ELKSWATAWA;

OR,

THE PROPHET OF THE WEST.

A TALE OF THE FRONTIER.

[Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1836, by HARPER & BROTHERS, in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New-York.]

CONTENTS.

DEAR SIR,

By inscribing to you these volumes,—in which I have endeavoured to enlarge upon an interesting portion of our National History, and to set forth in a connected view, the main incidents in the lives of two of the most celebrated Aborigines of our continent,—I offer a tribute not less agreeable to myself, than due to your personal worth.

To an accomplished scholar like yourself, this work may appear crude and defective; if so, let the intentions of the writer compensate for the faults of his production. The recollection of the many kind offices received at your hands, and of your amiable and dignified character, renders it a pleasure to dedicate to you this first attempt to describe events, which may hereafter be pourtrayed by an abler pen.

With my best wishes for your prosperity and welfare,

PREFACE.

During the intervals of leisure in a profession which has hitherto employed but a small portion of my time, I traced out for my own amusement the following story. It having fallen to my lot to reside for some time in the western part of the Union, and to have visited personally many of the Indian tribes along the frontier, I was naturally led to observe with much attention, their customs and habits of life. The more I saw of their peculiarities and traits of character, the more I found my feelings aroused, and my sympathies enlisted in their behalf; and from the contemplation of what they now are, I was carried back, by a natural train of thought, to reflect upon what they once had been. The names and deeds of those celebrated individuals, who have from time to time, arisen among them, and with a foresight and patriotism worthy of happier results, endeavoured to regain for the red man his original power and possessions, became familiar to me as household words, and I felt myself able to appreciate more justly the talents and policy of those unfortunate champions of Indian liberty, whose conduct and characters, owing to the animosity excited in the minds of the frontier settlers by a series of harassing hostilities, have been generally misrepresented, and painted by the hand of prejudice, in the darkest and most odious colours. One of the effects of the sojourn above referred to, was the entire removal of many unfounded causes of dislike, and false impressions, which had their origin in these and similar sources, and the conviction that were the Indian, like the lion in the fable, to draw the picture himself of the contest which has with but few intermissions, been carried on between the whites and the aborigines, since the period of the earliest settlements, we should behold many startling and indisputable facts, many unprovoked aggressions, and many sins unatoned for on the part of our countrymen, amply sufficient to turn the milk of human kindness into the bitterest gall, and kindle the most unextinguishable hate in the breasts of the most civilized people.

To these many apologetic circumstances, tending to excuse their natural animosity toward the whites, was added in my mind an admiration of those peculiar traits of character which they possess in common with no nation of modern times, but in which they approach nearly the Greeks and Romans in their best estate, before luxury had paved the way for despotism, and licentiousness had fused down all individuality and national differences into one common mass of dulness and depravity. The short, pointed, and antithetical sayings of many an Indian chieftain, partake of the old Laconic character, and the discipline both of mind and body, common among the tribes, is equally severe with that inculcated by the Legislator of Sparta, in her palmiest days. The answer of Tecumseh to Gen. Harrison, when offered a seat by him at the council, will compare with any reply in ancient or modern history; and the apophthegms of King Philip, recorded in the annals of the times, are marked with the same spirit of moral fearlessness and independence.

But the Indian, like his more civilized neighbour, however much he may strive for effect, and put on his best mental attire upon occasions which call for such preparation, has an every day manner, so to term it, or a style of familiar conversation, when not labouring under any particular excitement, which differs but little from that of the rest of the world, and offers a striking contrast to his more exalted moods, when art and passion combine to swell the stream of his eloquence. Indeed, as in the well known lines of Horace:

so the Indian, unless warmed by the expectant gaze of the multitude, or influenced by the most violent passions, confines himself to the more homely and necessary common places of the language. I have travelled among them, hunted with them, conversed with them, and watched them when employed in domestic avocations, and never, as far as my personal experience enabled me to judge, did I hear any expressions more highly wrought or figurative, than such as would be used in ordinary conversation among ourselves. Impressed with this fact, I have accordingly, in many instances, represented the Indians as conversing without much of that mannerism which has by almost common consent, been held to characterise their speech, while at other times, when the place seemed to demand it, I have given the most figurative and antithetical turn to their language; and in so doing, I have rather deferred to the commonly received opinion, than acted in accordance with my own judgment. This course may be contrary to the notions entertained by many; but conceiving it, for the reasons above stated, to be a correct one, I leave my Indians to vary their modes of expression according to the circumstances in which they are placed.

