Daniel Boone by John Stevens Cabot Abbott : Chapter 7

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter seven of Daniel Boone by John S. C Abbott.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by
Alison Hester, chapter seven, Life in the Wilderness. There were
now four hungry men to occupy the little camp of
our bold adventurers. They do not seem to have been

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conscious of enduring any hardships. The winter was mild, their
snug tent furnished perfect protection from wind and rain, with
abundant fuel. Their camp fire, ever, blazed brightly. Still, it
was necessary for them to be diligent in hunting to
supply themselves with their daily food. Bread, eggs, milk, butter, sugar,

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and even salt were articles of which they were entirely destitute.
One day, not long after the arrival of Squire Boone,
Daniel Boone, with his companion Stuart, was a long distance
from the camp hunting. Suddenly the terrible war whoop of
the U s Indians resounded from a thicket, and a
shower of arrows fell around them. Stewart, pierced by one

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of these deadly missiles, fell mortally wounded. A sturdy Savage
sprained from the ambuscade upon his victim, and with a yell,
buried a tomahawk in his brain. Then, grasping with one
hand the hair on top of his head, he made
a rapid circular cut with his gleaming knife and tore
off the scalp, leaving the skull bare. The revolting deed

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was done quicker than it can be described. Shaking the
bloody trophy in his hand, he gave a whoop of exultation,
which echoed far and wide through the solitudes of the forest,
moon swift of foot as the antelope escaped and reached
the camp with the sad tidings of the death of
his companion and of the presence in their immediate vicinity

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of hostile Indians. This so affrighted the North Carolinian, who
had come with Squire Boone, that he resolve an immediate
return to the Yadkin. He set out alone, and doubtless
perished by the way, as he was never heard of again.
A skeleton subsequently found in the wilderness was supposed to

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be the remains of the unfortunate hunter. He probably perished
through exhaustion or by the arrow or tomahawk of the savage.
The two brothers, Daniel and Squire, were now left entirely alone.
They selected a favorable spot in a wild ravine where
they would be the least likely to be discovered by
hunting bands, and built for themselves a snug and comfortable

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log house in which they would be more effectually sheltered
from the storms of the cold winter, and into which
they moved from their open camp. Here they remained two
loving brothers of congenial tastes during the month of January, February,
March and April, solitary as their life must have been,
probably every hour brought busy employment. Each day's food was

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to be obtained by the rifle, wood was to be
procured for their fire. All their clothing, from the cap
to the moccasin, was to be fashioned by their own
hands from the skin of the deer, which they had
carefully tanned into pliancy and softness, And there were to
be added to their cabin many conveniences which required much ingenuity,

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with knife and hatchet for their only tools, and with
neither nail nor screw for their construction. In addition to this,
they were under the necessity of being ever on the
alert to discover indications of the approach of the Indians.
The winter passed away not only undisturbed, but evidently very happily.

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It is remarked that their retreat was not discovered by
any of the Indian bands, who, in pursuit of game,
were constantly roving over those rich hunting grounds. As Summr's
warmth returned, Squire Boone decided to retrace his steps to
the Yadkin, to carry to his brother's family news of
his safety, and to obtain much needed supplies of powder

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and of lead. There is no satisfactory explanation of the
motives which could have induced Daniel, after the absence of
a year from his home, to remain alone in that
solitary cabin. In his autobiography he has assigned no reason
for the extraordinary decision. One of the most judicious of
his biographers makes the following statement, which by no means

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solves the mystery. When the spring came, it was time
for another movement. The spring came early, and the awaking
to its foliage seemed like the passing from night to
the day. The game had reduced their powder and lead,
and without these there was no existence. To the white man. Again,
Daniel Boone rises to the emergency. It was necessary that

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the settlement which they had made should be continued and protected,
and it was the duty, in the progress of events,
that one of them should remain to that task. He
made the selection and shows himself he had the courage
to remain alone, and while he felt the keenest desire
to see his own family, he felt that he had
a noble purpose to serve, and was prepared for it.

