to a dense thicket pushed through a close tangle of briars to a fallen
tree. He wedged himself beneath this, and none too soon, for within a
very few moments a number of Indians and soldiers approached. Twice
some redskins sat upon the very tree beneath which he was crouching,
and he heard one say:
“Ah, but the white dog would make good running through the ranks of
our red brothers. We must stick our knives into him when we find him.”
At last darkness came. The trapper heard his pursuers returning, so
he crept stealthily from his hiding-place and made for the river.
He reached it in an hour, and by the light of the half moon, saw a
frontiersman fishing from a canoe. He was afraid to call to him, for
the woods were full of Indians, so he attracted his attention by
beating upon the water with a stick. The fellow saw him; picked him up,
and paddled him to the other shore, where his handcuffs were cut from
his wrists. Next day he stood among his own friends.
Not long after this remarkable escape the trapper was at a fort on
Wheeling Creek from which a number of pioneers had mysteriously
disappeared.
“They have been killed by the redskins,” said one of the backwoodsmen,
who resided there. “How, where, and when, no one seems to know; but,
my friend, there have been mysterious calls of turkeys in the woods.
Turkeys, mark you, my friend,—wild turkeys!”
Wetzel pricked up his ears. He remembered that each of the men who had
been killed had heard turkey calls near the fort: had gone out to shoot
one for supper: and had never returned. The turkey calls had all come
from one direction and here was a high hill covered with boulders. A
small cave-like depression could be seen from the camp. Putting two
and two together, he decided that Mr. Redskin had produced the call of
Mr. Turkey and that it was Mr. Redskin’s unerring aim that had put an
end to the lives of so many good frontiersmen. “I shall soon stop the
twaddle of the fascinating tongue of Mr. Gobbler,” said the scout to
himself.
Setting out one morning, before day had broken, he soon drew near a
hill, on the top of which was a small cave. It was an excellent spot in
which to hide one’s self, and, placing himself in ambush, he watched it
narrowly. At sunrise he saw the tufted head of a Shawnee appear in the
narrow opening, and the “gobble, gobble, gobble” of a turkey, sounded
from the throat of the savage. The trapper bent low and watched the
performance, for it was an exact imitation of the male bird. “Gobble,
gobble, gobble,” echoed again from the gloom of the cave, and, “crack”
sounded the rifle of the bold pioneer. A wail of anguish arose from the
cavern’s mouth. Then all was still. The Shawnee gobbler had gone to the
Happy Hunting Grounds.
Well pleased with himself, Wetzel started back to the fort with the
scalp-lock of the enterprising brave, and, as he neared the stockade,
met a soldier hastening towards him.
“Did you hear that turkey call?” said the enthusiastic sportsman. “I’m
going out to get him, sure.”
The scout pointed to his girdle.
“There is Mr. Gobbler,” said he. “He was the kind of a bird that shoots
a rifle. My boy, you should thank your lucky stars that I saw him
first.”
Not long after this event the frontiersman made a journey to the
Kanawha River with John Madison, brother of James Madison, at one time
President of the United States. They were busy surveying some land, and
one day came to a hunter’s cabin, which appeared to be deserted.
“No one is here,” said Madison. “Let us take some of this jerked
venison and also a pailful of this coffee. I do not believe that the
camp will be again visited, and we may as well have the food, as to let
the wood-mice eat it.”
“All right,” answered the trapper, and, without more ado, they
appropriated what they wished, and continued upon their journey.
Early the next day, as they were crossing a small valley, many shots
rang out, and wild war-whoops sounded from every side. Cries of “You
give back our venison!” were heard above the din, and Madison reeled
in his saddle, falling head-long to the ground. Wetzel did not wait to
see what had happened to him, but, digging his heels into his horse’s
flanks, dashed off into the brush.
Now was a furious chase. Although well mounted, the scout soon saw that
the red men also had good ponies, and he feared that they would catch
him. Over the mountain paths they flew, for hour after hour. At last
they neared a broad river, and leaping his horse into it, the scout
swam to the other side. The red men had not the courage to follow where
he had led, and thus he made good his escape.
