Ten years were passed after the usual manner of backwoods existence, in hunting, farming, and fighting Indians. But Boone’s hunting expeditions sometimes partook of the character of explorations. He went far beyond the frontier in various directions, and on two or three occasions crossed the mountains into Kentucky. The beauty and richness of the country and the abundance of game filled him with an irresistible desire to make his home there. In the fall of 1773 Boone sold his farm on the Yadkin and set out at the head of a company, consisting of his own family and several others that he had induced to accompany them, to make new homes in the lovely valleys of Kentucky. It is at this point that we take up his story. II. HARDY GOODFELLOW Boone leads a company toward the promised land of Kentucky--They are attacked by Indians in Powell’s Valley--Six of the party are slain and among them Boone’s eldest son--The sorrow of a strong man and his sense of duty--The dead are buried and the march resumed--Boone’s lonely watch over the sleeping settlers--His encounter with Hardy Goodfellow in the gray dawn--“Now that father’s dead, I’m all alone”--Hardy finds a new father and Boone another son--Man and boy make a strange compact--“Maybe the Lord meant it that way--who knows?” “Isn’t it about time to make camp, Captain?” “Pretty near that, but I don’t exactly fancy campin’ right on a trace. I reckon we’ll push on a bit and see if we can’t find a likelier location.” The first speaker was not a backwoodsman but a Charlestown surveyor. The day’s march had wearied him to the point of exhaustion, and he felt faint for lack of a good meal, for the frontiersman ate plenteously but once in the twenty-four hours and that at the close of the day. He turned to his pipe for solace, first offering his plug of strong tobacco to his companion. “Have a fill, Captain?” “Thanks; I don’t use it.” “You don’t smoke, Captain?” said the other, in astonishment. “No; I never learned and I don’t see that it would have done me any particular good if I had. It seems to take pretty hard hold on a man. I’ve seen hunters well nigh crazy when their tobacco run out, and I shouldn’t like to be that way myself. Then it’s apt to make trouble in other ways. A deer could scent your pipe half a mile away, and an Injun’s nose is near as keen.” “You don’t think there are any Indians hereabouts, do you?” asked the surveyor, with some show of apprehension. “I wouldn’t like to say one way or the other. There might be a hundred in there”--he jerked his head in the direction of the dense undergrowth--“and we not know it till they showed themselves. You see, a redskin’s like a copperhead--you don’t know where he is till he strikes.”