I journeyed up the Cheat and left its head waters and proceeded down the Greenbriar without observing any signs of the red peril which was creeping upon the country. A great gray eagle, poised at the apex of my upturned gaze, appeared to be absolutely stationary; a little brown flycatcher, darting across my path, made much commotion. Red-crested woodpeckers hammered industriously in dead wood for rations. So long as their tappings resounded ahead of me I feared no ambush.

Wherever nut-trees stood the squirrels made more noise than did the House of Burgesses when dissolved by Governor Dunmore for expressing revolutionary sentiments. A most gracious country, and because of its fairness, most fearfully beset. That which is worthless needs no sentinels. I met with no humans, white or red; but when within a few miles of Patrick Davis’ home on Howard Creek I came upon a spot where three Indians had eaten their breakfast that very morning.

I knew they must be friendly to the whites as they had not attempted to hide their temporary camp. They had departed in the direction of the creek, which also was my destination. I planned resting there over night and then crossing the main ridge of the Alleghanies during the next day, stopping the night with the Greenwood family on Dunlap’s Creek.

Thence it would be an easy ride to Salem where I would find Colonel Andrew Lewis, commander of the county militia. I hoped he would provide a messenger for forwarding my despatches to Governor Dunmore in Williamsburg. I had no desire to visit the seat of government, nor was my disinclination due to the bustle and confusion of its more than a thousand inhabitants.

A mile from where the Indians had camped I came upon two white men. They were at one side of the trace and curiously busy among some rocks at the top of a fifty-foot cliff. They were hauling a rope from a deep crack or crevice in the rocks and were making hard work of it.

We discovered each other at the same moment, and they called on me to lend them a hand. Leaving my horse in the trace, I hastened over the rough ground to learn what they wanted. As I drew nearer I recognized them as Jacob Scott and William Hacker, confirmed “Injun-haters.”

“How d’ye do, Morris,” greeted Hacker. “Catch hold here and help haul him up.”

“Who is it?” I asked, seizing the rope which was composed of leather belts and spancel-ropes.

“Lige Runner,” grunted Hacker, digging in his heels and pulling in the rope hand over hand. Runner, as I have said, was another implacable foe of all red men.

“All together!” panted Scott.

My contribution of muscle soon brought Runner’s head into view. We held the rope taut while he dragged himself on to the ledge.

“Did you git it?” eagerly demanded Hacker.

The triumphant grin was surety for his success down the crevice. He rose and tapped a fresh scalp dangling at his belt.

“I got it,” he grimly replied. “Had to follow him most to the bottom where his carcass was wedged between the rocks. Morning, Morris. Traveling far? Seen any Injun-signs on the way?”

I shook my head, preferring they should not learn about the three Indians making for Howard’s Creek.

“What does all this mean, Runner? Do scalps grow at the bottom of holes?”

“This one seemed to,” he answered with a deep chuckle. “Didn’t git a fair crack at him, as he was running mighty cute. Rifle held fire the nick of a second too long. I knew he was mortal hit, but he managed to reach this hole. Then the skunk jumped in a-purpose to make us all this bother to git his scalp.”

“Who was he?”

“Don’t know. He was a good hundred and fifty yards away and going like a streak when I plugged him. It’s too dark down in the hole to see anything.”

“For all you know he was a friendly.”

“We never see no friendlies,” Hacker grimly reminded.

“’Cept when they’re dead,” ironically added Scott. “Our eyesight’s terribly poor when they’re alive.”

“I call it dirty business. I wouldn’t have hauled on the rope if I had known.”

Runner lowered at me and growled:

“You’re too finicky. A’ Injun is a’ Injun. Sooner they’re all dead, the better. I kill ’em quicker’n I would a rattlesnake. A rattler gives notice when he’s going to strike.”

“If you’ve killed a friendly this work will cause much suffering among the outlying cabins.”

“Bah! If we took good corn cakes and honey to the red devils they’d kill us every chance they got. We ain’t forgitting what happened at Keeney’s Knob, at the Clendennin farm on the Greenbriar; nor the scores of killings up in Tygart’s Valley, and in other places. Give ’em the pewter every chance you can! That’s my religion.”

“That’s the talk, Lige!” cried Scott. “Ike Crabtree would ’a’ liked to been in this fun.”

“He’ll feel cut up when he hears about our luck,” said Hacker.

