Part 7

This they did, and, as the frontiersmen were quietly passing between some high bluffs, a volley rang out from either side and two of their number fell dead. The rest sprang immediately to the shelter of trees, where Slover took aim at one of the Indians who could be seen raising his hand.

“Do not fire,” said he, in excellent English. “If you surrender to us, you will be well treated. We will take you to our houses and will allow you to leave, in a short time, for your own people.”

Slover and two of the frontiersmen gave themselves up immediately, but a young fellow named John Paul refused to do so, and, rushing to the rear, managed to get away. The redskins peppered the air with bullets, but none hit the fugitive and he got safely beyond range. After a long and arduous trip through the wilderness, he at length reached the frontier settlement at Wheeling, West Virginia.

As John Slover and his companions were being taken along by the Indians, one of them recognized him as the young paleface who had been brought up by the Miamis.

“You no good, Mannuchcothe,” said he. “You fight against your own brothers. You kill your own people. Ugh! Ugh! We fix you for this.”

John Slover began to think that perhaps what the savages had promised was not to take place, and when once they came in sight of their town, their whole demeanor changed. They began to howl and cry out:

“You are some of those who wish to drive us from our country. Death to you! Death to you!”

The squaws, warriors, and children came running to meet the captives and began to whip and beat them. Then they took the oldest of the frontiersmen and blackened his face with charred sticks.

“Are they going to burn me, Slover?” the poor fellow gasped.

“Do not answer, Mannuchcothe!” shouted the Indians. “Do not answer! We will not hurt him! We will adopt him!”

The red men now took the prisoners to Waughcotomoco, another of their towns, about two miles off, but sent a runner in advance to announce their coming. As the captives came in sight of it they saw hundreds of Indians in a double line, ready to make them run the gauntlet. This they did, and although Slover got through safely, the frontiersman whose face had been blackened, was knocked down, kicked, beaten, and shot full of arrows. He reached the council chamber, where he thought that he would be safe, and, although he seized one of the posts with both hands, he was torn away from it and was soon dispatched with a tomahawk.

Slover, meanwhile, was left alone, but he had no cheerful thoughts, for before him lay the bodies of Harold, the son of Crawford, the American leader; of a Colonel Harrison; and of several other prominent soldiers of the American army. They had all been killed during the retreat. His remaining companion was led away to another town and was never again heard of; while the gallant scout, himself, was now confronted by a young Miami buck, who said in the Indian language:

“Mannuchcothe, you must come before a council and must explain to the old men why you deserted our tribe. Mannuchcothe, it will go ill with you.”

The sharpshooter did not worry, for he did not believe that his old friends would go back on him. In this he was correct, for there seemed to be no great amount of malice towards the ex-Miami, until the appearance of a white renegade—James Girty—the brother of the famous Simon. This scoundrel made an impassioned speech, in which he said:

“My Indian brethren, this white captive should suffer death. For not only has he deserted you for your enemies—the palefaces—but when I asked him how he would like to live with you again, he told me that he would care to remain only long enough to take a scalp and then escape. He is your enemy at heart and has even now been fighting against you. Death, and torture before death, would not be too severe for him.”

The scout was outraged and angered by these remarks.

“What you say is not true,” he replied. “I have never in my life made the statement that I would only remain long enough with my red brethren to take a scalp and then escape. I entered this war with reluctance, and I had not fired a shot up to the time that I was captured by my old companions. I am a friend of the Miamis and always will be their friend.”

To these remarks the red men grunted an assent and allowed him to move, unbound, around the village. He was assigned to a lodge with an old squaw, who became very much attached to him, and, not many days afterwards, came to him and said:—

“That James Girty is influencing my brothers against you. If you have a chance to escape, you must do so, for I fear that they intend to put you out of the way.”

Not long afterwards a council of Shawnee, Wyandot, Delaware, Chippewa, Miami, and Mingo braves decided that Slover had been untrue to their race, and that he must suffer punishment and death. Two warriors appeared before his wigwam in order to carry him away, but the old squaw covered him with her blanket and said that he should not go. When the two bucks endeavored to enter, she threw a pot of boiling water at them.

