Life and Death Battle With an Indian With Knives and Tomahawks. The Settler Prevailed in the Fight

    On another occasion, Roller had an encounter with a single Indian in the woods, which probably stands unparalleled in the history of personal encounters between a savage and a white man. Roller left home about seven o'clock in the morning, in search of deer. He had ranged along the edge of the mountain an hour or two, when he heard a rifle-shot but a short distance from him, and a minute had scarcely elapsed before a wounded doe came in the direction where he stood. To shoot it was but the work of an instant, because he supposed that one of his neighbors had wounded it; for the thought of the presence of Indians never entered his head. Yet it appears that it was an Indian who fired. The Indian mistook the crack of Boiler's rifle for that of a companion left at the base of the mountain. Under this impression, the Indian, anxious to secure the doe, and Roller, intent on bleeding her, both neglected one of the first precautions of the day,—viz.: to reload their rifles. Roller was leaning over the doe, when he heard the crust of the snow breaking in a thicket near him. He jumped to his feet, and was confronted by the Indian,—a tall, muscular fellow, who was quite as large as Roller. The savage, well aware of the fact that neither of the rifles were loaded, and probably satisfied in meeting "a foeman worthy of his steel," deliberately placed his gun against a tree by the side of Roller's, and, drawing his tomahawk, he cast a glance of savage delight at the white man before him, which seemed to imply that he would soon show him who was the better man of the two. Roller, anticipating his intentions, drew his tomahawk and stood on the defensive. The savage made a spring, when Roller jumped aside, and the Indian passed. The latter suddenly wheeled, when Roller struck him upon the elbow of the uplifted hand, and the hatchet fell. Fearing to stoop to regain it, the savage drew his knife, and turned upon Roller. They clinched, and a fearful struggle ensued. Roller held the savage's right arm, so as to render useless his knife, while the Indian grasped firmly the hand in which Roller held his hatchet, and in this manner they struggled until they were both tripped by the carcass of the doe; still both retained their hold. Roller fortunately grasped his knife, lying beside the doe, with his left hand, and thrust it into the side of the Indian. The struggle now became terrible, and by one powerful effort the savage loosened himself and sprang to his feet; but Roller was as quick as he was. In attempting to close again, the savage stabbed Roller in the shoulder and in the arm. Roller had dropped his hatchet in regaining his feet, and the combat was now a deadly one with knives. They cut and thrust at each other until their buckskin hunting-shirts were literally cut into ribbons and the crusted snow was dyed with their blood. At length, faint with the loss of blood, the combat ceased, by mutual consent, as it were, and the Indian, loosening himself from Roller's grasp, took his rifle and disappeared. Roller stanched, with frozen snow and some tow, the only dangerous wound he had, and managed to reach his home. He was stabbed in four or five places, and it was some weeks before he fully recovered from his wounds. The skeleton of the savage, with his rifle by his side, was found the succeeding summer on the top of Warrior Ridge.

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1768 Father is Murdered by an Indian While his Son Ran and Killed the Indian that Murdered His Father. Exciting Tale

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 sturdy 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, passed 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, cocked 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 passion was strong even in death!

His rifle, which was kept at Fetter's, as a trophy, was a brass-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 assaults and merciless massacres 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, constituting from twenty-five to thirty persons.

The late Mr. Maguire, then quite a lad, was at Shaver's Creek when they passed on their way west. They were all in full Highland costume, with bonnet and kilt, armed with claymores and Queen Anne muskets. He had seen Indians before, but never any Highlanders, and, while listening to their Gaelic dialect, he wondered to himself what tribe they belonged to.

These men settled in the upper end of the valley; hence the name—"Scotch Valley." By their sinewy arms and sturdy blows the oaks of the forest fell, and by their unremitting toil to gain a home in the New World they encountered and triumphed over the most formidable obstacles, until the valley—its natural soil taken into consideration—became one of the finest of its size in the country.

The Moore family were the first persons who conceived the idea of running arks down the river from Frankstown. This they accomplished successfully before the close of the last century, and afterward engaged in running flat-boats between Frankstown and Middletown.

