had torn into shreds for the purpose, and secured there by means of his belt.

As this latter personage is destined to figure somewhat in the following pages, we shall take this opportunity of describing him as he appeared to our wounded friend.

In height and proportion—but not in age—these two individuals were somewhat alike—the new comer being full five feet, ten inches, with a robust, athletic frame, and all the concomitants of a powerful man. At the moment when first beheld by the young man, after regaining his senses, he was kneeling by his side, his cap of the wild-cat skin was lying on the ground, and the last mellow rays of the setting sun were streaming upon an intelligent and manly countenance, which, now rendered more deeply interesting by the earnest, compassionate look wherewith he regarded the other, made him appear to that other, in his peculiar situation, this most noble being he had ever seen. Of years he had seen some fifty; though there was a freshness about his face, owing probably to his hardy, healthy mode of life, which made him appear much younger. His countenance was open and pleasing, with good, regular, though not, strictly speaking, handsome features. His forehead was high and full, beneath which beamed a mild, clear blue eye. His nose was rather long and angular; his cheekbones high and bold; his lips thin and compressed, covering a goodly set of teeth; his chin round and prominent; the whole together conveying an expression of energy, decision, hardy recklessness and manly courage. His dress was fashioned much like the other's, already described, but of coarser materials—the frock being of linsey-woolsey; the breeches and leggings of deerskin; and the moccasins, in place of boots of the same material. Around his waist passed a belt; wherein, instead of pistols, were confined a tomahawk and scalping knife—two weapons which were considered as indispensable to the regular white hunter of that day as to the Indian warrior himself.

So soon as the elder of the two became aware of consciousness on the part of the younger, a friendly smile succeeded to the look of anxiety with which he had been regarding him; and in the frank, cordial, familiar tone of that period, when every man's cabin was the traveler's home, and every strange guest was treated with the hospitality of an old acquaintance, he said:

"Well, stranger, I'm right glad to welcome you back to life agin; for I war beginning to fear your account with earthly matters had closed. By the Power that made me! but you've had a narrow escape on't; and ef Betsy (putting his hand on his rifle, which was lying by his side,) hadn't spoke out as she did, that thar red skin varmint (pointing to the dead Indian) would have been skulking now like a thief through yonder woods, with your crown piece hanging to his girdle."

"A thousand thanks," returned the wounded man, pressing the hand of the other as much as his strength would permit, and accompanying it with a look of gratitude more eloquent than words: "A thousand thanks, sir, for your timely shot, and subsequent kindness and interest in behalf of one you know not, but who will ever remember you with gratitude."

"See here, stranger, I reckon you've not been long in these parts?"

"But a few days, sir."

"And you've come from a good ways east o' the Alleghanies?"

"I have."

"I knew it. I'd have bet Betsey agin a bushel of corn, and that's large odds you know, that such war the fact, from the particular trouble you've taken to thank me for doing the duty of a man. Let me assure you, stranger, that you're in a country now whar equality exists; and whar one man's just as good as another, provided he is no coward, and behaves himself as he should do; and whether stranger or not, is equally entitled to the assistance of his fellows; perticularly when about being treed by such a sneaking varmint as that lying yonder. Besides, I don't want any body to thank me for shooting Indians; for I always do it, whensomever I get a chance, as Betsey would tell you, ef she could speak English; for somehow thar's no perticular agreement atween us, unless it's for each to make the most he can off the other; and so far I reckon thar's a ballance in my favor, though the wretches are ever trying desperate hard to get even. But come, stranger, it won't do for you to be lying thar with that hole in your side; and so just have patience a minute, till I've secured the top-knot of this beauty here, and then I'll assist you down to yonder cabin, whar I doubt not you'll be well cared for."

As he spoke, the old woodsman rose to his feet, drew his knife, and turning to the dead Indian, to the surprise of the other, who was but little familiar with Kentucky customs of that day, deliberately took off the scalp, which he attached to his belt;[1] and then spurning the body with his foot, he muttered: "Go, worthless dog! and fill the belly of some wolf! and may your cowardly companion be soon keeping you company." Then, as he turned to the other, and noticed his look of surprise, he added: "Well, stranger, I reckon this business looks a little odd to you, coming from away beyond the mountains as you do."

"Why, if truth must be told, I confess it does," answered the other.

"Don't doubt it, stranger; but you'll do it yourself afore you've wintered here two seasons."

"I must beg leave to differ with you on that point."

"Well, well, we'll not quarrel about it—it arn't worth while; but ef you stay here two year, without scalping a red-skin and perhaps skinning one, I'll agree to pay you for your time in bar-skins at your own valuation."

"I am much obliged to you for the offer," answered the young man—a faint smile lighting his pale features; "but I think it hardly probable I shall remain in the country that length of time."

"Not unless you have good care, I reckon," returned the other; "for that thar wound o' yourn arn't none o' the slightest; though I don't want you to be skeered, for I've seen many a worse one cured. But come, I'll assist you down to yon cabin, and then I must be off—for I've got a good distance to travel afore daylight to-morrow;" and bending down as he spoke, the veteran hunter placed his arms under the arms of the wounded man, and gently raised him upon his feet.

