University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER II.

MAJOR SAMUEL M'COLLOCH.

The story of McColloch's ride, is as familiar to most
readers as that of Putnam's, or the famed leap of Curtius;
but very few beyond the neighborhood where he lived, know
anything of his personal history. Indeed, until very recently,
it was a question of doubt who the rider was,—which
of the Major McColloch's. It is to supply this desideratum,
as well as to do justice to the memory of a brave and meritorious
man, that the present memoir has been prepared.

At the time of issuing our prospectus, we believed that
Major John McColloch was the person who accomplished this
wonderful feat; but soon after learned that the true hero
was Major Samuel, (an elder brother of the other.) We
were led into this error by injudicious friends of the first
named officer, whose opportunities for knowing the facts we
supposed were abundant, and whom we presumed would not
attempt to warp history for selfish purposes. The mistake
we shall now attempt to rectify.

Most writers on the border history of the west, have given
the credit of this achievement to the younger brother, for the
reason, perhaps, that the first was killed at a very early day,
and the other was long known as "Major McColloch."

Unfortunately for the annals of the west, but few written
memoranda were made by the first settlers, and these are
so vague and unsatisfactory as to be of little service to the
biographer or historian. Very few of the old pioneers were
able to commit their thoughts to paper; and those who could,
did not deem the daily occurrences of life of sufficient importance

to place upon record. This, doubtless, would at
that time, have been regarded as a most extravagant waste
of stationery. Thus it was, that no permanent records were
made; and thus it is, we have but little tangible means at
command to work upon. The want of such reliable records,
is one of the greatest difficulties in the way of the historian.

Major John McColloch, as we have learned from some
members of his family, kept a regular journal of his personal
movements; but this cannot now be found, and the presumption
is, it was destroyed. The family were long under the
impression that the record had fallen into the hands of Dr.
Doddridge, who was a brother-in-law to Major McColloch.
Learning this, we addressed a note of inquiry to a member of
Dr. D.'s family, and received in reply the information that no
such paper could be found.

The McColloch family was one of the earliest that settled
on Short creek, where different branches of it still continue
to reside. There were originally three brothers, Abraham,
Samuel and John, and two sisters. The men were brave,
active and generous; the sisters in every respect worthy of
such brothers. Colonel Ebenezer Zane married Elizabeth,
whose whole life was a model of gentleness, virtue and love.
Of the brothers, no men were more respected by their neighbors,
or more dreaded by the Indians. Abraham was the
elder, Samuel next, and John the third.

At a very early age, the hero of our sketch distinguished
himself as a bold and efficient borderer. As an "Indian
hunter," he had few superiors. He seemed to track the wily
red man with a sagacity as remarkable as his efforts were
successful. He was almost constantly engaged in excursions
against the enemy, or "scouting" for the security of the settlements.
It was mainly to these energetic operations that
the frontier was so often saved from savage depredation, and
by cutting off their retreat, attacking their hunting camps,
and annoying them in various other ways, he rendered
himself so great an object of fear and hatred. For these

they marked him, and vowed sleepless vengeance against the
name.

In consideration of his many very efficient services, Samuel
McColloch was commissioned Major in 1775. The daring
feat to which allusion has been made, and an account of which
we have elsewhere said should be given, was performed September
2d, 1777. The circumstances connected with this
remarkable achievement, having been noticed in an account
of the first siege of Wheeling, it now alone remains to give
the sequel, as then promised. The Indians, it will be remembered,
drove the gallant major to the summit of a lofty hill,
which overhangs the present city of Wheeling. Knowing
their relentless hostility toward himself, he strained every
muscle of his noble steed to gain the summit, and then escape
along the brow in direction of Van Metre's fort. At length
he attained the top, and galloping ahead of his pursuers,
rejoiced at his lucky escape. As he gained a point on the
hill near where the Cumberland Road now crosses, what should
he suddenly encounter but a considerable body of Indians,
who were just returning from a plundering excursion among
the settlements.

In an instant, he comprehended the full extent of his danger.
Escape seemed out of the question, either in the direction of
Short creek or back to the bottom. A fierce and revengeful
foe completely hemmed him in, cutting off every chance of
successful retreat or escape. What was to be done? Fall
into their hands, and share the most refined torture savage
ingenuity could invent? That thought was agony, and in an
instant the bold soldier, preferring death among the rocks
and bramble to the knife and fagot of the savage, determined
to plunge over the precipice before him.[2] Without a

M'COLLOCH'S LEAP.

moment's hesitation, for the savages were pressing upon him,
he firmly adjusted himself in his saddle, grasped securely the
bridle with his left hand, and supporting his rifle in the right,
pushed his unfaltering old horse over! A plunge, a crash,—
crackling timber and tumbling rocks were all that the wondering
savages could see or hear. They looked chagrined but
bewildered, one at another; and while they inwardly regretted
that the fire had been spared its duty, they could not but
greatly rejoice that their most inveterate enemy was at length
beyond the power of doing further injury. But, lo! ere
a single savage had recovered from his amazement, what
should they see but the invulnerable major on his white
steed, galloping across the peninsula. Such was the feat of
Major McColloch, certainly one of the most daring and successful
ever attempted. The place has become memorable as
McColloch's leap, and will remain, so long as the hill stands,
and the recollections of the past have a place in the hearts of
the people. Our engraver has given a very effective and
correct representation of this "leap."

It is to us a matter of great regret, that more of the stirring
incidents in this man's life have not been collected and preserved.
We have heard of many daring feats of personal
prowess, but they come to us in such a mixed and unsatisfactory
form, as to render their publication, at this time, unsafe.
We trust, however, to embody many new incidents in a future
edition.

We come now to the most painful duty of the biographer
—the catastrophe—the death of his hero. Towards the
latter end of July, 1782, indications of Indians having been
noticed by some of the settlers, Major McColloch and his
brother John, mounted their horses, and left Van Metre's fort,
to ascertain the correctness of the report. They crossed Short
creek, and continued in the direction of Wheeling, but
inclining towards the river. They scouted closely, but cautiously,
and not discovering any such "signs" as had been
stated, descended to the bottom at a point on the farm now

owned by Alfred P. Woods, about two miles above Wheeling.
They then passed up the river to the mouth of Short creek,
and thence up Girty's Point[3] in the direction of Van Metre's.
Not discovering any indications of the enemy, the brothers
were riding leisurely along, (July 30, 1782,) and when a short
distance beyond the "point," a deadly discharge of rifles took
place, killing Major McColloch instantly. His brother escaped,
but his horse was killed. Immediately mounting that of his
brother, he made off, to give the alarm. As yet no enemy
had been seen; but turning in his saddle, after riding fifty
yards, the path was filled with Indians, and one fellow in the
act of scalping the unfortunate Major. Quick as thought,
the rifle of John was at his shoulder, and an instant more, the
savage was rolling in the agonies of death. John escaped to
the fort unhurt, with the exception of a slight wound on
his hip.