Of the third generation of the Moore family but three remain in this vicinity,—viz.: T. B. Moore, in Hollidaysburg; Jesse Moore, at the old homestead, in Scotch Valley; and Johnston Moore, in Ebensburg. Others, however, live in the West; and the fourth generation, whose number we are not able to compute, are scattered over the Union.

The descendants of the men who wound their way up the Juniata, in Highland costume, nearly three-quarters of a century ago, with all their worldly possessions upon pack-horses, are also numerous; and many of them have risen to wealth and eminence by their own unaided exertions.

                                    57 stories of Indian torture and capture. Gruesome stories

 The Murder of the Breckenridge Family by Indians

The Breckenridge family lived about three miles south-east of McConnelstown, on the road which now leads from Huntingdon to Bedford, on the farm at present occupied by Ludwig Hoover. The family consisted of the father, mother, two sons,—John and Thomas, aged respectively eighteen and sixteen years,—a girl aged fourteen, another aged three years, and an infant at the breast. They had, during the alarms of massacres, forted at Hartsock's Fort, which was almost in sight of their farm; but in the spring of 1779, the alarm having in a great measure subsided, they, as well as the rest of the settlers, went home, and the fort was abandoned, under the full impression that they would have no further use for it,—that Indian depredations were ended. In this, they were most signally mistaken.

In July—probably about the middle of the month,—one morning, directly after breakfast, the sons, John and Thomas, started in search of a horse that had broken from his enclosure the night previous. After they had gone, the old lady occupied herself in her household duties, while the oldest daughter repaired to the spring-house in the meadow,—a distance of probably five hundred yards from the house,—for the purpose of churning. While engaged in this occupation, she was suddenly confronted by five Indians. Probably overcome by fright, she made no effort to escape, but screamed at the top of her voice. The father, without suspecting the real cause of the difficulty, started, unarmed, in the direction of the spring-house, and when within twenty yards of it a bullet from one of the Indian rifles struck him, and he fell dead in the path. Mrs. Breckenridge was looking out of the window at the time, and, fearing that their next move would be in the direction of the house, she snatched the infant out of the cradle, and, taking in her arms the other child, escaped. Instinctively she took the path toward Standing Stone,—a direction in which the Indians were not likely to follow. She pursued the path along Crooked Run for a few miles, and then sank exhausted upon the ground. As soon as she rallied, she endeavored to continue her way to the Stone; but to her dismay she found that she had wandered from the path and was lost. In this condition, she wandered about the woods with her children the whole day and the entire night. Next day, the oldest child complained bitterly of hunger, when the mother fortunately came to a rye-field. The rye was just beginning to head, in spots, and she gathered a number of heads, rubbed out the kernels, and gave them to the child. As the operation was a tedious one, in consequence of the scarcity of the grain, she took off her under-garment, wrapped up the infant and laid it down, and went to work to procure sufficient to appease the appetite of the child, and while so engaged she unconsciously wandered a considerable distance from the infant.

John and Thomas returned to the house with the horses late in the afternoon; and, seeing their father and sister murdered, believed that the mother, with the other children, had either met the same fate or been carried into captivity. They lost no time in making their way to Standing Stone Fort, where they communicated the sad intelligence. By that time it was nearly dark, and entirely too late to make any further effort; but at the dawn of day, next morning, a posse of men went to Breckenridge's house, where the murdered father and daughter lay, and, while part of the people employed themselves in removing the bodies preparatory to burial, another party scoured the country in search of the mother, being encouraged to do so by seeing her tracks leading toward Crooked Run. Late in the afternoon they found her, at the edge of the rye-field, leading her child; but the anguish she had endured had in a measure unsettled her mind, and she was unable to tell where she had left the infant. It was deemed advisable to remove her to the fort. By next day, she had so far recovered as to be able to state that she left the infant in the field; whereupon a party set out, and returned with it in the evening.

The infant had apparently not suffered a great deal, except from the annoyance of flies. Its entire face was fly-blown; and yet, strange to say, she recovered, grew to be a strong, healthy woman, got married, and was the mother of Isaac B. Meek, Esq., formerly a member of the legislature from Centre county, and, we are told, died but a few years ago.

John Breckenridge became a distinguished Presbyterian preacher. Mr. Maguire was under the impression that he located among his relatives in Kentucky; but Dr. Junkin, of Hollidaysburg, whose knowledge of church history cannot be questioned, informs us that he officiated for many years in the first Presbyterian church ever built in Washington City.

