STONE VALLEY--McCORMICK'S FORT--MURDER OF MRS. HOUSTON AND JAMES McCLEES--A DEALER IN GRAIN OF THE OLDEN TIME.

In consequence of the rumors so rife in 1778 of the country being filled with Indians, the people of Stone Valley, north of Huntingdon, determined to build a fort. While concerting the measures for its erection, a Mr. McCormick stated that, inasmuch as the population of the valley was not very large, and the labor and expense attending the erection of a fortress very great, he would agree that his house should be put into repair, pierced for defence, and that the people should fort with him. This proposition was eagerly accepted by the people, who went willingly to work; and in a very short time his house was converted into Fort McCormick, into which nearly all the settlers of Stone Valley fled at once.

Among others who took up their residence there was an old lady named Houston, who had resided some seven miles up the valley. She was a very amiable old lady, though somewhat garrulous, for which some of the settlers were disposed to ridicule her. It appears she had a small patch of flax out, which gave her more trouble than a hundred acres of wheat would occasion some men. She was constantly lamenting the certain loss of her flax, until the very word flax got to be a byword.

As the time for pulling the flax approached, the old woman importuned every man in the fort to accompany her to her house only for a day, but her appeals were all in vain; some declared they would not go so far from the fort for a ten-acre field of flax, while an old soldier intimated that he would be pretty sure to be _flaxed_ if he went. In short, her request was treated as a jest. Nevertheless, the old woman indulged some sort of a vague hope that somebody would help her out of her difficulty, and she continued talking about the flax.

One morning, about the middle of August, a number of men were seated in front of the fort, when some one started the ever laughable theme of the old woman's flax-patch; and, while conversing with the usual levity upon the old woman's trials, a young man, named James McClees, joined the party. After listening to them some time, he got up and said--

"Boys, it is bad enough to be too cowardly to help the old woman gather her flax; to ridicule her misfortune is a shame."

"If you think it is cowardly, why don't you go and help her pull it?"

said one of the men, who was evidently piqued at what had been said.

"That is just my intention," said he. "Mrs. Houston, get ready, and I'll go with you to pull your flax."

The dream was at last to be realized, and the old woman's heart was overflowing with grat.i.tude. In a few moments she was ready. McClees shouldered his rifle, and the two departed--alas! to return no more.

McClees was but eighteen years of age, but extremely well-proportioned, and his vocabulary knew no such word as fear. Sad fate, that his n.o.ble and generous impulses should have been the means of cutting him off in the very flower of youth!

Of the manner of his death there was no living witness to speak; but on and around his body, when found, there were unmistakable signs of such actions as are supposed to speak as plain as words.

Both had promised to return to the fort in the evening, or the evening following at farthest. The first evening pa.s.sed, and they came not; the second evening, and still no sign of them. This created alarm, and the necessary arrangements were made to go in search of them.

As soon as the ordinary duty of the morning was performed, as many armed men as it was deemed safe to spare were sent up the Valley. When they arrived at Mrs. Houston's house they found all quiet, and no signs of either Mrs. Houston or McClees having been there. They then started up the hill-side, toward the flax-patch; but before they reached it they found the dead body of Mrs. Houston. She had been killed apparently by cuts from a hatchet on the forehead, and her scalp was taken off. The flax was untouched, which rendered it probable that she was attacked and killed while on her way to the patch.

A hundred yards farther on lay McClees, literally covered with blood, and stabbed and cut in every part of his body. As there were no bullet-wounds upon him, it was evident that the fight was a hand-to-hand encounter, and the struggle must have been a long, fearful, and b.l.o.o.d.y one. That McClees had sold his life dearly was also very apparent. His rifle was gone; but by his side lay his knife, b.l.o.o.d.y, and the point broken off. Near him lay a tomahawk, also b.l.o.o.d.y, and the ground was clotted with blood for a circuit of twenty yards. In addition to these, eagle-feathers, beads, and shreds of buckskin, were found lying about where the struggle had taken place.

The nature of this fearful fight could only be guessed at by these tokens; but the true state of it was revealed in a few years after; for within a mile of where the struggle took place, on the bench of the mountain, two hunters found the remains of three Indians covered with bark. The supposition was that McClees had been attacked by five of them, and killed two outright and mortally wounded a third before they despatched him.

A hero such as this brave youth proved himself in that desperate encounter certainly deserved a better fate.

In concluding our reminiscences of Stone Valley we cannot omit giving an anecdote, characteristic of the times, told us by an old friend.

Far up Stone Creek lived an old gentleman named O'Burn. In 1777, being a thrifty farmer, he raised nearly a thousand bushels of wheat. The year following, times became very hard--wheat was high, and commanded a price which placed it almost beyond the reach of poor men. The fact that O'Burn had a large quant.i.ty of wheat attracted to his house numerous customers; and the manner in which he dealt with them may be inferred from the following:--

A man reputed to be rich rode up to his house, when Mr. O'Burn made his appearance in the doorway.

