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"You were never meant for the frontier."]
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A VIRGINIA SCOUT
ByHUGH PENDEXTER
Author ofKings of the Missouri, Etc.
Frontispiece byD. C. Hutchison
INDIANAPOLISTHE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANYPUBLISHERS
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Copyright 1920The Ridgway Company
Copyright 1922The Bobbs-Merrill Company
Printed in the United States of America
PRESS OFBRAUNWORTH & CO.BOOK MANUFACTURERSBROOKLYN, N. Y.
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ToFaunce Pendexter
My Son and Best of Seven-Year-Old ScoutsThis Story Is Lovingly Dedicated
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE I. Three Travelers 1 II Indian-Haters 23 III Over the Mountains 55 IV I Report to My Superiors 81 V Love Comes a Cropper 106 VI The Pack-Horse-Man's Medicine 133 VII Lost Sister 167 VIII In Abb's Valley 193 IX Dale Escapes 229 X Our Medicine Grows Stronger 265 XI Back to the Blue Wall 289 XII The Shadows Vanish 311 XIII Peace Comes to the Clearing 352
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A Virginia Scout
CHAPTER I
THREE TRAVELERS
It was good to rest in the seclusion of my hollow sycamore. It waspleasant to know that in the early morning my horse would soon cover thefour miles separating me from the soil of Virginia. As a surveyor, and nowas a messenger between Fort Pitt and His Lordship, the Earl of Dunmore,our royal governor, I had utilized this unique shelter more than once whenbreaking my journey at the junction of the Monongahela and the Cheat.
I had come to look upon it with something of affection. It was one of mywilderness homes. It was roughly circular and a good eight feet indiameter, and never yet had I been disturbed while occupying it.
During the night I heard the diabolic screech of a loon somewhere down theriver, while closer by rose the pathetic song of the whippoorwill. Strangecontrasts and each very welcome in my ears. I was awake with the firstrays of the sun mottling the bark and mold before the low entrance to myretreat. The rippling melody of a mocking-bird deluged the thicket.Honey-bees hovered and buzzed about my tree, perhaps investigating it withthe idea of moving in and using it for a storehouse. The Indians calledthem the "white man's flies," and believed they heralded the coming ofpermanent settlements. I hoped the augury was a true one, but there weretimes when I doubted.
Making sure that the priming of my long Deckhard rifle was dry, I crawledout into the thicket and stood erect. As far as the eye could roamstretched the rich bottom-lands and the low ridges, covered with theprimeval growths of giant walnuts, maples, oaks and hickory. Small wonderthat the heart of the homeseeker should covet such a country.
Groves of beeches, less desired by settlers, were noisy with satisfiedsquirrels. From river to ridge the air was alive with orioles andcardinals and red-starts. And could I have stood at the western rim of myvision I would have beheld the panorama repeated, only even richer andmore delectable; for there was nothing but the ancient forest between meand the lonely Mississippi.
Birds and song and the soft June air and the mystery of the Kentuckycountry tugging at my heartstrings. I felt the call very strong as I stoodthere in the thicket, and gladly would I have traveled West to the richestgame-region ever visited by white men. From some who had made the trip Ihad heard wonderful stories of Nature's prodigality. There were roads madethrough tangled thickets by immense herds of buffaloes smashing their wayfive abreast. Deer were too innumerable to estimate. To perch a turkeymerely required that one step a rod or two from the cabin door. Only theserious nature of my business, resulting from the very serious nature ofthe times, held me back.
On this particular morning when the summer was in full tide of song andscents and pleasing vistas, I was bringing important despatches toGovernor Dunmore. The long-looked-for Indian war was upon us. From theback-country to the seaboard Virginians knew this year of 1774 was tofigure prominently in our destiny.
In the preceding spring we realized it was only a question of time when wemust "fort" ourselves, or abandon the back-country, thereby losing cropsand cabins. When young James Boone and Henry Russell were killed byIndians in Powell's Valley in the fall of 1773, all hope of a friendlypenetration of the western country died. Ever since Colonel Bouquet'streaty with the Ohio tribes on the collapse of Pontiac's War the frontierhad suffered from many small raids, but there had been no organizedwarfare.
During those ten years much blood had been spilled and many cabins burned,but the red opposition had not been sufficient to stop the backwoodsmenfrom crowding into the Alleghanies. And only a general war could preventthem from overflowing down into the bottoms of the Ohio. The killing offriendly Shawnees at Pipe Creek below the mouth of the Little Kanawha inApril, followed three days later by the cruel slaughter of John Logan'srelatives and friends at Baker's groggery opposite Yellow Creek, hadtouched off the powder.
