Chapter VIII. A Change of Tenants

The Scouts of the Valley

by Joseph A. Altsheler

The five were engaged upon one of their most dangerous tasks, to
keep with the Indian army, and yet to keep out of its hands, to
observe what was going on, and to divine what was intended from what
they observed. Fortunately it, was early summer, and the weather
being very beautiful they could sleep without shelter. Hence they
found it convenient to sleep sometimes by daylight, posting a watch
always, and to spy upon the Indian camp at night. They saw other
reinforcements come for the Indian army, particularly a strong
division of Senecas, under two great war chiefs of theirs,
Sangerachte and Hiokatoo, and also a body of Tories.

Then they saw them go into their last great camp at Tioga,
preparatory to their swift descent upon the Wyoming Valley. About
four hundred white men, English Canadians and Tories, were present,
and eight hundred picked warriors of the Six Nations under
Thayendanegea, besides the little band of Wyandots led by the
resolute Timmendiquas. "Indian" Butler was in general command of the
whole, and Queen Esther was the high priestess of the Indians,
continually making fiery speeches and chanting songs that made the
warriors see red. Upon the rear of this extraordinary army hung a
band of fierce old squaws, from whom every remnant of mercy and
Gentleness had departed.

From a high rock overlooking a valley the five saw "Indian"
Butler's force start for its final march upon Wyoming. It was
composed of many diverse elements, and perhaps none more bloodthirsty
ever trod the soil of America. In some preliminary skirmish a son of
Queen Esther had been slain, and now her fury knew no limits. She
took her place at the very head of the army, whirling her great
tomahawk about her head, and neither "Indian" Butler nor
Thayendanegea dared to interfere with her in anything great or
small.

Henry and his comrades, as they left their rock and hastened
toward the valley of Wyoming, felt that now they were coming into
contact with the great war itself. They had looked upon a uniformed
enemy for the first time, and they might soon see the colonial buff
and blue of the eastern army. Their hearts thrilled high at new
scenes and new dangers.

They had gathered at Pittsburgh, and, through the captivity of
the four in the Iroquois camp, they had some general idea of the
Wyoming Valley and the direction in which it lay, and, taking one
last look at the savage army, they sped toward it. The time was the
close, of June, and the foliage was still dark green. It was a land
of low mountain, hill, rich valley, and clear stream, and it was
beautiful to every one of the five. Much of their course lay along
the Susquehanna, and soon they saw signs of a more extended
cultivation than any that was yet to be witnessed in Kentucky. From
the brow of a little hill they beheld a field of green, and in
another field a man plowing.

"That's wheat," said Tom Ross.

"But we can't leave the man to plow," said Henry, "or he'll
never harvest that wheat. We'll warn him."

The man uttered a cry of alarm as five wild figures burst into
his field. He stopped abruptly, and snatched up a rifle that lay
across the plow handles. Neither Henry nor his companions realized
that their forest garb and long life in the wilderness made them look
more like Indians than white men. But Henry threw up a hand as a
sign of peace.

"We're white like yourselves," he cried, "and we've come to warn
you! The Iroquois and the Tories are marching into the valley!"

The man's face blanched, and he cast a hasty look toward a
little wood, where stood a cabin from which smoke was rising. He
could not doubt on a near view that these were white like himself,
and the words rang true.

"My house is strong," he said, "and I can beat them off. Maybe
you will help me."

"We'd help you willingly enough," said Henry, "if this were any
ordinary raiding band, but 'Indian' Butler, Brant, and Queen Esther
are coming at the head of twelve or fifteen hundred men. How could we
hold a house, no matter how thick its walls, against such an army as
that? Don't hesitate a moment! Get up what you can and gallop."

The man, a Connecticut settler-Jennings was his name-left his
plow in the furrow, galloped on his horse to his house, mounted his
wife and children on other horses, and, taking only food and
clothing, fled to Stroudsburg, where there was a strong fort. At a
later day he gave Henry heartfelt thanks for his warning, as six
hours afterward the vanguard of the horde burned his home and raged
because its owner and his family were gone with their scalps on their
own heads.