This was too much for the warriors, who retreated before the scalding fluid, but they soon returned with James Girty and forty Indians, who overpowered the fighting squaw. Slover was seized, bound, and his body was painted black. This was a sign that he was to be tortured and eventually killed.

Five miles from Waughcotomoco was another Indian town, to which the scout was marched. A vast number of red men greeted his coming with fierce cheering, and formed in two lines in order to make him run the gauntlet. As he raced between them, they struck him with clubs, with spears, and with their hands. In spite of this he was not badly hurt and could walk without assistance to another small town, two miles further on, where—in an unfinished council house—he was fastened to a stake. Brush was piled around his feet and this was lighted for his torture. “I will meet death like a brave man,” said Slover to himself. Then, turning to the Indians, he cried out: “You shall rue the day that ever you put an end to John Slover. My white brothers will avenge me a hundredfold.”

An Indian orator arose, and, with a fierce and vindictive speech, sought to fan the flame of the red men’s passions to the highest pitch.

“How! How!” cried many voices.” It is well that the white man should die. How! How!”

Slover glowered upon the yelling mob as the crackling flames began to creep nearer to his feet. But now an unexpected interposition of nature occurred, which was greatly in the victim’s favor.

A high wind arose; dense, black clouds covered the sky; the growling of thunder drowned the words of the orator and the yelling of his hearers. A sheet of rain burst upon the fire at the stake, extinguishing it completely, and Slover saw the Indians scatter to the cover of their wigwams, where they called out to him:

“We will burn you to-morrow. The Great Spirit has helped you, but he cannot save you.”

The shower lasted for over an hour, and when it had concluded the red men gathered around the stake, where they beat and kicked their captive until eleven o’clock at night. Then a brave called Half Moon asked him if he did not want to go to sleep.

“I am exhausted,” replied the scout. “If you intend to kill me to-morrow, loosen my bonds and let me rest.”

Half Moon untied the strands which bound the weakened frontiersman, carried him to a log hut, and there bound him to a pole in the centre, with deer thongs which cut tightly into his flesh. A rope was placed about his neck and was tied to a rafter of the house. Three guards were placed to watch him, and, as Half Moon departed, he said:

“Get a good sleep, paleface. You will need it, for to-morrow you will eat fire. This is what comes to you for fighting against your own people.”

The scout had not yet lost all hope of making his escape, and carefully considered the possibility of getting away. Two of his guards were soon asleep; the third (an aged brave) smoked a long, clay pipe and told him that he had seen many palefaces tortured at the stake. “Some weep like squaws,” said he. “Others bear it like men. You have once been a redskin and should be able to stand the fire without crying. You should come through without a bit of trouble.”

On and on he thus rambled until he became worn out—his head dropped upon his breast—and he began to snore loudly. As the noise of his heavy breathing came to the ears of the scout, he began to work vigorously at his bonds. By wriggling, tugging, and pulling, at last his hands were free. He reached for the thong about his neck and began to chew it with his teeth.

As he turned and twisted in an endeavor to free himself from this remaining bond, day began to break and the pale light of dawn flooded the cabin. The talkative old Indian awoke; yawned; stretched; and looked around at the captive; but Slover clasped his hands behind his back as if they were still tied, and stood perfectly still. The red man turned over upon his side and again composed himself in sleep. It was now or never with the captured frontiersman.

Again seizing upon the rope, Slover gave it a few strong jerks, and, biting it with his jaws for a second time, suddenly parted it. With his heart bumping against his side like a trip-hammer, he stole noiselessly from the lodge. Not an Indian was stirring, and, darting toward a corn field, he narrowly missed stepping upon a squaw with her two children, who were asleep beneath a tree. He crept through the growing stalks, and upon the other side saw quite a number of ponies. Taking the rope from his arm, he made a slip-noose of it; selected a fine, young horse; threw it over his head; mounted, and rode away like mad. His life depended upon his exertions.

