The mysteries of the backwoods, or, Sketches of
the Southwest including character, scenery, and rural sports |
 |
THE DISGRACED SCALP-LOCK;
OR,
INCIDENTS ON THE WESTERN WATERS. |
 | The mysteries of the backwoods, or, Sketches of
the Southwest |  |
THE DISGRACED SCALP-LOCK;
OR,
INCIDENTS ON THE WESTERN WATERS.
Occasionally may be seen on the Ohio and Mississippi
rivers singularly hearty-looking men, that
puzzle a stranger as to their history and age. Their
forms always exhibit a powerful development of muscle
and bone; their cheeks are prominent, and you
would pronounce them men enjoying perfect health
in middle life, were it not for their heads, which, if
not bald, will be sparsely covered with steel-gray
hair. Another peculiarity about this people is, that
they have a singular knowledge of all the places on
the river; every bar and bend is spoken of with precision
and familiarity; every town is recollected before
it was half as large as the present, or no town
at all. Innumerable places are marked out where
once was an Indian fight, or a rendezvous of robbers.
The manner, the language, and the dress of these individuals
are all characteristic of sterling common
sense—the manner modest, yet full of self-reliance;
the language strong and forcible, from superiority of
mind rather than from education; the dress studied
for comfort, rather than fashion—on the whole, you
become attached to them and court their society.
The good humour, the frankness, the practical sense,
the reminiscences, the powerful frame—all indicate
indeed is the case, for your acquaintance will be one
of the few remaining people now spoken of as the
“last of the flat-boat men.”
Thirty years ago the navigation of the western
waters was confined to this class of men; the obstacles
presented to the pursuit in those swift-running
and wayward waters had to be overcome by physical
force alone; the navigator's arm grew strong as
he guided his rude craft past the “snag” and “sawyer,”
or kept off the no less dreaded “bar.” Besides
all this, the deep forests that covered the river
banks concealed the wily Indian, who gloated over
the shedding of blood. The qualities of the frontier
warrior associated themselves with the boatmen,
while he would, when at home, drop both these characters
in the cultivator of the soil. It is no wonder,
then, that they were brave, hardy, and open-handed
men: their whole lives were a round of manly excitement;
they were hyperbolical in thought and in
deed, when most natural, compared with any other
class of men. Their bravery and chivalrous deeds
were performed without a herald to proclaim them
to the world—they were the mere incidents of a border
life, considered too common to outlive the time
of a passing wonder. Obscurity has nearly obliterated
the men, and their actions. A few of the former
still exist, as if to justify their wonderful exploits,
which now live almost exclusively as traditions.
Among the flat-boatmen there were none that
gained the notoriety of Mike Fink. His name is still
remembered along the whole of the Ohio as a man
in his rifle-shot, which was acknowledged to be
unsurpassed. Probably no man ever lived who could
compete with Mike Fink in the latter accomplishment.
Strong as Hercules, free from all nervous excitement,
possessed of perfect health, and familiar
with his weapon from childhood, he raised the rifle
to his eye, and, having once taken sight, it was as
firmly fixed as if buried in a rock. It was Mike's
pride, and he rejoiced on all occasions where he
could bring it into use, whether it was turned against
the beast of prey or the more savage Indian; and in
his day these last named were the common foe with
whom Mike and his associates had to contend. On
the occasion that we would particularly introduce
Mike to the reader, he had bound himself for a while
to the pursuits of trade, until a voyage from the
head-waters of the Ohio, and down the Mississippi,
could be completed. Heretofore he had kept himself
exclusively to the Ohio, but a liberal reward, and
some curiosity, prompted him to extend his business
character beyond his ordinary habits and inclinations.
In accomplishment of this object, he was lolling
carelessly over the big “sweep” that guided the
“flat” on which he officiated; the current of the
river bore the boat swiftly along, and made his labour
light; his eye glanced around him, and he
broke forth in ecstasies at what he saw and felt. If
there is a river in the world that merits the name of
beautiful, it is the Ohio, when its channel is
“Without o'erflowing, full.”
clear and swift current laves beautiful and undulating
shores, that descend gradually to the water's edge.
