That Dark and Bloody River

by Allan Eckert

  The blast of the gun drove the warrior back into Long Pine, who caught him as he fell, a hole spouting a fountain of blood at the base of his throat.601 The other warrior leaped to the side to avoid them and briefly stumbled. Again Wetzel raced off, getting a 20-yard advantage before Long Pine and his fellow warrior resumed pursuit.

  Wetzel was closing in on Davis, now only 40 yards ahead of him. The youth was tiring and Wetzel knew he couldn’t last much longer. Rounding a bend in the trail and seeing another 100 yards ahead, Wetzel yelled at Davis.

  “Josh! Soon as you clear that bend ahead, dive into cover and lie still. I’ll come back.”

  Davis raised a hand without replying and a few moments later sped around the bend. A steep hill on the right offered no cover, but on the left was a drop-off densely grown with weeds and brush. Without pause he dove into it, clearing the weeds next to the trail so as to leave no trace and rolling downhill some 20 feet before stopping. Even as he stopped, he heard Wetzel coming and then glimpsed him, again reloading, as he raced past.

  A few moments later the two following Indians came up and, as they rounded the bend, Wetzel’s rifle fired again and the warrior with Long Pine went down, a ball in his thigh. Long Pine stopped and shrieked in rage, shaking his fist after the rapidly disappearing Wetzel. He pursued no farther, fearful now of the man whose gun was never empty. Picking up his companion in his arms, he carried him back toward their fellows.602

  Davis remained hidden for some ten minutes until, from the trail above, he heard Wetzel softly calling for him. He replied, telling Wetzel where he was hidden.

  “C’mon out, Josh,” Lewis said, “an’ let’s get the hell outta here ’fore they show up agin.”603

  [June 14, 1782—Friday noon]

  One hundred fifty miles due west of Mingo Bottom, just as the sun reached its highest, the Shawnee warrior Tutelu stopped abruptly as he spied a young tom turkey high in a nearby tree. Dr. Knight, a few paces behind, also stopped and watched as Tutelu raised his rifle, took careful aim and shot. The bird dropped and fell to the ground with a thump. The warrior gave a triumphant grunt, quickly reloaded, then ran to get the bird and brought it back. He had held up the bird and proudly pointed to where most of its head had been shot away.

  “Good shot, me,” he said. “Make fire. Cook. Eat.”

  Knight, who had eaten nothing but a single small piece of jerky at their camp last night, was very hungry, and he nodded, glad for the break. They were just over 25 miles from Wapatomica, and he followed the Shawnee as Tutelu moved on a short distance to a pretty glen in the woods on the edge of the Scioto River.604 Here Tutelu dropped the bird, leaned his rifle against a tree and then turned and removed the pack from Knight’s back. The surgeon gratefully sank to the ground.

  Yesterday the Shawnee and his captive had traveled at an easy pace, walking only 15 miles from Pimoacan’s Town before camping. The doctor had hoped to escape during the night, but Tutelu had remained much too watchful, and there had been no opportunity. So far today they had already covered ten miles, and Knight was exhausted. Though his hands were still bound behind him, Tutelu had forced him to carry the heavy backpack containing the Shawnee warrior’s own meager food supplies as well as considerable loot taken from Americans killed at the battle and on the retreat. Tutelu himself had carried only his weapons—tomahawk, knife and a flintlock rifle, along with powderhorn and bullet pouch.

  Now Tutelu, ordering Knight to stay where he was, set about gathering dry wood and tinder to make a cookfire. In a short while he came back close to his captive and dumped the wood on the ground. He made a little pile of the small handful of dry grasses and moss he had gathered and then squatted down with flint and steel to light the cookfire. Time and again he struck, and time and again the sparks flew, but the tinder stubbornly refused to ignite. Tutelu became progressively more exasperated.

  “You people still don’t know the first thing about fire-making with flint and steel, do you?” Dr. Knight said scornfully.

  “Grass no good,” Tutelu growled. “White man no do better.”

