Chapter I: Part 1

FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN

AND HEROES OF THE BORDER

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│ Famous Frontiersmen │
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│ AND HEROES OF THE BORDER │
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│ Their adventurous lives and stirring │
│ experiences in Pioneer days │
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│ By │
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│ CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON │
│ Author of “Famous Cavalry Leaders,” “Famous Indian │
│ Chiefs,” “Famous Scouts,” etc. │
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_Copyright, 1913, by_
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)

_All rights reserved_

First Impression, November, 1913

THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS & CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.

DEDICATED
TO THE
BOY SCOUTS
OF THE WORLD

_Thanks are due the Librarians of Congress, The Boston Public Library, and Harvard University, for numerous courtesies extended to the Author during the preparation of this volume._

PREFACE

MY DEAR BOYS; AND PARTICULARLY THE BOY SCOUTS: As so much interest was displayed in my book “_Famous Scouts_” and requests for more tales were made by many of you, I have collected some interesting stories of valiant and daring adventurers, who were among the early settlers of the wilderness. These men were real scouts and trappers, for they lived in the wilds and had to know how to shoot a rifle; how to trap; and how to camp in whatever place night happened to overtake them. Savage men and wild beasts were frequently encountered, and desperate were the fights which these fellows engaged in. Some of them lived to a happy and prosperous old age; some perished from exposure, or by the hands of their red enemies.

You, yourselves, are playing at scouting in cities, in villages, and in a country which long since has been populated by the whites. These hardy, old fellows did not play at scouting, for it was their real existence, and they had to know the game from boyhood. Their deeds may seem to be atrocious and bloodthirsty, but were they not surrounded by implacable enemies who had no mercy upon them when they caught them unawares?

When I was in Harvard College our Professor of English—Dean LeBaron Russell Briggs—used to advise us to “browse in the Library.” I followed his advice in regard to these stories, and, after brushing away the cobwebs from many a forgotten volume, have been able to give you the accurate histories of several important frontiersmen and heroes of the border. These tales are all true and are vouched for by early historians. All that I hope is that I have served them up to you in a manner that is interesting and is not dull. Believe me,

Yours very affectionately,
CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON.

THE FRONTIERSMAN

He stood ’neath the whispering pines, by his cabin,
Lanky and gaunt, his face seamed and scarred,
Knotted his hands and blackened with toiling,
Bronzed well his face; his palms rough and hard.
Strangely he gazed in the dim, filmy distance,
Gazed, as the smoke from the fire curled and swayed,
Rapt was his look, for a voice from the forest
Spoke—and in accents disquieting—said:

_Come! freeman! come! to the swirl of the river,
Come! where the wild bison ranges and roams,
Come! where the coyote and timber wolves whimper,
Come! where the prairie dogs build their rough homes.
Come to the hills where the blossoms are swaying,
Come to the glades where the elk shrills his cry,
Come—for the wild canyon echoes are saying,
Come—only come—climb my peaks to the sky._

A thrill shook the frame of the woodsman and trapper,
A strange light of yearning came to his eye,
Restless and roving by nature,—this wanderer,
Shuddered and paled at the wild, hidden cry;
Trembling he turned towards the hut in the shadow,
Shaking he strode to the low, darkened door,
Then stopped,—as sounded the voice from the meadow,
Mutt’ring the challenge—o’er and o’er.

_Come, will you come, where the brown ouzel nestles,
Come, where the waterfall dashes and plays,
Come, where the spike-horn rollicks and wrestles,
On a carpet of moss, in the warm Autumn haze;
The cloud banks are blowing o’er Leidy and Glenrock,
On Wessex and Cassa the sun hides its head,
Come, will you come, where the trout leaps in splendor,
Come, only come, let the veldt be your bed._

By the rough, oaken chair lay the grim, shining rifle,
On a nail o’er the fire swung the curled powder-horn,
With a smiling grimace he seized on these weapons,
Wild emblems of conquest,—storm-battered and worn.
“Stay,” whirred the loom, as it stood in the shadow,
“Stay,” purred the cat, as it lay near the stove,
“Stay where the woodbine and iris are trailing,
Stay, only stay, calm this spirit to rove.”

_But, “come” shrilled the voice on the dim, distant prairie,
“Come, where the Cheyennes are roving and free,
Where the beavers are damming the wild, rushing ice stream,
Where the lean puma snarls in the shaggy, pine tree.
Come—for the call of the wild is resounding,
From Laramie’s peaks rolls the smoke of the fire.
Lighted by scouts, where the herds are abounding,
Fattened and sleek, for the red man’s desire.”_

* * * * *

Thus came the call, and thus trekked the plainsman,
Westward, yet westward his grim step led on,
By the wide, sedgy steppes, where the Platte curled and whispered,
By the brackish salt lake, stretching gray ’neath the sun,
Where the purple, red flowers in clusters lay glist’ning,
Where the wild kestrel whirled o’er the precipice sheer,
He conquered the wild, while the grizzly stood list’ning,
And growled, as the white canvased wagons drew near.

