University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

When Charles approached the pass where the messenger
from the Senecas awaited him, Hugh McSwine whispered
to him, as he passed,—

“Be watchful, my laddie. Dinna' trust him further than
you can see; for it's Girty!”

“Girty!” said Van Wiggens, hearing the name. “He's
a tam rascal.”

“I know him well,” said Charles. “Never fear; but
keep your rifles ready.”

He then walked boldly forward, and accepted the hand
which Girty offered him.

“I suppose, Mr. Girty,” said Charles, “you are prepared
to announce the decision of Esther's council.”

Girty hesitated a moment as if disconcerted. He had
arrived upon the ground after the withdrawal of the Queen
from the pass, and, as he was carefully painted and costumed
like an Indian, it had been his wish to remain unrecognised.

“The eye of the White Eagle is clear,” said Girty, not
denying his identity; “and no doubt his wisdom has foreseen
the result of the deliberations of the warriors.”

“We have at least conjectured what might be the decision
of our enemies,” said Charles, “and we are prepared
for any contingency.”

“Be assured you are not prepared for battle,” said Girty.
“Five hundred Seneca warriors have arrived since daybreak.”

“The few we have to oppose them,” said Charles, “are
prepared to die in defence of the white maiden and those
who pursued her captors. We have warriors of several
tribes; yours are all Senecas. We have Delawares, Oneidas,
Cherokees, and Shawnees; and, if you attack us, you
must abide the consequences. An eternal enmity will ensue

between these nations and the Senecas. And the Indian
maiden is the sister of Brandt, and her foster-mother
his aunt. Queen Esther durst not attack us!”

“It is true!” said Girty, admiring the bold confidence
of the young man.

“Then what can you do?” demanded Charles.

“We will tell the Shawnees that the garrison at Point
Pleasant, although subject to the orders of Lord Dunmore,
when Cornstalk and his son were murdered, now refuse to
obey him, and that the men who performed the butchery
are among the rebels. And they will leave your camp.”

The facts, as stated by Girty, were undeniable, and
Charles did not attempt to controvert them.

“Then what song,” he asked, “has Girty to charm the
ears of the Cherokees?”

“Did they not sell their lands in Kentucky to a North
Carolina company, and has not Virginia decided that the
title of the North Carolinians is invalid, because Kentucky
lay within her limits?”

“Then I suppose there was no sale,” replied Charles,
“if the company had no right to buy.”

“But,” said Girty, with a malicious smile, “Virginia
says the Cherokees had a right to sell, and, as they have
relinquished their title, she becomes the owner, and is preparing
to take possession. This will charm the ears of the
Cherokees.”

Charles had not heard of these transactions, and they
might be as Girty said; and, if so, the hostility of the
Southern Indians would certainly follow.

“Then there are the Delawares and the Oneidas,” said
Charles.

“Among the Delawares whose voice is strongest?—the
Garden Terrapin, Bartholomew Calvin, or the Great Mingo
chief, Logan, whose family were slaughtered by the bloody
Cresap? And the Oneidas will follow the rest. Time will
array them all against the Colonies.”

“I did not come hither, Girty,” said Charles, “to listen
to your speeches. Let us act. Shall we fight, or part in
peace?”

“This is the decision, my young friend, as I would call
thee:—The white maiden, and the party that pursued her
captors, to return to their homes in Jersey, if you will

remain and wed the Brown Thrush, and swear never to
lift hand or voice against the Indians; or—”

“Let me hear the alternative!” said Charles, seeing
Girty hesitated; “for that will be the sentence.”

“Or else,” said Girty, his penetrating eye fixed upon
the countenance of the young man, “the whole party—
rescuers and maiden, the recreant Calvin and yourself,
Gentle Moonlight and the Thrush—must depart immediately
for Chillicothe and await the determination of a
grand council.”

“Will Thayendanegea be there?” asked Charles.

“He will.”

“And Red Jacket?”

“He will.”

“Then we will go to Chillicothe. Let the chiefs meet
around the council-fire which has been burning for ages,
and I will speak to them. But I warn you, Girty, not to
molest us as we descend the river!”

“You are not to descend the Ohio. The Queen says
you might escape into Virginia. Your course will be southwest
until you strike the head-waters of the Scioto, down
which you can float in canoes to Chillicothe. The Seneca
warriors will follow in your rear; the rest of the Five
Nations will proceed along the southern shore of Lake Erie,
on your right, while the Tuscarawas will be on your left.”

