Elizabeth Zane's heroism during the attack on Wheeling, near the Kentucky border, deserves especial praise. The house of her brother, Colonel Ebenezer Zane, at a little distance from the fort, contained a supply of ammunition, and was garrisoned by seven or eight persons, male and female, besides his own family. Before firing upon the fort, the Indians demanded the surrender of the house. A well-directed fire was the reply. The women moulded bullets, charged the guns, and handed them to the men, enabling them to keep up so constant a discharge as to cause the assailants to recoil in dismay.

At night they attempted to fire the house. A savage crawled to the kitchen, and while endeavoring to set it on fire with a burning brand, received a shot from a black man which sent him away yelling.

Fortunately, as it turned out, for the garrison in the fort, the Indians had captured a boat laden with cannon-balls. All they wanted now was a cannon with which to batter down the palisades of the fort. Indian ingenuity soon supplied the, want. A hollow log was found; to render this new kind of ordnance safe, they procured chains from a neighboring blacksmith's shop, and twisted them strongly around the improvised cannon. It was then heavily charged, pointed towards the palisade, and fired. It burst into a thousand fragments, killed some, wounded others, and convinced the survivors of their folly in meddling with the white man's inventions.

Exasperated by this failure, they returned to the assault of the house. A deadly fire again compelled them to retire. Meanwhile, the long continuance of the siege had used up the ammunition in the fort. Powder must be brought from Zane's house, in which there was a good supply. It was a forlorn hope, but plenty of volunteers offered. Zane's young sister, just from a boarding-school in Philadelphia, was of the number.

When reminded of the advantage which a man would have over her in fleetness and force, the heroine replied:

"Should he fall, his loss will be more severely felt. You have not a man to spare; a woman will not be missed in the defence of the fort." Her services were accepted. Arranging her dress for the purpose, she bounded from the fort. The Indians gazed in amazement at her daring, only exclaiming, "a squaw! a squaw!" and making no attempt to stop her. With a tablecloth filled with powder bound round her waist, she returned safely to the fort, escaping untouched amid a volley of balls several of which passed through her clothes. The fort was soon after wards relieved and the siege raised.

About six hundred Indians, led by Simon Girty, appeared at daybreak one summer morning before Bryant's Station. The previous night had been spent by the little garrison in preparations to march to the assistance of their neighbors, who had applied to them for aid. They were on the point of opening their gates to march, when the crack of rifles and discordant yells told them how narrowly they had escaped.

Rushing to the loop-holes, they saw about one hundred red men firing and gesticulating in full view of the fort. The younger men of the garrison wished to sally out and attack them; the older heads suspected a trick, and believed that the main body of the enemy was concealed on the opposite side of the fort. Girty intended, by an attack on one side with a small force, to draw out the garrison, and then with the main body to fall upon the other side and gain the fort. The overacting of Girty's savage allies, and the sagacity of his opponents, defeated his well-conceived plan.

A serious difficulty with the garrison was the want of water. The spring was at some distance, near a thicket in which the enemy lay concealed. A bold and sagacious expedient was hit upon. Supposing that the Indians would not show themselves until they had reason to believe their trick had succeeded, and the garrison had left the fort on the other side, all the females went in a body to the spring, directly under five hundred rifles, filled their buckets, and returned in such a manner as not to suggest to the quick-sighted Indians that their presence in the thicket was suspected.

This done, a small number of the garrison was sent out against the party in front, while the main body placed themselves so as to repel the anticipated rush of those in concealment. The plan succeeded perfectly. The Indians rushed from their ambush on hearing the firing from the opposite side of the fort, and were received with a well-directed discharge from all the rifles left within the station. Chagrined and panic-stricken the assailants fled, leaving a number of their slain behind them. by their failure, and discouraged by the arrival of reinforcements for the garrison, the Indians abandoned the siege and withdrew.

The disastrous battle of the Blue Licks which now occurred spread mourning throughout Kentucky. Girty and his Indians, after having been repulsed from Bryant's Station, were pursued across the Licking River by a body of one hundred and eighty Kentuckians, who had gathered in haste to relieve the fort, under Colonels Todd, Trigg and Boone.

