FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN
AND HEROES OF THE BORDER
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│ FAMOUS LEADERS SERIES │
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│ BY │
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│ CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON │
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│ Each one volume, large 12mo, illustrated, │
│ $1.50 │
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│ FAMOUS CAVALRY LEADERS │
│ FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEFS │
│ FAMOUS SCOUTS │
│ FAMOUS PRIVATEERSMEN │
│ FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN │
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│ L. C. PAGE & COMPANY │
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│ 53 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass. │
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[Illustration: DANIEL MORGAN.]
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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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│ Illustrated │
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│ BOSTON L. C. PAGE & │
│ COMPANY MDCCCCXIII │
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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.
[Illustration: JAMES HARROD.]
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.
[Illustration: BATTLE OF FALLEN TIMBERS.]
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.”