But the notion that the massacre of Logan's people at Joshua Baker's housewas the cause of the war is erroneous. For any one living in the countryat the time to have believed it would be too ridiculous. That brutalaffair was only one more brand added to a fire which had smoldered for tenyears.
It happened to be the last piece of violence before both red and whitethrew aside make-believe and settled down to the ghastly struggle forsupremacy. Hunters bound for Kentucky had suffered none from the Indiansexcept as they had a brush with small raiding-parties. But when DanielBoone undertook to convey his wife and children and the families of hisfriends into the wonderland the natives would have none of it. In killinghis son and young Russell, along with several of their companions, theIndians were merely serving notice of no thoroughfare for home-builders.
So let us remember that Dunmore's War was the inevitable outcome of twoalien races determined on the same prize, with each primed for adeath-struggle by the memories of fearful wrongs. It is useless to arguewhich race gave the first cause for retaliation; it had been give and takebetween them for many years. Nor should our children's children, becauseof any tendency toward ancestor-worship, be allowed to believe that thewhites were invincible and slaughtered more natives than they lost oftheir own people.
There were white men as merciless and murderous as any Indians, and someof these had a rare score of killings to their discredit. Yet in aman-for-man account the Indians had all the best of it. Veterans ofBraddock's War insisted that the frontier lost fifty whites for each redman killed. Bouquet and other leaders estimated the ratio in Pontiac's Warto have been ten to one in favor of the Indians.
This reduction proved that the settlers had learned something from thelessons taught in the old French War. Our people on the border knew allthis and they were confident that in the struggle now upon them they wouldbring the count down to one for one.[1] So let the youngsters of the newday learn the truth; that is, that the backwoodsmen clung to their homesalthough suffering most hideously.
Virginia understood she must sustain the full brunt of the war, inasmuchas she comprised the disputed frontier. It was upon Virginia that the redhatred centered. I never blamed the Indians for this hate for white cabinsand cleared forests
and permanent settlements. Nor should our dislike ofthe Indians incite sentimental people, ignorant of the red man's ways andlacking sympathy with our ambitions, to denounce us as being solelyresponsible for the brutal aspects such a struggle will always display.
It should also be remembered that the men of Pennsylvania were chieflyconcerned with trade. Their profits depended upon the natives remainingundisturbed in their ancient homes. Like the French they would keep thered man and his forests unchanged.
Naturally they disapproved of any migrations over the mountains; and theywere very disagreeable in expressing their dissatisfaction. We retorted,overwarmly doubtless, by accusing our northern sister of trading guns andpowder to the Indians for horses stolen from Virginia. There was bad bloodbetween the two colonies; for history to gloss over the fact is toperpetrate a lie. Fort Pitt, recently renamed Fort Dunmore by thecommandant, Doctor John Connolly, controlled the approach to the Ohiocountry. It was a strong conditional cause of the war, peculiar as thestatement may sound to those born long after the troublesome times of1774.
Pennsylvania accused our royal governor of being a land-grabber and thecatspaw or partner of land-speculators. His Lordship was interested inland-speculation and so were many prominent Virginians. It is also truethat claims under Virginia patents would be worthless if Pennsylvaniacontrolled the junction of the Monongahela and the Alleghany Rivers andsustained her claims to the surrounding country.
It is another fact that it was the rifles of Virginia which protected thatoutlying region, and that many of the settlers in the disputed territorypreferred Virginia control. Every one realized that should our militiapush the Indians back and win a decisive victory our claims would beimmensely strengthened. And through Doctor Connolly we were alreadyhandling affairs at Fort Pitt.
Because of these and other facts there was an excellent chance for anintercolonial war. I am of the strong opinion that an armed clash betweenthe hotheads of the two provinces would have resulted if not for theintervention of the Indian war.
At the beginning of hostilities the Indians proclaimed they would whipPennsylvania and would roast Virginians. However, when Benjamin Speare,his wife and six children were massacred on Dunkard Creek early in June,with similar bloody murders being perpetrated at Muddy Creek, all onPennsylvania soil, by John Logan, the Mingo chief, there was less foolishtalk north of the line.
All these thoughts of raids and reprisals, of white striving to outdo redin cruelty, may seem to harmonize but ill with that soft June morning, theflight of the red-start, the song of the oriole and the impish chatter ofthe squirrels. Beech and oak urged one to rest in the shade; the limpidwaters of the river called for one to strip and bathe.
To heed either invitation incautiously invited the war-ax to be buried inthe head. However, we of the border always had had the Indian trouble, andeach generation had taken its pleasure with a wary eye and ready weapons.Although the times were very dangerous and I was serving as scout forthirty-three cents a day I could still enjoy the sweet aromas andsympathize with the song of birds and yet keep an eye and ear open forthat which concerned my life.