CONTENTS

PAGE

PREFACE vii

THE FRONTIERSMAN ix

DANIEL MORGAN: THE FAMOUS VIRGINIAN RIFLEMAN, AND HIS
ADVENTURES WITH THE INDIAN BEAR 1

JAMES HARROD: FOUNDER OF HARRODSBURG, KENTUCKY, AND
FAMOUS SCOUT OF THE FRONTIER 8

ROBERT MCLELLAN: PLUCKIEST OF THE EARLY PIONEERS 19

COLONEL BENJAMIN LOGAN: THE INTREPID FIGHTER OF THE
KENTUCKY FRONTIER 51

GEORGE ROGERS CLARKE: FAMOUS LEADER OF THE BORDERLAND
OF KENTUCKY 64

JOHN SLOVER: SCOUT UNDER CRAWFORD AND HERO OF EXTRAORDINARY
ADVENTURES 84

LEWIS WETZEL: HEROIC VIRGINIA FRONTIERSMAN AND IMPLACABLE
ENEMY OF THE REDSKINS 103

SAMUEL COLTER: AND HIS WONDERFUL RACE FOR LIFE 122

MESHACK BROWNING: THE CELEBRATED BEAR HUNTER OF THE
ALLEGHANIES 129

“BILL” BENT: HERO OF THE OLD SANTA FÉ TRAIL 167

THOMAS EDDIE: THE LAST OF THE OLD SCHOOL TRAPPERS 181

JIM BRIDGER: FOUNDER OF BRIDGER, WYOMING, AND FAMOUS
INDIAN FIGHTER 200

“OLD BILL” WILLIAMS: THE FAMOUS LOG RIDER OF COLORADO 213

“BIG FOOT” WALLACE: NOTED RANGER ON THE TEXAN FRONTIER 223

CAPTAIN JACK HAYS: FAMOUS TEXAN RANGER AND COMMANDER
OF VALIANT BORDER FIGHTERS 257

BILL HAMILTON: FAMOUS TRAPPER, TRADER, AND INDIAN FIGHTER 279

UNCLE JOB WITHERSPOON: AND HIS EXCITING ADVENTURES
WITH THE BLACKFEET 301

HENRY SHANE: HEROIC SCOUT OF THE PLAIN OF TEAS 314

POOR JERRY LANE: THE LOST TRAPPER OF WYOMING 337

THE SONG OF THE MOOSE 351

RETROSPECT 355

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

PAGE

DANIEL MORGAN _Frontispiece_

JAMES HARROD 8

BATTLE OF FALLEN TIMBERS 19

“BEGAN TO LUG HIM BACK TO THE FORT” 54

GEORGE ROGERS CLARKE 64

JOHN SLOVER 84

INDIANS TORTURING A PRISONER 98

“HE NOW TURNED AND RAN AS FAST AS HE WAS ABLE—LOADING
AS HE WENT” 108

“THERE WAS EVER THE DANGER OF AN ONRUSH BY THE REDSKINS” 139

“HAD KILLED INNUMERABLE BRAVES IN OPEN CONFLICT” 167

JIM BRIDGER 200

“BIG FOOT” WALLACE 225

“UNCLE BILL” HAMILTON 279

AN INDIAN BUFFALO HUNT 283

A COMANCHE WARRIOR 330

“LURED TO THEIR END BY THE LOW, SOOTHING CRY” 354

Famous Frontiersmen
AND HEROES OF THE BORDER

DANIEL MORGAN:

THE FAMOUS VIRGINIAN RIFLEMAN, AND HIS ADVENTURES WITH THE INDIAN BEAR

DANIEL MORGAN was a famous Virginian rifleman. As a young man he enlisted in the French and Indian War, and joined an army under Colonel St. Clair, who, as you remember, no doubt, was so signally defeated by Little Turtle.[1] The bravery of St. Clair sometimes amounted to rashness. His enemies have even accused him of indiscretion. At any rate, when camped near the head waters of the Mississippi, on the plains of the Chippewa, he placed his men near a dense forest, in which his redskinned enemies could easily pick off his sentinels without exposing themselves, in the least, to danger from return fire.

For five nights his army lay in this position, and for five nights a sentinel was posted near the gloomy borders of the forest. Alas! Every man who had held the place was shot. This struck terror to the hearts of the soldiers, and, when a sentinel was to be posted upon the sixth night, no one would come forward to take the position, without a serious protest. St. Clair knew that it was only throwing away men’s lives to place a sentinel in such an exposed situation, so he insisted upon no one occupying it. This pleased his followers mightily. “Colonel,” said many, “you are a sensible man.”

Upon the evening of the sixth day, however, a rifleman from the Virginia corps appeared before the Colonel’s tent. His name was Daniel Morgan.

“Sir,” he remarked, saluting, “I feel that I can take charge of this post. Put me there and see what I can do.”

St. Clair looked at him dubiously.

“I think that you are rather rash,” said he. “But you can have what you desire. Go, and good luck to you, my son.”

Soon afterwards, the new guard marched up. The scout fell in behind, shouldered his rifle, and went forward.

“I’ll return safely,” said he, as he followed the leading files. “And, Colonel St. Clair, I will drink your health in the morning.”

The new guard marched on, arrived at the place which had been so fatal to the sentries, and here halted. Bidding his fellow soldiers “Good night,” the sentry brought his gun to order arms and peered about him. The night was a dark one. Thick clouds overspread the heavens and hardly a star was to be seen. Silence reigned, save for the beat of the retiring footsteps of the guard. The frontiersman paced slowly up and down, then stopped, for in the far distance came the cry of “All is well!”

Seating himself upon a fallen tree, the soldier fell into a reverie, but, hark! what was that? A low, rustling sound came from out the bushes. He gazed intently towards the spot whence the noise seemed to proceed, but he could see nothing but the impenetrable gloom of the forest. Nearer and nearer came the strange rustling and a well-known grunt informed him that a large bear was approaching. Slowly the animal came on—then quietly sought the thicket to the left of his position.

