"Augusta boys ain't goin' to have any man in their militia company that stands under six feet in his moccasins. Folks between the heads o'

Bluestone an' Clinch so skeered they prob'ly won't stay to lay by their corn. Injuns signs up Sandy Creek has made some o' Moccasin an' Copper Creek folks come off. I 'low that's 'bout all."

"Any signs of the Cherokees coming in?"

"Some says they will. T'others says they won't. Sort o' depends on whether they can keep Ike Crabtree from killin' of 'em off."

He threw his rifle over his shoulder and with a curt nod turned into the bushes and followed the bank to find a crossing. He was away on his fearful business; his youth was hopelessly corroded.

I scouted the spot where I had left my horse and discovered no signs of Indians. Unspanceling and mounting, I picked up my journey. I was pa.s.sing through a mountainous country which contained many large meadows. These pleasant openings would accommodate many cattle if not for the Indian danger. They were thick with gra.s.s and enough hay could be cured on them to feed large herds throughout the winter.

The bottom-lands, although smaller, were very rich. Along the hillsides I had no doubt but that grain could easily be grown. Altogether it was a most pleasing country if lasting peace ever could come to the border.

While I observed the natural advantages and fancied the glades and bottoms dotted with happy cabins, I did not forget the dead Delaware floating down the river, nor ignore the probability of some of his kin discovering the murder before sundown and taking the path for reprisals.

There was no suggestion of war in the warm sunshine and busy woods-life.

Birds rejoiced in their matings, and the air was most gracious with the perfume of growing things. The stirring optimism of spring lingered with me. My heart was warm to rejoin old friends, to enjoy women's company; but never a moment did I neglect to scrutinize the trace ahead.

The day pa.s.sed with no hint of danger. I had the world to myself when the sun was cradled by the western ridges. I found it a wonderful world, and I believed it was never intended that any race of savages, whites or red, should hold such fair lands for hunting-preserves only.

That night, according to my custom, I spanceled my horse at a considerable distance from my camp. I had selected a spot on top of a ridge, where the maples and walnuts grew thick. I perched a turkey in the gloaming and roasted him over a small fire. Having eaten, I walked to the edge of the growth and gazed toward the west. Across the valley a light suddenly twinkled on the side of a ridge. I first thought that hunters were camping there; and as the light increased to a bright blaze I decided there was a large company of them and that they had no fear of Indians.

But as I watched the flames grew higher. What had been a white light became a ruddy light. The fire spread on both sides. My heart began to pound and I tilted my head to listen. The distance was too far for me to hear tell-tale sounds, still I fancied I could hear the yelling of demons dancing around a burning cabin.

A dead man floating down the river; a boy seeking vengeance somewhere near the blazing home, and a scout for Virginia traveling toward the Greenbriar.

[1] It is estimated that the whites lost three to the Indians'

one in Dunmore's War.

[2] Tomahawk improvements. Settlers often took possession by blazing trees with axes and carving their names thereon. Such entry to land was not legal, but usually was recognized and later made valid by legal process. Such was the claim made to the site of modern Wheeling, West Virginia, by Ebenezer Silas and Jonathan Zane in 1770.

CHAPTER II

INDIAN-HATERS

I journeyed up the Cheat and left its head waters and proceeded down the Greenbriar without observing any signs of the red peril which was creeping upon the country. A great gray eagle, poised at the apex of my upturned gaze, appeared to be absolutely stationary; a little brown flycatcher, darting across my path, made much commotion. Red-crested woodp.e.c.k.e.rs hammered industriously in dead wood for rations. So long as their tappings resounded ahead of me I feared no ambush.

Wherever nut-trees stood the squirrels made more noise than did the House of Burgesses when dissolved by Governor Dunmore for expressing revolutionary sentiments. A most gracious country, and because of its fairness, most fearfully beset. That which is worthless needs no sentinels. I met with no humans, white or red; but when within a few miles of Patrick Davis' home on Howard Creek I came upon a spot where three Indians had eaten their breakfast that very morning.

I knew they must be friendly to the whites as they had not attempted to hide their temporary camp. They had departed in the direction of the creek, which also was my destination. I planned resting there over night and then crossing the main ridge of the Alleghanies during the next day, stopping the night with the Greenwood family on Dunlap's Creek.

Thence it would be an easy ride to Salem where I would find Colonel Andrew Lewis, commander of the county militia. I hoped he would provide a messenger for forwarding my despatches to Governor Dunmore in Williamsburg. I had no desire to visit the seat of government, nor was my disinclination due to the bustle and confusion of its more than a thousand inhabitants.

A mile from where the Indians had camped I came upon two white men. They were at one side of the trace and curiously busy among some rocks at the top of a fifty-foot cliff. They were hauling a rope from a deep crack or crevice in the rocks and were making hard work of it.

We discovered each other at the same moment, and they called on me to lend them a hand. Leaving my horse in the trace, I hastened over the rough ground to learn what they wanted. As I drew nearer I recognized them as Jacob Scott and William Hacker, confirmed "Injun-haters."

"How d'ye do, Morris," greeted Hacker. "Catch hold here and help haul him up."

"Who is it?" I asked, seizing the rope which was composed of leather belts and spancel-ropes.

"Lige Runner," grunted Hacker, digging in his heels and pulling in the rope hand over hand. Runner, as I have said, was another implacable foe of all red men.

"All together!" panted Scott.

My contribution of muscle soon brought Runner's head into view. We held the rope taut while he dragged himself on to the ledge.

"Did you git it?" eagerly demanded Hacker.

The triumphant grin was surety for his success down the crevice. He rose and tapped a fresh scalp dangling at his belt.

"I got it," he grimly replied. "Had to follow him most to the bottom where his carca.s.s was wedged between the rocks. Morning, Morris. Traveling far?

Seen any Injun-signs on the way?"

I shook my head, preferring they should not learn about the three Indians making for Howard's Creek.

"What does all this mean, Runner? Do scalps grow at the bottom of holes?"

"This one seemed to," he answered with a deep chuckle. "Didn't git a fair crack at him, as he was running mighty cute. Rifle held fire the nick of a second too long. I knew he was mortal hit, but he managed to reach this hole. Then the skunk jumped in a-purpose to make us all this bother to git his scalp."

"Who was he?"

"Don't know. He was a good hundred and fifty yards away and going like a streak when I plugged him. It's too dark down in the hole to see anything."

"For all you know he was a friendly."

"We never see no friendlies," Hacker grimly reminded.

"'Cept when they're dead," ironically added Scott. "Our eyesight's terribly poor when they're alive."

"I call it dirty business. I wouldn't have hauled on the rope if I had known."

Runner lowered at me and growled:

"You're too finicky. A' Injun is a' Injun. Sooner they're all dead, the better. I kill 'em quicker'n I would a rattlesnake. A rattler gives notice when he's going to strike."

"If you've killed a friendly this work will cause much suffering among the outlying cabins."

"Bah! If we took good corn cakes and honey to the red devils they'd kill us every chance they got. We ain't forgitting what happened at Keeney's k.n.o.b, at the Clendennin farm on the Greenbriar; nor the scores of killings up in Tygart's Valley, and in other places. Give 'em the pewter every chance you can! That's my religion."

"That's the talk, Lige!" cried Scott. "Ike Crabtree would 'a' liked to been in this fun."

"He'll feel cut up when he hears about our luck," said Hacker.