  “Of course I can do better,” Knight said. He added, with a short laugh, “A little white boy could do better. Untie my hands, and I’ll show you.”

  “If turn loose, you run,” Tutelu said suspiciously.

  “No, I promise I won’t try to escape. Untie me, and I’ll show you how to use flint and steel the right way.”

  “White man no do better,” the warrior repeated, but he nodded, moved behind Knight and removed the cord that bound him. Knight came to his feet, rubbing his wrists and flexing his hands, but no sooner did Tutelu turn his back to return to the tinder pile than the surgeon stooped, snatched up a length of hard dry branch and slammed it hard across the side of the Shawnee’s head. Tutelu staggered and almost went down, then turned to confront his attacker, one hand clasped to his temple, which was bleeding profusely. Knight, however, had scooped up the rifle and now had it pointed at the Shawnee’s chest. Tutelu, still with one hand pressed against his temple and squalling loudly, raced off and vanished in the woods.

  It was fortunate for Knight that he did. The surgeon, in his haste to cock the weapon, had broken the lock spring, and the flintlock was now worthless. Not yet realizing this, he grabbed up the pack and, still with the rifle in hand, plunged off into the woods in the opposite direction. He moved deviously for the first mile and then raced with all the speed he could muster straight away to the east. Finally, his strength failing, he found an advantageous spot from which to watch his back trail and sat gasping, a tree at his back and the gun in his lap, ready to pick off Tutelu if he should be following.

  Some 25 miles away to the southwest, John Slover was still surviving, but his future remained uncertain. The fact that he knew many of the Shawnees personally and had been very popular with them during his six-year captivity had worked in his favor to some degree. He had been spared the gauntlet in Wapatomica, for which he was very grateful, especially after having witnessed the death of his companion, William Harrison, in his gauntlet run shortly after their arrival.

  For the past three days Slover had been kept in the wegiwa of the Shawnee woman named Pahcotai Sisqui, whose husband had been killed the previous year in Kentucky. She had been attracted to Slover when he was a captive here and had mourned in her own private way when he had escaped. The following year she had married, and now, the widowed mother of a small son, she thought perhaps Slover might receive leniency and be reinstated in the tribe. If such were the case, it was possible that he could take the place of her husband.

  That Pahcotai Sisqui was very concerned for John Slover’s welfare was obvious. Aware that a passionate anger rode high in many of the young men of the tribe, she feared that a few of them might get together and take him from her and kill him before the council could even be held. Thus, whenever any of the men came near her wegiwa, she hid Slover under a pile of furs and was prepared to defend him, if necessary.

  It had not been necessary and, at noon today, shortly after George Girty and a party of 40 Shawnees returned from the upper Sandusky, a crier ran through the village announcing that the council was being called and that the prisoner should be brought to the council house. Slover, unable to predict what was going to happen now, was brought to the big building by Pahcotai Sisqui, who was allowed to sit in on the proceedings.

  As the council began and individuals spoke one after another, Slover’s spirits sank. While a number of them spoke favorably in his behalf, by far the greater majority were speaking against him and calling for him to be condemned to death at the stake. For several hours the talks continued, and it was while they were still in progress that there was a disturbance outside. A boy rushed in and announced that the warrior Tutelu had returned and that the prisoner he had been escorting here had escaped. Deliberations were put in temporary abeyance, and Tutelu was summoned.

  In a few minutes the warrior was standing before them. The back of his head, neck and back were stained with drie
d blood from his wound, and he was shamefaced and nervous over having lost his prisoner. As the assemblage listened carefully, he told them of escorting Dr. Knight to the point where he escaped.

  “I shot a peleo out of a tree,” he said truthfully, “and then gathered tinder and wood to build a fire and cook him. But the tinder was damp and would not catch fire when I sent sparks into it. The white doctor made fun of me for not being able to start it and said even a little white child could start it easily. I told him he could not do any better, but he said he could, and so I untied him to let him try, so I could laugh at him when he, too, failed.”