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Daniel Boone, in his quaint autobiography in the following terms,
alludes to the departure of his brother and his own
solitary mode of life during the three months of his
brother's absence. On the first day of May seventeen seventy,
my brother returned home to the settlement by himself for
a new recruit of horses and ammunition, leaving me by

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myself without bread, salt, or sugar, without the company of
my fellow creatures, or even a horse or dog. I
confess I never before was under greater necessity of exercising
philosophy and fortitude. A few days I passed uncomfortably. The
idea of a beloved wife and family, and their anxiety

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on account of my absence and exposed situation, made sensible
impressions on my heart. A thousand dreadful apprehensions presented themselves
to my view, and had undoubtedly exposed me to melancholy
if further indulged. One day I took a tour through
the country, and the diversity and beauties of nature I
met with in this charming season expelled every gloomy and

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vexatious thought. Just at the close of the day, the
gentle gales retired and left the place to the disposal
of a profound calm. Not a breeze shook the most
tremulous leaf. I had gained the summit of a commanding ridge,
and looking around with astonishing delight, beheld the ample plain

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the beauteous tracks below. On the other hand, I surveyed
the famous Ohio River that rolled in silent dignity, marking
the western boundary of Kentucky with inconceivable grandeur. At a
vast distance, I beheld the mountains lift their venerable heads
and penetrate the clouds. I kindled a fire near a

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fountain of sweet water and feasted on the loin of
a buck. The fallen shades of night soon overspread the
whole hemisphere, and the earth seemed to gape. After the
hovering moisture. My roving excursion this day had fatigued my
body and diverted my imagination. I laid me down to sleep,
and I woke not until the sun had chased away

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the night. I continued this tour, and in a few
days explored a considerable part of the country. Each day
equally pleased as the first. I returned to my camp,
which was not disturbed in my absence. I did not
confine my lodging to it, but often reposed in thick
cane breaks to avoid the savages, who I believe often

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visited it. But fortunately for me, in my absence, in
this situation, I was constantly exposed to danger and death.
How unhappy such a condition for a man tormented with fear,
which is vain if no danger comes, and if it does,
only augments the pain. It was my happiness to be

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destitute of this afflicting passion, with which I had the
greatest reasons to be affected. The prowling wolves diverted my
nocturnal hours with perpetual howlings, and the various species of
animals in this vast forest in the daytime were continually
in my view. Thus I was surrounded with plenty in

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the midst of want, I was happy in the midst
of dangers and inconveniences. In such a diversity, it was
impossible I should be exposed to melancholy. No populous city,
with all the varieties of commerce and stately structures, could
afford so much pleasure to my mind as the beauties
of nature I found here. Thus, through an uninterrupted scene

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of Sylvan pleasures, I spent the time until the twenty
seventh day of July following, when my brother to my
great Felicity met me according to appointment at our old camp.
Boone was at this time thirty six years of age.
He was about five feet ten inches in height, and
of remarkably vigorous and athletic frame. His life in the

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open air, his perfect temperance, and his freedom from all
exciting passions gave him constant health. Squire brought back to
his brother the gratifying news that his wife, Rebecca, was
in good health and spirits and cheerfully acquiesced in whatever
decision her husband might make in reference to his absence,

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She had full confidence in the soundness of his judgment
and in his conjugal and parental love. The children were
all well, and from the farm and the forest, the
wants of the family were fully supplied. It appears that
Squire Boone had succeeded in bringing one or two horses
across the mountains. The abundance of grass kept them in

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fine condition. Upon the backs of these horses, the pioneers
could true at first the treeless prairies without obstruction, and
large portions of the forest were as free from underbrush
as the park of an English nobleman. Invaluable as these
animals were to the adventurers, they greatly increased their perils.

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They could not easily be concealed, their footprints could not
be effaced, and there was nothing the Indians coveted so
greatly as a horse. The two adventurers now set out
on horseback for an exploring tour to the southwest, following
a line nearly parallel with the Cumberland Range. After traversing

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a magnificent region of beauty and fertility for about one
hundred and fifty miles, they reached the banks of the
Cumberland River. This majestic stream takes its rise on the
western slope of the Cumberland Mountains. After an exceedingly surcutuous
route of six hundred miles, running far down into Tennessee,
it turns northwesterly again and empties its waters into the Ohio.