Woodcock Valley was the scene of the massacre of Captain Phillips's scout,—one of the most cruel and cold-blooded murders on record,—a massacre which hurried into eternity ten as brave men as ever ranged the woods of the Juniata Valley.

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 The Indian Murder and Scalping of Elder

Woodcock Valley, located north of Huntingdon, is one of the oldest-settled valleys in the county. In the days of Indian depredations, it was a favorite haunt of the savage, whose great war-path from the West to the East went through a part of it.

The first murder committed in it during the Revolutionary struggle occurred at Coffey Run, near the present residence of Mr. Entriken. The victim was a man named Elder, the husband of the woman mentioned in a preceding chapter as having been carried a captive to Detroit by the Indians. As there is no living witness who was present, the circumstances connected with his massacre are merely traditionary. He was on his way home in company with Richard Shirley, when he was shot and scalped; in which condition he was found by a scouting party a day or two after the occurrence. This was in 1778, and the same year a number of captives were taken from the valley; but the accounts are so vague that we can give no reliable data.

Chippewa Indian Hanged for Murder

Chippewa Indian Hanged for a Justifiable Murder

A Chippewa Indian is hanged for a  murder that was justified.

    There was one case of sober murder happened about fifty years ago at Arbor Croche, where one young man disposed of his lover by killing, which no Indian ever knew the actual cause of. He was arrested and committed to the Council and tried according to the Indian style; and after a long council, or trial, it was determined the murderer should be banished from the tribe. Therefore, he was banished. Also, about this time, one case of sober murder transpired among the Chippewas of Sault Ste. Marie, committed by one of the young Chippewas whose name was Wau-bau-ne-me-kee (White-thunder), who might have been released if he had been properly tried and impartial judgment exercised over the case, but we believe it was not. This Indian killed a white man, when he was perfectly sober, by stabbing. He was arrested, of course, and tried and sentenced to be hung at the Island of Mackinac. I distinctly remember the time. This poor Indian was very happy when he was about to be hung on the gallows. He told the people that he was very happy to die, for he felt that he was innocent. He did not deny killing the man, but he thought he was justifiable in the sight of the Great Spirit, as such wicked monsters ought to be killed from off the earth; as this white man came to the Indian's wigwam in the dead of night, and dragged the mother of his children from his very bosom for licentious purpose. He remonstrated, but his remonstrances were not heeded, as this ruffian was encouraged by others who stood around his wigwam, and ready to fall upon this poor Indian and help their fellow-ruffian; and he therefore stabbed the principal party, in defence of his beloved wife, for which cause the white man died. If an Indian should go to the white man's house and commit that crime, he would be killed; and what man is there who would say that is too bad, this Indian to be killed in that manner? But every man will say amen, only he ought to have been tortured before he was killed; and let the man who killed this bad and wicked Indian be rewarded! This is what would be the result if the Indian would have done the same thing as this white man did.

57 stories of gruesome torture and capture by Native Americans

Tortured by the Apache Indians: A First-Hand Account

Tortured by the Apache Indians: A First-Hand Account

The Torture.

Upon the level plain facing the temple, and at a short distance from it, scores of brawny savages were busily engaged planting firmly in the ground a row of massive posts; they were arranged in a semi-circle, and were about twenty in number. We saw many of the Indians go to the woods, tomahawk in hand; we heard the sounds of chopping, and saw them return with bundlesof faggots we saw them fastening curiously fashioned chains of copper to the posts; we observed them painting their faces and bodies in hideous stripes of red and black. It was a scene of fearful import, for we knew but too well that it was the prelude to the torture. What were my companions' reflections I knew not, for they spoke but little. But the set and stern expression that showed itself on every face, told me plainly that they fully realized the terrible drama in which they were to be the principal actors. The appearance of all was ghastly in the extreme. Travel-stained, covered with dust, and with spots of dried blood, some showing fresh and bleeding wounds—souvenirs of yesterday's rough sport—our clothing torn and disarranged, we were indeed objects of pity, calculated to excite commiseration in the breasts of any others than the brutal and sanguinary wretches who were about to put us to a terrible death. As for me, my brain was on fire; and could I but have freed myself from my bonds I would gladly have sought instant death at the hands of the nearest savage, rather than to longer endure the ever present torture of mind, and the not more acute physical suffering which I was soon to undergo.

