Part 2

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.

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.”