The pioneer had a generous heart in spite of his vindictiveness to all
savages, and not long afterwards had an opportunity to display his good
feeling towards the weak and distressed. Going with a friend one day
to pay a visit to a frontier house belonging to the Bryans, they found
indications that the Indians had just been there, for the home was
burned to the ground. Tracks in the moist earth led into the forest,
and besides those of the redskins were the print of a woman’s feet.
“Miss Betsy Bryan has been carried off, I fear,” said Wetzel
sorrowfully, pointing to the footprints. “We must rescue her even if it
costs us our lives. Comrade, let us hasten to the chase.”
His companion nodded, and, without more ado, the two men of the
frontier followed the well-marked trail of the savages. Towards evening
they crossed the Ohio River. Not far from the bank was a camp-fire,
and, going towards it with great caution, they saw the girl seated near
the flames. A white renegade and three Indians were her companions.
“Lie down, comrade,” whispered Wetzel to his friend. “I will tell you
when to rouse yourself, for we cannot attack until these redskins are
asleep.”
His companion obeyed, and waking him about two o’clock in the early
morning, the scout told him to fire at one of the red men and then to
rush into the camp in order to protect the captive. “I, myself, will
attend to the renegade,” said he.
Both frontiersmen fired at about the same time. The renegade was done
for, as was one Indian, also. The two remaining savages took to their
heels. Wetzel was after them in a jiffy, but, as they soon hid in the
brush, he fired his rifle off, thinking that they might pursue him
if they believed that his weapon were empty. He was not mistaken. The
savages rushed from their hiding-places, gave close chase, and gained
rapidly upon the running plainsman. They began to yelp wildly, as they
thought that they had him cornered, but they did not know that this was
the famous trapper who could load while on the run.
Turning about, Wetzel now shot the nearest red man, but the other kept
on after him like a flash. The scout loaded while darting forward, as
usual, then wheeling quickly, he dispatched this second assailant. His
wonderful ability to load when at full speed had made it thus possible
for him to thoroughly avenge the assault upon the frontier settlement
and the capture of the inoffensive girl. Taking the scalp-locks of the
two fallen braves and tying them to his girdle, he was soon back at the
camp, where he was tearfully greeted by the rescued maiden. In a short
time they were at home in the settlement.
Wetzel continued his life of hardship and adventure after this; made a
journey south, where he was imprisoned at New Orleans, and, in 1803,
joined Lewis and Clark in their expedition up the Missouri River.
He left them after two months, and spent about two years near the
headwaters of the Yellowstone, engaged in trapping and in hunting. From
now on, until his death in 1818, he was a trapper and fur trader; his
hatred for the redskins remaining unabated until his demise. He was
camping near Natchez, Mississippi, when this occurred.
A braver man never lived than this famous scout, who could load while
on the run, and who had probably experienced more hairbreadth escapes
than most of the pioneers. His one great failing was his dislike for
the red men and desire to put them out of the way, but, after one
considers the distressing circumstances attending the death of the
members of his family, when he was a mere youth, one can pardon this
bloodthirstiness. There was much good in Lewis Wetzel; the valorous
frontiersman of the early days of the settlement of the United States.
SAMUEL COLTER:
AND HIS WONDERFUL RACE FOR LIFE
WHEN Lewis and Clark were on their way to the Pacific coast they had
with them two trappers, one of whom was to meet with extraordinary
adventures. These were Samuel Colter and Lemuel Potts—both sturdy sons
of the West—who obtained permission from the leaders of the expedition
to remain near the headwaters of the Missouri River, in order to hunt
and to trap. They intended to overtake the main body, after a short
time, and hoped to obtain enough beaver skins to net them a good sum
of money upon their return to civilization. You probably remember that
Lewis had trouble with the Blackfeet, when near the Missouri, one of
whom he had to kill because he began to run off the horses. For this
reason these two trappers knew that they would have to use extreme
caution or else they would fall into the clutches of some of these
savages. The vengeance of an Indian is always swift and sure.
Knowing that the redskins were all about them, the trappers decided
upon the following plan: they would lie hidden during the day, would
set their traps late in the evening, and would visit them in order to
remove the game in the gray of the early morning. Success met their
efforts, and, before long, they had a goodly quantity of skins. No
Indians were seen, although Indian sign was abundant, and they knew
that there were plenty of Blackfeet in the vicinity.
