Part 8

“Lie down, Martin!” cried he. “They will get you also, if you do not do so.”

Then the heroic old man paddled forward, his life-blood ebbing at every stroke. Volley after volley zipped around the frail barque. Again and again the frontiersman was struck, so that when well beyond range of the Indian rifles he fell fainting to the bottom of the canoe. That evening he expired.

Standing over the body of their parent, both Wetzels took a solemn oath to avenge his untimely end.

“From now on,” said Lewis,” I will use every endeavor to slaughter the red men. They have killed my dear father. Death shall be upon their own heads. Death and no quarter.”

Not a week had elapsed after the sudden end of this staunch man of the frontier, when news was brought into Wheeling that the Indians were again upon the war-path. A scout came running into the settlement, crying:

“The Shawnees and Wyandots are approaching. They have slaughtered one man, and are burning, killing and scalping. Every able-bodied settler is needed to drive them away.”

Immediately all turned out with rifle and powder-horn in order to repel the invaders. But before they started, a purse of one hundred dollars was made up, to go to the first individual who should take an Indian scalp. The trail of the marauders was soon struck; was followed for several miles; and was found to be very fresh. Then the advance scouts returned with the information that a large body of the enemy was encamped a few miles ahead.

“They are too many to be attacked,” said the soldiers of the advance. “We must go back to Wheeling, or they will surround and annihilate us.”

They set off upon the return, but they noticed, as they did so, that Lewis Wetzel did not move.

“Are you not going to accompany us?” asked some of the trappers.

The frontiersman scowled.

“I set out to hunt Indians and thought that this had also been your purpose,” said he. “My object in hunting Indians is to kill them, and now that we have treed our game I do not intend to run off without a shot. As for you, I consider you to be a band of cowards.”

“It is too bad about you,” said they. “As for ourselves, we intend to return home.”

Wetzel gazed after them with an amused smile, then stooped and examined his arms, for he was a man of caution.

“I will get a scalp of my own,” said he. “Perhaps more. These fellows will see that I mean what I say.”

There were plenty of Indian signs, but he could find no large bands of the red men; instead, he stumbled upon a camp with only two braves in it.

“There must be more in the encampment,” thought he. “I will creep away; will come back this evening; and will then have an opportunity to get what I am after.”

Turning again into the forest, he was soon out of hearing, and, by great good fortune, came across a red deer, which he killed. He had a fine feast. As night fell he hastened towards the Indian camp, crept close to it, and found only one red man, instead of a dozen or more, as he had expected. He waited until the redskin was fast asleep and then made good his boast. As he started upon the back trail for the settlement, a fresh scalp hung at his girdle.

Owing to his great strength and agility, he reached Wheeling just one day behind his companions, instead of three. They were delighted to see him.

“My boy,” cried they, “you have certainly made good and are entitled to the greatest possible credit. Bully for you!”

The trapper in fact was more than a match for many redskins, as the following will show:

Not long after his return to Wheeling he went out into the forest in order to get some venison to dry and salt for winter use. He saw no game, but suddenly stumbled upon a camp of four Shawnees, who were busily engaged in tanning some deer hides. They did not see or hear him, so he determined to return at nightfall and single-handed to attack the party of braves. This he did.

First, resting his rifle against a tree so that it would be close at hand for any emergency, he drew his tomahawk, uttered a wild yell, and dashed in among the savages, cutting down one of them in a moment. Two more fell beneath his unerring weapon. The fourth darted off into the woodland with Wetzel close upon his heels. He was a good runner and got safely away, while the man of the frontier returned for the scalp-locks of the three. He was back at Wheeling before two days were over.

“What luck did you have, Lewis?” asked a companion.

“Not much,” answered the man-of-the-woods. “I treed four of th’ pesky varmints. But one slick-ez-lightnin’ feller got away. He had er close call.”

