ODDS AGAINST HIGGINS THE RANGER (1814)
AND HIS RESCUE BY HEROINE PURSLEY
Chief Little Turtle and his brother chiefs of eleven other tribes in
the Northern Confederacy signed a treaty of peace with the United
States, in August of 1795. This opened the way for the white settlers.
They crossed the Ohio and spread westward through southern Ohio,
Indiana and Illinois, to the Mississippi River.
But the Indians clung to their old hopes that a portion at least of
their lands between the Great Lakes and the Ohio would be left to them.
In the beginning of the new century, 1800, there arose among the
restless Shawnees a medicine-man styled the Prophet and the Open Door.
He aimed to band all the Indians of north, south, east and far west
into a vast league that, working like one nation, should some day rule
the country. His messengers traveled widely, bearing his instructions.
He asserted that he spoke directly from the Great Spirit.
His brother, Tecumseh or Shooting Star, aided him. Open Door counseled
peace until the Indians had grown strong by right living. Shooting
Star planned for war, as soon as the league had been formed. The
United States Government knew the schemes of both, and tried to stop
the work. The two brothers refused to obey. Governor William Henry
Harrison, of Indiana Territory, struck first.
He marched from Vincennes and destroyed the town of the Prophet. The
second war with Great Britain, the War of 1812, was about to break, and
Tecumseh went to Canada and joined the British.[1]
A great many Indians enlisted under their red general, Tecumseh. The
Potawatomis, Miamis, Ottawas, Winnebagos, Kickapoos, the Sioux of
present Minnesota and the Sacs of the Rock River at the Mississippi in
Illinois, seized the hatchet and followed him. In the south the Red
Sticks war party of the Creeks arose. And on the new frontier of the
northwest, from the Ohio to the Mississippi, the American settlers
again felt keen alarm.
Tecumseh's star sank, and he with it, at the battle of the Thames,
October 5, 1813, when General William Henry Harrison and his three
thousand crushed the two thousand British and Indians. The red army
was shattered; the chiefs and warriors hastened home as fast as they
could, by secret trails; some pretended that they had not dropped their
blankets in war, others foraged against the settlements, to get what
plunder they might while the whites were fighting.
The Government and the settlers had erected a number of small
blockhouses north of the Ohio, through Indiana and Illinois, to keep
the Indians off, if possible. One block-house had been located in Bond
County, half-way down southwestern Illinois, or about eight miles south
of present Greenville.
In the summer of 1814 First Lieutenant Nathaniel Jurney and a dozen
United States Rangers were stationed here, upon the broad Illinois
prairie dotted with timber and cut by streams. Lieutenant Jurney had
been captain in the Illinois Rangers raised for service upon the
frontier; but a year ago he had been appointed first lieutenant in the
Government Rangers, of the army.
The Indians to be feared hereabouts were roving Sacs, Potawatomis and
Winnebagos from the north; yes, and the Prairie Kickapoos from the
Wabash River on the east.
However, the block-house was not a very stirring place; and when in the
evening of August 30 the Lieutenant Jurney men saw a bunch of Indians
reconnoitering at a short distance out, they had high hopes of a little
"brush" in the morning.
They rode through the gate before daylight, to surprise the Indian
camp; but ere sun-up they had been surprised, themselves, on the edge
of some timber. At the first volley the lieutenant had been badly
wounded, three of the men had fallen, and far out-numbered the six
other men, taking the lieutenant, had raced madly for safety in the
fort.
The smoke hung so thickly in the still, damp air that they got away
without trouble--all except Ranger Higgins.
He had not gone far. Instead of making to the fort he had sprung from
his horse and "treed" (the Kentucky way); and in the smoke cover he had
stayed for "one more pull at the redskins." That was rash, but plucky.
He had often said that he did not fear "trash" like the "beggarly
Kickapoos, Saukees, and such." Kentucky was his home, and he had been
reared on stories of the Shawnees, Wyandots and Miamis.
