Part 9

They had stopped beside the body of their comrade and found that he was in his death-agony. Infuriated by this, and with terrific yells, they again set out in pursuit of Colter, who heard their vindictive screeching as they reached the bank. Some of them swam out to the island and punched about in the drift with their spears. As they did so, the trapper drew down in the water so that only his nose was exposed. He remained thus for about half an hour, when the redskins gave up their search and returned to the body of the fallen chieftain. Colter feared that they might set fire to the drift, but this idea did not seem to have entered the minds of the Blackfeet, who began a hideous wailing as they gathered around their leader. Carrying him upon their shoulders, they started back to their camp, and gradually their wild lamentations died away in the shadows of the forest.

The trapper was in a desperate predicament, for he was without either clothes or rifle. His feet had been lacerated by the stones and plants so that he could walk only with difficulty, and his body was chilled by his long immersion in the cold waters of the river. Certainly there was no brilliant prospect before him, for he was miles from any settlement. Would you not think that he would have become absolutely disheartened and would have given up in despair?

Not so with this bold follower of Lewis and Clark. After a day’s rest and a meal of berries, grass and stalks from a shrub known as the sheep sorrel, he started for Lisa’s Fort on the Yellowstone, a distance of a week’s hard journey. Fortune favored this man of iron. Toads, frogs, and insects became his food, and with clothing of bark and reeds he finally reached the hospitable shelter of Manuel Lisa’s trading station. He was scarcely recognizable.

Colter had suffered untold agony from thirst, from hunger and from cold. The evenings are chilly in this country—even in summer—and, although he made a fire by rubbing two dry sticks together, he shivered all through the night. The wild sheep sorrel had given him most needed nourishment, while the body of a dead rabbit, which he fortunately stumbled upon, had brought sufficient strength to carry him to the Fort. No wonder that the trappers there gave three rousing cheers for this frontier hero.

In ten days after his arrival at the group of log huts, Samuel Colter was again fit for service, but Lewis and Clark were already far away upon their transcontinental journey. He remained at the Fort, had several brushes with the Blackfeet, and eventually found his way back to the settlements, where he was much admired for his nerve and courage in eluding the wild denizens of the plains near the headwaters of the Missouri. Certainly he had good reason to be proud of his escape from the bloodthirsty hands of the Blackfoot warriors. Three cheers for brave Sam Colter! He well deserves to be remembered as a Marathon runner who ran a more thrilling race than the tame affairs of the present day, where no band of savages, who are thirsting for one’s gore, pursue the struggling athletes.

MESHACK BROWNING:

THE CELEBRATED BEAR HUNTER OF THE ALLEGHANIES

IN 1781 was born in Frederick County, Maryland, a pioneer who was truly entitled to the name of “The Mighty Hunter.” The son of one of General Braddock’s soldiers, who had settled in this beautiful country, Meshack Browning lived his life in the wild fastnesses of the then uncleared mountains of the Blue Ridge, and, at the close of a long and eventful career as a huntsman and trapper, could say with pride that he had killed from eighteen hundred to two thousand deer; from three to four hundred beaver; about fifty panthers; and scores of wolves and wildcats. He was the hero of every man’s conversation in this mountain republic. All looked up to the hardy pioneer, and, after his long and eventful life was brought to a close, when well beyond eighty years of age, no one was more cordially missed than this sturdy old man of the mountains.

Young Meshack’s father died when he was an infant of but two weeks of age, leaving his mother desperately poor, with one daughter named Dorcas, and three sons. It was a hard struggle to bring them up, but by working in the garden, by raising plenty of vegetables, and by spinning, saving and knitting, the good lady managed to scrape along somehow or other. Little Meshack had to learn how to use the rifle at an early age, for by this means only was it possible to supply the larder with fresh meat. Wild turkeys were abundant; deer, wildcats, wolves and bear roamed all through the rugged hills round about their home. Thus he quickly became expert in the use of the flint-lock.