`I care not!” said Charles, “so they do not molest us.
My word is passed to meet you at Chillicothe.”

“The Queen has no confidence in the big Scotchman
who has slain so many of her subjects. She recollects him
well when he fought on the Conococheague.”

“Then let her beware of him, for I know not whether
he will be a party to the compact. If not, you may prevent
his escape if you can. And I must also consult the
white maiden before the agreement is ratified. If she will
not go—”

“She will go!” exclaimed Julia herself, who had besought
the Indian girl to conduct her to the scene of conference,
and had been led noiselessly round the cliff to
where Charles and Girty stood. “Yes, she will go with
you to the grand council-fire at Chillicothe, and she will
not depart from the wilderness until all her white friends
may accompany her.”

Charles signified his approbation by a proud smile. He
knew not whether Julia had heard the first proposition;
but, if she had, it was quite apparent she would not accept
her enfranchisement on the terms proposed.

The announcement in camp that they were in effect the
prisoners of Queen Esther was variously received, and
perhaps by none with more secret satisfaction than poor
Van Wiggens. Even his little mongrel cur, that had accompanied
him, seemed to wag his blunt tail in delight; for
he had generally received as many blows from Mrs. Van
Wiggens's broomstick as his master got wounds from her
tongue.

The aunt and sister of Brandt, now the Great Sachem
of the Five Nations, did not doubt that his influence would
be exerted in behalf of themselves and their friends. And
David Jones thought he would have an excellent opportunity
of being heard by the representatives of all the tribes.
But neither he nor Charles had correctly estimated the
powers of Girty, McKee, and Elliot, who represented in the
wild woods the military chest of Great Britain.

The Indians whom Calvin had induced to consent to aid
in the defence of the camp, upon being advised of the
agreement, rose from their lurking-places, and, after uttering
several halloos, dispersed in pursuit of game. In vain
the Delawares pleaded with Calvin to accompany them. He
could not be torn away from the Indian maiden.

Charles and the Rev. Mr. Jones, desirous of hastening
to the place designated for the meeting of the grand
council, urged forward the preparations for departure.
The horses were packed without delay, and, as the aunt of
Thayendanegea had quite a number of extra ones, the
whole party were well mounted. But it was in vain that
the Indian women strove to persuade Julia to ride as they
did—astride like the men. She preferred the English
custom.

The first day some forty miles were accomplished, and
they encamped on the Shenango River, selecting a position
susceptible of defence. But there was no molestation.
Mr. Jones uttered a long prayer in the deep solitude of
the forest, and after a hearty meal the travellers, all excepting
the sentry, were hushed in profound repose. But
the stillness of the night was once broken by the fierce

barking of Van Wiggens's dog, who snuffed the prowling
wolves. Hugh McSwine wished to kill him, as he might
betray them if an enemy should be lurking in the vicinity.
But this the honest Dutchman would not listen to. He
took his “Vatch” in his arms, and, whenever he manifested
an inclination to bark or whine, he choked him into
silence.

Fortunately there were no enemies lurking in the vicinity;
and the next morning, after a hearty breakfast, they
resumed the journey. But, as the meat had been consumed,
several of the most skilful woodsmen were sent forward
to kill game for their next meal. A buffalo they found
afforded some sport. It ran in view of the main body of
the travellers for more than a mile, and finally fell in their
rear within a few paces of Peter Shaver, whose ass, scenting
the blood, brayed, as usual, most vociferously.

“And what sort of a baste is that?” asked Paddy Pence,
who had been lagging in company with Peter, and listening
to a narrative of his exciting adventures among the
Indians.

“It's a buffalo,” said Peter. “And a fine fat cow.”

“A cow, you say! And I wonder if it gives any milk!
And who'd milk such an ugly monster? But the mate is
good, for I tasted some in the camp.”

“It's mate was a bull, Paddy. There are no wild steers
in these woods; and the beef of a bull even an Indian
won't eat unless he's half starved.”

“And who was saying any thing about its swateheart?
You must be hard of hearing, though you and your baste
have ears enough for four men and sax horses. Mate!—I
said mate!”

“Oh, you mean meat, I guess. But here they come to
skin the cow.”