At last their preparations seemed completed, and the audience assembled. Camanches and Apaches alike gathered before the temple, forming a vast semi-circle. The terraces of the temple were occupied by the older men, and upon its summit were seated a 

group of men in strange costumes, the priests of Quetzalcoatl. Directly in front of the temple a sort of throne had been erected, and upon it sat the aged chief, with his subordinates grouped around him. An old Indian of most repulsive aspect, seemed to direct the proceedings, assisted by about a hundred of the younger warriors. A number approached us, we were released from our fastenings and led forward; our ragged garments were soon stripped from our bodies, and with dextrous rapidity we were bound singly to the stakes already prepared for us.

To the hour of my death I can never forget that scene. For years it haunted me, and even now, at times I start from my sleep with a cry of terror as I fancy I see again that mob of yelling, painted demons, the crowded terraces of the temple gay with the bright colors of barbaric costumes, the little band of doomed captives, the fagots, stakes, and all the terrible instruments of death. Back of all, the snow white cliffs, fringed with the dark green foliage of the pines, and Heaven's sunshine falling over all, as if in mockery of the awful tragedy about to be enacted. I wake—and shuddering, thank God that it is only a dream.

But it was all too real then. At a signal from their leader the savage executioners heaped the fagots around us, placing them at a sufficient distance to insure the prolongation of our sufferings, so that we might die]

slowly, and afford them ample time to fully enjoy our agonies. The fires were lighted, and the smoke rolled up in volumes, and threatened to suffocate us and put a speedy end to our torments. In a few seconds however, as the wood got fairly blazing, the smoke lifted, and as we began to writhe in agony, a yell of delight went up from more than three thousand savage throats. The heat grew more intense; my skin was scorched and blistered; dizzy and faint, I felt that the end was near, and longed for death as a speedy escape from such terrible pain. Some of my companions, rendered frantic by their sufferings, gave vent to screams of anguish; others endured in silence.

Mustering all my fortitude, as yet not a sound had escaped me; I had closed my eyes, and was fervently praying for the relief which I knew death must soon give me, when I was startled by a wild cry, followed by a yell of astonishment from the savage spectators. Opening my eyes I saw the same gigantic Indian who had recaptured me on the day previous, making his way rapidly through the crowd, who fell back to right and left with precipitate haste. Rushing directly towards me he scattered the blazing brands, released me as quick as thought, and dragged me to the front of the temple, while the air resounded with the yells and exclamations of the Indians. Raising his hand he hushed them into silence, and uttered a few words in the Camanche tongue; their meaning was lost upon me; I could only distinguish the word "Quetzalcoatl," 

which I knew to be the name of their God. But the revulsion of feeling, and the terrible ordeal through which I had passed, proved too much for my exhausted frame; I swooned and sank insensible to the earth.

Over 100 First Hand Accounts of Torture and Terror on the Ohio

                                     57 gruesome stories if Indian capture and torture and torture

Tortured by the Commanche Indians : A First-Hand Account

Another morning dawned; again we were brought forth, and from the information gained from the old trapper, I knew that our time for action had come. Lying in a group on the green sward, we watched the movements of our enemies with painful interest. Our hands and feet were bound, but we were not otherwise secured, and were therefore enabled to sit up and look around us; we saw that the Indians were divested of every superfluous article of dress or ornament, that their movements might be light and unimpeded. We saw them enter the woods and return with clubs freshly cut from the trees, an ominous indication of the fate in store for us. To the number of several hundred the savages had gathered upon the plain, and were arranging the preliminaries for their fiendish sport. We watched their preparations with a peculiar interest; at length all seemed in readiness—two rows of Indians stretched along the plain for a distance of about three hundred yards—all were armed with clubs, and stood facing each other; an interval of three or four paces [separating the ranks. Between these lines we had to run and receive blows in passing, from all who were quick enough to hit us. We were told that if any of our number achieved the apparently impossible feat of passing the entire line, and could reach the foot of the cliff without being overtaken that our lives would be spared. I asked the old trapper if he believed this. "Not by a durn sight," was his reply; "its all a cussed injun lie, just to make us do our puttiest; they'll roast us all the same, blast 'em." I was satisfied that the promise was of no value, even if they should adhere to it; for the fleetest runner could never pass the lines.

