A NARRATIVE OF ADVENTURES IN THE WESTERN WILDERNESS,

WHEREIN

THE EXPLOITS OF DANIEL BOONE, THE GREAT AMERICAN PIONEER ARE PARTICULARLY DESCRIBED

ALSO,

ACCOUNTS OF BEAR, DEER, AND BUFFALO HUNTS—DESPERATE CONFLICTS WITH THE SAVAGES—WOLF HUNTS—FISHING AND FOWLING ADVENTURES—ENCOUNTERS WITH SERPENTS, ETC.

New Stereotype Edition, Altered, Revised, and Corrected

By

J.B. JONES.

Author of "The War Path," "Adventures of a Country Merchant," etc.

Illustrated with Sixteen Engravings from Original Designs

Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott & Co.

1875

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1856, by J.B. Jones, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

Stereotyped By L. Johnson & Co., Philadelphia.

PREFACE.

When a work of fiction has reached its fortieth edition, one would suppose the author might congratulate himself upon having contributed something of an imperishable character to the literature of the country. But no such pretensions are asserted for this production, now in its fortieth thousand. Being the first essay of an impetuous youth in a field where giants even have not always successfully contended, it would be a rash assumption to suppose it could receive from those who confer such honors any high award of merit. It has been before the public some fifteen years, and has never been reviewed. Perhaps the forbearance of those who wield the cerebral scalpels may not be further prolonged, and the book remains amenable to the judgment they may be pleased to pronounce.

To that portion of the public who have read with approbation so many thousands of his book, the author may speak with greater confidence. To this class of his friends he may make disclosures and confessions pertaining to the secret history of the “Wild Western Scenes,” without the hazard of incurring their displeasure.

Like the hero of his book, the author had his vicissitudes in boyhood, and committed such indiscretions as were incident to one of his years and circumstances, but nevertheless only such as might be readily pardoned by the charitable. Like Glenn, he submitted to a voluntary exile in the wilds of Missouri. Hence the description of scenery is a true picture, and several characters in the scenes were real persons. Many of the occurrences actually transpired in his presence, or had been enacted in the vicinity at no remote period; and the dream of the hero—his visit to the haunted island—was truly a dream of the author’s.

But the worst miseries of the author were felt when his work was completed; he could get no publisher to examine it. He then purchased an interest in a weekly newspaper, in the columns of which it appeared in consecutive chapters. The subscribers were pleased with it, and desired to possess it in a volume; but still no publisher would undertake it,—the author had no reputation in the literary world. He offered it for fifty dollars, but could find no purchaser at any price. Believing the British booksellers more accommodating, a friend was employed to make a fair copy in manuscript, at a certain number of cents per hundred words. The work was sent to a British publisher, with whom it remained many months, but was returned, accompanied by a note declining to treat for it.

Undeterred by the rebuffs of two worlds, the author had his cherished production published on his own account, and was remunerated by the sale of the whole edition. After the tardy sale of several subsequent editions by houses of limited influence, the book had the good fortune, finally, to fall into the hands of the gigantic establishment whose imprint is now upon its title-page. And now, the author is informed, it is regularly and liberally ordered by the London booksellers, and is sold with an increasing rapidity in almost every section of the Union.

Such are the hazards, the miseries, and sometimes the rewards, of authorship.

J.B.J.

Burlington, N.J., March, 1856.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I.

Glenn and Joe—Their horses—A storm—A black stump—A rough tumble—Moaning—Stars—Light—A log fire—Tents, and something to eat—Another stranger, who turns out to be well known—Joe has a snack—He studies revenge against the black stump—Boone proposes a bear hunt.

CHAPTER II.

Boone hunts the bear—Hounds and terriers—Sneak Punk, the hatchet-face—Another stump—The high passes—The bear roused—The chase—A sight—A shot—A wound—Not yet killed—His meditations—His friend, the bear—The bear retreats—Joe takes courage—Joe fires—Immense execution—Sneak—The last struggle—Desperation of the bear—His death—Sneak’s puppies—Joe.

CHAPTER III.

Glenn’s castle—Mary—Books—A hunt—Joe and Pete—A tumble—An opossum—A shot—Another tumble—A doe—The return—They set out again—A mound—A buffalo—An encounter—Night—Terrific spectacle—Escape—Boone—Sneak—Indians.