During the day several deer were slaughtered, and
subsequently there was no scarcity of provisions in the
camp.

And Paddy became familiar with the rattle of venomous
snakes, and, after repeatedly flying from them, learned to
kill them like the rest,—an operation of easy performance
when one has the nerve to do it, for they are very inactive.

One day Paddy, emboldened by his continued escape
from the dangers of the wilderness, borrowed Van Wiggens's

rifle and sallied forth with the hunters, to enjoy
some of the forest sports which were described every night
to admiring listeners. There was no danger of being lost,
as they were now following one of the small tributaries of
the Scioto, and he had only to keep in view of the stream
to guard against the possibility of wandering from the
right direction.

But he soon returned to leave his horse in charge of
Peter, saying he would try it on foot, as his “baste” made
so much noise dragging its “fut” through the dry “laves”
the deer all ran away before he could see enough of them
to fire at. But Paddy strove in vain to kill a deer. He
started several, whose snorting he could hear very distinctly
as they sprang up from their beds, and once or twice he
had glimpses of the whites of their tails as they leaped over
the bushes; but they were gone before he could take aim
and pull trigger. After bestowing some abusive epithets
on them for not standing, like “dacent bastes,” to be shot
at, he contemptuously abandoned the pursuit, and confined
his attention to the turkeys which every now and then
crossed his path near the stream, within the narrow valley
of which he still confined his wanderings.

But Paddy grew weary at last, and had not a single
trophy to exhibit. The turkeys wouldn't stand fire either;
and he thought it very singular that a gobbler up in a tree
should be able to see him first, inasmuch as he was larger
than the bird, and had larger eyes.

He sat down on a log beside the path. It was growing
late, and the last rays of the setting sun bathed in gold the
tree-tops and summits of the distant hills. A squirrel chattered
on a bough above, with its tail curved over its back.
He looked at Paddy, and Paddy looked at him.

“The little baste is poking his jokes at me!” said Paddy.
“And if I should kill him, wouldn't the boys laugh?
Joke away, my little crature; I don't understand yer lingo,
and I'm sure I shouldn't take offence at it. But what's
that same?”

Paddy was attracted by a rustling among the leaves in a
dense thicket within a dozen yards of him. He thought he
heard also a sound like the crushing of acorns under the
giant oak that overspread the thicket. But he could see
nothing animate, although the chopping of nuts continued

at intervals. With his eyes fixed in the direction from
whence the sound proceeded, he remained perfectly motionless,
his gun in readiness to fire, and his legs prepared to
run, if any imminent danger became apparent.

He knew not how long he sat and watched. But he could
hear the men fixing the tent-poles near a bend of the
stream some two hundred paces back; and, seeing he was
not likely to be relieved from his perilous situation, if he
were really in danger, by the nearer approach of his comrades,
he began to experience an uncomfortable sensation
of fear creeping up his back and gradually lifting his cap
from his head. But still he could see nothing likely to do
him injury. The saucy squirrel only mocked him; and the
huge owl that flapped through the dusky recesses of the
forest, where the rays of the sun rarely penetrated, never
ventured to assail a man. It could not be a panther he
heard, for that dreadful animal did not feed on acorns. A
bear was not dangerous, as he learned from Peter Shaver,
unless one seized her cub. Paddy had no cub, and he
resolved not to touch one if they should come around him
as abundantly as the fallen leaves.

It would not do, however, to remain thus inactive, and so
he stooped down and peered under the bushes.

“Be jabers!” said he, after gazing some time in silence,
“I'm not afraid o' the likes of you! I've twisted the tails
of too many pigs in ould Ireland to run away from one in
America, and with a gun in my hand to boot!”

It was a large white sow, apparently of great age,
which had strayed from the settlements of the white man,
escaped the knives of the Indian and repelled the assaults
of the wolf. It now ceased to crack the acorns, and lay
quite still in its bed of leaves, for it had likewise become
conscious of the presence of Paddy. It lay with its fierce
eyes fixed upon the intruder, as if partaking of the fearful
and repellent nature of the wild beasts of the forest with
whom alone it had been long associated. But, if it had forgotten
the friendly form of man, Paddy had not forgotten
the usually harmless capabilities of the pig, and so he
resolved to have it for a victim, and as a unique trophy in
the wilderness.