On the following day, a party of men from Van Metre's
went out and gathered up the mutilated remains of Major
McColloch. The savages had disemboweled him, but the
viscera all remained except the heart. Some years subsequent
to this melancholy affair, an Indian, who had been one of the
party on this occasion, told some whites that the heart of Major
McColloch had been divided and eaten by the party! This was
done, said he, that "We be bold, like Major McColloch."[4] On
another occasion, an Indian, in speaking of the incident,
said, "The whites (meaning John McColloch) had killed a

great captain, but they (the Indians) had killed a greater
one."

Before closing this hasty sketch, it may, perhaps, be well
enough to advert again to the question of identity.

In the first place, then, it seems generally conceded that
the person who accomplished the feat was Major McColloch;
and the year of its occurrence 1777. Well, Samuel McColloch
was commissioned major in 1775, John not until 1795.
Let the candid reader say which could have been the man.
But, further; in 1775-6-7, etc., Samuel McColloch was one
of the most active and distinguished borderers in Virginia—
the pride of the settlements, and a terror to the savages. John
was born in 1759, and, therefore, in 1777 was only eighteen
years of age;—quite too young a man to have rendered himself
so odious to the fierce old Shawanee warriors. But there
need be no necessity for depending upon doubtful conjecture,
or uncertain data. Without one single exception, all the older
citizens agree in saying that it was Major Samuel. The late
Colonel Woods said so, unhesitatingly; and we believe, stated
very positively, that Major John never claimed the credit,
although he (W.) often talked to him of the exploit.

The story in favor of Major John is clearly of modern
origin; the result of a mistake in a writer of romance, who
gave the credit without knowing the facts.

Major John McColloch was, perhaps, quite as brave and true
as his brother. He did ample service in the cause of our long
struggle for independence, and a more devoted patriot could
not be found. He filled many important posts of honor and
trust, and was greatly respected. The early records of Ohio
county show that he acted a conspicuous part on the bench
and otherwise.

The death of Major Samuel McColloch occurred at the most
unfortunate period of our history. It was in the summer of
that year, (1782,) so memorable in the annals of the west.
The united tribes of the north and west were meditating an
attack upon the frontier posts of Virginia, and many feared

some of the weaker ones might yield. Amid such perilous
scenes as these, the death of such men as Major McColloch
could not but be greatly deplored.

Major McColloch married a Miss Mitchell, and had only
enjoyed the wedded life six months at the time of his death.
His widow married Andrew Woods.

LEWIS WETZEL.[5]

Who in the west, has not heard of Wetzel—the daring
borderer,—the brave and successful Indian hunter; the
Boone of North-Western Virginia? Within the recollectiow
of many of our readers, Lewis Wetzel was regarded by many
of the settlers in the neighborhood of Wheeling, as the right
arm of their defence. His presence was considered as a
tower of strength to the infant settlements, and an object of
terror to the fierce and restless savages who prowled about
and depredated upon our frontier homes. The memory of
Wetzel should be embalmed in the hearts of the people of
Western Virginia; for his efforts in defence of their forefathers,
were without a parallel in border warfare. Among
the foremost and most devoted, he plunged into the fearful
strife which a bloody and relentless foe waged against the
feeble colonists. He threw into the common treasury a soul
as heroic, as adventurous, as full of energy, and exhaustless
of resources, as ever animated the human breast. Bold, wary
and active, he stood without an equal in the pursuit to which
he had committed himself, mind and body. No man on the
western frontier was more dreaded by the enemy, and none
did more to beat him back into the heart of the forest, and
reclaim the expanseless domain which we now enjoy. Unfortunately
for the memory of Wetzel, no reliable account of him
has ever been published. The present generation know little

of his personal history, save as gathered from the exaggerated
pages of romance, or the scarcely less painted traditions of
the day. With many, he is regarded as having been very
little better than a semi-savage; a man whose disposition was
that of the enraged tiger, and whose only propensity was for
blood. Our information warrants us in stating that these
conceptions are all false. Lewis Wetzel was never known to
inflict unwonted cruelty upon women and children, as has
been charged upon him; and he never was found to torture
or mutilate his victim, as many of the traditions would indicate.
He was revengeful, because he had suffered deep injury
at the hands of that race, and woe to the Indian warrior who
crossed his path. Lewis Wetzel was literally a man without
fear. He was brave as a lion, cunning as a fox, "daring
where daring was the wiser part,—prudent when discretion
was valor's better self." He seemed to possess, in a remarkable
degree, that intuitive knowledge, which can alone constitute
a good and efficient hunter, added to which, he was
sagacious, prompt to act, and always aiming to render his
actions efficient. Such was Lewis Wetzel, the celebrated
Indian hunter of Western Virginia.

John Wetzel, the father of Lewis, was one of the first settlers
on Wheeling creek. He had five sons and two daughters,
whose names were respectively, Martin, Lewis, Jacob,
John, George, Susan, and Christina.

The elder Wetzel spent much of his time in locating lands,
hunting and fishing. His neighbors frequently admonished
him against exposing himself thus to the enemy; but disregarding
their advice, and laughing at their fears, he continued
to widen the range of his excursions, until finally he fell a
victim to the active vigilance of the tawny foe. He was
killed near Captina, in 1787, on his return from Middle
Island creek, under the following circumstances. Himself
and companion were in a canoe, paddling slowly near the
shore, when they were hailed by a party of Indians, and
ordered to land. This, they of course, refused, when immediately

they were fired upon, and Wetzel shot through the
body. Feeling himself mortally wounded, he directed his
companion to lie down in the canoe, while he (Wetzel) so long
as strength remained, would paddle the frail vessel beyond
reach of the savages. In this way, he saved the life of his
friend while his own was ebbing fast. He died soon after
reaching the shore, at Baker's station, and his humble grave
can still be seen near the site of that primitive fortress. The
author, anxious to ascertain with undoubted certainty, the
date of Wetzel's death, and learning from a reliable source
that the place of his burial was indicated by a stone inscribed
with the initials and year, visited the spot in the summer of
1849. With great difficulty he found the place, and identified
the grave of the elder Wetzel. A rough stone marks the
spot, bearing in rude, but perfectly distinct characters, "I.
W., 1787."

At the time of his father's death, Lewis was about twenty-three
years of age, and in common with his brothers, or those
who were old enough, swore sleepless vengeance against
the whole Indian race. Terribly did he and they carry that
resolution into effect. From that time forward, they were
devoted to the wood; and an Indian, whether in peace or war,
at night or by day, was a doomed man in the presence of
either. The name of Wetzel sent a thrill of horror through
the heart of the stoutest savage, before whom a more terrible
image could not be conjured up than one of these relentless
"long-knives." But to the personal history of Lewis.