The hunting season usually began in October, and during this month the task was commenced of laying in the winter’s provisions. Some days little Meshack would go out with a kindly uncle who had joined the family and would hunt for deer. On other days he would chase after bees, and as he and his uncle were most successful in this kind of hunting, they would often spend more time in searching for honey than in seeking venison. It would not be long before the table would be well supplied with both deer steaks and honey. The high, fresh grass which surrounded the log cabin would cause their cows to give a quantity of milk, from which little Meshack’s aunt, who was an industrious woman, made plenty of butter; and frequently a fat turkey would be added to the store. Thus life was simple, easy, and healthful in the wild fastnesses of the Blue Ridge.

Things went on well enough until word came to the pioneers that General St. Clair’s army had been defeated and cut to pieces by the redskins under Little Turtle, which you no doubt remember. This was frightful news, and little Meshack’s mother was very much afraid.

“What if the Indians fall upon us here,” said she. “We could not protect ourselves against these terrible red men. Let us move further back into the country where there are more white people. We can thus combine for our own defense.”

Meshack’s uncle thought about the same way, so, packing up their few belongings, the little family hurried to a place called the “Blooming Rose,” where there were thirty or forty other families. This was in 1792—long, long ago, it seems—and yet I, myself, have known old fellows of these mountains who appeared to be well conversant with the terrible battles of St. Clair, “Mad Anthony” Wayne, and the redskins under Little Turtle. These many struggles had been often narrated to them by their parents; most of whom had taken part in those stirring events.

Not long after coming to this settlement, the youthful Meshack had his first adventure with a bear. While milking a cow one day, he heard a great deal of noise at the house, and inquiring what it all meant, was told by one of the girls who lived there that a bear had just gone by. Running to the front portico he there found that four or five gentlemen, who had come to visit the owner of the house (bringing with them their bird-guns, and several little dogs), had gone in pursuit of the beast. The dogs were so small that two of them would have made about a mouthful for Brother Bruin.

The owner of the house, Mr. Caldwell, was a successful bear hunter and had two fine dogs which were well trained to fight these animals. Meshack called them, took the old man’s gun, and ran in the direction of the noise, until he overtook the party of huntsmen, who had halted just as the bear reached a clump of woods. The little dogs would not leave their master, for they seemed to be afraid that the bear would tear them to pieces. But as soon as Mr. Caldwell’s animals scented the bear, off they went, heads down and tails up. Meshack followed on behind.

On, on, coursed the dogs: on, on, went Meshack. Hastening towards the sounds of the fray, the young hunter saw both bear and dogs turning somersaults down a very steep hill. Over and over they rolled, Meshack after them as hard as he could tilt, and the way that the fur flew was most interesting. The fight became desperate, and the bear found that his hindquarters were suffering severely; so severely, in fact, that he determined to climb a large tree. When halfway up to the lowest branches, he saw Meshack come puffing and blowing down the hill. This frightened him and he attempted to descend to the ground.

As he crawled slowly towards the sod, Meshack let drive and sent a small rifle ball through the middle of his body. The bear plunged to the earth, making two or three somersaults as he did so, but finding the dogs too ferocious for him, he immediately ascended a large oak tree. The oak being forked and very high, he went up to the first branch, and, lying down on it, refused to move. By this time the gentlemen who owned the little dogs had come up, and as many of them had never seen a bear before, they began to consult among themselves about what was to be done. Meshack had no more balls for his little rifle and they had nothing but small shot.

After a lengthy discussion it was agreed to try and see what a load of shot would do for Mr. Bruin. Meshack agreed that it was impossible to kill the bear with that and told the other huntsmen to let the beast alone until he fetched some more balls, or else secured some one else to come and shoot him.

“Stand back and keep your counsel to yourself,” cried one of the men. “We know how to handle this rascally bear. Let us finish him off!”