He raised his gun and fired before getting a steady aim,
and the ball, striking too high, glanced along from the top

of the animal's head, cutting a furrow through the roots of
the bristles and covering its back with blood. For a moment
it was stunned, and Paddy, supposing it dead, approached
with confidence. But, before he could seize it, the
recovered animal rushed toward him with open mouth.
Paddy, however, was in his element in a contest with a pig,
and so, throwing down his gun, was in readiness for the
assault. He sprang up with his feet apart and descended
on the back of the sow, with his head toward her tail. He
clasped his arms tightly round her body, and hugged her
neck with his legs, so she could not turn and bite him.
But she could open her mouth, and did so, and squealed
and squeaked terrifically, running along the path toward
the encampment. All were anxious to see the beast making
such horrific sounds; and when the sow plunged in the
midst of the men she was so much concealed or disfigured
by the body of Paddy that none of the spectators could
conjecture for several minutes what sort of an animal it
was. The squealing was not strange to their ears; but
they did not suppose a hog could be found in a region so
far from the dwellings of white men.

And soon the ass, getting the scent of blood, began to
bray with all the power of his lungs; and Van Wiggens's
mongrel cur, being the first to perceive the true nature of
the beast, and true to his instincts, rushed forward in the
midst of the mêlée, (for the sow was now exhausted, and
only turned and squalled, surrounded by the crowd of travellers,)
but, instead of seizing the animal's ear, as he
intended, got hold of Paddy's calf by mistake.

“Och, murther!” cried Paddy. “Take away the dog!
He's tearing me leg! Two on one is foul play, and fair
play's a jewel. Take away your baste of a cur, Mr. Van
Wiggens, or I'll worry you when I'm done with this chap.
I'd thank you for the loan of a knife, Mr. Shaver,” he
continued; “for mine has dhropt out of me hilt in the
tussell.” And, being accommodated by Peter, Paddy succeeded
in cutting the throat of the sow, and so put an end
to its squealing.

The sow, being very fat, was highly relished by the men;
and there was great abundance of deer and turkeys killed
by the hunters. Paddy's knife and Van Wiggens's gun
were found where they had been dropped; and the affair

of the sow caused much merriment when referred to during
the remainder of the journey, which was accomplished
without further difficulty or remarkable event.

When the party reached Chillicothe they were in advance
of the Eastern Indians; but quite a number of Western
chiefs and their families were present. Chillicothe was an
old Indian town, and consisted of many huts of a more
substantial character than those generally inhabited by the
roving children of the forest. Gentle Moonlight possessed
several of these houses, of which her deceased husband had
been the proprietor, as well as a large body of land adjacent
to the village. These she took possession of, and the
whole party were soon comfortably domiciled in huts and
tents.

But, as runners were constantly arriving from various
directions, the place was continually agitated with news,
sometimes encouraging to the captives, but often the
reverse.

The Cherokees and Shawnees, as well as other Western
Indians sojourning at Chillicothe, although they were very
kind to the aunt and sister of Brandt, and friendly to
Charles, Calvin, and the missionary, Mr. Jones, did not
seem to regard the other captives with the respect which
had been hoped for. There were, besides, a number of prisoners
from Pennsylvania, Virginia, and Kentucky, and
they were so carefully watched and securely guarded that
even the obtuse Peter Shaver could not avoid the inference
that peace was not to be “calculated” upon.

Among the prisoners met with in the town was a tall,
straight man, with broad shoulders and muscular limbs,
denoting extraordinary strength. He generally sat apart,
smiling composedly at the diverting conduct or amusing
anecdotes of the Indians; or, if not addressed by any of
them or the object of their notice, his eyes were fixed abstractedly
on the dark woods down the right bank of the
Scioto; and one beholding his countenance would suppose
he longed to be again a free rover in the boundless
wilderness.

This was Daniel Boone, then in the prime of manhood;
and it was the second or third time he had fallen into
the hands of the Indians. He was a brave man, and the
Indians loved him. He was as good a woodsman as any of

their own chiefs, and they respected him so highly that
extraordinary exertions were made to induce him to live
among them and become the head of a great family. But
he had already a wife and children in Kentucky; and, besides,
he loved the solitudes of the forest rather than the
boisterous society of his fellow-men, whether savage or
civilized.