In ascending the Monongahela I had seen many settlers crossing the riverto make the eastern settlements. I was told that a thousand men, women andchildren had crossed during the space of twenty-four hours. Down on theClinch and Holston the settlers were either "forting" or fleeing.
Much of this retirement was compelled by the sad lack of powder and lead,even of guns. More than one settler depended entirely upon ax or scythefor protection. Such were prevented from using the advantage of theirstout walls and could do the foe no mischief until after the door had beenbattered down, when of course all the advantage shifted to the side of theinvader.
By this I do not mean to disparage such tools as implements of war. Asturdy fellow with both hands gripping a scythe can do an amazing amountof damage at close quarters, as more than one Shawnee war-party haslearned.
Briefly summed up, there were dissensions between some of the coloniesover the land-disputes; sparks were flying between the colonies and themother-country; every day brought gruesome news from the back-country;there was a scarcity of guns and ammunition; militia captains were eagerlystealing one another's men to fill their quotas.
Yet regardless of all these troubles let it be understood that for oncethe borders welcomed war and insisted upon it. As early as March, a monthbefore the Pipe and Yellow Creek outrages, the Williamsburg _Gazette_printed an address to Lord Dunmore, stating that "an immediate declarationof war was necessary, nay inevitable." Not only did the whites want thewar, but the natives also were eager for it.
But enough of whys and wherefores, as they make poor story-telling, andleave me, Basdel Morris, overlong in quitting the thicket about my tree.And yet the wise man always looks backward as well as forward whenentering on a trail, and children yet unborn may blaze a better trace ifthey understand what lies behind them.
I ate my breakfast there in the thick growth, packing my hungry mouth withparched corn and topping off with a promise of turkey, once I drew beyondthe danger-belt. Trying to make myself believe my appetite was satisfied,I began the delicate task of leaving cover without leaving any signs. Myhorse was a fourth of a mile from my tree, so that in finding him theIndians would not find me.
The river sang a drowsy song a short distance from my tree and down agentle slope. I knew of a spring beneath its bank, and I was impatient totaste its cold waters. I moved toward it slowly, determined that if anIndian ever secured my long black hair it would not be because he caughtme off my guard. With ears and eyes I scouted the river-bank.
The flights and songs of birds and the boisterous chatter of the squirrelsnow became so many helps. There were no intruders in the grove of beech.There was no one between me and the river. At last I passed under someoverhanging boughs and slipped down the bank to the water's edge.
Once more I searched both banks of the river, the Cheat, and then venturedto drink. Like an animal I drank a swallow, then threw up my head andglanced about. It took me some time to drink my fill, but I was nottomahawked while at the spring. At last I was convinced I had the bank tomyself; and satisfied that the screen of overhanging boughs screened mefrom any canoe turning a bend up- or down-stream I removed my clothes andvery softly slipped into the water.
There could be no hilarious splashing nor swimming, but the silentimmersion was most refreshing. It was while supine on my back with only mynose and toes above water that I received my first alarm for that morning.My position being recumbent I was staring up at the sky and in thedirection of up-stream, and I saw a speck.
It was circling and from the west a smaller speck was hastening eastward.A third tiny speck showed on the southern skyline. Turkey-buzzards. Theone circling had sighted dead beast or man. The others had seen thediscoverer's maneuvers advertising his good luck; and now each scavengerin hastening to the feast drew other scavengers after him.
I crawled ashore and hurriedly began slipping into my few garments. I drewon my breeches and paused for a moment to part the shrubbery and stareinto the sky. I was startled to observe the buzzards--there were three ofthem now--were much nearer, as if following something. I pulled on myleggings and finished fitting my moccasins carefully about the ankles tokeep out all dust and dirt and took my second look.
The buzzards were five, and in making their wide circles they had againcut down the distance. Then it dawned upon me that they were followingsomething in the river. I watched the bend, the buzzards ever circlingnearer, their numbers continually being augmented by fresh arrivals. Atlast it came in sight--a canoe containing one man.
Hastily drying my hands on my hunting-shirt, I picked up my rifle and drewa bead on the distant figure. The man was an Indian and was allowing thecanoe to drift. But why should the turkey-buzzards follow him? As Ipondered over this problem and waited to learn whether he be friendly orhostile, there came the _spang_ of a rifle from my side of the river andabove me.
A second sho
t quickly followed and I thought the figure in the canoelurched to one side a bit. Still there was no attempt made to use thepaddle. The shrill ear-splitting scream of a panther rang out, and thislike the two shots was on my side of the river. That the Indian made nomove to escape was inexplicable unless the first shot had killed himoutright.