A council of the leaders was held. Boone advised waiting for Colonel Logan, who was on the way to join them. Had his advice been taken, the result would have been very different. The enemy whom they had overtaken was before them, and a rapid retreat, or a battle against fearful odds, was inevitable.

Rash councils unhappily prevailed. The hot-headed Major McGary spurred his horse forward into the stream, and waving his hat, shouted,

"Let all who are not cowards follow me! I will show you where the Indians are!"

Dashing into the deep ford, the gallant but ill-fated band crossed the stream, and pressed forward through ravines in which lay hundreds of concealed Indians. Suddenly a murderous fire was poured into their ranks by an unseen foe, by which their right wing was broken, the enemy rushing up with great intrepidity and gaining their rear.

Fierce as was the onset it was met with heroic courage. Colonel Todd remained on his horse, with the blood flowing from mortal wounds. Boone defended his position—the left—with desperate energy, while Major Harlan could find but three of his men spared by the rifle. The horsemen generally escaped, but the foot, particularly those who had advanced farthest into the trap, were almost wholly destroyed.

When at length the Kentuckians gave way, the Indians pursued them with relentless energy, spreading destruction and death among the fugitives. The river was difficult to cross, and many were killed on entering it or while crossing and ascending the opposite bank. A stand made here by a few brave men arrested the slaughter and enabled others to cross in safety.

Boone, after witnessing the fall of a son and of many of his dearest friends, finding himself almost surrounded, plunged into the ravine between him and the ford, and escaped by swimming. He made an effort to bear away the body of his son, but was compelled to leave him by the stronger instinct of self-preservation. While attempting to carry off the body a large savage sprang towards him with uplifted tomahawk. Relinquishing his burden he shot the Indian dead. Boone's last days were passed in Missouri, where he died, in 1820, at the advanced age of eighty-six.

This was the last terrible blow struck by the Indian for the recovery of his Kentucky hunting-grounds. It brought upon his head speedy retribution. The expedition of Colonel George Rogers Clarke was exterminating in its character. The Chillicothe towns on the Scioto were reduced to ashes, their plantations were laid waste, and peace was secured for Kentucky, no formidable war party ever after crossing her border.

With all these fearful perils there was a blending of romance. The night after the battle, twelve prisoners were stripped by the Indians and painted black—the signal for torture. With one exception they were slaughtered, the twelfth having been, after a long powwow, spared—why, he never knew. His faithful wife was the only person who did not believe him dead. So strong was this belief that, when wooed by another, she postponed the nuptials from time to time until, moved by the expostulations of friends, she at length fixed the day. Just before it dawned, the crack of a rifle was beard near her solitary home. At the familiar sound she leaped out like a liberated fawn, exclaiming, as she sprang, "That's John's gun!" Sure enough, it was John's gun, and in another moment she was once more in her husband's arms.

With the name of Daniel Boone, that of Simon Kenton, one of his companions, will ever be associated in the pioneer annals of Kentucky. At the age of sixteen, Kenton had a rough-and-tumble fight with a rival suitor for the affections of a girl. Thinking the had killed his rival, Kenton fled from civilization, changed his name, and, plunging into the forest, led thenceforth a life of bold and adventurous daring, constantly surrounded by danger. He was unequalled as a spy and ranger, and the early history of the State is filled with his exploits. Reckless in bravery, and perfectly familiar with Indian strategy, he was present in most of the encounters with the western Indians, everywhere inspiring confidence, and always in the fore-front of the battle.

He had experienced a full measure of Indian cruelty. Eight times he was compelled to run the gauntlet—one of their most dreaded forms of vengeance—three times he was tied to the stake, and once nearly killed by a blow from an axe.

On one occasion he had taken an Indian's horse, and soon afterwards had the ill-luck to fall into their hands. After beating him till their arms were too tired to indulge in that gratifying recreation any longer, they secured him for the night. Placing him on his back upon the ground, they drew his legs apart and lashed each foot firmly to stakes or saplings driven into the earth. A pole was then laid across his breast, and his hands tied to each end, his arms lashed around it with thongs, which were passed under his body, so as to keep the pole stationary. After all this, another thong was passed around his neck, and the end of it secured to a stake in the ground, his head being stretched back, so as not entirely to choke him.