At Marietta, Ohio, was a frontier fortification where a number of troops were stationed to protect the settlements from Shawnee invasion. Here General Harmer summoned several tribes to meet him in conference, and here Lewis Wetzel and a scout called Dickerson ambushed themselves near the Indian encampment with the intention of killing the first warrior who might pass. Wetzel, you see, was a vindictive fellow and did not even fight in the open.

The two assassins had not long to wait, for a redskin soon came by on the gallop without show or sign of fear, because a flag of truce had been delivered to the whites but a short time before. As he passed, both men fired, and, although the warrior reeled in his saddle, he clung to the mane of his horse with a tenacious grip and rode on into the fort. Here he dropped exhausted to the ground, and, before dying, cried out:

“My white brothers, I demand vengeance upon these hidden men who have driven me to the Great Spirit. You who have true hearts, see that I get what I desire, and my soul will then rest in peace.”

When news of this was brought to General Harmer, he said, with much heat:

“Justice shall be done to this poor redskin. I hear from some of my men that Lewis Wetzel was responsible for this affair. Captain Kingsbury will therefore take his company and scour the woods for the rascal. Let him be brought to me, dead or alive.”

Wetzel, meanwhile, had returned to his home in the Mingo Bottom settlement and was engaged in a shooting match for a turkey. When the soldiers arrived, and the frontiersmen learned what they were after, they gathered around their comrade with the remark that:

“Whoever touches Lewis Wetzel will have tew fight th’ hull gang uv us.”

Captain Kingsbury therefore withdrew, but Lewis Wetzel was not careful to keep beyond the clutch of his arm. Some time afterwards he paddled down the river to an island opposite Harmer’s Fort in order to spend the night with a friend, and news of his presence was brought to the soldiers within the stockade. A company of men was soon headed for the island: the frontiersman was surrounded at midnight; was thrown into the guard-house, heavily ironed, and was not only deprived of open air, but also of exercise. He quickly sickened and grew pale. When told that he would shortly be hung, he sent for General Harmer, and said:

“General, I am not ashamed of my deed, for ever since the day that my people were brutally slain by the children of the forest, I have considered it perfectly justifiable for me to do unto them what they have done unto me. If you will grant me one request, it is that you allow me to go loose among the savages armed only with a tomahawk. Then I will have one chance in a thousand to escape, but I will take that chance.”

The General shook his head.

“The scaffold is the proper death for you,” he replied. “As an officer of the law I must see that you receive the fit punishment for your crimes. But, as I see that you are growing pale under strict confinement, I hereby order that the irons be taken from your legs. Your handcuffs must remain.”

The trapper bowed his head, but as soon as the General had gone and he was allowed to move in the open air, he frisked about like a young colt. A number of soldiers guarded him closely, but as he walked and jumped around in front of them, he continually experimented with his handcuffs, in the endeavor to wrest his arms from their grip. Gradually he edged farther and farther from the guard. Finally he had moved to a position from which he felt that he could safely get away. With one mighty bound he had turned and was off into the forest. Volley after volley came from the soldiers, but he escaped untouched.

Wetzel knew well the woodland in which he found himself, and hastening to a dense thicket pushed through a close tangle of briars to a fallen tree. He wedged himself beneath this, and none too soon, for within a very few moments a number of Indians and soldiers approached. Twice some redskins sat upon the very tree beneath which he was crouching, and he heard one say:

“Ah, but the white dog would make good running through the ranks of our red brothers. We must stick our knives into him when we find him.”

At last darkness came. The trapper heard his pursuers returning, so he crept stealthily from his hiding-place and made for the river. He reached it in an hour, and by the light of the half moon, saw a frontiersman fishing from a canoe. He was afraid to call to him, for the woods were full of Indians, so he attracted his attention by beating upon the water with a stick. The fellow saw him; picked him up, and paddled him to the other shore, where his handcuffs were cut from his wrists. Next day he stood among his own friends.

Not long after this remarkable escape the trapper was at a fort on Wheeling Creek from which a number of pioneers had mysteriously disappeared.