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About sixty miles above the entrance of that river into
the Mississippi. It was midsummer. The weather was delightful, the
forest free from underbrush attractive as the most artificial park,
and the smooth sweep of the treeless prairie presented before
them as enticing a route of travel as the imagination

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could desire. There were, of course, hardships and privations which
would have been regarded as very severe by the dwellers
in the sealed houses, but none which disturbed in the
slightest degree the equanimity of these hardy adventurers. They journeyed
very leisurely, seven months being occupied in the tour. Probably

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only a few miles were accomplished each day, with soft
saddles made of the skin of buffalo, with their horses
never urged beyond a walk, with bright skies above them,
and vistas of beauty ever opening before them, and luxuriance,
bloom and fragrance spread everywhere around. Their journey seemed replete

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with enjoyment of the purest kind Though it was necessary
to practice the extreme of caution to avoid capture by
the Indians, our adventurers do not seem to have been
annoyed in the slightest degree with any painful fears. On
that account, Each morning they carefully scanned the horizon to
see if anywhere there could be seen the smoke of

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the camp fire curling up from the open prairie or
from the forest. Through the day, they were ever on
the alert, examining the trails which they occasionally passed to
see if there were any fresh footprints or other indications
of the recent presence of their foe. At night, before
venturing to kindle their own camp fire, they looked cautiously

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in every direction to see if a gleam from an
Indian encampment could anywhere be seen. Thus, from the first
of August to the ensuing month of March, these two
bold men traversed for many hundred miles an unknown country
filled with wandering hunting bands of hostile Indians, and yet
avoided capture or detection. If a storm arose, they would

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rear their cabin in some secluded dell, and, basking in
the warmth of their campfire, wait until the returning sun
invited them to resume their journey. Or if they came
to some of nature's favored haunts, where eden like attractions
were spread around them, on the borders of the lake,
by the banks of the stream, or beneath the brow
of the mountain, they would tearry for a few days,

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reveling in delights which they both had the taste to appreciate.
In this way, they very thoroughly explored the upper valley
of the Cumberland River. For some reason not given, they
preferred to return north several hundred miles to the Kentucky
River as the seat of their contemplated settlement. The headwaters
of this stream are near those of the Cumberland It, however,

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flows through the very heart of Kentucky till it enters
the Ohio River, midway between the present cities of Sint
Cincinnati and Louisville. It was in the month of March
that they reached the Kentucky River. On their return, for
some time they wandered along its banks, searching for the
more suitable situation for the location of a colony. The

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exemption of these men, said W. H. Bogart, from assault
by the Indians, during all, this long period of seven months,
in which armed and on horseback they seemed to have
roamed just where they chose, is most wonderful. It has
something about it which seems like a special inner position
of providence, beyond the ordinary guardianship over the progress of man.

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On the safety of these men rested the hope of
a nation. A very distinguished authority has declared that without Boone,
the settlements could not have been upheld, and the conquest
of Kentucky would have been reserved for the emigrants of
the nineteenth century. Boone, having now, after an absence of
nearly two years, apparently accomplished the great object of his mission,

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having after the most careful and extensive exploration, selected such
a spot as he deemed most attractive for the future
home of his family, decided to return to the Yadkin
and make preparations for their emigration across the mountains to US. Now,
such a movement seems to indicate an almost insane boldness
and recklessness. To take a wife and children into a

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pathless wilderness filled with unfriendly savages five hundred miles from
any of the settlements of civilization would seem to invite death,
a family could not long be concealed. Their discovery by
the Indians would be almost the certain precursor of their destruction. Boone,
in his autobiography says, an allusion to this hazardous adventure,

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I returned home to my family with a determination to
bring them as soon as possible, at the risk of
my life and fortune, to live in Kentucky, which I
esteemed a second paradise. The two brothers accomplished the journey safely,
and Daniel Boone found his family after his long absence
in health and prosperity. One would have supposed that the

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charms of home on the banks of the Yadkin, where
they could dwell in peace, abundance in safety, would have
lured our adventurer to rest from his wanderings, and it
is probable that for a time he wavered in his resolution.
Two years elapsed, Erey set out for his new home
in the far West. There was much to be done
in preparation for so momentous a movement. He sold his

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farm on the Yadkin and invested the proceeds in such
comforts as would be available on the banks of the Kentucky.
Money would be of no value to him there a
path had been discovered by which horses could be led
through the mountains, and thus many articles could be transported
which could not be taken in packs on the back.
Several of the neighbors, elated by the description which Boone

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gave off the paradise he had found, were anxious to
join his family in their emigration. There were also quite
a number of young men rising here and there, who,
lured by the romance of the adventure, were eager to
accompany the expedition. All these events caused delays. The party
of immigrants became more numerous than Boone at first expected.

