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 foo. 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, deter

mined 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