The foliage is rich and luxuriant, and its outlines in
the water are no less distinct than when it is relieved
against the sky. Interspersed along its route are
islands, as beautiful as ever figured in poetry as the
land of the fairies; enchanted spots indeed, that seem
to sit so lightly on the water that you almost expect
them, as you approach, to vanish into dreams. So
late as when Mike Fink disturbed the solitudes of
the Ohio with his rifle, the canoe of the Indian was
hidden in the little recesses along the shore; they
moved about in their frail barks like spirits; and
clung, in spite of the constant encroachments of civilization,
to the places which tradition had designated
as the happy places of a favoured people.
Wild and uncultivated as Mike appeared, he loved
nature, and had a soul that sometimes felt, while admiring
it, an exalted enthusiasm. The Ohio was his
favourite stream. From where it runs no stronger
than a gentle rivulet, to where it mixes with the
muddy Mississippi, Mike was as familiar with its
meanderings as a child could be with those of a
flower-garden. He could not help noticing with sorrow
the desecrating hand of improvement as he passed
along, and half soliloquizing, and half addressing
his companions, he broke forth:—“I knew these
parts afore a squatter's axe had blazed a tree;
'twasn't then pulling a — sweep to get a living;
but pulling the trigger's the business. Those were
times to see; a man might call himself lucky.
down trees make deer more plenty? Who ever
found wild buffalo or a brave Indian in a city?
Where's the fun, the frolicking, the fighting? Gone!
Gone! The rifle won't make a man a living now—
he must turn nigger and work. If forests continue
to be used up, I may yet be smothered in a settlement.
Boys, this 'ere life won't do. I'll stick to the
broadhorn 'cordin' to contract; but once done with
it, I'm off for a frolic. If the Choctas or Cherokees
on the Massassip don't give us a brush as we pass
along, I shall grow as poor as a starved wolf in a
pitfall. I must, to live peaceably, point my rifle at
something more dangerous than varmint. Six months
and no fight would spile me worse than a dead horse
on a prairie.”
Mike ceased speaking. The then beautiful village
of Louisville appeared in sight; the labour of landing
the boat occupied his attention—the bustle and
confusion that followed such an incident ensued, and
Mike was his own master by law until his employers
ceased trafficking, and again required his services.
At the time we write of, there were a great many
renegade Indians who lived about the settlements,
and which is still the case in the extreme south-west.
These Indians generally are the most degraded of
their tribe—outcasts, who, for crime or dissipation,
are no longer allowed to associate with their people;
they live by hunting or stealing, and spend their precarious
gains in intoxication. Among the throng
that crowded on the flat-boat on his arrival, were a
number of these unfortunate beings; they were influenced
round in idle speculation at what was going on.
Mike was attracted towards them at sight; and as he
too was in the situation that is deemed most favourable
to mischief, it struck him that it was a good opportunity
to have a little sport at the Indians' expense.
Without ceremony, he gave a terrific war-whoop;
and then mixing the language of the aborigines and
his own together, he went on in savage fashion and
bragged of his triumphs and victories on the war-path,
with all the seeming earnestness of a real
“brave.” Nor were taunting words spared to exasperate
the poor creatures, who, perfectly helpless,
listened to the tales of their own greatness, and their
own shame, until wound up to the highest pitch of
impotent exasperation. Mike's companions joined
in; thoughtless boys caught the spirit of the affair;
and the Indians were goaded until they in turn made
battle with their tongues. Then commenced a system
of running against them, pulling off their blankets,
together with a thousand other indignities;
finally they made a precipitate retreat ashore, amid
the hooting and jeering of an unfeeling crowd, who
considered them poor devils destitute of feeling and
humanity. Among this crowd of outcasts was a
Cherokee, who bore the name of Proud Joe; what
his real cognomen was, no one knew, for he was taciturn,
haughty—and, in spite of his poverty and his
manner of life won the name we have mentioned.