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It was not until the twenty fifth of September seventeen
seventy three that Daniel Boone, his brother Squire, and quite
a large party of emigrants, probably in all men, women
and children, not less than sixty in number, commenced their
journey across the mountains. There were five families and forty pioneers,
all well armed, who were quite at home amid the

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trials and privations of the wilderness. Four horses, heavily laden,
led the train through the narrow trails of the forest,
then came in single file. The remainder of the party
of all ages and both sexes. It must have been
a singular spectacle which was presented. As this law line
wound its way through the valleys and over the ridges.

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Squire Boon was quite familiar with the path. It was
delightful autumnal weather. The days were long and calm, and
yet not oppressively hot. There were no gloved gentlemen or
delicate ladies in the company. All were hardy men and
women accustomed to endurance. Each day's journey was short. An

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hour before the sun disappeared. In the west, the little
village of Cabins arose, where some spring gurgled from the cliff,
or some sparkling mountain stream rippled before them. In front
of each cabin, the camp fire blazed. All was animation
and apparent joy as the women prepared the evening meal,
and the wearied children rested upon their couch of dried

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leaves or fragrant twigs. If a storm arose, they had
but to remain beneath their shelter until it passed away. Traveling,
says Madame de Stael, who was accustomed to the most
luxurious of European conveyances, is the most painful of all pleasures.
Probably our travelers on this journey experienced as many pleasures

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and as few pains as often fall to the lot
of any tourist. The solitary wilderness has its attractions as
well as the thronged town. These bold men, armed with
their rifles, under such an accomplished leader as Daniel Boone,
penetrated the wilderness with almost the strength of an invading army.
Upon the open prairie. The superiority of their arms would

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compensate for almost any inferiority of numbers. Indeed, they had
little to fear from the savages, unless struck suddenly with
overwhelming numbers leaping upon them from some ambush. Pleasant days
came and went, while nothing occurred to interrupt the prosperity
of their journey. They were approaching the celebrated Cumberland Gap,

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which seems to be a door that nature has thrown
open for passing through this great mountain bearers. The vigilance
they ought to have practiced had been in some degree
relaxed by their freedom from all alarm. The cows had
fallen a few miles behind. Seven young men were with them,
a son of Daniel Boone being one of the number.

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The main party was not aware how far the cattle
had fallen in the rear. It is probable that the
savages had been following them for several days, watching for
an opportunity to strike. For suddenly, as they were passing
through a narrow ravine, the fearful war whoop resounded from
the thickets on both sides. A shower of arrows fell

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upon them, and six of the seven young men were
instantly struck down by these deadly missiles. One only escaped.
The attack was so sudden, so unexpected, that the immigrants
had scarcely time for one discharge of their firearms, ere
they were struck down with death. The party in advance

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heard with consternation the reports of the musket and immediately
returned to the scene of the disaster. But several miles intervened.
They met the fugitive, who had escaped, bleeding and almost breathless,
hurrying on. An awful spectacle met their view. The bodies
of six of the young men lay in the path,

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mangled and gory, with their scalps torn from their heads.
The cattle were driven into the forest beyond pursuit. One
of these victims was the eldest son of Daniel Boone.
James was a noble lad of but seventeen years His
untimely death was a terrible blow to his father and mother.

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This massacre took place on the tenth of October, only
a fortnight after the expedition had commenced its march. The
gloom which it threw over the minds of the emigrants
was so great that the majority refused to press any
farther into a wilderness where they would encounter such perils.
They had already passed two mountain ridges. Between them, there

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was a very beautiful valley through which flows the Clinch River. This,
many leagues below, uniting with the Holston River flowing on
the other side of Powell's Ridge, composes the majestic Tennessee, which,
extending far down into Alabama, turns again north and traversing
the whole breadth of Tennessee and Kentucky, empties into the Ohio.

