We landed at the mouth of Four-Mile Creek without any disturbing incidents. I told her we were four miles above the mouth of the Scioto and she was for placing more distance between us and that river at once. But it was impossible to travel all the time. Now we were foot-free, and as I had my rifle the Shawnees would pay high before catching up with us, I assured her. I had been at Four-Mile Creek the year before to survey five hundred acres of good bottom-land for Patrick Henry, and was of course familiar with the locality.

Five hundred yards back from the Ohio was an old fort. I took the girl there to rest while I patched our moccasins. The Indians said this structure was so ancient that no one knew who built it. As a matter of fact it was the remains of George Croghan's stone trading-house. Traces of an Indian town, antedating the fort, were also to be observed. Very possibly it was occupied by the Shawnees before they built their first town at the mouth of the Scioto on the west bank. It was from this Scioto town that Mary Ingles escaped in 1755, and the history of her daring and hardships rather belittled my feat in bringing Patricia from the upper town.

The poor girl continued extremely nervous and I feared she would collapse. Now that she had tasted freedom she feared the Indians were hot on our trail. Her gaze was constantly roving to the Ohio. She was fearing to behold the Shawnees paddling across to recapture us. The moccasins had to be mended, however, as the night travel down the Scioto path had sadly damaged them.

As I sewed the whangs through the rips and hastily patched the holes I could see her worriment was increasing. That period of delay was more trying to her fortitude than when we were making the detour around Chillicothe and our very lives hung on luck, or the mercy of her manito.

"There is something in the river," she whispered, her slight figure growing rigid.

"Only a log," I told her.

"Look! Isn't there something moving in the bushes?" And she clutched my arm.

"Only the wind ruffling the tops," I soothed.

She was silent for a few minutes and then confessed:

"I dread and hate the river, Basdel. I wish we could get out of sight of it."

"It's a short trip in the canoe to the Big Sandy."

"And with the possibility of an Indian hiding behind every stump and log along the shore!"

"Then we will hide the canoe and strike across the bend. A few creeks to cross, and inside of two days we should reach the Big Sandy. It's about thirty-five miles and there is the blaze left by the surveyors. Do you wish that? It will be harder for your feet than riding in the canoe. It may be easier on your nerves."

"Anything, Basdel, to get away from the river! And can't we start now? I know we shall see the Indians coming across to catch us if we stay here much longer."

I tossed her her moccasins and quickly mended mine and put them on. Leaving her to wait until I could draw up the canoe and hide it, I proceeded to conceal all traces of our landing as best I could, and then told her I was ready.

The bottoms on this side of the river are narrower than on the Indian shore, and the old surveyors' blaze proved to be a wet path. The small creeks were bordered with cane and when we encountered them it was hard on the girl. But she minded hardships none, and once we were out of sight of the river she regained some of her spirits. But a glimpse of the blue river brought back her old fears as though the Ohio were some monster able to reach out and seize her.

Before night I proved the river could be good to us. Against her will I had swung down to the shore and was leading her along a narrow beach in order to escape a bad tangle of briers when I had the good fortune to discover a bateau lodged against the bank. The girl begged me not to go near it although it was obviously empty. I insisted and was rewarded with a bag containing a bushel of corn. Now we could have cooked it in our kettle had we been provided with that indispensable article. As it was there was life in munching the corn.

The undergrowth was a nuisance, being composed of pea-vines, clover, nettles, cane and briery berry bushes. I would not stop to camp until I could reach a tract free from the stuff. As a result it was nearly sunset by the time we halted in a mixed growth of hickory, ironwood and ash on the banks of a tiny creek. Here we could pick a path that left no signs. We rested a bit and then followed the creek toward its outlet for half a mile and came to a log cabin.

The girl dropped to the ground, glaring as if we were beholding the painted head of a Shawnee. I assured her it was a white man's cabin and probably empty. Leaving her behind an elm, I scouted the place and satisfied myself there had been no recent visitors there. I called to her to join me and proudly displayed an iron kettle I had found by the door. But when I would have left her to make the kettle boil while I looked for a turkey, she refused to stay and insisted on accompanying me.

Fortunately I perched a turkey within two hundred feet of the cabin. I hung the kettle in the fireplace and built a good fire under it and then dressed the turkey. For some reason the girl preferred the open to the cabin and remained outside the door. As I finished my task she called to me excitedly. Grabbing my rifle, I ran out. She was pointing dramatically at a big blaze on a mulberry-tree. The scar was fresh, and on it some one had written with a charred stick:

Found some people killed here. We are gone down this way. Douglass.

"What does it mean?" she whispered, her eyes very big as she stared at the dusky forest wall.

"That would be James Douglass," I mused. "He came down here with Floyd's surveying-party last spring. I wonder who was killed."

"Enough to know the Indians have been here," she said, drawing closer to me. "Can't we go the way they did and be safe?"

"We might make it. But 'gone down this way' means they started for New Orleans. A long, roundabout journey to Williamsburg."

"Oh, never that! I didn't understand," she cried. "I will be braver. But if the nearest way home was by the Ohio I would go by land. Anything but the river! Remember your promise that we are not to be taken alive. Now let's push on."

"And leave this excellent shelter?" I protested.

"Men have been killed here. I can't abide it. A few miles more—please."

Of course she had her own way, but I made her wait until we had cooked some corn to a mush and I had broiled the turkey. I could have told her it would be difficult for us to select any spot along the river which had not been the scene of a killing. So we took the kettle and left a stout, snug cabin and pushed on through the darkness to the top of a low ridge, where I insisted we must camp. We made no fire.

I estimated the day's travel to have been twelve miles at the least, which was a good stint for a man, let alone a girl unused to the forest. Nor had the work wearied her unduly. At least she had gained something from her captivity—a strength to endure physical hardships which she had never known before. With good luck and half-way decent footing I believed another sunset would find us at the Big Sandy. That night was cold and I sorely regretted our lack of blankets.

Before sunrise I had a fire burning and the kettle of mush slung on a green sapling for further cooking. Patricia was curled up like a kitten, and I recovered my hunting-shirt and slipped it on without her knowing I had loaned it to her for a covering. She opened her eyes and watched me a few moments without comprehending where she was. With a little cry she jumped to her feet and roundly unbraided me for not calling her to help in the work.

I pointed out a spring, and by the time she was ready to eat the hot mush and cold turkey, the fire was out and we were ready to march. Our lack of salt was all that prevented the meal from being very appetizing. We were not inclined to quarrel with our good fortune, however, but ate enough to last us the day. As the first rays touched the tops of the trees we resumed the journey.

We covered a good ten miles when we had our first serious mishap since leaving the Indian village. Patricia had insisted she be allowed to take the lead where the blazed trees made the trace easy to follow. I humored her, for she kept within a rod of me. We struck into a bottom and had to pick our way through a stretch of cane.

Afraid she might stumble on to a bear and be sadly frightened, I called on her to wait for me. But she discovered a blaze on a sycamore beyond the cane and hurried forward. Half-way through the cane she slipped on a wet root and fell on her side. Ordinarily the accident would not have been serious, but the moment I saw the expression of pain driving her face white I knew she was hurt. I dropped the kettle and picked her up. She winced and groaned and said it was her arm. I carried her to the high ground and made her sit while I examined her hurt. I expected to find the bone broken. I was happily disappointed, and yet she was hurt grievously enough. A section of cane had penetrated the upper arm near the shoulder, making a nasty wound. As the cane had broken off in the flesh it was necessary for me to play the surgeon. Using a pair of bullet-molds I managed to secure a grip on the ugly splinter and pull it out. She gave a little yelp, but did not move.

"The worst is over," I told her. "Now we must dress it."

Returning and securing the kettle, I dipped water from a spring and lighted a fire and hung the kettle to boil. Then I hunted for Indian medicine. I soon found it, the bark of a linn or bee-tree root. This I pounded and bruised with the butt of my rifle and threw it into the kettle to boil. Patricia remained very patient and quiet, her eyes following my every move.

"You're as useful as a housewife, Basdel," she remarked. "More useful than most women could be."

"Only a trick learned from the environment," I lightly replied. "Does it hurt much?" This was rhetorical, for I knew a stab wound from the cane smarted and ached most disagreeably.

"Not much," she bravely replied. "I'm sorry to bother you, though."

"You'll soon be as fit as a fiddle," I assured her. "Border men are continually helping each other in this fashion."