The first event worthy of record in the life of our hero,
occurred when he was about fourteen years of age. The
Indians had not been very troublesome in the immediate
vicinity of his father's, and no great apprehensions were
felt, as it was during a season of comparative quietude.
On the occasion referred to, Lewis had just stepped from
his father's door, and was looking at his brother Jacob
playing, when suddenly turning toward the corn-crib, he saw
a gun pointing around the corner. Quick as thought, he

jumped back, but not in time to escape the ball: it took effect
upon the breast-bone, carrying away a small portion, and
cutting a fearful wound athwart the chest. In an instant,
two athletic warriors sprang from behind the crib, and quietly
making prisoners of the lads, bore them off without being discovered.
On the second day they reached the Ohio, and
crossing near the mouth of McMahon's creek, gained the
big lick, about twenty miles from the river. During the
whole of this painful march, Lewis suffered severely from his
wound, but bore up with true courage, knowing, if he complained,
the tomahawk would be his doom. That night, on
lying down, the Indians, contrary to their custom, failed to
tie their prisoners. Lewis now resolved to escape; and in
the course of an hour or two, satisfying himself that the
Indians were asleep, touched Jacob, and both arose without
disturbing their captors. Lewis, leading the way, pushed into
the woods. Finding, however, that he could not travel without
moccasins, he returned to camp, and soon came back with
two pair, which, having fitted on, Lewis said, "Now I must
go back for father's gun."[6] Securing this, the two boys started
in the direction of home. Finding the path, they travelled on
briskly for some time; but hearing a noise, listened, and ascertained
the Indians were in pursuit. The lads stepped aside,
as the pursuers came up, and then again moved on. Soon
they heard the Indians return, and by the same plan effectually
eluded them. Before day-light, they were again followed by
two on horseback, but resorting to a similar expedient,
readily escaped detection.

On the following day, about eleven o'clock, the boys
reached the Ohio, at a point opposite Zane's island. Lashing
together two logs, they crossed over, and were once more with
their friends.

As this sketch will not allow us to notice in full his various

youthful exploits, we will pass over a series of years, and take
up the thread of narrative at such points in our hero's perilous
career, as we may deem most interesting to the reader at
large. Reaching the years of manhood, this remarkable
person spent most of his time in the woods. He was truly, a
genuine child of the forest, and seemed to worship the grand
old trees with more than Pagan devotion. To him the
wilderness was full of charms, but the enjoyment of these was
not without great personal danger. A dark, insidious foe
prowled upon his track, and closely watched every opportunity
to waylay and destroy him. Wetzel roamed abroad,
delighted with every fresh grove, hill, dale, and rippling
stream. To him the swelling of the breeze, "the repose of
the leaf, the mysterious quiet of the shade, the chant of birds,
the whoop of the savage, and the long melancholy howl of the
wolf," were sights and sounds which stirred his most lively
sensibilities. Rising from his couch of leaves, by the side of
some moss-covered log, the lone hunter made his hurried
meal, and then moved on, careless of fatigue, until night again
closed around him. Such was the woodman's life; such the
fascinations which bound him to the wilderness.

Shortly after Crawford's defeat, a man named Thomas Mills,
in escaping from that unfortunate expedition, reached the
Indian Spring,[7] about nine miles from Wheeling, on the present
National road, where he was compelled to leave his horse,
and proceed to Wheeling on foot. Thence he went to Van
Metre's fort, and after a day or two's rest, induced Lewis
Wetzel to go with him to the spring for his horse. Lewis
cautioned him against the danger, but Mills was determined,
and the two started. Approaching the spring, they discovered
the horse tied to a tree, and Wetzel at once comprehended
their danger. Mills walked up to unfasten the animal, when
instantly a discharge of rifles followed, and the unfortunate

man fell, mortally wounded. Wetzel now turned, and knowing
his only escape was in flight, plunged through the enemy
and bounded off at the very extent of his speed. Four
fleet Indians followed in rapid pursuit, whooping in proud
exultation of soon overhauling their intended victim. After
a chase of half a mile, one of the most active savages
approached so close that Wetzel was afraid he might throw
his tomahawk, and instantly wheeling, shot the fellow dead
in his tracks. In early youth, Lewis had acquired the habit
of loading his gun while at a full run, and now he felt the
great advantage of it. Keeping in advance of his pursuers
during another half mile, a second Indian came up, and turning
to fire, the savage caught the end of his gun, and for a
time, the contest was doubtful. At one moment the Indian, by
his great strength and dexterity, brought Wetzel to his knee,
and had nearly wrenched the rifle from the hands of his
antagonist, when Lewis, by a renewed effort, drew the weapon
from the grasp of the savage, and thrusting the muzzle against
the side of his neck, pulled the trigger, killing him instantly.

The two other Indians by this time had nearly overtaken
him, but leaping forward, he kept ahead, until his unerring
rifle was a third time loaded. Anxious to have done with that
kind of sport, he slackened his pace, and even stopped once
or twice, to give his pursuers an opportunity to face him.
Every time, however, he looked round, the Indians tree'd,
unwilling any longer to encounter his destructive weapon.
After running a mile or two further in this manner, he reached
an open piece of ground, and wheeling suddenly, the foremost
Indian jumped behind a tree, but which not screening his
body, Wetzel fired, and dangerously wounded him. The
remaining Indian made an immediate retreat, yelling, as he
went, "No catch dat man, him gun always loaded." Our
artist has happily caught the spirit of the incident, and very
well shown it in the accompanying illustration.

In the summer of 1786, the Indians having become troublesome

in the neighborhood of Wheeling, particularly in the
Short creek settlement, and a party having killed a man near
Mingo bottom, it was determined to send an expedition after
the retreating enemy of sufficient force to chastise them most
effectually. One hundred dollars were offered to the man
who should bring in the first Indian scalp. Major McMahon
living at Beech bottom, headed the expedition, and Lewis
Wetzel was one of his men. They crossed the river on the 5th
of August, and proceeded by a rapid march to the Muskingum.
The expedition numbered about twenty men, and an advance
of five were detailed to reconnoitre. This party reported to the
commander that they had discovered the camp of the enemy,
but that it was far too numerous to think of making an attack.
A consultation was thereupon held, and an immediate retreat
determined on. During the conference, our hero sat upon a log,
with his gun carelessly resting across his knees. The moment
it was resolved to retreat, most of the party started in disordered
haste, but the commander observing Wetzel still sitting
on the log, turned to inquire if he was not going along. "No,"
was his sullen reply; "I came out to hunt Indians, and now
that they are found, I am not going home, like a fool, with
my fingers in my mouth. I am determined to take an Indian
scalp, or lose my own." All arguments were unavailing, and
there they were compelled to leave him—a lone man, in a
desolate wilderness, surrounded by an enemy vigilant, cruel,
blood-thirsty, and of horrid barbarity, with no friend but his
rifle, and no guide but the sure index which an all-wise Providence
has deep set in the heavens above. Once by himself,
and looking around to feel satisfied that they were all gone,
he gathered his blanket about him, adjusted his tomahawk
and scalping knife, shouldered his rifle, and moved off in an
opposite direction, hoping that a small party of Indians might
be met with. Keeping away from the larger streams, he
strolled on cautiously, peering into every dell and suspicious
covert, and keenly sensitive to the least sound of a suspicious
character. Nothing, however, crossed his path that day.
The night being dark and chilly, it was necessary to have a
fire; but to show a light in the midst of his enemy would be
to invite to certain destruction. To avoid this, he constructed
a small coal-pit out of bark, dried leaves, etc., and covering
these with loose earth, leaving an occasional air-hole, he
seated himself, encircling the pit with his legs, and then completed
the whole by covering his head with the blanket. In
this manner he would produce a temperature equal, as he
expressed it, to that of a "stove room." This was, certainly,
an original and ingenious mode of getting up a fire, without,
at the same time, endangering himself by a light.