One morning, while paddling up a winding stream where numerous traps
were set, to their keen ears came the sound of heavy tramping.
“Those are redskins,” whispered Colter. “Let’s decamp at once, and get
back to our starting-place.”
But Potts thought differently.
“Those are buffalo,” said he. “Wait until we round the corner and you
will find out that I am right.”
Just then they swirled around the bend in the stream, and to their
dismay, found both banks fairly swarming with Blackfeet. Escape was
impossible, and, although cold shivers began to run up and down his
spine, Colter ran the bow of the canoe towards the bank.
The red men began to whoop loudly, as they saw them approach, and
called to them to come ashore. This they did, and, as they stepped
upon the bank, a burly savage jumped forward and snatched the rifle
which Potts carried, from his hand. Colter was a man of great physical
strength and courage, who was not afraid of twenty savages. He wrested
the weapon away from the redskin, handed it back to Potts, and
confronted the startled braves with a face filled with determination
and fire. Potts jumped into his canoe, pushed out into the stream, and
started to paddle away, in spite of the commands of Colter, who cried
to him to come back and take him with him.
Suddenly an arrow whizzed from the bank and Potts cried out, “I’m
wounded, Colter. I cannot come to your assistance.”
In spite of this, he raised his rifle, fired, and killed the redskin
who had shot him. A wild yelping now arose from the other savages, and,
before five minutes had passed, the body of Potts fell into the water,
riddled with hundreds of arrows.
Colter stood upon the bank, unarmed and alone. The Blackfeet swarmed
around him; stripped him of his clothes and then held a pow-wow, while
they determined what they should do with him.
“Let’s skin him alive!” said one.
“No, whip him to death!” suggested another.
“Burn him at the stake!” shouted a great many.
The wrangling thus continued, until it was decided to let him run a
race for his life. He was to get away if he could, but, if he could
not, he was to be burned at the stake. All seemed to be much pleased at
this decision.
A chief now approached the captive and said: “Paleface, you run fast,
eh?”
“No, no, chief,” answered the trapper, “I am very poor runner, I slow
as the tortoise.”
This was an untruth, for Colter was one of the swiftest foot racers
upon the border, but his reply was hailed with loud shouts. Led upon a
sandy plain by the chief, he was followed by six hundred armed red men,
who gave him a start of three hundred yards, and then told him to go.
As Colter dashed away, a fierce whoop arose from all the red men and
they started in pursuit with continued yelping. In a few moments they
saw that it would take their swiftest runners to overhaul the white
man, for he sped along like a greyhound. They had, however, a great
advantage over him, for his feet were naked, and there were prickly
plants, sand bars, and sharp stones upon the plain. Their feet, on the
other hand, were protected by stout deer-skin moccasins.
On, on, sped the gallant scout, although his feet were cruelly
lacerated by the stones and shrubs. On, on, he went, while the shouting
of the red men died away, as they perceived that he was out-distancing
them. None caught up to him, in fact, he drew rapidly away from the
very swiftest of them all.
After a run of three miles Colter glanced back over his shoulder and
saw that one of his pursuers was holding his own with him. He had
headed towards the Jefferson Fork of the Missouri River, and knew that
if he once reached the water he could doubtless hide himself. The
pursuing red man had a spear in his hand, and, so fleet was he, that he
was soon within a hundred yards of the trapper.
“If I do not stop this Indian,” said Colter to himself, “it is all over
with me.”
Straining every muscle in order to get away, Colter suddenly felt the
blood gushing from his nose, and knew that a slight hemorrhage had been
occasioned by his efforts. He was but a mile from the river, and, again
looking back, saw the Indian within twenty yards of him. Escape was now
impossible. Turning swiftly around,—he stood absolutely still and
opened his arms.
The red man was astounded at this unexpected action, and, in
endeavoring to check his headway, fell to the ground. The lance,
meanwhile, flew from his hand and stuck into the earth a considerable
distance from him, where it broke off. Luck was with the half-winded
man of the plains, who now turned about, seized the broken spear-head,
and darted swiftly to the side of the prostrate red man.