“Crabtree’s feelings do him credit,” added Runner. “But his natural hankering to raise hair is stronger’n his courage when he thinks there’s more’n one Injun to dicker with. Young Shelby Cousin would be the best one for this business if it wa’n’t for his fool notions about killing near a settlement.”

“Cousin says you killed old Bald Eagle. I saw the Delaware floating down the Cheat in his canoe.”

Runner laughed in huge delight, and cried:

“The world’s mighty small after all. Ain’t it the truth! So you seen him? Did he have the chunk of johnny-cake in his meat-trap?”

“He was friendly to the whites and harmless. It was a poor piece of work.”

“The reason why we didn’t sculp him was that it would ’a’ spoiled the joke,” defended Hacker. “With his hair on and the johnny-cake in his mouth, folks would think he was still alive till they got real close.”

“The three of us done that,” informed Scott, as though jealous of Runner’s receiving all the credit.

“Morris means it was a poor job because the chief was said to be friendly to white folks,” explained Runner, scowling at me.

“Morris, you’d better go up to David’s and tell Ike Crabtree that,” jeered Hacker.

“Crabtree is there, is he?” I said, deeply concerned for the safety of the three Indians.

“He started for there. He’ll feel mighty well cut up when he hears about us and this Injun in the hole,” gravely declared Scott.

“How many cabins on Howard’s Creek now?” I asked; for a cabin could be put up in a few hours and the population at any point might greatly increase in the space of twenty-four hours. I had no desire to quarrel with the three men, and I realized that there was nothing I could say which would change their natures, or make them act in a human manner toward friendly Indians.

Runner was inclined to harbor resentment and refused to answer me. Hacker, however, readily informed me:

“There was five when I come through there last. With outlying settlers pouring in, there may be a dozen by this time. All I know is that the call’s gone out for fifteen or twenty miles, asking every one to come in to the big log-rolling.

“Davis and t’others swear they won’t come off the creek till they’ve harvested their corn. So they’re going to have a rolling and build a fort and stick it out. We fellers reckon we’ll go up there and have a hand in the fun-making.”

“Up near the Pennsylvania line and west of the Cheat a cabin was burned a few nights ago,” I said, hoping they might feel disposed to scout north in search of Indians who were not friendly.

If the trio should go to Howard’s Creek and happen upon the three Indians I feared that nothing could prevent another ghastly affair. Possibly Crabtree already had struck, but I hoped not. The men were interested in my news and listened closely. I continued:

“It was a cabin. I know that, although I was too far away to investigate. I have a notion that young Cousin was somewhere near it when it burned.”

“Then you can bet the young cuss gave his panther-screech and made his kill,” exclaimed Scott.

“If you men want to do the settlers on Howard’s Creek a good turn you might scout up there and look for signs.”

“I ’low the signs wouldn’t be very fresh now,” said Runner. “Show me a fresh footing and I’m keen to follow it. But just looking round after the skunks move on ain’t my notion of a good time.”

“I ’low Lige is right,” decided Hacker. “If the reds was there a few nights ago they may be down this way by this time. Either that or they’ve sneaked back across the Ohio. I ’low there’ll be more up to the creek.”

“That’s my notion,” chimed in Scott. “Show us fresh signs and we’re like good dogs on the scent. We’d better go to the rollin’.”

“There’s many Indians who need killing badly,” I said. “But if you men persist in killing friendly Indians we’ll have the Delawares joining in with the Shawnees and Mingos.”

“We don’t hanker for any more Moravian missionary talk,” coldly warned Runner. “As for the Delawares dipping into the dish, let ’em come. Let ’em all come together! The sooner we smoke their bacon, the sooner the Holston and Clinch and Tygart’s Valley will be safe for our women and children. As for that old cuss of a Bald Eagle, we’re right glad you seen him. It shows others will see him. That’s the sort of a notice we’re serving on every redskin in Virginia.”

It was obvious they would not relinquish their plan of visiting Howard’s Creek, and it was equally plain they preferred to travel without my company. So I returned to the trace and mounted and rode on.

As I neared the creek I came upon several settlers hurrying in from their isolated cabins, and I was pleased to see they had taken time to collect their few cattle and bring them along. Of the five men I talked with there were only two who had guns. The others were armed with axes and big clubs of oak.

