JOHN SLOVER:

JOHN SLOVER:SCOUT UNDER CRAWFORD AND HERO OF EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURESTWO red men paddled down the White River, far in the western portion of the state of Virginia, one bright morning in the month of May, 1765. As they rounded a bend in the stream, before them was a little trapper’s son, apparently with no one with him. He was throwing pebbles into the water and was laughing as they splashed upon the surface of the stream.“How!” grunted one of the braves. “I like to have young paleface in my lodge. I make him take the place of my own papoose, whom the Great Spirit has stolen from me.”“You can get him,” suggested the other. “Come on, let us paddle towards the little one and capture him.”As the redskins approached, the boy looked at them with no sign of fear, and laughed at their solemn-looking faces. But they did not laugh. Instead of this, the one in the bow leaped upon the shore, seized the youngster, and carried him to the canoe, where he was bound by deer thongs and was quickly paddled down stream. His parents looked for him in vain that evening, and for many evenings, but their little son never returned. Thus John Slover became a ward of the redskins.i109JOHN SLOVER.The Indians were then living at Sandusky, upon the Ohio River, and here the little white boy grew up to be a man. Adopted by the Miami tribe, he learned to love their ways, to live the wild, roving life as a trapper and hunter, and to be more at home in the forest than in the houses of those of his own race. In the autumn of 1773, a treaty was made at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, between the Miamis and the whites, and at this place was a big gathering of the savages and frontiersmen, with their families. Jack Slover was interested in the affair and hung around the clusters of talkers, who were eagerly discussing the terms of the articles of agreement.“Hello!” came a voice, as he was near one animated group. “If this isn’t little Jack Slover grown to be a man! Turn around, son, and see if you don’t recognize me.”The adopted ward of the Miamis spun about upon his heel, and there saw a raw-boned trapper, who was gazing at him with an inquiring eye.“I certainly do not recognize you,” he replied. “Who are you, anyway?”The young fellow knew of his kidnapping, when a small boy, but had never cared to go back to his own people.The frontiersman now seized him by the shoulders. “Why, I’m your father’s brother, Tom Slover! I saw that you were not a Miami the minute I looked at you, and I found out that you had been capturedmany years ago by the Indians. Upon closer inspection it was easy to perceive that you were my brother’s son. My boy, we have been waiting to find you for years. You will now come back to us, won’t you?”Young Slover hung his head, for he was loath to part from the friends and companions of his youth. He was on the point of refusing, but, just then, another frontiersman approached who announced that he was his father. The meeting between son and parent was not demonstrative; in fact, the youth rather drew away from his own flesh and blood. Soon, however, he became more reconciled, and, after an hour’s conversation, agreed to accompany his kinsmen to their home in Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania.The conference was soon over, both Indians and whites were agreed upon the terms of the treaty, and the captured son of the pioneer went back to his own country, where he seemed to be contentedly abiding at the outbreak of the American Revolution. He was one of the first to enlist, and, because of his experience in woodcraft, was made a sharpshooter. In this branch of the service he did good work, and was honorably discharged at the close of the struggle with the Mother Country.Some years after the Revolutionary War—in 1782—the redskins of the Middle West became very bold, and made frequent incursions upon the white settlements of Ohio, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia. Prompt vengeance was demanded by the pioneers who had penetrated into the wilderness and had there builttheir homes. An expedition was determined upon, and Colonel William Crawford—a brave officer of the Revolutionary War—was selected as its commander. The time and place of rendezvous were fixed for May 20th, 1782, at a point on the western shore of the Ohio, forty miles above Fort Pitt. There were four hundred and fifty volunteers; among them an accomplished surgeon, Dr. Knight.Just before the expedition got under way, Colonel Crawford approached Slover, and said:“My good friend, we are in need of a scout and guide upon our expedition. You know this country like a book, so I would like to engage you as one of our forerunners and assistants. Will you go with us?”The adopted ward of the Miamis was reluctant to accept.“I have lived with these Indians whom you intend to attack,” said he. “I have slept with them; hunted with them; have eaten with them. Surely you would not have me turn upon all of my old friends?”The Colonel smiled.“Yes, but what sort of friends?” he answered. “Here they have been murdering innocent women and children. Have been burning homes, killing cattle and horses. They have been subjecting their prisoners to horrible tortures. You are too much of a man not to appreciate the need of checking these onslaughts upon our people.”“The whites are gradually encroaching upon their lands,—the lands which they believe that the GreatSpirit has given to them,” replied Slover, in a deliberate tone. “Can you blame them for resenting these advances? They are children, too, of the wilderness and they fight like the wild beasts who surround them.”“Then you refuse to accompany us?”“No, not so. Upon thinking over the matter, I believe that it is impossible for the two races to live side by side, unless one race is supreme. That the whites will overrun the country is only too evident. I will go with you, for I certainly do not approve of the manner in which they have conducted their warfare, and I believe that they must be punished.”The march was soon commenced, but, in a few days, some of the volunteers broke ranks and started for their homes. It was impossible to hold them. Further signs of insubordination were soon in evidence, some of the men demanding that they be sent back to their cabins, declaring that their horses were jaded and that their provisions were almost exhausted. Not long afterwards two skulking Indians were seen spying upon the advance. They were fired upon, but escaped. It was now evident that all secrecy was out of the question. The men grew mutinous and were so unruly that the officers requested them to continue for only one day longer, and then if no Indians were found they were to return. This was being discussed when one of the advance pickets dashed in, crying out: “The Indians are ahead of us about a mile. They are drawn up in the timber and are waiting for us!”At this news a loud whoop came from the lustythroats of the frontiersmen, and they discontinued their complaints. Priming their rifles and fingering their powder-horns, they pressed forward to the attack, while their leader, Crawford, who had fine military judgment, saw that the enemy had seized a position of great strength, from which they must be driven at once. He therefore urged on his men to the charge.As the order came, the pioneers dismounted and rushed boldly upon the redskins in front and upon the flanks, hunting them from the woods, across an open field, and into some dense forest-land in the rear. Here the savages were heavily reinforced, and Crawford’s Rangers were almost driven from the timber by the wily braves, who were now fighting from every bush, stump, hillock and tree. The battle waged with great fury until dark, when the savages withdrew, and the trappers slept upon the ground, ready to resume the affair in the morning.As daylight appeared the battle was renewed at long range, neither side being anxious for a hand-to-hand engagement. It was plainly evident that the Indians were constantly being reinforced. Their whooping and yelling grew more and more derisive, and they began to extend their lines so as to flank the men of the frontier. For this reason, the officers decided upon a retreat.Slover, the scout, was far over to the right, watching some horses, and no news of the intended movement was brought to him. Soon the uproar of retreat came to his ears and warned him of his danger. He therefore selected the finest horse among those underhis charge, mounted it, and fled after his comrades, who became rapidly disorganized. The red men fired a volley in the direction of the frontiersmen, at which one of the Crawford Rangers shouted: “The enemy have found out our design! Save yourselves! Save yourselves!”Panic now became general, and so great was the disorder that it was plainly heard in the lines of the Indians, among whom was the famous renegade, Simon Girty. “Out, men,” he cried, “and pick up the stragglers, for these Americans have whipped themselves!”Those who had been wounded were dropped at the beginning of the rout and were speedily dispatched by the tomahawks of the savages. The rest fled in whatever way they could, without semblance of order or discipline, and, as they ran helter-skelter through the forest, were pursued by the exultant redskins with wild and blood-curdling whooping. Slover galloped along with some difficulty, as the ground was very rough, and soon found further obstructions in his path, for a wide bog lay before him, which extended for a great distance in either direction.Some of the fugitives were unable to get across the bog on foot, but Slover and a few others were able to cross on their horses. As they fled on through the darkness of night, behind them echoed the horrid yells of the savages, the rifle shots of the whites, and the shrieks of the wounded. Six fugitives joined the fleeing scout, two of whom had lost their rifles, and, as the Indians were pressing them furiously, they headedfor the settlement of Detroit, hoping to elude the red men as they went. They ran into another portion of the swamp a few hours later, and halted there for a slight repast of cold pork and corn bread—of which they had a small supply in their haversacks.As they were seated upon some stumps, and were munching their repast, they were startled by an Indian whoop very close at hand.“We are discovered,” whispered Slover. “Hide yourselves, my men, in the tall grass.”Not many moments afterwards, a band of Shawnees passed by, laughing and talking among themselves, apparently with no idea that the pioneers were near. They were well satisfied with the signal defeat which they had administered to Crawford and his men; had many scalps and much plunder. When they were gone, Slover and his companions continued on their way, entering upon a sea of waving grass, which made it evident that any skulking red men would soon discover their whereabouts.Silently they plodded across the prairie, but suddenly the man in advance called their attention to the fact that some moving objects were approaching.“Lie low, boys!” he shouted. “I think that a crowd of redskins are just in front of us.”He was right, and, as they hid in the tall grass, a troop of Indians passed by, moving rapidly and noisily along. Fortunately the red men did not discover their trail, and with great shouting and singing had soon walked out of hearing. The trappers arose, continued their flight, and kept a sharp lookout for enemies.They were soon to meet with more children of the forest.Two of the fugitives now became very lame and were unable to keep up with the rest of the party. One had a bad attack of rheumatism; so bad, in fact, that he fell way behind the rest and did not come up, although they whistled, called, and strove to attract his attention in every possible way, in spite of the danger of being discovered by lurking redskins. They finally went on without him, and gave him up for lost. He at length reached Wheeling in safety, having passed through many dangers and hairbreadth escapes from capture by roving Indians.Slover and his friend were hurrying towards the settlements, and naturally left a well-defined trail behind them. This was followed for several days by a band of Shawnees, who finally decided that the whites would be easy to capture and decided to ambush them.This they did, and, as the frontiersmen were quietly passing between some high bluffs, a volley rang out from either side and two of their number fell dead. The rest sprang immediately to the shelter of trees, where Slover took aim at one of the Indians who could be seen raising his hand.“Do not fire,” said he, in excellent English. “If you surrender to us, you will be well treated. We will take you to our houses and will allow you to leave, in a short time, for your own people.”Slover and two of the frontiersmen gave themselves up immediately, but a young fellow named John Paul refused to do so, and, rushing to the rear, managedto get away. The redskins peppered the air with bullets, but none hit the fugitive and he got safely beyond range. After a long and arduous trip through the wilderness, he at length reached the frontier settlement at Wheeling, West Virginia.As John Slover and his companions were being taken along by the Indians, one of them recognized him as the young paleface who had been brought up by the Miamis.“You no good, Mannuchcothe,” said he. “You fight against your own brothers. You kill your own people. Ugh! Ugh! We fix you for this.”John Slover began to think that perhaps what the savages had promised was not to take place, and when once they came in sight of their town, their whole demeanor changed. They began to howl and cry out:“You are some of those who wish to drive us from our country. Death to you! Death to you!”The squaws, warriors, and children came running to meet the captives and began to whip and beat them. Then they took the oldest of the frontiersmen and blackened his face with charred sticks.“Are they going to burn me, Slover?” the poor fellow gasped.“Do not answer, Mannuchcothe!” shouted the Indians. “Do not answer! We will not hurt him! We will adopt him!”The red men now took the prisoners to Waughcotomoco, another of their towns, about two miles off, but sent a runner in advance to announce their coming. As the captives came in sight of it they sawhundreds of Indians in a double line, ready to make them run the gauntlet. This they did, and although Slover got through safely, the frontiersman whose face had been blackened, was knocked down, kicked, beaten, and shot full of arrows. He reached the council chamber, where he thought that he would be safe, and, although he seized one of the posts with both hands, he was torn away from it and was soon dispatched with a tomahawk.Slover, meanwhile, was left alone, but he had no cheerful thoughts, for before him lay the bodies of Harold, the son of Crawford, the American leader; of a Colonel Harrison; and of several other prominent soldiers of the American army. They had all been killed during the retreat. His remaining companion was led away to another town and was never again heard of; while the gallant scout, himself, was now confronted by a young Miami buck, who said in the Indian language:“Mannuchcothe, you must come before a council and must explain to the old men why you deserted our tribe. Mannuchcothe, it will go ill with you.”The sharpshooter did not worry, for he did not believe that his old friends would go back on him. In this he was correct, for there seemed to be no great amount of malice towards the ex-Miami, until the appearance of a white renegade—James Girty—the brother of the famous Simon. This scoundrel made an impassioned speech, in which he said:“My Indian brethren, this white captive should suffer death. For not only has he deserted you foryour enemies—the palefaces—but when I asked him how he would like to live with you again, he told me that he would care to remain only long enough to take a scalp and then escape. He is your enemy at heart and has even now been fighting against you. Death, and torture before death, would not be too severe for him.”The scout was outraged and angered by these remarks.“What you say is not true,” he replied. “I have never in my life made the statement that I would only remain long enough with my red brethren to take a scalp and then escape. I entered this war with reluctance, and I had not fired a shot up to the time that I was captured by my old companions. I am a friend of the Miamis and always will be their friend.”To these remarks the red men grunted an assent and allowed him to move, unbound, around the village. He was assigned to a lodge with an old squaw, who became very much attached to him, and, not many days afterwards, came to him and said:—“That James Girty is influencing my brothers against you. If you have a chance to escape, you must do so, for I fear that they intend to put you out of the way.”Not long afterwards a council of Shawnee, Wyandot, Delaware, Chippewa, Miami, and Mingo braves decided that Slover had been untrue to their race, and that he must suffer punishment and death. Two warriors appeared before his wigwam in order to carry him away, but the old squaw covered him with herblanket and said that he should not go. When the two bucks endeavored to enter, she threw a pot of boiling water at them.This was too much for the warriors, who retreated before the scalding fluid, but they soon returned with James Girty and forty Indians, who overpowered the fighting squaw. Slover was seized, bound, and his body was painted black. This was a sign that he was to be tortured and eventually killed.Five miles from Waughcotomoco was another Indian town, to which the scout was marched. A vast number of red men greeted his coming with fierce cheering, and formed in two lines in order to make him run the gauntlet. As he raced between them, they struck him with clubs, with spears, and with their hands. In spite of this he was not badly hurt and could walk without assistance to another small town, two miles further on, where—in an unfinished council house—he was fastened to a stake. Brush was piled around his feet and this was lighted for his torture. “I will meet death like a brave man,” said Slover to himself. Then, turning to the Indians, he cried out: “You shall rue the day that ever you put an end to John Slover. My white brothers will avenge me a hundredfold.”An Indian orator arose, and, with a fierce and vindictive speech, sought to fan the flame of the red men’s passions to the highest pitch.