In June 1778, Daniel Boone was being held captive in an Indian village. Sensing that a native attack was brewing against the Kentucky stockade that was his home, he cut loose a pony and, despite the warnings of the wife of the Indian chief imprisoning him that there was no way he’d possibly make it the 160 miles back to Boonesborough, took off.
He rode his pony all night until it collapsed the next day. He proceeded on foot. He jumped into every stream he encountered to throw off pursuers. He crossed the Ohio River naked with a makeshift pontoon for his clothes and gear. He kept walking until he couldn’t anymore. Resting, he was awakened by a fox nibbling at the dead skin on his feet. He lined his moccasins with leaves and kept going. He restocked his rifle with a piece of raw timber and, naturally, took down a buffalo with his first shot.
Four days later, he arrived at Boonesborough completely spent and sank into a chair, the family cat jumping into his lap.
That was Daniel Boone.