"Mr. O'Burn, have you any wheat?"

"Plenty of it. Have you the money to pay for it?"

"Certainly."

"A horse to carry it, and bags to put it in, I see."

"Oh, yes; every thing," said the stranger.

"Well, then," replied O'Burn, "you can go to Big Valley for your wheat; mine is for people who have no money to pay, no bags to put it in, and no horses to carry it off!"

We regret to say that the race of O'Burns became extinct some years ago.

CHAPTER XXVI.

TUCKAHOE--MURDER OF JOHN GUILLIFORD.

In the Valley of Tuckahoe, stretching from Altoona to the mouth of the Bald Eagle, there were some depredations committed, but never any of a very serious nature, except upon one occasion. The cause of this can be traced, in a great measure, to the fact that Thomas and Michael Coleman and Michael Wallack lived in the upper end of the valley. These men were so well known and so much feared by the Indians, that, although the Kittaning Path, leading to the Bald Eagle Valley, ran directly through Tuckahoe, they always avoided it, for fear of finding those old and experienced hunters ambuscaded along their route. Besides, Captain Logan, a friendly chief, lived for some years in what is now known as Logan's Valley. He was also known and feared, and he was constantly on the watch to guard against the incursions of hostile savages. Add to this the fact that the valley was thinly populated, and the risk attending the hunting for scalps immeasurably great, small roving parties, on but two or three occasions, made their appearance in Tuckahoe.

In the fall of 1777, two savages took captive two children while at play, near a cabin located somewhere in the neighborhood of where Mr.

Hutchinson now lives. Thomas Coleman happened to be out hunting, and saw them come up the path. Each one was carrying a child, but neither of them had fire-arms, so that he felt quite at ease. From behind the tree where he stood, he might easily have shot one of the savages, but he would not run the risk for fear of hitting the child; so, waiting until they had pa.s.sed him, he jumped into the path, levelled his gun at them, and shouted "_surrender_!" The affrighted savages dropped the children and disappeared in the woods.

On another occasion they entered the valley, stole three horses, and set fire to a stable. A number of pioneers tracked them through the old war-path to the top of the mountain; which was quite as far as it was prudent to venture, as that was considered the line dividing the white settlements from the Indian country.

The only ma.s.sacre in Tuckahoe ever committed by the savages took place in the summer of 1778. A man named John Guilliford cleared a small patch of land a short distance south of where Blair Furnace now stands, and erected his cabin near where John Trout's house is. In the spring of 1778, he abandoned his ground and cabin after the first alarm of Indian depredations, and sought safety in Fetter's Fort. In the course of the summer, after the alarm had somewhat subsided, Guilliford went down to see how his crops were progressing. His body was found the same day by Coleman and Milligan. It was lying at the threshold of his cabin door; so that, in all probability, he was shot just as he was coming out of his house. Coleman and Milligan dug a grave near the hut, and buried him as he was, without a coffin. The most remarkable feature about this murder was that Guilliford was not scalped. When we remember that scalps were paid for at the British garrison at Detroit, the omission to scalp Guilliford appears almost inexplicable. Coleman and Milligan went in search of the Indians, but did not succeed in getting upon their trail.

CHAPTER XXVII.

EARLY SETTLEMENT OF SCOTCH VALLEY--THE MOORE FAMILY--Ma.s.sACRE OF WILLIAM MOORE--INDIAN SHOT BY A BOY, ETC.

The Moore family, whose name is identified with Scotch Valley as the original settlers, came to this country probably about the year 1768, from Scotland. It consisted of Samuel Moore, his seven sons and two daughters,--viz.: Daniel, William, John, Samuel, James, David, Joseph, Elizabeth, and Jane. Their first stopping-place in the interior was in Kishicoquillas Valley, where the hardy Scots commenced clearing land; but the yield not being such as they were led to expect, the two elder brothers, Daniel and William, were sent abroad by the old patriarch to look for better land and more of it. Accordingly, they shaped their course westward, prospecting as they went, until they reached what is now known as Scotch Valley. How they found their way to that place, an unbroken wilderness, five miles from the nearest human habitation, or what the inducements were for stopping there, were puzzling questions _then_. Let the reader _now_ look at the fine farms of Scotch Valley, and he will see that, in selecting the spot, the Moores were actuated by a sagacity that enabled them to see those fine lands blooming like the rose in the future. They immediately occupied a large tract of land, built a cabin, and commenced clearing. The year following they went to Kishicoquillas, and brought on the father and the remainder of the family.