One lean fellow carried a long sapling to the end of which he had made fast a long butcher-knife. One of the gunmen said to me that he hoped there would be “a lively chunk of a fight” although he and his friend had only one charge of powder apiece. These two were young men, and like many of their generation they imitated the Indian to the extent of wearing thigh-leggings and breech-clouts.

The ends of the latter were passed through the belt in front and behind, and were allowed to hang down in flaps. These flaps were decorated with crude beadwork. Around their heads they wore red kerchiefs. Two of the older men had wives. These women would impress a resident of the seacoast as being stolid of face.

In reality the continuous apprehension of an Indian raid had frozen their features into a wooden expression. Their eyes were alive enough. I counted ten children, six of whom were girls. I do not think one of the youngsters was more than twelve years old.

The boys were continually bemoaning their lack of guns. The girls seemed happy over the adventure and prattled a stream about the new people they would see at the creek. I think every one of them had brought along a doll made from rags, corn-cobs or wood. The maternal was very strong in their stout little hearts.

One flaxen-haired miss consented to ride before me after my solemnly assuring her that horseback travel would not make her dollie sick. She shyly confessed her great joy in attending “rollin’s.” Her folks, she said, had not been invited to the last “rollin’,” although they lived within fifteen miles of it; and her daddy and mammy had been greatly incensed.

But this, fortunately, was a bee where no one waited to be invited, each settler, living far or near, having an equal equity in the work. Long before we reached the scene of activities we heard the loud voices of the men, the hilarious cries of young folks and the barking of several dogs. My little companion twisted nervously, her blue eyes wide with excitement. Then she was sliding from the horse and with her doll clutched to her side, was scampering ahead with the others.

Then we grown-ups reached the edge of the clearing. Hacker had reported five cabins. Now there were seven, and if the people continued to arrive there must soon be twice that number. At the first of it the overflow would take up quarters among those already housed, or in the fort when it was finished.

Ordinarily a settler girdled his trees and chopped them down when they were dead, and then burned them into long logs. Not until the trees were down and burned into suitable lengths were invitations to the rolling sent out. As this was an emergency rolling the usual custom could not be followed.

Some of the dead trees were being burned into sections with small fires built on top and pressed against the wood by butt-ends of logs we called nigger-heads. Boys and girls were feeding small fuel to these fires. Charred logs left over from former rollings were being yanked out and built into the walls of the fort. As not enough seasoned timber was available for such a large structure green logs were being utilized.

The settlers behind me handed their two guns, clubs and other belongings over to the small boys, and with a nod and a word of greeting joined the workers. The women and girls looked after the cattle. Those of the women who were not working among the logs were busy in the cabins cooking large quantities of food, for we ate marvelously in those old days.

As in peaceful times, when a happy home was to evolve from the “rollin’,” the usual pot-pie, composed of boiled grouse, pigeon and venison, and always with dumplings, was the principal dish of the feasting. On a stump, accessible to all who needed it, rested a squat jug containing rum.

I turned my horse loose near the fort and sought out Davis. He was inside the fort, superintending the work. The walls of this were well up. As the first need was shelter, and as the Indians might strike at any moment, no time was lost with a puncheon floor. The earth must do until the men could have a breathing-spell. Four tight walls and a stout roof was the best they could hope for.

Davis paused long enough to inform me that if time permitted they would build the fort two stories high and stockade it with twelve-foot posts. From his worried expression and obvious anxiety to get back to his work I did not believe he had any hope of building more than a one-story shell.

When the Indians struck they would strike with a rush. They would plan on a quick assault taking the settlers by surprise. They dared not remain to conduct a prolonged siege. The fort when completed would not be any stronger than the average cabin; it would simply accommodate more defenders.

The nearest water was a spring some twenty yards from the fort. This failure to provide for a water-supply was an amazing characteristic of many frontier defenses. There was no reason why the fort should not have been built close by the spring, or even over it. I said as much to Davis, but he defended:

“It would place us too near the woods. Their fire-arrows could fall on us too easy.”

I reminded him that as the fort was now they would have but little water to extinguish a fire, whereas the spring would have afforded an inexhaustible supply. However, it was too late to change their plans and I volunteered to collect kettles and tubs and organize a water-squad so there might be plenty of water in the fort each night.

“Might be a good plan,” agreed Davis. “But I ’low if the Injuns come it’ll be all over, one way or t’other, afore we have time to git thirsty.”

I briefly explained to Davis my business as despatch-bearer, so he might understand my reason for departing in the morning. He was generous enough to insist that I ran a greater risk in crossing the mountains alone than I would encounter by remaining at the creek.