Several of the warriors now approached us, and untied one of the Mexicans; he was to run first. Although an athletic and active specimen of his race, he was quickly disposed of; running barely ten paces before he was stretched senseless, and brought back helpless and bleeding, while the air resounded with the wild yells of the savage bystanders. Three of the other captives soon met the same fate, and then it came my turn; I was unbound and led forward and stood awaiting the signal to begin the terrible race. Within a few moments a wild scheme had formed itself in my mind, and although fully realizing its desperate nature, I had determined to make the effort, even if I perished in the attempt. I had noticed that, with the exception of those forming the lines between which I was to run, the Indians all stood behind me; [9]and for a considerable space around me the ground was entirely clear. My plan was to start as if with the intention of entering the lane of savages, but to suddenly diverge to the right or left, as might seem most expedient, and run directly down the valley, with the hope that I might be able to reach the dense and tangled forest which fringed it, and conceal myself in its recesses until I could find some way out of my rock-environed prison. As I look back at it now, I can only wonder that I should have had the hardihood to attempt it. Not an Indian among the hundreds around but knew well all the paths and windings of the wooded borders of the valley, even supposing that I were fortunate enough to reach it; but that was improbable. Among so many it was likely there would be several able to outstrip me in speed, fast runner as I deemed myself; and if overtaken, I could expect nothing but more cruel treatment than I had yet experienced. Besides, although I did not know it at the time, the valley had but two entrances, and these were constantly guarded by a watchful picket. But at the time I thought of none of these things—"drowning men will catch at straws," says the old adage—and my hastily formed plan seemed to me to promise success. Having formed my resolution I was necessitated to put it in practice at once. The Indians were already impatient for another victim, and the signal being given I started on my race for life at the top of my speed. At first I [Pg 50]ran directly for the living lane, where my enemies waited with poised clubs each eager to strike the first blow, but as I neared it I made a sudden break to the right, and gathering all my energies for one mighty effort, I broke through a group of old men and idlers who were watching the sport. Despite their efforts to intercept me I cleared them in an instant, and ran down the valley with the whole yelling mob at my heels. Some half dozen of my pursuers being swifter of foot forged ahead of their comrades, but they did not seem to gain upon me, and for a time it seemed that I would distance them entirely; but I had overestimated my strength, and to my alarm found myself growing weak, and running heavily and with painful effort.

I had now, however, nearly reached the timber, and strained every nerve to gain its welcome shadow; looking back, I saw that one of my pursuers was within two hundred yards of me, and gaining rapidly; straining every nerve, I kept up my headlong pace, but when within fifty paces of the woods and with my enemy but little further behind me, I tripped and fell, and had barely time to spring to my feet before he was upon me; he was entirely unarmed, having thrown away his club during the chase. As he rushed upon me, I met him with a blow from my fist, delivered with all the force of which I was capable. Striking him directly under the chin, it knocked him completely off his feet, and he measured his length [upon the grass. I turned with a spring, and was about to plunge into the thicket, when the dense undergrowth parted directly before me, and I stood face to face with an Indian of gigantic size and most singular appearance. For a moment I was completely paralyzed; not so my new opponent. Realizing the situation at a glance, he sprang upon me, and bore me to the ground with scarcely an effort. Emerging from the lethargy which had enthralled me for a moment, I struggled frantically to free myself, but in vain. Several others had now come up, and my fallen antagonist, who had been stunned for a moment, recovered himself, with his temper not at all improved by the rough handling he had received, and snatching a knife from the belt of one of the new comers, aimed a blow at me which would have ended my life on the instant, and prevented this narrative from being written. My captor seized his arm, and rebuked him so sternly, that he slunk away abashed. I was then allowed to rise to my feet, and my hands being bound, the huge Indian, who seemed to be in authority, and of whom the others evidently stood in awe consigned me to the custody of two warriors, and dismissing the rest with a wave of his hand, again disappeared in the thicket.