At this particular moment the clouds drifted away from the face of the moon, so that the soldier could plainly see the lumbering brute. What was his surprise, when he viewed a deer-skin legging and two moccasined feet sticking out from the bottom of the animal, where should have been two furry legs. He could have shot the strange beast in a moment, but he did not know how many other quadrupeds of a like nature might be at hand. His fingers dropped from his rifle trigger, and, taking off his hat and coat, he hung them to the branch of a fallen tree, then silently crept toward the thicket. Crouching low behind some scrub bushes, he heard the twang of a low bow-string, and an arrow, whizzing past his head, told him that he had guessed correctly when he supposed that other redskins were near by. A low murmur of voices came from the bushes on the right.

The sentry gazed carefully about him. Pressing the brush aside, he saw the form of a man, then of several more. He counted their numbers and found that there were twelve in all, some sitting, some lying full length upon the thickly strewn leaves of the forest. Believing that the whizzing arrow had laid the sentinel low, and, little thinking that there was any one within hearing, they conversed aloud about their plans for the morrow.

“These men are few,” said one. “We will have forty warriors ready in the evening. We will shoot an arrow into the sentry, and then will attack the camp.”

“Ugh! Ugh!” said another. “It will be easy to overcome these palefaced warriors. This will be done. There are but a few men who come out with the sentry, and these we can readily take care of.”

“Ah!” said a third. “How pleasant it will be to see the palefaces running homeward. It will be good. It will be good.”

Eagerly the sentry scanned these men. He watched them as they rose, and saw them draw the numerous folds of their robes about them. He trembled, as they marched off in single file through the forest, in order to seek some distant spot, where the smoke of their fire could not be seen by the whites, and where they would not be followed, when the supposedly dead sentry was found by his comrades. Then, rising from his crouching position, the frontiersman returned to his post. His hat had an arrow in it, and his coat was pierced by two of them.

“By George,” said he, “I was lucky to escape.” Wrapping himself in his long coat, he returned immediately to the camp, and, without delay, demanded to speak to Colonel St. Clair.

“I have something very important to say to Colonel St. Clair,” said he, to the guard before his tent.

When the soldier reported his request, his commanding officer ordered that he be immediately admitted to his presence.

“You have done well,” remarked St. Clair, after hearing his story. “Furthermore, I commission you Lieutenant of the Virginia corps, to take the place of your unfortunate comrade, Lieutenant Phipps, who died three nights ago. You must be ready to-morrow evening, with a picket guard, to march to the fatal outpost, there to place your hat and coat upon the branches, and then to lie in ambush for the intruders.”

“I shall be glad to carry out your commands,” replied the newly appointed Lieutenant, smiling broadly.

According to order given out by Colonel St. Clair, a detachment of forty riflemen, with Lieutenant Morgan at their head, marched from the camp at half-past seven on the following evening. Putting up a couple of stakes, they arranged a hat and coat upon them so as to resemble the appearance of a soldier standing on guard, and then stole silently away in order to hide in the bushes.

For an hour they lay quiet, intently listening for the approach of the redskins. The night was cold and still. A full moon shed its lustrous radiance over field and forest. Snow was upon the ground, and becoming chilled by contact with the cold sprinkling of fleecy white, some of the soldiers began to grumble quite audibly.

“Silence!” whispered Lieutenant Morgan. “I hear the rustling of leaves, and it is evident that either a bear, or some red men are approaching.”

All crouched low and watched intently. Presently a large, brown bear emerged from the thicket and passed near the ambush.

“Hist!” whispered a soldier. “Look at his feet!”

Sure enough, moccasins were sticking out below. The bear reconnoitered; saw the sentinel standing at his post; retired into the forest for a few paces; then rose and let fly an arrow which brought the make-believe sentinel to the ground with a crash. The animal stood there looking at his handiwork with interest. So impatient were the Virginians to avenge the death of their comrades, that they could scarcely wait until the Lieutenant gave the word to fire. Then, rising in a body, they let drive a volley. The bear dropped instantly to the snow-covered ground, and a number of red warriors, who had crept up behind him, were also dispatched. Quickly loading, the frontiersmen made a dash into the forest, again fired, and killed, or wounded, several more of the enemy. They then marched back to camp, highly pleased and elated at their easy victory. Ten savages had fallen before the deadly aim of their rifles, and there was wailing and lamentation among the women of the Chippewa nation.

But how about Lieutenant Morgan?

This doughty soldier rose to be a captain, and, at the termination of the French and Indian campaign, returned to his home, near Winchester, Virginia, where he lived on his farm until the breaking out of the War of the Revolution. Then, at the head of a corps of Virginian riflemen, he attained great fame and renown; was present at many an important battle, and rendered signal service to the American cause. But he never forgot the bear who walked with the feet of a man.

JAMES HARROD:

FOUNDER OF HARRODSBURG KENTUCKY, AND FAMOUS SCOUT OF THE FRONTIER

DANIEL BOONE—the founder of Kentucky—was revered, respected, and admired by the early pioneers. He was, as you know, a man of much skill in woodcraft, and was also an unexcelled rifle shot. Another early settler of this border state was James Harrod, of whom we have but little record, for he was a lover of solitude and his expeditions into the wilderness were usually taken alone. Furthermore, he was the most modest of men and never wrote or spoke of his own deeds. A little knowledge of his adventures, however, has come down to us, and we are sure that he was one of the bravest of the brave. To a noble courage was added a great gentleness of manner which, in another, might almost be called effeminacy.