The five were now well into the Wyoming Valley, where the
Lenni-Lenape, until they were pushed westward by other tribes, had
had their village Wy-wa-mieh, which means in their language Wyoming.
It was a beautiful valley running twenty miles or more along the
Susquehanna, and about three miles broad. On either side rose
mountain walls a thousand feet in height, and further away were peaks
with mists and vapors around their crests. The valley itself blazed
in the summer sunshine, and the river sparkled, now in gold, now in
silver, as the light changed and fell.

More cultivated fields, more houses, generally of stout logs,
appeared, and to all that they saw the five bore the fiery beacon.
Simon Jennings was not the only man who lived to thank them for the
warning. Others were incredulous, and soon paid the terrible price
of unbelief.

The five hastened on, and as they went they looked about them
with wondering eyes-there were so many houses, so many cultivated
fields, and so many signs of a numerous population. They had emerged
almost for the first time from the wilderness, excepting their
memorable visit to New Orleans, although this was a very different
region. Long Jim spoke of it.

"I think I like it better here than at New Or-leeyuns," he said.
"We found some nice Frenchmen an' Spaniards down thar, but the ground
feels firmer under my feet here."

"The ground feels firmer," said Paul, who had some of the
prescience of the seer, "but the skies are no brighter. They look
red to me sometimes, Jim."

Tom Ross glanced at Paul and shook his head ominously. A
woodsman, he had his superstitions, and Paul's words weighed upon his
mind. He began to fear a great disaster, and his experienced eye
perceived at once the defenseless state of the valley. He remembered
the council of the great Indian force in the deep woods, and the
terrible face of Queen Esther was again before him.

"These people ought to be in blockhouses, every one uv 'em," he
said. "It ain't no time to be plowin' land."

Yet peace seemed to brood still over the valley. It was a fine
river, beautiful with changing colors. The soil on either side was
as deep and fertile as that of Kentucky, and the line of the
mountains cut the sky sharp and clear. Hills and slopes were dark
green with foliage.

It must have been a gran' huntin' ground once," said Shif'less
Sol.

The alarm that the five gave spread fast, and other hunters and
scouts came in, confirming it. Panic seized the settlers, and they
began to crowd toward Forty Fort on the west side of the river.
Henry and his comrades themselves arrived there toward the close of
evening, just as the sun had set, blood red, behind the mountains.
Some report of them had preceded their coming, and as soon as they
had eaten they were summoned to the presence of Colonel Zebulon
Butler, who commanded the military force in the valley. Singularly
enough, he was a cousin of "Indian" Butler, who led the invading
army.

The five, dressed in deerskin hunting shirts, leggins, and
moccasins, and everyone carrying a rifle, hatchet, and knife, entered
a large low room, dimly lighted by some wicks burning in tallow. A
man of middle years, with a keen New England face, sat at a little
table, and several others of varying ages stood near.

The five knew instinctively that the man at the table was
Colonel Butler, and they bowed, but they did not show the faintest
trace of subservience. They had caught suspicious glances from some
of the officers who stood about the commander, and they stiffened at
once. Colonel Butler looked involuntarily at Henry-everybody always
took him, without the telling, for leader of the group.

"We have had report of you," he said in cool noncommittal
tones," and you have been telling of great Indian councils that you
have seen in the woods. May I ask your name and where you
belong?"

"My name," replied Henry with dignity, "is Henry Ware, and I
come from Kentucky. My friends here are Paul Cotter, Solomon Hyde,
Tom Ross, and Jim Hart. They, too, come from Kentucky."

Several of the men gave the five suspicious glances. Certainly
they were wild enough in appearance, and Kentucky was far away. It
would seem strange that new settlers in that far land should be here
in Pennsylvania. Henry saw clearly that his story was doubted.

"Kentucky, you tell me?" said Colonel Butler. "Do you mean to
say you have come all that tremendous distance to warn us of an
attack by Indians and Tories?"

Several of the others murmured approval, and Henry flushed a
little, but he saw that the commander was not unreasonable. It was a
time when men might well question the words of strangers. Remembering
this, he replied:

"No, we did not come from Kentucky just to warn you. In fact,
we came from a point much farther than that. We came from New
Orleans to Pittsburgh with a fleet loaded with supplies for the
Continental armies, and commanded by Adam Colfax of New
Hampshire."

The face of Colonel Butler brightened.