Beneath their st.u.r.dy blows the giant oaks fell, and the wilderness was turned into fields of waving grain, and they soon had a home that made them even forget the Highlands of Scotland.

When the war broke out they were all stanch republicans, active and energetic men, and were foremost in all measures of defence for the frontier.

William Moore, second son of Samuel, a useful man, loved and respected by all who knew him, met his death at the hands of an Indian, in August, 1778. It appears that one morning two of their horses were missing, when William and a lad named George McCartney, about fourteen years of age, started in pursuit of them--as a matter of course not neglecting the caution of the day, to take their rifles with them. At that time two paths led to Fetter's Fort from Scotch Valley,--one by way of Frankstown, through Adam Holliday's farm, fording the river near where the plank-road bridge now crosses south of Hollidaysburg; the other led through the flat, back of the Presbyterian graveyard, and north of Hollidaysburg. This was the most direct route; but, in order to make a thorough research, they went by way of the river road, and reached Fetter's Fort without obtaining any tidings of the missing animals. After remaining at the fort a short time, they started on their way home by the back or direct road. No Indians having been seen in the country for some time, they travelled on with a feeling of entire security, and never for a moment entertained the remotest idea of coming in contact with savages. When they came to a pile of drift-wood,--in what is now known as McCahen's Bottom, half a mile west of Hollidaysburg,--while Moore was in the act of trying to get over the drift, he was shot by an Indian from an ambuscade. The bullet entered his back, pa.s.sed through the left ventricle of the heart, and he fell dead against the drift.

McCartney, who was some distance off, on the impulse of the moment commenced running. In the mean time the Indian had come from his place of concealment, and, seeing him, drew his tomahawk and followed.

McCartney soon finding that the savage was the fleetest, and must overtake him, c.o.c.ked his gun while running, suddenly wheeled, and aimed at the Indian. This unexpected defence from a mere boy rather took the Indian by surprise, and he jumped behind a tree, and McCartney did the same, still keeping the aim ready to shoot in case the Indian moved from the cover of the tree. While in this position, the Indian commenced loading his rifle, and, after ramming home the powder, he accidentally dropped his ramrod, which he stooped to pick up; in doing which he exposed his posterior, which McCartney took advantage of, and fired. The Indian gave a scream of mingled rage and pain, dropped his rifle, and ran, picking up leaves on his way, which he endeavored to thrust into the bullet-hole to stanch the blood.

Young McCartney, satisfied with the exploit, and thankful that his life had been spared, did not pursue the savage. His first impulse was to do so; but fearing that the chase might lead him into an encampment of the enemy, since it invariably turned out that where there was one more were not far off, he returned with all despatch to Fetter's Fort. The men at the fort had heard both shots, but supposed that Moore and McCartney had started game of some kind; consequently, they were unprepared for any news of the kind. Fortunately, there happened to be a very large force at Fetter's at the time, and, under the impression that there must be more Indians in the neighborhood, a strong, experienced force at once started out.

When they arrived at the drift, they found the body of Moore, stark in death, leaning against it, with his rifle grasped in his uplifted hands, as if in the very act of trying to climb over. His body was removed to the fort by some of the men, while the remainder commenced searching for the Indian. By his blood they tracked him nearly a mile up the run, and even found a place where he had evidently stopped to wash the blood off; but at length they lost all traces of his trail.

They continued their march, however, to Gap Run, in order to ascertain whether there was any fresh Indian trail. In their conjectures that there were other Indians near they were not mistaken. Half a mile west of where Hutchinson's Mill now stands, they found traces of a fresh encampment of a very large party, whose trail they followed several miles up the Kittaning War-Path; but they soon abandoned all hope of overtaking them, and returned to the fort.

The dead body of the Indian shot by McCartney was found, some time afterward, by a Mr. Hileman, up Kittaning Run, where he had secreted himself by the side of a log, under some bushes, and completely covered himself with brush and leaves previous to giving up the ghost, in order to prevent the whites from finding his body. The ruling pa.s.sion was strong even in death!

His rifle, which was kept at Fetter's, as a trophy, was a bra.s.s-barrelled smooth-bore, with the British coat of arms stamped upon it,--conclusive evidence that the entire savage band had been armed and equipped by his Majesty's officers at Detroit, and were on a scalp-hunting expedition.

During the troubles of 1779-80, when the frontier-men fled before the a.s.saults and merciless ma.s.sacres of the Indians, the Moores returned to their former residence in Kishicoquillas. But the restless Scots did not remain away from their farm long. Some of them returned in a year; but the old patriarch, Samuel, did not return until after the surrender of Cornwallis. He was then accompanied by a colony of Scotchmen, consisting of the Crawfords, Irwins, Fraziers, Stewarts, and Macphersons, and others, const.i.tuting from twenty-five to thirty persons.