University of Virginia Library

32. On the Scout.

Horse-stealing, during the early settling of the Great
West, was one of the means, if not of border warfare, at
least of border annoyance, to both the whites and Indians.
The Indians stole from the whites whenever they could,
and in retaliation the whites frequently formed themselves
into small parties and penetrated through the dense forests
to the Indian towns for a like purpose. Sometimes these
predatory parties were successful, and got off with their
booty without molestation; but it frequently happened that
they were pursued by the party wronged; and when overtaken,
a fierce and bloody conflict was generally the result.

About the year 1791, or 1792, the settlers along the Ohio
river being sufferers in a great degree from the incursions
of their forest neighbors, a small, intrepid band of hunters,
or scouts, resolved to act upon the aggressive; and as their
numbers were too few for venturing an attack upon the
sayages at their towns, they decided upon the next best
thing—the stealing and running off of as many horses as
they could manage.

This party was composed of the best men that could be
got together for such a daring, lawless purpose, but numbered
only seven all told. And yet these seven were all
experienced hunters, trained from their very youth to a
perfect familiarity with all the mysteries and perils of the
forest—from the finding of their way to a given quarter,
for a hundred miles, by signs only known to the practiced
woodsman, to the rousing and killing of all the wild
animals, and even more savage men—and regarded themselves
as a company sufficiently strong for the purpose they
had in view.

In fine spirits, therefore, they set out on their latest-planned
expedition; and crossing the Ohio from the Virginia
shore, they proceeded, with strong determination and
due caution, to push their way through the almost unexplored
forest, which stretched away for many a goodly
league from the right bank of the river named.

Always keeping a subdued fire, if any, in their camp at
night, and at least two of their number watching by turns,
they penetrated far into the Indian country without meeting
with any mishap, and at last found themselves in the
vicinity of an Indian town, somewhere near the dividing
ridge between the head-waters of the Muskingum and Sandusky
rivers.

The Indians, being so far inland from the settlements of
the whites, were not of course expecting such visitors, and

were in consequence entirely off their guard; and the night
following their arrival in the vicinity, our little band of
adventurers stole cautiously around the outskirts of the
town, and, getting in among the horses, succeeded in
securing fourteen of the best, each man bridling and mounting
one and leading another. These they managed to get
away with little or no noise, and without attracting the
notice of their enemies; and when they found themselves a
couple of miles from the village, with neither sign of pursuit
nor of their proximity having been discovered, it required
all the caution and prudence which they had acquired in
their long years of stern experience, to prevent them from
congratulating themselves on their success by a series of
hilarious shouts and yells. They did not ride fast through
the night, for their present safety would not admit of it,
however much a goodly distance from their enemies might
have increased their security; but they kept their horses
steadily in motion, in a southern direction, and anxiously
watched for the coming dawn. Just before the break of
day they halted, and hastily prepared their morning's meal;
and then, with the return of light, they remounted and
dashed away, believing that the Indians would now discover
their loss, and probably set off in hot pursuit.

All through that anxious day they urged their animals
through the thick, dark wood, at the utmost speed that
could be accomplished, and only halted for their camp at

night when they found, from the jaded condition of their
horses, it would not be judicious to take them further without
food and rest. Selecting a pleasant little dingle,
through which flowed a tiny stream of pure water, and
where luxurious grass and wild flowers proclaimed the fertility
of the soil, they hoppled their horses and picketed
them; and then, starting a fire, they cooked their own
supper, and ate it with the relish of hardy and hungry men.

Knowing that a goodly stretch of country now lay
between them and the village where they had committed
their depredations, our borderers had little fear of molestation;
but they were not disposed to neglect all proper
precautions, and two of their number remained on guard
through the night, which passed off without disturbance.

At an early hour the next morning, they again set forward,
in fine spirits, and rode hard all day, reaching about
nightfall an excellent camping-ground on the right of Will's
Creek, in the present county of Guernsey, Ohio, and near
the site of the present town of Cambridge. Here one of
the most active of the party, one William Linn, complained
of violent pains and cramps in his stomach, and declared
himself unable to ride another mile. A halt for the night
was accordingly decided on; but for some cause, which
not a man of the company could rationally explain, all
regarded this camp as more dangerous than the one of the
night preceding; and the extra precautions were taken of

placing three sentinels at different intervals on the back
trail, to keep a sharp look-out for pursuers; while the
other three, who were well, were to prepare their evening
meal and minister to the sick man as best lay in their
power.

