Down in the wilds of the Fourth Gap, latterly used as an artery of travel between Sugar Valley and White Deer Hole Valley, commonly known as “White Deer Valley,” a forest ranger’s cabin stands on the site of an ancient Indian encampment, the only clearing in the now dreary drive from the “Dutch End” to the famous Stone Church. Until a dozen years ago much of the primeval forest remained, clumps of huge, original white pines stood here and there, in the hollows were hemlock and rhododendron jungles, while in the fall the flickers chased one another among the gorgeous red foliage of the gum trees.

Now much is changed; between “Tom” Harter and “Charley” Steele, and other lumbermen, including some gum tree contractors, little remains but brush and slash; forest fires have sacrificed the remaining timber, and only among the rocks, near the mouth of the gap, can be seen a few original yellow pines, shaggy topped in isolated grandeur. Some day the tragic Indian history of White Deer Hole Valley will come to its own, and present one of the most tragic pages in the narrative of the passing of the red man.

It was into this isolated valley, that terminates in Black Hole Valley, and the Susquehanna River, near Montgomery, that numbers of the Monsey Tribe of the Lenni-Lenape, called by some the Delaware Indians, retreated after events subsequent to the Walking Purchase, made them outcasts on the face of the earth. It was not long afterwards that warlike parties of their cruel Nemesis, the Senecas, appeared on the scene, informing the Monseys that they had sold the country to the whites, and if they stayed, it was at their peril.

Even at that early day white men were not wholly absent; they came in great numbers after the Senecas had sold the lands of the Lenni-Lenape to the “Wunnux,” but even coincident with the arrival of the Delawares, a few white traders and adventurers inhabited the most inaccessible valleys.

Alexander Dunbar, a Scotchman, married to a Monsey woman, arrived in White Deer Hole Valley with the first contingent of his wife’s tribes-people, settling near the confluence of White Deer Hole Creek and South Creek. Whether he was any relation to the Dunbar family, who have long been so prominent in this valley is unknown, as his family moved further west, and the last heard of them was when his widow died and was buried in the vicinity of Dark Shade Creek, Somerset County.

Dunbar was a dark, swarthy complexioned man, more like an Indian than a Celt, and dressed in the tribal garb, could easily have passed off as one of the aboriginies. At one time he evidently intended to remain in the Fourth Gap, as in the centre of the greenswardgreensward which contained the Indian encampment, he erected a log fortress, with four bastions, the most permanent looking structure west of Fort Augusta. In it he aimed to live like a Scottish Laird, with his great hall, the earthen floor, covered with the skins of panthers, wolves and bears, elk and deer antlers hanging about, and a huge, open fireplace that burned logs of colossal size, and would have delighted an outlaw like Rob Roy MacGregor.

When the Seneca Indians penetrated into the valley they were at a loss at first to ascertain Alexander Dunbar’s true status. If he was related to the prominent Scotch families identified with the Penn Government, he would be let alone, but if a mere friendless adventurer, he would be driven out the same as any one of the “Original People.”

Dunbar was a silent man, and by his taciturnity won toleration for a time, as he never revealed his true position. When the Senecas became reasonably convinced that, no matter who he had been in the Highlands of Scotland, he was a person of no importance in the mountains of Pennsylvania, they began a series of prosecutions that finally ended with his murder. This took its first form by capturing all members of the Lenni-Lenape tribe who ventured into the lower end of the valley, for those who had settled further down, and on the banks of the Susquehanna and Monsey Creek had moved westward when they learned that they had been “sold out.” However, the residents of Dunbar’s encampment occasionally ventured down South Creek on hunting and fishing expeditions. When the heads of half a dozen families, and several squaws, young girls and children had been captured, over a dozen in all, and put into a stockade near the present village of Spring Garden, and rumor had it that they were being ill-treated, Alexander Dunbar, carrying a flag of truce, set off to treat with the Seneca Council, at what is now Allenwood, with a view to having them paroled.

The unfortunate man never reached the Senecas’ headquarters, being shot from ambush, and left to die like a dog on the trail, not far from the Panther Spring, above the present John E. Person residence.

While the surviving, able bodied Monseys could have risen and started a warfare, they deemed it prudence to remain where they were, and to make Sugar Valley, and the valleys adjacent to White Deer Creek, their principal hunting grounds.

While Dunbar had lived, squaw man, though he was, he was the leader of the Indians among whom he resided, else they would never have permitted his erecting a pretentious fortress in the midst of their humble tepees of hides and poorly constructed log cabins. At his death the leadership devolved on his eighteen-year-old daughter, “Black Agnes,” his widow being a poor, inoffensive creature, a typical Indian drudge.

“Black Agnes” was even darker complexioned than her father, but was better looking, having fine, clear cut features, expressive dark eyes which flashed fire, although she was much below medium height, in fact, no bigger than a twelve-year-old child. She wore her hair in such a tangled way that her eyes, lean cheeks and white throat were half hidden by the masses of her sable tresses. She usually attired herself in a blue coat and cape, a short tan skirt trimmed with grey squirrel tails, and long Indian stockings. She was in miniature a counterpart of Miriam Donsdebes, the beautiful heroine of one of the chapters in this writer’s book “South Mountain Sketches.”