What drove this valiant soul into the wilderness of Kentucky? What spirit moved his restless footsteps into the virgin forest? How came he to penetrate into that “dark and bloody ground?” Who knows? His was the restless spirit and his was the soul which loved the vast solitude of the wildwood; for—even earlier than Daniel Boone—we know that this sinewy frontiersman built a log cabin for himself at the present site of Harrodsburg. When Boone went to the assistance of the surveyors of Lord Dunmore, who were surrounded by the red men, Harrod returned to Virginia and joined a force of whites sent to repel the Shawnees and other savages at Point Pleasant on the Great Kanawha. He was under General Lewis in the bloody affair, and then, having done his duty by his white brethren, returned to Kentucky in order to make Harrodsburg a place of refuge for the immigrants, who were beginning to turn their steps towards the setting sun.

One day, as he sat before his cabin busily engaged in cleaning his rifle, a man ran up to him. He was plainly excited, and was breathing heavily, as if laboring under a severe mental strain.

“Bad news, comrade!” said he, when he had partly recovered his breath. “Jim Bailey’s cabin has been attacked by the red men and no one is alive to tell the tale, save his two daughters, who have been carried away by the savages in the direction of their village. Unless a party hurries immediately in pursuit, they will be taken to the tribe and will be never seen again. Their fate will not be a pleasant one.”

The frontiersman jumped to his feet immediately.

“I will go at once,” said he. “You warn the other settlers and send all that you can after me. Now, there is no time to be lost!”

Seizing his powder-horn and pouch of bullets, he was soon speeding through the forest. He knew well where the cabin lay, and, as he burst through the tangled woodland, saw that a terrific fight had occurred around the little log fortress in the wilderness. Smoke still came from the chimney. The windows were battered and broken. The door was a splintered wreck. And, as he gazed inside, he saw the evil work of the vindictive redskins. The tracks of the murderers were plain, for a rain had fallen and it was evident that eight or ten had been in the party.

“Curses upon you, Shawnees!” cried Harrod, in loud tones. “You will pay for this ere many days are o’er!”

It was near midday. The scout took one lingering glance at the wreckage of that once peaceful home, then turned and followed the trail of the savages. It was clear, and he saw—after an hour’s travel—that the Indians had separated. One half had gone toward the Indian towns. One half had sheered off toward a settlement, about fifteen miles below. Presuming that the Indians would take the girls to the settlement by the nearest route, he followed the first trail, and, as night came on, was delighted to see a camp-fire before him, in the dense woodland.

With true woodsman’s cunning, the scout dropped to his knees and cautiously wormed a way toward the glimmering embers. Peeping over a fallen log, he saw that there were five Indians lying near the blaze. His heart now beat tumultuously—for there, also, were the two captive girls. They were bound with deer thongs, and, even at that distance, he could mark the misery expressed upon their pale countenances.

It was too early for the lone woodsman to attempt to make an attack. With the courage of a lion he intended to do this single-handed. You think it a hazardous adventure, no doubt? Wait, and see how he fared!

Creeping to a large oak, he put his back against it and went to sleep “with one eye open,” as the hunters call it. He slumbered peacefully until about twelve o’clock—then rose and again wriggled towards the fire in order to see how matters stood. All the savages were lying down, save one, who seemed to be keeping guard over the others. But even he was sleepy. His head nodded drowsily upon his breast.

The scout watched him intently, while his right hand grasped his tomahawk. The savage seated himself, then got up, yawned, and lay down by the side of his companions. Harrod saw his opportunity, and, leaning his rifle against a tree, began to crawl towards the camp.

You can be well assured that the seasoned frontiersman made little noise as he did so. But he was suddenly forced to stop. The Indian sentinel arose, stretched himself, and walked towards the place where the scout lay prostrate upon some green moss. Every nerve in the Kentuckian was a-quiver. He was all prepared to make one desperate leap upon the foe. But, as he was about to spring upward, the Indian turned back and lay down.

The avenger of Jim Bailey’s family now began to crawl towards the camp. Luck was not with him. A stick snapped beneath his left hand, and, as it cracked like the report of a pistol, the Shawnee sentinel sprang hastily to his feet. Looking furtively around, he stirred the fire and squatted down beside it. Harrod, meanwhile, crouched close to the moist earth, praying—beneath his breath—that the Indian would again lie down. Minute after minute passed. The redskin still stirred the embers with a long twig, and, fearing that day would break before he would accomplish his object, the bold pioneer began to retreat towards the tree where he had left his rifle. As he wormed his way backwards, he saw the guard stretch himself out by the side of his companions. The scout breathed easier.

Reaching the tree where his rifle stood, he took it up, and again began his cautious wriggle towards the fire. This time luck was with him, for he crept right up to the side of the sleeping savages.

Lest you think I am exaggerating this affair, I will here quote an authentic historian. He says: “To draw his tomahawk and brain two of the sleeping Indians was but the work of a moment, and, as he was about to strike the third one, the handle turned in his fingers, and the savage received the blow on the side instead of the centre of his head. He awoke with a yell. It was his last. Grasping his weapon more firmly, the frontiersman struck the fellow a surer blow and dropped him lifeless to the ground. With a terrific whoop he now sprang for his rifle just as the two other Indians rose to escape, and, firing hastily, one of them fell to rise no more.”