The above remarks will apply with equal propriety to the language of the Kentucky hunter, described in the following pages. He uses slang as a matter of habit, when speaking of certain things, but this does not prevent him from being more choice of his words when the subject requires it. It may be observed, in this connexion, that although a great proportion of our western population may often, partly from fancy and partly from carelessness, interlard their language with strange and far-fetched expressions, they nevertheless can be, and are, when occasion demands it, as select of their phrases, and as simple in their arrangement as any class of persons on our continent. In fact, the many burlesques of western manners, which have given so much amusement to our eastern and transatlantic brethren, were as much of a novelty to the supposed actors in them, upon their first appearance, as to their neighbours in the adjoining states.

The main incidents detailed in this work are strictly historical, and drawn from authentic sources. So great, indeed, is that portion devoted to the narrative of well known events, that the author has his fears, lest by their too frequent occurrence, the purely fictitious part may be weakened, and the whole assume a dry and uninteresting appearance. But when he reflects upon the nature of his materials, and the striking incidents in the history of the Prophet, which make truth appear stranger than the wildest fiction, he is inclined to think that the reader will wish he had curbed his fancy still more, and detailed yet more at length, the actual occurrences of that interesting period. The speeches attributed to Tecumseh and his brother, as well as those of Gen. Harrison, are extracted verbatim from the records of the times, since nothing which the writer could himself compose would approach them in native eloquence and felicity of expression. Much as they must suffer in the translation from the Indian tongue, there still remains sufficient of the sacred fire, the “divinus afflatus,” to show the character of their eloquence, and vindicate for their author the title of Prince of Indian orators as well as of warriors.

Feeling it a duty due myself, to assign the reasons why I had ventured to set forth opinions counter to the generally received impressions of Indian and western character, I have been led to express myself more at length than I intended. With this as my apology, I subscribe myself,

Jerusalem, Southampton Co. Va.
        January 27, 1836.

ELKSWATAWA;

THE PROPHET OF THE WEST.

CHAPTER I.

The 20th of August, 1794, was the commencement of an era, ever to be remembered in the annals of the West; for it marks the close of those sanguinary battles which had so long desolated our northwestern frontier with all the horrors of savage warfare.

Previous to this date, the Indians, emboldened by repeated successes, and instigated by hireling agents, had swept like a tornado along the whole range of our western settlements, marking their route with the direst destruction. But it was not in predatory excursions alone that their power had been felt; they had been victorious in several regular engagements. Led on by the most noted chieftains of their tribes, they had defeated Generals Harmar and St. Clair, nearly annihilating the army of the latter, and creating so great a sensation throughout the land, that it caused the Father of his country, like Augustus when he heard of the destruction of Varus and his legions, to weep for the men he had trained to arms, and pass a sleepless night, pacing his apartment, and repeating aloud, “St. Clair! St. Clair! restore me my troops!”

This calamity, however, aroused the nation from its apathy; and the appointment of General Wayne to the command of the western army induced the country to anticipate the happiest results. No man was more popular, and no selection could have inspired more confidence. Bold, daring, indefatigable, and skilled in habits of Indian warfare, he was withal so reckless of life, that he received, and ever after bore in the West, the appellation of “Mad Anthony.” We should exceed the limits which we have here assigned ourselves, were we to trace minutely the progress of events from the time of his appointment to the period with which we commence; nearly a year had elapsed, and nothing definite had been accomplished, when, on the 8th of August, 1794, we find him encamped at the confluence of the Au-Glaize and Maumee Rivers, having under his command more than three thousand men, most of whom were regulars. The Indians, comprising the tribes of the Miamies, Pottawatamies, Delawares, Shawanees, Chippewas, Ottawas, and Senecas, amounting in all to about two thousand, were commanded by Little Turtle, chief of the Miamies, and the most noted warrior of his day; Blue Jacket, chief of the Shawanees; and Buckongahelas, chief of the Delawares.