Taking aim at the animal’s head, one of them again fired, but this only made the bear snort, scratch his face, and climb up the tree as far as he could go. Here he seated himself upon another fork, and, although repeatedly shot at, would not budge.

The bear hunters were feeling very much discouraged. After a long parley they decided to send for a certain pioneer called John Martin, who could shoot a squirrel off the highest tree in the woods. A scout was dispatched for him, and, at about nine in the evening, he returned with the famous marksman, who brought a rifle shooting an ounce ball. After the trapper had had full time to recover his breath, which climbing the high hill had rendered rather short, he placed himself in a good position and let drive. Mr. Bear remained in his place unscathed. Several more shots were fired by the old fellow, but Bruin simply hugged the limb in apparent comfort.

“Here, boys,” cried one, “is a Mr. Morris—a Revolutionary officer—who has killed many an English soldier. Let him have a crack at this elusive mark!”

“Yes! Yes!” called several. “Give some one else a chance.”

The new marksman cleaned and loaded his gun, took careful aim, and off went the musket. The bear snorted, groaned, and made a great fuss, but remained in its place. Another load was prepared and the Captain again tried his luck, when the bear, apparently provoked by such ill treatment, rose from his resting-place and started for the group. But upon arriving at the lowest fork of the tree, and seeing so many men and dogs, his courage failed him, and he again lay down. Mr. Martin tried two or three more shots without any result. Bruin seemed to be made of cast iron.

“Let me have a shot at him,” said Meshack, at this juncture. “I believe that I can kill the old boy.”

“Stand out of the way!” cried the Revolutionary soldier. “I am sure that I can finish him off, and I’ll knock you out if you interfere with me.”

It was getting dark by now, and Bruin was still unkilled. It soon was so dark that Mr. Martin could not see the powder in the pan. The gun missed fire.

“Here, Mr. Martin,” cried young Browning. “Give me your gun, and I will finish this confounded rascal.”

The old frontiersman passed him the piece.

“Take it,” said he, “and good riddance.”

Meshack felt for the powder in the pan and found it empty, but having some in a horn, he placed it carefully in the proper vent and was ready to try his luck. There were fourteen men now around the tree.

The young pioneer could only see the bear by getting him between himself and the sky, but he took the best aim that he could, and fired. Pow! Down came the bear this time with a thud; and, with a wild yelping and barking, the dogs made for him. A shout of horror arose from the bystanders as they all took to the trees, while over and over, down the steep hill, rolled the bear and the dogs, until they fell into a hole, where they stopped. A terrible snarling, yelping and growling now ensued.

The last shot had so disabled the bear that he lay upon his back defending himself valiantly as the dogs made for him. Meshack had now nothing to shoot him with, so he went in search of a club, and pulling a dry pole out by the roots, broke it off short, and went into the fray.

Creeping behind the bear, as he was reaching after the dogs in front, he struck him on the head between the ears, while down he went, the dogs attacking his hindquarters, meanwhile, and holding on to him tightly. The tough, old fellow uttered one despairing growl, then rolled over, stone dead. His end had come.

Meshack kept absolutely still, and, as he crouched near the bear, the back-track party began to come up. All had descended from their trees when they saw the bear rolling down the hill.

“Where is Browning?” asked one.

“Goodness only knows,” answered another.

“I expect that the young fool has run on the bear and has been killed by him.”

“Hello, Browning! Hello!” cried many.

Young Meshack would not answer.

“It’s no use to call,” said one of the tree climbers. “He’s as dead as a door nail.”

Still Meshack would not answer, because he wanted to hear what they would all say.

“Hello! Browning!” was repeated.

“What do you want?” at length cried the young pioneer.

“Where is the bear?”

“Here he is.”

“What is he doing?”

“He is dead.”

“Well, I reckon that isn’t true, because you couldn’t kill him without a gun or a tomahawk, and you haven’t got either of them.”

“I beat him to death with a club.”

“By George! you are fool enough to do anything. We don’t believe you.”

