INDIAN TOWNS ALONG THE JUNIATA--LOST CREEK VALLEY DISCOVERED--MEXICO
FIRST SETTLED BY CAPTAIN JAMES PATTERSON IN 1751--INDIAN ATTACK UPON
SETTLERS AT THE HOUSE OF WILLIAM WHITE--MASSACRE OF WHITE--CAPTURE OF
A LAD NAMED JOHN RIDDLE--HIS RELEASE FROM CAPTIVITY, ETC.
[For the facts on which the two chapters following are based we are
indebted to a gentleman named ANDREW BANKS, an old resident of Lost
Creek Valley, Juniata county. He was born near York, and settled
near his late place of residence in 1773, and was nearly
eighty-nine years of age when we called upon him early in December,
1855. We found him enjoying the evening of a long and well-spent
life, with his sense of hearing somewhat impaired, but his
intellect and memory both good. He was a man of considerable
intelligence, and we found him quite willing to give all he knew of
the past worthy of record. He died about the last of the same
month.]
The river, from the island to Newport, is hemmed in by mountains; and
while it afforded excellent territory for hunting, fishing, and
trapping, it held out no inducements for the Indians to erect their
lodges along it. The first Indian village above the mouth of the river
was located on the flat, a short distance above where the town of
Newport now is. Another was located at the mouth of a ravine a little
west of Millerstown. At the former place the Cahoons, Hiddlestons, and
others were settled, who were ejected, and had their cabins burnt by
Secretary Peters. After the purchase of these lands at Albany, in 1754,
both these towns were destroyed, and the Indians went to Ohio.
Lost Creek Valley, unquestionably one of the most beautiful valleys in
the Juniata region, was entered by some Indian traders as early as
1740. They found it occupied by two or three Indian settlements, and
they made a successful barter with the aborigines. The next year they
essayed to revisit the place, but were unable to find it. The following
summer they found it again; hence arose the name of the _lost_ creek.
There is no record of any massacres by the Indians in this valley, and
the impression is that they left it about 1754, some going toward the
frontier, and others to the head of Tuscarora Valley.
The first settlement on the river, in what now constitutes Juniata
county, was made in 1751, by an adventurous Scotch-Irishman known as
Captain James Patterson. He came across the country from Cumberland
county, accompanied by some five or six others, most of whom settled
very near to where Mexico now stands. Patterson was a bold and fearless
man; and he had not long resided in his new location before the Indians
of the neighborhood both hated and feared him. He and his companions
cleared the land on both sides of the river, built two large
log-houses, and pierced them with loopholes, so that they might defend
themselves from any attacks the savages might make. Patterson soon
became aware of the fact that his reckless daring, especially in
braving the proclamations of the proprietors in settling upon
unpurchased Indian lands, had inspired the Indians with fear; hence he
did not condescend to make an effort to purchase from the Indians, or
even build a fort for the protection of his little colony. In addition
to his recklessness, he possessed a good share of cunning, that on many
occasions served his purpose. For instance, he used to keep a target,
the centre of which was riddled with bullets, leaning against a tree.
Whenever he found a party of friendly Indians approaching, he used to
stand under his door and blaze away at the target, but always stop when
the Indians were near the house. The Indians would invariably examine
the target, measure the distance--about four hundred feet--with the
eye, and conclude among themselves that Patterson would be an
exceedingly tough customer in a fight! His reputation for shooting
obtained for him among the Delawares the name of "Big Shot."
Patterson was a very bold squatter, and staked off for himself a large
body of land, declaring that Providence had designed it for the use of
Christian people to raise food upon, and not for Indian war-dances.
But, with all his fancied security and his contemptuous opinion of the
"cowardly red-skins," they put him to his trumps at last. In the year
1755 they no longer visited his settlement on the friendly mission of
bartering furs and venison for rum and tobacco, but they commenced
prowling about in small parties, painted for war, armed with the
rifle--the use of which they had already acquired--and exceedingly
dangerous-looking knives and tomahawks. Patterson became alarmed, and,
actuated by a settled conviction that "discretion" was the better part
of valor, himself and his companions crossed the Tuscarora Mountain and
took refuge in Sherman's Valley. A few years after he returned, but he
found his land parcelled, and occupied by others, who held deeds of
purchase for it from the proprietory government. Nothing daunted,
however, he took possession of another piece of land, and commenced
cultivating it, without going through the land-office formula of
obtaining a legal title for it. He was a man of some intelligence, and
held in supreme contempt the Penn family and their treaties with the
Indians. He declared that the Albany treaty did not give them a shadow
of right to the land; and, as it was not considered morally wrong for
the Penns to wheedle the Indians out of millions of acres of land for
the paltry sum of £400, he did not see any wrong in his cheating the
Penn family out of a farm.
For some years peace and quiet reigned in the neighborhood; but in the
spring of 1763 the red man again lifted the hatchet, and the settlers
were thrown into awe and consternation. Constant rumors were afloat of
their depredations, and at length a scouting party returned with the
unwelcome intelligence that a body of Shawnees were encamped in
Tuscarora Valley. As speedily as possible, all the movable effects were
placed upon pack-horses, and the settlers, by extremely cautious
manoeuvering, succeeded in escaping safely, and again took up their
residence in Sherman's Valley.