The morning of the 20th found the Indians advantageously posted in the forest of Presque Isle, awaiting the advance of General Wayne. With his army divided into two columns, he moved on to the attack; the action became general about 10 o'clock, and for sometime was maintained with the greatest obstinacy. A movement on the part of the American General to out-flank their right wing, threw them into disorder, and wanting unanimity among themselves, for dissensions had already crept into their ranks, a flight ensued, and victory declared in favour of the Americans. The loss on either side was not great, yet the victory was complete, and attended with more important consequences than any battle which had ever been fought in the “far west.” The Indians were dispersed, and their property destroyed, and being no longer able to contend with any hope of success, many chiefs sent in their submission. Hostilities were now suspended, and in the following year Commissioners were appointed on the part of the United States for the purpose of concluding a general peace.

Greenville, in Ohio, was appointed for the conference, and thither in August, 1795, repaired the Commissioners, together with the chiefs of all the northwestern tribes, accompanied by crowds of red men. Never had a more imposing council been held in the “far west.” Of the Representatives who were present, each one was conspicuous in the tribe to which he belonged, all were famed as warriors, and noted for the part they had acted in the deadly struggle which they had so long, and so hopelessly been waging.

The crowd which had assembled, both of red men and whites, gave it somewhat the appearance of a jubilee, but, on the part of the Indians, it was a sad occasion which had called them together. They had long been contending for wild lands, and still wilder liberty, with a perseverance and determined zeal which won the admiration even of their enemies. There was nothing selfish, or ambitious in their purpose; they fought to retain that which the God of nature had given them, and thousands had fallen and died satisfied, that they fell in defence of their hunting grounds, and in preserving sacred the graves of their fathers. They yielded to the superiority which a civilized has over a savage foe, and they yielded, when their tribes were so thinned of warriors that but few were left to battle in their country's cause.

After so fruitless and protracted a struggle, it might truly be deemed a sad occasion which had called them together, to transfer for ever, those lands, for the possession of which they had so long contended. But they were now forced to sue for peace, and the cession of a large portion of their territory was the sole condition upon which it was to be obtained—the powerful dictating to the powerless—and we may well conceive the reluctance with which they acceded to the demand, when we reflect, that the tract of country then surrendered, now comprises several of the most flourishing states in the Union. The terms, however, after a long and ineffectual opposition, were accepted, and the treaty being ratified, each party pledged itself to preserve the peace concluded. The Indians then expressed themselves contented with its provisions, and the council adjourned. Peace being now restored, all seemed anxious to preserve it, and Indians and whites mingling promiscuously together, forgot at once former differences, in expressions of mutual courtesy and friendship.

With this state of things came a change in the affairs of the West. The instruments of war were exchanged for the implements of agriculture, and crowds of emigrants were found flocking to that lovely region of country, where but a short time before, marched regiments of fearless and intrepid soldiery, or where, in lawless bands, with vengeance dire, there roamed the savage wild. Beautiful and bright was the prospect now, as when a cloud which has for some time shrouded the horizon in gloom, carrying terror and dismay to the breasts of all, spends its force, and suddenly breaking away, leaves the glad sun dancing upon the earth. So was it here. Gloom and darkness had hung over the land—the midnight torch, and merciless scalping-knife were the visions of the past, and the future now shone forth so clear and inviting that it promised to realize even the wildest dreams of the imagination.