“How! How!” cried many voices.” It is well that the white man should die. How! How!”Slover glowered upon the yelling mob as the cracklingflames began to creep nearer to his feet. But now an unexpected interposition of nature occurred, which was greatly in the victim’s favor.A high wind arose; dense, black clouds covered the sky; the growling of thunder drowned the words of the orator and the yelling of his hearers. A sheet of rain burst upon the fire at the stake, extinguishing it completely, and Slover saw the Indians scatter to the cover of their wigwams, where they called out to him:“We will burn you to-morrow. The Great Spirit has helped you, but he cannot save you.”The shower lasted for over an hour, and when it had concluded the red men gathered around the stake, where they beat and kicked their captive until eleven o’clock at night. Then a brave called Half Moon asked him if he did not want to go to sleep.“I am exhausted,” replied the scout. “If you intend to kill me to-morrow, loosen my bonds and let me rest.”Half Moon untied the strands which bound the weakened frontiersman, carried him to a log hut, and there bound him to a pole in the centre, with deer thongs which cut tightly into his flesh. A rope was placed about his neck and was tied to a rafter of the house. Three guards were placed to watch him, and, as Half Moon departed, he said:“Get a good sleep, paleface. You will need it, for to-morrow you will eat fire. This is what comes to you for fighting against your own people.”The scout had not yet lost all hope of making hisescape, and carefully considered the possibility of getting away. Two of his guards were soon asleep; the third (an aged brave) smoked a long, clay pipe and told him that he had seen many palefaces tortured at the stake. “Some weep like squaws,” said he. “Others bear it like men. You have once been a redskin and should be able to stand the fire without crying. You should come through without a bit of trouble.”On and on he thus rambled until he became worn out—his head dropped upon his breast—and he began to snore loudly. As the noise of his heavy breathing came to the ears of the scout, he began to work vigorously at his bonds. By wriggling, tugging, and pulling, at last his hands were free. He reached for the thong about his neck and began to chew it with his teeth.As he turned and twisted in an endeavor to free himself from this remaining bond, day began to break and the pale light of dawn flooded the cabin. The talkative old Indian awoke; yawned; stretched; and looked around at the captive; but Slover clasped his hands behind his back as if they were still tied, and stood perfectly still. The red man turned over upon his side and again composed himself in sleep. It was now or never with the captured frontiersman.i125INDIANS TORTURING A PRISONER.Again seizing upon the rope, Slover gave it a few strong jerks, and, biting it with his jaws for a second time, suddenly parted it. With his heart bumping against his side like a trip-hammer, he stole noiselessly from the lodge. Not an Indian was stirring, and, darting toward a corn field, he narrowly missed stepping upon a squaw with her two children, who were asleep beneath a tree. He crept through the growing stalks, and upon the other side saw quite a number of ponies. Taking the rope from his arm, he made a slip-noose of it; selected a fine, young horse; threw it over his head; mounted, and rode away like mad. His life depended upon his exertions.As he dashed off, he heard a door open in an Indian lodge and knew that the red men were astir. They would soon discover his absence. He would be followed by all of the swiftest and hardest-riding men of the encampment. No wonder that he dug his heels into the flanks of his pony and urged him to do his very best.At ten o’clock he reached the Scioto River,—now much swollen by the recent thunder shower. But his horse was winded and he had to stop in order to give him both water and breath, for he was blowing from his exertions. He plunged into the stream, crossed it, and continued his flight at the fastest pace which his horse was able to make. Finally the faithful animal began to pant and stagger. He was done for.As the Indian pony fell upon his side, Slover leaped to the ground and heard a wild yelping behind him in the forest. He thus knew that the Indians were hot upon his trail. The horse had carried him seventy miles at a fast pace, which is extraordinary. But the animal was now lying prostrate, with the glaze of death showing in his eye. He had run a good race.The scout bounded forward, loping through theunderbrush, timber, and tall grass, and leaving as little trail as he could. But his exertions were wearing heavily upon him, and, about ten o’clock that night, he fell exhausted to the ground. He lay in a stupor for two hours.When he was again able to move, a full moon cast its silvery light over the dense woodland, where he had fallen, and no sound broke the stillness of the night save the weird call of a whippoorwill. The redskins could easily have captured him had they been close upon his track, but his care in leaving little trace of his flight had thrown them from the pursuit. Breathing more easily, he again continued his race for life, and, as day came, abandoned his trail for a low, rough ridge, where was little grass or soft earth. On, on, he continued, occasionally stopping to listen at the sounds of the forest, but, except for the occasional call of a bird, no voice came to his expectant hearing. The red men had lost heart and had returned to their wigwams.As evening came, the frontiersman reached the banks of one of the creeks which empty into the Muskingum, and again sank exhausted to the earth. The mosquitoes swarmed upon him, biting him unmercifully, and as his hunting suit (which the red men had allowed him to put on when tied) was torn to tatters by the nettles and briars, they had a splendid opportunity to get at his bare flesh. Some wild berries furnished him with much-needed food,—the first he had eaten since his escape,—and, if we are to believe his word for it, he says that he was so terrifiedwith fear, that he had forgotten to feel hungry during his flight. “I was fairly peeled from head to foot by briars and mosquitoes,” he has written. “And I was now so hungry that I fell upon two crawfish which I found behind a rock in the Muskingum, and ate them raw.”The scout was now refreshed, and plunging into the Muskingum, swam to the other shore. Two days later he reached the Ohio River, opposite Wheeling, West Virginia, and seeing a man in a skiff who was apparently fishing, called out to him in a loud voice:“Hallo! Hallo! Comrade! I’m a fugitive from the Indians and was one of Crawford’s men. Come! Take me over to the settlement!”The fellow did not seem anxious to hasten to his relief, for he was afraid that Slover was one of the white renegades who had joined the redskins and was anxious to trap him. After a long harangue he finally rowed to the place where the tattered scout was standing. The refugee fairly hugged him for joy, and, in a few minutes, was again safe in the settlement, where he was greeted with warm and affectionate regard by the other men of the frontier, who had received many stragglers from the ill-fated expedition under Colonel Crawford.The escape of John Slover was one of the narrowest of which there is any record in the annals of war upon the frontier. No wonder that for many years the story of this famous affair was the favorite topic of conversation, when the after-dinner pipes were lighted, and the men of the forest would sit before theglowing embers, there to tell tales concerning the heroism and courage of the gallant settlers of the wild and undeveloped West. Truly the adventures which befell John Slover were the most thrilling of them all.LEWIS WETZEL:HEROIC VIRGINIA FRONTIERSMAN AND IMPLACABLE ENEMY OF THE REDSKINS“BOYS, watch your mother and grandfather for a few hours, because I am going out fishing. There is no danger of attack from redskins, for none have been seen for six months. If, however, any one comes to our cabin with news of prowling bands, shoot off your rifles three times. This will warn me of any danger to you, and I will hasten home.”So spoke John Wetzel, whose cabin was upon the far western Virginian frontier, and, turning from his two little boys, he plunged into the wilderness. This was the last that he ever saw of his wife and her aged father. He had not been three days in the forest before his cabin was attacked.Stealing carefully through the brush, a marauding band of savages suddenly made a sortie upon the isolated house of logs. There was not time to warn the inmates of the stealthy approach before the tomahawk and scalping-knife were at work. In an hour’s time all of the inmates had been dispatched, except Lewis Wetzel and his little brother, Martin, both of whomwere carried off into captivity. Lewis was about thirteen years of age and Martin was eleven.“We will soon escape,” whispered the older youth. “Wait until evening arrives and then I will show you how to creep away from these horrible savages.”Lewis had been severely wounded by an arrow, but he stoically bore the pain, and trudged behind his captors with no show of ill humor. The Indian prisoner who lagged, or who made a cry of distress, would be speedily dispatched by the savages, and this he knew. The other boy went bravely ahead and said nothing.Through the wilderness walked the red men, and on the night of the second day they camped twenty miles beyond the Ohio River.“Ugh!” spoke a brave. “These children cannot escape us now. We will not bind them with thongs this evening, but will allow them to go free.”The savages had underestimated the daring courage which was in the heart of Lewis Wetzel. No sooner were the red men fast asleep, when, touching his brother with his hand, Lewis warned him to keep absolutely silent and to follow him away into the darkness. They were barefoot.“It is impossible for us to escape without moccasins,” said Lewis, after they had gone some distance. “This ground is full of stones, and our feet will be ruined. You wait here for me and I will return to the camp and get a pair for each of us, and then we can easily travel through the wilderness.”The brave boy not only secured the moccasins but also returned with a gun and some ammunition. Thenon they plunged through the forest. Just as the first streaks of dawn began to light up the gloomy depths, behind them echoed the shouts of their enemies, the red men.“Walk backward upon your trail, brother,” said Lewis Wetzel. “Then turn to the right and secrete yourself in the dense undergrowth. These red men will soon catch up to us and we must be thoroughly hidden.”This advice was followed, and it was well, for the boys had lain in the covert but a few minutes when their captors came bounding past. They were yelling to each other and were furious with anger at having lost their prisoners. The two Wetzels waited until they were out of sight. When the yelping had ceased they crept from their hiding-place and ran away to the right. In a few hours they heard the Indians again returning, and, secreting themselves in some underbrush, saw some savages dash by on ponies. They were not the same red men whom they had first seen, but these, also, could not find them. When the redskins were well beyond hearing, the terrified children ran to the river, fastened two logs together, and succeeded in crossing it. Not long afterwards they reached the house of a frontiersman and knew that they were safe. When they told him their story, he showed great surprise.“Bully for you, boys!” cried the man of the clearing. “You, Lewis, showed particular courage and daring. You are a credit to your poor father, who is, I hear, terribly overcome by this butchery of theredskins. I trust that you will both live long and useful lives upon the border.”“Thank you!” cried the boys. “We will do our best, anyway, to avenge the terrible injury which the red men have inflicted upon our family.”Thus early was implanted in the breasts of the two Wetzels an implacable hatred for the savages.It is said that Lewis was the strongest and most active of all of the youths upon the western borderland of Virginia, and by long practice had gained the ability to load his rifle while running at full speed. This was an immense advantage to him in his numerous affrays with the red men.Not long after the terrible defeat of Colonel Crawford, in which John Slover was a participant, a pioneer named Thomas Mills arrived at Wheeling, West Virginia, where Lewis Wetzel was temporarily residing.“I have left my good horse at Indian Spring, some five miles away,” said he. “The country was so rough that I could not ride him here, for some redskins were upon my trail. Wetzel, I wish that you would accompany me to where he is, for I want to be able to hold my own with the savages, should we meet any of them.”“Mills, I’m your man,” said Wetzel. So, upon the day following, they were on their way towards the spring.When they arrived at the place where Mills had left his horse, they found the animal tied to a bush.“That looks mighty suspicious,” whispered Wetzelto his companion, “because I understand that you left him untied. Do not go near the animal until I circle around him and see if any savages are in our front.”The pioneer, however, neglected to heed this sage counsel and proceeded to untie the pony. As he reached down towards the bridle-rein, the head of an Indian appeared from behind a rock.“Mills! Mills! Take to a tree!” yelled the scout. “There’s a redskin drawin’ er bead on yer!”The warning was unheeded. The frontiersman continued to work on the bridle-reins; then a sharp crack was heard, and the red man fell back, shot through the forehead by Wetzel. At the same moment a series of quick reports came from the brush, and Mills sank to the ground, pierced by a half dozen bullets.Wetzel started away on the run, for a number of top-knots rose from the bushes. Their owners hastened after him, but were uncautious enough to drop their own guns so that they could run all the faster. Knowing that he had discharged his piece, they expected to soon overtake him, tie his hands behind his back, and remove him to their own camp, to run the gauntlet and be tortured. They had counted without their host.The lithe and sinewy trapper raced onward, exerting his utmost speed, and, finding that he could not get away from his pursuers, turned about and fired upon the nearest red man. The art of loading upon the run, which he had learned, was of tremendous assistance to him, for he was thus able to place a bulletin his adversary’s chest, which stretched him upon the ground. Again he started forward, loading as he ran, and, turning a second time, was about to fire, when his nearest pursuer seized the muzzle of his rifle.“Hah! Paleface! I have you!” cried the red man, for he had often been to the settlements and had learned how to speak excellent English.“Not yet,” answered the trapper, and he grappled with his antagonist. They were very evenly matched. By the greatest exertion, the white man succeeded in wresting the redskin’s hold from his rifle, and in shooting him dead. It was a short struggle, but during it two Indians gained upon the man of the frontier, so that they were very close indeed. He now turned and ran as fast as he was able—loading as he went.The Indians were whooping wildly, but they had knowledge of his skill in loading on the run. When he turned again in order to fire, they took hasty departure to the shelter of some large trees. He kept on going—the red men still after him. But he was a crafty fellow, as the following will show:Having reached a clearing in the forest, he purposely stumbled and fell, as if exhausted by his race for life. The redskins thought that they now had him. They bounded forward with exultant shouts, but as they came nearer, the bold trapper rolled upon his side, raised his rifle, and brought one of them to the earth before he could get behind a tree. The second Indian turned and fled as fast as he was able, howling out in loud tones:“No catch dat feller. No catch him at all. He gun always loaded. He devil with the shooting stick.”i137“HE NOW TURNED AND RAN AS FAST AS HE WAS ABLE—LOADING AS HE WENT.”At this the crafty trapper rose to his feet with a loud guffaw.