Such simple remedies as they chanced to have with
them were given to Mr. Linn, but without producing any
favorable result; in fact, he gradually grew worse instead
of better; and his pains at times became so excrutiating as
to compel him to screech out in tones that could be heard
afar through the dreary solitude of the gloomy forest.
Rough, hardened, and unrefined; as were the companions
of the sick man, they were men of heart, and not devoid of
sympathy for a suffering fellow-being, and they did what
they could to aid, cheer, and console him, cautioning him
at the same time to suppress if possible his cries of agony,
lest the sounds should reach pursuing or out-lying foes
and bring destruction upon all.

The three at the camp having refreshed themselves by a
frugal but hearty meal, they immediately relieved the three
sentinels, who proceeded to do the same; after which,
towards midnight, the whole party collected together, and
held a consultation upon the supposed danger. As they
had seen no Indians since quitting their village, some
forty-eight hours previously, and no signs of any during
their present watch, and as it was now waxing late into the

night, and no trail could be easily followed after dark, it
was thought that no apprehension of an attack need be
felt; and that with one man to stand guard and wait upon
the suffering Mr. Linn, the rest might camp down in safety
and get a few hours of needful rest. The party to act as
sentinel was decided by lot, and fell upon one William
McCollough—a cool, brave, intrepid Indian hunter, who
subsequently rose to the command of a company in the war
of 1812, and fell at the battle of Brownstown in Hull's
campaign.

The immediate camp of our adventurers was on a
small branch of Will's creek; and around the cheerful fire
there kindled, five weary men lay down to snatch a few
hours of repose, and were soon fast asleep—Linn and
McCollough only remaining awake—the former wrapped
in his blanket and stretched on the ground between the
fire and water, rolling and groaning with pain—and the
latter stationed on the edge of a thicket, just beyond the
reach of the fire-light, where he could best see about him,
and be ready to give instant alarm at the first approach of
danger.

In this position of affairs some three or four hours passed
away; the only sounds that broke the solemn stillness
being the slight movement of some of the horses picketed
near, the dismal hooting of an owl, the distant howling of
a wolf, and the occasional groaning of the sufferer, with

perhaps the exchange of a few words between him and the
sentinel—the fire, meantime, burning gradually down, and,
in its dying flickers, throwing strange, fantastic shadows
over the quiet scene.

At length, Mr. Linn, with a louder groan than usual,
and a sharp cry of pain, raised himself upon his elbow,
and exclaimed:

“Oh, my God! my God! I can't stand this no longer—
every breath I draw is killing me. Here, Bill—quick! let
me try one thing more—some hot salt and water—and if
that thar don't help me, may Heaven have mercy on my
poor, sinful soul! Take my cup here,” he added, somewhat
gaspingly, as McCollough stepped hastily forward,
“and heat me some water, with a handful of salt in't, and
let me try that. Quick! quick! for God's sake! for I'm
in the agonies of death!”

McCollough seized the cup alluded to, and running to
the water, only a few feet distant, filled it, and hastened
back to the dying fire; but as he stooped down and
raked some coals together, for the purpose of heating it,
he suddenly discovered, with a feeling of considerable
uneasiness, if not alarm, that the water in the vessel was
unusually muddy.

“Excuse me, Linn!” he said, starting hastily to his feet,
and glancing quickly and suspiciously around him; “but
I'm afeard all the rest o' us is in danger as well as you.”

“Ha! what's the matter?' asked Linn.

“So'thing's muddied this water, by gitting into it; and
that so'thing, I'm afeard, is Injuns!”

“Better call up the boys, and git their opinions, and, if
thar's danger, have 'em ready for it!” returned Linn, with
a groan of blended fear and pain.

Linn had not ceased speaking, ere McCollough was
actively carrying out his suggestion; and the five heavy
sleepers were suddenly roused, each with a vigorous shake
and the single word “danger,” which was communicated
in a low but ominous tone to the sense of hearing. As one
after another they started up, with expressions of alarm,
and instinctively grasped their weapons, McCollough exclaimed,
with a warning gesture:

“Hist! boys—keep quiet—don't make a noise! It's
eyther nothing, or thar's trouble about; but don't let's
draw it on to us by child's play.”

He then went on to state what he had discovered, and
what were his suspicions; and as soon as he had finished,
the opinion of his comrades was quickly and unanimously
given, that the “sign” justified a belief in danger, and that
he had done right in waking and putting them on their
guard, and that prudence demanded a careful search, which
they forthwith proceeded to make.