His face was expressive of talent, but it was furrowed
by the most terrible habits of drunkenness. That
he was a superior Indian was admitted; and it was
home, his tribe being then numerous and powerful,
for some great crime. He was always looked
up to by his companions, and managed, however intoxicated
he might be, to sustain a singularly proud
bearing, which did not even depart from him while
prostrated on the ground. Joe was filthy in his person
and habits—in this respect he was behind his
fellows; but one ornament of his person was attended
to with a care which would have done honour to
him if surrounded by his people, and in his native
woods. Joe still wore with Indian dignity his scalp-lock;
he ornamented it with taste, and cherished it,
as report said, that some Indian messenger of vengeance
might tear it from his head, as expiatory of
his numerous crimes. Mike noticed this peculiarity;
and reaching out his hand, plucked from it a hawk's
feather, which was attached to the scalp-lock. The
Indian glared horribly on Mike as he consummated
the insult, snatched the feather from his hand, then
shaking his clenched fist in the air, as if calling on
Heaven for revenge, retreated with his friends. Mike
saw that he had roused the savage's soul, and he
marvelled wonderfully that so much resentment
should be exhibited; and as an earnest to Proud Joe
that the wrong he had done him should not rest unrevenged,
he swore he would cut the scalp-lock off
close to his head the first convenient opportunity he
got, and then he thought no more about it.
The morning following the arrival of the boat at
Louisville was occupied in making preparations to
pursue the voyage down the river. Nearly every
place at the sweep, when looking up the river-bank,
he beheld at some distance Joe and his companions,
and perceived from their gesticulations that they were
making him the subject of conversation.
Mike thought instantly of several ways in which
he could show them altogether a fair fight, and then
whip them with ease; he also reflected with what
extreme satisfaction he would enter into the spirit of
the arrangement, and other matters to him equally
pleasing, when all the Indians disappeared, save Joe
himself, who stood at times reviewing him in moody
silence, and then staring round at passing objects.
From the peculiarity of Joe's position to Mike, who
was below him, his head and upper part of his body
relieved boldly against the sky, and in one of his
movements he brought his profile face to view. The
prominent scalp-lock and its adornments seemed to
be more striking than ever, and it again roused the
pugnacity of Mike Fink; in an instant he raised his
rifle, always loaded and at command, brought it to
his eye, and, before he could be prevented, drew
sight upon Proud Joe and fired. The ball whistled
loud and shrill, and Joe, springing his whole length
into the air, fell upon the ground. The cold-blooded
murder was noticed by fifty persons at least, and
there arose from the crowd an universal cry of horror
and indignation at the bloody deed. Mike himself
seemed to be much astonished, and in an instant
reloaded his rifle, and as a number of white persons
rushed towards the boat, Mike threw aside his coat,
and, taking his powder horn between his teeth, leaped,
for the opposite shore. Some bold spirits
determined Mike should not so easily escape, and
jumping into the only skiff at command, pulled
swiftly after him. Mike watched their movements
until they came within a hundred yards of him, then
turning in the water, he supported himself by his
feet alone, and raised his deadly rifle to his eye. Its
muzzle, if it spoke hostilely, was as certain to send
a messenger of death through one or more of his
pursuers, as if it were lightning, and they knew it;
dropping their oars and turning pale, they bid Mike
not to fire. Mike waved his hand towards the little
village of Louisville, and again pursued his way to
the opposite shore.
The time consumed by the firing of Mike's rifle,
the pursuit, and the abandonment of it, required less
time than we have taken to give the details; and in
that time, to the astonishment of the gaping crowd
around Joe, they saw him rising with a bewildered
air; a moment more and he recovered his senses
and stood up—at his feet lay his scalp-lock! The
ball had cut it clear from his head; the cord around
the root of it, in which were placed feathers and
other ornaments, held it together; the concussion had
merely stunned its owner; farther, he had escaped
all bodily harm! A cry of exultation rose at the
last evidence of the skill of Mike Fink—the exhibition
of a shot that established his claim, indisputable,
to the eminence he ever afterwards held—the unrivalled
marksman of all the flat-boatmen of the
western waters. Proud Joe had received many
being; and the ignominy heaped upon him he
never, except by reply, resented; but this last insult
was like seizing the lion by the mane, or a Roman
senator by the beard—it roused the slumbering demon
within, and made him again thirst to resent his
wrongs with an intensity of emotion that can only
be felt by an Indian. His eye glared upon the jeering
crowd around like a fiend; his chest swelled and
heaved until it seemed that he must suffocate. No
one noticed this emotion. All were intent upon the
exploit that had so singularly deprived Joe of his
war-lock; and, smothering his wrath, he retreated to
his associates with a consuming fire at his vitals. He
was a different man from an hour before; and with
that desperate resolution on which a man stakes his
all, he swore by the Great Spirit of his forefathers
that he would be revenged.