So saying, they gingerly began to come nearer and nearer, until they were at the edge of the hole where the bear lay dead. They would come no closer until young Meshack took the bear by the foot and shook it in the air.

“By Jingo! he is dead!” said one. “Bully for you, my boy.”

The young pioneer now held up the club with which he had dispatched the bear, and each took it and struck the dead beast on the head in order to say that he had helped to kill the long-lived animal, but no one congratulated Meshack. In fact, several let it be known that they themselves had killed the tough, old fellow.

The question now arose as to how Bruin was to be carried home. Some were for getting two oxen and a cart, but young Browning suggested that they carry him on a pole. This they did, and staggering and tumbling onward, the animal was gradually towed towards the house of Mr. Caldwell. The bear was laid in the kitchen, where the owner of the house came to view him and to taunt the back-trackers and the climbers for their cowardice. When closely examined, it was seen that Captain Morris’s two shots had struck him, one passing through his ear, the other breaking two of his tusks, without doing any serious injury. No ball from Martin’s numerous fusillades had touched him at all.

“Your shot killed the bear, Browning,” said he, turning to Meshack. “If the bear’s backbone had not been weakened by the last shot he would have undoubtedly killed many, if not all of them. As for these fellows who climbed the trees, it was a most cowardly trick, and the same thing would have occurred had they been in a fight with the redskins.”

This was very galling to the back-trackers, and they envied and abused young Meshack whenever they had an opportunity. When the bear was cut up they even did not wish to give Meshack a share of it, but Mr. Caldwell insisted that he should have his just proportion of the game.

“I have no use for the meat, sir,” said the youthful pioneer. “But if you will give me the skin, I shall be glad to have it.”

Mr. Caldwell immediately took up the hide and presented it to him.

“It is justly yours,” said he, “for my dogs treed him, and you killed him. You have a right to the skin, because it has always been a rule among hunters that the first blood drawn takes the skin, be it bear or deer.”

Thus ended the young trapper’s first bear fight. It raised his reputation as a fearless boy, and made him admired and respected by all the stout backwoodsmen of the Blue Ridge. Frequently, thereafter, when he would be seated in the kitchen with the other children, they would induce him to tell the whole tale and would ridicule the back-track huntsmen for their cowardly conduct. One of them, Miss Nancy Lee, said to him one evening:

“Browning, I always thought that you were a great coward, but I do not think so now. And I heard father tell a strange man the other day that if he had you in an Indian fight he knew that you would attack the redskins as fearlessly as you did that bear. Meshack, I have often wished that I had been born a boy, then I would be some day a man and would be able to kill or drive away the red rascals who followed General St. Clair, so that they would never again come back to murder the whites. If you had seen as much of their work as I have, you would feel as vindictively towards them as I, myself, do. Let me tell you a story about them:

“Some years ago, before General St. Clair lost so many men in a great fight with the Indians, father and mother were compelled to leave this place, and we all went up to the Fort at Wheeling, West Virginia. The neighbors were forced to vacate their farms, also, and go into the stockade. My father and three or four of his friends used to go out to hunt for game sometimes, and a few pioneers always stood guard while they were away. Others worked at planting and harvesting corn and at chopping wood. There was ever the danger of an onrush by the redskins.

“At length news came to us that the Indians were in the neighborhood. The Fort was put in the best possible condition for defense, and we awaited their approach. But no attack came. Several days passed by, no sound came from the depths of the forest and it was supposed that the savages had given up the assault. But such was not the case.

“One day two Indians made their appearance on the high hill above the town, across the river, and opposite the Fort. They fired their rifles at the stockade and then went slowly away, slapping their hands behind them in token of derision and contempt for the frontiersmen within the log enclosure.