The other red man scampered into the forest as fast as his sinewy legs could carry him. The scout was after him as hard as he, too, could go, but the savage could run like a deer and proved to be too fleet for the trapper. Harrod stopped, and, taking careful aim, threw his tomahawk at his enemy. So sure was his missile hurled that it lopped off one of the Indian’s ears and cut a deep gash in his cheek. In spite of the grievous wound the savage did not halt, but bounded away like a Virginian deer. Harrod stood for a while, laughing at the running brave, then slowly turned and made his way back to camp. Here he found the two captive girls, crying bitterly. He unbound them, received their joyous thanks, was embraced by both; and then took them upon the trail to the settlement. Imagine the joy of the frontiersmen when they saw them return, and, although a party had started out to track the Indians, they had only travelled about three miles from Harrodsburg when they met the triumphant pioneer.

“Hurrah! Hurrah for Harrod!” they shouted. “You are indeed a worthy scout! Hurrah! Hurrah!”

The two girls were carried upon the men’s shoulders into camp, and there were given a feast of welcome. They were embraced by the women, hugged by the children, and were presented with a wreath of flowers by the men. As for Harrod, his modesty forbade him taking part in the ceremonies, and, leaving the next day upon a hunting excursion, he was not heard or seen until a week later, when he returned with several deer and bear skins.

Shortly after this thrilling adventure the scout went into the forest in search of game. Not far from the settlement he spied a fat deer. He drew a careful bead on him, and was just about to raise his rifle for a shot when he heard the buck whistle and saw him raise his head. He knew from this that the forest rover had scented some hidden foe, and, sure that it was not himself that the animal smelled—as the wind was blowing from the deer toward him—he crouched down to await developments. He had not long to remain in this position. In a few moments he heard the crack of a rifle and saw the noble buck leap high into the air. He fell prone upon his side, and, as he lay quivering in the grass, three Indians came up and began to skin him. They were laughing and talking in loud tones.

“Ah ha,” said the scout to himself, “they are skinning my game for me. Let them go on.”

He crouched low in the brush, and when they had about completed this operation he rose, took careful aim, and killed the one he judged to be the leader of the party. Believing that he was too well concealed to be detected, he crouched behind the brush, and, turning his back, reloaded his rifle in that position. The redskins, meanwhile, climbed into some trees, but one of them exposed himself to the keen view of the scout. Harrod took careful aim, and, at the discharge of his flint-lock, the savage tumbled to the ground. The third Indian now saw where he was concealed, and, leaping to the ground, made at him with rifle raised. Harrod put his cap upon a stick and poked it above the brush. The redskin fired, thinking that he was aiming at the trapper, and, as his bullet whistled by the head of the man of the frontier, the scout knew that the advantage was now on his side. Drawing his tomahawk, he leaped from his hiding place, and, in a few bounds, had swung his weapon above the head of the now terrified brave. In a second it was all over with the red man.

The scout sat down and laughed loudly, for he had won a glorious victory. Then he rose, gathered up the arms of his enemies, loaded himself with deer meat, and made his way back to his cabin. He was well satisfied with the day’s work.

This was but one of many adventures. He continued upon his solitary hunts, and, while searching for game, often was surrounded by roving Shawnees, so that his life was in constant danger.

A month after the first affair he was chasing some deer on Cedar Run—a tributary of a stream now named Harrod’s Creek, in honor of this intrepid pioneer. He had shot a fat buck and was bending over him in order to get the choicest bit of venison, when a bullet whizzed suddenly by his ear. A loud and triumphant yell sounded in the forest at the same instant, and, looking up, he saw that he was confronted by a dozen red men. His only safety was in flight.

Scout Harrod was no mean runner. Inured to hardship, and with muscles of steel, he bounded away like one of the very deer which he had just dispatched. The Indians were in hot pursuit. As they came on, their leader cried, at the top of his voice:

“Come on! Here is the lone panther—Come on! Come on!”

So hotly did they push the running trapper that Harrod did not keep a proper lookout for what was in front of him. To his dismay, he found that he almost ran into a party of savages coming up to join the others. What was he to do? In a moment he had made up his mind.

Dashing right up to the oncoming braves he began to yell at the top of his lungs: “Come on, boys—here they are—Come on! Come!” He then followed this with an exultant whoop.

The Shawnees could not see their friends,—the pursuers. They were therefore of the opinion that this was a war party of whites, in considerable numbers, which is just what Harrod wished them to believe. Those in front became panic stricken, and turned without firing a shot. Those in the rear followed, while Harrod—racing after them—struck two to the earth with his tomahawk. One was a celebrated Shawnee chief, called Turkey Head, who was noted for his cruelty to the unlucky settlers who fell into his hands.

The scout kept on, plunged into a ravine, and seated himself in some thick brush. Peeping through the leaves, he saw his pursuers go on in full cry. Their wild yelping finally died out in the distance, and, turning around, the famous woodsman retraced his steps towards the settlement. He arrived there in due time, much overjoyed to have thus safely escaped from his vindictive enemies.

This was certainly a narrow escape, but another adventure—some days later—was about as thrilling as the last.

While at Harrodsburg he learned that a marauding expedition was about to start for the settlements, led by a famous warrior called Turtle Heart. He must stop it if he could, but, should he know their plans it would be far easier to head off the wild band, which would fall upon the log houses of the pioneers like a cloud of fire.

The scout set off alone in order to visit the Indian town, and, reaching it about noon, secreted himself upon an eminence from which he could watch the gathering savages. Here he lay until nightfall, then—carefully hiding his gun—stole noiselessly into the town and approached the council house. Worming his way up to it, he crouched near a hole—looked through—and saw many of the chiefs in close consultation.

“We will attack in two days,” said one big, fierce-looking fellow. “The palefaces shall not possess the land given to us by the Great Father.”