Led between my two guards, I was soon taken back to the village, followed by an excited crowd of Indians, who showed a disposition to handle me pretty roughly, but their unwelcome attentions were [prevented by my conductors who pushed rapidly through the crowd, and soon reached the lodge in which I had previously been confined. I was soon reinstalled in my gloomy prison, and after tying me in the usual manner, my attendants left me to solitude and misery.

Bitterly disappointed by the failure of my daring scheme at the very moment when it seemed to promise success, my thoughts were the reverse of pleasant; and when my mind reverted to the fate of my wife, I suffered such mental agony, as I pray that you, kind reader, may never know.

Another night passed, and remembering the words of the old trapper, I awoke filled with the conviction that it was to be my last day on earth. The usual scanty meal was supplied to me, and about an hour later I was again brought forth upon the plain. I was soon among my companions in misfortune, and like them securely tied to stakes; but allowed to sit upright, as if the red demons wished us to fully observe the preparations now going forward
Upon the level plain facing the temple, and at a short distance from it, scores of brawny savages were busily engaged planting firmly in the ground a row of massive posts; they were arranged in a semi-circle, and were about twenty in number. We saw many of the Indians go to the woods, tomahawk in hand; we heard the sounds of chopping, and saw them return with 

[bundles of faggots; we saw them fastening curiously fashioned chains of copper to the posts; we observed them painting their faces and bodies in hideous stripes of red and black. It was a scene of fearful import, for we knew but too well that it was the prelude to the torture. What were my companions' reflections I knew not, for they spoke but little. But the set and stern expression that showed itself on every face, told me plainly that they fully realized the terrible drama in which they were to be the principal actors. The appearance of all was ghastly in the extreme. Travel-stained, covered with dust, and with spots of dried blood, some showing fresh and bleeding wounds—souvenirs of yesterday's rough sport—our clothing torn and disarranged, we were indeed objects of pity, calculated to excite commiseration in the breasts of any others than the brutal and sanguinary wretches who were about to put us to a terrible death. As for me, my brain was on fire; and could I but have freed myself from my bonds I would gladly have sought instant death at the hands of the nearest savage, rather than to longer endure the ever present torture of mind, and the not more acute physical suffering which I was soon to undergo.

At last their preparations seemed completed, and the audience assembled. Comanches and Apaches alike gathered before the temple, forming a vast semi-circle. The terraces of the temple were occupied by the older men, and upon its summit were seated a [4]group of men in strange costumes, the priests of Quetzalcoatl. Directly in front of the temple a sort of throne had been erected, and upon it sat the aged chief, with his subordinates grouped around him. An old Indian of most repulsive aspect, seemed to direct the proceedings, assisted by about a hundred of the younger warriors. A number approached us, we were released from our fastenings and led forward; our ragged garments were soon stripped from our bodies, and with dextrous rapidity we were bound singly to the stakes already prepared for us.

To the hour of my death I can never forget that scene. For years it haunted me, and even now, at times I start from my sleep with a cry of terror as I fancy I see again that mob of yelling, painted demons, the crowded terraces of the temple gay with the bright colors of barbaric costumes, the little band of doomed captives, the fagots, stakes, and all the terrible instruments of death. Back of all, the snow white cliffs, fringed with the dark green foliage of the pines, and Heaven's sunshine falling over all, as if in mockery of the awful tragedy about to be enacted. I wake—and shuddering, thank God that it is only a dream.

But it was all too real then. At a signal from their leader the savage executioners heaped the fagots around us, placing them at a sufficient distance to insure the prolongation of our sufferings, so that we might die [slowly, and afford them ample time to fully enjoy our agonies. The fires were lighted, and the smoke rolled up in volumes, and threatened to suffocate us and put a speedy end to our torments. In a few seconds however, as the wood got fairly blazing, the smoke lifted, and as we began to writhe in agony, a yell of delight went up from more than three thousand savage throats. The heat grew more intense; my skin was scorched and blistered; dizzy and faint, I felt that the end was near, and longed for death as a speedy escape from such terrible pain. Some of my companions, rendered frantic by their sufferings, gave vent to screams of anguish; others endured in silence.