Looking through the vista of futurity, it required no seer to foretell, that the Valley of the Mississippi, which, from its physical appearance, may well be regarded as the cradle of our continent, was soon destined to become the chosen home of the exile from every clime, and to contain a population, brave, hardy, and industrious; not one to whom ignoble thoughts were boon companions, but a people elevated in sentiment by the immunities received under a Republican government, and stimulated to acts of noble daring and enterprise, by the reflection, that their fortunes were cast in a land where nature had been more lavish of her bounties, than in any other part of the world—yes, in a region of country, bounded on the north by lakes, in which, so vast is their extent, all the vessels, that in every part of the world now plough the briny deep, might be placed, and still hold their onward course—in a region of country, where rivers run by almost every door, and throughout the whole of which flows one great stream, the grand receptacle of a thousand tributaries—a wonder within itself—the great aorta of our continent, which courses every clime, from the far frozen regions of the North, to warm and sunny lands, “where the orange and citron are fairest of fruit,” and flowers burst into beauty, regardless of the seasons of the year.

Indeed it required no seer to tell, that here, in a few years, cities would spring up as if called into existence by the wand of the magician, that those streams, over which now skimmed the light canoe, would soon be covered with boats, bearing to other markets the surplus produce of a mighty people.—These were the expectations which filled the minds of all, when peace spread her wings over the wilds of the West, and when with them were connected the descriptions of hardy adventurers, who not only pourtrayed it as possessing all the advantages here depicted, but likewise painted its beauties in such glowing colours, that reason was merged in visions of fancy, thousands of our enterprising citizens tore themselves from their comfortable homes in our older states to become settlers of the West.

With the commencement of this onward movement, forests began to disappear, and fields of grain waved in rich luxuriance, where, but a few years before, the Indian hunter pursued his wily game.—As time rolled on, the woodman's axe was often heard in the forest, and every road was thronged with emigrants wending their way to some new and distant home—while the Ohio was dotted with countless small flat-roofed buildings, filled with families, who were floating on to points still more remote.

When the tide of emigration first began to flow, the wigwams of the Indians served as a barrier, and for a time stayed its progress; but, as the flood increased, they were forced to desert their homes, and recede from its influence. Having smoked the pipe of peace with the stranger, they spoke not a word, but with feelings of deep sorrow, left the graves of their fathers, and retiring farther into the forest, selected another spot whereon to fix their cabins. But scarcely were they settled in their new abodes, before the axe of the pioneer again resounded in their ears, and the lodge of a squatter was seen rising in the distance. With the approach of the whites, retreated the game which was the sole support of the Indians, and again they plunged yet deeper into the recesses of the forest, and murmured not.

But when they began to find that one encroachment was but the prelude to another, and that patient endurance availed them nothing, suppressed murmurs were at first heard, then hoarser remonstrances, and finally out they spoke, talked of right and wrong, and denounced the whites as grasping and unjust, till the sparks of vengeance which were to kindle up a flame among the tribes, were then first blown abroad.

But setting aside the encroachments of the whites, there were other causes for their discontent; causes, which deeply agitated them, and stirred up in each one feelings of revenge. The treaty of Greenville, though seemingly just in its provisions, had been wrung from their necessities, and although at its conclusion, all the chiefs expressed themselves satisfied, and an opinion pervaded the country that a firm peace had been established, still there were many of the Indians in whose bosoms hatred against the whites was not extinguished, but continued to glow with a burning desire of vengeance. To them the treaty was but the smothering of a fire to keep it alive, and their sense of unavenged wrongs was like a secret volcano, consuming itself with its own fires, and accumulating the power to burst forth.—The warriors who entertained these feelings belonged to the tribe of the Shawanees, decidedly the most warlike on our continent, and had often fought first among the foremost, in many of the numerous conflicts in which their tribe had been engaged.—Those to whom we particularly allude, were present at the treaty of Greenville, and though too young to be allowed a voice in council, left it with disgust, and from that moment to the period of which we are writing, had been constantly brooding over the wrongs of their country. But now, when they viewed the continual encroachments of the whites, and saw, daily, their dominions invaded, and their hunting grounds lessened, they began to awaken to a sense of their danger, to breathe abroad a spirit of revenge, and urge their countrymen on to acts of violence.