As soon as the kettle boiled I washed the wound in the liquid and made sure all of the cane had been removed. This additional probing caused her pain but she showed no signs not even by flinching. The application at once had a soothing effect. We waited until the medicine had cooked down to a jelly-like consistency, when I applied it as a salve, working it into and thoroughly covering the wound. Then I tied it up with a strip torn from her skirt. Rather rough surgery, but I knew it would be effective.

She bitterly lamented over the time we were losing, and blamed herself so severely that I finally consented to go on, providing she would keep behind me. Had the hurt been in her foot we would have been forced to camp for several days.

Toward night the country grew more broken and much rougher, and I knew we were nearing the Sandy. I feared she might trip over some obstacle, and we camped before the light deserted us. I told her we were within a few miles of the river and that we ought to strike it at the mouth of Savage Creek, some four or five miles from the Ohio. After starting a fire, she volunteered to remain and feed it while I looked for game. This in the way of doing penance, perhaps. I had the good luck to shoot a deer and we dined on venison.

After we had eaten she sat close by the fire and was silent for many minutes. That she was meditating deeply was shown by her indifference to the night sounds which usually perturbed her. The howling of the wolves, and the scream of a panther, leaping to make a kill, passed unheard. Suddenly she declared:

"You were right, Basdel."

"About what, Patsy?"

"About my not fitting in west of the mountains."

"That was said before you were tried. No woman, even border-born, could be more brave than you have been."

"And I was so woefully wrong when I made fun of your long rifle. I want you to forgive me."

"Patsy, don't. You are wonderful."

"Still being good to me, Basdel. But I know the truth now. Back over the mountains I was wicked enough to feel a little superior to frontier folks. No. Don't wave your hands at me. I must say it. I even felt a little bit of contempt for those brave women who went barefooted. God forgive me! I was a cat, Basdel. A vicious cat!"

"Good heavens, Patsy! Say it all and have done with it. Call yourself a pirate."

She would not respond to my banter, but fell to staring into the handful of coals. Then the tears began streaming down her face, and at last she sobbed:

"Poor girl! Poor girl! She was a wonderful friend to me. She never had any chance, and you can never know how hard she tried to keep my spirits up; how ready she was to stand between me and harm—me, who has had every chance! And to end like that! And yet it was far worse to live like that. It's best as it is, but God must be very good to her to make up for what she lost. Tell me, Basdel, did she suffer much when she died?"

She could be talking only of Cousin's sister. I declared:

"She suffered none. It's best for her as it is."

She fell asleep with her back against a black walnut, and I spread my hunting-shirt over her, for the air was shrewdly cool. In the dying coals I saw pictures, wherein Kirst, Dale, and Lost Sister paraded in turn; the fate of each the result of race-hatred, and a race-avidity to possess the land. And a great fear came over me that the girl leaning against the walnut, the mass of blue-black hair seeming to bow down the proud head, was destined to be added to the purchase-price the frontier was ever paying.

It was her talk and tears that induced this mood, for I knew the Shawnees would have overtaken us by this time had they found our trail on the Kentucky shore. Common sense told me that for the remainder of our journey we would, at worst, be compelled to avoid small scouting-parties that had no intimation of our presence on the Big Sandy.

But so many gruesome pranks had been played by Fate that I was growing superstitious. And I feared lest the girl should be snatched from me at the last moment, just as safety was almost within sight. I slept poorly that night and what little rest I did obtain was along toward morning.

The girl awoke me; and I felt my face burning as I beheld her standing there, staring down accusingly, the hunting-shirt spread across my chest. I sprang to my feet and slipped into the shirt, which was made like a coat, and waited for her to speak.

"So you've been sleeping cold," she said.

"Nay. Very warm," I replied, becoming busy with my moccasins.

"After this I will keep awake nights."

"I did not need it. I always take it off at night It makes me too warm."

"You lie most beautifully, Basdel."

"How is the arm this morning?"

"Much better. But you must be more honest with me. You must not lie any more."

"You're making a mountain out of a hunting-shirt. It is too warm to wear at night in this mild weather."

"You're hopeless. Of course it is not too warm in the warm sunshine."

I was glad to let it go at that. And there was no warm sunshine this morning. The heavens were overcast with gray cold clouds that rode high and brought wind rather than rain. We missed the sun. Town-dwellers can never know the degree of dependence the forest wanderer places on the sunlight for his comfort and good cheer. Despair becomes gaiety under the genial rays. It is not surprising the sun should be the greatest of all mysteries to the Indians, and therefore their greatest medicine or god.

We ate of the venison and mush and started for the river. The distance was not great, but the way was very rough, and there were no more blazed trees to guide us, the surveyors' trace passing below us and closer to the shore. But I was familiar with the lay of the land and it was impossible for me to go far wrong as long as all streams flowed into the Ohio and we crossed at right angles with their general course.

I carried the kettle slung on my rifle and with my right hand gave the girl aid when the path became unusually difficult. A wrenched ankle would leave us as helpless as a broken leg. It required three hours of painful effort to bring us to the Sandy.

I found a fording and carried her across to the east shore and soon located a trader's trace. She never dreamed that her father often had traveled along this faint path in his visits to the Ohio Indians. Now that the footing was easier she had time to gaze about, and the aspect depressed her.

The immense hills of sandrock were worn into deep and gloomy ravines by the streams. In the walls of the ravines black holes gaped, for caves were almost as numerous as springs. To encourage a lighter mood I explained that these very caves made the country an ideal place for hiding from the Indians.

She broke into my talk by moaning:

"May the good God help us! See that!"

She was pointing to a dark opening across the river. This framed the face of the devil. For a moment I was sadly startled, then laughed hysterically in relief.

"It's a bear, with a white or gray marking on his face," I explained. "He is harmless. See! He's finished looking us over and goes back into his den."

But the effect of the shock to her nerves did not wear off for some time. To prepare her against more glimpses of bruin I told her how the broken nature of the country made it a favorite region for bears, and that it had been long known along the border as a famous hunting-ground for the big creatures.

"I feel just as if it was the guardian spirit of an evil place, that it is spying on us and plotting to harm us," she confessed.

Whenever the trace permitted I swung aside from the river and took to the ridges. The tops of these were covered with chestnuts and their sides with oaks. More than once on such detours I sighted furtive furry forms slipping away from their feast on the fallen nuts, but Patricia's gaze was not sufficiently trained to detect them; and she wandered through the groves without knowing we were literally surrounded by bears.

While a wild country, it was relieved by many beautiful touches. Such were the tulip-trees, or yellow poplar. Many of them towered a hundred feet with scarcely a limb to mar the wand-like symmetry of the six-foot boles. Scarcely less inspiring were the cucumber-trees, or mountain magnolias, which here reached the perfection of growth.

Scattered among these tall ones were white and yellow oaks; and they would be considered giants if standing alone. These were the serene gods of the forest, and they had a quieting influence on my companion. It was with regret that I led her back along the rough shore of the river.

I shot a young bear, but Patricia displayed a foolish repugnance and would eat none of it. Later in the day I killed a deer with such a minute charge of powder as emphatically to establish my excellence as a marksman for that one shot at least. We were nearly three days in making the Tug Fork of the Sandy.

The girl bore the hardships well. The wound on her arm healed rapidly, and whatever she actually suffered was mental rather than physical. Our kettle proved second only to my rifle in importance, and if the fare lacked the savor of salt our appetites made up for the deficit. When we reached the Tug we were in the region celebrated for Colonel Andrew Lewis' "Sandy Creek Voyage of Fifty-six," as it was styled with grim facetiousness.

It was one instance when Colonel Lewis failed of carrying out an enterprise against the Indians. It was a retaliatory raid against the Shawnees and his force was composed of whites and Cherokees; and his lack of success was due largely to the inefficiency of the guides who undertook to pilot him to the mouth of the Sandy. I told the girl of the expedition as it was lacking in horrible details, and with other carefully selected narratives tried to keep her from brooding.

She seldom mentioned her father, and when she did it was usually connected with some phase of life over the mountains. I believe that she was so thankful to know he escaped the torture that his death lost much of poignancy. Only once did she revert to his taking off, and then to ask:

"Was there a single chance for him to escape?"

And I emphatically declared he never had the ghost of a chance from the moment he fell into Black Hoof's hands.

Another ruse to keep her mind engaged was to trace out our course with a stick on a patch of bare earth. I showed how we should travel to the north fork of the Sandy and then strike to the head of Bluestone, and follow it nearly to the mouth before leaving it to cross New River; then a short journey to the Greenbriar and Howard's Creek.