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Notwithstanding the remonstrances of Daniel Boone and his brother, the
majority of the emigrants resolved to retreat forty miles over
the Walden Ridge and establish themselves in the valley of
the Clinch. Daniel Boone, finding all his attempts to encourage
them to proceed in Vain decided, with his customary good sense,

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to acquiesce in their wishes and quietly to await further developments.
The whole party consequently retraced their steps and reared their
cabins on fertile meadows in the valley of the Clinch River,
here between parallel ridges of mountains running northeast and southwest,
Boon with his disheartened emigrants. Past seven months. This settlement

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was within the limits of the present state of Virginia
in its most extreme southwestern corner. The value of the
vast country beyond the mountains was beginning to attract the
attention of the governors of several colonies. Governor Dunmore of
Virginia had sent a party of surveyors to explore the
valley of the Ohio River as far as the celebrated

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falls of the Ohio, near the present site of Louisville.
Quite a body of these surveyors had built and fortified
a camp near the falls, and were busy in exploring
the country in preparation for the granting of lands as
reward for services to the officers and soldiers in the
French War. These pioneers were far away in the wilderness,

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four hundred miles beyond any settlement of the Whites. They
were surrounded by thousands of Indian warriors, and still they
felt somewhat secure, as a treaty of peace had been
made by the Governor of Virginia with the neighboring chiefs.
But notwithstanding this treaty, many of the more intelligent of
the Indians foresaw the inevitable destruction of their hunting grounds

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should the white men succeed in establishing themselves on their
lands and cutting them up into farms. A friendly Indian
had informed Governor Dunmore that a very formidable conspiracy had
been organized by the tribes for the destruction of the
party encamped at the falls of the Ohio, and for
the extermination of every other party of whites who should

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penetrate their hunting grounds. It was in accordance with this
conspiracy that Daniel Boone's party was so fiercely assailed when
near the gap in the Cumberland Mountains, And it was
probably the knowledge of this conspiracy thus practically developed, which
led the husbands and fathers to abandon their enterprise of
plunging into the wilderness of Kentucky. There were about forty men,

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all numbered, and the little band of surveyors at the falls.
They were in terrible peril. Unconscious of danger in supposing
the Indians to be friendly, they were liable to be
attacked on any day by overwhelming numbers of savages and
utterly exterminated. It consequently became a matter of great moment
that Governor Dunmore should send them word of their danger, and,

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if possible, secure their safe return into the settlements. But
who would undertake such a mission, one fraught with greater
danger could not easily be imagined. The courier must traverse
on foot a distance of four or five hundred miles
through a pathless wilderness filled with hunting bands of hostile savages.

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He must live upon the game he could shoot each day,
when every discharge of his musket was liable to bring
upon him scores of foes. He must either eat his
food raw or cook it at a fire whose gleam
at night or smoke by day would be almost sure
to attract the attention of death dealing enemies. He must
conceal his footprints from hunting bands wandering far and wide

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in every direction, so keen in their sagacity that they
could almost follow the track of the lightest footed animal
through the forest or over the prairie. The Indians had
also well trained dogs, who, being once put upon the scent,
could with unerring instinct, follow any object of search until
it was overtaken. The name of Daniel Boone was mentioned

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to Governor Dunmore as precisely the man to meet this exigency.
The Governor made application to the practiced hunter, and Boone,
without the slightest hesitancy, accepted the perilous office. Indeed, he
seems to have been entirely unconscious of the heroism he
was developing. Never did knight Errant of the Middle Ages

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undertake an achievement of equal daring for capture not only
was certain death, but death under the most frightful tortures.
But Boone, calm, imperturbable, pensive, with never a shade of
boastfulness in word or action, embarked in the enterprise as
if it had been merely one of the ordinary occurrences

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of everyday life. And the following modest words. He records
the event in his autobiography, I remained with my family
on the clinch River until the sixth of June seventeen
seventy four, when I and one Michael Stoner were solicited
by Governor Dunmore of Virginia to go to the falls
of the Ohio to conduct into the settlements a number