So he waited, behind his tree, until the smoke thinned. Soon he
glimpsed several Indians; he took aim, fired, killed one, reloaded, and
leaped upon his horse. The Indians had not seen him; he would reach
the fort and report that he had accomplished a little, anyway.
Just as he tightened rein a voice stopped him. It seemed to come from
underfoot.
"Tom! Say, you aren't going to leave me?"
That was Joe Burgess, a comrade, trying to crawl to him.
"No, I won't. Come on, Joe. Get aboard. Quick! We'll make in,
double."
"Can't do it, Tom. Leg's busted."
Joe's ankle had been broken by a bullet. Tom, a fine big fellow, was
off in a second, picked Joe up bodily, carried him to the horse--and
away the horse bolted, without either of them. It had smelled Indians.
"By ginger, but that's a mean trick," Tom rapped. "Never mind. You
make a three-legged crawl of it; keep to the tall grass and hug the
ground like a snake. I'll cover your trail and fight the Injuns off."
A brave man, he let Joe disappear in the tall grass of the prairie.
First he thought that he'd follow. But that wouldn't do. The smoke
was drifting slowly and clearing; the Indians would see him--would see
the trail, anyway, and kill Joe if they didn't kill him, himself.
He dived for a patch of brush, to leave a trail of his own. Hah!
Injuns! There was a large fat fellow searching about, on one side, and
there were two others between him and the fort. He'd better draw them
after him; maybe he could string them out and fight them separately.
That would give Joe a good chance. He jumped from the brush patch and
ran for the willows of a little creek. The fat Indian saw him and with
a whoop ran in pursuit.
Suddenly his leg went bad, almost throwing him down. He had been
wounded in the first "scrimmage" and had not known it. Pshaw! He'd
never outfoot the Indian, to the willows. He turned, with lifted gun.
The fat Indian dodged briskly. That occurred several times. The two
other Indians were now coming, also.
"If I don't get shet o' this fat rascal I'm gone 'coon," muttered Tom.
"But, dod rat him, he so lively I can't lay bead on his greasy hide!
I'll have to draw his fire, Kentucky way."
Daniel Boone and other Long Hunters of Kentucky knew how to dodge
Indians' bullets. They would wait for the fall of the hammer and the
flash of the priming in the pan, and would spring aside before the ball
reached them. It was a great trick, but it took a quick eye and steady
nerve.
Ranger Higgins decided to try it. He did not dare to use his own load.
He watched the fat Indian, let him take aim--and at the spurt from the
hammer he whirled. But he was too slow. The ball struck him in the
thigh and knocked him down.
He bounded up. The fat Indian was reloading and the two other Indians
were running in. Tom ran, likewise, as fast as he could, which was not
very fast, now. The Indians leveled their guns. Over his shoulder he
watched; and when he thought their fingers were pressing the triggers
he dropped. He dropped too soon! As he staggered up they fired, then;
every bullet hit him! Down he went, a second time, with four bullets
in his body, and with a bad leg besides.
Up he got. He was a hard man to kill. The three Indians came on with
spears and knives, to finish him. But Tom did not propose to be
finished. He threatened them with his gun, and they dared not rush in.
The fat Indian at last determined to take a chance. Perhaps the white
man's gun was not loaded. He charged, with his spear; Ranger Higgins
had to shoot, and shoot he did.
That left two Indians for him to face with his crippled leg and an
empty gun. He worked hard to reload before they could reach him--but
here they were, prodding at him with their lances. He had more than he
could do to ward off the darting points. The heads were of thin
hoop-iron, and the shafts were of flimsy cane, so that whenever the
weapons penetrated to a bone they bent; but he was being slashed to
ribbons.
One of the Indians grew tired of such slow killing, and stepping back a
pace threw his tomahawk. That was more quickly done, and resulted, as
Ranger Higgins afterward said, "in a close shave!" The whirling blade
sliced off his ear, and part of his cheek clear beyond the point of his
jaw.