While it may have given the Senecas added cause to repeat their jibe of “old women” at the Lenni-Lenapes, for not avenging Dunbar’s death, it was a case of living on sufferance anyway, and foolish to have attacked superior numbers. The Senecas always had white allies to call on for arms and ammunition, while from the first, the Delawares were a proscribed people, slated to be run off the earth and exterminated.

During this lull, following the Scotchman’s murder, which the Senecas would have doubtless have disavowed, an embassy appeared at the Dunbar stronghold to ask “Black Agnes’” hand in marriage with a young Seneca warrior named Shingaegundin, whom the intrepid young girl had never seen. While it would have been extremely politic for “Black Agnes” to have accepted, and allied herself with the powerful tribe that had wronged her people, she sent back word firmly declining.

After the emissaries departed through the gate of the stockade, she turned to her warriors, saying, in the metaphorical language of her race: “The sky is overcast with dark, blustering clouds,” which means that troublesome times were coming, that they would have war.

The embassy returned crestfallen to Shingaegundin, who was angry enough to have slain them all. Instead, he rallied his braves, and told them that if he could not have “Black Agnes” willingly, he would taketake her by force, and if she would not be a happy and complaisant bride, he would tie her to a tree and starve her until she ceased to be recalcitrant.

The bulk of the Monseys having departed from the valleys on both sides of the Susquehanna, to join others of their tribe at the headwaters of the Ohe-yu, left the Dunbar clan in the midst of an enemy’s country, so that it would look like an easy victory for Shingaegundin’s punitive expedition.

“Black Agnes” had that splendid military quality of knowing ahead of time what her adversaries planned to do–whether “second sight” from her Scotch blood, or merely a highly developed sense of strategy, matters not. At any rate, she was ready to deal a blow at her unkind enemies. Therefore she posted her best marksmen along the rocky face of the South Mountains, on either side of Fourth Gap. Behind these grey-yellow, pulpit-shaped rocks, the tribesmen crouched, ready for the oncoming Senecas. “Black Agnes” herself was in personal command inside the stockade, where she was surrounded by a courageous bodyguard twice her size. The women, old men and children, were sent to the top of the mountain, to about where Zimmerman’s Run heads at the now famous Zimmerman Mountain-top Hospice. At a signal, consisting of a shot fired in the air by “Black Agnes” herself, the fusillade from the riflemen concealed among the rocks was to begin, to make the Fourth Gap a prototype of Killiecrankie.

In turn the entrance of the Senecas into the defile was to be announced by arrow shot into the air by a Monsey scout who was concealed behind the Raven’s Rock, the most extensive point of vantage overlooking the “Gap.”

When “Black Agnes” saw the graceful arrow speed up into space, she again spoke metaphorically, “The path is already shut up!” which meant that hostilities had commenced, the war begun.

The little war sprite timed her plot to a nicety. When the Senecas were well up in the pass, and surrounded on all sides by the Monseys, whom they imagined all crowded into the stockade, “Black Agnes” fired her shot, and the slaughter began. The Senecas began falling on all sides, thanks to the unerring aim of the Monsey riflemen, but they were too inured to warfare to break and run, especially when caught in a trap.

Shingaegundin, enraged beyond all expression at again being flouted by a woman, and a member of the tribe of “old women,” determined to die gamely, and within the stockade which harbored “Black Agnes.” He seemed to bear a charmed life, for while his cohorts fell about him, he plunged on unhurt. The gate of the stockade was open, and “Black Agnes” stood just within it, directing her warriors, a quaint but captivating little figure, more like a sprite or fairy than one of flesh and blood.

Shingaegundin espied her, and knew at a glance that this must be the woman who the wise men of his tribe had selected to be his bride, and the cause of this senseless battle. His was a case of love at first sight, the very drollness of her tiny form adding to his passion, and he ran forward, determined to be killed holding her in his arms and pressing kisses on her dusky cheeks.

Such thoughts enhanced his ambition and courage, and he shouted again and again to his braves to pick themselves up and come on as he was doing. Dazed with love, he imagined in a blissful moment that he would yet have the victory and carry “Black Agnes” home under his arm like a naughty child.

Just outside the palisade he was met by three of Agnes’ bodyguard, armed with stone hatchets. None of his warriors were near him; shot and bleeding, they were writhing on the grass, while some were already in the hands of the Monsey braves, who had come down from their eyries, and were dexterously plying the scalping knives. Few of the mutilated Senecas uttered cries, although as the scalps were jerked off, it was hard to suppress involuntary sobs of pain.

“Black Agnes” saw nothing in the long, lank form of Shingaegundin to awaken any love; she detested him as belonging to the race that had sold her birthright and foully murdered her father, and she called to her warriors: “Suffer no grass to grow on the war-path,” signifying to carry on the fight with vigor.

Shingaegundin was soon down, his skull battered and cracked in a dozen places. Even when down, his ugly spirit failed to capitulate. Biting and scratching and clawing with his nails like a beast, he had to have his skull beaten like a copperhead before he stretched out a lifeless, misshapen corpse. As he gave his last convulsive kick the Monsey warriors began streaming through the gates, some holding aloft scalps dripping with blood, while others waved about by the scalp locks, the severed heads of their defeated foemen.