Had I had any choice I should have preferred to take her over the mountains to Salem, but my time was not my own and it was imperative that I leave her at the first place of safety and be about Governor Dunmore's business. My decision to make Howard's Creek was strengthened by an adventure which befell us near the end of our first day on the Tug. We were casting about for a place to camp when we came upon five Indians, three squaws and two hunters.

Patricia was greatly frightened on beholding them, and it was some time before I could make her understand that they were friendly Delawares, accompanied by their women, and not painted nor equipped for war. After calming her I addressed them and learned they were from White Eye's village. They were afraid to go near the settlements.

Many "Long Knives," as they called the Virginia militia, were flocking to the Great Levels of the Greenbriar, and a forward movement of a whole army was shortly to be expected. As the presence of a large force of our riflemen so near Howard's Creek would insure the safety of that settlement I knew it to be the proper ending of our journey.

I induced Patricia to remain in camp with the Indians while I went out and shot a bear. The bear was very fat and I gave all the meat to the natives, for which they were grateful. One of them had a smoothbore, but no powder. I could spare him none.

Patricia was now convinced the Indians would not harm us, but she would not consent to making camp near them. We walked several more miles before she was willing to stop and cook the kettle.

My tally-stick gave the thirteenth of September as the date of our arrival at Howard's Creek. The settlers informed me I had lost a day somewhere on the long journey and that it was the fourteenth. Nearly all the young and unmarried men were off to fight in Colonel Lewis' army, and many of the heads of families, including Davis and Moulton.

Those who were left behind gave us a royal welcome. Uncle Dick, the aged one, fell to sharpening his long knife with renewed vigor. Patricia and I had been counted as dead. Dale's death had been reported by young Cousin, and it caused no great amount of sorrow. The girl was never allowed to suspect this indifference. In reply to my eager inquiries I was told that Shelby Cousin was at the Great Levels, serving as a scout.

For once Howard's Creek felt safe. With nothing to worry about the men and women became garrulous as crows. The children played "Lewis' Army" from sunrise to sunset. The Widow McCabe swore she would put on a hunting-shirt and breeches and go to war. The passing of men between the levels and the creek resulted in some news and many rumors. The meeting-place at the levels was called Camp Union. Colonel Lewis, pursuant to orders from Governor Dunmore, had commenced assembling the Augusta, Botetourt and Fincastle County troops at the levels on August twenty-seven. Cornstalk's spies had served him well!

His Lordship was to lead an army, raised from the northwest counties and from the vicinity of Fort Pitt, down the Ohio and unite with Colonel Lewis at the mouth of the Great Kanawha. Colonel Charles Lewis, with some Augusta and Botetourt troops, had left Camp Union on September sixth to drive the cattle and four hundred pack-animals to the mouth of the Elk, where he was to make canoes for transporting provisions to the Ohio.

The main army had marched from Camp Union on the twelfth, although Colonel Lewis had received a letter from Dunmore, urging that the rendezvous be changed to the mouth of the Little Kanawha. Colonel Lewis had replied it was impossible to alter his line of march.

From a fellow sent out to round up stray bullocks I learned the army would avoid the deep gorge and falls in the river by marching ten miles inland and parallel to the east bank, joining Colonel Charles Lewis at the Elk.

By another man I was told how the militia men were given to shooting away their precious ammunition, and how the colonel had warned that unless the practise ceased no more powder would be given out. That the Indians were active and not afraid of the troops was evidenced by an attack on Stewart's Fort, only four miles from Camp Union. And this, before the troops marched.

Colonel William Christian was in command of the rear-guard, and his men were much disgruntled at the thought of not being in the forefront of the fighting. What was most significant to me, although only an incident in the estimation of the men left at Howard's Creek, was the attack made by two Indians on two of Lewis' scouts, Clay and Coward by name.

The scouts had separated and one of the Indians fired on and killed Clay. Thinking him to be alone, the Indians ran to get his scalp, and Coward at a distance of a hundred yards shot him dead. Coward then ran back toward the line of march and the surviving Indian fled down the Great Kanawha to inform the Shawnee towns that the Long Knives were coming.

I lost no time in securing a horse and a supply of powder and in hurrying to say good-by to Patricia. She was very sober when I told her I was off to overtake the army. Placing both hands on my shoulders, she said:

"Basdel, I know you've forgiven all the disagreeable things I've said to you. I will wait here until I hear from you. I will pray that you have an equal chance with the other brave men."

"I will come back and take you over the mountains."

"If you will only come back you may take me where you will, dear lad, even if it be deeper into the wilderness," she softly promised.

And Mrs. Davis bustled out of the cabin and energetically shooed the curious youngsters away.

And now I was riding away to battle, riding right joyously over the chestnut ridges and through the thick laurel, through stretches of pawpaw, beech and flowering poplar, with the pea-vine and buffalo grass soft underfoot. And my heart was as blithe as the mocking-bird's and there was no shadow of tomahawk or scalping-knife across my path.

I knew the destiny of the border was soon to be settled, that it hinged on the lean, leather-faced riflemen ahead, but there was nothing but sunshine and glory for me in that September day as I hastened to overtake the grim-faced man who believed His Lordship, John Murray, fourth Earl of Dunmore, Viscount Fincastle, Baron of Blair, Monlin and of Tillimet, was Virginia's last royal governor.



CHAPTER XII

THE SHADOWS VANISH

I followed the river, the cord of the bow, and made good time where the army would have had difficulty to get through. A dozen miles below the falls and near the mouth of Kelly's Creek, where Walter Kelly was killed by the Indians early in August, I came upon a scout named Nooney. We were on the west bank and the river was two hundred yards wide at that point. Nooney begged some tobacco and pointed out a fording-place and gave me the "parole." This, very fittingly, was "Kanawha." He said I would speedily make the camp and that Colonel Lewis was with the first troops.

I lost no time in crossing and had barely cleared the river-bank before I was held up by an outpost. This fellow knew nothing of military red-tape. He was plain militia, a good man in a fight, but inclined to resent discipline. He grinned affably as I broke through the woods and lowered his rifle.

"Gim'me some tobacker," he demanded good-naturedly.

"I suppose you'd want the parole," I replied, fishing out a twist of Virginia leaf.

"I got that. It's 'Kanawha.' What I want is tobacker. Don't hurry. Le's talk. I'm lonesome as one bug all alone in a buffler robe. See any footin' over 'cross? I'm gittin' tired o' this outpost business. All foolishness. We'll know when we strike th' red devils. No need o' havin' some one tell us. Your hoss looks sorter peaked. S'pose we'll have a mess of a fight soon? We boys come along to fight, not to stand like stockade-timbers out here all alone."

I told him I had important news for Colonel Lewis and must not tarry. He took it rather ill because I would not tell him my news, then tried to make me promise I would come back and impart it. I equivocated and led my horse on toward the camp, concealed from view of the river-bank by a ribbon of woods. The first man I met was Davis, and the honest fellow was so rejoiced to see me that he dropped his gun and took both my hands and stood there with his mouth working, but unable to say a word. Big tears streamed down his face.

I hurriedly related my adventures, and his joy was treble when he heard that Patricia was safe at Howard's Creek.

"Shelby Cousin shot and kilt Dale. He told us 'bout that. Ericus thought he knew it all. Wal, them that lives longest learns th' most," he philosophically observed. "Powerful glad to see you. We'll be seein' more of each other, I take it. How's my woman? Good. She's a right forward, capable woman, if I do say it. Moulton's out on a scout. Silent sort of a cuss these days from thinkin' 'bout his woman an' th' children. But a rare hand in a mess."

"And Cousin?"

"Say, Morris, that feller acts like he was reg'lar happy. Laughs a lot, only it don't sound nat'ral. He's a hellion at scoutin'. Poor Baby Kirst! I must 'low it's best for him to be wiped out, but it's too bad he couldn't 'a' made his last fight along with us. There's th' colonel in his shirt-sleeves smokin' his pipe."

I passed on to where Lewis was sitting on a log. It was fearfully hot, as the high hills on each side of the river shut out the free air and made the camp an oven. On recognizing me, the colonel's eyes flickered with surprise, as the report of my capture had spread far. He rose and took my hand and quietly said:

"I knew they couldn't hold you unless they killed you on the spot. What about Miss Dale?"

I informed him of her safety and his face lighted wonderfully.

"That's good!" he softly exclaimed. "A beautiful young woman, the kind that Virginia is always proud of. Ericus Dale was lucky to die without being tortured. Now for your news; for you must be bringing some."