“They have been killed by the redskins,” said one of the backwoodsmen, who resided there. “How, where, and when, no one seems to know; but, my friend, there have been mysterious calls of turkeys in the woods. Turkeys, mark you, my friend,—wild turkeys!”

Wetzel pricked up his ears. He remembered that each of the men who had been killed had heard turkey calls near the fort: had gone out to shoot one for supper: and had never returned. The turkey calls had all come from one direction and here was a high hill covered with boulders. A small cave-like depression could be seen from the camp. Putting two and two together, he decided that Mr. Redskin had produced the call of Mr. Turkey and that it was Mr. Redskin’s unerring aim that had put an end to the lives of so many good frontiersmen. “I shall soon stop the twaddle of the fascinating tongue of Mr. Gobbler,” said the scout to himself.

Setting out one morning, before day had broken, he soon drew near a hill, on the top of which was a small cave. It was an excellent spot in which to hide one’s self, and, placing himself in ambush, he watched it narrowly. At sunrise he saw the tufted head of a Shawnee appear in the narrow opening, and the “gobble, gobble, gobble” of a turkey, sounded from the throat of the savage. The trapper bent low and watched the performance, for it was an exact imitation of the male bird. “Gobble, gobble, gobble,” echoed again from the gloom of the cave, and, “crack” sounded the rifle of the bold pioneer. A wail of anguish arose from the cavern’s mouth. Then all was still. The Shawnee gobbler had gone to the Happy Hunting Grounds.

Well pleased with himself, Wetzel started back to the fort with the scalp-lock of the enterprising brave, and, as he neared the stockade, met a soldier hastening towards him.

“Did you hear that turkey call?” said the enthusiastic sportsman. “I’m going out to get him, sure.”

The scout pointed to his girdle.

“There is Mr. Gobbler,” said he. “He was the kind of a bird that shoots a rifle. My boy, you should thank your lucky stars that I saw him first.”

Not long after this event the frontiersman made a journey to the Kanawha River with John Madison, brother of James Madison, at one time President of the United States. They were busy surveying some land, and one day came to a hunter’s cabin, which appeared to be deserted.

“No one is here,” said Madison. “Let us take some of this jerked venison and also a pailful of this coffee. I do not believe that the camp will be again visited, and we may as well have the food, as to let the wood-mice eat it.”

“All right,” answered the trapper, and, without more ado, they appropriated what they wished, and continued upon their journey.

Early the next day, as they were crossing a small valley, many shots rang out, and wild war-whoops sounded from every side. Cries of “You give back our venison!” were heard above the din, and Madison reeled in his saddle, falling head-long to the ground. Wetzel did not wait to see what had happened to him, but, digging his heels into his horse’s flanks, dashed off into the brush.

Now was a furious chase. Although well mounted, the scout soon saw that the red men also had good ponies, and he feared that they would catch him. Over the mountain paths they flew, for hour after hour. At last they neared a broad river, and leaping his horse into it, the scout swam to the other side. The red men had not the courage to follow where he had led, and thus he made good his escape.

The pioneer had a generous heart in spite of his vindictiveness to all savages, and not long afterwards had an opportunity to display his good feeling towards the weak and distressed. Going with a friend one day to pay a visit to a frontier house belonging to the Bryans, they found indications that the Indians had just been there, for the home was burned to the ground. Tracks in the moist earth led into the forest, and besides those of the redskins were the print of a woman’s feet.

“Miss Betsy Bryan has been carried off, I fear,” said Wetzel sorrowfully, pointing to the footprints. “We must rescue her even if it costs us our lives. Comrade, let us hasten to the chase.”

His companion nodded, and, without more ado, the two men of the frontier followed the well-marked trail of the savages. Towards evening they crossed the Ohio River. Not far from the bank was a camp-fire, and, going towards it with great caution, they saw the girl seated near the flames. A white renegade and three Indians were her companions.

“Lie down, comrade,” whispered Wetzel to his friend. “I will tell you when to rouse yourself, for we cannot attack until these redskins are asleep.”