“These redskins have yet to learn a trick or two,” said he, chuckling. “They should remember that some trappers can load their rifles when on the run. My fine fellows—Au revoir!”So saying, he started upon his way to the settlements, lighting a corn-cob pipe on the way, and still chuckling softly to himself.Not long after this affair, the father of the two Wetzel boys was returning from a hunting excursion into the Ohio wilderness. With him were his sons Martin and Lewis. The latter had just shot a brown bear, and carried the skin with him in the bottom of the canoe. As they were gliding down the river, a band of Shawnees suddenly appeared upon the bank.“Come ashore, palefaces!” said one. “It is not good for you to go down the river!”“Paddle to the other side of the stream,” whispered the older Wetzel. “Hasten, boys, or their bullets will reach us.”Quickly they turned towards the opposite bank, but a volley of lead pursued them. They kept on doggedly. A missile struck the old pioneer, inflicting a mortal wound.“Lie down, Martin!” cried he. “They will get you also, if you do not do so.”Then the heroic old man paddled forward, his life-blood ebbing at every stroke. Volley after volleyzipped around the frail barque. Again and again the frontiersman was struck, so that when well beyond range of the Indian rifles he fell fainting to the bottom of the canoe. That evening he expired.Standing over the body of their parent, both Wetzels took a solemn oath to avenge his untimely end.“From now on,” said Lewis,” I will use every endeavor to slaughter the red men. They have killed my dear father. Death shall be upon their own heads. Death and no quarter.”Not a week had elapsed after the sudden end of this staunch man of the frontier, when news was brought into Wheeling that the Indians were again upon the war-path. A scout came running into the settlement, crying:“The Shawnees and Wyandots are approaching. They have slaughtered one man, and are burning, killing and scalping. Every able-bodied settler is needed to drive them away.”Immediately all turned out with rifle and powder-horn in order to repel the invaders. But before they started, a purse of one hundred dollars was made up, to go to the first individual who should take an Indian scalp. The trail of the marauders was soon struck; was followed for several miles; and was found to be very fresh. Then the advance scouts returned with the information that a large body of the enemy was encamped a few miles ahead.“They are too many to be attacked,” said the soldiers of the advance. “We must go back to Wheeling, or they will surround and annihilate us.”They set off upon the return, but they noticed, as they did so, that Lewis Wetzel did not move.“Are you not going to accompany us?” asked some of the trappers.The frontiersman scowled.“I set out to hunt Indians and thought that this had also been your purpose,” said he. “My object in hunting Indians is to kill them, and now that we have treed our game I do not intend to run off without a shot. As for you, I consider you to be a band of cowards.”“It is too bad about you,” said they. “As for ourselves, we intend to return home.”Wetzel gazed after them with an amused smile, then stooped and examined his arms, for he was a man of caution.“I will get a scalp of my own,” said he. “Perhaps more. These fellows will see that I mean what I say.”There were plenty of Indian signs, but he could find no large bands of the red men; instead, he stumbled upon a camp with only two braves in it.“There must be more in the encampment,” thought he. “I will creep away; will come back this evening; and will then have an opportunity to get what I am after.”Turning again into the forest, he was soon out of hearing, and, by great good fortune, came across a red deer, which he killed. He had a fine feast. As night fell he hastened towards the Indian camp, creptclose to it, and found only one red man, instead of a dozen or more, as he had expected. He waited until the redskin was fast asleep and then made good his boast. As he started upon the back trail for the settlement, a fresh scalp hung at his girdle.Owing to his great strength and agility, he reached Wheeling just one day behind his companions, instead of three. They were delighted to see him.“My boy,” cried they, “you have certainly made good and are entitled to the greatest possible credit. Bully for you!”The trapper in fact was more than a match for many redskins, as the following will show:Not long after his return to Wheeling he went out into the forest in order to get some venison to dry and salt for winter use. He saw no game, but suddenly stumbled upon a camp of four Shawnees, who were busily engaged in tanning some deer hides. They did not see or hear him, so he determined to return at nightfall and single-handed to attack the party of braves. This he did.First, resting his rifle against a tree so that it would be close at hand for any emergency, he drew his tomahawk, uttered a wild yell, and dashed in among the savages, cutting down one of them in a moment. Two more fell beneath his unerring weapon. The fourth darted off into the woodland with Wetzel close upon his heels. He was a good runner and got safely away, while the man of the frontier returned for the scalp-locks of the three. He was back at Wheeling before two days were over.“What luck did you have, Lewis?” asked a companion.“Not much,” answered the man-of-the-woods. “I treed four of th’ pesky varmints. But one slick-ez-lightnin’ feller got away. He had er close call.”At Marietta, Ohio, was a frontier fortification where a number of troops were stationed to protect the settlements from Shawnee invasion. Here General Harmer summoned several tribes to meet him in conference, and here Lewis Wetzel and a scout called Dickerson ambushed themselves near the Indian encampment with the intention of killing the first warrior who might pass. Wetzel, you see, was a vindictive fellow and did not even fight in the open.The two assassins had not long to wait, for a redskin soon came by on the gallop without show or sign of fear, because a flag of truce had been delivered to the whites but a short time before. As he passed, both men fired, and, although the warrior reeled in his saddle, he clung to the mane of his horse with a tenacious grip and rode on into the fort. Here he dropped exhausted to the ground, and, before dying, cried out:“My white brothers, I demand vengeance upon these hidden men who have driven me to the Great Spirit. You who have true hearts, see that I get what I desire, and my soul will then rest in peace.”When news of this was brought to General Harmer, he said, with much heat:“Justice shall be done to this poor redskin. I hear from some of my men that Lewis Wetzel was responsiblefor this affair. Captain Kingsbury will therefore take his company and scour the woods for the rascal. Let him be brought to me, dead or alive.”Wetzel, meanwhile, had returned to his home in the Mingo Bottom settlement and was engaged in a shooting match for a turkey. When the soldiers arrived, and the frontiersmen learned what they were after, they gathered around their comrade with the remark that:“Whoever touches Lewis Wetzel will have tew fight th’ hull gang uv us.”Captain Kingsbury therefore withdrew, but Lewis Wetzel was not careful to keep beyond the clutch of his arm. Some time afterwards he paddled down the river to an island opposite Harmer’s Fort in order to spend the night with a friend, and news of his presence was brought to the soldiers within the stockade. A company of men was soon headed for the island: the frontiersman was surrounded at midnight; was thrown into the guard-house, heavily ironed, and was not only deprived of open air, but also of exercise. He quickly sickened and grew pale. When told that he would shortly be hung, he sent for General Harmer, and said:“General, I am not ashamed of my deed, for ever since the day that my people were brutally slain by the children of the forest, I have considered it perfectly justifiable for me to do unto them what they have done unto me. If you will grant me one request, it is that you allow me to go loose among the savages armed only with a tomahawk. Then I will have onechance in a thousand to escape, but I will take that chance.”The General shook his head.“The scaffold is the proper death for you,” he replied. “As an officer of the law I must see that you receive the fit punishment for your crimes. But, as I see that you are growing pale under strict confinement, I hereby order that the irons be taken from your legs. Your handcuffs must remain.”The trapper bowed his head, but as soon as the General had gone and he was allowed to move in the open air, he frisked about like a young colt. A number of soldiers guarded him closely, but as he walked and jumped around in front of them, he continually experimented with his handcuffs, in the endeavor to wrest his arms from their grip. Gradually he edged farther and farther from the guard. Finally he had moved to a position from which he felt that he could safely get away. With one mighty bound he had turned and was off into the forest. Volley after volley came from the soldiers, but he escaped untouched.Wetzel knew well the woodland in which he found himself, and hastening to a dense thicket pushed through a close tangle of briars to a fallen tree. He wedged himself beneath this, and none too soon, for within a very few moments a number of Indians and soldiers approached. Twice some redskins sat upon the very tree beneath which he was crouching, and he heard one say:“Ah, but the white dog would make good runningthrough the ranks of our red brothers. We must stick our knives into him when we find him.”At last darkness came. The trapper heard his pursuers returning, so he crept stealthily from his hiding-place and made for the river. He reached it in an hour, and by the light of the half moon, saw a frontiersman fishing from a canoe. He was afraid to call to him, for the woods were full of Indians, so he attracted his attention by beating upon the water with a stick. The fellow saw him; picked him up, and paddled him to the other shore, where his handcuffs were cut from his wrists. Next day he stood among his own friends.Not long after this remarkable escape the trapper was at a fort on Wheeling Creek from which a number of pioneers had mysteriously disappeared.“They have been killed by the redskins,” said one of the backwoodsmen, who resided there. “How, where, and when, no one seems to know; but, my friend, there have been mysterious calls of turkeys in the woods. Turkeys, mark you, my friend,—wild turkeys!”Wetzel pricked up his ears. He remembered that each of the men who had been killed had heard turkey calls near the fort: had gone out to shoot one for supper: and had never returned. The turkey calls had all come from one direction and here was a high hill covered with boulders. A small cave-like depression could be seen from the camp. Putting two and two together, he decided that Mr. Redskin had produced the call of Mr. Turkey and that it was Mr.Redskin’s unerring aim that had put an end to the lives of so many good frontiersmen. “I shall soon stop the twaddle of the fascinating tongue of Mr. Gobbler,” said the scout to himself.Setting out one morning, before day had broken, he soon drew near a hill, on the top of which was a small cave. It was an excellent spot in which to hide one’s self, and, placing himself in ambush, he watched it narrowly. At sunrise he saw the tufted head of a Shawnee appear in the narrow opening, and the “gobble, gobble, gobble” of a turkey, sounded from the throat of the savage. The trapper bent low and watched the performance, for it was an exact imitation of the male bird. “Gobble, gobble, gobble,” echoed again from the gloom of the cave, and, “crack” sounded the rifle of the bold pioneer. A wail of anguish arose from the cavern’s mouth. Then all was still. The Shawnee gobbler had gone to the Happy Hunting Grounds.Well pleased with himself, Wetzel started back to the fort with the scalp-lock of the enterprising brave, and, as he neared the stockade, met a soldier hastening towards him.“Did you hear that turkey call?” said the enthusiastic sportsman. “I’m going out to get him, sure.”The scout pointed to his girdle.“There is Mr. Gobbler,” said he. “He was the kind of a bird that shoots a rifle. My boy, you should thank your lucky stars that I saw him first.”Not long after this event the frontiersman made a journey to the Kanawha River with John Madison,brother of James Madison, at one time President of the United States. They were busy surveying some land, and one day came to a hunter’s cabin, which appeared to be deserted.“No one is here,” said Madison. “Let us take some of this jerked venison and also a pailful of this coffee. I do not believe that the camp will be again visited, and we may as well have the food, as to let the wood-mice eat it.”“All right,” answered the trapper, and, without more ado, they appropriated what they wished, and continued upon their journey.Early the next day, as they were crossing a small valley, many shots rang out, and wild war-whoops sounded from every side. Cries of “You give back our venison!” were heard above the din, and Madison reeled in his saddle, falling head-long to the ground. Wetzel did not wait to see what had happened to him, but, digging his heels into his horse’s flanks, dashed off into the brush.Now was a furious chase. Although well mounted, the scout soon saw that the red men also had good ponies, and he feared that they would catch him. Over the mountain paths they flew, for hour after hour. At last they neared a broad river, and leaping his horse into it, the scout swam to the other side. The red men had not the courage to follow where he had led, and thus he made good his escape.The pioneer had a generous heart in spite of his vindictiveness to all savages, and not long afterwards had an opportunity to display his good feeling towardsthe weak and distressed. Going with a friend one day to pay a visit to a frontier house belonging to the Bryans, they found indications that the Indians had just been there, for the home was burned to the ground. Tracks in the moist earth led into the forest, and besides those of the redskins were the print of a woman’s feet.“Miss Betsy Bryan has been carried off, I fear,” said Wetzel sorrowfully, pointing to the footprints. “We must rescue her even if it costs us our lives. Comrade, let us hasten to the chase.”His companion nodded, and, without more ado, the two men of the frontier followed the well-marked trail of the savages. Towards evening they crossed the Ohio River. Not far from the bank was a camp-fire, and, going towards it with great caution, they saw the girl seated near the flames. A white renegade and three Indians were her companions.“Lie down, comrade,” whispered Wetzel to his friend. “I will tell you when to rouse yourself, for we cannot attack until these redskins are asleep.”His companion obeyed, and waking him about two o’clock in the early morning, the scout told him to fire at one of the red men and then to rush into the camp in order to protect the captive. “I, myself, will attend to the renegade,” said he.Both frontiersmen fired at about the same time. The renegade was done for, as was one Indian, also. The two remaining savages took to their heels. Wetzel was after them in a jiffy, but, as they soon hid in the brush, he fired his rifle off, thinking that theymight pursue him if they believed that his weapon were empty. He was not mistaken. The savages rushed from their hiding-places, gave close chase, and gained rapidly upon the running plainsman. They began to yelp wildly, as they thought that they had him cornered, but they did not know that this was the famous trapper who could load while on the run.Turning about, Wetzel now shot the nearest red man, but the other kept on after him like a flash. The scout loaded while darting forward, as usual, then wheeling quickly, he dispatched this second assailant. His wonderful ability to load when at full speed had made it thus possible for him to thoroughly avenge the assault upon the frontier settlement and the capture of the inoffensive girl. Taking the scalp-locks of the two fallen braves and tying them to his girdle, he was soon back at the camp, where he was tearfully greeted by the rescued maiden. In a short time they were at home in the settlement.Wetzel continued his life of hardship and adventure after this; made a journey south, where he was imprisoned at New Orleans, and, in 1803, joined Lewis and Clark in their expedition up the Missouri River. He left them after two months, and spent about two years near the headwaters of the Yellowstone, engaged in trapping and in hunting. From now on, until his death in 1818, he was a trapper and fur trader; his hatred for the redskins remaining unabated until his demise. He was camping near Natchez, Mississippi, when this occurred.A braver man never lived than this famous scout,who could load while on the run, and who had probably experienced more hairbreadth escapes than most of the pioneers. His one great failing was his dislike for the red men and desire to put them out of the way, but, after one considers the distressing circumstances attending the death of the members of his family, when he was a mere youth, one can pardon this bloodthirstiness. There was much good in Lewis Wetzel; the valorous frontiersman of the early days of the settlement of the United States.