I told him of the mighty gathering at Chillicothe and of the influx of the fierce Ottawas. Lost Sister's warning to me to keep clear of the Great Kanawha impressed him deeply. It convinced him, I think, that the astute Cornstalk had planned to attack the army before it could cross the Ohio, and that the Shawnees on learning of the assembling at the levels knew the advance must be down the Kanawha. The Indian who escaped after Clay was killed was back on the Scioto by this time. After musing over it for a bit he insisted that it did not necessarily follow the attack would be in force.

"That was Cornstalk's first plan. But now he knows Governor Dunmore has an army at the mouth of the Little Kanawha. He may choose to attack him instead of me. I hope not, but there's a strong chance he'll do that while making a feint to fool me, and then float down the river and give me a real battle."

He kindly offered to attach me to one of the companies as sergeant, with the possibility of appointing me an ensign, but I preferred to act as scout and enjoy more independence of action.

"That's the trouble," he remarked. "All these fellows want to be scouts and range the woods free of discipline. They want to whip the Indians but they want to do it their own way. They persist in wasting ammunition, and it now looks as if we would go into battle with less than one-fourth of a pound of powder per man.

"If any man speaks up and says he is the best marksman in Virginia then every man within hearing challenges him to prove it. And they'll step one side and have a shooting-match, even if they know Cornstalk's army is within a couple of miles of us. They're used to bear- and deer-meat. They don't want to eat bullock-meat. I'll admit the beef is a bit tough. And every morning some of them break the rules by stealing out to kill game. This not only wastes powder, but keeps the outposts alarmed."

Before I was dismissed I asked about Cousin. The colonel's face became animated.

"Oh, the young man with the sad history? He's out on a scout. That fellow is absolutely fearless. I am surprised every time he lives to return to make a report. It's useless to lay down a route for him to scout; he prowls where he will. But he's valuable, and we let him have his own way."

On the next day we marched to the mouth of the Elk where Colonel Charles Lewis was completing arrangements for transporting the supplies down the river. While at that camp I went on my first scout and found Indian tracks. One set of them measured fourteen inches in length. The men went and looked at the signs before they would accept my measurements.

The camp was extremely busy, for we all knew the crisis was drawing close. Our armorer worked early and late unbreeching the guns having wet charges. Three brigades of horses were sent back to Camp Union for more flour. I went with Mooney on a scout up Coal River and we found Indian signs four miles from camp. Other scouts were sent down the Kanawha and up the Elk.

On returning, I found Cousin impatiently waiting for me to come in. He had changed and his bearing puzzled me. He was given to laughing loudly at the horse-play of the men, yet his eyes never laughed. I took him outside the camp and without any circumlocution related the facts concerning his sister and Kirst.

"Tell me again that part 'bout how she died," he quietly requested when I had finished. I did so. He commented:

"For killing that redskin I owe you more'n I would if you'd saved my life a thousand times. So little sister is dead. No, not that. Now that woman is dead I have my little sister back again. I took on with this army so's I could reach the Scioto towns. To think that Kirst got way up there! I 'low he had a man's fight to die in. That's the way. Morris, I'm obleeged to you. I'll always remember her words 'bout sendin' a little sister to me. Now I've got two of 'em. We won't talk no more 'bout it."

With that he turned and hurried into the woods.

The men continued firing their guns without having obtained permission, and Colonel Lewis was thoroughly aroused to stop the practise. He directed that his orders of the fifteenth be read at the head of each company, with orders for the captains to inspect their men's stock of ammunition and report those lacking powder. This reduced the waste, but there was no stopping the riflemen from popping away at bear or deer once they were out of sight of their officers.

I had hoped Cousin would return and be my companion on the next scout, but as he failed to show up I set off with Mooney for a second trip up the Coal. This time we discovered signs of fifteen Indians making toward the Kanawha below the camp. We returned with the news and found a wave of drunkenness had swept the camp during our absence.

The sutlers were ordered to bring no more liquor into camp, and to sell from the supply on hand only on a captain's written order. This served to sober the offenders speedily. The scouts sent down the Kanawha returned and reported two fires and five Indians within fifteen miles of the Ohio. It was plain that the Indians were dogging our steps day and night, and the men were warned not to straggle.

We were at the Elk Camp from the twenty-fourth to the thirtieth, and on the latter date the canoemen loaded their craft, and the pack-horse men and bullock-drivers drew two days' rations and started down-river. It rained for three days and on October second we were camped near the mouth of the Coal. It was there that Cousin appeared, a Mingo scalp hanging at his belt. He informed Colonel Lewis he had been to the mouth of the river, making the down-trip in a canoe, and that as yet no Indians had crossed except small bands of scouts.

Breaking camp, we encountered rich bottom-lands, difficult to traverse because of the rain. Every mile or two there were muddy creeks, and the pack-horses were nearly worn out. Several desertions were now reported from the troops, a hostility to discipline rather than cowardice being the incentive. Another trouble was the theft of supplies.

As we advanced down the river signs of small bands of Indians became numerous; scarcely a scout returned without reporting some. I saw nothing of Cousin until the sixth of October, and as we were finishing an eight-mile march through long defiles and across small runs and were entering the bottom which extends for four miles to the Ohio. The first that I knew he was with us was when he walked at my side and greeted:

"There's goin' to be a screamin' big fight."

He offered no explanation of his absence and I asked him nothing. It had required five weeks to march eleven hundred men one hundred and sixty miles and to convey the necessary supplies the same distance.

As we scouts in the lead entered the bottom Cousin called my attention to the high-water marks on the trees. Some of these measured ten feet. The Point itself is high. From it we had a wide view of the Ohio and Kanawha, up- and down-stream. It was Cousin who discovered a writing made fast to a tree, calling attention to a paper concealed in the hollow at the base of the tree. We fished it out and found it was addressed to Colonel Lewis. Cousin and I took it to him. Before opening it, he gave Cousin a shrewd glance and remarked:

"I am glad to see you back, young man."

"If I've read the signs right I 'low I'm glad to git back," was the grave reply.

The letter was from Governor Dunmore, and he wrote to complain because our colonel had not joined him at the Little Kanawha. He now informed our commander he had dropped down to the mouth of the Big Hockhocking, and we were expected to join him there. After frowning over the communication, Colonel Lewis read it aloud to some of his officers and expressed himself very forcefully. It was soon camp gossip, and every man was free to discuss it.

Much anger was expressed against Governor Dunmore. And it did seem absurd to ask our army to move up the Ohio some sixty miles when such a tedious maneuver would lead us farther from the Indian towns than we were while at the Point. Had the order been given for the army to go to the Hockhocking there would have been many desertions.

I learned later that the letter was brought to the Point by Simon Kenton and Simon Girty, who with Michael Cresap were serving as scouts with Dunmore. While the camp was busily criticizing the governor our scouts from the Elk came in and reported seeing Indians hunting buffalo. When within six miles of the Point, they found a plowshare, some surveying-instruments, a shirt, a light blue coat and a human under jaw-bone.

Shelby Cousin said the dead man was Thomas Hoog, who with two or three of his men were reported killed by the Indians in the preceding April while making improvements. Cousin insisted his death had been due to wild animals or an accident, after which the animals had dragged his remains into the woods. He argued that an Indian would never have left the coat or the instruments.

We passed the seventh and eighth of the month in making the camp sanitary and in building a shelter for the supplies yet to arrive down the river. Preparations also went ahead for moving the army across the Ohio. Most of the scouts were sent out to hunt up lost beeves, while a sergeant and squad were despatched with canoes to the Elk after flour.

Three men came in from the Elk and reported that Colonel Christian was camped there with two hundred and twenty men, that he had only sixteen kettles, and was fearing his men would be ill from eating too much roast meat "without broth." On the eighth there arrived more letters from Governor Dunmore, in which His Lordship expressed his surprise and annoyance because of our failure to appear at the Hockhocking.

This time Colonel Lewis was quite open in expressing his disgust at the governor's lack of strategy. The Kanawha was the gate to Augusta, Botetourt and Fincastle Counties. To leave it and move up-river would leave the way open for the red army to stream into Virginia and work its savagery while the colonials were cooped up on the Ohio or hunting Indian wigwams in the wilderness.