“Ugh! Ugh!” uttered several. “The palefaces must go home to the land of the rising sun!”

This was enough for the scout, and, rising, he began to beat a retreat. Suddenly he started back, for before him stood a giant redskin who seized him by the shoulder. Harrod saw that he was about to give a whoop of alarm. There was not a moment to be lost. Catching the warrior fiercely by the throat, the pioneer stunned him by a terrific blow of the fist. So strong was he that he broke the neck of the brave, and, without waiting an instant, bounded forth into the darkness. A single cry, or even the sound of a struggle, would have brought a hundred infuriated savages to the scene. His nerve and gigantic strength had saved him from an awful death.

Not many weeks after this affair he married a young and beautiful girl, was given a Colonel’s commission for his many services upon the frontier, and retired to the peace and seclusion of a small log hut near the town which he had founded. But his charming wife could not prevent his long and solitary excursions into the wilderness, where were deer, bear, wild turkeys, and lurking redskins. One day he went upon one of these hazardous trips, and from it he never returned. Parties of friendly pioneers scoured the woods in every direction, but he had “gone on and had left no sign.” No trace of this gallant scout was ever found—no word of him ever came from woodsman or savage. Whether he met his end in manly combat, or whether he was tortured at the stake, no tongue could tell. His fate is wrapped in impenetrable mystery, and the silence of the forest broods over the spirit of James Harrod; frontiersman, pioneer, and hardy woodland adventurer.

ROBERT McLELLAN:

PLUCKIEST OF THE EARLY PIONEERS

WHEN “Mad Anthony” Wayne was furiously battling with Little Turtle at Fallen Timbers, a daring adventurer was with him who was subsequently to play a most important part in the exploration of the then unconquered and unexplored West. Hardy, utterly fearless, and possessed of wonderful agility,—such was Robert McLellan, one of the most noted scouts that ever operated upon the border, and a rifleman whose aim was both quick and marvellously true.

In the summer of 1794 the celebrated “Mad Anthony” was pushing his way into the Indian country and was most desirous of securing a red prisoner, so that he could learn the force and strength of his savage opponents. Calling McLellan to him, he said:

“Bob, I wish you to take two trusty companions—Miller and Wells will do—and leave to-night for the Shawnee country. Secure a prisoner, as soon as possible, and return to camp with the fellow alive, for I am extremely anxious to get information in regard to the whereabouts of the large force of redskins which I know to be in my front.”

McLellan was delighted.

“All right, Captain,” he replied with enthusiasm. “You leave the matter to me and I will guarantee that I and my friends will return with the desired captive. Only give us time and we will deliver the man of the woods, right side up and with care.”

The General laughed.

“Very good,” said he. “Go in, now, and win out.”

Next morning McLellan and his two companions started forth with confidence and were soon far in the hostile country, where many prints of moccasined feet warned them that the savages were in the vicinity. One day they followed a fresh trail, and, upon peering around a projecting clump of bushes, saw three savages sitting upon a log near a great fire, at which they were cooking some venison. They crawled softly towards them, and decided, in a whispered consultation, that Wells should shoot the redskin upon the left; Miller, the one upon the right; and that McLellan, leaving his rifle against a tree, should run the other fellow down and capture him.

At the given signal the rifles spoke in unison, and the two redskins who had been marked, fell prostrate to the earth; for both of the pioneers could hit the eye of a squirrel at fifty yards. The one in the centre leaped swiftly to his feet, and, darting through the thicket, was soon bounding away to safety. But McLellan was after him in a jiffy, and the redskin realized that he was running away from one of the speediest frontiersmen in all Ohio. On, on, they rushed, but, seeing that he was being rapidly overtaken, the savage turned in his course, headed for the stream, and, with one furtive glance at the oncoming man in buckskin, leaped from the high bank into the eddying current.

Raising his tomahawk in his right hand, the trapper made the venturesome leap with quite as much readiness as his opponent, and landed with a resounding splash. The water was very shallow in this spot. To his disgust, he found himself stuck up to the waist in the heavy mud. The redskin, too, was mired, but, brandishing a long knife aloft, now endeavored to strike it into McLellan’s body.

He was dealing with a crafty antagonist who had parried many a knife-thrust before, and, quick as a flash, the pioneer grabbed the right arm of the Shawnee. In an instant his tomahawk was raised as if to brain the red man, who cried, “Ugh! Ugh! Paleface, you too strong. I surrender.”

In a moment more the other two pioneers had reached the bank, and, leaning over the edge, pulled both savage and frontiersman out of the mud. Each was vigorously washed. To the surprise of all, the redskin was discovered to be a white man; the brother of Trapper Miller, himself, who had been captured by the savages when young, and had preferred to remain with them, although his kinsman had early left and had returned to his own people. “Ugh! Ugh!” he muttered. “I hate all of you.”

In spite of his protestations he was taken to the headquarters of “Mad Anthony;” was confined to the guard-house; and was questioned very closely in regard to the numbers of his Shawnee allies. He was extremely moody and resisted all attempts at conciliation, even from his brother, but at last some memory of his former relatives seemed to return; he began to grow more amiable; and, joining the company captained by a noted Ranger, served in the ranks of the whites against the people of his adoption.

So much for the ability to run, which was exhibited by this celebrated woodsman. Marvellous feats of strength and agility are also told of McLellan. Amongst other stories, it is related that one day, in Lexington, Kentucky, a yoke of oxen blocked the narrow street down which he was going, so that it was impossible to pass on either side. Instead of turning out of the way, or waiting for the team to move on, the famous man of the frontier made a few rapid bounds, and—with a mighty spring—cleared both of the oxen with the greatest possible ease.