JOHN SLOVER:SCOUT UNDER CRAWFORD AND HERO OF EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURESTWO red men paddled down the White River, far in the western portion of the state of Virginia, one bright morning in the month of May, 1765. As they rounded a bend in the stream, before them was a little trapper’s son, apparently with no one with him. He was throwing pebbles into the water and was laughing as they splashed upon the surface of the stream.“How!” grunted one of the braves. “I like to have young paleface in my lodge. I make him take the place of my own papoose, whom the Great Spirit has stolen from me.”“You can get him,” suggested the other. “Come on, let us paddle towards the little one and capture him.”As the redskins approached, the boy looked at them with no sign of fear, and laughed at their solemn-looking faces. But they did not laugh. Instead of this, the one in the bow leaped upon the shore, seized the youngster, and carried him to the canoe, where he was bound by deer thongs and was quickly paddled down stream. His parents looked for him in vain that evening, and for many evenings, but their little son never returned. Thus John Slover became a ward of the redskins.i109JOHN SLOVER.The Indians were then living at Sandusky, upon the Ohio River, and here the little white boy grew up to be a man. Adopted by the Miami tribe, he learned to love their ways, to live the wild, roving life as a trapper and hunter, and to be more at home in the forest than in the houses of those of his own race. In the autumn of 1773, a treaty was made at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, between the Miamis and the whites, and at this place was a big gathering of the savages and frontiersmen, with their families. Jack Slover was interested in the affair and hung around the clusters of talkers, who were eagerly discussing the terms of the articles of agreement.“Hello!” came a voice, as he was near one animated group. “If this isn’t little Jack Slover grown to be a man! Turn around, son, and see if you don’t recognize me.”The adopted ward of the Miamis spun about upon his heel, and there saw a raw-boned trapper, who was gazing at him with an inquiring eye.“I certainly do not recognize you,” he replied. “Who are you, anyway?”The young fellow knew of his kidnapping, when a small boy, but had never cared to go back to his own people.The frontiersman now seized him by the shoulders. “Why, I’m your father’s brother, Tom Slover! I saw that you were not a Miami the minute I looked at you, and I found out that you had been capturedmany years ago by the Indians. Upon closer inspection it was easy to perceive that you were my brother’s son. My boy, we have been waiting to find you for years. You will now come back to us, won’t you?”Young Slover hung his head, for he was loath to part from the friends and companions of his youth. He was on the point of refusing, but, just then, another frontiersman approached who announced that he was his father. The meeting between son and parent was not demonstrative; in fact, the youth rather drew away from his own flesh and blood. Soon, however, he became more reconciled, and, after an hour’s conversation, agreed to accompany his kinsmen to their home in Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania.The conference was soon over, both Indians and whites were agreed upon the terms of the treaty, and the captured son of the pioneer went back to his own country, where he seemed to be contentedly abiding at the outbreak of the American Revolution. He was one of the first to enlist, and, because of his experience in woodcraft, was made a sharpshooter. In this branch of the service he did good work, and was honorably discharged at the close of the struggle with the Mother Country.Some years after the Revolutionary War—in 1782—the redskins of the Middle West became very bold, and made frequent incursions upon the white settlements of Ohio, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia. Prompt vengeance was demanded by the pioneers who had penetrated into the wilderness and had there builttheir homes. An expedition was determined upon, and Colonel William Crawford—a brave officer of the Revolutionary War—was selected as its commander. The time and place of rendezvous were fixed for May 20th, 1782, at a point on the western shore of the Ohio, forty miles above Fort Pitt. There were four hundred and fifty volunteers; among them an accomplished surgeon, Dr. Knight.Just before the expedition got under way, Colonel Crawford approached Slover, and said:“My good friend, we are in need of a scout and guide upon our expedition. You know this country like a book, so I would like to engage you as one of our forerunners and assistants. Will you go with us?”The adopted ward of the Miamis was reluctant to accept.“I have lived with these Indians whom you intend to attack,” said he. “I have slept with them; hunted with them; have eaten with them. Surely you would not have me turn upon all of my old friends?”The Colonel smiled.“Yes, but what sort of friends?” he answered. “Here they have been murdering innocent women and children. Have been burning homes, killing cattle and horses. They have been subjecting their prisoners to horrible tortures. You are too much of a man not to appreciate the need of checking these onslaughts upon our people.”“The whites are gradually encroaching upon their lands,—the lands which they believe that the GreatSpirit has given to them,” replied Slover, in a deliberate tone. “Can you blame them for resenting these advances? They are children, too, of the wilderness and they fight like the wild beasts who surround them.”“Then you refuse to accompany us?”“No, not so. Upon thinking over the matter, I believe that it is impossible for the two races to live side by side, unless one race is supreme. That the whites will overrun the country is only too evident. I will go with you, for I certainly do not approve of the manner in which they have conducted their warfare, and I believe that they must be punished.”The march was soon commenced, but, in a few days, some of the volunteers broke ranks and started for their homes. It was impossible to hold them. Further signs of insubordination were soon in evidence, some of the men demanding that they be sent back to their cabins, declaring that their horses were jaded and that their provisions were almost exhausted. Not long afterwards two skulking Indians were seen spying upon the advance. They were fired upon, but escaped. It was now evident that all secrecy was out of the question. The men grew mutinous and were so unruly that the officers requested them to continue for only one day longer, and then if no Indians were found they were to return. This was being discussed when one of the advance pickets dashed in, crying out: “The Indians are ahead of us about a mile. They are drawn up in the timber and are waiting for us!”At this news a loud whoop came from the lustythroats of the frontiersmen, and they discontinued their complaints. Priming their rifles and fingering their powder-horns, they pressed forward to the attack, while their leader, Crawford, who had fine military judgment, saw that the enemy had seized a position of great strength, from which they must be driven at once. He therefore urged on his men to the charge.As the order came, the pioneers dismounted and rushed boldly upon the redskins in front and upon the flanks, hunting them from the woods, across an open field, and into some dense forest-land in the rear. Here the savages were heavily reinforced, and Crawford’s Rangers were almost driven from the timber by the wily braves, who were now fighting from every bush, stump, hillock and tree. The battle waged with great fury until dark, when the savages withdrew, and the trappers slept upon the ground, ready to resume the affair in the morning.As daylight appeared the battle was renewed at long range, neither side being anxious for a hand-to-hand engagement. It was plainly evident that the Indians were constantly being reinforced. Their whooping and yelling grew more and more derisive, and they began to extend their lines so as to flank the men of the frontier. For this reason, the officers decided upon a retreat.Slover, the scout, was far over to the right, watching some horses, and no news of the intended movement was brought to him. Soon the uproar of retreat came to his ears and warned him of his danger. He therefore selected the finest horse among those underhis charge, mounted it, and fled after his comrades, who became rapidly disorganized. The red men fired a volley in the direction of the frontiersmen, at which one of the Crawford Rangers shouted: “The enemy have found out our design! Save yourselves! Save yourselves!”Panic now became general, and so great was the disorder that it was plainly heard in the lines of the Indians, among whom was the famous renegade, Simon Girty. “Out, men,” he cried, “and pick up the stragglers, for these Americans have whipped themselves!”Those who had been wounded were dropped at the beginning of the rout and were speedily dispatched by the tomahawks of the savages. The rest fled in whatever way they could, without semblance of order or discipline, and, as they ran helter-skelter through the forest, were pursued by the exultant redskins with wild and blood-curdling whooping. Slover galloped along with some difficulty, as the ground was very rough, and soon found further obstructions in his path, for a wide bog lay before him, which extended for a great distance in either direction.Some of the fugitives were unable to get across the bog on foot, but Slover and a few others were able to cross on their horses. As they fled on through the darkness of night, behind them echoed the horrid yells of the savages, the rifle shots of the whites, and the shrieks of the wounded. Six fugitives joined the fleeing scout, two of whom had lost their rifles, and, as the Indians were pressing them furiously, they headedfor the settlement of Detroit, hoping to elude the red men as they went. They ran into another portion of the swamp a few hours later, and halted there for a slight repast of cold pork and corn bread—of which they had a small supply in their haversacks.As they were seated upon some stumps, and were munching their repast, they were startled by an Indian whoop very close at hand.“We are discovered,” whispered Slover. “Hide yourselves, my men, in the tall grass.”Not many moments afterwards, a band of Shawnees passed by, laughing and talking among themselves, apparently with no idea that the pioneers were near. They were well satisfied with the signal defeat which they had administered to Crawford and his men; had many scalps and much plunder. When they were gone, Slover and his companions continued on their way, entering upon a sea of waving grass, which made it evident that any skulking red men would soon discover their whereabouts.Silently they plodded across the prairie, but suddenly the man in advance called their attention to the fact that some moving objects were approaching.“Lie low, boys!” he shouted. “I think that a crowd of redskins are just in front of us.”He was right, and, as they hid in the tall grass, a troop of Indians passed by, moving rapidly and noisily along. Fortunately the red men did not discover their trail, and with great shouting and singing had soon walked out of hearing. The trappers arose, continued their flight, and kept a sharp lookout for enemies.They were soon to meet with more children of the forest.Two of the fugitives now became very lame and were unable to keep up with the rest of the party. One had a bad attack of rheumatism; so bad, in fact, that he fell way behind the rest and did not come up, although they whistled, called, and strove to attract his attention in every possible way, in spite of the danger of being discovered by lurking redskins. They finally went on without him, and gave him up for lost. He at length reached Wheeling in safety, having passed through many dangers and hairbreadth escapes from capture by roving Indians.Slover and his friend were hurrying towards the settlements, and naturally left a well-defined trail behind them. This was followed for several days by a band of Shawnees, who finally decided that the whites would be easy to capture and decided to ambush them.This they did, and, as the frontiersmen were quietly passing between some high bluffs, a volley rang out from either side and two of their number fell dead. The rest sprang immediately to the shelter of trees, where Slover took aim at one of the Indians who could be seen raising his hand.“Do not fire,” said he, in excellent English. “If you surrender to us, you will be well treated. We will take you to our houses and will allow you to leave, in a short time, for your own people.”Slover and two of the frontiersmen gave themselves up immediately, but a young fellow named John Paul refused to do so, and, rushing to the rear, managedto get away. The redskins peppered the air with bullets, but none hit the fugitive and he got safely beyond range. After a long and arduous trip through the wilderness, he at length reached the frontier settlement at Wheeling, West Virginia.As John Slover and his companions were being taken along by the Indians, one of them recognized him as the young paleface who had been brought up by the Miamis.“You no good, Mannuchcothe,” said he. “You fight against your own brothers. You kill your own people. Ugh! Ugh! We fix you for this.”John Slover began to think that perhaps what the savages had promised was not to take place, and when once they came in sight of their town, their whole demeanor changed. They began to howl and cry out:“You are some of those who wish to drive us from our country. Death to you! Death to you!”The squaws, warriors, and children came running to meet the captives and began to whip and beat them. Then they took the oldest of the frontiersmen and blackened his face with charred sticks.“Are they going to burn me, Slover?” the poor fellow gasped.“Do not answer, Mannuchcothe!” shouted the Indians. “Do not answer! We will not hurt him! We will adopt him!”The red men now took the prisoners to Waughcotomoco, another of their towns, about two miles off, but sent a runner in advance to announce their coming. As the captives came in sight of it they sawhundreds of Indians in a double line, ready to make them run the gauntlet. This they did, and although Slover got through safely, the frontiersman whose face had been blackened, was knocked down, kicked, beaten, and shot full of arrows. He reached the council chamber, where he thought that he would be safe, and, although he seized one of the posts with both hands, he was torn away from it and was soon dispatched with a tomahawk.Slover, meanwhile, was left alone, but he had no cheerful thoughts, for before him lay the bodies of Harold, the son of Crawford, the American leader; of a Colonel Harrison; and of several other prominent soldiers of the American army. They had all been killed during the retreat. His remaining companion was led away to another town and was never again heard of; while the gallant scout, himself, was now confronted by a young Miami buck, who said in the Indian language:“Mannuchcothe, you must come before a council and must explain to the old men why you deserted our tribe. Mannuchcothe, it will go ill with you.”The sharpshooter did not worry, for he did not believe that his old friends would go back on him. In this he was correct, for there seemed to be no great amount of malice towards the ex-Miami, until the appearance of a white renegade—James Girty—the brother of the famous Simon. This scoundrel made an impassioned speech, in which he said:“My Indian brethren, this white captive should suffer death. For not only has he deserted you foryour enemies—the palefaces—but when I asked him how he would like to live with you again, he told me that he would care to remain only long enough to take a scalp and then escape. He is your enemy at heart and has even now been fighting against you. Death, and torture before death, would not be too severe for him.”The scout was outraged and angered by these remarks.“What you say is not true,” he replied. “I have never in my life made the statement that I would only remain long enough with my red brethren to take a scalp and then escape. I entered this war with reluctance, and I had not fired a shot up to the time that I was captured by my old companions. I am a friend of the Miamis and always will be their friend.”To these remarks the red men grunted an assent and allowed him to move, unbound, around the village. He was assigned to a lodge with an old squaw, who became very much attached to him, and, not many days afterwards, came to him and said:—“That James Girty is influencing my brothers against you. If you have a chance to escape, you must do so, for I fear that they intend to put you out of the way.”Not long afterwards a council of Shawnee, Wyandot, Delaware, Chippewa, Miami, and Mingo braves decided that Slover had been untrue to their race, and that he must suffer punishment and death. Two warriors appeared before his wigwam in order to carry him away, but the old squaw covered him with herblanket and said that he should not go. When the two bucks endeavored to enter, she threw a pot of boiling water at them.This was too much for the warriors, who retreated before the scalding fluid, but they soon returned with James Girty and forty Indians, who overpowered the fighting squaw. Slover was seized, bound, and his body was painted black. This was a sign that he was to be tortured and eventually killed.Five miles from Waughcotomoco was another Indian town, to which the scout was marched. A vast number of red men greeted his coming with fierce cheering, and formed in two lines in order to make him run the gauntlet. As he raced between them, they struck him with clubs, with spears, and with their hands. In spite of this he was not badly hurt and could walk without assistance to another small town, two miles further on, where—in an unfinished council house—he was fastened to a stake. Brush was piled around his feet and this was lighted for his torture. “I will meet death like a brave man,” said Slover to himself. Then, turning to the Indians, he cried out: “You shall rue the day that ever you put an end to John Slover. My white brothers will avenge me a hundredfold.”An Indian orator arose, and, with a fierce and vindictive speech, sought to fan the flame of the red men’s passions to the highest pitch.“How! How!” cried many voices.” It is well that the white man should die. How! How!”Slover glowered upon the yelling mob as the cracklingflames began to creep nearer to his feet. But now an unexpected interposition of nature occurred, which was greatly in the victim’s favor.A high wind arose; dense, black clouds covered the sky; the growling of thunder drowned the words of the orator and the yelling of his hearers. A sheet of rain burst upon the fire at the stake, extinguishing it completely, and Slover saw the Indians scatter to the cover of their wigwams, where they called out to him:“We will burn you to-morrow. The Great Spirit has helped you, but he cannot save you.”The shower lasted for over an hour, and when it had concluded the red men gathered around the stake, where they beat and kicked their captive until eleven o’clock at night. Then a brave called Half Moon asked him if he did not want to go to sleep.“I am exhausted,” replied the scout. “If you intend to kill me to-morrow, loosen my bonds and let me rest.”Half Moon untied the strands which bound the weakened frontiersman, carried him to a log hut, and there bound him to a pole in the centre, with deer thongs which cut tightly into his flesh. A rope was placed about his neck and was tied to a rafter of the house. Three guards were placed to watch him, and, as Half Moon departed, he said:“Get a good sleep, paleface. You will need it, for to-morrow you will eat fire. This is what comes to you for fighting against your own people.”The scout had not yet lost all hope of making hisescape, and carefully considered the possibility of getting away. Two of his guards were soon asleep; the third (an aged brave) smoked a long, clay pipe and told him that he had seen many palefaces tortured at the stake. “Some weep like squaws,” said he. “Others bear it like men. You have once been a redskin and should be able to stand the fire without crying. You should come through without a bit of trouble.”On and on he thus rambled until he became worn out—his head dropped upon his breast—and he began to snore loudly. As the noise of his heavy breathing came to the ears of the scout, he began to work vigorously at his bonds. By wriggling, tugging, and pulling, at last his hands were free. He reached for the thong about his neck and began to chew it with his teeth.As he turned and twisted in an endeavor to free himself from this remaining bond, day began to break and the pale light of dawn flooded the cabin. The talkative old Indian awoke; yawned; stretched; and looked around at the captive; but Slover clasped his hands behind his back as if they were still tied, and stood perfectly still. The red man turned over upon his side and again composed himself in sleep. It was now or never with the captured frontiersman.i125INDIANS TORTURING A PRISONER.Again seizing upon the rope, Slover gave it a few strong jerks, and, biting it with his jaws for a second time, suddenly parted it. With his heart bumping against his side like a trip-hammer, he stole noiselessly from the lodge. Not an Indian was stirring, and, darting toward a corn field, he narrowly missed stepping upon a squaw with her two children, who were asleep beneath a tree. He crept through the growing stalks, and upon the other side saw quite a number of ponies. Taking the rope from his arm, he made a slip-noose of it; selected a fine, young horse; threw it over his head; mounted, and rode away like mad. His life depended upon his exertions.As he dashed off, he heard a door open in an Indian lodge and knew that the red men were astir. They would soon discover his absence. He would be followed by all of the swiftest and hardest-riding men of the encampment. No wonder that he dug his heels into the flanks of his pony and urged him to do his very best.At ten o’clock he reached the Scioto River,—now much swollen by the recent thunder shower. But his horse was winded and he had to stop in order to give him both water and breath, for he was blowing from his exertions. He plunged into the stream, crossed it, and continued his flight at the fastest pace which his horse was able to make. Finally the faithful animal began to pant and stagger. He was done for.As the Indian pony fell upon his side, Slover leaped to the ground and heard a wild yelping behind him in the forest. He thus knew that the Indians were hot upon his trail. The horse had carried him seventy miles at a fast pace, which is extraordinary. But the animal was now lying prostrate, with the glaze of death showing in his eye. He had run a good race.The scout bounded forward, loping through theunderbrush, timber, and tall grass, and leaving as little trail as he could. But his exertions were wearing heavily upon him, and, about ten o’clock that night, he fell exhausted to the ground. He lay in a stupor for two hours.When he was again able to move, a full moon cast its silvery light over the dense woodland, where he had fallen, and no sound broke the stillness of the night save the weird call of a whippoorwill. The redskins could easily have captured him had they been close upon his track, but his care in leaving little trace of his flight had thrown them from the pursuit. Breathing more easily, he again continued his race for life, and, as day came, abandoned his trail for a low, rough ridge, where was little grass or soft earth. On, on, he continued, occasionally stopping to listen at the sounds of the forest, but, except for the occasional call of a bird, no voice came to his expectant hearing. The red men had lost heart and had returned to their wigwams.As evening came, the frontiersman reached the banks of one of the creeks which empty into the Muskingum, and again sank exhausted to the earth. The mosquitoes swarmed upon him, biting him unmercifully, and as his hunting suit (which the red men had allowed him to put on when tied) was torn to tatters by the nettles and briars, they had a splendid opportunity to get at his bare flesh. Some wild berries furnished him with much-needed food,—the first he had eaten since his escape,—and, if we are to believe his word for it, he says that he was so terrifiedwith fear, that he had forgotten to feel hungry during his flight. “I was fairly peeled from head to foot by briars and mosquitoes,” he has written. “And I was now so hungry that I fell upon two crawfish which I found behind a rock in the Muskingum, and ate them raw.”The scout was now refreshed, and plunging into the Muskingum, swam to the other shore. Two days later he reached the Ohio River, opposite Wheeling, West Virginia, and seeing a man in a skiff who was apparently fishing, called out to him in a loud voice:“Hallo! Hallo! Comrade! I’m a fugitive from the Indians and was one of Crawford’s men. Come! Take me over to the settlement!”The fellow did not seem anxious to hasten to his relief, for he was afraid that Slover was one of the white renegades who had joined the redskins and was anxious to trap him. After a long harangue he finally rowed to the place where the tattered scout was standing. The refugee fairly hugged him for joy, and, in a few minutes, was again safe in the settlement, where he was greeted with warm and affectionate regard by the other men of the frontier, who had received many stragglers from the ill-fated expedition under Colonel Crawford.The escape of John Slover was one of the narrowest of which there is any record in the annals of war upon the frontier. No wonder that for many years the story of this famous affair was the favorite topic of conversation, when the after-dinner pipes were lighted, and the men of the forest would sit before theglowing embers, there to tell tales concerning the heroism and courage of the gallant settlers of the wild and undeveloped West. Truly the adventures which befell John Slover were the most thrilling of them all.