The Rev. Mr. Jones and Boone had often met before;
and the latter had promised the preacher that when they
encountered again, if there should be water, he would desire
to be baptized. And now the preacher claimed the
fulfilment of his promise, declaring to the Indians who
listened that the ceremony would afford him more pleasure
and be a greater honour in the sight of the Good Spirit
than the taking of scalps in time of war. And Boone did
not object. His wife was a Baptist. He had reached the
meridian of life, and would no longer postpone the performance
of a sacred duty.

And so, on the third day after the arrival of the party at
Chillicothe, the banks of the Scioto were lined with Indians,
men, (old men mostly,) women, and children, to witness the
baptism by immersion of “Captain Boone.” But Mr.
Jones had not usually been in the habit of going down into
the water with a solitary convert, nor was he under the
necessity of doing so on that occasion. The aged Tammany,
a chief of the Western Delawares, who had ever been
his friend, stood beside him on the margin of the water,
prepared to submit to the ordinance prescribed for the salvation
of sinners. Priests of other denominations had
proposed other modes of baptism; but the plan of Mr. Jones,
who had been most instrumental in his conversion, seemed
appropriate to the Indian, and very similar to a ceremony
of their own in washing away the blood of another race.

Nor were the enthusiastic Baptist's labours to end with
Tammany—who subsequently became a saint; but Gentle
Moonlight and Brown Thrush likewise consented to go
down with him into the water and take upon themselves
the Christian's vows. Mr. Jones did not require any extraordinary
sacrifices. Their great Ha-wen-no-yu, he said,
was but another name for the Christian's God, their Kacha
Manito the Christian's Holy Spirit, and Malcha Manito
the devil. The latter they must cease praying to to punish

their enemies, as the God of the Christians could destroy
as well as preserve. Although with them this was not
quite an admitted axiom, yet they promised to follow the
instructions of their Christian guide. And Boone himself
stipulated that he was not to be turned out of the church
for the occasional epithets—called oaths—which sometimes
escaped him, and of which he might be unconscious. It
was a fixed habit, and he was too old to correct it. In
short, Mr. Jones did not require of his Indian converts
any other change of life than to believe in the plan of redemption
he taught, and to conform to the few precepts he
strove to impress upon their minds. They might be great
warriors and chiefs and at the same time very good Christians.
And Boone might go on killing game and scalping
his enemies as usual.

Charles and Julia were silent spectators of the scene,
which was solemn and impressive. The Sabbath day was
unclouded, and not a breeze ruffled the surface of the water.
With a becoming gravity of face, a dignified step, and the
song of praise issuing from his mouth, the preacher went
down into the water; and, the requisite responses being
uttered, and no one forbidding, the ceremony of baptism
by immersion was duly performed.

“Now, Charles,” said Julia, “what good effect will that
produce?”

“They believe,” said Charles. “They rely implicitly
upon the truth of what Mr. Jones has spoken. He has
said there can be no salvation without baptism, according
to the Scriptures. They believe it, and are baptized. There
will be no important change in their conduct. My forest
mother and sister were ever good and guileless.”

“And now, Charles, the Thrush is a Christian!”

“Yes, but still an Indian. Why do you seem distressed?”

“These terrible rumours!” said she, as they slowly followed
the dripping converts returning to their wigwams.
“What is to become of us? I might have escaped from
my captors, but I thought you would soon return with me,
and I was impelled by a love of romantic adventure. I
thought it would soon be over, and never dreamed of actual
danger and real vexations. But they have brought me
still farther into the boundless forest, I know not how
many hundreds of miles away from—”

“From whom, Julia? You have no kindred on earth
that you know of, and no better friend than myself.”

“True. But will I not lose my best friend? Is he not
surrounded by enemies?”

“We will escape, Julia,” said he, in a low tone, (for
James Girty, the brother of Simon, was, as usual, standing
near them, and probably endeavouring to learn the subject
of their conversation.) “Mr. Boone,” he added, “has
planned it, and will accompany us. He has learned that
the Indians intend making a hostile visit to Kentucky, and
we will be there to receive them.”

“Kentucky! still farther into the Western wilds!” said
Julia, with a sigh, which indicated that her love of forest
adventure, of which she had often boasted in her letters to
Kate Livingston, was rapidly abating.

“Once there, Julia, we will be free. We will be no
longer subjected to the tyrannical caprices of Queen Esther,
who, I learn from the Seneca that came in this morning,
declares I must either wed my Indian sister or else remain
a prisoner.”