An hour after the disappearance of Joe, both he
and Mike Fink were forgotten. The flat-boat, which
the latter had deserted, was got under way, and
dashing through the rapids in the river opposite
Louisville wended on its course. As is customary
when night sets in, the boat was securely fastened in
some little bend or bay in the shore, where it remained
until early morn.
Long before the sun had fairly risen, the boat was
again pushed into the stream, and it passed through
a valley presenting the greatest possible beauty and
freshness of landscape the mind can conceive.
It was spring, and a thousand tints of green developed
themselves in the half-formed foliage and
across the water, ignorant of the danger of the white
man's approach; the splendid spoon-bill decked the
shallow places near the shore, while myriads of singing-birds
filled the air with their unwritten songs. In
the far reaches down the river, there occasionally
might be seen a bear stepping along the ground as if
dainty of its feet, and, snuffing the intruder on his
wild home, he would retreat into the woods. To
enliven all this, and give the picture the look of humanity,
there might also be seen, struggling with the
floating mists, a column of blue smoke, that came
from a fire built on a projecting point of land, around
which the current swept rapidly, and carried every
thing that floated on the river. The eye of the boatman
saw the advantage of the situation which the
place rendered to those on shore, to annoy and attack,
and as wandering Indians, in those days, did
not hesitate to rob, there was much speculation as to
what reception the boat would receive from the builders
of the fire.
The rifles were all loaded, to be prepared for the
worst, and the loss of Mike Fink lamented, as a prospect
of a fight presented itself, where he could use
his terrible rifle. The boat in the mean time swept
round the point; but instead of an enemy, there lay,
in a profound sleep, Mike Fink, with his feet toasting
at the fire, his pillow was a huge bear, that had
been shot on the day previous, while at his sides,
and scattered in profusion around him, were several
deer and wild turkeys. Mike had not been idle.
After picking out a place most eligible to notice the
he was surrounded by trophies of his prowess. The
scene that he presented was worthy of the time and
the man, and would have thrown Landseer into a
delirium of joy, could he have witnessed it. The
boat, owing to the swiftness of the current, passed
Mike's resting place, although it was pulled strongly
to the shore. As Mike's companions came opposite
to him, they raised such a shout, half exultation of
meeting him, and half to alarm him with the idea that
Joe's friends were upon him. Mike, at the sound,
sprang to his feet, rifle in hand, and as he looked
around, he raised it to his eyes, and by the time he
discovered the boat, he was ready to fire. “Down
with your shooting-iron, you wild critter,” shouted
one of the boatmen. Mike dropped the piece, and
gave a loud halloo, that echoed among the solitudes
like a piece of artillery. The meeting between Mike
and his fellows was characteristic. They joked, and
jibed him with their rough wit, and he parried it
off with a most creditable ingenuity. Mike soon
learned the extent of his rifle-shot—he seemed perfectly
indifferent to the fact that Proud Joe was not
dead. The only sentiment he uttered, was regret
that he did not fire at the vagabond's head, and if
he hadn't hit it, why, he made the first bad shot in
twenty years. The dead game was carried on board
of the boat, the adventure was forgotten, and every
thing resumed the monotony of floating in a flat-boat
down the Ohio.
A month or more elapsed, and Mike had progressed
several hundred miles down the Mississippi; his
morning, noon, and night, presented the same banks,
the same muddy water, and he sighed to see some
broken land, some high hills, and he railed and
swore, that he should have been such a fool as to
desert his favourite Ohio for a river that produced
nothing but alligators, and was never at best half
finished.
Occasionally, the plentifulness of game put him in
spirits, but it did not last long; he wanted more
lasting excitement, and declared himself as perfectly
miserable and helpless as a wild-cat without teeth
or claws.