SCOUT UNDER CRAWFORD AND HERO OF EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURES

TWO red men paddled down the White River, far in the western portion of the state of Virginia, one bright morning in the month of May, 1765. As they rounded a bend in the stream, before them was a little trapper’s son, apparently with no one with him. He was throwing pebbles into the water and was laughing as they splashed upon the surface of the stream.

“How!” grunted one of the braves. “I like to have young paleface in my lodge. I make him take the place of my own papoose, whom the Great Spirit has stolen from me.”

“You can get him,” suggested the other. “Come on, let us paddle towards the little one and capture him.”

As the redskins approached, the boy looked at them with no sign of fear, and laughed at their solemn-looking faces. But they did not laugh. Instead of this, the one in the bow leaped upon the shore, seized the youngster, and carried him to the canoe, where he was bound by deer thongs and was quickly paddled down stream. His parents looked for him in vain that evening, and for many evenings, but their little son never returned. Thus John Slover became a ward of the redskins.

i109

JOHN SLOVER.

JOHN SLOVER.

JOHN SLOVER.

The Indians were then living at Sandusky, upon the Ohio River, and here the little white boy grew up to be a man. Adopted by the Miami tribe, he learned to love their ways, to live the wild, roving life as a trapper and hunter, and to be more at home in the forest than in the houses of those of his own race. In the autumn of 1773, a treaty was made at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, between the Miamis and the whites, and at this place was a big gathering of the savages and frontiersmen, with their families. Jack Slover was interested in the affair and hung around the clusters of talkers, who were eagerly discussing the terms of the articles of agreement.

“Hello!” came a voice, as he was near one animated group. “If this isn’t little Jack Slover grown to be a man! Turn around, son, and see if you don’t recognize me.”

The adopted ward of the Miamis spun about upon his heel, and there saw a raw-boned trapper, who was gazing at him with an inquiring eye.

“I certainly do not recognize you,” he replied. “Who are you, anyway?”

The young fellow knew of his kidnapping, when a small boy, but had never cared to go back to his own people.

The frontiersman now seized him by the shoulders. “Why, I’m your father’s brother, Tom Slover! I saw that you were not a Miami the minute I looked at you, and I found out that you had been capturedmany years ago by the Indians. Upon closer inspection it was easy to perceive that you were my brother’s son. My boy, we have been waiting to find you for years. You will now come back to us, won’t you?”

Young Slover hung his head, for he was loath to part from the friends and companions of his youth. He was on the point of refusing, but, just then, another frontiersman approached who announced that he was his father. The meeting between son and parent was not demonstrative; in fact, the youth rather drew away from his own flesh and blood. Soon, however, he became more reconciled, and, after an hour’s conversation, agreed to accompany his kinsmen to their home in Westmoreland County, Pennsylvania.

The conference was soon over, both Indians and whites were agreed upon the terms of the treaty, and the captured son of the pioneer went back to his own country, where he seemed to be contentedly abiding at the outbreak of the American Revolution. He was one of the first to enlist, and, because of his experience in woodcraft, was made a sharpshooter. In this branch of the service he did good work, and was honorably discharged at the close of the struggle with the Mother Country.

Some years after the Revolutionary War—in 1782—the redskins of the Middle West became very bold, and made frequent incursions upon the white settlements of Ohio, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia. Prompt vengeance was demanded by the pioneers who had penetrated into the wilderness and had there builttheir homes. An expedition was determined upon, and Colonel William Crawford—a brave officer of the Revolutionary War—was selected as its commander. The time and place of rendezvous were fixed for May 20th, 1782, at a point on the western shore of the Ohio, forty miles above Fort Pitt. There were four hundred and fifty volunteers; among them an accomplished surgeon, Dr. Knight.

Just before the expedition got under way, Colonel Crawford approached Slover, and said:

“My good friend, we are in need of a scout and guide upon our expedition. You know this country like a book, so I would like to engage you as one of our forerunners and assistants. Will you go with us?”

The adopted ward of the Miamis was reluctant to accept.

“I have lived with these Indians whom you intend to attack,” said he. “I have slept with them; hunted with them; have eaten with them. Surely you would not have me turn upon all of my old friends?”

The Colonel smiled.

“Yes, but what sort of friends?” he answered. “Here they have been murdering innocent women and children. Have been burning homes, killing cattle and horses. They have been subjecting their prisoners to horrible tortures. You are too much of a man not to appreciate the need of checking these onslaughts upon our people.”

“The whites are gradually encroaching upon their lands,—the lands which they believe that the GreatSpirit has given to them,” replied Slover, in a deliberate tone. “Can you blame them for resenting these advances? They are children, too, of the wilderness and they fight like the wild beasts who surround them.”

“Then you refuse to accompany us?”

“No, not so. Upon thinking over the matter, I believe that it is impossible for the two races to live side by side, unless one race is supreme. That the whites will overrun the country is only too evident. I will go with you, for I certainly do not approve of the manner in which they have conducted their warfare, and I believe that they must be punished.”

The march was soon commenced, but, in a few days, some of the volunteers broke ranks and started for their homes. It was impossible to hold them. Further signs of insubordination were soon in evidence, some of the men demanding that they be sent back to their cabins, declaring that their horses were jaded and that their provisions were almost exhausted. Not long afterwards two skulking Indians were seen spying upon the advance. They were fired upon, but escaped. It was now evident that all secrecy was out of the question. The men grew mutinous and were so unruly that the officers requested them to continue for only one day longer, and then if no Indians were found they were to return. This was being discussed when one of the advance pickets dashed in, crying out: “The Indians are ahead of us about a mile. They are drawn up in the timber and are waiting for us!”

At this news a loud whoop came from the lustythroats of the frontiersmen, and they discontinued their complaints. Priming their rifles and fingering their powder-horns, they pressed forward to the attack, while their leader, Crawford, who had fine military judgment, saw that the enemy had seized a position of great strength, from which they must be driven at once. He therefore urged on his men to the charge.

As the order came, the pioneers dismounted and rushed boldly upon the redskins in front and upon the flanks, hunting them from the woods, across an open field, and into some dense forest-land in the rear. Here the savages were heavily reinforced, and Crawford’s Rangers were almost driven from the timber by the wily braves, who were now fighting from every bush, stump, hillock and tree. The battle waged with great fury until dark, when the savages withdrew, and the trappers slept upon the ground, ready to resume the affair in the morning.

As daylight appeared the battle was renewed at long range, neither side being anxious for a hand-to-hand engagement. It was plainly evident that the Indians were constantly being reinforced. Their whooping and yelling grew more and more derisive, and they began to extend their lines so as to flank the men of the frontier. For this reason, the officers decided upon a retreat.

Slover, the scout, was far over to the right, watching some horses, and no news of the intended movement was brought to him. Soon the uproar of retreat came to his ears and warned him of his danger. He therefore selected the finest horse among those underhis charge, mounted it, and fled after his comrades, who became rapidly disorganized. The red men fired a volley in the direction of the frontiersmen, at which one of the Crawford Rangers shouted: “The enemy have found out our design! Save yourselves! Save yourselves!”

Panic now became general, and so great was the disorder that it was plainly heard in the lines of the Indians, among whom was the famous renegade, Simon Girty. “Out, men,” he cried, “and pick up the stragglers, for these Americans have whipped themselves!”

Those who had been wounded were dropped at the beginning of the rout and were speedily dispatched by the tomahawks of the savages. The rest fled in whatever way they could, without semblance of order or discipline, and, as they ran helter-skelter through the forest, were pursued by the exultant redskins with wild and blood-curdling whooping. Slover galloped along with some difficulty, as the ground was very rough, and soon found further obstructions in his path, for a wide bog lay before him, which extended for a great distance in either direction.

Some of the fugitives were unable to get across the bog on foot, but Slover and a few others were able to cross on their horses. As they fled on through the darkness of night, behind them echoed the horrid yells of the savages, the rifle shots of the whites, and the shrieks of the wounded. Six fugitives joined the fleeing scout, two of whom had lost their rifles, and, as the Indians were pressing them furiously, they headedfor the settlement of Detroit, hoping to elude the red men as they went. They ran into another portion of the swamp a few hours later, and halted there for a slight repast of cold pork and corn bread—of which they had a small supply in their haversacks.

As they were seated upon some stumps, and were munching their repast, they were startled by an Indian whoop very close at hand.

“We are discovered,” whispered Slover. “Hide yourselves, my men, in the tall grass.”

Not many moments afterwards, a band of Shawnees passed by, laughing and talking among themselves, apparently with no idea that the pioneers were near. They were well satisfied with the signal defeat which they had administered to Crawford and his men; had many scalps and much plunder. When they were gone, Slover and his companions continued on their way, entering upon a sea of waving grass, which made it evident that any skulking red men would soon discover their whereabouts.

Silently they plodded across the prairie, but suddenly the man in advance called their attention to the fact that some moving objects were approaching.

“Lie low, boys!” he shouted. “I think that a crowd of redskins are just in front of us.”

He was right, and, as they hid in the tall grass, a troop of Indians passed by, moving rapidly and noisily along. Fortunately the red men did not discover their trail, and with great shouting and singing had soon walked out of hearing. The trappers arose, continued their flight, and kept a sharp lookout for enemies.They were soon to meet with more children of the forest.

Two of the fugitives now became very lame and were unable to keep up with the rest of the party. One had a bad attack of rheumatism; so bad, in fact, that he fell way behind the rest and did not come up, although they whistled, called, and strove to attract his attention in every possible way, in spite of the danger of being discovered by lurking redskins. They finally went on without him, and gave him up for lost. He at length reached Wheeling in safety, having passed through many dangers and hairbreadth escapes from capture by roving Indians.

Slover and his friend were hurrying towards the settlements, and naturally left a well-defined trail behind them. This was followed for several days by a band of Shawnees, who finally decided that the whites would be easy to capture and decided to ambush them.

This they did, and, as the frontiersmen were quietly passing between some high bluffs, a volley rang out from either side and two of their number fell dead. The rest sprang immediately to the shelter of trees, where Slover took aim at one of the Indians who could be seen raising his hand.

“Do not fire,” said he, in excellent English. “If you surrender to us, you will be well treated. We will take you to our houses and will allow you to leave, in a short time, for your own people.”

Slover and two of the frontiersmen gave themselves up immediately, but a young fellow named John Paul refused to do so, and, rushing to the rear, managedto get away. The redskins peppered the air with bullets, but none hit the fugitive and he got safely beyond range. After a long and arduous trip through the wilderness, he at length reached the frontier settlement at Wheeling, West Virginia.

As John Slover and his companions were being taken along by the Indians, one of them recognized him as the young paleface who had been brought up by the Miamis.

“You no good, Mannuchcothe,” said he. “You fight against your own brothers. You kill your own people. Ugh! Ugh! We fix you for this.”

John Slover began to think that perhaps what the savages had promised was not to take place, and when once they came in sight of their town, their whole demeanor changed. They began to howl and cry out:

“You are some of those who wish to drive us from our country. Death to you! Death to you!”

The squaws, warriors, and children came running to meet the captives and began to whip and beat them. Then they took the oldest of the frontiersmen and blackened his face with charred sticks.

“Are they going to burn me, Slover?” the poor fellow gasped.

“Do not answer, Mannuchcothe!” shouted the Indians. “Do not answer! We will not hurt him! We will adopt him!”

The red men now took the prisoners to Waughcotomoco, another of their towns, about two miles off, but sent a runner in advance to announce their coming. As the captives came in sight of it they sawhundreds of Indians in a double line, ready to make them run the gauntlet. This they did, and although Slover got through safely, the frontiersman whose face had been blackened, was knocked down, kicked, beaten, and shot full of arrows. He reached the council chamber, where he thought that he would be safe, and, although he seized one of the posts with both hands, he was torn away from it and was soon dispatched with a tomahawk.

Slover, meanwhile, was left alone, but he had no cheerful thoughts, for before him lay the bodies of Harold, the son of Crawford, the American leader; of a Colonel Harrison; and of several other prominent soldiers of the American army. They had all been killed during the retreat. His remaining companion was led away to another town and was never again heard of; while the gallant scout, himself, was now confronted by a young Miami buck, who said in the Indian language:

“Mannuchcothe, you must come before a council and must explain to the old men why you deserted our tribe. Mannuchcothe, it will go ill with you.”

The sharpshooter did not worry, for he did not believe that his old friends would go back on him. In this he was correct, for there seemed to be no great amount of malice towards the ex-Miami, until the appearance of a white renegade—James Girty—the brother of the famous Simon. This scoundrel made an impassioned speech, in which he said:

“My Indian brethren, this white captive should suffer death. For not only has he deserted you foryour enemies—the palefaces—but when I asked him how he would like to live with you again, he told me that he would care to remain only long enough to take a scalp and then escape. He is your enemy at heart and has even now been fighting against you. Death, and torture before death, would not be too severe for him.”

The scout was outraged and angered by these remarks.

“What you say is not true,” he replied. “I have never in my life made the statement that I would only remain long enough with my red brethren to take a scalp and then escape. I entered this war with reluctance, and I had not fired a shot up to the time that I was captured by my old companions. I am a friend of the Miamis and always will be their friend.”

To these remarks the red men grunted an assent and allowed him to move, unbound, around the village. He was assigned to a lodge with an old squaw, who became very much attached to him, and, not many days afterwards, came to him and said:—

“That James Girty is influencing my brothers against you. If you have a chance to escape, you must do so, for I fear that they intend to put you out of the way.”

Not long afterwards a council of Shawnee, Wyandot, Delaware, Chippewa, Miami, and Mingo braves decided that Slover had been untrue to their race, and that he must suffer punishment and death. Two warriors appeared before his wigwam in order to carry him away, but the old squaw covered him with herblanket and said that he should not go. When the two bucks endeavored to enter, she threw a pot of boiling water at them.

This was too much for the warriors, who retreated before the scalding fluid, but they soon returned with James Girty and forty Indians, who overpowered the fighting squaw. Slover was seized, bound, and his body was painted black. This was a sign that he was to be tortured and eventually killed.

Five miles from Waughcotomoco was another Indian town, to which the scout was marched. A vast number of red men greeted his coming with fierce cheering, and formed in two lines in order to make him run the gauntlet. As he raced between them, they struck him with clubs, with spears, and with their hands. In spite of this he was not badly hurt and could walk without assistance to another small town, two miles further on, where—in an unfinished council house—he was fastened to a stake. Brush was piled around his feet and this was lighted for his torture. “I will meet death like a brave man,” said Slover to himself. Then, turning to the Indians, he cried out: “You shall rue the day that ever you put an end to John Slover. My white brothers will avenge me a hundredfold.”

An Indian orator arose, and, with a fierce and vindictive speech, sought to fan the flame of the red men’s passions to the highest pitch.

“How! How!” cried many voices.” It is well that the white man should die. How! How!”

Slover glowered upon the yelling mob as the cracklingflames began to creep nearer to his feet. But now an unexpected interposition of nature occurred, which was greatly in the victim’s favor.

A high wind arose; dense, black clouds covered the sky; the growling of thunder drowned the words of the orator and the yelling of his hearers. A sheet of rain burst upon the fire at the stake, extinguishing it completely, and Slover saw the Indians scatter to the cover of their wigwams, where they called out to him:

“We will burn you to-morrow. The Great Spirit has helped you, but he cannot save you.”

The shower lasted for over an hour, and when it had concluded the red men gathered around the stake, where they beat and kicked their captive until eleven o’clock at night. Then a brave called Half Moon asked him if he did not want to go to sleep.

“I am exhausted,” replied the scout. “If you intend to kill me to-morrow, loosen my bonds and let me rest.”

Half Moon untied the strands which bound the weakened frontiersman, carried him to a log hut, and there bound him to a pole in the centre, with deer thongs which cut tightly into his flesh. A rope was placed about his neck and was tied to a rafter of the house. Three guards were placed to watch him, and, as Half Moon departed, he said:

“Get a good sleep, paleface. You will need it, for to-morrow you will eat fire. This is what comes to you for fighting against your own people.”

The scout had not yet lost all hope of making hisescape, and carefully considered the possibility of getting away. Two of his guards were soon asleep; the third (an aged brave) smoked a long, clay pipe and told him that he had seen many palefaces tortured at the stake. “Some weep like squaws,” said he. “Others bear it like men. You have once been a redskin and should be able to stand the fire without crying. You should come through without a bit of trouble.”