The trapper aimed the sharp lance at the Indian, and drove it into him
with such force that he was pinned to the earth. A deep groan came from
the helpless brave, as the backwoodsman again turned to run towards
the river, although he was now exhausted by loss of blood and by the
terrible race for life. His pursuers were still far behind, and he
reached Jefferson’s Fork so far ahead of them that they could not see
him. One spring—he had leaped into the water—and was swimming towards
a little island about a hundred yards from the bank.
Upon the edge of this had lodged a clump of sticks and floating
brush. Colter made for it and dove beneath the tangled mass; emerging
somewhere in its centre, with his head between two giant logs.
Breathing with great difficulty, and faint from his exhausting run, he
waited with throbbing heart for the red men to arrive. This they did
very shortly.
They had stopped beside the body of their comrade and found that he
was in his death-agony. Infuriated by this, and with terrific yells,
they again set out in pursuit of Colter, who heard their vindictive
screeching as they reached the bank. Some of them swam out to the
island and punched about in the drift with their spears. As they did
so, the trapper drew down in the water so that only his nose was
exposed. He remained thus for about half an hour, when the redskins
gave up their search and returned to the body of the fallen chieftain.
Colter feared that they might set fire to the drift, but this idea
did not seem to have entered the minds of the Blackfeet, who began a
hideous wailing as they gathered around their leader. Carrying him upon
their shoulders, they started back to their camp, and gradually their
wild lamentations died away in the shadows of the forest.
The trapper was in a desperate predicament, for he was without either
clothes or rifle. His feet had been lacerated by the stones and plants
so that he could walk only with difficulty, and his body was chilled by
his long immersion in the cold waters of the river. Certainly there was
no brilliant prospect before him, for he was miles from any settlement.
Would you not think that he would have become absolutely disheartened
and would have given up in despair?
Not so with this bold follower of Lewis and Clark. After a day’s rest
and a meal of berries, grass and stalks from a shrub known as the sheep
sorrel, he started for Lisa’s Fort on the Yellowstone, a distance of a
week’s hard journey. Fortune favored this man of iron. Toads, frogs,
and insects became his food, and with clothing of bark and reeds he
finally reached the hospitable shelter of Manuel Lisa’s trading
station. He was scarcely recognizable.
Colter had suffered untold agony from thirst, from hunger and from
cold. The evenings are chilly in this country—even in summer—and,
although he made a fire by rubbing two dry sticks together, he shivered
all through the night. The wild sheep sorrel had given him most needed
nourishment, while the body of a dead rabbit, which he fortunately
stumbled upon, had brought sufficient strength to carry him to the
Fort. No wonder that the trappers there gave three rousing cheers for
this frontier hero.
In ten days after his arrival at the group of log huts, Samuel Colter
was again fit for service, but Lewis and Clark were already far away
upon their transcontinental journey. He remained at the Fort, had
several brushes with the Blackfeet, and eventually found his way back
to the settlements, where he was much admired for his nerve and courage
in eluding the wild denizens of the plains near the headwaters of
the Missouri. Certainly he had good reason to be proud of his escape
from the bloodthirsty hands of the Blackfoot warriors. Three cheers
for brave Sam Colter! He well deserves to be remembered as a Marathon
runner who ran a more thrilling race than the tame affairs of the
present day, where no band of savages, who are thirsting for one’s
gore, pursue the struggling athletes.
MESHACK BROWNING:
THE CELEBRATED BEAR HUNTER OF THE ALLEGHANIES
IN 1781 was born in Frederick County, Maryland, a pioneer who was
truly entitled to the name of “The Mighty Hunter.” The son of one of
General Braddock’s soldiers, who had settled in this beautiful country,
Meshack Browning lived his life in the wild fastnesses of the then
uncleared mountains of the Blue Ridge, and, at the close of a long and
eventful career as a huntsman and trapper, could say with pride that
he had killed from eighteen hundred to two thousand deer; from three
to four hundred beaver; about fifty panthers; and scores of wolves and
wildcats. He was the hero of every man’s conversation in this mountain
republic. All looked up to the hardy pioneer, and, after his long and
eventful life was brought to a close, when well beyond eighty years of
age, no one was more cordially missed than this sturdy old man of the
mountains.