CHAPTER IV.

The retreat—Joe makes a mysterious discovery—Mary—A disclosure—Supper—Sleep—A cat—Joe’s flint—The watch—Mary—The bush—The attack—Joe’s musket again—The repulse—The starting rally—The desperate alternative—Relief.

CHAPTER V.

A strange excursion—A fairy scene—Joe is puzzled and frightened—A wonderful discovery—Navigation of the upper regions—A crash—No bones broken.

CHAPTER VI.

A hunt—A deer taken—The hounds—Joe makes a horrid discovery—Sneak—The exhumation.

CHAPTER VII.

Boone—The interment—Startling intelligence—Indians about—A skunk—Thrilling fears—Boone’s device.

CHAPTER VIII.

Night—Sagacity of the hounds—Reflection—The sneaking savages—Joe’s disaster—The approach of the foe under the snow—The silent watch.

CHAPTER IX.

Sneak kills a sow that “was not all a swine”—The breathless suspense—The match in readiness—Joe’s cool demeanour—The match ignited—Explosion of the mine—Defeat of the savages—The captive—His liberation—The repose—The kitten—Morning.

CHAPTER X.

The dead removed—The wolves on the river—The wolf hunt—Gum fetid—Joe’s incredulity—His conviction—His surprise—His predicament—His narrow escape.

CHAPTER XI.

Mary—Her meditations—Her capture—Her sad condition—Her mental sufferings—Her escape—Her recapture.

CHAPTER XII.

Joe’s indisposition—His cure—Sneak’s reformation—The pursuit—The captive Indian—Approach to the encampment of the savages—Joe’s illness again—The surprise—The terrific encounter—Rescue of Mary—Capture of the young chief—The return.

CHAPTER XIII.

The return—The young chief in confinement—Joe’s fun—His reward—The ring—A discovery—William’s recognition—Memories of childhood—A scene—Roughgrove’s history—The children’s parentage.

CHAPTER XIV.

William’s illness—Sneak’s strange house—Joe’s courage—The bee hunt—Joe and sneak captured by the Indians—Their sad condition—Preparations to burn them alive—Their miraculous escape.

CHAPTER XV.

Glenn’s History.

CHAPTER XVI.

Balmy Spring—Joe’s curious dream—He prepares to catch a fish—Glenn—William and Mary—Joe’s sudden and strange appearance—La-u-na, the trembling fawn—The fishing sport—The ducking frolic—Sneak and the panther.

CHAPTER XVII.

The bright morning—Sneak’s visit—Glenn’s heart—The snake hunt—Love and raspberries—Joe is bitten—His terror and sufferings—Arrival of Boone—Joe’s abrupt recovery—Preparations to leave the West—Conclusion.

WILD WESTERN SCENES: A NARRATIVE OF ADVENTURES.

CHAPTER I.

Glenn and Joe—Their horses—A storm—A black stump—A rough tumble—Moaning—Stars—Light—A log fire—Tents, and something to eat—Another stranger, who turns out to be well known—Joe has a snack—He studies revenge against the black stump—Boone proposes a bear hunt.

“Do you see any light yet, Joe?”

“Not the least speck that ever was created, except the lightning, and it’s gone before I can turn my head to look at it.”

The interrogator, Charles Glenn, reclined musingly in a two-horse wagon, the canvas covering of which served in some measure to protect him from the wind and rain. His servant, Joe Beck, was perched upon one of the horses, his shoulders screwed under the scanty folds of an oil-cloth cape, and his knees drawn nearly up to the pommel of the saddle, to avoid the thumping bushes and briers that occasionally assailed him, as the team plunged along in a stumbling pace. Their pathway, or rather their direction, for there was no beaten road, lay along the northern bank of the “Mad Missouri,” some two hundred miles above the St. Louis settlement. It was at a time when there were no white men in those regions save a few trappers, traders, and emigrants, and each new sojourner found it convenient to carry with him a means of shelter, as houses of any description were but few and far between.