  The assemblage murmured in an approving manner, considering this to have been a reasonable thing to do. But now, as they turned their attention back to the speaker and the big room stilled, Tutelu continued, this time not quite so truthfully as before.

  “Before I knew what was happening,” he went on, “he grabbed up my gun and struck me over the head with it. I was knocked down, and he leaped on me and we fought. But he was a big man, strong and powerful and, because I was still dazed from where he hit me, he was getting the best of me. I managed to pull out my knife, and I stabbed him in the back and the stomach. He pulled away from me and ran off. He was a very tall man and could run like a deer, and I was still too dizzy to overtake him, so he got away.”

  Again the assemblage murmured their understanding, accepting the loss philosophically, but then a voice cried out, “He lies!” and all eyes turned to the speaker. It was John Slover.

  “He lies!” Slover repeated, coming to his feet. “I know Doctor Knight. He is a little man, a weak man, and he could not have done the things that this man says.”

  Tutelu seemed about to argue the point, but then he shrugged and admitted that he had made a mistake and was ashamed to admit he had been outwitted by a tired little man.

  The humor of such a situation struck the Indians, and a ripple of laughter grew into whoops and howls of merriment. After a few moments even Tutelu abashedly joined in and sat down to participate in the council.605 Gradually the laughter died away, and the assemblage returned to the matter at hand.

  There was little humor in what followed. Those who were in favor of leniency for Slover were overruled; had it just been a matter of Slover having once been their captive who had escaped, he might have gotten off, but he had compounded his crime by helping to lead an’ army of whites against the Indians for the avowed purpose of destroying them, and that was unforgivable. When the speeches were concluded and the vote taken, the overwhelming majority had agreed to death at the stake. The execution was to take place tonight at Mackachack, which had been rebuilt since its destruction by Benjamin Logan’s army of Kentuckians three years before, but the march to Mackachack would take a detour en route to McKee’s Town, where Slover would be forced to run a gauntlet. He was stripped naked, painted black as the mark of the cutahotha—condemned man—and escorted in this condition by George Girty and a strong guard of Shawnee warriors the two and a half miles northwest to McKee’s Town.

  The gauntlet run there, under skies that had become threatening with heavy clouds, was short, even though most of those escorting the captive participated in the line. Slover, somewhat bruised and bloodied, managed to get through without serious injury. Anxious to reach Mackachack before a storm could break out, the party immediately headed for that place, six miles south and a mile east.

  Runners from Wapatomica had already reached Mackachack, and by the time the party with Slover arrived, in the early dusk amid the heavy rumbling of thunder, they found the painted stake erected and the fire burning nearby. The captive was immediately tethered to the post, but before the torture could begin, the skies opened up and a deluge of rain fell, extinguishing the fire and washing off most of the black with which he had been painted.

  Slover was untied and led back to a wegiwa where he was to spend the night, the execution rescheduled for the morrow. He moved in a totally dejected manner, head hanging and limbs seeming to fail him so badly, he could hardly walk, and he had to be aided to the wegiwa. None of his captors, however, noticed that his eyes remained alert, and his gaze took in every aspect of the quarters to which he had been taken. He moved mechanically to the mat where he was told he would spend the night and dropped to it with a pitiable groan and lay there on his back, making no protest when his ankles were bound. When told to hold his hands out so they, too, could be tied, he held them out, palms together, but he braced the heels of his hands against each other to allow a gap as the rope was snugged.

  John Slover had escaped from the Shawnees once before and, if there was any humanly possible way to do it again, he was prepared to snatch whatever final opportunity this night might offer.

  [June 15, 1782—Saturday]

  The storm lasted until almost midnight, with great searing bursts of lightning and tremendous cracks of thunder. When it finally passed, John Slover, who had been feigning sleep for several hours, continued to work at loosening his bonds. His heart had sunk when two warriors were posted inside the wegiwa, one on each side of him, to keep watch and prevent any escape attempt. They talked in undertones, but Slover heard them agree to take turns napping, and his spirits rose.