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of surveyors that had been sent thither by him some
months before. This country having about this time drawn the
attention of many adventurers. We immediately complied with Governor's requests
and conducted in the surveyors, completing a tour of eight
hundred miles through many difficulties, in sixty two days. The

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narrative which follows will give the readers some idea of
the wilderness which Boone was about to penetrate, and the
perils which he was about to encounter. An emigrant of
these early days who lived to witness the transformation of
the wilderness from a scene of unbroken solitude into the
haunts of busy men, and the following words describes this

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change and its influence upon the mind. To a person
who has witnessed all the changes which have taken place
in the Western Country since its first settlement, its former
appearance is like a dream or romance. He will find
it difficult to realize the features of that wilderness which
was the abode of his infant days. The little cabin

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of his father no longer exists. The little field and
truck patch which gave him a scanty supply of coarse
bread and vegetables have been swallowed up in the extended meadows,
orchard or grain fields. The rude fort in which his
people had resided so many painful summers has vanished everywhere,

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surrounded by the busy hum of men and the splendor arts, refinements,
and comforts of civilized life. His former state and that
of his country have vanished from his memory, or, if
sometimes he bestows a reflection on its original aspect, the
mind seems to be carried back to a period of
time much more remote than it really is. One advantage,

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at least, results from having lived in a state of society,
ever on the change, and always for the better, that
it doubles the retrospect of life with me. At any
rate it has had that effect, did not the definite
number of my years teach me. To the contrary, I
should think myself at least one hundred years old instead
of fifty. The case is said to be widely different

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with those who have passed their lives in cities or
ancient settlements, where from year to year the same unchanging
aspect of things presents itself. One prominent feature of the
wilderness is its solitude. Those who plunged into the bosom
of this forest left behind them not only the busy
hum of men, but of domesticated animal life. Generally, the

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solitude of the night was interrupted only by the howl
of the wolf, the melancholy moan of the ill boding owl,
or the shriek of the frightful panther. Even the faithful dog,
the only steadfast companion of man among the brute creation,
partook of the silence of the desert. The discipline of
his master forbade him to bark or move, but in

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obedience to his command, and his native sagacity soon taught
the propriety of obedience to this severe government. The day was,
if possible, more solitary than the night. The noise of
the wild turkey, the croaking of the raven, or the
woodpecker tapping the hollow beech tree did not much enliven

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the dreary scene. The various tribes of singing birds are
not in evidence of the desert. They are not carnivorous,
and therefore must be fed from the labors of man.
At any rate, they did not exist in this country
as its first settlement. Let the imagination of the reader
pursue the track of the adventurer into the solitary wilderness,

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bending his course towards the setting sun, over undulating hills,
under the shade of large forest trees, and wading through
the rank weeds and grass which then covered the earth.
Now he views from the top of a hill the
winding course of a creek, whose stream he wishes to explore.
Doubtful of its course and of his own, he ascertains

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the cardinal points of north and south by the thickness
of the moss and the bark on the north side
of the ancient trees. Now descending into a valley, he
presages his approach to a river by seeing large ash vass,
wood and sugar trees beautifully festooned with wild grapevines. Watchful
as argus, his restless eye catches everything around him. In

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an unknown region and surrounded with dangers, he is the
sentinel of his own safety and relies on himself for protection.
The toilsome march of the day being ended at the
fall of night, he seeks for safety some narrow, sequestered hollow,
and by the side of a large log, builds a fire, and,

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after eating a coarse and scanty meal, wraps himself up
in his blanket and lays himself down for repose on
his bed of leaves, with his feet to the fire,
hoping for favorable dreams ominous of future good luck, while
his faithful dog and gun rest by his side. But
let not the reader suppose that the pilgrim of the

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wilderness could feast his imagination with the romantic beauties of
nature without any drawback from conflicting passions. His situation did
not afford him much time for contemplation. He was in
exile from the warm clothing and plentiful mansions of society.
His homely woodman's dress soon became old and ragged. The

