EARLY SETTLEMENT OF SCOTCH VALLEY--THE MOORE FAMILY--MASSACRE OF
WILLIAM MOORE--INDIAN SHOT BY A BOY, ETC.
The Moore family, whose name is identified with Scotch Valley as the
original settlers, came to this country probably about the year 1768,
from Scotland. It consisted of Samuel Moore, his seven sons and two
daughters,--viz.: Daniel, William, John, Samuel, James, David, Joseph,
Elizabeth, and Jane. Their first stopping-place in the interior was in
Kishicoquillas Valley, where the hardy Scots commenced clearing land;
but the yield not being such as they were led to expect, the two elder
brothers, Daniel and William, were sent abroad by the old patriarch to
look for better land and more of it. Accordingly, they shaped their
course westward, prospecting as they went, until they reached what is
now known as Scotch Valley. How they found their way to that place, an
unbroken wilderness, five miles from the nearest human habitation, or
what the inducements were for stopping there, were puzzling questions
_then_. Let the reader _now_ look at the fine farms of Scotch Valley,
and he will see that, in selecting the spot, the Moores were actuated
by a sagacity that enabled them to see those fine lands blooming like
the rose in the future. They immediately occupied a large tract of
land, built a cabin, and commenced clearing. The year following they
went to Kishicoquillas, and brought on the father and the remainder of
the family.
Beneath their sturdy blows the giant oaks fell, and the wilderness was
turned into fields of waving grain, and they soon had a home that made
them even forget the Highlands of Scotland.
When the war broke out they were all stanch republicans, active and
energetic men, and were foremost in all measures of defence for the
frontier.
William Moore, second son of Samuel, a useful man, loved and respected
by all who knew him, met his death at the hands of an Indian, in
August, 1778. It appears that one morning two of their horses were
missing, when William and a lad named George McCartney, about fourteen
years of age, started in pursuit of them--as a matter of course not
neglecting the caution of the day, to take their rifles with them. At
that time two paths led to Fetter's Fort from Scotch Valley,--one by
way of Frankstown, through Adam Holliday's farm, fording the river near
where the plank-road bridge now crosses south of Hollidaysburg; the
other led through the flat, back of the Presbyterian graveyard, and
north of Hollidaysburg. This was the most direct route; but, in order
to make a thorough research, they went by way of the river road, and
reached Fetter's Fort without obtaining any tidings of the missing
animals. After remaining at the fort a short time, they started on
their way home by the back or direct road. No Indians having been seen
in the country for some time, they travelled on with a feeling of
entire security, and never for a moment entertained the remotest idea
of coming in contact with savages. When they came to a pile of
drift-wood,--in what is now known as McCahen's Bottom, half a mile west
of Hollidaysburg,--while Moore was in the act of trying to get over the
drift, he was shot by an Indian from an ambuscade. The bullet entered
his back, passed through the left ventricle of the heart, and he fell
dead against the drift.
McCartney, who was some distance off, on the impulse of the moment
commenced running. In the mean time the Indian had come from his place
of concealment, and, seeing him, drew his tomahawk and followed.
McCartney soon finding that the savage was the fleetest, and must
overtake him, cocked his gun while running, suddenly wheeled, and aimed
at the Indian. This unexpected defence from a mere boy rather took the
Indian by surprise, and he jumped behind a tree, and McCartney did the
same, still keeping the aim ready to shoot in case the Indian moved
from the cover of the tree. While in this position, the Indian
commenced loading his rifle, and, after ramming home the powder, he
accidentally dropped his ramrod, which he stooped to pick up; in doing
which he exposed his posterior, which McCartney took advantage of, and
fired. The Indian gave a scream of mingled rage and pain, dropped his
rifle, and ran, picking up leaves on his way, which he endeavored to
thrust into the bullet-hole to stanch the blood.
Young McCartney, satisfied with the exploit, and thankful that his life
had been spared, did not pursue the savage. His first impulse was to do
so; but fearing that the chase might lead him into an encampment of the
enemy, since it invariably turned out that where there was one more
were not far off, he returned with all despatch to Fetter's Fort. The
men at the fort had heard both shots, but supposed that Moore and
McCartney had started game of some kind; consequently, they were
unprepared for any news of the kind. Fortunately, there happened to be
a very large force at Fetter's at the time, and, under the impression
that there must be more Indians in the neighborhood, a strong,
experienced force at once started out.
When they arrived at the drift, they found the body of Moore, stark in
death, leaning against it, with his rifle grasped in his uplifted
hands, as if in the very act of trying to climb over. His body was
removed to the fort by some of the men, while the remainder commenced
searching for the Indian. By his blood they tracked him nearly a mile
up the run, and even found a place where he had evidently stopped to
wash the blood off; but at length they lost all traces of his trail.
They continued their march, however, to Gap Run, in order to ascertain
whether there was any fresh Indian trail. In their conjectures that
there were other Indians near they were not mistaken. Half a mile west
of where Hutchinson's Mill now stands, they found traces of a fresh
encampment of a very large party, whose trail they followed several
miles up the Kittaning War-Path; but they soon abandoned all hope of
overtaking them, and returned to the fort.
The dead body of the Indian shot by McCartney was found, some time
afterward, by a Mr. Hileman, up Kittaning Run, where he had secreted
himself by the side of a log, under some bushes, and completely
covered himself with brush and leaves previous to giving up the ghost,
in order to prevent the whites from finding his body. The ruling
passion was strong even in death!
His rifle, which was kept at Fetter's, as a trophy, was a
brass-barrelled smooth-bore, with the British coat of arms stamped upon
it,--conclusive evidence that the entire savage band had been armed and
equipped by his Majesty's officers at Detroit, and were on a
scalp-hunting expedition.
During the troubles of 1779-80, when the frontier-men fled before the
assaults and merciless massacres of the Indians, the Moores returned to
their former residence in Kishicoquillas. But the restless Scots did
not remain away from their farm long. Some of them returned in a year;
but the old patriarch, Samuel, did not return until after the surrender
of Cornwallis. He was then accompanied by a colony of Scotchmen,
consisting of the Crawfords, Irwins, Fraziers, Stewarts, and
Macphersons, and others, constituting from twenty-five to thirty
persons.
The late Mr. Maguire, then quite a lad, was at Shaver's Creek when they
passed on their way west. They were all in full Highland costume, with
bonnet and kilt, armed with claymores and Queen Anne muskets. He had
seen Indians before, but never any Highlanders, and, while listening to
their Gaelic dialect, he wondered to himself what tribe they belonged
to.
These men settled in the upper end of the valley; hence the
name--"Scotch Valley." By their sinewy arms and sturdy blows the oaks
of the forest fell, and by their unremitting toil to gain a home in the
New World they encountered and triumphed over the most formidable
obstacles, until the valley--its natural soil taken into
consideration--became one of the finest of its size in the country.
The Moore family were the first persons who conceived the idea of
running arks down the river from Frankstown. This they accomplished
successfully before the close of the last century, and afterward
engaged in running flat-boats between Frankstown and Middletown.
Of the third generation of the Moore family but three remain in this
vicinity,--viz.: T. B. Moore, in Hollidaysburg; Jesse Moore, at the old
homestead, in Scotch Valley; and Johnston Moore, in Ebensburg. Others,
however, live in the West; and the fourth generation, whose number we
are not able to compute, are scattered over the Union.
The descendants of the men who wound their way up the Juniata, in
Highland costume, nearly three-quarters of a century ago, with all
their worldly possessions upon pack-horses, are also numerous; and many
of them have risen to wealth and eminence by their own unaided
exertions.