In the vicinity of Natchez rises a few abrupt hills,
which tower above the surrounding lowlands of the
Mississippi like monuments; they are not high, but
from their loneliness and rarity they create sensations
of pleasure and awe.
Under the shadow of one of these bluffs, Mike and
his associates made the customary preparations to
pass the night. Mike's enthusiasm knew no bounds
at the sight of land again; he said it was as pleasant
as “cold water to a fresh wound;” and, as his spirits
rose, he went on making the region round about,
according to his notions, an agreeable residence.
“The Choctaws live in these diggins,” said Mike,
“and a cursed time they must have of it. Now if I
lived in these parts I'd declare war on 'em just to
have something to keep me from growing dull;
without some such business I'd be as musty as an
old swamp moccasin. I could build a cabin on that
ar hill yonder that could, from its location, with my
What a beautiful time I'd have of it! I never was
particular about what's called a fair fight; I just ask
half a chance, and the odds against me, and if I
then don't keep clear of snags and sawyers, let me
spring aleak and go to the bottom. Its natur that the
big fish should eat the little ones. I've seen trout
swallow a perch, and a cat would come along and
swallow the trout, and perhaps, on the Mississippi,
the alligators use up the cat, and so on to the end of the
row. Well, I will walk tall into varmint and Indian;
it's a way I've got, and it comes as natural as grinning
to a hyena. I'm a regular tornado, tough as a
hickory, and long-winded as a nor'-wester. I can
strike a blow like a falling tree, and every lick makes
a gap in the crowd that lets in an acre of sunshine.
Whew, boys!” shouted Mike, twirling his rifle like
a walking-stick around his head, at the ideas suggested
in his mind. “Whew, boys! if the Choctaw
divils in them ar woods thare would give us a brush,
just as I feel now, I'd call them gentlemen. I must
fight something, or I'll catch the dry rot—burnt
brandy won't save me.” Such were some of the
expressions which Mike gave utterance to, and in
which his companions heartily joined; but they never
presumed to be quite equal to Mike, for his bodily
prowess, as well as his rifle, were acknowledged to
be unsurpassed. These displays of animal spirits
generally ended in boxing and wrestling-matches, in
which falls were received, and blows were struck
without being noticed, that would have destroyed
were exchanged, but, like the summer storm, the
cloud that emitted the lightning purified the air; and
when the commotion ceased, the combatants immediately
made friends and became more attached
to each other than before the cause that interrupted
the good feelings occurred. Such were the conversation
and amusements of the evening when the boat
was moored under the bluffs we have alluded to. As
night wore on, one by one of the hardy boatmen fell
asleep, some in its confined interior, and others protected
by a light covering in the open air. The
moon arose in beautiful majesty; her silver light,
behind the highlands, gave them a power and theatrical
effect as it ascended; and as its silver rays grew
perpendicular, they finally kissed gently the summit
of the hills, and poured down their full light upon
the boat, with almost noonday brilliancy. The
silence with which the beautiful changes of darkness
and light were produced made it mysterious. It
seemed as if some creative power was at work,
bringing form and life out of darkness. In the midst
of the witchery of this quiet scene, there sounded
forth the terrible rifle, and the more terrible war-whoop
of the Indian. One of the flat-boatmen,
asleep on deck, gave a stifled groan, turned upon
his face, and with a quivering motion, ceased to live.
Not so with his companions—they in an instant, as
men accustomed to danger and sudden attacks,
sprang ready-armed to their feet; bat before they
could discover their foes, seven sleek and horribly
The firing of the rifle was useless, and each man
singled out a foe and met him with the drawn knife.
The struggle was quick and fearful; and deadly
blows were given amid screams and imprecations
that rent the air. Yet the voice of Mike Fink could
be heard in encouraging shouts above the clamour.
“Give it to them, boys!” he cried, “cut their
hearts out! choke the dogs! Here's hell a-fire and the
river rising!” then clenching with the most powerful
of the assailants, he rolled with him upon the
deck of the boat. Powerful as Mike was, the Indian
seemed nearly a match for him. The two twisted and
writhed like serpents,—now one seeming to have
the advantage, and then the other.