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cravings of hunger compelled him to sustain from day to
day the fatigues of the chase. Often he had to
eat his venison, beer's meat, or wild turkey without bread
or salt. His situation was not without its dangers. He
did not know at what moment his foot might be
stung by a serpent at what moment he might meet

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with the formidable bear, or on what limb of a
tree over his head the murderous panther might be perched,
and a squatting attitude to drop down upon him and
tear him to pieces. In a moment exiled from society
and its comforts, the situation of the first adventurers was
perilous in the extreme. The bite of a serpent, a

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broken limb, a wound of any kind, or a fit
of sickness in the wilderness without those accommodations which wounds
and sickness reached choir was a dreadful calamity. The bed
of sickness without medical aid, and above all, to be
destitute of the kind of attention a mother, sister, wife,
or other female friends was a situation which could not

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be anticipated by the tenant of the forest. With other
sentiments than those of the deepest horror, There are no
narratives of more thrilling interest than those which described the
perils and hair breadth escapes which some of these bold
hunters encountered. Immediately after the purchase of Louisiana, an expedition
under Lewis and Clark was fitted out under President Jefferson's

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administration to explore the vast, mysterious, undefined realms which the
government had purchased. In the month of May eighteen o four,
the expedition in birch canoes commenced the ascent of the
Missouri River. They knew not whence its source, what its length,
or the number of its tributaries, through, what regions of

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fertility or barrenness that flowed, or what the character of
the nations who might inhabit its banks. Paddling up the
rapid current of this flood of waters in their frail boats,
the ascent was slow. By the latter part of October,
they had reached a point fifteen hundred miles above the
spot where the Missouri enters the Mississippi. Here they spent

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the winter with some friendly Indians called the Mandans. Early
in April, Lewis and Clark, with thirty men in their canoes,
resumed their voyage. Their course was nearly west. In May,
they reached the mouth of the Yellowstone River, and on
the thirteenth of June came to the great Falls of

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the Missouri. Here they found a series of cataracts ten
miles in length. At one spot, the river plunged over
a precipice eighty seven feet in height. Carrying their canoes
around these falls, they re embarked and paddled through what
they called the gates of the Rocky Mountain. Here, for
six miles they were in a narrow channel with perpendicular

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walls of rock rising on both sides to the height
of twelve hundred feet. Thus, these adventurers continued their voyage
till they reached the head of navigation, three thousand miles
from the mouth of the Missouri River. Passing through the mountains,
they launched their canoes on streams flowing to the west,
through which they entered the Columbia River, reaching its mouth

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through one thousand perils. On the fifteenth of November. They
were now more than four thousand miles distant from the
mouth of the Missouri. Such was the breadth of the
estate we had purchased of France. Here they passed their
second winter. In the early spring, they commenced their return.
When they arrived at the falls of Missouri, they encountered

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a numerous band of Indians, very bold and daring, called
the Blackfoot. These savages were Astonished beyond measure at the
effect of the rifle, which could emit thunder and lightning
and a deadly, though invisible bolt. Some of the boldest
endeavored to wrench the rifles from some of the Americans.

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Mister Lewis found it necessary to shoot one of them
before they would desist. The rest fled in dismay, but
burning with desire for revenge. The explorers continued their voyage,
arrived at Saint Louis on the twenty third of September
eighteen o six, having been absent more than two years
and having traveled more than nine thousand miles. When the

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expedition on its return had reached the headwaters of the Missouri,
two of these fearless men, Colter and Pots, decided to
remain in the wilderness to hunt beaver. Being well aware
of the hostility of the Blackfoot Indians within whose regions
they were, they set their traps at night and took
them up in the first dawn of the day. Early

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one morning, they were ascending a creek in a canoe
visiting their traps when they they were alarmed by a
great noise like the trampling of animals. They could see
nothing as the perpendicular banks of the river impeded their view.
Yet they hoped that the noise was occasioned simply by
the rush of a herd of buffaloes. Their doubts were

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soon painfully removed. A band of six hundred blackfoot warriors
appeared upon each side of the creek. Escape was hopeless.
The Indians beckoned to the hunters to come ashore. Colter
turned the head of the canoe towards the bank, and
as soon as it touched the land, a burly savage
seized the rifle belonging to Potts and wrenched it from