Our travellers had been told in the morning, when setting out from a temporary village which consisted of a few families of emigrants, with whom they had sojourned the preceding night, that they could attain the desired point by making the river their guide, should they be at a loss to distinguish the faintly-marked pathway that led in a more direct course to the place of destination. The storm coming up suddenly from the north, and showers of hail accompanying the gusts, caused the poor driver to incline his face to the left, to avoid the peltings that assailed him so frequently; and the drenched horses, similarly influenced, had unconsciously departed far from the right line of march; and now, rather than turn his front again to the pitiless blast, which could be the only means of regaining the road, Joe preferred diverging still farther, until he should find himself on the margin of the river, by which time he hoped the storm would abate. At all events, he thought there would be more safety on the beach, which extended out a hundred paces from the water, among

the small switches of cotton-wood that grew thereon, than in the midst of the tall trees of the forest, where a heavy branch was every now and then torn off by the wind, and thrown to the earth with a terrible crash. Occasionally a deafening explosion of thunder would burst overhead; and Joe, prostrating himself on the neck of his horse, would, with his eyes closed and his teeth set, bear it out in silence. He spoke not, save to give an occasional word of command to his team, or a brief reply to a question from his master.

It was an odd spectacle to see such a vehicle trudging along at such an hour, where no carriage had ever passed before. The two young men were odd characters; the horses were oddly matched, one being a little dumpy black pony, and the other a noble white steed; and it was an odd whim which induced Glenn to abandon his comfortable home in Philadelphia, and traverse such inclement wilds. But love can play the “wild” with any young man. Yet we will not spoil our narrative by introducing any of it here. Nor could it have been love that induced Joe to share his master’s freaks; but rather a rare penchant for the miraculous adventures to be enjoyed in the western wilderness, and the gold which his master often showered upon him with a reckless hand. Joe’s forefathers were from the Isle of Erin, and although he had lost the brogue, he still retained some of their superstitions.

The wind continued to blow, the wolves howled, the lightning flashed, and the thunder rolled. Ere long the little black pony snorted aloud and paused abruptly.

“What ails you, Pete?” said Joe from his lofty position on the steed, addressing his favourite little pet. “Get along,” he continued, striking the animal gently with his whip. But Pete was as immovable and unconscious of the lash as would have been a stone. And the steed seemed likewise to be infected with the pony’s stubbornness, after the wagon was brought to a pause.

“Why have you stopped, Joe?” inquired Glen.

“I don’t hardly know, sir; but the stupid horses won’t budge an inch farther!”

“Very well; we can remain here till morning. Take the harness off, and give them the corn in the box; we can sleep in the wagon till daylight.”

“But we have no food for ourselves, sir; and I’m vastly hungry. It can’t be much farther to the ferry,” continued Joe, vexed at the conduct of the horses.

“Very well; do as you like; drive on, if you desire to do so,” said Glenn.

“Get along, you stupid creatures!” cried Joe, applying the lash with some violence. But the horses regarded him no more than blocks would have done. Immediately in front he perceived a dark object that resembled a stump and turning the horses slightly to one side, endeavoured to urge them past it. Still they would not go, but continued to regard the object mentioned with dread, which was manifested by sundry restless pawings and unaccustomed snorts. Joe resolved to ascertain the cause of their alarm, and springing to the ground, moved cautiously in the direction of the dark obstruction, which still seemed to be a blackened stump, about his own height, and a very trifling obstacle, in his opinion, to arrest the progress of his redoubtable team. The darkness was intense, yet he managed to keep his eyes on the dim outlines of the object as he stealthily approached And he stepped as noiselessly as possible, notwithstanding he meditated an encounter with nothing more than an inanimate object. But his imagination was always on the alert, and as he often

feared dangers that arose undefinable and indescribable in his mind, it was not without some trepidation that he had separated himself from the horses and groped his way toward the object that had so much terrified his pony. He paused within a few feet of the object, and waited for the next flash of lightning to scrutinize the thing more closely before putting his hand upon it. But no flash came, and he grew tired of standing. He stooped down, so as to bring the upper portion of it in a line with the sky beyond, but still he could not make it out. He ventured still nearer, and stared at it long and steadily, but to no avail: the black mass only was before him, seemingly inanimate, and of a deeper hue than the darkness around.

A dark encounter.

“I’ve a notion to try my whip on you,” said he, thinking if it should be a human being it would doubtless make a movement. He started back with a momentary conviction that he heard a rush creak under its feet. But as it still maintained its position, he soon concluded the noise to have been only imaginary, and venturing quite close gave it a smart blow with his whip. Instantaneously poor Joe was rolling on the earth, almost insensible, and the dark object disappeared rushing through the bushes into the woods. The noise attracted Glenn, who now approached the scene, and with no little surprise found his servant lying on his face.