In the package was a letter to our colonel from Colonel Adam Stephens, second in command to His Excellency, which was given wide publicity. Colonel Stephens reported very disagreeable news from Boston. It was to the effect that General Gage had fired on the people at Cambridge. Later we learned that while some gun-powder and two cannon had been seized by His Majesty's troops there had been no massacre of the provincials. But while the rumor remained uncontradicted it caused high excitement and great rage.

On the evening of the ninth Cousin and I were ordered out to scout up the river beyond Old Town Creek. Our camp was near the junction of the Kanawha and the Ohio, almost at the tip of the Point. About a fourth of a mile to the east is Crooked Creek, a very narrow stream at that season of the year, with banks steep and muddy. It skirts the base of some low hills and flows nearly south in emptying into the Kanawha. Half-way between our camp and Old Town Creek, which empties into the Ohio, is a small stretch of marsh-land extending north and south, with bottom-lands on each side.

Cousin and I planned to keep along the Ohio shore until a few miles above Old Town Creek, when we would separate, one returning along our course to keep an eye on the river, the other circling to the east and swinging back through the low hills drained by Crooked Creek. This double reconnaissance should reveal any spies.

The men were very anxious to cross the river and come in contact with the Indians. They believed they would have the allied tribes within their grasp once they reached the Scioto. They were cheered by the report that the army would cross on the morrow. One tall Watauga boy boastfully proclaimed that all the Shawnees and Mingos beyond the Ohio wouldn't "make more'n a breakfast for us." Davis, because a man of family and more conservative, insisted it would be a "pretty tough chunk of a fight."

This was the optimistic spirit Cousin and I left behind us when we set out at sunset. Cousin was in a new mood. There was a certain wild gaiety, rather a ferocious gaiety, in his bearing. His drawn face had lost some of the hard lines and looked almost boyish and his eyes were feverishly alight. He seemed possessed of superabundant physical strength, and in pure muscular wantonness went out of his way to leap the fallen timbers which littered the shore.

As darkness increased he ceased his wild play and became the prince of scouts. We advanced most leisurely, for we had all night if we cared to stay out. We halted when abreast of the marsh-land and seated ourselves on the banks of the Ohio and watched the starlight find a mirror in the water. After a protracted silence he abruptly asked:

"My sister said she was sendin' me a new sister, you say?"

"Those were her words."

"I wish she could know to-night I ain't needin' any new sister. Wish she could know right now that she's always been my sister. When I reckoned I'd lost her I was just mistook. She was just gone away for a little while. She found a mighty hard an' rough trace to travel. I 'low the Almighty will have to give her many belts afore He smooths out the path in her mind. I 'low it'll take a heap o' presents to make up for the burrs an' briers an' sharp stones she had to foot it over. Thank God she died white!"

"Amen to that!"

After another silence he asked:

"You 'low she's with daddy an' mammy?"

"I do."

"That's mighty comfortin' to figger on," he slowly mused. "Much like a younker gittin' mighty tired an' goin' back home to rest. Daddy an' mammy will do a heap to make it up to her for what she had to go through. Yes, I can count on 'em, even if the Almighty happened to be too busy to notice her when she first crossed the border."

Dear lad! He meant no irreverence.

The night was calm and sounds carried easily. We had passed beyond where we could hear the men singing and merry-making in camp, but the uneasy movements of a turkey and the stealthy retreat of a deer seemed very close at hand. The soft pad-pad of a woods cat approached within a few feet before the creature caught the scent, and the retreat was marked by a series of crashings through the undergrowth.

After a while we rose and continued up the river.

"No Injuns along here," murmured Cousin.

We reached Old Town Creek and crossed it without discovering any signs of the enemy; nor were we looking for anything more serious than a stray scout or two. We went nearly two miles above the creek and turned back after deciding we would separate at the creek, he taking the hills route and I following the river. We reached the creek and he was about to leave me when we both heard a new note, a splashing noise, very faint. Our hands met in a mutual desire to grab an arm and enforce attention.

"No fish made it," I whispered.

"No fish," he agreed. "There!"

The splashing came from across the several hundred yards of the Ohio's deep and silent current. It was repeated until it became almost continuous, and it gradually grew louder.

"Rafts!" shrilly whispered Cousin.

"They are paddling fast."

"No! But there are many rafts," he corrected.

We retreated up-stream a short distance and concealed ourselves in a deep growth. To the sound of poles and paddles was added the murmuring of guttural voices. Then for a climax a raft struck against the bank and a low voice speaking Shawnee gave some sharp orders.

"One!" counted Cousin.

As he spoke another raft took the shore, and then they grounded so rapidly that it was impossible to count them. Orders were given, and the Indians worked back from the river and proceeded to make a night-camp. The landing had been made at the mouth of the creek, but the savages had spread out, and some of them were due east from us.

"There's a heap of 'em!" whispered Cousin. "Lucky for us they didn't fetch any dawgs along, or we'd be smelled out an' have to leg it."

"I hear squaws talking."

"Kiss the devil if you don't! There's boys' voices, too. They've fetched their squaws an' boys along to knock the wounded an' dyin' in the head."

"Then that means they feel sure of winning."

And my heart began thumping until I feared its beating would be audible at a distance. And before my inner gaze appeared a picture of Lewis' army defeated and many victims being given over to the stake.

"Keep shet!" cautioned Cousin. "There it is again! A Mingo talkin', a Seneca, I'd say—Hear that jabber! Delaware—Wyandot—Taway (Ottawa). With a blanket o' Shawnee pow-wow. By heavens, Morris! This is Cornstalk's whole force. They've learned that Dunmore is at the Hockhockin' an' will be j'inin' up with Lewis any day, an' old Cornstalk thinks to lick Lewis afore Dunmore's men can git along!"

It was now after midnight, and I knew we should be back at camp and warning Colonel Lewis of his peril. I knew from my last talk with him that he did not expect to meet the Indians in any numbers until we had crossed the Ohio. Our failure to find any Indians at the Point and our prospects for an immediate crossing conduced to this belief.

The day before all the scouts had been instructed as to our maneuvers once we crossed the river and were searching for ambushes. It was terrible to think of our army asleep only three miles away. I urged an immediate return, but Cousin coolly refused to go until he had reconnoitered further.

"You stay here till I've sneaked down to the mouth o' the creek," he whispered. "'Twon't do for both of us to git killed an' leave no one to take the word to Lewis."

"But why run any risk?" I anxiously demanded; for I feared he had some mad prank in mind which would betray our presence and perhaps stop our warning to the army.

"We must l'arn somethin' as to how many o' the red skunks there be," he replied.

"To venture near their camp will mean discovery. They're very wide-awake."

"I ain't goin' near their camp," he growled in irritation. "I want to look over them rafts. I can tell from them how many warriors come over, or pretty close to it."

He slipped away and left me to do the hardest of the work—the work of waiting. It seemed a very long time before I heard the bushes rustle. I drew my ax, but a voice whispering "Richmond," the parole for the night, composed me. Feeling his way to my side he gravely informed me:

"There's seventy-eight or nine rafts an' a few canoes. It's goin' to be a fine piece o' fightin'. At least there's a thousand warriors on this side an' a lot o' squaws an' boys."

I estimated our army at eleven hundred and I thanked God they were all frontiersmen.

Cousin now was as eager to go as I; and leaving our hiding-place, we worked north until we felt safe to make a detour to the east. Our progress was slow as there was no knowing how far the Indian scouts were ranging. Once we were forced to remain flat on our stomachs while a group of warriors passed within a dozen feet of us, driving to their camp some strayed beeves from the high rolling bottom-lands to the east. When the last of them had passed I observed with great alarm a thinning out of the darkness along the eastern skyline.

"Good God! We'll be too late!" I groaned. "Let's fire our guns and give the alarm!"

"Not yet!" snarled my companion. "I must be in the thick o' that fight. We're too far east to git to camp in a hustle. We must sneak atween the hills an' that small slash (Virginian for marsh). Foller me."

We changed our course so as to avoid the low hills drained by Crooked Creek, and made after the warriors. About an hour before sunrise we were at the head of the marsh, and in time to witness the first act of the day's great drama. Two men were working out of the fallen timber, and Cousin threw up his double-barrel rifle. I checked him, saying:

"Don't! They're white!"

"Renegades!"

"John Sevier's younger brother, Valentine. T'other is Jim Robertson."

"Then Lewis knows. He sent 'em to scout the camp."

"They're after game. James Shelby is sick with the fever. Yesterday morning he asked them to perch a turkey for him. Signal them. They know nothing about the Indians!"

Cousin risked discovery by standing clear of the bushes and waving his hat. "There comes two more of 'em!" he exclaimed.