During most of the following day, he roamed through the
forest without noticing any "signs" of Indians. At length,
smoke was discovered, and going in the direction of it, found a
camp, but tenantless. It contained two blankets and a small
kettle, which Wetzel at once knew belonged to two Indians,
who were doubtless out hunting. Concealing himself in the
matted undergrowth, he patiently awaited the return of the
occupants. "About sunset, one of the Indians came in and
made up the fire, and went to cooking his supper. Shortly
after, the other came in; they then ate their supper, and
began to sing and amuse themselves by telling comic stories,
at which they would burst into roars of laughter. Singing,
and telling amusing stories, was the common practice of the
white and red men, when lying in their hunting camps. These
poor fellows, when enjoying themselves in the utmost glee,
little dreamed that Lewis Wetzel was so close. About nine or
ten o'clock, one of the Indians wrapped his blanket around
him, shouldered his rifle, took a chunk of fire in his hand, and
left the camp, doubtless, with the intention of going to watch
a deer-lick. The fire and smoke would serve to keep off the
gnats and musquitoes. It is a remarkable fact, that deer are
not alarmed at seeing fire, from the circumstance of meeting it
so frequently in the fall and winter seasons, when the leaves
and grass are dry, and the woods on fire. The absence of
the Indian was a cause of vexation and disappointment to

our hero, whose trap was so happily set, that he considered
his game secure. He still indulged the hope, that the Indian
would return to camp before day, but in this he was disappointed.
There are birds in the woods which commence chirping
just before break of day; and like the cock, give notice to
the woodman that light will soon appear. Lewis heard the
wooded songsters begin to chatter, and determined to delay no
longer the work of death, for the return of the other Indian.
He walked to the camp with a noiseless step, and found his
victim buried in profound sleep, lying upon one side. He
drew his butcher-knife, and with the utmost force, impelled by
revenge, sent the blade through his heart. He said the
Indian gave a short quiver, a convulsive motion, and then
laid still in the sleep of death. Lewis scalped him, and set
out for home. He arrived at the Mingo bottom only one day
after his unsuccessful companions. He claimed, and as he
should, received his reward."

A most fatal decoy on the frontier, was the turkey-call.
On several different occasions, men from the fort at Wheeling
had gone across the hill in quest of a turkey, whose plaintive
cries had elicited their attention, and on more than one occasion
the men never returned. Wetzel suspected the cause,
and determined to satisfy himself. On the east side of the
creek hill, and at a point elevated at least sixty feet above the
water, there is a capacious cavern, the entrance to which at
that time was almost obscured by a heavy growth of vines
and foliage. Into this the alluring savage would crawl,
and could there have an extensive view of the hill front on the
opposite side. From that cavern issued the decoy of death
to more than one incautious soldier and settler. Wetzel knew
of the existence and exact locality of the cave, and accordingly
started out before day, and by a circuitous route, reached the
spot from the rear. Posting himself so as to command a view
of the opening, he waited patiently for the expected cry.
Directly the twisted tuft of an Indian warrior slowly rose in
the mouth of the cave, and looking cautiously about, sent

forth the long, shrill, peculiar "cry," and immediately sunk
back out of view. Lewis screened himself in his position,
cocked his gun, and anxiously awaited for a re-appearance
of the head. In a few minutes up rose the tuft, Lewis drew
a fine aim at the polished head, and the next instant the
brains of the savage were scattered about the cave. That
turkey troubled the inhabitants no longer, and tradition does
not say whether the place was ever after similarly occupied.

A singular custom with this daring borderer was to take a
fall hunt into the Indian country. Equipping himself, he set
out and penetrated to the Muskingum, and fell upon a camp of
four Indians. Hesitating a moment whether to attack a party
so much his superior in numerical strength, he determined to
make the attempt. At the hour of midnight, when naught
was heard, but the long dismal howl of the wolf,

he moved cautiously from his covert, and gliding through the
darkness, stealthily approached the camp, supporting his rifle
in one hand and a tomahawk in the other. A dim flicker
from the camp-fire faintly revealed the forms of the sleepers,
wrapped in that profound slumber, which, to part of them,
was to know no waking. There they lay, with their dark
faces turned up to the night-sky, in the deep solitude of their
own wilderness, little dreaming that their most relentless
enemy was hovering over them. Quietly resting his gun
against a tree, he unsheathed his knife, and with an intrepidity
that could never be surpassed, stepped boldly forward,
like the minister of Death, and quick as thought cleft the skull
of one of his sleeping victims. In an instant, a second one
was similarly served; and as a third attempted to rise, confused
by the horrid yells with which Wetzel accompanied his
blows, he, too, shared the fate of his companions, and sunk
dead at the feet of this ruthless slayer. The fourth darted
into the darkness of the wood and escaped, although Wetzel

pursued him some distance. Returning to camp, he scalped his
victims, and then left for home. When asked on his return,
what luck, "Not much," he replied. "I tree'd four Indians,
but one got away." This unexampled achievement stamped
him as one of the most daring and, at the same time, successful
hunters of his day. The distance to and from the scene of this
adventure could not have been less than one hundred and
seventy miles.

During one of his scouts, in the neighborhood of Wheeling,
our hero took shelter on a stormy evening, in a deserted cabin
on the bottom, not far from the present residence of Mr.
Hamilton Woods. Gathering a few broken boards he prepared
a place on the loft to sleep. Scarcely had he got
himself adjusted for a nap, when six Indians entered, and
striking a fire, commenced preparing their homely meal.
Wetzel watched their movements closely, with drawn knife,
determined, the moment he was discovered, to leap into their
midst, and in the confusion endeavor to escape. Fortunately,
they did not see him, and soon after supper the whole six fell
asleep. Wetzel now crawled noiselessly down, and hid himself
behind a log, at a convenient distance from the door of the
cabin. At early dawn, a tall savage stepped from the door,
and stretching up both hands in a long, hearty yawn, seemed
to draw in new life from the pure, invigorating atmosphere.
In an instant, Wetzel had his finger upon the trigger, and the
next moment the Indian fell heavily to the ground, his life's
blood gushing upon the young grass brilliant with the morning
dew drops. The report of his rifle had not ceased echoing
through the valley ere the daring borderer was far away,
secure from all pursuit.