  One of the guards fell asleep quickly, and the other sat near the small fire, watching the prisoner. It was probably more than an hour after midnight before Slover saw, through slitted eyes, the remaining guard’s head nodding as he fought to stay awake. At last that guard, too, dozed off, and Slover concentrated all his energies on getting loose. The gap he had held between his wrists, now that he closed it, relaxed the bonds somewhat—enough that when he brought his hands up to his face, he was able to get his teeth substantially on the cord. The knot was drawn too tight for him to hope to pull it free, so he set about gnawing on the cord.

  He nipped and chewed at the rope until his jaws ached, but he gradually made progress as, fiber by fiber, it slowly frayed. Some four hours later the rope was finally bitten through and fell free. Drawing up his knees, he worked on the ankle cord with greater facility and in only a few minutes had it untied. With considerable care and maintaining utter silence, he came to his feet. He briefly considered snatching up the guard’s gun and braining him with it, but he feared the other guard would awaken and call out to alert others. In the end, one careful step at a time, he eased his way to the portal and slipped out into the night.

  Dawn, he knew, could only be a short time off. Keeping to the darkest shadows, he slipped from wegiwa to wegiwa until at last he encountered what he sought—a tethered horse. His hands, moving gently over the rump and flanks, told him it was bony and probably in bad shape, but he had no other choice. He swiftly untied it and then leaped to its back, but the horse snorted loudly. Discarding further silence and caution, he kneed the mount into a run and galloped through the remainder of the town, heading toward the lightening sky to the east.

  Behind him he heard voices calling loudly, and knew he would soon be pursued. He headed through the prairie toward a distant grove silhouetted against the dawn-streaked horizon, kicking the horse into the fastest possible pace. In a short time, however, he felt the animal weakening, and he knew it could not last much longer. As he entered the woodland, he glanced back and saw several riders coming hard after him.

  The horse stumbled a time or two going through the narrow grove, but emerged from the opposite side still running. Slover had gone only a few hundred yards in this particular prairie when two riders emerged from the woodland behind and two more appeared rounding the far end of the grove and angling to cut him off. His heart sank as he now saw they had dogs running with them to trail him. He urged his rapidly flagging horse to greater exertion, and the animal was gasping and panting as it came to a deep erosion cut through the prairie, a gap some 20 feet across and with sheer sides seven or eight feet high.

  Leaping from the horse’s back, he jumped down into the cut, thankful for the soft earth he alighted on with his bare feet. Now in the erosion channel, howeve
r, he found that the opposite side offered no foothold for scaling it, and he began running up its crooked course. At last he came to where a large bush at the lip of the ravine had toppled over into it but was still anchored above by a few roots. He got a handhold on it and scrambled up the far side, just as the four pursuers leaped from their own horses and into the ravine some 50 yards distant.

  Two emerged from the erosion cut behind him but no more, and Slover could only assume that the bush had pulled free as the third tried to use it and toppled him back to the bottom. So far as he could tell, none of the dogs had been able to make it across the erosion cut, but he decided he would not count on it. The two warriors who had emerged from the deep ditch raced after him through the prairie grass, and now they had a distinct advantage. Their feet were clad in moccasins, while his own were bare. But fear added strength to Slover’s run, and he gradually increased the gap between them. He headed for another distant grove and was an eighth of a mile ahead of them by the time he reached it.

  Now his wilderness abilities came to the fore, and he used a variety of wiles to make it difficult for them to follow, backtracking short distances and leaping off in another direction, running atop the surface of fallen trees, changing direction often. A small stream ran through the woods and, just in case the dogs were still after him, he ran upstream in the water for a considerable distance. When he emerged at the edge of the woodland, he ran to one of three smaller groves nearby and vanished into it before the pursuers emerged from the one he had just left, and without further elusive tactics, he raced through it and out the eastern side.