To the causes of irritation which we have before enumerated as stimulating them to these measures must be added the breach of the treaty of Greenville, which had been so solemnly ratified, and which on the part of the Indians had been preserved inviolate. One of the stipulations of that humiliating compact, by which they had ceded so vast a territory, provided that all murderers should be surrendered to the party aggrieved, to be punished according to their respective laws or customs. In accordance with this provision, Indians were repeatedly given over to the United States' authorities, tried, convicted, and executed according to the judgment of their courts. But though many Indians had been shot in the most wanton and unprovoked manner by Americans, and a demand for the murderers often made, still they were never given over for punishment, nor was there even an instance in the courts, of a conviction for so atrocious a crime. This was the power of prejudice, and to such an extent was it carried, that the killing of an Indian by an American was scarcely regarded as indictable offence. Can it then be a matter of surprise, that in this state of things, they, with their ardent feelings and simple notions of justice, should be sometimes tempted to take the law into their own hands, and seek by bloody retaliation that redress, denied them by our courts, and the hostility of our people. Is it at all strange that murders were committed which began to increase to an alarming extent, and that the Indians, adopting our own tactics, should have endeavoured to screen the murderers?

But we have still to add for the Indians, another cause of exasperation. Many attempts had been made on the part of the whites, to purchase other portions of their land, from all the tribes assembled in general council. In this they had failed, and yet, several treaties had been concluded, and large districts of land conveyed to the United States, by a single tribe, while the Indians generally regarded it as the common property, only to be alienated by all the tribes collectively. To annul these treaties, repeated applications had been made, but without success. These, with the long and unprovoked aggressions before mentioned, would have stirred up the deadliest hate of the most civilized people; then how could they otherwise than powerfully operate upon savages, marked by ferocity of disposition, and stubborn independence of character.

While this state of feeling was spreading rapidly among the Indians, emigration was in a great measure suspended, and fear was felt by all the border settlers. Nor were their apprehensions groundless, for it often happened that some adventurer, more daring than his companions, suddenly disappeared from his family, and was never again heard of. And scarcely would the excitement consequent upon these things subside, before acts still more alarming in their character were perpetrated, tending to unveil the mystery which hung over the fate of those who were lost; for the hunter would at times discover the mangled body of some emigrant who had been wantonly murdered, and left a prey to the beasts of the forest. When these things were told, terror and dismay filled the breasts of all, mothers pressed sleepless pillows, drew their infants still closer to their bosoms, and saw in troubled slumbers the blaze of their dwellings, while the war whoop of the savage would ring shrill in their ears. Yet it was but a dream.

At this time a great change was observable in the habits of the Indians; they no longer indulged in intoxicating liquors; gewgaws, which before possessed so many attractions in their eyes, were now disregarded; all intercourse with the whites was suddenly broken off, and rumour began to tell of secret councils, and midnight meetings in the depths of the forest. And then were heard dark hints, and enigmatical sayings, implying that they were invulnerable to the bullets of the whites, and were soon to repossess the lands of their fathers. Then came the tidings that a Prophet had arisen, who held daily converse with the Great Spirit, and ruled the tribes with an absolute sway. With this annunciation, the clouds of discontent, which had so long lain scattered in the horizon, began to unite, and settle in darkness over the west. At this period we commence our narrative.

CHAPTER II.

The 10th of August, 1809! At the mention of that date, how the past sweeps by me, and with it come the yells of the savage, the dying groans of infancy and of age; and by the light of lurid flames, I behold their bleeding bodies, and hear the last gurgling cry of a youth, as he sinks beneath the closing waves. It was a sad night, and fearfully wild is the tale which it tells.

The Ohio, than which no lovelier river flows beneath the sun, was bearing on its surface, a rude boat, containing an emigrant family destined for some point in the “far west.” Carried along by the current, its motion was so gentle, that not a ripple indicated its passage. The hour was midnight, there was no moon, yet the stars emitted a soft light sufficient to show the dim outline of the lofty hills, which skirted the river on either side, serving as landmarks to the adventurer, by which to keep near the middle of the stream. The country was here entirely unsettled, and the dense forests which rose up high into the heavens, threw over the scene a sombre hue, calculated to suggest to an excited imagination a thousand dangers.