“Will not the Indian maiden and her aunt go with us?”

“No. At least such is not the intention. If war ensues,
as I fear it will,—for the British agent here has arms, ammunition,
trinkets, and money, to distribute gratuitously,
and the Americans, not being similarly represented, are
looked upon by my silly red brethren with contempt,—they
would not be permitted to dwell among us.”

“Then let us go! I fear your forest sister will do some
dreadful deed.”

“Why?”

“She speaks fiercely and gesticulates violently in her
dreams.”

“She dreamed of war,—of her brother, no doubt, and
thought he was slaughtering her Christian friends. No;
she will never injure you. She might have committed
violence on her own life, had not Mr. Jones told her it
would be a fatal crime and bar her entrance into the
perennial paradise.”

“Let us depart immediately!” continued Julia. “Oh,
let us go before the grand council of warriors assemble!
I know they will declare war. Indeed, as Mr. Jones said
last night, when the party came in from the Monogahela,

their approach announced by the terrible scalp-halloo,
which still sounds in my ears, war has already begun!
And the horrid spectacle of human scalps, stretched on
hoops, drying in view of our tent! It is too dreadful!”

“I know it. But control your emotions, Julia. Do not
seem agitated and shocked by such exhibitions during the
next few days. I did not like to announce the startling
tidings that have reached us, for fear we might be betrayed
by our feelings. But it is too true that the tomahawk
has fallen on the heads of our people in some of the
frontier settlements, and Mr. Boone is convinced that the
Five Nations will carry the Western tribes with them to
the British. We must be discreet, and apparently indifferent
to the occurrences around us; and soon we will be
beyond the reach of our enemies. Be in readiness to fly at
any hour of the night. Boone will plan every thing.”

“And will they not pursue us?”

“Certainly. But our party will number some twenty-five
well-armed men, as other prisoners will go with us;
and we will be able to keep the foe at bay until we cross
the Ohio. Most of the warriors here are, as you see, old
men. Boone is advised of the movements of those more
active, now lingering on the Little Miami, where they have
fallen in with a large herd of buffalo. We will have the
start of them, as their runners will give notice of their
approach and announce their success. In the mean time
we must do nothing to excite suspicion.”

“But why not go at once?—to-night?”

“Some of our men are unarmed. We must contrive to
supply the deficiency from the British depôt, and Boone will
devise the means. We must employ stratagem, and keep
the boys and old men in good humour. They are, as you
may have observed, exceedingly fond of diverting scenes;
and Boone, though seemingly incapable of smiling himself,
is preparing an exhibition for this afternoon which will
amuse them. He has had Paddy Pence and Peter Shaver
looking at the bloody scalps, and informed them (confidentially)
that the only sure method of avoiding a similar
fate is to be adopted into an Indian family. They have
most eagerly consented, and an old squaw, the widow of a
Choctaw warrior, has agreed to receive one of them as her
husband and the other as a son. The ceremony of initiation

will take place this evening before the assembled population
of the village. Boone will be more popular than
ever, and they will cause the Englishman to give the adopted
couple two good rifles. And Hugh McSwine, though so
silent and grave, is heartily co-operating. His Scots will
assume the Indian costume, indicating a purpose to undergo
the ceremony of initiation as soon as Indians can be found
to adopt them. Poor Van Wiggens would, I believe, prefer
living among them to returning to his scolding wife.
He, too, will probably be adopted to-day. Go now and
cheer my poor sister. Tell her I am much pleased with
her, and that I hope our heavenly Father will permit us to
dwell together in paradise, never to be separated more.”

Julia had scarcely entered the house of Gentle Moonlight
when Charles heard the halloo of a small party of
warriors returning from the South. From the sounds, he
understood they had a prisoner and one scalp.

He soon after saw a young man of herculean frame led
into the town. He was not made to run the gauntlet, for
as yet war had not been formally declared, although it
certainly existed. The prisoner's name was Simon Kenton,
who, on subsequent occasions, suffered much harsh usage
at the hands of the Indians, and has since figured in several
romances. But, as this is a plain narrative of facts, we
will not make any draughts on the imagination. He was a
young man without education, an excellent shot, a good
woodsman, a brave scout, honest and generous. But he
deemed it no disgrace to steal horses from the Indians, and
had just been taken in the act.