As he dashed off, he heard a door open in an Indian lodge and knew that the red men were astir. They would soon discover his absence. He would be followed by all of the swiftest and hardest-riding men of the encampment. No wonder that he dug his heels into the flanks of his pony and urged him to do his very best.

At ten o’clock he reached the Scioto River,—now much swollen by the recent thunder shower. But his horse was winded and he had to stop in order to give him both water and breath, for he was blowing from his exertions. He plunged into the stream, crossed it, and continued his flight at the fastest pace which his horse was able to make. Finally the faithful animal began to pant and stagger. He was done for.

As the Indian pony fell upon his side, Slover leaped to the ground and heard a wild yelping behind him in the forest. He thus knew that the Indians were hot upon his trail. The horse had carried him seventy miles at a fast pace, which is extraordinary. But the animal was now lying prostrate, with the glaze of death showing in his eye. He had run a good race.

The scout bounded forward, loping through the underbrush, timber, and tall grass, and leaving as little trail as he could. But his exertions were wearing heavily upon him, and, about ten o’clock that night, he fell exhausted to the ground. He lay in a stupor for two hours.

When he was again able to move, a full moon cast its silvery light over the dense woodland, where he had fallen, and no sound broke the stillness of the night save the weird call of a whippoorwill. The redskins could easily have captured him had they been close upon his track, but his care in leaving little trace of his flight had thrown them from the pursuit. Breathing more easily, he again continued his race for life, and, as day came, abandoned his trail for a low, rough ridge, where was little grass or soft earth. On, on, he continued, occasionally stopping to listen at the sounds of the forest, but, except for the occasional call of a bird, no voice came to his expectant hearing. The red men had lost heart and had returned to their wigwams.

As evening came, the frontiersman reached the banks of one of the creeks which empty into the Muskingum, and again sank exhausted to the earth. The mosquitoes swarmed upon him, biting him unmercifully, and as his hunting suit (which the red men had allowed him to put on when tied) was torn to tatters by the nettles and briars, they had a splendid opportunity to get at his bare flesh. Some wild berries furnished him with much-needed food,—the first he had eaten since his escape,—and, if we are to believe his word for it, he says that he was so terrified with fear, that he had forgotten to feel hungry during his flight. “I was fairly peeled from head to foot by briars and mosquitoes,” he has written. “And I was now so hungry that I fell upon two crawfish which I found behind a rock in the Muskingum, and ate them raw.”

The scout was now refreshed, and plunging into the Muskingum, swam to the other shore. Two days later he reached the Ohio River, opposite Wheeling, West Virginia, and seeing a man in a skiff who was apparently fishing, called out to him in a loud voice:

“Hallo! Hallo! Comrade! I’m a fugitive from the Indians and was one of Crawford’s men. Come! Take me over to the settlement!”

The fellow did not seem anxious to hasten to his relief, for he was afraid that Slover was one of the white renegades who had joined the redskins and was anxious to trap him. After a long harangue he finally rowed to the place where the tattered scout was standing. The refugee fairly hugged him for joy, and, in a few minutes, was again safe in the settlement, where he was greeted with warm and affectionate regard by the other men of the frontier, who had received many stragglers from the ill-fated expedition under Colonel Crawford.

The escape of John Slover was one of the narrowest of which there is any record in the annals of war upon the frontier. No wonder that for many years the story of this famous affair was the favorite topic of conversation, when the after-dinner pipes were lighted, and the men of the forest would sit before the glowing embers, there to tell tales concerning the heroism and courage of the gallant settlers of the wild and undeveloped West. Truly the adventures which befell John Slover were the most thrilling of them all.