When about twenty-five years of age, Lewis entered the
service of Gen. Harmar, commanding at Marietta. His new
duties growing distasteful, he took leave of absence, and
visited his friends in the neighborhood of Wheeling. Shortly
afterwards, however, he returned to duty, and was chiefly
employed in the capacity of scout. It was whilst thus engaged

that an affair occurred, which changed the whole current
of his life. Of the Indians who visited Marietta, was one of
some celebrity, known by the name of George Washington.
He was a large, fine-looking savage, and of much influence
in his tribe. The time we write of was one of comparative
peace, and Gen. Harmar was particularly anxious to preserve
the good feeling then subsisting. Wetzel, during one of his
scouts, met this Indian and shot him. The act was justly
regarded as an outrage, and he was accordingly arrested and
placed in close confinement at the fort.

"Wetzel admitted, without hesitation, `that he had shot
the Indian.' As he did not wish to be hung like a dog, he
requested the general to give him up to the Indians, as there
were a large number of them present. `He might place them
all in a circle, with their scalping knives and tomahawks—and
give him a tomahawk, and place him in the midst of the
circle, and then let him and the Indians fight it out in the
best way they could.' The general told him, `That he was
an officer appointed by the law, by which he must be governed.
As the law did not authorize him to make such a compromise,
he could not grant his request.' After a few days longer
confinement, he again sent for the general to come and see
him; and he did so. Wetzel said `he had never been confined,
and could not live much longer if he was not permitted some
room to walk about.' The general ordered the officer on
guard to knock off his iron fetters, but to leave on his handcuffs,
and permit him to walk about on the point at the mouth
of the Muskingum; but to be sure to keep a close watch upon
him. As soon as they were outside of the fort gate, Lewis
began to caper about like a wild colt broken loose from the
stall. He would start and run a few yards, as if he were about
making an escape, then turn round and join the guard. The
next start he would run farther, and then stop. In this way
he amused the guard for some time, at every start running a
little farther. At length he called forth all his strength,
resolution, and activity, and determined on freedom or an

early grave. He gave a sudden spring forward, and bounded
off at the top of his speed for the shelter of his beloved woods.
His movement was so quick, and so unexpected, that the
guard were taken by surprise, and he got nearly a hundred
yards before they recovered from their astonishment. They
fired, but all missed; they followed in pursuit, but he soon
left them out of sight. As he was well acquainted with the
country, he made for a dense thicket, about two or three miles
from the fort. In the midst of this thicket he found a tree
which had fallen across a log, where the brush were very
close. Under this tree he squeezed his body. The brush
were so thick, that he could not be discovered unless his
pursuers examined very closely. As soon as his escape was
announced, General Harmar started the soldiers and Indians
in pursuit. After he had lain about two hours in his place of
concealment, two Indians came into the thicket, and stood on
the same log under which he lay concealed; his heart beat so
violently he was afraid they would hear it thumping. He
could hear them hallooing in every direction, as they hunted
through the brush. At length, as the day wore away, Lewis
found himself alone in the friendly thicket. But what
should he do? His hands were fastened with iron cuffs and
bolts, and he knew of no friend on the same side of the Ohio
to whom he could apply for assistance. He had a friend who
had recently put up a cabin on the Virginia side of the Ohio,
who, he had no doubt, would lend him any assistance in his
power. With the most gloomy foreboding of the future, a
little after night-fall, he left the thicket and made his way to
the Ohio. He came to the river about three or four miles
below the fort. He took this circuit, as he expected guards
would be set at every point where he could find a canoe.
How to get across the river was the all-important question.
He could not make a raft with his hands bound. He was an
excellent swimmer, but was fearful he could not swim the
Ohio with his heavy iron handcuffs. After pausing some time,
he determined to make the attempt. Nothing worse than
death could happen; and he would prefer drowning than again
falling into the hands of Harmar and his Indians. Like the
illustrious Cæsar in the storm, he would trust the event to
fortune; and he plunged into the river. He swam the greater
part of the distance on his back, and reached the Virginia
shore in safety; but so much exhausted that he had to lay on
the beach some time before he was able to rise. He went to
the cabin of his friend, where he was received with rapture.
A file and hammer soon released him from his iron handcuffs."

Information having reached General Harmar of Wetzel's
whereabouts, he sent a party of men in a canoe to take him.
As the boat neared the Virginia shore, Wetzel, with his
friend, and several other men, posted themselves on the bank
and threatened to shoot the first man who landed. Unwilling
to venture farther, the party returned, and Lewis made his
way homeward, having been furnished by his kind friend with
gun, ammunition, tomahawk, blanket, &c.

Exasperated at the escape of Wetzel, General Harmar
offered a large reward for his apprehension, and at the same
time despatched a file of men to the neighborhood of Wheeling,
with orders to take him dead or alive. The detachment was
under the command of a Captain Kingsbury, who, hearing that
Wetzel was to be at Mingo Bottom on a certain day, marched
thither to execute his orders. We will let an eye-witness finish
the story:—

"A company of men could as easily have drawn old Horny
out of the bottomless pit, as take Lewis Wetzel by force from
the neighborhood of the Mingo Bottom. On the day that
Captain Kingsbury arrived, there was a shooting match at
my father's, and Lewis was there. As soon as the object of
Captain Kingsbury was ascertained, it was resolved to ambush
the captain's barge, and kill him and his company. Happily,
Major McMahon was present, to prevent this catastrophe, and
prevailed on Wetzel and his friends to suspend the attack till
he would pay Captain Kingsbury a visit, and perhaps he would
prevail with him to return without making an attempt to take

Wetzel. With a great deal of reluctance they agreed to
suspend the attack till Major McMahon should return. The
resentment and fury of Wetzel and his friends were boiling
and blowing, like the steam from a scape-pipe of a steamboat.
`A pretty affair, this,' said they, `to hang a man for killing
an Indian, when they are killing some of our people almost
every day.' Major McMahon informed Captain Kingsbury
of the force and fury of the people, and assured him that if
he persisted in the attempt to seize Wetzel, he would have all
the settlers in the country upon him; that nothing could save
him and his company from a massacre, but a speedy return.
The captain took his advice, and forthwith returned to Fort
Harmar. Wetzel considered the affair now as finally adjusted."

In this, however, he was mistaken. His roving disposition
never permitted him to remain long in one place. Soon
after the transactions just recorded, he descended the river
to Limestone (Maysville); and while there, engaged in his
harmless frolicking, an avaricious fellow, named Loller, a
lieutenant in the army, going down the river with a company
of soldiers for Fort Washington, landed at Maysville, and
found Wetzel sitting in a tavern. Loller returned to his boat
procured some soldiers, seized Wetzel, and dragged him
aboard of the boat, and without a moment's delay pushed off,
and that night delivered him to General Harmar at Fort
Washington, where he again had to undergo the ignominy of
having his hands and feet bound with irons. "The noise of
Wetzel's capture—and captured, too, for only killing an
Indian—spread through the country like wild-fire. The passions
of the frontiermen were roused up to the highest pitch
of fury. Petitions for his release were sent from the most
influential men to the general, from every quarter where the
story had been heard. The general at first paid but little
attention to these; at length, however, the settlements along
the Ohio, and some of the back counties, were preparing to
embody in military array, to release him by force of arms.