"What!" he exclaimed, "you were on that expedition? It seems to
me that I recall hearing of great services rendered to it by some
independent scouts."

"When we reached Pittsburgh," continued Henry, ""it was our
first intention to go back to Kentucky, but we heard that a great war
movement was in progress to the eastward, and we thought that we
would see what was going on. Four of us have been captives among the
Iroquois. We know much of their plans, and we know, too, that
Timmendiquas, the great chief of the Wyandots, whom we fought along
the Ohio, has joined them with a hand of his best warriors. We have
also seen Thayendanegea, every one of us."

"You have seen Brant?" exclaimed Colonel Butler, calling the
great Mohawk by his white name.

"Yes," replied Henry. "We have seen him, and we have also seen
the woman they call Queen Esther. She is continually urging the
Indians on."

Colonel Butler seemed convinced, and invited them to sit down.
He also introduced the officers who were with him, Colonel John
Durkee, Colonel Nathan Dennison, Lieutenant Colonel George Dorrance,
Major John Garrett, Captain Samuel Ransom, Captain Dethrie Hewitt,
and some others.

"Now, gentlemen, tell us all that you saw," continued Colonel
Butler courteously." You will pardon so many questions, but we must
be careful. You will see that yourselves. But I am a New England
man myself, from Connecticut, and I have met Adam Colfax. I recall
now that we have heard of you, also, and we are grateful for your
coming. Will you and your comrades tell us all that you have seen
and heard?"

The five felt a decided change in the atmosphere. They were no
longer possible Tories or renegades, bringing an alarm at one point
when it should be dreaded at another. The men drew closely around
them, and listened as the tallow wicks sputtered in the dim room.
Henry spoke first, and the others in their turn. Every one of them
spoke tersely but vividly in the language of the forest. They felt
deeply what they had seen, and they drew the same picture for their
listeners. Gradually the faces of the Wyoming men became shadowed.
This was a formidable tale that they were hearing, and they could not
doubt its truth.

"It is worse than I thought it could be," said Colonel Butler at
last." How many men do you say they have, Mr. Ware?"

"Close to fifteen hundred."

"All trained warriors and soldiers. And at the best we cannot
raise more than three hundreds including old men and boys, and our
men, too, are farmers."

"But we can beat them. Only give us a chance, Colonel!"
exclaimed Captain Ransom.

"I'm afraid the chance will come too soon," said Colonel Butler,
and then turning to the five: "Help us all you can. We need scouts
and riflemen. Come to the fort for any food and ammunition you may
need."

The five gave their most earnest assurances that they would
stay, and do all in their power. In fact, they had come for that
very purpose. Satisfied now that Colonel Butler and his officers had
implicit faith in them they went forth to find that, despite the
night and the darkness, fugitives were already crossing the river to
seek refuge in Forty Fort, bringing with them tales of death and
devastation, some of which were exaggerated, but too many true in all
their hideous details. Men had been shot and scalped in the fields,
houses were burning, women and children were captives for a fate that
no one could foretell. Red ruin was already stalking down the
valley.

The farmers were bringing their wives and children in canoes and
dugouts across the river. Here and there a torch light flickered on
the surface of the stream, showing the pale faces of the women and
children, too frightened to cry. They had fled in haste, bringing
with them only the clothes they wore and maybe a blanket or two. The
borderers knew too well what Indian war was, with all its
accompaniments of fire and the stake.

Henry and his comrades helped nearly all that night. They
secured a large boat and crossed the river again and again, guarding
the fugitives with their rifles, and bringing comfort to many a timid
heart. Indian bands had penetrated far into the Wyoming Valley, but
they felt sure that none were yet in the neighborhood of Forty
Fort.

It was about three o'clock in the morning when the last of the
fugitives who had yet come was inside Forty Fort, and the labors of
the five, had they so chosen, were over for the time. But their
nerves were tuned to so high a pitch, and they felt so powerfully the
presence of danger, that they could not rest, nor did they have any
desire for sleep.

The boat in which they sat was a good one, with two pairs of
oars. It had been detailed for their service, and they decided to
pull up the river. They thought it possible that they might see the
advance of the enemy and bring news worth the telling. Long Jim and
Tom Ross took the oars, and their powerful arms sent the boat swiftly
along in the shadow of the western bank. Henry and Paul looked back
and saw dim lights at the fort and a few on either shore. The
valley, the high mountain wall, and everything else were merged in
obscurity.