“What’s the matter, Joe?” demanded he.

“Oh, St. Peter! O preserve me!” exclaimed Joe.

“What has happened? Why do you lie there?”

“Oh, I’m almost killed! Didn’t you see him?”

“See what? I can see nothing this dark night but the flying clouds and yonder yellow sheet of water.”

“Oh, I’ve been struck!” said Joe, groaning piteously.

“Struck by what? Has the lightning struck you?”

“No—no! my head is all smashed up—it was a bear.”

“Pshaw! get up, and either drive on, or feed the horses,” said Glenn with some impatience.

“I call all the saints to witness that it was a wild bear—a great wild bear! I thought it was a stump, but just as I struck it a flash of lightning revealed to my eyes a big black bear standing on his hind feet, grinning at me, and he gave me a blow on the side of the face, which has entirely blinded my left eye, and set my ears to ringing like a thousand bells. Just feel the blood on my face.”

Glenn actually felt something which might be blood, and really had thought he could distinguish the stump himself when the wagon halted; yet he did not believe that Joe had received the hurt in any other manner than by striking his face against some hard substance which he could not avoid in the darkness.

“You only fancy it was a bear, Joe; so come along back to the horses and drive on. The rain has ceased, and the stars are appearing.” Saying this, Glenn led the way to the wagon.

“I’d be willing to swear on the altar that it was a huge bear, and nothing else!” replied Joe, as he mounted and drove on, the horses now evincing no reluctance to proceed. One after another the stars came out and shone in purest brightness as the mists swept away, and ere long the whole canopy of blue was gemmed with twinkling brilliants. The winds soon lulled, and the dense forest on the right reposed from the moaning gale which had disturbed it a short time before; and the waves that had been tossed into foaming ridges now spent their fury on the beach, each lashing the bank more gently than the last, until the power of the gliding current swept them all down the turbid stream. Soon the space between the water and the forest gradually diminished, and seemed to join at a point not far ahead. Joe observed this with some concern, being aware that to meander among the trees at such an hour was impossible. He therefore inclined toward the river, resolved to defer his re-entrance into the forest as long as possible. As he drove on he kept up a

continual groaning, with his head hung to one side, as if suffering with the toothache, and occasionally reproaching Pete with some petulance, as if a portion of the blame attached to his sagacious pony.

“Why do you keep up such a howling, Joe? Do you really suffer much pain?” inquired Glenn, annoyed by his man’s lamentations.

“It don’t hurt as bad as it did—but then to think that I was such a fool as to go right into the beast’s clutches, when even Pete had more sense!”

“If it was actually a bear, Joe, you can boast of the thrilling encounter hereafter,” said Glenn, in a joking and partly consoling manner.

“But if I have many more such, I fear I shall never get back to relate them. My face is all swelled—Huzza! yonder is a light, at last! It’s on this side of the river, and if we can’t get over the ferry to-night, we shall have something to eat on this side, at all events. Ha! ha! ha! I see a living man moving before the fire, as if he were roasting meat.” Joe forgot his wound in the joy of an anticipated supper, and whipping the horses into a brisk pace, they soon drew near the encampment, where they discovered numerous persons, male and female, who had been prevented from crossing the river that day, in consequence of the violence of the storm, and had raised their tents at the edge of the woods, preferring to repose thus until the following morning than to venture into the frail ferry-boat while the waves yet ran so high.

There was no habitation in the immediate vicinity, save a rude hovel occupied by Jasper Roughgrove and his ferrymen, which was on the opposite shore in a narrow valley that cleft asunder the otherwise uniform cliff of rocks.

The creaking of the wheels, when the vehicle approached within a few hundred paces of the encampment, attracted the watch-dogs, and their fierce and continued barking drew the attention of the emigrants in the direction indicated. Several men with guns in their hands came out to meet the young travellers.

“We are white men, friends, strangers, lost, benighted, and hungry!” exclaimed Joe, stopping the horses, and addressing the men before he was accosted.

“Come on, then, and eat and rest with us,” said they, amused at Joe’s exclamations, and leading the way to the encampment.