Thus situated was the family of John Foreman, consisting of himself, his wife, and several children; among them a sweet girl, who, like an opening flower, was just expanding into beauty, and a son who had already arrived at the age of manhood. Mr. Foreman was a native of lower Virginia, whom misfortunes had reduced to poverty, and who, with a hope of bettering his condition, had torn himself from his friends, to become a settler of the “far off West.” Having embarked at Pittsburg, he had already floated far upon his journey, when the incident occurred upon which depends the interest of the following pages.

The boat having swept a distance hard upon a thousand miles, through a country where the vision was bounded by lofty hills, rising before them in perpetual beauty, had now arrived at a point where the scenery ceases to be beautiful, and at once becomes grand and sublime. This point, the most remarkable on the Ohio River, is known to travellers, by the name of the “Battery Rock,” being a mural precipice of limestone, rising perpendicularly several hundred feet from the river which laves its base, and stretching for some distance along its northern bank. It lies within the state of Illinois, some ten or twelve miles below Shawneetown, and a few miles above the village of Golconda.

The hour, as we have stated, was midnight, and being such as to invite repose, the family were all asleep, save Mr. Foreman and his son Hugh, who were reclining upon the roof¹ of the boat, and directing its course by a long pole, which projected from it, and served the purpose of a rudder. An unbroken silence had for some time reigned, when the following dialogue ensued:

¹ See note A.

“Do not bear so much to the left, Hugh; you will get out of the current; see, it sets in to the bank.”

“Yes, father; but the more distant we are from the bank, the safer I feel.”

“Afraid of the Indians, Hugh?”

“No, sir; I cannot say I am afraid.”

“I am pleased to hear you say so, my son; you should not fear, for although they tell so many bloody tales of them, I think we shall have no cause to add another to the number. We have now floated a long distance, been upon the water more than twenty days and nights, and yet no mishap has befallen us; a few days more, and, God willing, we shall reach our place of destination.”

“I wish it were so, father; I have no fears, yet my heart has some strange misgivings. Gay dreamed last night, we were taken captive by the Indians. I have no faith in dreams, and I know not why it is, but I feel sad and gloomy.”

“Hugh, this is not a time to indulge in superstitious fears, when we are about to form a frontier settlement. Such things must be abandoned, or you will become a laughing stock for your companions; moreover, your sister must cease to tell her dreams, since they unman her brother.”

At this speech, Hugh's countenance slightly coloured with indignation, but it quickly passed away, and he said: “Father, I feel your reproaches, yet I have not the spirit to answer them; for a presentiment of danger has come over me, and though vague and indefinite, I feel that there is no opposing it; indistinct and gloomy visions flit across my mind, conveying no definite idea. To ensure our safety, I would this hour willingly meet Tecumseh, single handed, terrible as he is.”

At the name of Tecumseh a shade passed over the face of Mr. Foreman, while he recollected the many daring outrages which were said to have been committed by him; but, quickly dispelling it, he said, “Come, come, my son, let us drop this subject; it is idle to anticipate dangers; bad enough to meet them when they come.”

“Then let it be so. But I wish we had not ventured so far down, it has now been nearly a week, and we have seen no living soul. Father, do not the woods seem to you darker than usual? the hills rise higher here than we have yet seen them; I never saw a scene so wild and lonely—father, father, did you not see a light moving?”

“Where, where, my son?”

“On the top of that lofty bluff to our right. There, there, I see it again.”

This annunciation acted like magic upon Mr. Foreman, who grasped his rifle, and nerving himself to meet whatever danger might present itself, gazed long and searchingly at the place pointed out. Still nothing was visible—the banks wore a dark and gloomy aspect, yet they were as quiet as the unrippled surface on which they were floating—no sign indicated the presence of a human being, no signal told that the wild woods were tenanted. Observing this, he drew a long breath or two, relieving himself from the high state of excitement under which he had been labouring, then turning to his son, said, “Hugh, you must have been mistaken.”

“I see nothing now, father,” was the reply, “but I thought I saw a light glimmer on those cliffs for a moment and then disappear.”

The scene, desolate as it was, was so quiet and lonely that its repose seemed a guarantee for security, and both again sunk into a dreamy reverie. Some time elapsed, when Mr. Foreman complained of being sleepy, and turning to his son, said, “I believe I will turn in, call me when your watch is over, and take care to keep near the middle of the stream.” So saying, he went below, leaving to Hugh the sole management of the boat.

