A Soldier Helps an Old Woman at Her farm and Pays the Price With Mrs. Houson and the Soldier Brutally Murdered and Scalped
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 defense 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 someone 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 gratitude. 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 noble 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 passed, 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 bloody one. That McClees had sold his life dearly was also very apparent. His rifle was gone; but by his side lay his knife, bloody, and the point broken off. Near him lay a tomahawk, also bloody, 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 quantity 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.
57 stories of settlers captured and tortured