LEWIS WETZEL:

HEROIC VIRGINIA FRONTIERSMAN AND IMPLACABLE ENEMY OF THE REDSKINS

“BOYS, watch your mother and grandfather for a few hours, because I am going out fishing. There is no danger of attack from redskins, for none have been seen for six months. If, however, any one comes to our cabin with news of prowling bands, shoot off your rifles three times. This will warn me of any danger to you, and I will hasten home.”

So spoke John Wetzel, whose cabin was upon the far western Virginian frontier, and, turning from his two little boys, he plunged into the wilderness. This was the last that he ever saw of his wife and her aged father. He had not been three days in the forest before his cabin was attacked.

Stealing carefully through the brush, a marauding band of savages suddenly made a sortie upon the isolated house of logs. There was not time to warn the inmates of the stealthy approach before the tomahawk and scalping-knife were at work. In an hour’s time all of the inmates had been dispatched, except Lewis Wetzel and his little brother, Martin, both of whom were carried off into captivity. Lewis was about thirteen years of age and Martin was eleven.

“We will soon escape,” whispered the older youth. “Wait until evening arrives and then I will show you how to creep away from these horrible savages.”

Lewis had been severely wounded by an arrow, but he stoically bore the pain, and trudged behind his captors with no show of ill humor. The Indian prisoner who lagged, or who made a cry of distress, would be speedily dispatched by the savages, and this he knew. The other boy went bravely ahead and said nothing.

Through the wilderness walked the red men, and on the night of the second day they camped twenty miles beyond the Ohio River.

“Ugh!” spoke a brave. “These children cannot escape us now. We will not bind them with thongs this evening, but will allow them to go free.”

The savages had underestimated the daring courage which was in the heart of Lewis Wetzel. No sooner were the red men fast asleep, when, touching his brother with his hand, Lewis warned him to keep absolutely silent and to follow him away into the darkness. They were barefoot.

“It is impossible for us to escape without moccasins,” said Lewis, after they had gone some distance. “This ground is full of stones, and our feet will be ruined. You wait here for me and I will return to the camp and get a pair for each of us, and then we can easily travel through the wilderness.”

The brave boy not only secured the moccasins but also returned with a gun and some ammunition. Then on they plunged through the forest. Just as the first streaks of dawn began to light up the gloomy depths, behind them echoed the shouts of their enemies, the red men.

“Walk backward upon your trail, brother,” said Lewis Wetzel. “Then turn to the right and secrete yourself in the dense undergrowth. These red men will soon catch up to us and we must be thoroughly hidden.”

This advice was followed, and it was well, for the boys had lain in the covert but a few minutes when their captors came bounding past. They were yelling to each other and were furious with anger at having lost their prisoners. The two Wetzels waited until they were out of sight. When the yelping had ceased they crept from their hiding-place and ran away to the right. In a few hours they heard the Indians again returning, and, secreting themselves in some underbrush, saw some savages dash by on ponies. They were not the same red men whom they had first seen, but these, also, could not find them. When the redskins were well beyond hearing, the terrified children ran to the river, fastened two logs together, and succeeded in crossing it. Not long afterwards they reached the house of a frontiersman and knew that they were safe. When they told him their story, he showed great surprise.

“Bully for you, boys!” cried the man of the clearing. “You, Lewis, showed particular courage and daring. You are a credit to your poor father, who is, I hear, terribly overcome by this butchery of the redskins. I trust that you will both live long and useful lives upon the border.”

“Thank you!” cried the boys. “We will do our best, anyway, to avenge the terrible injury which the red men have inflicted upon our family.”

Thus early was implanted in the breasts of the two Wetzels an implacable hatred for the savages.

It is said that Lewis was the strongest and most active of all of the youths upon the western borderland of Virginia, and by long practice had gained the ability to load his rifle while running at full speed. This was an immense advantage to him in his numerous affrays with the red men.

Not long after the terrible defeat of Colonel Crawford, in which John Slover was a participant, a pioneer named Thomas Mills arrived at Wheeling, West Virginia, where Lewis Wetzel was temporarily residing.