General Harmar, seeing the storm that was approaching, had
Wetzel's irons knocked off, and set him at liberty.

Wetzel was once more a free man. He returned to his
friends, and was caressed by young and old, with undiminished
respect. The vast number of scalps which he had taken, proved
his invincible courage, as well as his prowess in war; the
sufferings and persecutions by which he had been pursued by
General Harmar, secured for him the sympathy of the frontiermen.
The higher he was esteemed, the lower sank the character
of General Harmar with the fiery spirits on the frontier."

Had Harmer possessed a tithe of the courage, skill, and
indomitable energy of Wetzel, the gallant soldiers under his
command, in the memorable and disastrous campaign against
the Miamis, might have shared a very different fate.

Shortly after his return from Kentucky, a relative from
Dunkard Creek invited Lewis home with him. The invitation
was accepted, and the two leisurely wended their way along,
hunting and sporting as they travelled. On reaching the
home of the young man, what should they see, instead of the
hospitable roof, a pile of smoking ruins. Wetzel instantly
examined the trail, and found that the marauders were three
Indians and one white man, and that they had taken one
prisoner. That captive proved to be the betrothed of the
young man, whom nothing could restrain from pushing on in
immediate pursuit. Placing himself under the direction of
Wetzel, the two strode on, hoping to overhaul the enemy before
they had crossed the Ohio. It was found, after proceeding a
a short distance, that the savages had taken great care to
obliterate their trail; but the keen discernment of Wetzel,
once on the track, and there need not be much difficulty. He
knew they would make for the river by the most expeditious
route, and therefore, disregarding their trail, he pushed on,
so as to head them at the crossing-place. After an hour's
hard travel, they struck a path, which the deer had made, and
which their sagacity had taught them to carry over knolls in
order to avoid the great curves of ravines. Wetzel followed

the path because he knew it was in almost a direct line to the
point at which he was aiming. Night coming on, the tireless
and determined hunters partook of a hurried meal, then again
pushed forward, guided by the lamps hung in the heavens
above them, until, towards midnight, a heavy cloud shut out
their light and obscured the path. Early on the following
morning, they resumed the chase, and descending from the
elevated ridge, along which they had been passing for an
hour or two, found themselves in a deep and quiet valley,
which looked as though human steps had never before pressed
its virgin soil. Travelling a short distance, they discovered
fresh footsteps in the soft sand, and upon close examination,
the eye of Wetzel's companion detected the impress of a small
shoe with nail-heads around the heel, which he at once recognized
as belonging to his affianced. Hour after hour the
pursuit was kept up; now tracing the trail across hills, over
alluvion, and often detecting it where the wily captors had taken
to the beds of streams. Late in the afternoon, they found
themselves approaching the Ohio, and shortly after dark,
discovered, as they struck the river, the camp of the enemy
on the opposite side, and just below the mouth of Captina.
Swimming the river, the two reconnoitered the position of the
camp, and discovered the locality of the captive. Wetzel
proposed waiting until day-light before making the attack,
but the almost frantic lover was for immediate action. Wetzel,
however, would listen to no suggestion, and thus they awaited
the break of day. At early dawn, the savages were up and
preparing to leave, when Wetzel directed his companion to
take good aim at the white renegade, while he would make
sure work of one of the Indians. They fired at the same
moment, and with fatal effect. Instantly the young man
rushed forward to release the captive; and Wetzel reloading,
pursued the two Indians, who had taken to the woods, to
ascertain the strength of the attacking party. Wetzel pursued
a short distance, and then fired his rifle at random, to
draw the Indians from their retreat. The trick succeeded,
and they made after him with uplifted tomahawks, yelling at
the height of their voices. The adroit hunter soon had his
rifle loaded, and wheeling suddenly, discharged its contents
through the body of his nearest pursuer. The other Indian
now rushed impetuously forward, thinking to dispatch his
enemy in a moment. Wetzel, however, kept dodging from
tree to tree, and, being more fleet than the Indian, managed
to keep ahead until his unerring gun was again loaded, when
turning, he fired, and the last of the party lay dead before
him.

Soon after the occurrence just narrated, our hero determined
to visit the extreme south, and for that purpose engaged on
a flat-boat about leaving for New Orleans. Many months
elapsed before his friends heard anything of his whereabouts,
and then it was to learn that he was in close confinement at
New Orleans, under some weighty charge. What the exact
nature of this charge was, has never been fully ascertained,
but it is very certain he was imprisoned and treated like a
felon for nearly two years. The charge is supposed to have
been of some trivial character, and has been justly regarded
as a great outrage. It was alleged at the time of his arrest,
to have been for uttering counterfeit coin; but this being disproved,
it was then charged that he had been guilty of illicit
connection with the wife of a Spaniard. Of the nature of
these charges, however, we know but little, and it may therefore
be unsafe to say more. He was finally released by the
intervention of our government, and reached home by way of
Philadelphia, to which city he had been sent from New Orleans.
Mr. Rodefer says he saw him immediately after his
return, and that his personal appearance had undergone great
change from his long confinement. He remained but two
days on Wheeling creek after his return—one at his mother's,
and the other at Captain Bonnett's, (the father of Mrs.
Rodefer). Many of the older citizens have told us that they
saw him during this brief visit, and conversed freely with him
about the infamous manner he had been treated. Our venerable

friend, Jacob Keller, Esqr., who now owns the old
Bonnett farm, says he saw him, and gathered many particulars
of his imprisonment.

From the settlement he went to Wheeling, where he remained
a few days, and then left again for the south, vowing
vengeance against the person whom he believed to have been
accessory to his imprisonment, and in degrading his person with
the vile rust of a felon's chain. During his visit to Wheeling,
he remained with George Cookis, a relative. Our informant
says she met him there, and heard Mrs. Cookis plague him
about getting married, and jocularly asked whether he ever
intended to take a wife. "No," he replied, "there is no
woman in this world for me, but I expect there is one in
heaven."

After an absence of many months, he again returned to the
neighborhood of Wheeling; but whether he avenged his real
or imaginary wrongs upon the person of the Spaniard alluded
to, the biographer, at this time, has not the means of saying.
His propensity to roam the woods was still as great as ever,
and soon after his return an incident occurred which showed
that he had lost none of his cunning while undergoing incarceration
at New Orleans. Returning home from a hunt,
north of the Ohio, somewhat fatigued and a little careless of
his movements, he suddenly espied an Indian in the very act
of raising his gun to fire. Both immediately sprung to trees,
and there they stood for an hour, each afraid of the other.
What was to be done? To remain there during the whole day,
for it was then early in the morning, was out of the question.
Now it was that the sagacity of Wetzel displayed itself over
the child-like simplicity of the savage. Cautiously adjusting
his bear-skin cap to the end of his ram-rod, with the slightest,
most dubious and hesitating motion, as though afraid to venture
a glance, the cap protruded. An instant, a crack, and
off was torn the fatal cap by the sure ball of the ever vigilant
savage. Leaping from his retreat, our hero rapidly advanced
upon the astonished Indian, and ere the tomahawk could be

brought to its work of death, the tawny foe sprang convulsively
into the air, and straightening as he descended, fell
upon his face quite dead.