I left him and levied on kettles to be delivered after supper and then returned to the fort. I had barely arrived when the dogs began barking and several horses came running through the stumps from the north end of the clearing. Before the alarm could find expression in shouts and a semblance of defense a deep voice called from the woods:

“White men! Friends! Hacker, Scott and Runner.”

A rousing cheer greeted these newcomers, and one enthusiast grabbed up the jug and ran to meet them. Each of the three drank deeply and were rewarded with more cheers. If they were murderous in their hatred they would be stout defenders. As for their attitude toward all Indians, there were but few along the border who did not have some cause for hating the natives.

This sentiment of the frontier was shown when Henry Judah, arrested for killing some friendly Indians on the South Branch, was rescued by two hundred pioneers. After his irons were knocked off the settlers warned the authorities it would not be well to place him in custody a second time. Nor was Judah the only man thus snatched from the law.

Men like Hacker and his companions would do very little manual labor. They did not build homes, but were always roaming about the country. This trait was of value to men of the Davis type, inasmuch as the killers brought in much game when the home-makers were busy with their cabins or planting.

“Any news, Lige?” bawled Davis, his deep voice booming across the clearing and overriding the clamorous welcome of his neighbors.

“Found some footing and hoss-tracks,” Runner yelled back.

“They’ll be coming this way, the yaller dogs, and we’re here to rub ’em up a bit!” boasted Scott.

“Jesse Hughes oughter be here,” said one of the men who was notching the long logs.

“He’ll be along if there’s promise of a fight,” assured Hacker. “Young Cousin and Ike Crabtree, too.”

“I ’low them red devils would skin back to the Ohio like a burned cat if they know’d you boys was after ’em!” cried Widow McCabe, who was as strong as the average man and could swing an ax with the best of them. Her husband was killed on the Kanawha the year before, and her hatred of Indians was as intense as that of any killer.

“They’ll sure know they’ve met with some trouble, Missus,” modestly admitted Hacker.

The three men seated themselves on a knoll and watched the busy scene. I joined them and inquired about the footing they had observed. Scott informed me they had followed the trail toward the creek and then lost it.

“It was a small party of scouts, mebbe not more’n three,” he said. “We sort o’ reckon that they ’lowed they might be followed and so took to water. We ’lowed it was best to hustle along here and git in front of the fighting, instead o’ losing time trying to find where they quit the creek. You’re sticking along, we ’low.”

“No need with all you men. I must carry my despatches over the mountains to-morrow.”

“Better think twice afore trying it alone. By to-morrow the mountain trace will probably be shut in by the reds,” declared Hacker ominously.

“Then I must take my chances of breaking across country. His Lordship must have the despatches at the earliest possible minute.”

“Of course,” Runner agreed. “Wish you luck even if you got a Quaker stomick when it comes to killing the vermin. But if you want to git across you’d better start at once. Them two or three scouts shows the devils are closing in. Every hour saved now means a dozen more chances for your hair to grow.”

As I believed the footing the fellows found was left by the three Indians I had pronounced to be friendly, I was not much exercised in my mind by the warning. I did not believe the Indians would seek to cut off the settlement. They must strike and be off, and they would prefer to have the settlers in flight over the mountains, with the inevitable stragglers easily cut off, than to have them stubbornly remaining in the cabins and fort.

If time was not vital, and providing the Shawnees could bring a large force, then an encircling movement would be their game. But Cornstalk and Logan would not lead a big force into any of the valleys. They knew as well as the whites that the war was to be won by one decisive battle.

These isolated raids up and down the western valleys were simply of value in that they might unnerve the settlers and keep them from leaving their cabins to join the army Dunmore proposed to send against the Shawnee towns. And last of all I was fagged by my long ride and would have one night’s unworried sleep, let the risk be ever so great.

The dinner, much belated, was now ready, and the workers were asked to assemble in and around the Davis cabin. Four men were left to do sentinel duty, and the children were told to keep on with their work and play as they would be served after the men had eaten. Huge pot-pies were hurried from all the cabins to where the backwoodsmen were waiting to prove their appetites.

Several jugs of rum garnished the feast. The Widow McCabe contributed a scanty stock of tea, but the men would have none of it on the grounds that it did not “stick to the ribs.”