Both the youths were oppressed heavily by the sense of danger,
not for themselves, but for others. In that Kentucky of theirs, yet
so new, few people lived beyond the palisades, but here were rich and
scattered settlements; and men, even in the face of great peril, are
always loth to abandon the homes that they have built with so much
toil.

Tom Ross and Long Jim continued to pull steadily with the long
strokes that did not tire them, and the lights of the fort and houses
sank out of sight. Before them lay the somber surface of the
rippling river, the shadowy hills, and silence. The world seemed
given over to the night save for themselves, but they knew too well
to trust to such apparent desertion. At such hours the Indian scouts
come, and Henry did not doubt that they were already near, gathering
news of their victims for the Indian and Tory horde. Therefore, it
was the part of his comrades and himself to use the utmost caution as
they passed up the river.

They bugged the western shore, where they were shadowed by banks
and bushes, and now they went slowly, Long Jim and Tom Ross drawing
their oars so carefully through the water that there was never a
plash to tell of their passing. Henry was in the prow of the boat,
bent forward a little, eyes searching the surface of the river, and
ears intent upon any sound that might pass on the bank. Suddenly he
gave a little signal to the rowers and they let their oars rest.

"Bring the boat in closer to the bank," he whispered. Push it
gently among those bushes where we cannot be seen from above."

Tom and Jim obeyed. The boat slid softly among tall bushes that
shadowed the water, and was hidden completely. Then Henry stepped
out, crept cautiously nearly up the bank, which was here very low,
and lay pressed closely against the earth, but supported by the
exposed root of a tree. He had heard voices, those of Indians, he
believed, and he wished to see. Peering through a fringe of bushes
that lined the bank he saw seven warriors and one white face sitting
under the boughs of a great oak. The face was that of Braxton Wyatt,
who was now in his element, with a better prospect of success than
any that he had ever known before. Henry shuddered, and for a moment
he regretted that he had spared Wyatt's life when he might have taken
it.

But Henry was lying against the bank to hear what these men
might be saying, not to slay. Two of the warriors, as he saw by
their paint, were Wyandots, and he understood the Wyandot tongue.
Moreover, his slight knowledge of Iroquois came into service, and
gradually he gathered the drift of their talk. Two miles nearer
Forty Fort was a farmhouse one of the Wyandots had seen it-not yet
abandoned by its owner, who believed that his proximity to Forty Fort
assured his safety. He lived there with his wife and five children,
and Wyatt and the Indians planned to raid the place before daylight
and kill them all. Henry had heard enough. He slid back from the
bank to the water and crept into the boat.

"Pull back down the river as gently as you can," he whispered,
"and then I'll tell you."

The skilled oarsmen carried the boat without a splash several
hundred yards down the stream, and then Henry told the others of the
fiendish plan that he had heard.

"I know that man," said Shif'less Sol. "His name is Standish.
I was there nine or ten hours ago, an' I told him it wuz time to take
his family an' run. But he knowed more'n I did. Said he'd stay, he
wuzn't afraid, an' now he's got to pay the price."

"No, he mustn't do that," said Henry. "It's too much to pay for
just being foolish, when everybody is foolish sometimes. Boys, we
can yet save that man an' his wife and children. Aren't you willing
to do it?"

"Why, course," said Long Jim. "Like ez not Standish will shoot
at us when we knock on his door, but let's try it."

The others nodded assent.

"How far back from the river is the Standish house, Sol?" asked
Henry.

"'Bout three hundred yards, I reckon, and' it ain't more'n a
mile down."

"Then if we pull with all our might, we won't be too late. Tom,
you and Jim give Sol and me the oars now."

Henry and the shiftless one were fresh, and they sent the boat
shooting down stream, until they stopped at a point indicated by Sol.
They leaped ashore, drew the boat down the bank, and hastened toward
a log house that they saw standing in a clump of trees. The enemy
had not yet come, but as they swiftly approached the house a dog ran
barking at them. The shiftless one swung his rifle butt, and the dog
fell unconscious.

"I hated to do it, but I had to," he murmured. The next moment
Henry was knocking at the door.