When left alone to himself, Hugh forgot danger in the deep stillness around him, for it was of that nature, which by its sublimity hushes up the harsher feelings, and creates a vague pleasure which cannot be defined, and which we feel most generally, only when we look abroad from the mountain tops, or stand above the roar of dashing torrents. There are moments in life in which we cannot control our thoughts, yes, there are very many, and Hugh began to ponder over scenes from which he had been torn, to dwell upon the bright recollections of boyhood, and to feed his heart with the called up image of one, dear to him above all other things.

But while these things were passing in his mind, and by their power destroying all consciousness of the present, there might have been seen a dark and indistinct object on the surface of the water, stealing onward with the noiseless glide of the serpent, when it draws its doubling form along the dewy grass. No apparent motion, not a ripple of the wave announced its passage; yet it was approaching the boat, near, still nearer. Another moment, and it was along side. Then, like tigers crouching for their prey, a band of Indian warriors sprung forth, while the neighbouring hills re-echoed their savage screams. Then were heard cries for mercy, and shrieks of horror;—then might be seen their dark forms glancing in every part of the boat, while from right to left, with deadly sweep, they plied the greedy tomahawk. A moment more, and the splash of falling bodies was heard, then the bubbling groan of the dying,—and all was quiet. Not a sound broke upon the ear, all nature seemed asleep, and the boat still glided along as smoothly as it did an hour before. Another moment, and there rolled forth a volume of dense smoke, followed by lurid flames, which bursting out, wrapped the boat in a blaze of living light, and showed a mass of mangled bodies in its bottom. How ghastly pale are the countenances of the slain, when seen by that bright light. See how that mangled mother hugs her murdered babe!

At the same moment, in the back ground, yet near at hand, might be seen a light bark canoe, filled with Indian warriors, painted and equipped in warlike dresses, who with bright exulting faces were gazing on the scene before them, their hatchets red with slaughter, their hands clammy with the blood of the slain. And that nothing should be wanting to render the scene impressive in the extreme, stretched in one end of the boat, lay the almost lifeless form of Gay Foreman, the sole survivor of her family, with her hands pinioned; and her mouth gagged to silence her cries, while her head lay near a pile of bleeding scalps which had been torn from her butchered family, and from which, the warm blood was still trickling down into the bottom of the boat.

The Indians remained silent spectators, until the fire began to decline, when by its dying light they plied their paddles, and their light canoe darted off, skimming the waves like a living thing.

The incident above described occupied but a short time; the boat, covered with thin, dry pine boards, having burned to the water's edge, soon sank, and the Indians having left the scene, all was again quiet.

And was an act so daring to be perpetrated, and yet remain secret? no—on the opposite shore, within the state of Kentucky, and far in the forest, were reposing by the embers of a dying fire, two hunters of the “far west.” One was enured to fatigue, had often skirmished with the Indians, and ever surrounded by danger, was as wily as the savage, as daring, and as bold. The other had had less experience, yet they could both look upon death and not grow pale. They were asleep. But habit had rendered them so watchful, that the lightest step would arouse them from the deepest slumber, and scarcely had echo ceased repeating the first war-whoop which rang through the forest, before they stood erect, mute as statues, with rifles ready cocked, gazing deep into the woods. Another moment, and yet no cry—another, and another, and still all was quiet.

“I say, Earth, that cry must have come from some boat on the Ohio; the Indians are murdering some emigrant family.”

“It must be so, Rolfe; where else could it have come from? Gather up our plunder, and let's be moving; there's no more sleep for us.”

“Not an inch, unless it be in search of those Indians,” said Rolfe.

“You must be a blockhead,” answered his companion; “where do you 'spose I am going? If what we suspect be true, I must make a hole through one of 'em—yes, I am obliged to do it. Now did you ever hear of my backing out from a fight, when there was the least chance of getting into it decently?”

“Come, then,” said Rolfe, “haste, haste, we may yet save the life of a fellow-creature. Oh God! will there never be an end to this cold-blooded butchering?”