Wetzel was universally regarded as one of the most efficient
scouts and most practised woodmen of his day. He was frequently
engaged by parties who desired to hunt up and locate
lands, but were afraid of the Indians. Under the protection
of Lewis Wetzel, however, they felt safe, and thus he was
often engaged for months at a time. Of those who became
largely interested in western lands was John Madison, brother
of James, afterwards President Madison. He employed Lewis

Wetzel to go with him through the Kanawha region. During
their expedition they came upon a deserted hunter's camp, in
which were concealed some goods. Each of them helped
himself to a blanket, and that day in crossing little Kanawha
they were fired upon by a concealed party of Indians, and
Madison killed.

General Clark, the companion of Lewis in the celebrated
tour across the Rocky Mountains, had heard much of Lewis
Wetzel in Kentucky, and determined to secure his services
in the perilous enterprise. A messenger was accordingly
sent for him, but he was reluctant to go. However, he finally
consented, and accompanied the party during the first three
months travel, but then declined going any further, and
returned home. Shortly after this, he left again on a flatboat,
and never returned. He visited a relative named
Phillip Sikes, living about twenty miles in the interior from
Natchez, and there made his home until the summer of 1808,
when he died.[8]

The personal appearance of this distinguished borderer was
very remarkable. He was five feet ten inches in height, very
erect, broad across the shoulders, an expansive chest, and
limbs denoting great muscular strength. His complexion
was very dark, and eyes of the most intense blackness, wild,
rolling, and "piercing as the dagger's point;" emitting, when
excited, such fierce and withering glances, as to cause the
stoutest adversary to quail beneath their power. His hair

was of raven jetness, and very luxuriant, reaching, when
combed out, below his knees. This would have been a rare
scalp for the savages, and one for which they would at any
time have given a dozen of their best warriors.

When Lewis Wetzel professed friendship, he was as true
as the needle to the pole. He loved his friends and hated
their enemies. He was a rude, blunt man, of few words before
company, but with his friends, not only sociable, but an
agreeable companion. Such was Lewis Wetzel; his name
and fame will long survive, when the achievements of men
vastly his superior in rank and intellect, will slumber with the
forgotten past.

ANDREW POE.

A most formidable and fearful man was the vanquisher of
"Big-Foot." Every body has heard of the fight between the
huge Wyandott chief and Poe, but, unfortunately, the credit
has always been given to the wrong man. Dr. Doddridge
started the error; and every writer upon western history for
nearly thirty years, has insisted that Adam Poe killed "Big-Foot."
Unwilling to strip the laurel from the brow of any
man, but pledged to do justice to all, and give honor where
honor is due, it now devolves upon us to say that it was not
"Adam" but Andrew Poe who accomplished the wonderful
feat we are about to record.

Of those who settled at an early day on the Ohio, near the
extreme upper corner of Virginia, were two brothers, Andrew
and Adam Poe. They were born near the present town of
Frederick, Maryland, and emigrated to the west in 1774.
Adam was the elder by some five years; he lived to the age of
ninety-three, and died in 1840.

These brothers were "backwoodsmen" in every sense of the
word. They were shrewd, active and courageous, and having
fixed their abodes on the frontier of civilization, determined

to contest inch by inch with the savages, their right to the
soil, and their privilege to live. In appearance they were
tall, muscular and erect, with features indicating great
strength of character. Andrew, in the general contour of
his face, differed somewhat from that of his brother, while the
freshness of his color indicated a better degree of health than
the sallow complexion of the other. Both, however, were
endowed with an unusual degree of strength, and woe to the
man who dared engage in single combat with either. Early
in the fall of 1781, there was an occurrence on the Ohio
which stamped the character of one as a man of no ordinary
make. The place of combat was near the mouth of Tomlinson's
run, and about two miles below Yellow creek. A
few months since we visited the spot, and obtained from a
member of the family the particulars of that celebrated conflict,
which we now give.

During the summer of 1781,[9] the settlements in the region
indicated, suffered not a little from Indian depredation. At
length it was ascertained that a party of six warriors had
crossed the river and committed sundry outrages; among the
rest, killing a defenceless old man in his cabin. The people
became aroused, and it was at once determined to raise a
force and intercept the retreat of the savages.

Eight determined spirits at once volunteered, and placing
themselves under Captain Andrew Poe, as he was then called,
were ready for action in five minutes' notice. Early on the
following morning, they found the trail of the enemy, and
detected among the footprints those of a celebrated chief
called Big-Foot, who was distinguished for his daring, skill,
eloquence, and immense size. He stood, literally, like the
tall man of Tarsus, a head above his peers; for he is said to
have been nearly, or quite seven feet in height, and large in
proportion. The feet of this giant were so large as to gain

for him the name of Big-Foot. Andrew Poe, delighted at
the prospect of testing his strength with so renowned a chief,
urged the pursuit with unabated zeal, until brought within a
short distance of the enemy.

"For the last few miles, the trail had led up the southern
bank of the Ohio, where the footprints in the sand were deep
and obvious; but when within a few hundred yards of the
point at which the Indians were in the habit of crossing, it
suddenly diverged from the stream, and stretched along a
rocky ridge, forming an obtuse angle with its former direction.
Here Andrew halted for a moment, and directed his
brother and the other young men to follow the trail with proper
caution, while he still adhered to the river path, which
led through a cluster of willows directly to the point where
he supposed the enemy to lie. Having examined the priming
of his gun, he crept cautiously through the bushes until he
had a view of the point of embarcation. Here lay two canoes,
empty and apparently deserted. Being satisfied, however,
that the Indians were close at hand, he relaxed nothing of
his vigilance, and quickly gained a jutting cliff, which hung
over the canoes. Hearing a low murmur below, he peered
cautiously over, and beheld the object of his search. The
gigantic Big-Foot lay below him, in the shade of a willow,
and was talking in a low, deep tone to another warrior, who
seemed a mere pigmy by his side. Andrew cautiously drew
back and cocked his gun. The mark was fair, the distance
did not exceed twenty feet, and his aim was unerring. Raising
his rifle slowly and cautiously, he took a steady aim at Big-Foot's
breast, and drew the trigger. His gun flashed. Both
Indians sprung to their feet with a deep interjection of surprise,
and for a single second all three stared upon each
other. This inactivity, however, was soon over. Andrew
was too much hampered by the bushes to retreat, and setting
his life upon the cast of the die, sprung over the bush which
had sheltered him, and summoning all his powers, leaped
boldly down the precipice, and alighted upon the breast of

Big-Foot with a shock which bore him to the earth. At the
moment of contact, Andrew had also thrown his right arm
around the neck of the smaller Indian, so that all three came
to the earth together.