On and on he thus rambled until he became worn out—his head dropped upon his breast—and he began to snore loudly. As the noise of his heavy breathing came to the ears of the scout, he began to work vigorously at his bonds. By wriggling, tugging, and pulling, at last his hands were free. He reached for the thong about his neck and began to chew it with his teeth.

As he turned and twisted in an endeavor to free himself from this remaining bond, day began to break and the pale light of dawn flooded the cabin. The talkative old Indian awoke; yawned; stretched; and looked around at the captive; but Slover clasped his hands behind his back as if they were still tied, and stood perfectly still. The red man turned over upon his side and again composed himself in sleep. It was now or never with the captured frontiersman.

i125

INDIANS TORTURING A PRISONER.

INDIANS TORTURING A PRISONER.

INDIANS TORTURING A PRISONER.

Again seizing upon the rope, Slover gave it a few strong jerks, and, biting it with his jaws for a second time, suddenly parted it. With his heart bumping against his side like a trip-hammer, he stole noiselessly from the lodge. Not an Indian was stirring, and, darting toward a corn field, he narrowly missed stepping upon a squaw with her two children, who were asleep beneath a tree. He crept through the growing stalks, and upon the other side saw quite a number of ponies. Taking the rope from his arm, he made a slip-noose of it; selected a fine, young horse; threw it over his head; mounted, and rode away like mad. His life depended upon his exertions.

As he dashed off, he heard a door open in an Indian lodge and knew that the red men were astir. They would soon discover his absence. He would be followed by all of the swiftest and hardest-riding men of the encampment. No wonder that he dug his heels into the flanks of his pony and urged him to do his very best.

At ten o’clock he reached the Scioto River,—now much swollen by the recent thunder shower. But his horse was winded and he had to stop in order to give him both water and breath, for he was blowing from his exertions. He plunged into the stream, crossed it, and continued his flight at the fastest pace which his horse was able to make. Finally the faithful animal began to pant and stagger. He was done for.

As the Indian pony fell upon his side, Slover leaped to the ground and heard a wild yelping behind him in the forest. He thus knew that the Indians were hot upon his trail. The horse had carried him seventy miles at a fast pace, which is extraordinary. But the animal was now lying prostrate, with the glaze of death showing in his eye. He had run a good race.

The scout bounded forward, loping through theunderbrush, timber, and tall grass, and leaving as little trail as he could. But his exertions were wearing heavily upon him, and, about ten o’clock that night, he fell exhausted to the ground. He lay in a stupor for two hours.

When he was again able to move, a full moon cast its silvery light over the dense woodland, where he had fallen, and no sound broke the stillness of the night save the weird call of a whippoorwill. The redskins could easily have captured him had they been close upon his track, but his care in leaving little trace of his flight had thrown them from the pursuit. Breathing more easily, he again continued his race for life, and, as day came, abandoned his trail for a low, rough ridge, where was little grass or soft earth. On, on, he continued, occasionally stopping to listen at the sounds of the forest, but, except for the occasional call of a bird, no voice came to his expectant hearing. The red men had lost heart and had returned to their wigwams.

As evening came, the frontiersman reached the banks of one of the creeks which empty into the Muskingum, and again sank exhausted to the earth. The mosquitoes swarmed upon him, biting him unmercifully, and as his hunting suit (which the red men had allowed him to put on when tied) was torn to tatters by the nettles and briars, they had a splendid opportunity to get at his bare flesh. Some wild berries furnished him with much-needed food,—the first he had eaten since his escape,—and, if we are to believe his word for it, he says that he was so terrifiedwith fear, that he had forgotten to feel hungry during his flight. “I was fairly peeled from head to foot by briars and mosquitoes,” he has written. “And I was now so hungry that I fell upon two crawfish which I found behind a rock in the Muskingum, and ate them raw.”

The scout was now refreshed, and plunging into the Muskingum, swam to the other shore. Two days later he reached the Ohio River, opposite Wheeling, West Virginia, and seeing a man in a skiff who was apparently fishing, called out to him in a loud voice:

“Hallo! Hallo! Comrade! I’m a fugitive from the Indians and was one of Crawford’s men. Come! Take me over to the settlement!”

The fellow did not seem anxious to hasten to his relief, for he was afraid that Slover was one of the white renegades who had joined the redskins and was anxious to trap him. After a long harangue he finally rowed to the place where the tattered scout was standing. The refugee fairly hugged him for joy, and, in a few minutes, was again safe in the settlement, where he was greeted with warm and affectionate regard by the other men of the frontier, who had received many stragglers from the ill-fated expedition under Colonel Crawford.

The escape of John Slover was one of the narrowest of which there is any record in the annals of war upon the frontier. No wonder that for many years the story of this famous affair was the favorite topic of conversation, when the after-dinner pipes were lighted, and the men of the forest would sit before theglowing embers, there to tell tales concerning the heroism and courage of the gallant settlers of the wild and undeveloped West. Truly the adventures which befell John Slover were the most thrilling of them all.

LEWIS WETZEL:HEROIC VIRGINIA FRONTIERSMAN AND IMPLACABLE ENEMY OF THE REDSKINS“BOYS, watch your mother and grandfather for a few hours, because I am going out fishing. There is no danger of attack from redskins, for none have been seen for six months. If, however, any one comes to our cabin with news of prowling bands, shoot off your rifles three times. This will warn me of any danger to you, and I will hasten home.”So spoke John Wetzel, whose cabin was upon the far western Virginian frontier, and, turning from his two little boys, he plunged into the wilderness. This was the last that he ever saw of his wife and her aged father. He had not been three days in the forest before his cabin was attacked.Stealing carefully through the brush, a marauding band of savages suddenly made a sortie upon the isolated house of logs. There was not time to warn the inmates of the stealthy approach before the tomahawk and scalping-knife were at work. In an hour’s time all of the inmates had been dispatched, except Lewis Wetzel and his little brother, Martin, both of whomwere carried off into captivity. Lewis was about thirteen years of age and Martin was eleven.“We will soon escape,” whispered the older youth. “Wait until evening arrives and then I will show you how to creep away from these horrible savages.”Lewis had been severely wounded by an arrow, but he stoically bore the pain, and trudged behind his captors with no show of ill humor. The Indian prisoner who lagged, or who made a cry of distress, would be speedily dispatched by the savages, and this he knew. The other boy went bravely ahead and said nothing.Through the wilderness walked the red men, and on the night of the second day they camped twenty miles beyond the Ohio River.“Ugh!” spoke a brave. “These children cannot escape us now. We will not bind them with thongs this evening, but will allow them to go free.”The savages had underestimated the daring courage which was in the heart of Lewis Wetzel. No sooner were the red men fast asleep, when, touching his brother with his hand, Lewis warned him to keep absolutely silent and to follow him away into the darkness. They were barefoot.“It is impossible for us to escape without moccasins,” said Lewis, after they had gone some distance. “This ground is full of stones, and our feet will be ruined. You wait here for me and I will return to the camp and get a pair for each of us, and then we can easily travel through the wilderness.”The brave boy not only secured the moccasins but also returned with a gun and some ammunition. Thenon they plunged through the forest. Just as the first streaks of dawn began to light up the gloomy depths, behind them echoed the shouts of their enemies, the red men.“Walk backward upon your trail, brother,” said Lewis Wetzel. “Then turn to the right and secrete yourself in the dense undergrowth. These red men will soon catch up to us and we must be thoroughly hidden.”This advice was followed, and it was well, for the boys had lain in the covert but a few minutes when their captors came bounding past. They were yelling to each other and were furious with anger at having lost their prisoners. The two Wetzels waited until they were out of sight. When the yelping had ceased they crept from their hiding-place and ran away to the right. In a few hours they heard the Indians again returning, and, secreting themselves in some underbrush, saw some savages dash by on ponies. They were not the same red men whom they had first seen, but these, also, could not find them. When the redskins were well beyond hearing, the terrified children ran to the river, fastened two logs together, and succeeded in crossing it. Not long afterwards they reached the house of a frontiersman and knew that they were safe. When they told him their story, he showed great surprise.“Bully for you, boys!” cried the man of the clearing. “You, Lewis, showed particular courage and daring. You are a credit to your poor father, who is, I hear, terribly overcome by this butchery of theredskins. I trust that you will both live long and useful lives upon the border.”“Thank you!” cried the boys. “We will do our best, anyway, to avenge the terrible injury which the red men have inflicted upon our family.”Thus early was implanted in the breasts of the two Wetzels an implacable hatred for the savages.It is said that Lewis was the strongest and most active of all of the youths upon the western borderland of Virginia, and by long practice had gained the ability to load his rifle while running at full speed. This was an immense advantage to him in his numerous affrays with the red men.Not long after the terrible defeat of Colonel Crawford, in which John Slover was a participant, a pioneer named Thomas Mills arrived at Wheeling, West Virginia, where Lewis Wetzel was temporarily residing.“I have left my good horse at Indian Spring, some five miles away,” said he. “The country was so rough that I could not ride him here, for some redskins were upon my trail. Wetzel, I wish that you would accompany me to where he is, for I want to be able to hold my own with the savages, should we meet any of them.”“Mills, I’m your man,” said Wetzel. So, upon the day following, they were on their way towards the spring.When they arrived at the place where Mills had left his horse, they found the animal tied to a bush.“That looks mighty suspicious,” whispered Wetzelto his companion, “because I understand that you left him untied. Do not go near the animal until I circle around him and see if any savages are in our front.”The pioneer, however, neglected to heed this sage counsel and proceeded to untie the pony. As he reached down towards the bridle-rein, the head of an Indian appeared from behind a rock.“Mills! Mills! Take to a tree!” yelled the scout. “There’s a redskin drawin’ er bead on yer!”The warning was unheeded. The frontiersman continued to work on the bridle-reins; then a sharp crack was heard, and the red man fell back, shot through the forehead by Wetzel. At the same moment a series of quick reports came from the brush, and Mills sank to the ground, pierced by a half dozen bullets.Wetzel started away on the run, for a number of top-knots rose from the bushes. Their owners hastened after him, but were uncautious enough to drop their own guns so that they could run all the faster. Knowing that he had discharged his piece, they expected to soon overtake him, tie his hands behind his back, and remove him to their own camp, to run the gauntlet and be tortured. They had counted without their host.The lithe and sinewy trapper raced onward, exerting his utmost speed, and, finding that he could not get away from his pursuers, turned about and fired upon the nearest red man. The art of loading upon the run, which he had learned, was of tremendous assistance to him, for he was thus able to place a bulletin his adversary’s chest, which stretched him upon the ground. Again he started forward, loading as he ran, and, turning a second time, was about to fire, when his nearest pursuer seized the muzzle of his rifle.“Hah! Paleface! I have you!” cried the red man, for he had often been to the settlements and had learned how to speak excellent English.“Not yet,” answered the trapper, and he grappled with his antagonist. They were very evenly matched. By the greatest exertion, the white man succeeded in wresting the redskin’s hold from his rifle, and in shooting him dead. It was a short struggle, but during it two Indians gained upon the man of the frontier, so that they were very close indeed. He now turned and ran as fast as he was able—loading as he went.The Indians were whooping wildly, but they had knowledge of his skill in loading on the run. When he turned again in order to fire, they took hasty departure to the shelter of some large trees. He kept on going—the red men still after him. But he was a crafty fellow, as the following will show:Having reached a clearing in the forest, he purposely stumbled and fell, as if exhausted by his race for life. The redskins thought that they now had him. They bounded forward with exultant shouts, but as they came nearer, the bold trapper rolled upon his side, raised his rifle, and brought one of them to the earth before he could get behind a tree. The second Indian turned and fled as fast as he was able, howling out in loud tones:“No catch dat feller. No catch him at all. He gun always loaded. He devil with the shooting stick.”i137“HE NOW TURNED AND RAN AS FAST AS HE WAS ABLE—LOADING AS HE WENT.”At this the crafty trapper rose to his feet with a loud guffaw.“These redskins have yet to learn a trick or two,” said he, chuckling. “They should remember that some trappers can load their rifles when on the run. My fine fellows—Au revoir!”So saying, he started upon his way to the settlements, lighting a corn-cob pipe on the way, and still chuckling softly to himself.Not long after this affair, the father of the two Wetzel boys was returning from a hunting excursion into the Ohio wilderness. With him were his sons Martin and Lewis. The latter had just shot a brown bear, and carried the skin with him in the bottom of the canoe. As they were gliding down the river, a band of Shawnees suddenly appeared upon the bank.“Come ashore, palefaces!” said one. “It is not good for you to go down the river!”“Paddle to the other side of the stream,” whispered the older Wetzel. “Hasten, boys, or their bullets will reach us.”Quickly they turned towards the opposite bank, but a volley of lead pursued them. They kept on doggedly. A missile struck the old pioneer, inflicting a mortal wound.“Lie down, Martin!” cried he. “They will get you also, if you do not do so.”Then the heroic old man paddled forward, his life-blood ebbing at every stroke. Volley after volleyzipped around the frail barque. Again and again the frontiersman was struck, so that when well beyond range of the Indian rifles he fell fainting to the bottom of the canoe. That evening he expired.Standing over the body of their parent, both Wetzels took a solemn oath to avenge his untimely end.“From now on,” said Lewis,” I will use every endeavor to slaughter the red men. They have killed my dear father. Death shall be upon their own heads. Death and no quarter.”Not a week had elapsed after the sudden end of this staunch man of the frontier, when news was brought into Wheeling that the Indians were again upon the war-path. A scout came running into the settlement, crying:“The Shawnees and Wyandots are approaching. They have slaughtered one man, and are burning, killing and scalping. Every able-bodied settler is needed to drive them away.”Immediately all turned out with rifle and powder-horn in order to repel the invaders. But before they started, a purse of one hundred dollars was made up, to go to the first individual who should take an Indian scalp. The trail of the marauders was soon struck; was followed for several miles; and was found to be very fresh. Then the advance scouts returned with the information that a large body of the enemy was encamped a few miles ahead.“They are too many to be attacked,” said the soldiers of the advance. “We must go back to Wheeling, or they will surround and annihilate us.”They set off upon the return, but they noticed, as they did so, that Lewis Wetzel did not move.“Are you not going to accompany us?” asked some of the trappers.The frontiersman scowled.“I set out to hunt Indians and thought that this had also been your purpose,” said he. “My object in hunting Indians is to kill them, and now that we have treed our game I do not intend to run off without a shot. As for you, I consider you to be a band of cowards.”“It is too bad about you,” said they. “As for ourselves, we intend to return home.”Wetzel gazed after them with an amused smile, then stooped and examined his arms, for he was a man of caution.“I will get a scalp of my own,” said he. “Perhaps more. These fellows will see that I mean what I say.”There were plenty of Indian signs, but he could find no large bands of the red men; instead, he stumbled upon a camp with only two braves in it.“There must be more in the encampment,” thought he. “I will creep away; will come back this evening; and will then have an opportunity to get what I am after.”Turning again into the forest, he was soon out of hearing, and, by great good fortune, came across a red deer, which he killed. He had a fine feast. As night fell he hastened towards the Indian camp, creptclose to it, and found only one red man, instead of a dozen or more, as he had expected. He waited until the redskin was fast asleep and then made good his boast. As he started upon the back trail for the settlement, a fresh scalp hung at his girdle.Owing to his great strength and agility, he reached Wheeling just one day behind his companions, instead of three. They were delighted to see him.“My boy,” cried they, “you have certainly made good and are entitled to the greatest possible credit. Bully for you!”The trapper in fact was more than a match for many redskins, as the following will show:Not long after his return to Wheeling he went out into the forest in order to get some venison to dry and salt for winter use. He saw no game, but suddenly stumbled upon a camp of four Shawnees, who were busily engaged in tanning some deer hides. They did not see or hear him, so he determined to return at nightfall and single-handed to attack the party of braves. This he did.First, resting his rifle against a tree so that it would be close at hand for any emergency, he drew his tomahawk, uttered a wild yell, and dashed in among the savages, cutting down one of them in a moment. Two more fell beneath his unerring weapon. The fourth darted off into the woodland with Wetzel close upon his heels. He was a good runner and got safely away, while the man of the frontier returned for the scalp-locks of the three. He was back at Wheeling before two days were over.“What luck did you have, Lewis?” asked a companion.“Not much,” answered the man-of-the-woods. “I treed four of th’ pesky varmints. But one slick-ez-lightnin’ feller got away. He had er close call.”At Marietta, Ohio, was a frontier fortification where a number of troops were stationed to protect the settlements from Shawnee invasion. Here General Harmer summoned several tribes to meet him in conference, and here Lewis Wetzel and a scout called Dickerson ambushed themselves near the Indian encampment with the intention of killing the first warrior who might pass. Wetzel, you see, was a vindictive fellow and did not even fight in the open.The two assassins had not long to wait, for a redskin soon came by on the gallop without show or sign of fear, because a flag of truce had been delivered to the whites but a short time before. As he passed, both men fired, and, although the warrior reeled in his saddle, he clung to the mane of his horse with a tenacious grip and rode on into the fort. Here he dropped exhausted to the ground, and, before dying, cried out:“My white brothers, I demand vengeance upon these hidden men who have driven me to the Great Spirit. You who have true hearts, see that I get what I desire, and my soul will then rest in peace.”When news of this was brought to General Harmer, he said, with much heat:“Justice shall be done to this poor redskin. I hear from some of my men that Lewis Wetzel was responsiblefor this affair. Captain Kingsbury will therefore take his company and scour the woods for the rascal. Let him be brought to me, dead or alive.”Wetzel, meanwhile, had returned to his home in the Mingo Bottom settlement and was engaged in a shooting match for a turkey. When the soldiers arrived, and the frontiersmen learned what they were after, they gathered around their comrade with the remark that:“Whoever touches Lewis Wetzel will have tew fight th’ hull gang uv us.”Captain Kingsbury therefore withdrew, but Lewis Wetzel was not careful to keep beyond the clutch of his arm. Some time afterwards he paddled down the river to an island opposite Harmer’s Fort in order to spend the night with a friend, and news of his presence was brought to the soldiers within the stockade. A company of men was soon headed for the island: the frontiersman was surrounded at midnight; was thrown into the guard-house, heavily ironed, and was not only deprived of open air, but also of exercise. He quickly sickened and grew pale. When told that he would shortly be hung, he sent for General Harmer, and said:“General, I am not ashamed of my deed, for ever since the day that my people were brutally slain by the children of the forest, I have considered it perfectly justifiable for me to do unto them what they have done unto me. If you will grant me one request, it is that you allow me to go loose among the savages armed only with a tomahawk. Then I will have onechance in a thousand to escape, but I will take that chance.”The General shook his head.“The scaffold is the proper death for you,” he replied. “As an officer of the law I must see that you receive the fit punishment for your crimes. But, as I see that you are growing pale under strict confinement, I hereby order that the irons be taken from your legs. Your handcuffs must remain.”The trapper bowed his head, but as soon as the General had gone and he was allowed to move in the open air, he frisked about like a young colt. A number of soldiers guarded him closely, but as he walked and jumped around in front of them, he continually experimented with his handcuffs, in the endeavor to wrest his arms from their grip. Gradually he edged farther and farther from the guard. Finally he had moved to a position from which he felt that he could safely get away. With one mighty bound he had turned and was off into the forest. Volley after volley came from the soldiers, but he escaped untouched.Wetzel knew well the woodland in which he found himself, and hastening to a dense thicket pushed through a close tangle of briars to a fallen tree. He wedged himself beneath this, and none too soon, for within a very few moments a number of Indians and soldiers approached. Twice some redskins sat upon the very tree beneath which he was crouching, and he heard one say:“Ah, but the white dog would make good runningthrough the ranks of our red brothers. We must stick our knives into him when we find him.”At last darkness came. The trapper heard his pursuers returning, so he crept stealthily from his hiding-place and made for the river. He reached it in an hour, and by the light of the half moon, saw a frontiersman fishing from a canoe. He was afraid to call to him, for the woods were full of Indians, so he attracted his attention by beating upon the water with a stick. The fellow saw him; picked him up, and paddled him to the other shore, where his handcuffs were cut from his wrists. Next day he stood among his own friends.Not long after this remarkable escape the trapper was at a fort on Wheeling Creek from which a number of pioneers had mysteriously disappeared.“They have been killed by the redskins,” said one of the backwoodsmen, who resided there. “How, where, and when, no one seems to know; but, my friend, there have been mysterious calls of turkeys in the woods. Turkeys, mark you, my friend,—wild turkeys!”Wetzel pricked up his ears. He remembered that each of the men who had been killed had heard turkey calls near the fort: had gone out to shoot one for supper: and had never returned. The turkey calls had all come from one direction and here was a high hill covered with boulders. A small cave-like depression could be seen from the camp. Putting two and two together, he decided that Mr. Redskin had produced the call of Mr. Turkey and that it was Mr.Redskin’s unerring aim that had put an end to the lives of so many good frontiersmen. “I shall soon stop the twaddle of the fascinating tongue of Mr. Gobbler,” said the scout to himself.Setting out one morning, before day had broken, he soon drew near a hill, on the top of which was a small cave. It was an excellent spot in which to hide one’s self, and, placing himself in ambush, he watched it narrowly. At sunrise he saw the tufted head of a Shawnee appear in the narrow opening, and the “gobble, gobble, gobble” of a turkey, sounded from the throat of the savage. The trapper bent low and watched the performance, for it was an exact imitation of the male bird. “Gobble, gobble, gobble,” echoed again from the gloom of the cave, and, “crack” sounded the rifle of the bold pioneer. A wail of anguish arose from the cavern’s mouth. Then all was still. The Shawnee gobbler had gone to the Happy Hunting Grounds.Well pleased with himself, Wetzel started back to the fort with the scalp-lock of the enterprising brave, and, as he neared the stockade, met a soldier hastening towards him.“Did you hear that turkey call?” said the enthusiastic sportsman. “I’m going out to get him, sure.”The scout pointed to his girdle.“There is Mr. Gobbler,” said he. “He was the kind of a bird that shoots a rifle. My boy, you should thank your lucky stars that I saw him first.”Not long after this event the frontiersman made a journey to the Kanawha River with John Madison,brother of James Madison, at one time President of the United States. They were busy surveying some land, and one day came to a hunter’s cabin, which appeared to be deserted.“No one is here,” said Madison. “Let us take some of this jerked venison and also a pailful of this coffee. I do not believe that the camp will be again visited, and we may as well have the food, as to let the wood-mice eat it.”“All right,” answered the trapper, and, without more ado, they appropriated what they wished, and continued upon their journey.Early the next day, as they were crossing a small valley, many shots rang out, and wild war-whoops sounded from every side. Cries of “You give back our venison!” were heard above the din, and Madison reeled in his saddle, falling head-long to the ground. Wetzel did not wait to see what had happened to him, but, digging his heels into his horse’s flanks, dashed off into the brush.Now was a furious chase. Although well mounted, the scout soon saw that the red men also had good ponies, and he feared that they would catch him. Over the mountain paths they flew, for hour after hour. At last they neared a broad river, and leaping his horse into it, the scout swam to the other side. The red men had not the courage to follow where he had led, and thus he made good his escape.The pioneer had a generous heart in spite of his vindictiveness to all savages, and not long afterwards had an opportunity to display his good feeling towardsthe weak and distressed. Going with a friend one day to pay a visit to a frontier house belonging to the Bryans, they found indications that the Indians had just been there, for the home was burned to the ground. Tracks in the moist earth led into the forest, and besides those of the redskins were the print of a woman’s feet.“Miss Betsy Bryan has been carried off, I fear,” said Wetzel sorrowfully, pointing to the footprints. “We must rescue her even if it costs us our lives. Comrade, let us hasten to the chase.”His companion nodded, and, without more ado, the two men of the frontier followed the well-marked trail of the savages. Towards evening they crossed the Ohio River. Not far from the bank was a camp-fire, and, going towards it with great caution, they saw the girl seated near the flames. A white renegade and three Indians were her companions.“Lie down, comrade,” whispered Wetzel to his friend. “I will tell you when to rouse yourself, for we cannot attack until these redskins are asleep.”His companion obeyed, and waking him about two o’clock in the early morning, the scout told him to fire at one of the red men and then to rush into the camp in order to protect the captive. “I, myself, will attend to the renegade,” said he.Both frontiersmen fired at about the same time. The renegade was done for, as was one Indian, also. The two remaining savages took to their heels. Wetzel was after them in a jiffy, but, as they soon hid in the brush, he fired his rifle off, thinking that theymight pursue him if they believed that his weapon were empty. He was not mistaken. The savages rushed from their hiding-places, gave close chase, and gained rapidly upon the running plainsman. They began to yelp wildly, as they thought that they had him cornered, but they did not know that this was the famous trapper who could load while on the run.Turning about, Wetzel now shot the nearest red man, but the other kept on after him like a flash. The scout loaded while darting forward, as usual, then wheeling quickly, he dispatched this second assailant. His wonderful ability to load when at full speed had made it thus possible for him to thoroughly avenge the assault upon the frontier settlement and the capture of the inoffensive girl. Taking the scalp-locks of the two fallen braves and tying them to his girdle, he was soon back at the camp, where he was tearfully greeted by the rescued maiden. In a short time they were at home in the settlement.Wetzel continued his life of hardship and adventure after this; made a journey south, where he was imprisoned at New Orleans, and, in 1803, joined Lewis and Clark in their expedition up the Missouri River. He left them after two months, and spent about two years near the headwaters of the Yellowstone, engaged in trapping and in hunting. From now on, until his death in 1818, he was a trapper and fur trader; his hatred for the redskins remaining unabated until his demise. He was camping near Natchez, Mississippi, when this occurred.A braver man never lived than this famous scout,who could load while on the run, and who had probably experienced more hairbreadth escapes than most of the pioneers. His one great failing was his dislike for the red men and desire to put them out of the way, but, after one considers the distressing circumstances attending the death of the members of his family, when he was a mere youth, one can pardon this bloodthirstiness. There was much good in Lewis Wetzel; the valorous frontiersman of the early days of the settlement of the United States.