The canoe was deflected toward my hiding-place, and I expected to hearanother brace of shots from above me. But there was no more shooting, andthe canoe swung in close enough for me to observe the Indian was holdingsomething between his teeth. I now recognized him as a friendly native, aDelaware; and anxious to protect him from those lurking on the bank Ishowed myself and softly called:
"Bald Eagle is in danger! Paddle in here."
He paid no attention to my greeting, although the canoe continued itsapproach until it grounded against the bank. I slipped down to the waterto urge him to come ashore and take cover. He was a well-known chief, andfor years very friendly to the whites. The thing he held in his mouth wasa piece of journey-cake, only he was not eating it as I had firstsupposed. As I gained the canoe I noticed a paddle placed across it so asto support his back, and another so braced as to prop up his head.
The man was dead. There was a hideous wound at the back of his head. Hehad been struck down with an ax. While I was weighing this gruesomediscovery the scream of the panther rang out again and close by, and thebushes parted and I wheeled in time to strike up a double-barrel rifle ayoung man was aiming at the chief.
"You've fired at him twice already, Shelby Cousin," I angrily rebuked."Isn't that about enough?"
"Nothin' ain't 'nough till I git his sculp," was the grim reply; andCousin, scarcely more than a boy, endeavored to knock my rifle aside. "Atleast you ought to kill before you scalp," I said.
His lips parted and his eyes screwed up into a perplexed frown and hedropped the butt of his rifle to the ground. Holding the barrels with bothhands, he stared down at the dead man.
"Some one bu'sted him with a' ax most vastly," he muttered. "An' mewastin' two shoots o' powder on the skunk!"
"Without bothering to notice the turkey-buzzards that have been followinghim down the river," I said.
He looked sheepish and defended himself:
"The cover was too thick to see anything overhead."
"He was a friend to the whites. He has been murdered. His killer struckhim down from behind. As if murder wasn't bad enough, his killer tried tomake a joke of it by stuffing journey-cake in his mouth. The cake alonewould tell every red who sees him that a white man killed him."
"Only trouble with the joke is that there ain't a couple o' him," hissedyoung Cousin. "But the fellor who played this joke owes me two shoots ofpowder. I 'low he'll pay me."
"You know who he is?"
"Seen Lige Runner up along. I 'low it will be him. Him an' me look onInjuns just the same way."
"It's fellows like him and Joshua Baker and Daniel Greathouse who bringtrouble to the settlements," I said.
His face was as hard as a mask of stone as he looked at me. His eyes,which should have glowed with the amiable fires of youth, were asimplacably baleful as those of a mad wolf.
"You don't go for to figger me in with Baker an' Greathouse?" he fiercelydemanded.
"I know your story. It wouldn't be just to rank you with them."
"Mebbe it's my story what turns other men ag'in' these critters," hecoldly suggested. "There was a time when I had a daddy. He talked like youdo. He called some o' the red devils his friends. He believed in 'em, too.Cornstalk, the Shawnee devil, was his good friend.
"Daddy an' mammy 'lowed we could live on Keeney's Knob till all git-outbu'sted up an' never have no trouble with friendly Injuns. That was tenyears ago. I was eight years old. Then Cornstalk made his last visit.Daddy had just brought in some deer meat. Made a feast for th' bloodydevils.
"I happened to be out in the woods when it was done. Or, happen like, I'd'a' gone along t'others. There's two things that'll make me hunt Cornstalkan' his Shawnees to the back-country o' hell--my little sister, an' theiroverlookin' to wipe me out."
He turned and stood by the canoe, glaring down at the dead man. AllVirginia was familiar with the terrible story of the Cousin massacre atKeeney's Knob. Fully as tragic and horrible to me, perhaps, was theterrible change in the only survivor. He became an Injun-killer as soon ashe was able to handle a rifle; and a Virginia boy of twelve was ashamedwhen he failed to bring down his squirrel shot through the head.
At eighteen Cousin was hated and feared by the Ohio tribes. He was notcontent to wait for Shawnee and Mingo to cross the river, but madefrequent and extremely hazardous trips into their country. Hispanther-scream had rung out more than once near the Scioto villages toproclaim a kill.
Isaac Crabtree was a killer, but his hate did not make him rash. JesseHughes would have been one of our best border scouts if not for his insanehatred of Indians. He killed them whenever he met them; nor did he, likeCrabtree, wait until the advantage was all on his side before striking.William White, William Hacker and John Cutright massacred five inoffensiveIndian families at Bulltown on the Little Kanawha as a reprisal for theStroud family, slain on Elk River.