"At that moment, a sharp firing was heard among the
bushes above, announcing that the other parties were engaged,
but the trio below were too busy to attend to anything
but themselves. Big-Foot was for an instant stunned by the
violence of the shock, and Andrew was enabled to keep them
both down. But the exertion necessary for that purpose was
so great, that he had no leisure to use his knife. Big-Foot
quickly recovered, and without attempting to rise, wrapped
his long arms around Andrew's body, and pressed him to his
breast with the crushing force of a boa constrictor! Andrew,
as we have already remarked, was a powerful man, and
had seldom encountered his equal; but never had he yet felt
an embrace like that of Big-Foot. He relaxed his hold of
the small Indian, who sprung to his feet. Big-Foot then
ordered him to run for his tomahawk, which lay within ten
steps, and kill the white man while he held him in his arms.
Andrew, seeing his danger, struggled manfully to extricate
himself from the folds of the giant, but in vain. The lesser
Indian approached with his uplifted tomahawk, but Andrew
watched him closely, and as he was about to strike, gave him
a kick so sudden and violent, as to knock the tomahawk from
his hand, and send him staggering back into the water. Big-Foot
uttered an exclamation in a tone of deep contempt at
the failure of his companion, and raising his voice to its
highest pitch, thundered out several words in the Indian
tongue, which Andrew could not understand, but supposed to
be a direction for a second attack. The lesser Indian now
again approached, carefully shunning Andrew's heels, and
making many motions with his tomahawk, in order to deceive
him as to the point where the blow would fall. This lasted
for several seconds, until a thundering exclamation from Big-Foot
compelled his companion to strike. Such was Andrew's

dexterity and vigilance, however, that he managed to receive
the tomahawk in a glancing direction upon his left wrist,
wounding him deeply, but not disabling him. He now made
a sudden and desperate effort to free himself from the arms
of the giant, and succeeded. Instantly snatching up a rifle,
(for the Indian could not venture to shoot, for fear of hurting
his companion,) he shot the lesser Indian through the
body. But scarcely had he done so, when Big Foot arose,
and placing one hand upon his shoulder, and the other upon
his leg, threw him violently upon the ground. Before his
antagonist could spring upon him, he was again upon his feet,
and stung with rage at the idea of being handled so easily, he
attacked his gigantic antagonist with a fury which, for a time,
compensated for inferiority of strength. It was now a fair
fist fight between them, for in the hurry of the struggle,
neither had leisure to draw their knives. Andrew's superior
activity and experience as a pugilist, gave him great advantage.
The Indian struck awkwardly, and finding himself
rapidly dropping to the leeward, he closed in with his antagonist,
and again hurled him to the ground. They quickly
rolled into the river, and the struggle continued with unabated
fury, each attempting to drown the other. The Indian being
unused to such violent exertion, and having been much injured
by the first shock in his stomach, was unable to exert the
same powers which had given him such a decided superiority
at first—and Andrew seizing him by the scalp-lock, put his
head under water, and held it there, until the faint struggle
of the Indian induced him to believe that he was drowned,
when he relaxed his hold, and attempted to draw his knife.
The Indian, however, to use Andrew's own expression, `had
only been possoming!' He instantly regained his feet, and
in his turn, put his adversary under.

"In the struggle, both were carried out into the current beyond
their depth and each was compelled to relax his hold
and swim for his life. There was still one loaded rifle upon
the shore, and each swam hard in order to reach it, but the

Indian proved the most expert swimmer, and Andrew seeing
that he should be too late, turned and swam out into the stream,
intending to dive and thus frustrate his enemy's intention. At
this instant, Adam having heard that his brother was alone in
a struggle with two Indians, and in great danger, ran up hastily
to the edge of the bank above, in order to assist him. Another
white man followed him closely, and seeing Andrew in the
river, covered with blood, and swimming rapidly from shore,
mistook him for an Indian, and fired upon him, wounding him
dangerously in the left shoulder. Andrew turned, and seeing
his brother called loudly to him to `shoot the Indian upon the
shore.' Adam's gun, however, was empty, having just been
discharged. Fortunately, Big-Foot had also seized the gun
with which Andrew had shot the lesser Indian, so that both
were upon an equality. The contest now was who should beat
loading, the Indian exclaiming, `Who load first, shoot first!'
Big-Foot got his powder down first, but in the excitement of
drawing the ramrod out, it slipped through his fingers and fell
in the river. The noble savage now feeling that all was over,
faced his foe, pulled open the bosom of his shirt, and the next
instant received the ball of his adversary fair in his breast.
Adam alarmed for his brother, who was scarcely able to
swim, threw down his gun and rushed into the river, in order
to bring him ashore—but Andrew more intent upon securing
the scalp of Big-Foot as a trophy, than upon his own safety,
called loudly upon his brother to leave him alone, and scalp
the big Indian, who was endeavoring to roll himself into the
water, from a romantic desire, peculiar to the Indian warrior,
of securing his scalp from the enemy. Adam, however,
refused to obey, and insisted upon saving the living, before
attending to the dead. Big Foot, in the meantime, had succeeded
in reaching the deep water before he expired, and his
body was borne off by the waves, without being stripped of
the ornament and pride of an Indian warrior."

The death of Big-Foot was a severe blow to his tribe, and
is said to have thrown them all into mourning. He was an
able and noble chief, and often rendered signal service to the

whites by reclaiming prisoners from the stake, and otherwise
averting the doom which his tribe seemed determined to visit
upon their captives.

Poe recovered from his wounds, and lived until within about
twenty years. We have recently seen a gentleman, who often
witnessed Poe go through the "fight," and he declares the
scene was the most thrilling he ever beheld. He says the old
man would enter into the spirit of the conflict, and with dilated
pupil, contracted muscle, and almost choaked with
foaming saliva, go through every motion and distinct feature
of that terrible fight. He describes the appearance of these
pantomime exhibitions as most painfully interesting, and declares,
that the old man would be as much exhausted after
the performance as though the scene had been actual.

Andrew Poe was certainly an extraordinary man, and the
impress of his character is still visible in the region where he
lived. An incident is related as occurring shortly before his
death, which strongly marked the character of the man.
Among his cattle, was a fierce and powerful young bull, endangering
the life of any one who went near him. Poe,
however, then a man of advanced age, would visit his stockyard,
regardless of the animal in question, until he supposed
it knew him. On one occasion, the refractory animal made
at Poe, and before he could get out of reach, received a
severe wound from one of its horns. So exasperated was
this singular man, that he went at once to his house, armed
himself with a tomahawk, and, despite the entreaties of his
family, returned to the yard, and driving all the cattle out
but the one alluded to, faced it, and with a menacing scowl,
laid hold of the right horn. The animal plunged, and attempted
to break loose, but Poe held on, and at every favorable opportunity,
struck him with the pipe end of his tomahawk. In
this way, he repeated his blows until finally the animal sunk
dead at his feet.

Mr. Poe, during his whole life, was a most active and useful
man. He lived about one mile from Hookstown, Pa.,
where many of his descendants still reside.