This couple was some distance behind the Watauga boys, but I recognized them. One was James Mooney, my companion on the Coal River scout. The other was Joseph Hughey.

I jumped out and stood beside Cousin and waved my arms frantically. One of them caught the motion and said something. The four paused and stared at us. We made emphatic gestures for them to fall back. At first they were slow to understand, thinking, as Sevier told me afterward, that I was pointing out some game. Then they turned to run, Robertson and Sevier firing their rifles to the woods to the north of us.

These were the first guns fired in the battle of Point Pleasant. From the woods came the noise of a large body of men advancing. A ripple of shots was sent after the hunters. Hughey and Mooney halted and returned the fire. A streak of red some distance ahead of the Shawnees' position, and close to the river-bank, dropped Hughey dead. This shot was fired by Tavenor Ross, a white man, who was captured by the Indians when a boy and who had grown up among them.

Mooney, Robertson and young Sevier were now running for the camp, passing between the Ohio bank and the marsh. We raced after them just as a man named Hickey ran from the bushes and joined them. The Indians kept up a scattering fire and they made much noise as they spread out through the woods in battle-line. They supposed we were the scouts of an advancing army.

It is the only instance I know of where insubordination saved any army from a surprise attack, and possibly from defeat. To escape detection while breaking the orders against foraging, the five men named had stolen from the camp at an early hour.

By the time Cousin and I passed the lower end of the marsh small bodies of Indians were making for the hills along Crooked Creek; others were following down the Ohio inside the timber, while their scouts raced recklessly after us to locate our line of battle. The scouts soon discovered that our army was nowhere to be seen. Runners were instantly sent back to inform Cornstalk he was missing a golden opportunity by not attacking at once.

Mooney was the first to reach Colonel Lewis, who was seated on a log in his shirt-sleeves, smoking his pipe. Mooney shouted:

"More'n four acres covered with Injuns at Old Town Creek!"

Rising, but with no show of haste, Lewis called to Cousin and me: "What about this?"

"An attack in force, sir, I believe," I panted.

He glanced at Cousin, who nodded and then ducked away.

"I think you are mistaken," the colonel coldly remarked. "It must be a big scouting-party." I tried to tell him what Cousin and I had seen and heard. But he ignored me and ordered the drums to beat To Arms. But already the border men were turning out and diving behind logs and rocks even while the sleep still blurred their eyes.

Colonel Lewis ordered two columns of one hundred and fifty men each to march forward and test the strength of the enemy. The colonel's brother Charles led the Augusta line to the right. Colonel William Fleming commanded the left—Botetourt men. The two columns were about two hundred yards apart, and their brisk and businesslike advance did the heart good to behold.

No one as yet except the hunters and Cousin and I realized the three hundred men were being sent against the full force of the Ohio Indians. Colonel Lewis resumed his seat and continued smoking.

"You're nervous, Morris. It can't be more than a large scouting-party, or they'd have chased you in."

"They came over on seventy-eight rafts!" I replied, turning to race after Colonel Charles Lewis' column.

The Augusta men were now swinging in close to Crooked Creek where it skirts the foot of the low hills. As I drew abreast of the head of the column we were fired upon by a large force of Indians, now snugly ensconced behind trees and fallen timber along the creek. We were then not more than a quarter of a mile from camp. The first fire was tremendously heavy and was quickly followed by a second and third volley. The Augusta men reeled, but quickly began returning the fire, the behavior of the men being all that a commander could desire. They were forced to give ground, however, as the odds were heavy.

On our left crashed a volley as the Botetourt men were fired on. Colonel Lewis ordered his men to take cover, then turned to Captain Benjamin Harrison and cried:

"This is no scouting-party! But my brother will soon be sending reinforcements."

He had hardly spoken before he spun half-way around, a surprised expression on his face.

"I'm wounded," he quietly said.

Then handing his rifle to a soldier, he called out to his men:

"Go on and be brave!"

With that he began walking to the camp. I ran to help him, but he motioned me back, saying:

"Your place is there. I'm all right."

So I left him, a very brave soldier and a Christian gentleman, to make his way alone while his very minutes were numbered.

Half a dozen of our men were down and the rest were slowly giving ground. Up to the time Colonel Lewis left us I had seen very few Indians, and only mere glimpses at that. Now they began showing themselves as they crowded forward through the timber, confident they were to slaughter us. Above the noise of the guns, the yells and shouts of red and white combatants, rose a deep booming voice, that of Cornstalk, and he was shouting:

"Be strong! Be strong! Push them into the river!"

We dragged back our dead and wounded as with a reckless rush the Indians advanced over logs and rocks up to the very muzzles of our guns. But although the Augusta line gave ground the men were not suffering from panic, and the smashing volley poured into the enemy did great damage and checked their mad onslaught.

Never before did red men make such a determined charge. In an instant there were a score of individual combats, backwoodsman and savage being clinched in a death-struggle with ax and knife. Now our line stiffened, and the very shock of their attack seemed to hurl the Indians back. Still we would have been forced back to the camp and must have suffered cruel losses if not for the timely reinforcements brought up on the run by Colonel John Field, veteran of Braddock's and Pontiac's Wars.

He led Augusta and Botetourt men, for it was no longer possible to keep the two lines under their respective commanders, nor did any captain for the rest of the day command his own company as a unit. With the coming up of Colonel Field the Indians immediately gave ground, then charged most viciously as our men pursued. This maneuver was one of Cornstalk's cunning tactics, the alternate advance and retreat somewhat confusing our men.

The second attack was repulsed and the riflemen slowly gained more ground. The firing on our left was now very heavy and Colonel Field directed me to learn how the fight there was progressing. Some of our fellows were screaming that Fleming's column was being driven in, and our colonel had no intention of being cut off.

As I started toward the river I could hear Cornstalk exhorting: "Shoot straight! Lie close! Fight and be strong!"

As I withdrew from the right column I had a chance to get a better idea of the battle. The Indians lined the base of the hills bordered by Crooked Creek, and were posted on all the heights to shoot any whites trying to swim either the Ohio or the Kanawha. On the opposite side of the Ohio and, as I later learned on the south bank of the Kanawha, red forces had been stationed in anticipation of our army being routed.

As I neared the Botetourt men I could hear between volleys the Indians shouting in unison:

"Drive the white dogs over!" meaning across the river.

The Botetourt men were well posted and considerably in advance of the right column, as they had given but little ground while the right was retiring after Lewis was shot. At no time did either column fight at a range of more than twenty yards, and when I crawled among Fleming's men the range was not more than six yards, while here and there in the deeper growth were hand-to-hand struggles.

"A big chunk of a fight!" screamed a shrill voice, and Cousin was beside me, wearing a brilliant scarlet jacket. As he was crawling by me I caught him by the heel and dragged him back.

"You fool! Take that coat off!" I yelled. For the vivid splotch of color made him a tempting target for every Indian gun. And the Shawnees were skilful marksmen even if less rapid than the whites because of their inability to clean their fouled weapons.

Cousin drew up his leg to kick free, then smiled sweetly and said:

"It's my big day, Morris. Don't go for to meddle with my medicine. Everything's all right at last. I've found the long trace that leads to my little sister. She's waitin' to put her hand in mine, as she used to do on Keeney's Knob."

With that he suddenly jerked his leg free and sprang to his feet and streaked toward the savages, his blood-curdling panther-screech penetrating the heavier vibrations of the battle.

He was lost to view in the brush and I had my work to do. I kept along the edge of the timber, and answered many anxious queries as to the fate of the right column. I reassured them, but did not deem it wise to tell of Colonel Lewis' wound. I found the column quite close to the river and by the stubborn resistance it was meeting I knew the Indians were strongly posted.

"Why don't you whistle now?" they kept howling in concert, and referring to our fifes which were still.

"We'll kill you all, and then go and speak to your big chief (Dunmore)," was one of their promises.

And there were other things shouted, foul epithets, which I am ashamed to admit could only have been learned from the whites. And repeatedly did they encourage one another and seek to intimidate us by yelling:

"Drive the white dogs over the river! Drive them like cattle into the water!"

While I kept well covered and was completing my reconnaissance I was horrified to see Colonel Fleming walk into the clear ground. He fired at an Indian who had showed himself for a moment to make an insulting gesture. He got his man, and the next second was struck by three balls, two passing through his left arm and the third penetrating his left breast.

