IT IS, alas, impossible to acknowledge all the friendly aid that has been given me in the studies preparatory to this biography. Kentuckians have long been notable for hospitality and for an interest in their own history—an interest which appears in every walk of life. Many a useful bit of information has been provided by men whose names I still do not know, and though such data naturally have to be supported by documents before they can be used, I am none the less grateful for them. A friendly state policeman helped me find the ravine used by the Indian kidnappers who stole Daniel Boone's daughter. Residents on the scene supplied the inscription which had vanished from a tablet. In one county courthouse, the janitor admitted me to the impeccably kept eighteenth-century records with a genial drawl of "He'p yo'se'f, suh." On another occasion, the judge himself did the honors. A busy lawyer made time for me in the midst of business hours. A railroad executive let me browse for a long evening among his Boone notes, manuscripts, and bibliographies, better arranged than those of many a professional scholar. A farmer took time to show a total stranger the pioneer carving on the mantel of his eighteenth-century home and to identify the exact spots where the Indians came raging across the peaceful acres that he now cultivates.
Even an indignant little group at the country store opposite Boonesborough at length magnanimously admitted that perhaps after all it was permissible for a Yankee to write the life of Daniel Boone—at least, a Pennsylvanian Yankee, since Boone also came from Pennsylvania.
Everywhere there was a friendly willingness to help an investigator—no matter how much time he took or how many questions he asked—and an equally friendly interest in his studies, all a refreshing contrast to the attitude one sometimes encounters in the archives of less hospitable lands.