In all this confusion there might occasionally be
seen glancing in the moonlight the blade of a knife;
but at whom the thrusts were made, or who wielded
it, could not be discovered.
The general fight lasted less time than we have
taken to describe it. The white men gained the
advantage; two of the Indians lay dead upon the
boat, and the living, escaping from their antagonists
leaped ashore, and before the rifle could be brought
to bear they were out of its reach. While Mike
was yet struggling with his antagonist, one of his
companions cut the boat loose from the shore, and,
with powerful exertion, managed to get its bows so
far into the current, that it swung round and floated;
but before this was accomplished, and before any
one interfered with Mike, he was on his feet, covered
with blood, and blowing like a porpoise: by
talking. “Ain't been so busy in a long time,”
said he, turning over his victim with his foot; “that
fellow fou't beautiful; if he's a specimen of the
Choctaws that live in these parts, they are screamers;
the infernal sarpents! the d—d possums!” Talking
in this way, he with others, took a general survey
of the killed and wounded. Mike himself was
a good deal cut up with the Indian's knife; but he
called his wounds blackberry scratches. One of
Mike's associates was severely hurt; the rest escaped
comparatively harmless. The sacrifice was made at
the first fire; for beside the dead Indians, there lay
one of the boat's crew, cold and dead, his body perforated
with four different balls. That he was the
chief object of attack seemed evident, yet no one of
his associates knew of his having a single fight with
the Indians. The soul of Mike was affected, and,
taking the hand of his deceased friend between his
own, he raised his bloody knife towards the bright
moon, and swore that he would desolate “the
nation” that claimed the Indians who made war
upon them that night, and turned to his stiffened
victim, that, dead as it was, retained the expression
of implacable hatred and defiance, he gave it a
smile of grim satisfaction, and then joined in the
general conversation which the occurrences of the
night would naturally suggest. The master of the
“broad horn” was a business man, and had often
been down the Mississippi. This was the first attack
he had received, or knew to have been made from
the shores inhabited by the Choctaws, except by
the keeping the dead Indians until daylight,
that they might have an opportunity to examine
their dress and features, and see with certainty
who were to blame for the occurrences of the night.
The dead boatman was removed with care to a respectful
distance; and the living, except the person
at the sweep of the boat, were soon buried in profound
slumber.
Not until after the rude breakfast was partaken
of, and the funeral rites of the dead boatman were
solemnly performed, did Mike and his companions
disturb the corses of the red men.
When both these things had been leisurely and
gently got through with, there was a different spirit
among the men.
Mike was astir, and went about his business with
alacrity. He stripped the bloody blanket from the
Indian he had killed, as if it enveloped something
disgusting, and required no respect. He examined
carefully the moccasins on the Indian's feet, pronouncing
them at one time Chickasas, at another
time, the Shawnese. He stared at the livid face,
but could not recognise the style of paint that
covered it.
That the Indians were not strictly national in
their adornments, was certain, for they were examined
by practised eyes, that could have told the
nation of the dead, if such had been the case, as
readily as a sailor could distinguish a ship by its
flag. Mike was evidently puzzled; and as he was
about giving up his task as hopeless, the dead body
side. Mike's eyes distended, as some of his companions
observed, “like a choked cat,” and became
riveted. He drew himself up in a half serious,
and half comic expression, and pointing at the back
of the dead Indian's head, there was exhibited a
dead warrior in his paint, destitute of his scalp-lock,
the small stump which was only left, being stiffened
with red paint. Those who could read Indians'
symbols learned a volume of deadly resolve in what
they saw. The body of Proud Joe was stiff and
cold before them.
The last and best shot of Mike Fink cost a brave
man his life. The corpse so lately interred, was
evidently taken in the moonlight by Proud Joe and
his party, as that of Mike's, and they had risked
their lives, one and all, that he might with certainty
be sacrificed. Nearly a thousand miles of swamp
had been threaded, large and swift running rivers
had been crossed, hostile tribes passed through by
Joe and his friends, that they might revenge the
fearful insult, of destroying without the life, the
sacred scalp-lock.
| The mysteries of the backwoods, or, Sketches of
the Southwest | |