HEROIC VIRGINIA FRONTIERSMAN AND IMPLACABLE ENEMY OF THE REDSKINS

“BOYS, watch your mother and grandfather for a few hours, because I am going out fishing. There is no danger of attack from redskins, for none have been seen for six months. If, however, any one comes to our cabin with news of prowling bands, shoot off your rifles three times. This will warn me of any danger to you, and I will hasten home.”

So spoke John Wetzel, whose cabin was upon the far western Virginian frontier, and, turning from his two little boys, he plunged into the wilderness. This was the last that he ever saw of his wife and her aged father. He had not been three days in the forest before his cabin was attacked.

Stealing carefully through the brush, a marauding band of savages suddenly made a sortie upon the isolated house of logs. There was not time to warn the inmates of the stealthy approach before the tomahawk and scalping-knife were at work. In an hour’s time all of the inmates had been dispatched, except Lewis Wetzel and his little brother, Martin, both of whomwere carried off into captivity. Lewis was about thirteen years of age and Martin was eleven.

“We will soon escape,” whispered the older youth. “Wait until evening arrives and then I will show you how to creep away from these horrible savages.”

Lewis had been severely wounded by an arrow, but he stoically bore the pain, and trudged behind his captors with no show of ill humor. The Indian prisoner who lagged, or who made a cry of distress, would be speedily dispatched by the savages, and this he knew. The other boy went bravely ahead and said nothing.

Through the wilderness walked the red men, and on the night of the second day they camped twenty miles beyond the Ohio River.

“Ugh!” spoke a brave. “These children cannot escape us now. We will not bind them with thongs this evening, but will allow them to go free.”

The savages had underestimated the daring courage which was in the heart of Lewis Wetzel. No sooner were the red men fast asleep, when, touching his brother with his hand, Lewis warned him to keep absolutely silent and to follow him away into the darkness. They were barefoot.

“It is impossible for us to escape without moccasins,” said Lewis, after they had gone some distance. “This ground is full of stones, and our feet will be ruined. You wait here for me and I will return to the camp and get a pair for each of us, and then we can easily travel through the wilderness.”

The brave boy not only secured the moccasins but also returned with a gun and some ammunition. Thenon they plunged through the forest. Just as the first streaks of dawn began to light up the gloomy depths, behind them echoed the shouts of their enemies, the red men.

“Walk backward upon your trail, brother,” said Lewis Wetzel. “Then turn to the right and secrete yourself in the dense undergrowth. These red men will soon catch up to us and we must be thoroughly hidden.”

This advice was followed, and it was well, for the boys had lain in the covert but a few minutes when their captors came bounding past. They were yelling to each other and were furious with anger at having lost their prisoners. The two Wetzels waited until they were out of sight. When the yelping had ceased they crept from their hiding-place and ran away to the right. In a few hours they heard the Indians again returning, and, secreting themselves in some underbrush, saw some savages dash by on ponies. They were not the same red men whom they had first seen, but these, also, could not find them. When the redskins were well beyond hearing, the terrified children ran to the river, fastened two logs together, and succeeded in crossing it. Not long afterwards they reached the house of a frontiersman and knew that they were safe. When they told him their story, he showed great surprise.

“Bully for you, boys!” cried the man of the clearing. “You, Lewis, showed particular courage and daring. You are a credit to your poor father, who is, I hear, terribly overcome by this butchery of theredskins. I trust that you will both live long and useful lives upon the border.”

“Thank you!” cried the boys. “We will do our best, anyway, to avenge the terrible injury which the red men have inflicted upon our family.”

Thus early was implanted in the breasts of the two Wetzels an implacable hatred for the savages.

It is said that Lewis was the strongest and most active of all of the youths upon the western borderland of Virginia, and by long practice had gained the ability to load his rifle while running at full speed. This was an immense advantage to him in his numerous affrays with the red men.

Not long after the terrible defeat of Colonel Crawford, in which John Slover was a participant, a pioneer named Thomas Mills arrived at Wheeling, West Virginia, where Lewis Wetzel was temporarily residing.

“I have left my good horse at Indian Spring, some five miles away,” said he. “The country was so rough that I could not ride him here, for some redskins were upon my trail. Wetzel, I wish that you would accompany me to where he is, for I want to be able to hold my own with the savages, should we meet any of them.”

“Mills, I’m your man,” said Wetzel. So, upon the day following, they were on their way towards the spring.

When they arrived at the place where Mills had left his horse, they found the animal tied to a bush.

“That looks mighty suspicious,” whispered Wetzelto his companion, “because I understand that you left him untied. Do not go near the animal until I circle around him and see if any savages are in our front.”

The pioneer, however, neglected to heed this sage counsel and proceeded to untie the pony. As he reached down towards the bridle-rein, the head of an Indian appeared from behind a rock.

“Mills! Mills! Take to a tree!” yelled the scout. “There’s a redskin drawin’ er bead on yer!”

The warning was unheeded. The frontiersman continued to work on the bridle-reins; then a sharp crack was heard, and the red man fell back, shot through the forehead by Wetzel. At the same moment a series of quick reports came from the brush, and Mills sank to the ground, pierced by a half dozen bullets.

Wetzel started away on the run, for a number of top-knots rose from the bushes. Their owners hastened after him, but were uncautious enough to drop their own guns so that they could run all the faster. Knowing that he had discharged his piece, they expected to soon overtake him, tie his hands behind his back, and remove him to their own camp, to run the gauntlet and be tortured. They had counted without their host.

The lithe and sinewy trapper raced onward, exerting his utmost speed, and, finding that he could not get away from his pursuers, turned about and fired upon the nearest red man. The art of loading upon the run, which he had learned, was of tremendous assistance to him, for he was thus able to place a bulletin his adversary’s chest, which stretched him upon the ground. Again he started forward, loading as he ran, and, turning a second time, was about to fire, when his nearest pursuer seized the muzzle of his rifle.