“No—no end till we use 'em all up—but it's no use to hurry after Ingens; to beat 'em we must fight as they do. Rolfe, you are always too eager—an eel does not move through the water with less noise than we should through the forest, if we wish to do any thing.” So saying, and repressing the ardour of his companion, they began to move silently along to the bank of the river, groping their way as stealthily as the wild tenants of the woods.

“Earth, is it not strange that we hear no more of them?”

“No; they do their work very silently; you will not hear any more of 'em, until they think themselves safe; then, if they have had much luck, they will kick up the very devil. Rolfe, you can fight as well as any body when you see an Ingen, but you know mighty little about their ways.”

“Earth, I am rather a novice at the business you know, and confess I have much to learn; tell me why they whooped only once, and then ceased.”

“As a signal for attack, and in order to frighten,—they ceased, because they fear discovery—but hush, we'll come upon them, may be, 'fore we know it.”

“Earth, come this way, come, come, it is the nearest to the river.”

“Now, Rolfe, there it is again; does a 'coon, when he wishes to avoid the dogs, run a straight course, or take the nearest way to his hollow?—You, I suppose, would like to meet some dozen of 'em on the bank. Now take my advice; I am an older hunter than you are, and if hereafter you should meet an Ingen who knows me, just ask him if ever he fooled Earthquake.”

Then turning off a little from the river, he proceeded a short distance parallel to it, when he began to climb a hill, the top of which having with some difficulty reached, he motioned his companion to be seated; and in silence searched on every side for the spot where the tragedy had been acted. Yet no clue remained—no noise broke upon the ear—there was no light, the burning boat having sunk.

“Well, Earth, what do you think of this?”

“Why, that the Ingens are somewhere under the bank, perhaps in Cave-Inn Rock; the only thing we can do, is to remain here; if they have taken any prisoners, we shall hear them when they set off on their journey.”

“Where is Cave-Inn Rock; I do not think I have ever seen it?”

“It is so dark now that I cannot point it out to you, nor do I exactly know its situation; it is either in the ledge before us, or, if we are opposite the Battery Rocks, I believe it is lower down; but if that cave could speak it would tell many a bloody story.”

“How, for what is it remarkable?”

“Why, for years it has been, and now is, a place of concealment for those red devils from which to make their attacks on emigrant families. The entrance is scarcely larger than a door, although the cave, I am told, runs far into the rocks, and is situated so near to the river, that, if there be a smart rise, you can paddle a canoe into it. So, you see, no place could better suit their purpose.”

“There is a smart rise in the river at this time, and they may have gone into it; now, Earth, if the entrance be no larger than you say, can we not keep them in, and starve them into our own terms?”

“No; that is impossible, the rock rises straight up from the river, and there is no chance to get a foothold, besides there are some stories told of the Shawanees and that cave, which I don't even like to think of. But come, another time we will talk of this, for the present be quiet;” and they mutually sunk into a meditative silence which was first interrupted by a glare of light, accompanied with the wild revelry of savage triumph. Jumping up, they gazed around them on every side, yet nothing could they see; still the revelry continued. Again, and again they searched, but without effect, until Earthquake looking far above him on the opposite bank, beheld the cause, and calling the attention of Rolfe, he merely pointed his finger; not a word was spoken, but in silence they gazed with eyes riveted on the spot.

Nothing could be more striking than the scene before them. Lighted up by the glare of torches, which gave to the surrounding objects a darker hue, stood forth in bold relief a bare ledge of lofty rocks, upon whose summit were seen carousing a band of Indian warriors warm with slaughter, while several hundred feet beneath them, swept along the most beautiful and gentle river in the world.

Although separated by the stream, the fire threw abroad so bright a light, that to the hunters every object was distinctly visible. As the revelry continued, wild with ecstasy, the Indians were seen to pass round the scalps and examine each with many a jest. They then rose, and forming themselves into a line, commenced a war dance, merely following each other with measured steps in a slow trot within a circle, while at the same time they sang a wild melody narrating the events of the evening, which translated might run as follows:—