Down went Tom Higgins. The other Indian jumped him, to prod again.
Doubled on his back, in a ball, Tom fought with hands and feet, like a
'coon indeed. He got a grip on the lance; he hung on, the Indian
tugged, and dragged him to his feet. Tom let go, so that the Indian
staggered back; picked up his musket, smashed the Indian's head--and
broke the gun at the grasp between stock and barrel! Was there ever
such luck!
The third Indian rushed, with a knife. He was only one, but Tom was
weak from loss of blood, and other Indians might arrive at any moment.
Ranger Higgins parried with his rifle-barrel, found it too heavy, drew
his own knife, and gallantly closed. They locked and swayed and panted
and stabbed.
The Indian proved much the stronger, but he had no liking for this
knife work. He hurled Tom sprawling, and hastened to a rifle. After
all, a bullet was the surest weapon against this kind of a white man.
Up rose Ranger Higgins, once more--gory but not defeated. He was
chopped and gashed from head to foot, had three balls in his thighs and
one in another part of his body, and a crippled lower leg. Now he,
too, sought for a gun, and hoped that he might load first.
All this amazing lop-sided duel had occupied but little time--just long
enough for Joe Burgess to escape into the safety zone of the
block-house. The smoky fog had been split by the first beams of the
sun, and much of the struggle had taken place in full view of Ranger
Higgins' comrades inside the fort gate.
They were six men and one woman--Mrs. Pursley, the wife of Ranger
Pursley. What could they few do? Tom! Hurrah for Tom! See! He was
still on his feet--he was still at it! The brave fellow! But how
could they help him? The main band of Indians were in sight; the
block-house, and the wounded lieutenant, must not be left unprotected--
Mrs. Pursley stormed.
"Out with you? Are you men, to let a comrade be butchered?" She
appealed to her husband: "Are you a coward, too? Did I marry a coward?"
"We'd save Tom if we could, but the Injuns are ten to one. We don't
dare leave."
A cry welled.
"Tom's down again! He's fainted. There's the end to him."
"No, it isn't." Mrs. Pursley tore the gun from her husband's hand.
"The more shame on you, to let a defenceless man lie. But I'll not see
so fine a fellow as Tom Higgins lost for lack of a little help."
And before they could stop her she was galloping through the gate and
into the prairie.
"After her, boys! That's too much to stand. Never mind the fort."
They raced in pursuit. The one Indian was searching for his gun; the
other Indians, coming in, halted, confused. Mrs. Pursley was there
first--already on the ground and bending over Ranger Tom, trying to
lift him to her saddle. They had no time to waste. One helped
her--slung Tom across in front of a saddle; and fighting a rear action
they gained the block-house without a wound.
Tom Higgins was the hero, but Mrs. Pursley was the heroine.
Two of his bullets were taken out, and he got well, except for a limp
and considerable "botheration" from a third bullet. After the war he
made a day's ride to find a doctor and have the ball extracted.
"What's your fee, Doc?"
"It'll be fifty dollars."
"What? Not much, by golly! That's more than half a year's pension.
For less I'll fetch it out, myself."
He wrathfully rode home again; the ball seemed to have worked toward
the surface--yes, he could see it, away in.
"Old woman, hand me my razor, will you?" he bade. "And jest put your
fingers on this hole and stretch it."
Without a quiver he cut into his thigh, put in his two thumbs, "and,"
he said, "I flirted that ball out as slick as a whistle, at the cost of
nary a cent!"
In his later years Veteran Ranger Tom Higgins was assistant doorkeeper
for the Illinois legislature. His sturdy form and the story of his
fight with the three Indians when he covered the escape of Comrade
Burgess made him a famous character.
[1] For the story of the Prophet and Tecumseh, see "Boys' Book of
Indian Warriors."