The spring having been exceedingly favorable, the grain crop was ready
to cut early in July, and a party was formed by the settlers, and some
few others, to go back and assist each other in getting in their
harvest. On their arrival they set vigorously to work; and, no traces
of savages being perceptible, in their anxiety to get in the grain they
appeared to forget them, notwithstanding each man carried with him his
trusty rifle wheresoever he went. On Sunday, while resting from their
labors, some ten or twelve Shawnee Indians approached the house of
William White, where all the settlers were spending the Sabbath. They
crawled up to the house unperceived, and fired a volley through the
open door, killing Mr. White and wounding some of his family. The
wildest consternation seized upon the party within, and, in the great
confusion which followed, all escaped by the back-door except William
Riddle. Some swam the river; others escaped in different directions.
Riddle did not see a son of his, aged about twelve years, escape; and,
without probably being conscious of what he was doing, walked toward
the front-door, where a savage fired at him. The muzzle of the gun was
so near Riddle's face that the discharge literally filled it with
gunpowder. The ball grazed, but did not injure him. At the moment the
savage discharged his rifle, Riddle was tripped by something upon the
floor, and fell. The Indians took it for granted that both were killed,
and set up a loud shout of victory. While holding a consultation about
their future movements, Riddle jumped up suddenly and ran. Several
Indians fired, and for a short distance pursued him; but he soon
distanced the fleetest runner among them. The marauders then returned,
and, after scalping Mr. White, plundered the house of all the
ammunition they could find, some few other trifling articles, and then
set fire to it.
On taking their departure from the place, from a high bluff near the
house they discovered Riddle's son, who was trying to conceal himself
in a rye-field. They captured him and took him along with them. In
order to give an account of his captivity, we shall be compelled to
defer an account of the further depredations of the same band until the
next chapter.
Some years after peace was restored--the precise year not known, but
supposed to have been in 1767,--Riddle started for the frontier in
search of his son. This was a time of almost profound peace, which
followed the numerous massacres of the few preceding years, and a time,
too, when the Indians had been taught some severe lessons, and were
disposed to act friendly toward the whites. Riddle travelled on
horseback, and passed numerous Indian villages, but could hear no
tidings of his son until he came upon an encampment of Shawnee Indians
near Lake Erie. As he neared the village, he saw the warriors returning
from the chase, and among them a youthful-looking brave with an
eagle-feather waving on his cap, and all the paraphernalia of a young
chief decorating his person. His bearing erect, his step firm, he trod
the path with a proud and haughty air. But a single glance sufficed for
Riddle to recognise in the youthful warrior his son John. Dismounting
from his horse, he sprang forward and attempted to throw himself into
his arms; but, strange to say, his _advances were repulsed_! Even
when the lad was convinced that he was Riddle's offspring, he refused
to go with him, but declared his determination to remain with the
tribe.
During the few years that he had been among the sons of the forest, he
had most thoroughly imbibed their habits and a strong love for their
wild and romantic life. The chase, the woods, the council-fires and the
wigwams, the canoe and the dance of the squaws, were enchantment to
him, in the enjoyment of which he lost all recollections of home or his
parents; and when his father declared that he would use a parent's
prerogative to force him to accompany him, young Riddle, almost frantic
with despair, called upon his warrior friends to interfere in his
behalf. But the Indians, fearful of the consequences that might result
from any interference of the kind, acknowledged Riddle's right to
reclaim his son, since the red man and the white man had smoked the
pipe of peace. It was, therefore, with great reluctance that John
Riddle prepared to depart immediately. He took a hasty farewell of his
warrior companions, and, mounting behind his father, they turned their
faces toward the valley of the Juniata. Mr. Riddle, with commendable
zeal and a great deal of prudence, put as much ground between him and
the Shawnee village, before nightfall, as possible. He pitched his tent
for the night on the edge of a thicket, and partook of some provisions
which he had in his saddle-bag; and, after talking for an hour or two,
they stretched themselves before the fire to sleep. Young Riddle
appeared resigned, and had even conversed gayly and cheerfully with his
father; but the old man had his misgivings, and he feared that
treachery was hidden beneath this semblance of cheerfulness. The
consequence was that he lay awake for hours; but at length the fatigues
of the day overcame him, and he sank into a deep sleep, from which he
did not awake until the sun was up, and then only to find that his son
had fled! The emotions of a father under such circumstances may be
imagined, but certainly they cannot well be described. A man of less
energy would have given up the object of his mission as hopeless, and
returned home.
Not so, however, with Riddle, for he hastened back to the Indian
village, and asked the Indians sternly for his son. Unused or unwilling
to dissemble, they frankly told him that he was in the council-house,
and demanded their protection; that he had eaten, drank, and smoked,
with the red man, and that he was unwilling to acknowledge a pale-face
as a father or a brother. This highly incensed Riddle, and he declared
that if his son were not delivered up to him, he would bring the forces
from the nearest fort and exterminate them; and, further, that, if any
injury befell him, his friends, who knew his mission, would follow and
avenge him. A council was immediately called, and the subject debated.
The young warriors of the village were determined that young Riddle
should remain among them at all hazards; but the counsel of the older
chiefs, who evidently foresaw what would follow, prevailed, and young
Riddle was again placed in charge of his father. The old man, profiting
by experience, took his son to a frontier fort, and from thence home,
reasoning with him all the way on the folly of adopting the life of a
savage.
Riddle grew to manhood, and reared a large family in Walker township,
all of whom many years ago went to the West. He is represented by Mr.
Banks as having been a quiet and inoffensive man, except when he
accidentally indulged in the too free use of "_fire-water_." It
was then that all the characteristics of the red man manifested
themselves. "On such occasions his eye flashed, and all his actions
betokened the wily savage."