He called out to his captains by name and sharply ordered them to hold their ground while he went to the rear to be patched up. He was answered by hearty cheers, but his absence was to be keenly felt by his officers. He started to work his way to the Point, but the exertion of bending and dodging from tree to stump sorely taxed him. I ran to his aid just as Davis, of Howard's Creek, sprang from behind a log and seized his right arm. Between us we soon had him back in camp and his shirt off. The lung tissue had been forced through the wound a finger's length. He asked me to put it back. I attempted it and failed, whereat he did it himself without any fuss.

On returning to the right column to make a belated report to Colonel Field I ran across the body of Mooney, my partner on several scouts. He had been shot through the head. It may here be said that nearly all the dead on both sides were shot through the head or chest, indicating the accuracy of marksmanship on both sides.

I found the Augusta men steadily pushing the Indians back. But when they gave ground quickly, as if in a panic, it was to tempt the foolhardy into rushing forward. The riflemen had learned their lesson, however, and maintained their alignment. The advance was through nettles and briers, up steep muddy banks and over fallen timber.

The warriors rushed repeatedly to the very muzzles of our guns, and thus displayed a brand of courage never surpassed, if ever equaled, by the North American Indian before. It was Cornstalk who was holding them to the bloody work. His voice at times sounded very close, but although we all knew his death would count a greater coup than the scalps of a hundred braves we never could get him. He was too shrewd and evasive.

Once I believed I had him, for I had located him behind a detached mound of fallen timber. He was loudly calling out for his men to be brave and to lie close, when a warrior leaped up and started to run to the rear. Then Cornstalk flashed into view long enough to sink his ax into the coward's head. It was all done so quickly that he dropped to cover unharmed.

That was one of his ways of enforcing obedience, a mode of terrorization never before practised by a war-chief to my knowledge. It was told afterward by the Shawnees that he killed more than that weak-hearted one during the long day. I saw nothing of the other chiefs who attended the conference in Cornstalk's Town while I was a prisoner. And yet they were there, chiefs of Mingos, Wyandots, Delawares and Ottawas.

"They're fallin' back! They're fallin' back!" yelled a voice in advance of our first line.

And the scream of a panther told us it was Cousin. He had worked across from the left column, and we were soon beholding his bright jacket in a tangle of logs and stumps.

The men advanced more rapidly, but did not break their line; and it was evident the savages were giving ground in earnest. Our men renewed their cheering and their lusty shouts were answered by the column on the river-bank, still in advance of us.

As it seemed we were about to rush the enemy into a panic we received our second heavy loss of the day. Colonel Field was shot dead. He was standing behind a big tree, reserving his fire for an Indian who had been shouting filthy abuse at him. Poor colonel! It was but a ruse to hold his attention while savages up the slope and behind fallen timber drew a bead on him. Captain Evan Shelby assumed command and ordered the men to keep up the advance.

The Indians gave ground, but with no signs of confusion. Observing our left column was in advance of the right, Cornstalk was attempting to straighten his line by pulling in his left. As we pressed on we discovered the savages were scalping their own dead to prevent their hair falling into our hands. From the rear of the red men came the sound of many tomahawks. Cousin, who for a moment found himself at my side, exulted:

"Curse 'em! Their squaws an' boys are cuttin' saplin's for to carry off their wounded! They'll need a heap o' stretchers afore this day is over!"

The sun was now noon-high and the heat was beastly. The battle was at its climax. The left column was near a little pond and about fifty yards from the river, or a fourth of a mile beyond the spot where Lewis was shot. We had evened up this lead, and the battle-line extended from the river and pond to Crooked Creek and half-way down the creek, running from west to east and then southwest.

Cornstalk's plan was to coop us up in the Point and drive us into the Kanawha and Ohio. There were times when our whole line gave ground, but only to surge ahead again. Thus we seesawed back and forth along a mile and a quarter of battle-line, with the firing equal in intensity from wing to wing. Nor had the Indians lost any of their high spirits. Their retreat was merely a maneuver. They kept shouting:

"We'll show you how to shoot!"

"Why don't you come along?"

"Why don't you whistle now?"

"You'll have two thousand to fight to-morrow!"

But the force that held them together and impelled them to make the greatest fight the American Indian ever put up, not even excepting the battle of Bushy Run, was Cornstalk. Truly he was a great man, measured even by the white man's standards!

"Be strong! Be brave! Lie close! Shoot well!" flowed almost uninterruptedly from his lips.

Davis, of Howard's Creek, went by me, making for the rear with a shattered right arm and a ghastly hole through his cheek. He tried to grin on recognizing me. Word was passed on from our rear that runners had been sent to hurry up Colonel Christian and his two hundred men. Among the captains killed by this time were John Murray and Samuel Wilson. It was a few minutes after the noon hour that Cousin emerged from the smoke on my right and howled:

"There's old Puck-i-n-shin-wa!"

He darted forward, clearing all obstacles with the ease of a deer. I saw the Shawnee chief, father of Tecumseh, snap his piece at the boy. Then I saw him go down with Cousin's lead through his painted head. Two savages sprang up and Cousin killed one with his remaining barrel. The other fired pointblank, and by the way Cousin fell I knew his object in wearing the scarlet jacket was attained. He had wished to die this day in the midst of battle.

William White killed Cousin's slayer. The boy was in advance of the line and his coat made him conspicuous. Doubtless the savages believed him to be an important officer because of it.

Five of them rushed in to secure his scalp, and each fell dead, and their bodies concealed the boy from view. Up to one o'clock the fighting raged with undiminished fury, with never any cessation of their taunts and epithets and Cornstalk's stentorian encouragement.

Now it is never in Indian nature to prolong a conflict once it is obvious they must suffer heavy losses. They consider it the better wisdom to run away and await an opportunity when the advantage will be with them. Cornstalk had been confident that his early morning attack would drive us into the rivers, thus affording his forces on the opposite banks much sport in picking us off.

But so fiercely contested had been the battle that none of our dead had been scalped except Hughey and two or three men who fell at the first fire. By all that we had learned of Indian nature they should now, after six hours of continuous fighting, be eager to withdraw. They had fought the most bitterly contested battle ever participated in by their race.

Nor had they, as in Braddock's defeat, been aided by white men. There were, to be true, several white men among them, such as Tavenor Ross, John Ward and George Collet; but these counted no more than ordinary warriors and Collet was killed before the fighting was half over. According to all precedents the battle should have ended in an Indian rout by the time the sun crossed the meridian. Instead the savages stiffened their resistance and held their line.

Our men cheered from parched throats when word was passed that Collet's body had been found and identified. Poor devil! Perhaps it opened the long trace to him, where everything would be made right. He was captured when a child and had responded to the only environment he had ever known.

The case of such as Collet—yes, and of John Ward and Ross—is entirely different from that of Timothy Dorman, and others of his kind, who was captured when a grown man and who turned renegade to revenge himself for wrongs, real or fancied, on his old neighbors.

It was not until after seven hours of fighting that we detected any falling off in the enemy's resistance. Even then the savages had the advantage of an excellent position, and to press them was extremely hazardous business. We continued to crowd them, however, until they were lined up on a long ridge which extended from the small marsh where Cousin and I first saw Robertson and Sevier, for half a mile to the east, where it was cut by the narrow bed of Crooked Creek.

None of us needed to be told that so long as the enemy held this ridge our camp at the Point was in grave danger. From the riflemen along the Ohio word came that the Indians were throwing their dead into the river, while squaws and boys were dragging back their wounded.

This had a heartening effect on us, for it indicated a doubt was creeping into the minds of the savages. Once they permitted the possibility of defeat to possess them their effectiveness would decrease. Company commanders called on their men to take the ridge, but to keep their line intact.

With wild cheers the men responded and buckled down to the grueling task. Every patch of fallen timber proved to be an Indian fort, where the bravest of the tribes fought until they were killed. It was stubborn traveling, but our riflemen were not to be denied.

From along the line would come cries of:

"Remember Tygart's Valley!"

"Remember Carr's Creek!"

"Remember the Clendennins!"

And always Cornstalk's voice answered:

"Be strong! Be brave! Fight hard!"

So we struggled up the slope, gaining a yard at a time and counting it a triumph if we passed a pile of dead timber and gained another a few feet beyond.

When we were most encouraged the Indians began mocking us and shouting exultingly and informing us that the warriors across the Kanawha and Ohio had attacked our camp and were massacring the small force retained there. This statement, repeatedly hurled at us with every semblance of savage gloating, tended to weaken the men's one purpose. We could capture the ridge—but! Behind our determination crawled the fear that we might be assailed in the rear at any moment.