Another yarn is also narrated concerning his wonderful ability to jump, for it is said that he was excelled only by one William Kennan, a Kentuckian, and noted scout of the border. It is currently reported, and a historian of the period quotes two unimpeachable witnesses to back his statement, that at a trial of strength and agility with several other scouts, McLellan was asked if he could leap over a covered wagon.

“I feel like a colt,” he is said to have replied, “and, if you will but watch me, I am sure that I can clear this obstacle. Now, boys, look at me!”

With a run, a short step, and a tremendous spring, the trapper shot into the air, and—to the astonishment of all—lighted softly upon the ground, on the other side of the wagon. He had leaped over an obstacle at least eight and a half feet high, is reported by an old chronicler of these early days, but this is hardly possible in view of the fact that the world’s record for the high jump is but six feet nine inches. At any rate, he had made an extraordinary performance.

In the year 1806, the famous adventurer Meriwether Clark met Robert McLellan ascending the swift and muddy waters of the Missouri in a canoe. Clark was returning from his long and dangerous expedition up the Mississippi and to the Pacific coast, which he had taken with Lewis (“the undaunted one”). Accompanying the valiant McLellan were numerous companions; all of the same hardy stamp as their leader, and all bent upon trading with the redskins.

“Where are you bound?” asked Clark.

“To fix up a trading post,” answered McLellan, “where I can meet the red varmints on equal terms, trade with ’em, and get rich.”

Clark smiled dubiously.

“You’ll have a hard time,” he answered, “for the French and Spanish are very jealous of you English. They operate mainly from St. Louis, and are endeavoring to monopolize the entire trade of this western country.”

“Well,” answered McLellan, with some show of anger, “I intend to hold this place against all the frog and garlic eaters in creation. Let them try to force out Robert McLellan, an’ there’ll be as tough a fight as any man ever looked for.”

From his former acquaintance with this trapper, Clark fully believed that any attempt on the part of the rival traders to drive him from the ground would certainly result in a sharp and bloody battle.

“These French and Spanish traders,” continued McLellan, “are like a dog who has had far too much to eat, and who is determined not to allow any of his fellows to share in the viands which he has before him. They want it all.”

Clark could not help laughing.

“Look out for these Indians around here,” said he. “They are treacherous devils and will betray you when you least expect it.”

“I’ll be on my guard,” McLellan replied.

The explorer now gave him valuable information in connection with the various tribes of Indians who occupied the ground adjacent to the banks of the river. He again warned him of their treacherous character, but felt more at ease when he learned that his old-time friend had recently been an Indian trader for some time upon the frontier. Parting company at this point, the two hardy pioneers were destined never to see each other again, for Clark turned towards the peaceful East, while McLellan faced towards the savage frontier, where lay danger, toil, and thrilling adventures.

Pushing up the turbid waters of the Missouri, the hardy scout soon saw that his progress was not going to be any too easy. Suddenly hundreds of red men crowded the steep bluffs, which jutted high above the sides of the narrow stream, and brandished their spears and tomahawks in the faces of the whites. There were but forty trappers, so it could be plainly seen that it was wisest to submit to the demands of the hostiles. A solitary chieftain—splendidly mounted—now dashed up to the bank and held up his hand in token of a parley.

“Ugh! Ugh! Palefaces,” said he, “you cannot come further into our country, for you will drive off all the game and we desire it for ourselves. But, if you want to build big house for trading you can do so down the stream.”

“I reckon they’ve got us, boys,” said McLellan. “We’ll retreat and put up our tent lower down. I’ll guarantee that this hold-up didn’t originate with the redskins. There’s Spanish blood behind this affair, or else my name’s not Robert McLellan.”

The savages supposed that the whites were perfectly contented with this enforced arrangement, and drew off, leaving a guard to watch the traders. But McLellan was a past master in outwitting Indians and had fooled too many in former years. No sooner had the army of savages moved well towards their villages than he hastily loaded up his boat, and, by pulling it very rapidly, passed the cliffs, where the red men had held him up before. He soon reached a spot suitable for his establishment, there built several log huts, and prepared to spend a considerable time in peaceful trading. He also swore to have revenge upon a Spaniard, called Manuel Lisa, as soon as he could catch him. For he learned that this opposition trader had been the cause of his detention.

McLellan lived here for several years in partnership with an adventurous borderer named Crooks, who was an expert in trading with the savages. They prospered, but soon the Sioux grew very troublesome. One day, when the trappers were off on a hunt, the red men surrounded the post, overpowered the trappers left behind, and began to carry off all of the valuable stores. McLellan returned before the work of spoliation was quite completed and burst in among the savages, exhibiting terrific anger.

“You curs!” he shouted, “bring back everything that you have taken away, or I’ll blow you all to pieces with my cannon!”

The Sioux well knew the ungovernable temper and desperate character of the infuriated trapper.

“He heap angry!” said they. “We do as he say.”

They returned much that had been taken away, but much that had been carried to the Indian village never came back, and the valorous trader had to pocket a loss of about three thousand dollars. Heaping curses upon the heads of the savages, the Spaniards, the Frenchmen, and all the other “unmitigated rascals,” as he called them, the outraged trader now fitted up his boats and started down the Missouri River to engage in business at a place where his competitors would be more honest and honorable.

Crooks had parted company with McLellan some time before this outrage.

“I can do better for myself down stream,” he had said. “The Indians here are too troublesome, for they are under the influence of the rascally Spaniard, Manuel Lisa.”