His companion obeyed, and waking him about two o’clock in the early morning, the scout told him to fire at one of the red men and then to rush into the camp in order to protect the captive. “I, myself, will attend to the renegade,” said he.

Both frontiersmen fired at about the same time. The renegade was done for, as was one Indian, also. The two remaining savages took to their heels. Wetzel was after them in a jiffy, but, as they soon hid in the brush, he fired his rifle off, thinking that they might pursue him if they believed that his weapon were empty. He was not mistaken. The savages rushed from their hiding-places, gave close chase, and gained rapidly upon the running plainsman. They began to yelp wildly, as they thought that they had him cornered, but they did not know that this was the famous trapper who could load while on the run.

Turning about, Wetzel now shot the nearest red man, but the other kept on after him like a flash. The scout loaded while darting forward, as usual, then wheeling quickly, he dispatched this second assailant. His wonderful ability to load when at full speed had made it thus possible for him to thoroughly avenge the assault upon the frontier settlement and the capture of the inoffensive girl. Taking the scalp-locks of the two fallen braves and tying them to his girdle, he was soon back at the camp, where he was tearfully greeted by the rescued maiden. In a short time they were at home in the settlement.

Wetzel continued his life of hardship and adventure after this; made a journey south, where he was imprisoned at New Orleans, and, in 1803, joined Lewis and Clark in their expedition up the Missouri River. He left them after two months, and spent about two years near the headwaters of the Yellowstone, engaged in trapping and in hunting. From now on, until his death in 1818, he was a trapper and fur trader; his hatred for the redskins remaining unabated until his demise. He was camping near Natchez, Mississippi, when this occurred.

A braver man never lived than this famous scout, who could load while on the run, and who had probably experienced more hairbreadth escapes than most of the pioneers. His one great failing was his dislike for the red men and desire to put them out of the way, but, after one considers the distressing circumstances attending the death of the members of his family, when he was a mere youth, one can pardon this bloodthirstiness. There was much good in Lewis Wetzel; the valorous frontiersman of the early days of the settlement of the United States.

SAMUEL COLTER:

AND HIS WONDERFUL RACE FOR LIFE

WHEN Lewis and Clark were on their way to the Pacific coast they had with them two trappers, one of whom was to meet with extraordinary adventures. These were Samuel Colter and Lemuel Potts—both sturdy sons of the West—who obtained permission from the leaders of the expedition to remain near the headwaters of the Missouri River, in order to hunt and to trap. They intended to overtake the main body, after a short time, and hoped to obtain enough beaver skins to net them a good sum of money upon their return to civilization. You probably remember that Lewis had trouble with the Blackfeet, when near the Missouri, one of whom he had to kill because he began to run off the horses. For this reason these two trappers knew that they would have to use extreme caution or else they would fall into the clutches of some of these savages. The vengeance of an Indian is always swift and sure.

Knowing that the redskins were all about them, the trappers decided upon the following plan: they would lie hidden during the day, would set their traps late in the evening, and would visit them in order to remove the game in the gray of the early morning. Success met their efforts, and, before long, they had a goodly quantity of skins. No Indians were seen, although Indian sign was abundant, and they knew that there were plenty of Blackfeet in the vicinity.

One morning, while paddling up a winding stream where numerous traps were set, to their keen ears came the sound of heavy tramping.

“Those are redskins,” whispered Colter. “Let’s decamp at once, and get back to our starting-place.”

But Potts thought differently.

“Those are buffalo,” said he. “Wait until we round the corner and you will find out that I am right.”

Just then they swirled around the bend in the stream, and to their dismay, found both banks fairly swarming with Blackfeet. Escape was impossible, and, although cold shivers began to run up and down his spine, Colter ran the bow of the canoe towards the bank.