Next morning they amused themselves by fastening Kenton to the wildest horse in the camp, tying him hand and foot, all the while yelping and screeching around him, and asking him if he wanted to steal more Indian horses.

Turning the horse loose, he reared and plunged, and then dashed through the woods with his burden, to the infinite amusement of his Indian tormentors. After the horse had run, plunged, reared, and kicked until he was tired, to rid himself of his burden, he quieted down and peaceably followed the party to Chillicothe.

Here Kenton had to run the gauntlet. He had not gone far before he discovered an Indian with his knife drawn ready to plunge it into him. Breaking through the line, he made with all speed for the council-house, where, in accordance with Indian usage, he would be safe. Just as he entered the town he was met by an Indian coming from it, who seized him, and in his exhausted condition easily threw him down.

In another moment his pursuers were upon him. They kicked and beat him, and tore off his clothes, leaving him naked and exhausted. As soon as he recovered they took him to the council to determine his fate. Death was the decree, and the execution was to take place in a distant village. While he was on the way to this place he made a bold push for freedom, and was soon out of sight of his pursuers. His usual ill-luck again attended him. When about two miles from the town, he encountered some Indians on horseback, who recaptured him. He now, for the first time in his life, gave up, believing his case hopeless.

There was a general rejoicing when he was returned to the village. He was pinioned, and given over to the young Indians, who dragged him into the creek, tumbled him into the water, and rolled him in the sand until he was nearly suffocated. In this way they amused themselves with him until he was nearly drowned. He now thought God had forsaken him. No wonder he thought so, for it did not seem possible for him to avoid the doom which, according to Indian ideas, he most richly deserved.

In the crowd that gathered about him at the stake was the notorious Tory renegade, Simon Girty. Girty and Kenton had been bosom companions in youth. On hearing his name, Girty, who, though a hardened wretch, had a spark of human feeling remaining, threw himself into Kenton's arms, embraced, and wept aloud over him, calling him his dear and esteemed friend. With much difficulty he succeeded in prevailing upon the Indians to leave him in his charge, thus affording him a timely reprieve. Kenton was finally rescued from their hands through the instrumentality of the great and good chief, Logan, and was taken as a prisoner to Detroit.

At this point in his career a tinge of romance touched and sweetened this wild and reckless life. Kenton was now twenty-four years of age. He was six feet in height, well formed, handsome, and graceful, with a fair complexion and laughing gray eyes. He owed his freedom on this occasion—as many a handsome young fellow has done before and since, and will do in future—to a woman, the wife of an Indian trader, whose sympathies had been enlisted in behalf of this bold, manly, and good-looking backwoodsman.

Seizing a favorable opportunity, when the Indians, whose guns were stacked near her house, were having a drunken spree, she stole out after dark, selected three of their best rifles, and then notified Kenton and his two companions. She had previously prepared food, ammunition, and clothing for them, which she had secreted in a hollow tree well known to Kenton. At the appointed hour they climbed into the garden, received the guns from their benefactress, and, heaping thanks and blessings upon her, hastened away. Kenton never saw her afterwards, but to his latest hour he never forgot her, and delighted in recalling and expatiating upon the courage and goodness of the trader's wife.

In 1824 the old pioneer appeared at Frankfort in tattered garments, to petition the legislature of Kentucky to release the claim of the State upon some land owned by him. His appearance at first excited ridicule, but, on being recognized, he was treated with distinction and the lands released. The cut on the following page is from a painting of the old veteran made at this time. Congress subsequently gave him a pension, which he enjoyed until his death in 1836. Kenton was a pleasant companion and honest in his dealings, but so credulous that the same man might cheat him twenty times, and if he professed friendship he might cheat him still.

Out of many interesting narratives of single combat between the Indian and the white man we select the following:

Two brothers named Poe, both remarkable for size, strength, and courage, joined, in the summer of 1782, a party in pursuit of some Indian marauders, between Wheeling and Fort Pitt. Andrew Poe, fearing an ambuscade, left the others, crossed the Ohio, and cautiously crept along the bank. He soon espied, within a few steps of him, a Wyandot chief, a large and powerful man, and a smaller Indian, both so intent upon the movements of his party as not to have noticed him.