“Many of the pioneers were outraged by such an insult, for they were hot-tempered fellows. Several began to run after the savages, and they would have all gone had not the commanding officer stood in the gateway and stopped them. Twenty-four of the boldest and most dashing ran up the steep hill after the Indians, who kept on retreating as if with no intention to offer battle. When the whites reached the summit, they suddenly found themselves surrounded. Crack! Crack! sounded many a rifle, and bullets began to whizz by on every side. They gazed about them in dismay. Fully four hundred painted redskins were on three sides of them. Their only hope was to turn and make a break for the Fort.

“The redskins, meanwhile, had moved to their rear, and, as the frontiersmen approached, put up a stern resistance to their assault. Many fell. Some escaped unhurt and dashed madly for their haven of refuge, pursued by the red men with wild, vindictive yelping. My father was one of the last to get through the lines, and, as he ran for his life, with a close friend of his before him, he saw his companion fall to the ground. As he passed him, the wounded man cried out, ‘John, don’t leave me to be scalped,’ but my father ran on, as he knew that he could do nothing for him. A moment more and he saw a white renegade, who had gone to live with the Indians some years before. The fellow was close to him and carried a spear, mounted on a handle like that of a pitchfork. He was at my father’s heels when they arrived at a narrow defile in the hill next to the Fort. A large tree was lying on the ground and another small one was standing very near it. Something tripped up my father’s feet, and in he fell, between the two trees. As he went down, the white renegade made a furious lunge at him. The spear, however, glanced off the log, turned its point upward, and stuck so fast in the standing tree that the white savage could not withdraw it before my father leaped to his feet, escaped unhurt, and reached the Fort in safety.

“The poor fellow who had called out to him for help had had his thigh broken; but he crawled upon his hands and knees to a hollow log, in which he hid himself until dark, and then wriggled to the Fort. A short time later a frontiersman came in with his arm broken, but the rest all fell before the rifles, arrows and tomahawks of the redskins.

“Thus perished twenty-one of the best and bravest men in West Virginia. Their death was a great loss to the frontier settlements, as also to the strength of the Fort, which, in a few days, was hotly besieged by these same red men. Their success had made them bold. Having intercepted a boat loaded with cannonballs, destined for the use of the garrison, the savages procured a hollow tree, bound it round with as many chains as they could, drove wedges underneath the chains in order to tighten them as much as possible; loaded it like a cannon, and, at a favorable moment, let go a most tremendous broadside. Whang! The whole thing exploded with a resounding boom, killing several, wounding others, and frightening the rest half out of their wits.

“They did not remain frightened, however, and soon renewed their attack upon the Fort. Near by was a log house belonging to Colonel Lane and the assault was mainly directed against this place, but the redskins were driven off. The powder became very scarce in the house, so it was proposed that some men should run to the log barricade for a supply. Among the volunteers for this dangerous task was a sister of Colonel Lane, who said that she, herself, would go. It was objected to, and the young men insisted on going themselves. But she was firm in her purpose and replied that the loss of a woman would be felt less than the loss of a man. Pinning up her dress, so that her feet would have fair play, she started upon her dangerous mission.

“The Indians were perfectly astonished at this sight and did not fire a single shot at her. Thus she reached the Fort in safety, secured plenty of powder, which she tied to a belt around her waist, and off she bounded again for the house. The red men were not so lenient this time. Suspecting some mischief, they fired a volley of balls after her, all of which missed the fleeing woman, so that she reached the house in safety, with plenty of powder with which to withstand the future attacks of the savages.

“The Indians were now discouraged. Capturing a fat cow, they roasted her hind quarters, had a feast, and kept up a fusillade on the stockade while they ate the tender meat. When the repast was over, they all marched away in profound silence. As they disappeared, a settler at one of the port-holes drew a bead upon the last savage, but a random shot from somewhere in the forest dropped him like a stone. A wild war-whoop echoed from the sombre woodland and the Indians had vanished.”

Thus ended the story of the attack. It was a thrilling tale, and Nancy concluded with the remark:

“I think, Browning, that if the Indians were to commence hostilities again, while you were living with us, you would fight for our family, wouldn’t you?”