A Virginia Scout. Hugh Pendexter
until a victim appeared. Young Cousin carried his hate in his face as well as in his heart at all times. There was nothing on earth, so far as I ever learned, no friendships, no maiden’s smile, which could divert him from the one consuming passion of his life.
His mention of his sister revealed the deepest depth of his anguish. His parents were beyond all suffering and the need of pity. His sister, a year older than he, had been carried off. The pursuers found her clothing by a creek near the ruined cabin; but it had never been proved that she was dead. It was this, the uncertainty of her fate, which daily fed the boy’s hate and drove him to the forest, where he sought to learn the truth and never relinquished an opportunity to take his revenge.
“If Lige Runner done for him he sure did a good job,” Cousin muttered. “He sure did make tomahawk improvements on him.”[2]
“You never kill in or near the settlements as some of them do,” I said.
His eyes closed and what should have been a rarely handsome boyish face, a face to stir the heart of any maiden to beating faster, was distorted with the pain he was keeping clamped down behind his clenched teeth.
“That’s only because o’ what I seen at Keeney’s Knob,” he hoarsely whispered. “When I meet one of ’em in a settlement I skedaddle afore I lose my grip. I mustn’t do anything that’ll fetch a parcel of ’em down to carry off some other feller’s little sister. If I know’d she was dead——”
“If you’d stop killing long enough to question some of the Shawnees you might learn the truth.”
He shook his head slowly, and said:
“I stopped—just afore the killin’ at Baker’s Bottom. Kept my Injun alive all night. But he wouldn’t tell.”
I shuddered at the cold-bloodedness of him.
“You tortured him and perhaps he knew nothing to tell,” I said.
“If he didn’t know nothin’ it was hard luck for him,” he quietly agreed. “But I was sartain from things he had boasted that he was at the Knob that day. What you goin’ to do with this varmint?”
And he nodded toward the dead voyager.
“My business won’t allow me to take the time necessary to dig a grave where his friends can’t find him or wild animals dig him out. We’ll set him afloat again and hope he’ll journey far down the river before his friends find him. He was friendly to us——”
“Friendly——” interrupted the boy. “So was Cornstalk friendly!”
I removed the journey-cake from the grinning mouth and placed the rigid figure in the bottom of the canoe. Before I could push the craft into the current young Cousin grunted with satisfaction and pointed to two bullet-holes, close together, just back of the ear.
“Knew I must hit pretty close to where I was shootin’,” he muttered as he made up the bank.
I shoved the canoe from shore and called after him: “If you will wait until I get my horse we might travel together.”
He waved his hand in farewell and informed me: “I’ve got some business west o’ here. It’s out o’ your path if you’re makin’ for the Greenbriar.”
“But a bit of gossip. I’m just back from Fort Pitt,” I said.
He halted and leaned on his rifle and stared at me with lack-luster eyes, and in a monotonous voice said:
“Ed Sharpe, Dick Stanton, Eph Drake an’ Bill Harrel are scoutin’ the head o’ Powell’s Valley. Wanted me to go but the signs wa’n’t promisin’ ’nough. Logan says he’ll take ten sculps for one. He still thinks Michael Cresap led the killin’ at Baker’s—an’ Cresap was at Red Stone when it happened. Cresap wants to be mighty keerful he don’t fall into Logan’s hands alive.
“Half the folks on the South Fork o’ the Clinch can’t raise five shoots o’ powder. Folks on Rye Cove been movin’ over to the Holston, leavin’ their cattle behind. Mebbe I’ll scout over that way by ’n’ by.
“Augusta boys ain’t goin’ to have any man in their militia company that stands under six feet in his moccasins. Folks between the heads o’ Bluestone an’ Clinch so skeered they prob’ly won’t stay to lay by their corn. Injuns signs up Sandy Creek has made some o’ Moccasin an’ Copper Creek folks come off. I ’low that’s ’bout all.”
“Any signs of the Cherokees coming in?”
“Some says they will. T’others says they won’t. Sort o’ depends on whether they can keep Ike Crabtree from killin’ of ’em off.”
He threw his rifle over his shoulder and with a curt nod turned into the bushes and followed the bank to find a crossing. He was away on his fearful business; his youth was hopelessly corroded.
I scouted the spot where I had left my horse and discovered no signs of Indians. Unspanceling and mounting, I picked up my journey. I was passing through a mountainous country which contained many large meadows. These pleasant openings would accommodate many cattle if not for the Indian danger. They were thick with grass and enough hay could be cured on them to feed large herds throughout the winter.
The bottom-lands, although smaller, were very rich. Along the hillsides I had no doubt but that grain could easily be grown. Altogether it was a most pleasing country if lasting peace ever could come to the border. While I observed the natural advantages and fancied the glades and bottoms dotted with happy cabins, I did not forget the dead Delaware floating down the river, nor ignore the probability of some of his kin discovering the murder before sundown and taking the path for reprisals.
There was no suggestion of war in the warm sunshine and busy woods-life. Birds rejoiced in their matings, and the air was most gracious with the perfume of growing things. The stirring optimism of spring lingered with me. My heart was warm to rejoin old friends, to enjoy women’s company; but never a moment did I neglect to scrutinize the trace ahead.
The day passed with no hint of danger. I had the world to myself when the sun was cradled by the western ridges. I found it a wonderful world, and I believed it was never intended that any race of savages, whites or red, should hold such fair lands for hunting-preserves only.
That night, according to my custom, I spanceled my horse at a considerable distance from my camp. I had selected a spot on top of a ridge, where the maples and walnuts grew thick. I perched a turkey in the gloaming and roasted him over a small fire. Having eaten, I walked to the edge of the growth and gazed toward the west. Across the valley a light suddenly twinkled on the side of a ridge. I first thought that hunters were camping there; and as the light increased to a bright blaze I decided there was a large company of them and that they had no fear of Indians.
But as I watched the flames grew higher. What had been a white light became a ruddy light. The fire spread on both sides. My heart began to pound and I tilted my head to listen. The distance was too far for me to hear tell-tale sounds, still I fancied I could hear the yelling of demons dancing around a burning cabin.
A dead man floating down the river; a boy seeking vengeance somewhere near the blazing home, and a scout for Virginia traveling toward the Greenbriar.
It is estimated that the whites lost three to the Indians’ one in Dunmore’s War.
Tomahawk improvements. Settlers often took possession by blazing trees with axes and carving their names thereon. Such entry to land was not legal, but usually was recognized and later made valid by legal process. Such was the claim made to the site of modern Wheeling, West Virginia,