“I have left my good horse at Indian Spring, some five miles away,” said he. “The country was so rough that I could not ride him here, for some redskins were upon my trail. Wetzel, I wish that you would accompany me to where he is, for I want to be able to hold my own with the savages, should we meet any of them.”

“Mills, I’m your man,” said Wetzel. So, upon the day following, they were on their way towards the spring.

When they arrived at the place where Mills had left his horse, they found the animal tied to a bush.

“That looks mighty suspicious,” whispered Wetzel to his companion, “because I understand that you left him untied. Do not go near the animal until I circle around him and see if any savages are in our front.”

The pioneer, however, neglected to heed this sage counsel and proceeded to untie the pony. As he reached down towards the bridle-rein, the head of an Indian appeared from behind a rock.

“Mills! Mills! Take to a tree!” yelled the scout. “There’s a redskin drawin’ er bead on yer!”

The warning was unheeded. The frontiersman continued to work on the bridle-reins; then a sharp crack was heard, and the red man fell back, shot through the forehead by Wetzel. At the same moment a series of quick reports came from the brush, and Mills sank to the ground, pierced by a half dozen bullets.

Wetzel started away on the run, for a number of top-knots rose from the bushes. Their owners hastened after him, but were uncautious enough to drop their own guns so that they could run all the faster. Knowing that he had discharged his piece, they expected to soon overtake him, tie his hands behind his back, and remove him to their own camp, to run the gauntlet and be tortured. They had counted without their host.

The lithe and sinewy trapper raced onward, exerting his utmost speed, and, finding that he could not get away from his pursuers, turned about and fired upon the nearest red man. The art of loading upon the run, which he had learned, was of tremendous assistance to him, for he was thus able to place a bullet in his adversary’s chest, which stretched him upon the ground. Again he started forward, loading as he ran, and, turning a second time, was about to fire, when his nearest pursuer seized the muzzle of his rifle.

“Hah! Paleface! I have you!” cried the red man, for he had often been to the settlements and had learned how to speak excellent English.

“Not yet,” answered the trapper, and he grappled with his antagonist. They were very evenly matched. By the greatest exertion, the white man succeeded in wresting the redskin’s hold from his rifle, and in shooting him dead. It was a short struggle, but during it two Indians gained upon the man of the frontier, so that they were very close indeed. He now turned and ran as fast as he was able—loading as he went.

The Indians were whooping wildly, but they had knowledge of his skill in loading on the run. When he turned again in order to fire, they took hasty departure to the shelter of some large trees. He kept on going—the red men still after him. But he was a crafty fellow, as the following will show:

Having reached a clearing in the forest, he purposely stumbled and fell, as if exhausted by his race for life. The redskins thought that they now had him. They bounded forward with exultant shouts, but as they came nearer, the bold trapper rolled upon his side, raised his rifle, and brought one of them to the earth before he could get behind a tree. The second Indian turned and fled as fast as he was able, howling out in loud tones:

“No catch dat feller. No catch him at all. He gun always loaded. He devil with the shooting stick.”

At this the crafty trapper rose to his feet with a loud guffaw.

“These redskins have yet to learn a trick or two,” said he, chuckling. “They should remember that some trappers can load their rifles when on the run. My fine fellows—Au revoir!”

So saying, he started upon his way to the settlements, lighting a corn-cob pipe on the way, and still chuckling softly to himself.

Not long after this affair, the father of the two Wetzel boys was returning from a hunting excursion into the Ohio wilderness. With him were his sons Martin and Lewis. The latter had just shot a brown bear, and carried the skin with him in the bottom of the canoe. As they were gliding down the river, a band of Shawnees suddenly appeared upon the bank.

“Come ashore, palefaces!” said one. “It is not good for you to go down the river!”

“Paddle to the other side of the stream,” whispered the older Wetzel. “Hasten, boys, or their bullets will reach us.”

Quickly they turned towards the opposite bank, but a volley of lead pursued them. They kept on doggedly. A missile struck the old pioneer, inflicting a mortal wound.