Mustering all my fortitude, as yet not a sound had escaped me; I had closed my eyes, and was fervently praying for the relief which I knew death must soon give me, when I was startled by a wild cry, followed by a yell of astonishment from the savage spectators. Opening my eyes I saw the same gigantic Indian who had recaptured me on the day previous, making his way rapidly through the crowd, who fell back to right and left with precipitate haste. Rushing directly towards me he scattered the blazing brands, released me as quick as thought, and dragged me to the front of the temple, while the air resounded with the yells and exclamations of the Indians. Raising his hand he hushed them into silence, and uttered a few words in the Camanche tongue; their meaning was lost upon me; I could only distinguish the word "Quetzalcoatl," ]which I knew to be the name of their God. But the revulsion of feeling, and the terrible ordeal through which I had passed, proved too much for my exhausted frame; I swooned and sank insensible to the earth.

57 gruesome stories of Indian capture and torture

First Hand Account of the Slaughter and Scalping of 700 U.S. Soldiers on the Wabash

700 U.S. Soldiers were killed at the headwaters of the Wabash River in Indiana under the leadership of General St. Clair. This terrible massacre has been completely ignored by modern historians. 


General Arthur St. Clair, the commanding officer of the army on November 4th, 1791,
700 Men Slaughtered and Scalped on the Wabash River by the Miami Indians

    The coming victory over St. Clair was clearly the result not of overwhelming numbers, but of superior generalship. Here on the banks of the Wabash about daylight on the morning of November 4th, 1791, Little Turtle assailed St. Clair's army in front, on both flanks, and also at the rear near the close of the action, which was about half-past nine o'clock in the morning. At this time it became necessary to make a charge in order to clear the way to the road, so as to permit the retreat of the remnant of the army, which was hurled headlong down the trail, southward for a distance of three or four miles, with terrible slaughter by the victorious and triumphant Indian warriors. No such defeat had heretofore occurred in American history, not even that of General Braddock in 1775. Down to the present time it has only been surpassed once, the disastrous defeat of General Custer on the Big Horn, June 25th, 1876. St. Clair's defeat was described by one Mr. Thomas Irwin in a diary which he kept at the time. He was a wagoner in St. Clair's army. He says, "That battle always reminded him of a furious thunderstorm that comes up quick and rapidly, and soon disappears, leaving havoc and desolation in its path."
     The escape of Stephen Littell was remarkable. At the commencement of the battle he was in the extreme advance. Being unable to keep up with his comrades in their precipitate flight, he sprang aside and hid in a dense thicket as the yelling savages rushed by in hot pursuit. Here he remained some time in dreadful suspense as the roar of the battle died away in the distance, the Indians being in full chase of the flying army. He then ventured slowly forward until he reached the scene of the night's encampment. Awful was the scene presented to him there, the bodies of some seven hundred of the killed and wounded encumbering the ground for the space of about three hundred and fifty yards. It was a cold, frosty morning. The scalped heads presented a very revolting spectacle. A peculiar vapor or steam ascended from them all. Many of these poor creatures were still alive, and groans were heard on all sides. Several of the wounded, knowing that as soon as the savages returned they would be doomed to death by torture, implored young Littell to put an end to their misery. This he refused to do. Ling anxious as to the fate of his father, and seeing among the dead one who bore a strong resemblance to him. he was in the act of turning over the body to examine the features when the exultant and terrific shouts of the returning savages fell upon his ear, and already he could see through the forest the plumed warriors rushing back. It so chanced that an evergreen tree of very dense foliage had been felled near where he stood. It was his only possible covert. He sprang into the tree and turned its branches as well he could around him. Scarcely had he done this when the savages came bounding upon the ground like so many demons. Immediately they commenced their fiend-like acts of torture upon all the wounded. The scenes he continued to witness were more awful than the imagination could possibly conceive. Here our sub ject remained until a suitable time arrived for him to make his escape, which he did — the only one left to tell the sad story of the awful battlefield.

                                                57 gruesome tales of Indian capture and torture

The Massacre at the Zeimer Cabin

The History Ashland County, Ohio  1909

PURSUIT AND CAPTURE. 