Captain Shelby was quick to realize the depressing influence of this kind of talk, and shouted for the word to be passed that it was an Indian trick, that our troops were guarding the Kanawha for half a mile up the stream and that the warriors on the Indian shore could not cross over without the column on our left discovering the move.

This prompted our common sense to return to us, and we remembered that Andrew Lewis was too cool and shrewd to be caught napping. The Point was sprinkled with huge trees and it would take a big force to clear it of our reserves; and the bulk of the enemy was before us on the ridge.

With renewed vigor we made greater exertions and at last reached the top of the ridge and cleared it. But even then the Indians were not defeated. They charged up with ferocious energy time after time, and the best we could do was to cling to our position and let them bring the fighting to us. So different was their behavior from any we had been familiar with in previous engagements we began to wonder if they would violate other Indian precedents and continue the battle into the night.

It was not until three or four o'clock that we noticed any lessening in their efforts to retake the ridge. At the best this afforded us only a short breathing-spell. There were many warriors still hidden along the slopes drained by Crooked Creek. Our line was so long there was always danger of the Indians concentrating and breaking it.

So long as we stuck to the ridge on the defensive the enemy had the advantage of the initiative. A runner brought up word from Colonel Lewis to learn the strength of the savages in the hills along the creek, and I was directed to reconnoiter.

I made for the creek from the south slope of the ridge. Sliding down the muddy bank, I ascended the opposite slope and began making my way toward the point where the creek cut through the ridge. I encountered no Indians, although axes and knives on the ground showed where they had been stationed before retiring.

I passed through the cut and was suddenly confronted by what I thought at first must be the devil. The fellow was wearing the head of a buffalo, horns and tangled forelock and all. Through the eye-slits gleamed living eyes. The shock of his grotesque appearance threw me off my guard for a moment. He leaped upon me and we went down the bank into the bed of the creek.

He had his ax ready to use but I caught his hand. His hideous mask proved to be his undoing, for as we rolled about it became twisted. I was quick to see my advantage. Relying on one hand to hold his wrist, I used all my quickness and strength and succeeded in turning the mask half-way around, leaving him blind and half-smothered. I killed him with his own ax before he could remove his cumbersome headgear.

As none of his companions had come to his rescue I knew this marked their most advanced position in the hills. Having learned all I could without sacrificing my life, I began my retreat down the creek and narrowly escaped being shot by one of our own men.

Captain Shelby ordered me to report to Colonel Lewis, which I did, running at top speed without attempting to keep under cover. I found the reserves had thrown up a breastwork from the Ohio to the Kanawha, thus inclosing the camp on the Point. It lacked half an hour of sunset when I reached the camp.

Colonel Lewis heard me, then ordered Captains Isaac Shelby, Arbuckle, Matthews and Stuart to lead their companies up Crooked Creek under cover of the bank until they could secure a position behind the Indians and enfilade their main line. I scouted ahead of this force. We circled the end of the Indian line, but were at once discovered.

Instead of this being our undoing, it proved to be all in our favor. Cornstalk's spies had kept him informed of Colonel Christian's presence a few miles from the Point. He took it for granted that this force in the hills behind his line was reinforcements brought up by Christian, and this belief caused him to order a general retirement across Old Town Creek. At that time Christian was fifteen miles from the Point. Sunset found us in full possession of the battle-field.

Leaving strong outposts, we retired to the well-protected camp, rejoicing loudly and boasting of more than two-score scalps. We carried off all our dead and wounded. The exact Indian loss was never definitely settled but it must have equaled, if not exceeded, ours. More than a score were found in the woods covered deep with brush, and many were thrown into the river.

This battle ended Dunmore's War, also known as Cresap's War and the Shawnee War. So far as actual fighting and losses are considered it was a drawn battle. But as Cornstalk could not induce his men to renew the conflict, and inasmuch as they retreated before morning to the Indian shore, the victory must be held to be with the backwoodsmen.

And yet the tribes were not entirely downcast, for during the early evening they continued to taunt us and to repeat their threats of bringing an army of two thousand on to the field in the morning. In fact, many of our men believed the savages had a shade the better of the fight, and would renew hostilities in the morning.

That night we buried Shelby Cousin on the bank of the Kanawha and built a fire over his grave to conceal it. Colonel Christian arrived at midnight, and there was some lurid profanity when his men learned they had arrived too late for the fighting. One week after the battle eleven hundred troops crossed the Ohio to carry the war to the Indian towns for a final decision.

When thirteen miles south of Chillicothe, the town Governor Dunmore had ordered us to attack and destroy, a message arrived from His Lordship, directing Colonel Lewis to halt his advance, for peace was about to be made. Hostile bands had fired upon us that very morning, and the position was not suitable for a camp. Colonel Lewis continued the march for a few miles. Another messenger arrived with orders for us to halt, for the peace was about to be consummated.

We went into camp on Congo Creek, about five miles from Chillicothe. The men raged something marvelous. They insisted that no decisive battle had been fought and that we had thrown away nearly a hundred lives if the fighting were not renewed. The Shawnees were in our power. What folly to let them escape!

Dunmore and White Eyes, the friendly Delaware chief, rode into camp and conferred with Colonel Lewis; and as a result we started the next day for Point Pleasant and Virginia. The men were all but out of bounds, so furious were they at not being loosed at the Shawnees.

Then began the talk that Dunmore brought on the war to keep our backwoodsmen busy in event the colonies rebelled against England; also, that he closed it prematurely so that the Indians might continue a menace to the border and thus keep the frontier men at home.

I was as hot as any against His Lordship for the way the campaign ended. We demanded blood for blood in those days; and never had the Virginia riflemen a better chance for inflicting lasting punishment on their ancient foes. And we were quick to blame His Lordship for a variety of unwholesome motives.

But with political rancor long since buried we can survey that campaign more calmly and realize that as a result of the battle the northwest Indians kept quiet for the first two years of the Revolutionary War, and that during this period Kentucky was settled and the vast continent west of the Alleghanies was saved to the Union.

If the battle of Bushy Run took the heart out of the tribes confederated under Pontiac's masterly leadership, then Dunmore's War permitted us to begin life as a republic without having the Alleghanies for our western boundary. Nor can I hold in these latter days that His Lordship was insincere in waging the war; for England was against it from the first.

I believed he pushed the war as vigorously and shrewdly as he knew how; and I believe his was the better judgment in securing the best peace-terms possible instead of heaping defeat on defeat until the allied tribes had nothing left to bargain for. So I give His Lordship credit for making a good bargain with the Indians, and a bargain which aided the colonists during the struggle almost upon them. But I was very happy when Colonel Andrew Lewis drove him from Virginia.



CHAPTER XIII

PEACE COMES TO THE CLEARING

Early winter, and the wind was crisp and cold as I rode into Howard's Creek. Smoke rose from the cabins. I limped toward the Davis cabin, a strange shyness holding me back. Some one inside was singing:

"Ye daughters and sons of Virginia, incline Your ears to a story of woe; I sing of a time when your fathers and mine Fought for us on the Ohio. In seventeen hundred and seventy-four, The month of October, we know, An army of Indians, two thousand or more, Encamped on the Ohio."

There was a whirl of linsey petticoats behind me, and two plump arms were about my neck; and her dear voice was sobbing:

"They didn't know! I feared you were dead beyond the Ohio!"

"But I sent you a message!" I protested, patting her bowed head. "I sent word by Moulton that it was only an arrow-wound in the leg, and that I must wait."

"And he never came, nor brought your word! He stopped in Tygart's Valley and sent his brother to bring Mrs. Moulton and the children. One man said he heard you had been hurt. I wrote to Colonel Lewis but he was not at Richfield. So I never knew!"

We walked aside, and I petted her and listened to her dear voice and forgot the cold wind biting into my thin blood, forgot I would always walk with a slight limp. When we did awake, because the early dusk was filling the clearing, the singer was finishing his seventeen-stanza song:

"As Israel did mourn and her daughters did weep, For Saul and his host on Gilbow, We'll mourn Colonel Field and the heroes who sleep On the banks of the Ohio."

And I thought of Shelby Cousin and the others, who gave their lives that we might meet thus without the war-whoop interrupting our wooing. And I wondered if our children's children would ever realize that the deaths died at Point Pleasant made life and happiness possible for them. I prayed it might be so, for lonely graves are not so lonely if they are not forgotten.

THE END