My helping of pie was served on a huge china plate that had been packed over the mountains with much trouble and when every inch of room was needed for the bare necessities. Thus tenacious were the women in coming to this raw country to preserve their womanliness. I might have thought I was being favored had not Mrs. Davis frankly informed me that her few pieces of china were shunned by her men-folks on the plea the ware “dulled their sculping-knives.”

Finishing my meal, I seated myself on a stump and proceeded to remove my moccasins and mend them. Davis joined me in a similar task; for while it required only two or three hours to make a pair of moccasins it was necessary to mend them almost daily. Davis greatly admired the awl I bought over the mountains, although it was no more serviceable than the one he had made from the back spring of a clasp-knife.

A settler might be unfortunate enough not to possess a gun, but there was none who did not carry a moccasin-awl attached to the strap of his shot-pouch, a roll of buckskin for patches and some deerskin thongs, or whangs, for sewing. While we sat there barefooted and worked we discussed the pending big battle. He held what I considered to be a narrow view of the situation. He was for having every valley act on the defensive until the Indians were convinced they were wasting warriors in attempting to drive the settlers back over the mountains.

While we argued back and forth those children having finished their dinner took to playing at “Injun.” The boys hid in ambush and the little girls endeavored to steal by them without being “sculped.” Along the edge of the clearing were five or six sentinels. They were keeping only a perfunctory watch, their eyes and ears giving more heed to the laughter and banter than to the silent woods. At the northern end of the clearing some lovesick swain surrendered to sentiment and in a whimsical nasal voice began singing:

The thin penetrating shriek of a child somewhere in the forest pricked our ears, the clear falsetto of its fright silencing the singer and leaving his mouth agape. I began drawing on my moccasins, but before I could finish a wonderful transformation had taken place in the clearing. As if the cry had been a prearranged signal, six of the young men filed silently into the woods, moving one behind the other, their hunting-shirts now inside their belts leaving their thighs bare, as if they had been so many Shawnees.

They moved swiftly and silently with no more show of confusion or emotion than if they had been setting out on routine scout-duty. The child screamed again, but not before feasters and workers had become fighting-units. Those possessing guns ran quietly in scattering groups toward the forest, leaving the women to guard the clearing and children.

And the women! They were marvelous in their spirit. With scarcely a word they caught up the axes dropped by the men and formed a long line with the children behind them. Little girls became little mothers and hurried still smaller tots to the unfinished fort.

The woodsmen advanced to the woods, the women slowly fell back, herding the youngsters behind them. As I ran my best to make up for the time lost over my moccasins I passed the Widow McCabe. I shall never forget the ferocious gleam of her slate-gray eyes, nor the superb courage of the thin lips compressed in a straight line.

She moved with the grace of a forest cat, reluctant to fall back, her muscular arm swinging the heavy ax as if it were a toy. Abreast of her, and likewise refusing to retreat, was Moulton’s wife, mother of three. She was a thin, frail-appearing little woman with prominent blue eyes, and her gaze was glassy as she stared at the woods, and her lips were drawn back in a snarl.

“Moulton gal missin’,” ran down the line. “Git t’other younkers back.”

The line began bending at the ends to form a half-circle. The distracted little mother left her place in it. Without a word to betray the anguish tearing at her heart she gathered her linsey petticoat snugly about her, and grasping an ax, ran swiftly toward the direction of the screaming. The Widow McCabe hesitated, glanced over her shoulder. Satisfied the other women had the children well grouped and close to the fort, she darted after Mrs. Moulton.

“Keep back, you women!” yelled Elijah Runner. “Stay with the children! They’re letting the child scream to fetch us into a’ ambush!”

This was excellent advice, but the widow and Mrs. Moulton gave it no heed. One was impelled by hate, the other by love; and as they crashed into the growth behind me each was worth a woodsman or two in hand-to-hand fighting. With unnerving abruptness a man laughed boisterously directly ahead of me. Yells and questions filled the arches of the deep wood.

“Everybody back! False alarm! Nothin’ but the gal gittin’ skeered,” he shouted. “I’m fetchin’ her in, an’ th’ feller what skeered her.”

Explosive laughter from the men and much crude banter marked our relief. Mrs. Moulton dropped her ax and with both hands held to her face stumbled into the clearing. The Widow McCabe walked with her head bowed, the ax held limply. Although rejoicing over the child’s safety, I suspected she regretted not having had a chance to use her ax.

“Here they come! Two babies!” some one shouted.