Although extremely weak from loss of blood, the latter, by this means of support, was enabled to walk, at a slow pace; and the two descended the hill—the elder, the while, talking much, and endeavoring by his discourse to amuse and cheer up his companion.

"Why," he continued, "you think your case a hard one, no doubt, stranger; but it's nothing compared to what some of us old settlers have seen and been through with, without even winking, as one may say. Within the last few year, I've seen a brother and a son shot by the infernal red-skins—have lost I don't know how many companions in the same way—been shot at fifty times myself, and captured several; and yet you see here I am, hale and hearty, and just as eager, with Betsey's permission, to talk to the varmints now as I war ten year ago."

"But do you not weary of this fatiguing and dangerous mode of life?" inquired the other.

"Weary, stranger? Lord bless ye! you're but a young hunter to ax such a question as that. Weary, friend? Why I war born to it—nursed to it—had a rifle for a plaything; and the first thing I can remember particularly, war shooting a painter;[2] and it's become as nateral and necessary as breathing; and when I get so I can't follow the one, I want to quit the other. Weary on't, indeed! Why, thar's more real satisfaction in sarcumventing and scalping one o' there red heathen, than in all the amusement you could scare up in a thick-peopled, peaceable settlement in a life time."

"By the way," said the other, "pray tell me how you chanced to be so opportune in saving my life?"

"Why, you must know, I war just crossing through the wood back here about a mile, on my way home from the Licks, when I came across the trail of two Indians, whom I 'spected war arter no good; and as Betsey war itching for something to do, I kind o' kept on the same way, and happened round on the other side o' this ridge, just as the red varmints fired. I saw you fall, but could'nt see them, on account o' the hill; but as I knowed they'd be for showing themselves soon, I got Betsey into a comfortable position, and waited as patiently as I could, until the ugly face of that rascal yonder showed clar; when I told her to speak to him, which she did in rale backwood's dialect, and he died a answering her. I then hurried round on the skirt of the wood, loading Betsey as I went; but finding the other varmint had got off, I hastened to you and found you senseless: the rest you know."

By this time the two had reached nearly to the foot of the hill, and within a hundred yards of the cabin. Here they were joined by a tall, lank, lantern-jawed, awkward young man, some twenty years of age, with small, dark eyes, a long, peaked nose, and flaxen hair that floated down over his ungainly shoulders, like weeping willows over a scrub oak, and who carried in his hand a rifle nearly as long and ugly as himself.

"Why, colonel, how are ye? good even' to ye, stranger," was his salutation, as he came up. "I war down by the tangle yonder, when I heerd some firing, and some yelling, and I legged it home, ahead o' the old man, just to keep the women folks in sperets, in case they war attacked, and get a pop or so at an Injen myself; but thank the Lord, they warn't thar; and so I ventered on, with long Nance here, to see whar they mought be."

"Well, Isaac," returned the one addressed as colonel, "I don't doubt your being a brave lad, and I've had some opportunity o' seeing you tried; but being is how thar's no Indians to shoot just now, I'll ax you to show your good qualities in another way. This young man's been badly wounded, and ef you'll give him a little extra care, you'll put me under obligations which I'll be happy to repay whensomever needed."

"It don't need them thar inducements you've just mentioned, colonel, to rouse all my sympathies for a wounded stranger. Rely on't, he shan't suffer for want o' attention."

"Rightly said, lad; rightly said; and so I leave him in your care. Tender my regards to your family, for I must be off, and can't stay to see them." Then turning to the wounded man, he grasped his hand and said: "Stranger, thar's something about you I like; I don't say it of every man I meet; and so you may put it down for a compliment or not, just as you please. Give me your name?"

"Algernon Reynolds."

"Algernon Reynolds, I hope we shall meet again, though in a different manner from our introduction; but whether or no, ef you ever need the assistance of either Betsey or myself, just make it known, and we'll do our best for you. Good bye, sir—good bye, Isaac!" and without waiting a reply, the speaker sprung suddenly behind a cluster of bushes near which the party stood, and the next moment was lost to view in the gathering darkness.

"A great man, that thar, sir!—a powerful great man," observed Isaac, gazing with admiration after the retreating form of the hunter. "Always doing good deeds, and never looking for pay nor thanks; may God give him four-score and ten."

"Amen to that!" returned Reynolds. "But pray tell me his name."

"And you don't know him?"

"I do not."

"And you didn't inquire his name?"

"I did not."

"And ef you had, sir, ten to one but he'd a given you a fictitious one, to keep clar o' your surprise and extra thanks. Why that, sir, war the great white hunter, Colonel Daniel Boone."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Reynolds, in no feigned surprise—"the very man I have so longed to behold; for his fame has already extended far beyond the Alleghanies. But come, friend Isaac, my wound grows painful; my exertions thus far have weakened me exceedingly; and with your permission, I will proceed to the cottage. Ah! I feel myself growing faint—fainter—fa-i-n-t;" and he sunk senseless into the other's arms; who, raising him, apparently without an effort, bore him into the house.

[1]

However barbarous such a proceeding may appear to thousands in the present day of civilization and refinement, we can assure them, on the authority of numerous historians of that period, that it was a general custom with the early settlers of the west, to take the scalp of an Indian slain by their hand, whenever opportunity presented.

[2]

Backwoods name for a panther.