Young Meshack’s father died when he was an infant of but two weeks
of age, leaving his mother desperately poor, with one daughter named
Dorcas, and three sons. It was a hard struggle to bring them up, but
by working in the garden, by raising plenty of vegetables, and by
spinning, saving and knitting, the good lady managed to scrape along
somehow or other. Little Meshack had to learn how to use the rifle at
an early age, for by this means only was it possible to supply the
larder with fresh meat. Wild turkeys were abundant; deer, wildcats,
wolves and bear roamed all through the rugged hills round about their
home. Thus he quickly became expert in the use of the flint-lock.
The hunting season usually began in October, and during this month the
task was commenced of laying in the winter’s provisions. Some days
little Meshack would go out with a kindly uncle who had joined the
family and would hunt for deer. On other days he would chase after
bees, and as he and his uncle were most successful in this kind of
hunting, they would often spend more time in searching for honey than
in seeking venison. It would not be long before the table would be well
supplied with both deer steaks and honey. The high, fresh grass which
surrounded the log cabin would cause their cows to give a quantity of
milk, from which little Meshack’s aunt, who was an industrious woman,
made plenty of butter; and frequently a fat turkey would be added
to the store. Thus life was simple, easy, and healthful in the wild
fastnesses of the Blue Ridge.
Things went on well enough until word came to the pioneers that General
St. Clair’s army had been defeated and cut to pieces by the redskins
under Little Turtle, which you no doubt remember. This was frightful
news, and little Meshack’s mother was very much afraid.
“What if the Indians fall upon us here,” said she. “We could not
protect ourselves against these terrible red men. Let us move further
back into the country where there are more white people. We can thus
combine for our own defense.”
Meshack’s uncle thought about the same way, so, packing up their few
belongings, the little family hurried to a place called the “Blooming
Rose,” where there were thirty or forty other families. This was in
1792—long, long ago, it seems—and yet I, myself, have known old
fellows of these mountains who appeared to be well conversant with the
terrible battles of St. Clair, “Mad Anthony” Wayne, and the redskins
under Little Turtle. These many struggles had been often narrated to
them by their parents; most of whom had taken part in those stirring
events.
Not long after coming to this settlement, the youthful Meshack had his
first adventure with a bear. While milking a cow one day, he heard a
great deal of noise at the house, and inquiring what it all meant, was
told by one of the girls who lived there that a bear had just gone
by. Running to the front portico he there found that four or five
gentlemen, who had come to visit the owner of the house (bringing with
them their bird-guns, and several little dogs), had gone in pursuit
of the beast. The dogs were so small that two of them would have made
about a mouthful for Brother Bruin.
The owner of the house, Mr. Caldwell, was a successful bear hunter
and had two fine dogs which were well trained to fight these animals.
Meshack called them, took the old man’s gun, and ran in the direction
of the noise, until he overtook the party of huntsmen, who had halted
just as the bear reached a clump of woods. The little dogs would not
leave their master, for they seemed to be afraid that the bear would
tear them to pieces. But as soon as Mr. Caldwell’s animals scented
the bear, off they went, heads down and tails up. Meshack followed on
behind.
On, on, coursed the dogs: on, on, went Meshack. Hastening towards the
sounds of the fray, the young hunter saw both bear and dogs turning
somersaults down a very steep hill. Over and over they rolled, Meshack
after them as hard as he could tilt, and the way that the fur flew was
most interesting. The fight became desperate, and the bear found that
his hindquarters were suffering severely; so severely, in fact, that
he determined to climb a large tree. When halfway up to the lowest
branches, he saw Meshack come puffing and blowing down the hill. This
frightened him and he attempted to descend to the ground.
As he crawled slowly towards the sod, Meshack let drive and sent a
small rifle ball through the middle of his body. The bear plunged to
the earth, making two or three somersaults as he did so, but finding
the dogs too ferocious for him, he immediately ascended a large oak
tree. The oak being forked and very high, he went up to the first
branch, and, lying down on it, refused to move. By this time the
gentlemen who owned the little dogs had come up, and as many of them
had never seen a bear before, they began to consult among themselves
about what was to be done. Meshack had no more balls for his little
rifle and they had nothing but small shot.