Mrs. Moulton turned and ran toward the woods again, much as a hen-partridge scurries to its young.

The bush-growth swayed and parted. First came the frightened child, and she redoubled her weeping on finding herself in her mother’s arms. Behind the child came a grinning woodsman and back of him rode a tall man of very powerful build, but with a face so fat as to appear round and wearing an expression of stupidity.

It was my first glimpse of him, but I recognized him instantly from the many descriptions border men had given of him. He was known as “Baby” Kirst, and he was a Nemesis the Indians had raised against themselves, a piece of terrible machinery which their superstitions would not permit them to kill.

His intelligence was that of a child of seven. When about that age his people were massacred on the Greenbriar and he had been left for dead with a portion of his scalp ripped off and a ghastly wound in his head. By some miracle he had survived, but with his mental growth checked. Physically he had developed muscle and bone until he was a giant in strength.

The red men believed him to be under the protection of the Great Spirit, and when they heard him wandering through the woods, sometimes weeping like a peevish child because some little plan had gone awry, more often laughing uproariously at that which would tickle the fancy of a seven-year-old, they made mad haste to get out of his path.

His instinct to kill was aroused against Indians only. Perhaps it was induced by a vague memory of dark-skinned men having hurt him at some time. Nor was he always possessed by this ungovernable rage. Sometimes he would spend a day in an Indian camp, but woe to the warrior who even inadvertently crossed his whims.

He was not skilled in woodcraft beyond the cunning necessary for surprising easy game such as turkeys, squirrels and rabbits. Regardless of his enormous appetite food was gladly given him at every cabin; for wherever he sought shelter, that place was safe from any Indian attack.

While Mrs. Moulton hurried her child to the fort and hushed its weeping with pot-pie the young men raised a yelping chorus and came dancing into the clearing with all the prancing steps of the red men. Deep-voiced oaths and thunderous welcomes were showered upon Baby Kirst as he proudly rode among them, his huge face further distended by a broad grin.

Awkwardly dismounting from his rawbone horse, he stared around the circle and with one hand held behind him tantalizingly said:

“Got something. Sha’n’t let you peek at it.”

“Let’s see it, Baby,” coaxed Runner, his tone such as he might use in pleading with a child.

“No!” And Baby shook his head stubbornly and grinned mischievously.

“’Lasses on mush. Heaps of it, Baby,” bribed Davis.

Baby became interested. Davis repeated his offer. Slowly Baby drew from behind him the scalp of a white man. It was long, dark brown hair, burned to a yellowish white at the ends by the sun.

“That’s Ben Kirby’s hair!” gasped Scott, staring in horror at the exhibit. Then aside, “Good God, he ain’t took to killing whites, has he?”

“Where’d you git it, Baby?” coaxed Hacker. “Davis will give you a big bowl of mush and ’lasses.”

“That man had it,” proudly informed Baby, and he fished from the bosom of his hunting-shirt a hank of coarse black hair.

“A Shawnee sculp or I’m a flying-squirrel!” yelled Runner. “Don’t you understand it, men? Some dog of a Shawnee rubbed out Kirby. His hair’s been off his head these six weeks. No wonder he ain’t come in to help you folks to fort.

“Baby meets this Shawnee and gives him his needings. The red devil’s sculp ain’t more’n three days old. Good for you, Baby! Good boy! Give him all the ’lasses he can hold. Needn’t worry about any raid s’long as he stays here, Davis. You can just take your time in finishing that fort.”

“If we could only keep him!” sighed Davis.

“But you can’t,” spoke up a young man. “Every one has tried. A day or two, yes. Then he must go back to the woods. When the Injuns failed to finish him off they did a bad job for themselves.”

“We’ll keep him long’s we can,” said Davis. “Hi, mother! Fill the mixing-bowl with mush and cover it with sweeting.”

As proud as a boy being praised by his elders, Baby started to strut to the Davis cabin, but quickly fell into a limping walk and whimpered a bit.

“Crippled on account of rheumatiz,” sighed Runner. “Rheumatiz has put more hunters and fighters out of business than the Ohio Injuns ever did. And poor Baby can’t remember to always sleep with his feet to the fire. If we could git him a stout pair of shoes to wear in place of them spongy moccasins it would pay us.”

Kirst was too grotesque to laugh at, and the settlers were grotesque when they smiled at his ferocious appetite, and in the next moment tried to buy the protection of his presence. Let him regularly patrol a dozen miles of frontier each day, and I would guarantee no Indian would knowingly cross his path.