Elijah Runner, who Cousin believed had killed Bald Eagle, was yet anotherwith an insatiable thirst for red blood. Many others were notoriousInjun-killers. Some were border ruffians; some were driven to the limitsof hate because of scenes they had witnessed or losses they had suffered.But none was like Shelby Cousin.
Other killers would drink and make merry at times, keeping their hate inthe background until a victim appeared. Young Cousin carried his hate inhis 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 coulddivert him from the one consuming passion of his life.
His mention of his sister revealed the deepest depth of his anguish. Hisparents were beyond all suffering and the need of pity. His sister, a yearolder than he, had been carried off. The pursuers found her clothing by acreek near the ruined cabin; but it had never been proved that she wasdead. It was this, the uncertainty of her fate, which daily fed the boy'shate and drove him to the forest, where he sought to learn the truth andnever relinquished an opportunity to take his revenge.
"If Lige Runner done for him he sure did a good job," Cousin muttered. "Hesure 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, aface to stir the heart of any maiden to beating faster, was distorted withthe pain he was keeping clamped down behind his clenched teeth.
"That's only because o' what I seen at Keeney's Knob," he hoarselywhispered. "When I meet one of 'em in a settlement I skedaddle afore Ilose my grip. I mustn't do anything that'll fetch a parcel of 'em down tocarry off some other feller's little sister. If I know'd she wasdead----"
"If you'd stop killing long enough to question some of the Shawnees youmight learn the truth."
He shook his head slowly, and said:
"I stopped--just afore the killin' at Baker's Bottom. Kept my Injun aliveall 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 thatday. 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 gravewhere his friends can't find him or wild animals dig him out. We'll sethim afloat again and hope he'll journey far down the river before hisfriends 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 rigidfigure in the bottom of the canoe. Before I could push t
he craft into thecurrent young Cousin grunted with satisfaction and pointed to twobullet-holes, close together, just back of the ear.
"Knew I must hit pretty close to where I was shootin'," he muttered as hemade up the bank.
I shoved the canoe from shore and called after him: "If you will waituntil I get my horse we might travel together."
He waved his hand in farewell and informed me: "I've got some businesswest 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 heado' 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 Cresapled 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' theircattle behind. Mebbe I'll scout over that way by 'n' by.
"Augusta boys ain't goin' to have any man in their militia company thatstands 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 theircorn. Injuns signs up Sandy Creek has made some o' Moccasin an' CopperCreek 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 whetherthey can keep Ike Crabtree from killin' of 'em off."
He threw his rifle over his shoulder and with a curt nod turned into thebushes and followed the bank to find a crossing. He was away on hisfearful business; his youth was hopelessly corroded.
I scouted the spot where I had left my horse and discovered no signs ofIndians. Unspanceling and mounting, I picked up my journey. I was passingthrough a mountainous country which contained many large meadows. Thesepleasant openings would accommodate many cattle if not for the Indiandanger. They were thick with grass and enough hay could be cured on themto feed large herds throughout the winter.
The bottom-lands, although smaller, were very rich. Along the hillsides Ihad no doubt but that grain could easily be grown. Altogether it was amost pleasing country if lasting peace ever could come to the border.While I observed the natural advantages and fancied the glades and bottomsdotted with happy cabins, I did not forget the dead Delaware floating downthe river, nor ignore the probability of some of his kin discovering themurder 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 theperfume of growing things. The stirring optimism of spring lingered withme. My heart was warm to rejoin old friends, to enjoy women's company; butnever 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 thesun was cradled by the western ridges. I found it a wonderful world, and Ibelieved 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 considerabledistance from my camp. I had selected a spot on top of a ridge, where themaples and walnuts grew thick. I perched a turkey in the gloaming androasted him over a small fire. Having eaten, I walked to the edge of thegrowth and gazed toward the west. Across the valley a light suddenlytwinkled on the side of a ridge. I first thought that hunters were campingthere; and as the light increased to a bright blaze I decided there was alarge company of them and that they had no fear of Indians.
But as I watched the flames grew higher. What had been a white lightbecame a ruddy light. The fire spread on both sides. My heart began topound and I tilted my head to listen. The distance was too far for me tohear tell-tale sounds, still I fancied I could hear the yelling of demonsdancing around a burning cabin.
A dead man floating down the river; a boy seeking vengeance somewhere nearthe blazing home, and a scout for Virginia traveling toward theGreenbriar.
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[1] It is estimated that the whites lost three to the Indians' one in Dunmore's War.
[2] 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, by Ebenezer Silas and Jonathan Zane in 1770.