Never had such a rout been inflicted on the Senecas; perhaps “Black Agnes” would be a second Jeanne d’Arc, and lead the Lenni-Lenape back to their former glories and possessions!

The victorious Monseys became very hilarious, hoisting the scalps on poles, they shimmied around “Black Agnes,” yelling and singing their ancient war songs, the proudest moment of their bellicose lives.

“Black Agnes” was calm in triumph, for she knew how transitory is life or fame. Biting her thin lips, she drew her scalping knife and bent down over the lifeless form of Shingaegundin, to remove his scalp in as business-like a manner as if she was skinning a rabbit. Addressing the grinning corpse, she said: “Bury it deep in the earth,” meaning that the Seneca’s injury would be consigned to oblivion. Then, with rare dexteritydexterity, she removed the scalp, a difficult task when the skull has been broken in, in so many places.

Holding aloft the ugly hirsute trophy, she almost allowed herself to smile in her supreme moment of success. Her career was now made; she would rally the widely scattered remnants of the Delawares, and fight her way to some part of Pennsylvania where prestige would insure peace and uninterrupted happiness. But in these elevated moments comes the bolt from the blue.

One of the panic-stricken Senecas, bolting from the ignominious ambush of his fellows, had scrambled up the boulder-strewn side of the mountain, taking refuge behind the Raven’s Rock, lately occupied by the chief lookout of the Monseys–he who had shot the warning arrow into the air. Crouching abject and trembling at first, he began to peer about him as the fusillade ceased and smoke of battle cleared. He saw his slain and scalped clansmen lying about the greensward, and in the creek, and the awful ignominy meted out to his lion-heartedlion-hearted sachem, Shingaegundin. At his feet lay the bow and quiver full of arrows abandoned by the scout when he rushed down pell mell to join in the bloody scalping bee.

The sight of “Black Agnes” holding aloft his chieftain’s scalp, the horribly mutilated condition of Shingaegundin’s corpse, the shimmying, singing Monseys, waving scalps and severed heads of his brothers and friends, all drew back to his heart what red blood ran in his veins.

“Black Agnes” stood there so erect and self-confident, like a little robin red-breast, ready for a potpie, he would lay her low and end her pretensions. Taking careful aim, for he was a noted archer, the Seneca let go the arrow, which sped with the swiftness of a passenger pigeon, finding a place in the heart of the brave girl. The tip came out near her backbone, her slender form was pierced through and through. The slight flush on her dark cheeks gave way to a deadly pallor, and, facing her unseen slayer, “Black Agnes” Dunbar tumbled to the earth dead.

The dancing, singing Monseys suddenly became a lodge of sorrow, weeping and wailing as if their hearts would break. The Seneca archer could have killed more of them, they were so bewildered, but he decided to run no further risks, and made off towards his encampment to tell his news, good and bad, to his astounded tribesmen.

When it was seen that “Black Agnes” was no more, and could not be revived, the sorrowful Monseys dug a grave within the stockade. It was a double death for them, as they knew that they would be hunted to the end like the Wolf Tribe that they were, and they had lost an intrepid and beloved leader.

According to the custom, before the interment, “Black Agnes’” clothing was removed, the braves deciding to take it as a present to the dead girl’s mother, to show how bravely she died. They walled up the grave and covered the corpse with rocks so that wolves could not dig it up, graded a nice mound of sod over the top, and, like the white soldiers at Fort Augusta, fired a volley over her grave.

That night there was a sorrowing scene enacted at the campground near the big spring at Zimmerman’s Run. The grief-stricken mother wanted to run away into the forest, to let the wild beasts devour her, and was restrained with great difficulty by her tribesmen, who had also lost all in life that was worth caring for, peace and security.

With heavy hearts they started on a long journey for the west, carrying the heart-broken mother Karendonah in a hammock, to the asylum offered to them by the Wyandots on the Muskingum. The bereaved woman carried the blood-stained, heart-pierced raiment of her heroic daughter as a priceless relic, and it was in her arms when she died suddenly on the way, in Somerset County, and was buried beside the trail, on the old Forbes Road. The Monseys, however, took the costume with them as a fetich, and for years missionaries and others interested in the tragic story of “Black Agnes” Dunbar were shown her blue jacket with the hole in the breast where the arrow entered.

That arrow pierced the hearts of all the Monseys, for they became a dejected and beaten people in their Ohio sanctuary.

While it is true that most of the very old people who lived in the vicinity of the Fourth Gap have passed away, it may yet be possible to learn the exact location of the cairn containing the remains of “Black Agnes” and place a suitable marker over it. One thing seems certain, if the tradition of the Lenni-Lenape that persons dying bravely in battle reach a higher spiritual plane once their souls are released, her ghost will not have to hunt the hideous, burnt-over slashings that were once the wildly romantic Fourth Gap; it has gone to a realm beyond the destructive commercialism of this dollar-mad age, where beauty finds a perpetual reward and recognition.