More than one party of red raiders had unwittingly followed his trail, only to turn in flight as if the devil was nipping after them once they glimpsed his bulky figure, heard his whimpering or his loud laughter. The men followed him to the Davis Cabin, each eager to contribute to the general gossip concerning the child-man’s prodigious strength.

As my horse was straying toward the west side of the clearing I went to fetch him back and spancel him near the fort. I had secured him and was about to ride him back when a rifle cracked close at hand in the woods, and I heard a voice passionately jeering:

“I ’low that cotched ye where ye lived, didn’t it?”

I drove my horse through the bushes and came upon a sickening scene. An Indian man and a squaw were seated on a horse. On the ground was another Indian. A glance told me he was dead from the small blue hole through the forehead. The man and woman on the horse remained as motionless as if paralyzed.

Isaac Crabtree stood reloading his long rifle, his sallow face twisted in a smile of vicious joy. As he rammed home the charge I crowded my horse against him and sent him sprawling. Turning to the Indians I cried:

“Ride away! Ride quick!”

“We are friendly Cherokees!” cried the woman in that tongue. “That man there is called Cherokee Billy by white men.” And she pointed to the dead man.

With that she swerved the horse about, kicked her feet into his ribs and dashed away, the man clinging on behind her, his dark features devoid of expression. An oath brought my head about. Crabtree was on his feet, his hand drawing his ax, his face livid with rage.

“Curse you!” he stuttered. “Ye sp’iled my baggin’ the three of ’em!”

“You’ve bagged Cherokee Billy, the brother of Oconostota, the great chief of the Cherokees,” I wrathfully retorted. “It would have been well for the frontier if I could have arrived in time to bag you before you did it. The Cherokees have kept out of the war, but it’ll be a wonder if they don’t swarm up this creek when they hear of this murder.”

“Let ’em come!” he yelled. “That’s what we want. It’ll take more’n you, Basdel Morris, to keep my paws clear of the critters once I git a bead on one of ’em. Git out of my way so’s I can git my rifle. I’ll have the three of ’em yet.”

“If you make a move to follow them I’ll shoot you,” I promised.

By this time men were crashing through the bushes. Then came a louder noise and Baby Kirst, mounted on his big horse, his broad face bedaubed with molasses, burst on the scene. A dozen settlers crowded into the spot behind him. Hacker and Runner were the first to see the dead Indian. With a whoop they drew their knives and rushed in to get the scalp. I drove them back with my horse and loudly informed them:

“It’s Cherokee Billy, brother of Oconostota, who can send the whole Cherokee nation against you, or hold it back.”

“I don’t care what Injun it is,” howled Hacker. “Hair’s hair. Git out the way, or you’ll git acquainted with my ax. I’ll have that scalp.”

“Not so fast,” I warned. “The hair belongs to Crabtree here. Kill your own scalps. Crabtree doesn’t care to take that scalp. He knows Oconostota has a long memory.” And I swung about, my rifle across the saddle and in a direct line with the murderer’s chin.

“It’s my kill,” growled Crabtree. “Morris held me up with his gun, or I’d bagged t’other two of ’em.”

“I’d like to see him hold me up when there’s red meat to be run down!” snarled Runner.

There were four killers present in addition to the irresponsible Kirst. I was helpless against them, I could not shoot a man down for proposing to follow two Indians, let the reds be ever so friendly toward the whites. But Patrick Davis had come to Howard’s Creek to stay, and it was a problem he could handle. It at once developed that he did not fancy the prospect of a Cherokee reprisal. He stepped in front of Runner and in a low ugly voice said:

“You fellows quit this talk. ’Nough mischief has been done. Unless Oconostota can be smoothed down there’ll be trouble from Rye Cove to Tygart’s Valley. As for following t’other two, you’ll reckon with me and my neighbors first.”

“A dead Injun ain’t worth quarreling over,” spoke up Widow McCabe from the edge of the group; and her eyes glowed as they rested on Cherokee Billy.

Mrs. Moulton now came on the scene. She still had her husband, and she frantically called on her friends to prevent further bloodshed. The greater number of the men, while unwilling to criticize Crabtree for his dastardly murder, did not care to add to the Cherokees’ anger, and they took sides with Davis. I believed the whole affair had ended, but Crabtree was crafty, and he caused fresh fear by reminding them:

“You folks are fools to let the only witnesses to that dawg’s death git away and take word back to the Cherokees. If Morris hadn’t took a hand there wouldn’t ’a’ been that danger.”