"Up! Up!" he cried, "the Indians are at hand, and you must run
for your lives!"

How many a time has that terrible cry been heard on the American
border!

The sound of a man's voice, startled and angry, came to their
ears, and then they heard him at the door.

"Who are you?" he cried. "Why are you beating on my door at
such a time?"

"We are friends, Mr. Standish," cried Henry, "and if you would
save your wife and children you must go at once! Open the door!
Open, I say!"

The man inside was in a terrible quandary. It was thus that
renegades or Indians, speaking the white man's tongue, sometimes bade
a door to be opened, in order that they might find an easy path to
slaughter. But the voice outside was powerfully insistent, it had
the note of truth; his wife and children, roused, too, were crying
out, in alarm. Henry knocked again on the door and shouted to him in
a voice, always increasing in earnestness, to open and flee.
Standish could resist no longer. He took down the bar and flung open
the door, springing back, startled at the five figures that stood
before him. In the dusk he did not remember Shif'less Sol.

"Mr. Standish," Henry said, speaking rapidly, "we are, as you
can see, white. You will be attacked here by Indians and renegades
within half an hour. We know that, because we heard them talking
from the bushes. We have a boat in the river; you can reach it in
five minutes. Take your wife and children, and pull for Forty
Fort."

Standish was bewildered.

"How do I know that you are not enemies, renegades, yourselves?"
he asked.

"If we had been that you'd be a dead man already," said
Shif'less Sol.

It was a grim reply, but it was unanswerable, and Standish
recognized the fact. His wife had felt the truth in the tones of the
strangers, and was begging him to go. Their children were crying at
visions of the tomahawk and scalping knife now so near.

"We'll go," said Standish. "At any rate, it can't do any harm.
We'll get a few things together."

"Do not wait for anything! "exclaimed Henry. "You haven't a
minute to spare! Here are more blankets! Take them and run for the
boat! Sol and Jim, see them on board, and then come back!"

Carried away by such fire and earnestness, Standish and his
family ran for the boat. Jim and the shiftless one almost threw them
on board, thrust a pair of oars into the bands of Standish, another
into the hands of his wife, and then told them to pull with all their
might for the fort.

"And you," cried Standish, "what becomes of you?"

Then a singular expression passed over his face-he had guessed
Henry's plan.

"Don't you trouble about us," said the shiftless one. "We will
come later. Now pull! pull!"

Standish and his wife swung on the oars, and in two minutes the
boat and its occupants were lost in the darkness. Tom Ross and Sol
did not pause to watch them, but ran swiftly back to the house.
Henry was at the door.

"Come in," he said briefly, and they entered. Then he closed
the door and dropped the bar into place. Shif'less Sol and Paul were
already inside, one sitting on the chair and the other on the edge of
the bed. Some coals, almost hidden under ashes, smoldered and cast a
faint light in the room, the only one that the house had, although it
was divided into two parts by a rough homespun curtain. Henry opened
one of the window shutters a little and looked out. The dawn had not
yet come, but it was not a dark night, and he looked over across the
little clearing to the trees beyond. On that side was a tiny garden,
and near the wall of the house some roses were blooming. He could
see the glow of pink and red. But no enemy bad yet approached.
Searching the clearing carefully with those eyes of his, almost
preternaturally keen, he was confident that the Indians were still in
the woods. He felt an intense thrill of satisfaction at the success
of his plan so far.

He was not cruel, he never rejoiced in bloodshed, but the
borderer alone knew what the border suffered, and only those who
never saw or felt the torture could turn the other cheek to be
smitten. The Standish house had made a sudden and ominous change of
tenants.

"It will soon be day," said Henry, "and farmers are early
risers. Kindle up that fire a little, will you, Sol? I want some
smoke to come out of the chimney."

The shiftless one raked away the ashes, and put on two or three
pieces of wood that lay on the hearth. Little flames and smoke
arose. Henry looked curiously about the house. It was the usual
cabin of the frontier, although somewhat larger. The bed on which
Shif'less Sol sat was evidently that of the father and mother, while
two large ones behind the curtain were used by the children. On the
shelf stood a pail half full of drinking water, and by the side of it
a tin cup. Dried herbs hung over the fireplace, and two or three
chests stood in the corners. The clothing of the children was
scattered about. Unprepared food for breakfast stood on a table.
Everything told of a hasty flight and its terrible need. Henry was
already resolved, but his heart hardened within him as he saw.