“Hah! Paleface! I have you!” cried the red man, for he had often been to the settlements and had learned how to speak excellent English.

“Not yet,” answered the trapper, and he grappled with his antagonist. They were very evenly matched. By the greatest exertion, the white man succeeded in wresting the redskin’s hold from his rifle, and in shooting him dead. It was a short struggle, but during it two Indians gained upon the man of the frontier, so that they were very close indeed. He now turned and ran as fast as he was able—loading as he went.

The Indians were whooping wildly, but they had knowledge of his skill in loading on the run. When he turned again in order to fire, they took hasty departure to the shelter of some large trees. He kept on going—the red men still after him. But he was a crafty fellow, as the following will show:

Having reached a clearing in the forest, he purposely stumbled and fell, as if exhausted by his race for life. The redskins thought that they now had him. They bounded forward with exultant shouts, but as they came nearer, the bold trapper rolled upon his side, raised his rifle, and brought one of them to the earth before he could get behind a tree. The second Indian turned and fled as fast as he was able, howling out in loud tones:

“No catch dat feller. No catch him at all. He gun always loaded. He devil with the shooting stick.”

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“HE NOW TURNED AND RAN AS FAST AS HE WAS ABLE—LOADING AS HE WENT.”

“HE NOW TURNED AND RAN AS FAST AS HE WAS ABLE—LOADING AS HE WENT.”

“HE NOW TURNED AND RAN AS FAST AS HE WAS ABLE—LOADING AS HE WENT.”

At this the crafty trapper rose to his feet with a loud guffaw.

“These redskins have yet to learn a trick or two,” said he, chuckling. “They should remember that some trappers can load their rifles when on the run. My fine fellows—Au revoir!”

So saying, he started upon his way to the settlements, lighting a corn-cob pipe on the way, and still chuckling softly to himself.

Not long after this affair, the father of the two Wetzel boys was returning from a hunting excursion into the Ohio wilderness. With him were his sons Martin and Lewis. The latter had just shot a brown bear, and carried the skin with him in the bottom of the canoe. As they were gliding down the river, a band of Shawnees suddenly appeared upon the bank.

“Come ashore, palefaces!” said one. “It is not good for you to go down the river!”

“Paddle to the other side of the stream,” whispered the older Wetzel. “Hasten, boys, or their bullets will reach us.”

Quickly they turned towards the opposite bank, but a volley of lead pursued them. They kept on doggedly. A missile struck the old pioneer, inflicting a mortal wound.

“Lie down, Martin!” cried he. “They will get you also, if you do not do so.”

Then the heroic old man paddled forward, his life-blood ebbing at every stroke. Volley after volleyzipped around the frail barque. Again and again the frontiersman was struck, so that when well beyond range of the Indian rifles he fell fainting to the bottom of the canoe. That evening he expired.

Standing over the body of their parent, both Wetzels took a solemn oath to avenge his untimely end.

“From now on,” said Lewis,” I will use every endeavor to slaughter the red men. They have killed my dear father. Death shall be upon their own heads. Death and no quarter.”

Not a week had elapsed after the sudden end of this staunch man of the frontier, when news was brought into Wheeling that the Indians were again upon the war-path. A scout came running into the settlement, crying:

“The Shawnees and Wyandots are approaching. They have slaughtered one man, and are burning, killing and scalping. Every able-bodied settler is needed to drive them away.”

Immediately all turned out with rifle and powder-horn in order to repel the invaders. But before they started, a purse of one hundred dollars was made up, to go to the first individual who should take an Indian scalp. The trail of the marauders was soon struck; was followed for several miles; and was found to be very fresh. Then the advance scouts returned with the information that a large body of the enemy was encamped a few miles ahead.

“They are too many to be attacked,” said the soldiers of the advance. “We must go back to Wheeling, or they will surround and annihilate us.”

They set off upon the return, but they noticed, as they did so, that Lewis Wetzel did not move.

“Are you not going to accompany us?” asked some of the trappers.

The frontiersman scowled.

“I set out to hunt Indians and thought that this had also been your purpose,” said he. “My object in hunting Indians is to kill them, and now that we have treed our game I do not intend to run off without a shot. As for you, I consider you to be a band of cowards.”

“It is too bad about you,” said they. “As for ourselves, we intend to return home.”

Wetzel gazed after them with an amused smile, then stooped and examined his arms, for he was a man of caution.

“I will get a scalp of my own,” said he. “Perhaps more. These fellows will see that I mean what I say.”

There were plenty of Indian signs, but he could find no large bands of the red men; instead, he stumbled upon a camp with only two braves in it.

“There must be more in the encampment,” thought he. “I will creep away; will come back this evening; and will then have an opportunity to get what I am after.”

Turning again into the forest, he was soon out of hearing, and, by great good fortune, came across a red deer, which he killed. He had a fine feast. As night fell he hastened towards the Indian camp, creptclose to it, and found only one red man, instead of a dozen or more, as he had expected. He waited until the redskin was fast asleep and then made good his boast. As he started upon the back trail for the settlement, a fresh scalp hung at his girdle.

Owing to his great strength and agility, he reached Wheeling just one day behind his companions, instead of three. They were delighted to see him.

“My boy,” cried they, “you have certainly made good and are entitled to the greatest possible credit. Bully for you!”

The trapper in fact was more than a match for many redskins, as the following will show:

Not long after his return to Wheeling he went out into the forest in order to get some venison to dry and salt for winter use. He saw no game, but suddenly stumbled upon a camp of four Shawnees, who were busily engaged in tanning some deer hides. They did not see or hear him, so he determined to return at nightfall and single-handed to attack the party of braves. This he did.

First, resting his rifle against a tree so that it would be close at hand for any emergency, he drew his tomahawk, uttered a wild yell, and dashed in among the savages, cutting down one of them in a moment. Two more fell beneath his unerring weapon. The fourth darted off into the woodland with Wetzel close upon his heels. He was a good runner and got safely away, while the man of the frontier returned for the scalp-locks of the three. He was back at Wheeling before two days were over.

“What luck did you have, Lewis?” asked a companion.

“Not much,” answered the man-of-the-woods. “I treed four of th’ pesky varmints. But one slick-ez-lightnin’ feller got away. He had er close call.”

At Marietta, Ohio, was a frontier fortification where a number of troops were stationed to protect the settlements from Shawnee invasion. Here General Harmer summoned several tribes to meet him in conference, and here Lewis Wetzel and a scout called Dickerson ambushed themselves near the Indian encampment with the intention of killing the first warrior who might pass. Wetzel, you see, was a vindictive fellow and did not even fight in the open.

The two assassins had not long to wait, for a redskin soon came by on the gallop without show or sign of fear, because a flag of truce had been delivered to the whites but a short time before. As he passed, both men fired, and, although the warrior reeled in his saddle, he clung to the mane of his horse with a tenacious grip and rode on into the fort. Here he dropped exhausted to the ground, and, before dying, cried out:

“My white brothers, I demand vengeance upon these hidden men who have driven me to the Great Spirit. You who have true hearts, see that I get what I desire, and my soul will then rest in peace.”

When news of this was brought to General Harmer, he said, with much heat:

“Justice shall be done to this poor redskin. I hear from some of my men that Lewis Wetzel was responsiblefor this affair. Captain Kingsbury will therefore take his company and scour the woods for the rascal. Let him be brought to me, dead or alive.”

Wetzel, meanwhile, had returned to his home in the Mingo Bottom settlement and was engaged in a shooting match for a turkey. When the soldiers arrived, and the frontiersmen learned what they were after, they gathered around their comrade with the remark that:

“Whoever touches Lewis Wetzel will have tew fight th’ hull gang uv us.”

Captain Kingsbury therefore withdrew, but Lewis Wetzel was not careful to keep beyond the clutch of his arm. Some time afterwards he paddled down the river to an island opposite Harmer’s Fort in order to spend the night with a friend, and news of his presence was brought to the soldiers within the stockade. A company of men was soon headed for the island: the frontiersman was surrounded at midnight; was thrown into the guard-house, heavily ironed, and was not only deprived of open air, but also of exercise. He quickly sickened and grew pale. When told that he would shortly be hung, he sent for General Harmer, and said:

“General, I am not ashamed of my deed, for ever since the day that my people were brutally slain by the children of the forest, I have considered it perfectly justifiable for me to do unto them what they have done unto me. If you will grant me one request, it is that you allow me to go loose among the savages armed only with a tomahawk. Then I will have onechance in a thousand to escape, but I will take that chance.”

The General shook his head.

“The scaffold is the proper death for you,” he replied. “As an officer of the law I must see that you receive the fit punishment for your crimes. But, as I see that you are growing pale under strict confinement, I hereby order that the irons be taken from your legs. Your handcuffs must remain.”

The trapper bowed his head, but as soon as the General had gone and he was allowed to move in the open air, he frisked about like a young colt. A number of soldiers guarded him closely, but as he walked and jumped around in front of them, he continually experimented with his handcuffs, in the endeavor to wrest his arms from their grip. Gradually he edged farther and farther from the guard. Finally he had moved to a position from which he felt that he could safely get away. With one mighty bound he had turned and was off into the forest. Volley after volley came from the soldiers, but he escaped untouched.

Wetzel knew well the woodland in which he found himself, and hastening to a dense thicket pushed through a close tangle of briars to a fallen tree. He wedged himself beneath this, and none too soon, for within a very few moments a number of Indians and soldiers approached. Twice some redskins sat upon the very tree beneath which he was crouching, and he heard one say:

“Ah, but the white dog would make good runningthrough the ranks of our red brothers. We must stick our knives into him when we find him.”

At last darkness came. The trapper heard his pursuers returning, so he crept stealthily from his hiding-place and made for the river. He reached it in an hour, and by the light of the half moon, saw a frontiersman fishing from a canoe. He was afraid to call to him, for the woods were full of Indians, so he attracted his attention by beating upon the water with a stick. The fellow saw him; picked him up, and paddled him to the other shore, where his handcuffs were cut from his wrists. Next day he stood among his own friends.

Not long after this remarkable escape the trapper was at a fort on Wheeling Creek from which a number of pioneers had mysteriously disappeared.

“They have been killed by the redskins,” said one of the backwoodsmen, who resided there. “How, where, and when, no one seems to know; but, my friend, there have been mysterious calls of turkeys in the woods. Turkeys, mark you, my friend,—wild turkeys!”

Wetzel pricked up his ears. He remembered that each of the men who had been killed had heard turkey calls near the fort: had gone out to shoot one for supper: and had never returned. The turkey calls had all come from one direction and here was a high hill covered with boulders. A small cave-like depression could be seen from the camp. Putting two and two together, he decided that Mr. Redskin had produced the call of Mr. Turkey and that it was Mr.Redskin’s unerring aim that had put an end to the lives of so many good frontiersmen. “I shall soon stop the twaddle of the fascinating tongue of Mr. Gobbler,” said the scout to himself.

Setting out one morning, before day had broken, he soon drew near a hill, on the top of which was a small cave. It was an excellent spot in which to hide one’s self, and, placing himself in ambush, he watched it narrowly. At sunrise he saw the tufted head of a Shawnee appear in the narrow opening, and the “gobble, gobble, gobble” of a turkey, sounded from the throat of the savage. The trapper bent low and watched the performance, for it was an exact imitation of the male bird. “Gobble, gobble, gobble,” echoed again from the gloom of the cave, and, “crack” sounded the rifle of the bold pioneer. A wail of anguish arose from the cavern’s mouth. Then all was still. The Shawnee gobbler had gone to the Happy Hunting Grounds.

Well pleased with himself, Wetzel started back to the fort with the scalp-lock of the enterprising brave, and, as he neared the stockade, met a soldier hastening towards him.

“Did you hear that turkey call?” said the enthusiastic sportsman. “I’m going out to get him, sure.”

The scout pointed to his girdle.

“There is Mr. Gobbler,” said he. “He was the kind of a bird that shoots a rifle. My boy, you should thank your lucky stars that I saw him first.”

Not long after this event the frontiersman made a journey to the Kanawha River with John Madison,brother of James Madison, at one time President of the United States. They were busy surveying some land, and one day came to a hunter’s cabin, which appeared to be deserted.

“No one is here,” said Madison. “Let us take some of this jerked venison and also a pailful of this coffee. I do not believe that the camp will be again visited, and we may as well have the food, as to let the wood-mice eat it.”

“All right,” answered the trapper, and, without more ado, they appropriated what they wished, and continued upon their journey.

Early the next day, as they were crossing a small valley, many shots rang out, and wild war-whoops sounded from every side. Cries of “You give back our venison!” were heard above the din, and Madison reeled in his saddle, falling head-long to the ground. Wetzel did not wait to see what had happened to him, but, digging his heels into his horse’s flanks, dashed off into the brush.

Now was a furious chase. Although well mounted, the scout soon saw that the red men also had good ponies, and he feared that they would catch him. Over the mountain paths they flew, for hour after hour. At last they neared a broad river, and leaping his horse into it, the scout swam to the other side. The red men had not the courage to follow where he had led, and thus he made good his escape.

The pioneer had a generous heart in spite of his vindictiveness to all savages, and not long afterwards had an opportunity to display his good feeling towardsthe weak and distressed. Going with a friend one day to pay a visit to a frontier house belonging to the Bryans, they found indications that the Indians had just been there, for the home was burned to the ground. Tracks in the moist earth led into the forest, and besides those of the redskins were the print of a woman’s feet.

“Miss Betsy Bryan has been carried off, I fear,” said Wetzel sorrowfully, pointing to the footprints. “We must rescue her even if it costs us our lives. Comrade, let us hasten to the chase.”

His companion nodded, and, without more ado, the two men of the frontier followed the well-marked trail of the savages. Towards evening they crossed the Ohio River. Not far from the bank was a camp-fire, and, going towards it with great caution, they saw the girl seated near the flames. A white renegade and three Indians were her companions.

“Lie down, comrade,” whispered Wetzel to his friend. “I will tell you when to rouse yourself, for we cannot attack until these redskins are asleep.”

His companion obeyed, and waking him about two o’clock in the early morning, the scout told him to fire at one of the red men and then to rush into the camp in order to protect the captive. “I, myself, will attend to the renegade,” said he.

Both frontiersmen fired at about the same time. The renegade was done for, as was one Indian, also. The two remaining savages took to their heels. Wetzel was after them in a jiffy, but, as they soon hid in the brush, he fired his rifle off, thinking that theymight pursue him if they believed that his weapon were empty. He was not mistaken. The savages rushed from their hiding-places, gave close chase, and gained rapidly upon the running plainsman. They began to yelp wildly, as they thought that they had him cornered, but they did not know that this was the famous trapper who could load while on the run.

Turning about, Wetzel now shot the nearest red man, but the other kept on after him like a flash. The scout loaded while darting forward, as usual, then wheeling quickly, he dispatched this second assailant. His wonderful ability to load when at full speed had made it thus possible for him to thoroughly avenge the assault upon the frontier settlement and the capture of the inoffensive girl. Taking the scalp-locks of the two fallen braves and tying them to his girdle, he was soon back at the camp, where he was tearfully greeted by the rescued maiden. In a short time they were at home in the settlement.

Wetzel continued his life of hardship and adventure after this; made a journey south, where he was imprisoned at New Orleans, and, in 1803, joined Lewis and Clark in their expedition up the Missouri River. He left them after two months, and spent about two years near the headwaters of the Yellowstone, engaged in trapping and in hunting. From now on, until his death in 1818, he was a trapper and fur trader; his hatred for the redskins remaining unabated until his demise. He was camping near Natchez, Mississippi, when this occurred.

A braver man never lived than this famous scout,who could load while on the run, and who had probably experienced more hairbreadth escapes than most of the pioneers. His one great failing was his dislike for the red men and desire to put them out of the way, but, after one considers the distressing circumstances attending the death of the members of his family, when he was a mere youth, one can pardon this bloodthirstiness. There was much good in Lewis Wetzel; the valorous frontiersman of the early days of the settlement of the United States.

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