Poe took aim at the large chief, but his gun missed fire, and the click of the lock betrayed him. Too near to retreat, he sprang upon them, grasped the chief with one arm, and the smaller Indian round the neck with the other, and threw them down upon the shelving bank. The latter freed himself from Poe's grasp, and aimed his tomahawk at his head. A kick, opportunely applied, staggered him, and shook the tomahawk from his hand. This failure upon his part brought out an exclamation of contempt from the larger Indian. Recovering his weapon, the exulting Indian approached more cautiously, flourishing it over Poe's head as a prelude to the impending blow. By throwing up his arm, Poe saved his head, but received a blow on the wrist. Freeing himself at the same moment by a powerful effort from the grasp of the chief, who was meanwhile attempting to throw him, he snatched up one of the Indian's guns, and shot the small Indian dead, as he for the third time ran up to tomahawk him.

By this time the chief was erect, and seizing Poe by the leg and shoulder at the same moment prostrated him. Poe bounded to his feet in an instant, and closed in a struggle, which, owing to the slippery state of the bank, plunged both into the Ohio. The object now of these powerful and well-matched combatants was to drown each other. First one, and then the other, was thrust under the water by alternate successful efforts.

At length Poe seized the chief by the long black scalp-lock on the crown of his head, and held him so long submerged that he believed him to be, beyond a doubt, food for fishes. This was only an Indian trick. His foe was once more erect., and grappling again, they were carried by the current beyond their depth and obliged to swim. Both aimed for the shore, each straining every nerve to reach it first and obtain one of the guns lying there.

Soon perceiving that the Indian was the better swimmer, Poe made for the middle of the stream, hoping to avoid the shot of his foe by diving. Fortunately the gun that the Indian took up was empty, and Poe gained a little precious time. At this moment two of his party came up, and mistaking Poe for an Indian, fired, and wounded him in the shoulder. He turned, and swam bleeding towards the shore, and recognizing his brother Adam, called out to him:

"Shoot the big Indian on the shore."

But his brother's gun was also empty. The contest now was as to who could load first. Very fortunately for Adam, the Indian in loading drew the ramrod from the gun with such violence that it slipped from his hand and fell a little way off. Quickly recovering it, however, he rammed down his bullet. This slight delay gave Adam the advantage. He shot the Indian as he was raising his gun to take aim at him, and then assisted his brother to the shore. Meantime the wounded Indian, to save his scalp, plunged into the deep water, and sunk to rise no more.

One other incident, illustrating the perils of the border, also shows that even the children imbibed fearlessness with their mother's milk.

Two boys named Johnson, one aged eleven, the other thirteen, living on the west bank of the Ohio, while at play were captured by two Indians. Their captors lay down for the night, each holding one of the boys in his arms. When all was still the elder boy, who felt no desire to sleep, arose, and by stirring the fire and other movements, satisfied himself that the Indians were in a profound sleep. Gently awaking his brother, he whispered in his ear,

"We had better go home now."

"They will follow and catch us," said the younger.

"Never fear," replied the other; "we will take care of that." With some difficulty he persuaded the younger to aid him in killing their captors. The Indians had but one gun between them, and near it lay their tomahawks. The elder placed the gun, levelled on a log, with the muzzle close to the ear of one of the Indians, cocked it, and stationed his brother, with his finger on the trigger, telling him to pull it at his signal. He then stood over the other Indian, tomahawk in hand.

Brandishing the weapon, as the signal for pulling the trigger, the gun was discharged, and the tomahawk fell at the same moment. The first blow was not fatal, and the savage attempted to rise, but fresh blows, vigorously plied by the young hero, soon brought him down again.

Leaving their captors dead, the boys joyfully set off for home, where they arrived at early dawn. As they entered they heard the plaintive voice of their mother bewailing their fate, and exclaiming:

"Poor little fellows, they are killed or taken prisoners!"

"No!" they shouted, as they rushed into her arms; "here we are, mother, safe and sound!"