"They knew no dread of danger, When rose the Indian's yell; Right gallantly they struggled, Right gallantly they fell." The massacre at the Zeimer cabin aroused the feelings of the people, not only in Richland, but in other counties, almost to frenzy and companies were organized at Wooster, New Philadelphia and other places to protect the settlers. Captain Mullen commanded the Wooster company and Alex McConnel the one at New Philadelphia. Of the five Indians who committed the Zeimer-Ruffner murders, two had been killed by the heroic Ruffner in his defence of the Zeimer family ere he himself fell in the murderous assault of the savages. Some weeks later the three surviving Indians of that murderous gang, after having been seen lurking near Odell's lake, were captured at Fern Island, five miles down the Tuscarawas river from New Philadelphia. Fern Island is now a famous picnic resort and is reached by steam and electric cars both from New Philadelphia and Urichsville. The Tuscarawas is, perhaps, the most poem-inspiring river in the state. It courses through one of Ohio's most fertile valleys with an ease and grandeur that is both restful and inspiring. As rays of light shine upon its dark waters they reflect emerald tints as though the bottom was paved with precious stones. But the Indians had not sought that locality for its romantic beauty, nor because the waters of the Tuscarawas were wont to dazzle one with their diamond-like gleams, but for the protection the dense forests of that secluded isle would give them. The mark of Cain was upon them and the avenging Nemesis was following their trail. In that forest-embowered isle stood armies of ferns with nodding plumes and crimson falchions and among these the tired savages laid down to sleep.
  Captain McConnel, hearing that Indians were upon the Island, marched his company over the "Plains" and when the destination was reached he left.

                                                 57 gruesome tales of Indian capture and torture

Native American Policy of Taking No Prisoners

Native American Thoughts on Killing the Enemy

      We shudder at the cruel torture inflicted by the Indian on the captives condemned to death. 

Yet he was no more cruel  than the religious zealots of Europe, who in the very same  century 

that the colonies were  founded, were skinning and  disemboweling the heretics under the hideous 

misbelief that  they were saving their souls. In his own way the Indian  was no less logical or consistent. 

He sought to make his foe incapable of harming him again. If possible he made sure  of killing his 

adversary. He scalped and mutilated, not  merely to preserve a trophy of his victory, but in 

accordance  with his belief that no man may enter the future world who is disfigured in body or limb. 

He killed the wife so that she  might not bear any more children to grow up and avenge the  slain husband. 

He killed the boys because they would grow into warriors, and he killed the girls, because they would become the 

mothers of more warriors. If he spared a life, it was to adopt the captive into his   own tribe in  order to inrease its\

 strength. Finally he burned the house in order to damage the     enemy that much more.

                                                           57 gruesome tales of Indian capture and torture

Indians Murder and Scalp Women In Miami and Piqua County Ohio

                                           57 gruesome tales of Indian capture and torture

 

The Dilbones resided two miles north of the Gerard home. They were among 
the earliest settlers of the county and were well known people. Dilbone and his wife were found
 at work pulling flax. As they had heard nothing of the killing of  Gerard, they were 
 unsuspicious of danger, and therefore were not able to make any resistance to their enemies. 
It was a beautiful summer day and the sun was sinking slowly behind the distant hills, the last rays
flooding the flax fields with a shower of golden light. At the first volley by the Indians Dilbone 
fell with a bullet in the breast, being unable to render his wife any aid. He was mortally  wounded,
 but managed to hide himself in the corn and was overlooked by the enemy. From his hiding place
 he saw the fiends shoot and scalp his wife, after which they cleared out with the bloody trophies of
their foray. There were only two Indians  engaged in this killing, and one was only a half-grown 
boy, who in all probability was taking his first lessons in warriorship. The boy carried but one rifle,
which  was lost, but was picked up the following day.  Dilbone survived his wound till the next day,
but his wife died. It was afterwards ascertained that these same two Indians were seen along 
Spring Creek the day previous to the killing, but they  disappeared so mysteriously that their 
whereabouts could not be traced. Of course  this incursion into the county created the greatest 
excitement. The whole border was thrown into a state of alarm, and it was for a time feared that 
a large body  of Indians was about to be precipitated again the Miami  settlements. The fact that 
the two Indians concerned in the murders of Spring Creek went north after their  bloody work
gave rise to the belief that they were taking the scalps to their white employers for the promised
reward.   About this time a woman named Martin was scalped by marauding Indians, but she 
survived her wounds and lived for many years afterward in this county