Separating themselves, and quickly gliding away beyond
the fire-light, they stealthily approached the bank of the

little stream, and passed up and down it for several rods;
listening to the faintest sound, and peering cautiously into
the darkness; but, unfortunately for them, as the sequel
will show, neither hearing nor perceiving aught to justify
a belief in the proximity of savage foes. When they had
all again collected together, one of the party said, addressing
McCollough:

“Bill, you're ginerally purty sure on Injun sign; but I'll
lay one of my captur'd hosses agin yourn, that you've
made a mistake this time.”

“Bill did right in waking us, though,” said another,
“for there mought have been Injuns about, and we lost all
our top-knots.”

“And thar may be yit, for what you know, Tom,”
rejoined McCollough; “for so'thing above has riled the
water, and it's jest as like to be Injuns as any thing else;
and the fact that we hain't found 'em, don't prove they
arn't thar even now; eh! Joe Hedges, what say you?”

“Well, it's my opine, Bill, that the water's eyther been
riled from raccoons, ducks, or some other animal, and that
we mought as well turn down agin and sleep till daylight.
I'll guarantee the camp for a quart of whiskey.”

This reply was greeted by a laugh from all save McCollough
and Linn; and after a few words with the latter,
expressive of a kind of rude sympathy for his sufferings,
the five men, who had been so suddenly roused by the

guard, again stretched themselves around the fire—McCollough,
meantime, proceeding to heat the salt and water and
administer it to the sufferer—who, immediately after drinking
it, said he felt a little easier, and thought he should be
able to get some rest at last.

An hour later, as McCullough stood at his former post,
somewhat abstractedly gazing at the few red embers,
which were all that now remained of the smouldering fire,
a slight, a very slight noise, on the bank of the little
stream, attracted his attention. He looked up suddenly
and with a start; but before he had time for action, there
flashed upon his astonished vision a line of fire, followed
instantly by a dozen sharp reports, by groans and cries of
pain from his companions, and by loud, fierce whoops and
yells from a large body of savages, who had silently stolen
down the bed of the stream and now came bounding
forward to the destruction of their enemies.

McCollough was himself untouched by the fire of the
Indians; but he saw that some of his companions, including
poor Linn, were badly wounded; and knowing that
his own life would solely depend upon his successful flight
into and through the forest, he instantly turned and
bounded away with all his might, several of the savages
perceiving and bounding after him with wild and fearful
yells.

Now it so happened that the party who gave chase to

McCollough had not yet discharged their pieces; and
finding he was likely to escape them in the darkness, they
suddenly drew up in a line and poured a close volley after
him. But at the very instant they fired, his foot struck the
bog of a quagmire, and he pitched headlong upon the soft
morass; whereupon his enemies, seeing him suddenly
disappear, and believing him dead or mortally wounded,
gave a few whoops of triumph, and turned off in pursuit
of the others, three of whom were also making good their
flight.

As soon as his enemies were out of hearing, McCollough
cautiously worked his way out of the treacherous morass,
and then set off, afoot and alone, to make his way
through the dreary wildrness to the nearest station,
thaukful that even his life was spared. In his first flight
he had thrown away his gun, and had now only his
hunting-knife; and being without provisions and the
means of procuring any, he foresaw much suffering for
himself, even if he escaped with life. But suffering
through privation was seldom a matter to be treated
seriously by the bold borderer; and McCullough, even
when compelled to hunt for roots and berries, to keep
himself from perishing by starvation, did so with a light
heart, thinking only how happy he was at his wonderful
escape from his savage foes.

The next day, to his great surprise, for he believed all

the others killed, he fell in with John Hough, one of his
companions, and the two continued their journey together,
and reached Wheeling in safety, where they reported their
misfortunes and the loss of their companions. But even
yet they were destined to an agreeable surprise; for the
day following their own arrival, two more of their comrades,
Kinzie Dickerson and John Whetzel, made their
appearance, naked and nearly famished. These two had
also met on their retreat, and had struggled through the
fearful journey together.

The unexpected meeting of these four, for a time led
them to hope that, in some almost miracnlous manner,
some of the others might have escaped also—but they
hoped in vain. William Linn, Thomas Biggs, and Joseph
Hedges, were all killed in and near the fatal camp; and
here their horribly mutilated bodies were found and
decently buried, by a party from Wheeling who went out
in search of them.

The four who escaped lived many years to tell the tale
we have recorded, and take an active part in other wild
border scenes and tragedies; but all are now dead—all
went long since through the Dark Valley to the so-called
Land of Shadows.