The red men began to whoop loudly, as they saw them approach, and called to them to come ashore. This they did, and, as they stepped upon the bank, a burly savage jumped forward and snatched the rifle which Potts carried, from his hand. Colter was a man of great physical strength and courage, who was not afraid of twenty savages. He wrested the weapon away from the redskin, handed it back to Potts, and confronted the startled braves with a face filled with determination and fire. Potts jumped into his canoe, pushed out into the stream, and started to paddle away, in spite of the commands of Colter, who cried to him to come back and take him with him.

Suddenly an arrow whizzed from the bank and Potts cried out, “I’m wounded, Colter. I cannot come to your assistance.”

In spite of this, he raised his rifle, fired, and killed the redskin who had shot him. A wild yelping now arose from the other savages, and, before five minutes had passed, the body of Potts fell into the water, riddled with hundreds of arrows.

Colter stood upon the bank, unarmed and alone. The Blackfeet swarmed around him; stripped him of his clothes and then held a pow-wow, while they determined what they should do with him.

“Let’s skin him alive!” said one.

“No, whip him to death!” suggested another.

“Burn him at the stake!” shouted a great many.

The wrangling thus continued, until it was decided to let him run a race for his life. He was to get away if he could, but, if he could not, he was to be burned at the stake. All seemed to be much pleased at this decision.

A chief now approached the captive and said: “Paleface, you run fast, eh?”

“No, no, chief,” answered the trapper, “I am very poor runner, I slow as the tortoise.”

This was an untruth, for Colter was one of the swiftest foot racers upon the border, but his reply was hailed with loud shouts. Led upon a sandy plain by the chief, he was followed by six hundred armed red men, who gave him a start of three hundred yards, and then told him to go.

As Colter dashed away, a fierce whoop arose from all the red men and they started in pursuit with continued yelping. In a few moments they saw that it would take their swiftest runners to overhaul the white man, for he sped along like a greyhound. They had, however, a great advantage over him, for his feet were naked, and there were prickly plants, sand bars, and sharp stones upon the plain. Their feet, on the other hand, were protected by stout deer-skin moccasins.

On, on, sped the gallant scout, although his feet were cruelly lacerated by the stones and shrubs. On, on, he went, while the shouting of the red men died away, as they perceived that he was out-distancing them. None caught up to him, in fact, he drew rapidly away from the very swiftest of them all.

After a run of three miles Colter glanced back over his shoulder and saw that one of his pursuers was holding his own with him. He had headed towards the Jefferson Fork of the Missouri River, and knew that if he once reached the water he could doubtless hide himself. The pursuing red man had a spear in his hand, and, so fleet was he, that he was soon within a hundred yards of the trapper.

“If I do not stop this Indian,” said Colter to himself, “it is all over with me.”

Straining every muscle in order to get away, Colter suddenly felt the blood gushing from his nose, and knew that a slight hemorrhage had been occasioned by his efforts. He was but a mile from the river, and, again looking back, saw the Indian within twenty yards of him. Escape was now impossible. Turning swiftly around,—he stood absolutely still and opened his arms.

The red man was astounded at this unexpected action, and, in endeavoring to check his headway, fell to the ground. The lance, meanwhile, flew from his hand and stuck into the earth a considerable distance from him, where it broke off. Luck was with the half-winded man of the plains, who now turned about, seized the broken spear-head, and darted swiftly to the side of the prostrate red man.

The trapper aimed the sharp lance at the Indian, and drove it into him with such force that he was pinned to the earth. A deep groan came from the helpless brave, as the backwoodsman again turned to run towards the river, although he was now exhausted by loss of blood and by the terrible race for life. His pursuers were still far behind, and he reached Jefferson’s Fork so far ahead of them that they could not see him. One spring—he had leaped into the water—and was swimming towards a little island about a hundred yards from the bank.

Upon the edge of this had lodged a clump of sticks and floating brush. Colter made for it and dove beneath the tangled mass; emerging somewhere in its centre, with his head between two giant logs. Breathing with great difficulty, and faint from his exhausting run, he waited with throbbing heart for the red men to arrive. This they did very shortly.