Many settlers were long used to classifying the red men with the wild animals along the border. Therefore, the question of killing the two fleeing Cherokees became a matter of policy, rather than of sentiment. But Davis, although he wavered, finally declared he would have none of it. He reminded his friends that they would soon be called by Dunmore to march against the Ohio tribes, and that it would not do to leave hostile Cherokees behind them to attack the valleys. Hacker, Runner, Scott and Crabtree perceived that the settlers were opposed to further bloodshed, but Crabtree still had a card to play. Turning to Baby Kirst, who was staring intently down on the dead man, he suddenly cried:

“Sweet sugar, Baby, if you ride and find two Injuns just gone away.”

And he pointed in the direction taken by the man and woman. With a yelp of juvenile delight Baby slapped his horse and rode away down the valley.

“Now you’ve done it!” growled Davis, scowling blackly at Crabtree. “You’ve made trouble atween us and the Cherokees, and you’ve drove away the best defense against Injuns we could ’a’ had.”

“I don’t have to have no loose-wit to stand ’tween me and Injuns,” sneered Crabtree.

“You’re better at killing unarmed Indians than in putting up a real fight,” I accused. “You’re not fond of traveling very far from a settlement when you draw blood. Shelby Cousin was telling me down on the Cheat that you like to be near a white man’s cabin when you make a kill.”

His sallow face flushed red, but he had no harsh words to say against young Cousin. Without replying to me he made for the Davis cabin to get something to eat, leaving Cherokee Billy for others to bury. I noticed it was the Widow McCabe, with her slate-gray eyes half-closed and gleaming brightly, who waited on Crabtree and heaped his plate with food.

What with the interruptions and the nervous tension of the men it was after sunset before the roof of the fort was finished. It was agreed that the men with families should sleep in the fort that night with the single men occupying the cabins nearest the fort. I took up my quarters in the Davis cabin, after reminding my friends again that I must start early in the morning to cross the mountains on my way to Colonel Lewis who lived near Salem.

“Why, land sake! To Salem! Why, look here! You’ll be seeing my cousin, Ericus Dale!” excitedly exclaimed Mrs. Davis.

My emotion was far greater than that expressed by Mrs. Davis, but the dusk of early evening permitted me to conceal it. It was three years since I had seen the Dales, father and daughter. They were then living in Williamsburg. It was most astonishing that they should be now living in Salem. But this was going too fast.

It did not follow that Patricia Dale was in Salem because her father was there. In truth, it was difficult to imagine Patsy Dale being content with that little settlement under the eastern eaves of the mountains. Before I could find my tongue Mrs. Davis was informing her neighbors:

“My cousin, Ericus, ain’t got many warm spots in his heart for Governor Dunmore. He’s sure to be sot ag’in’ this war. He’s a very powerful man in the colony.” Then to me, “I want you to see Patsy and tell her not to think of coming out here this summer. She’s not to come till the Injuns have been well whipped.”

“Coming out here?” I dully repeated.

“They was opinin’ to when I last got word from ’em last March. They was at their home in Williamsburg, and the girl wrote she was going to Salem with her father, who had some trading-business to fix up. ’Spected to be there all summer, and was ’lowing to come out here with her daddy. But seeing how things is going, it won’t do. Mebbe Salem even won’t be safe for ’em. It won’t put you out any to see her and tell her?”

I trusted to the dusk to conceal my burning cheeks. I had supposed I had secured control of myself during my three years on the border. It would be impossible for any man who had looked into Patsy Dale’s dark blue eyes to forget her; and we had been something more than friends. I promised Mrs. Davis I would do her errand, and hurried from the cabin.

The ride ahead of me suddenly became momentous. I was thrilled with the prospect of seeing Patsy again; and I was afraid the interview would disturb me vastly. To be alone and arrange my jumbled thoughts I helped drive the horses into a small inclosure, well stockaded, and watched the boys coming through the clearing to drive the cattle into their stalls in several hollow sycamores. These natural shelters, once the openings were enlarged and protected with bars, made excellent pens for the domestic animals and fowls. I was still thinking about Patsy Dale and the time when her young life touched mine when the cabin doors were barred and it was time to sleep.