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his hand. But Colter, who was a man of extraordinary
activity and strength, grasped the rifle, tore it from the
hands of the Indian, and handed it back to Potts.
Colter stepped ashore and was a captive. Pots, with apparent infatuation,
but probably influenced by deliberate thought, pushed again out into

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the stream. He knew that as a captive, death by
horrible torture awaited him, he preferred to provoke the savages
to his instant destruction. An arrow was shot at him,
which pierced his body. He took deliberate aim at the Indian,
who threw it and shot him dead upon the spot. Instantly,
a shower of arrows whizzed through the air, and he

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fell a dead man in the bottom of the boat.
The earthly troubles of pots were ended, but fearful were
those upon which Colter was about to enter. The Indians,
after some deliberation respecting the manner in which they would
put him to death, stripped him entirely naked, and one
of the chiefs led him out upon the prairie to
the distance of three or four hundred yards from the

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rest of the band, who were grouped together. Colter then
perceived that he was to have the dreadful privilege of
running for his life. He entirely naked and unarmed, to
be pursued by six hundred fleet footed Indians with arrows
and javelins, and with their feet and limbs protected from
thorns and brambles by moccasins and deer skin leggings. Save yourself,

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if you can, said the chief in the Blackfoot language.
As he set him loose. Colter sprung forward with almost
supernatural speed. Instantly, the Indian's war whoop burst from the
lips of his six hundred pursuers. They were upon a
plane about six miles in breadth abounding with the prickly pear.

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At the end of the plain there was Jefferson River,
a stream but a few rods wide. Every step Colter took,
bounding forward with almost the speed of an antelope. His
naked feet were torn by the thorns. The physical effort
he made was so great that the blood gushed from
his nostrils and flowed profusely down over his chest. He

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had half crossed the plain before he ventured to glance
over his shoulder upon his pursuers, who, with hideous yells
like baying blood hounds, seemed close upon his hills. Much
to his relief, he perceived that he had greatly distanced
most of the Indians, though one stout savage with a
javelin in his hand, was within a hundred yards of him.

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Hope reanimated him. Regardless of lacerated feet and blood. He
pressed forward with renovated vigor until he arrived within a
mile of the river. When he found that his pursuer
was gaining rapidly upon him. He could hear his breathing
in the sound of his footsteps, and expected every moment
to fill the sharp javelin, piercing his back. In his desperation,

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he suddenly stopped, turned round, and, stretching out both of
his arms, rushed, in his utter defenselessness upon the armed warrior.
The savage, startled by this unexpected movement and by the
bloody appearance of his victim, stumbled and fell, breaking his
spear as he attempted to throw it. Colter instantly snatched

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up the pointed part and pinned his foe. Quivering with
convulsions to the earth. Again, he plunged forward on the
race for life. The Indians, as they came up, stopped
for a moment around the body of their slain comrade,
and then, with hideous yells, resumed the pursuit. The stream
was fringed with a dense growth of cottonwood trees. Colter

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rushed through them, thus concealed from observation, and seeing near
by a large raft of draft timber, he plunged into
the water, dived under the raft, and fortunately succeeded in
getting his head above the water between the logs, where
smaller wood covered him to the depth of several feet.
Scarcely had he attained this hiding place, ere the Indians,

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like so many fiends, came rushing down to the river's bank.
They searched the cottonwood thickets and traversed the raft in
all directions. They frequently came so near the hiding place
of Colter that he could see them through the chinks.
He was terribly afraid that they would set fire to
the raft. Night came on and the Indians disappeared. Colter,

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in the darkness, dived from under the raft, swam down
the river to a considerable distance, and then landed and
traveled all night, following the course of the stream. Although
happy in having escaped from the Indians, his situation was
still dreadful. He was completely naked under a burning sun.
The soles of his feet were filled with the thorns

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of the prickly pear. He was hungry and had no
means of killing game, although he saw abundance around him,
and was at a great distance from the nearest settlement.
After some days of sore travel, during which he had
no other sustenance than the route known by naturalists under
the name of Solierre Escluenta, he at length arrived in

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safety at least a fort on the Big Horn, a
branch of the yellow Stone River, end of chapter seven,