He took the hatchet from his belt and cut one of the hooks for
the door bar nearly in two. The others said not a word. They had no
need to speak. They understood everything that he did. He opened the
window again and looked out. Nothing yet appeared. "The dawn will
come in three quarters of an hour," he said, "and we shall not have
to wait long for what we want to do."

He sat down facing the door. All the others were sitting, and
they, too, faced the door. Everyone had his rifle across his knees,
with one hand upon the hammer. The wood on the hearth sputtered as
the fire spread, and the flames grew. Beyond a doubt a thin spire of
smoke was rising from the chimney, and a watching eye would see this
sign of a peaceful and unsuspecting mind.

"I hope Braxton Wyatt will be the first to knock at our door,"
said Shif'less Sol.

"I wouldn't be sorry," said Henry.

Paul was sitting in a chair near the fire, and he said nothing.
He hoped the waiting would be very short. The light was sufficient
for him to see the faces of his comrades, and he noticed that they
were all very tense. This was no common watch that they kept.
Shif'less Sol remained on the bed, Henry sat on another of the
chairs, Tom Ross was on one of the chests with his back to the wall.
Long Jim was near the curtain. Close by Paul was a home-made cradle.
He put down his hand and touched it. He was glad that it was empty
now, but the sight of it steeled his heart anew for the task that lay
before them.

Ten silent minutes passed, and Henry went to the window again.
He did not open it, but there was a crack through which he could see.
The others said nothing, but watched his face. When he turned away
they knew that the moment was at hand.

"They've just come from the woods," he said, "and in a minute
they'll be at the door. Now, boys, take one last look at your
rifles."

A minute later there was a sudden sharp knock at the door, but
no answer came from within. The knock was repeated, sharper and
louder, and Henry, altering his voice as much as possible, exclaimed
like one suddenly awakened from sleep:

"Who is it? What do you want?"

Back came a voice which Henry knew to be that of Braxton
Wyatt:

"We've come from farther up the valley. We're scouts, we've
been up to the Indian country. We're half starved. Open and give us
food!"

"I don't believe you," replied Henry. "Honest people don't come
to my door at this time in the morning."

Then ensued a few moments of silence, although Paul, with his
vivid fancy, thought he heard whispering on the other side of the
door.

"Open!" cried Wyatt, "or we'll break your door down!" Henry said
nothing, nor did any of the others. They did not stir. The fire
crackled a little, but there was no other sound in the Standish
house. Presently they heard a slight noise outside, that of light
feet.

"They are going for a log with which to break the door in,"
whispered Henry. "They won't have to look far. The wood pile isn't
fifty feet away."

"An' then," said Shif'less Sol, "they won't have much left to do
but to take the scalps of women an' little children."

Every figure in the Standish house stiffened at the shiftless
one's significant words, and the light in the eyes grew sterner.
Henry went to the door, put his ear to the line where it joined the
wall, and listened.

"They've got their log," he said, "and in half a minute they'll
rush it against the door."

He came back to his old position. Paul's heart began to thump,
and his thumb fitted itself over the trigger of his cocked rifle.
Then they heard rapid feet, a smash, a crash, and the door flew open.
A half dozen Iroquois and a log that they held between them were
hurled into the middle of the room. The door had given away so
easily and unexpectedly that the warriors could not check themselves,
and two or three fell with the log. But they sprang like cats to
their feet, and with their comrades uttered a cry that filled the
whole cabin with its terrible sound and import.

The Iroquois, keen of eyes and quick of mind, saw the trap at
once. The five grim figures, rifle in hand and finger on trigger,
all waiting silent and motionless were far different from what they
expected. Here could be no scalps, with the long, silky hair of
women and children.

There was a moment's pause, and then the Indians rushed at their
foes. Five fingers pulled triggers, flame leaped from five muzzles,
and in an instant the cabin was filled with smoke and war shouts, but
the warriors never had a chance. They could only strike blindly with
their tomahawks, and in a half minute three of them, two wounded,
rushed through the door and fled to the woods. They had been
preceded already by Braxton Wyatt, who had hung back craftily while
the Iroquois broke down the door.