What was the surprise of the disappointed frontiersman, when floating down the Missouri on his way to St. Louis, to find his former partner at the mouth of the Nodaway River.

“I’m delighted to see you, Crooks,” he cried, and, rounding to, he ran his canoe upon the bank. While their men mingled together the partners had a long conversation, and from Crooks it was learned that the organization, with which he was now connected, was under the command of a Mr. Hunt—one of John Jacob Astor’s partners in the American Fur Company.

“We are bound for the mouth of the Columbia River,” said Crooks, “where we are to meet another part of the expedition which has gone by sea. We will be camped here until spring, so will you not join us? I am sure that you will have better luck in trading and trapping in this new field.”

McLellan could not withstand the temptation.

“By George,” cried he, “I’ll be with you. I’ll begin a new life and see if I cannot have better success than here upon the Missouri.”

Throwing away all of his worldly possessions, except his trusty rifle, the unfortunate trader joined the expedition.

“I am determined to begin the world anew,” he wrote to his brother. “And I trust that there will be no Spanish traders in the country to which we are going.”

His hopes were in vain, for they heard that Manuel Lisa was on the way to impede their progress and would use every effort to pass them by and prevent them from gaining any trade benefits with the Indians above. Sure enough, an emissary soon appeared from the crafty Spaniard, holding a message in his hand.

“If you wait for my party,” it ran, “we can enter this territory together and share the trade. This will be better for all concerned.”

“Don’t give in to him,” cried McLellan, when he heard this message. “The lying Spaniard can’t tell the truth if he tries to, and cannot be honest if he wishes. He’ll trick you after he has made you believe that he is your friend.”

“I believe that you’re right,” Hunt answered. “I’ll send him no definite reply.”

So he returned a missive which did not commit him to any particular course of procedure.

In a few days—it was the thirty-first of May—immense bodies of savages gathered on the bluffs of the river, armed and painted for war. They screeched their defiance and yelled like demons, so it was easy to see that the tricky Manuel had been influencing them. Every trapper seized his arms and stood ready for action.

“Load up the artillery!” cried Captain Hunt, for he saw that it was dangerous both to retreat and to advance. “We will first fire off some blank cartridges and see if we cannot scare these pesky varmints into submission.”

In a few moments smoke and flame burst from the mouths of the cannon and the redskins beat a precipitate retreat. But soon they gathered again and made peace signs.

“We would make big talk,” cried one painted brave. “We love our white brothers.”

“Load the cannon with grape and cannister,” said McLellan to his men. “Hunt and I will go ashore, and, if the redskins show any signs of treachery, blaze away.”

His men smiled, as the daring trapper now approached the bank, where the Indians welcomed him with much show of good will, for they saw that the white men meant business. They smoked the pipe of peace together, and, finding that the trappers were determined to advance at any cost, the red men suddenly evinced a perfect willingness to allow them to go on. Their hearts were warmed by the gift of several hundredweight of corn, and—what they loved still more—a quantity of tobacco. “Ugh! Ugh!” grunted the chiefs. “We love our white brothers.”

Seeing that the red men were now peaceful, McLellan ordered his own followers to advance up the river, but he was soon surprised by seeing another band of Indians, who rode along the bank of the stream but seemed to be friendly.

“By George!” cried McLellan, “these fellows are the same ones that robbed my store, when Crooks and I were in partnership! They mean trouble.”

But the children of the plains realized that the whites were in force, and, fearing that they might attempt to punish them for their former actions, peacefully accepted several presents which were offered them. Again the trappers forced their way up the swift waters, but again they were surprised by a group of red men, who rode up the bank, and, in a lordly and insolent manner, demanded presents similar to those which had recently been given to their brethren. This angered the trappers, for they appreciated the fact that the redskins wished to frighten them.

“You shall not get a single thing from us,” shouted Hunt,—a man of great firmness. “Furthermore, if you make any more insolent demands, I will treat you all as enemies and turn our cannon against you.”

This did not please the savages, as can be well imagined. Vowing vengeance, and shaking their fists at the trappers, they rode off across the prairie, while the whites were now divided into two forces; one going up one bank, and the other taking the opposite side. Thus they proceeded for several days, until they came to a spot where the stream was very narrow and was filled with sand bars. A vast number of redskins were camped upon the western bank, and Hunt was fearful that they would soon attack. He and McLellan were in one of the boats.

“I know that they are peaceful,” said the former, “for their faces are painted. Row to the shore!”

As they approached, the savages dropped their bows and arrows, came to meet them joyfully, and proved to be a band of Arickaras who were at war with the Sioux, and were thus anxious to have the white trappers assist in fighting their battles for them. “How! How!” said they. “We glad to see our white brothers. How! How! We wish to have sticks which speak with the voice of thunder.”

The adventurers looked forward to rich trade with the red men but were much surprised and angered by receiving word that the boat of Lisa—the Spaniard—was rapidly approaching.

“That rascally fellow will ruin our work!” cried McLellan, with considerable heat. “We must let him know, now, that we will stand no trickery from him. If he tampers with these redskins and sets them against me, I will let my rifle do the work of vengeance.”

The Indians, meanwhile, showed no disposition to trade, knowing that the presence of a rival trader would ensure them better bargains. Lisa soon arrived and was not long in discovering that he was an unwelcome guest. McLellan had difficulty in restraining himself from wreaking a just vengeance upon this artful “Greaser,” but fearing that he might involve Hunt and his other friends in a quarrel, kept his own counsel. It was, however, not for long.