cowardly varmint?"
"Shoot, yourself, you bloody red-skin!" retorted the other.
"No more a red-skin than yourself!"
"Are you a white man?"
"To be sure I am. Are you?"
"Yes; no mistake in me!"
Whereupon, each being undeceived, they threw down their guns, rushed together with open arms, and took a hearty hug. The hunter now learned that the stranger had been settled, with his family, about ten miles from him, for several months past, and that each had frequently roamed over the same hunting-ground, supposing himself the sole inhabitant of that region. On the following day the hunter saddled his horse, and taking up his good wife behind him, carried her down to make a call upon her new neighbor, who doubtless received the visit with far more sincere joy than usually attends such ceremonies.
There is a well-accredited bear-story which belongs to the early history of Ohio, and which is of a little different type from most of the adventures with these ugly animals. An old pilot of the Ohio was once obliged to give a bruin a free ride—but he could hardly blame the bear, after stopping so kindly to take him in. But we must let him tell his own story. "Twenty odd year ago," said the pilot, "there warn't a great many people along the Ohio, except Injins and b'ars, and we didn't like to cultivate a clust acquaintance with either of 'em; fer the Injins were cheatin', scalpin' critters, and the bears had an onpleasant way with them. Ohio warn't any great shakes then, but it had a mighty big pile of the tallest kind of land layin' about, waitin' to be opened to the sunlight. 'Arly one mornin' when my companions was asleep, I got up and paddled across the river after a deer, for we wanted venison for breakfast. I got a buck and was returnin', when what should I see but a b'ar swimmin' the Ohio, and I put out in chase right off. I soon overhauled the critter and picked up my rifle to give him a settler, but the primin' had got wet and the gun wouldn't go off. I didn't understand b'ar as well then as I do now, and I thought I'd run him down and drown him or knock him in the head. So I put the canoe right eend on toward him, thinkin' to run him under, but when the bow teched him, what did he do but reach his great paws up over the side of the canoe and begin to climb in. I hadn't bargained for that. I felt mighty onpleasant, you may believe, at the prospect of sech a passenger. I hadn't time to get at him with the butt of my rifle, till he came tumbling into the dugout, and, as he seated himself on his starn, showed as pretty a set of ivory as you'd wish to see. Thar we sot, he in one end of the dugout, I in t'other, eyein' one another in a mighty suspicious sort of way. He didn't seem inclined to come near my eend of the canoe, and I was principled agin goin' toward his. I made ready to take to the water, but at the same time made up my mind I'd paddle him to shore, free gratis for nothin' if he'd behave hisself. Wal, I paddled away, the b'ar every now and then grinnin' at me, skinnin' his face till every tooth in his head stood right out, and grumblin' to hisself in a way that seemed to say, 'I wonder if that chap's good to eat.' I didn't offer any opinion on the subject; I didn't say a word to him, treatin' him all the time like a gentleman, but kept pullin' for the shore. When the canoe touched ground, he clambered over the side, climbed up the bank, and givin' me an extra grin, made off for the woods. I pushed the dugout back suddenly, and give him, as I felt safe agin, a double war whoop, that astonished him. I learned one thing that morning—never to try to drown a b'ar—'specially by running him down with a dugout—it wont pay!"
Big Joe Logston's Encounter with an Indian—Page 7.
TALES,
Traditions and Romance
OF
BORDER AND REVOLUTIONARY TIMES.
BIG JOE LOGSTON.
DEBORAH, THE MAIDEN WARRIOR.
GEN. MORGAN'S PRAYER.
BRAVERY OF THE JOHNSON BOYS.
NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND COMPANY, PUBLISHERS,
118 WILLIAM STREET.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by
BEADLE AND COMPANY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Southern District of New York.
BIG JOE LOGSTON'S
STRUGGLE WITH AN INDIAN.
We have plentiful stories of encounters between the white man and the red, in which the fierce rivalry is contested with rifles, knives, or the swift foot-race for life; but it is seldom we hear of a genuine fist-fight between the hardy men of the forest and their implacable foe. Only two or three such novel incidents occur in the history of the Western border.
Joe Logston was one of the race of famous frontier men, the "Hunters of Kentucky," whose exploits have been told in story and sung in song. He could, to use his own words, "outrun, outhop, outjump, throw down, drag out and whip any man in the country"—which was saying a good deal for those days, when men like Brady, Wetzel, M'Clelland, Adam Poe and Kenton sprung up to face the dangers of the hour.
Joe was a powerful fellow of six foot three in his stockings, and proportionately stout and muscular, with a handsome, good-natured face, and a fist like a sledge-hammer. Fear was a word of which he knew not the meaning, while to fight was his pastime, particularly if his own scalp was the prize he fought for.
On one occasion he was mounted on his favorite pony, bound on an expedition outside the fort. The pony was leisurely picking his way along the trail, with his head down and half asleep, while his rider was enjoying a feast on some wild grapes which he had gathered as he passed along. Neither dreamed of danger, until the crack of two rifles on either side the path killed the horse and wounded the rider. A ball struck Joe, grazing the skin above the breast-bone, but without doing any material damage. The other ball passed through his horse, just behind the saddle. In an instant Joe found himself on his feet, grasping his trusty rifle, which he had instinctively seized as he slipped to the ground, ready for the foe. He might easily have escaped by running, as the guns of the Indians were empty, and they could not begin to compete with him in speed. But Joe was not one of that sort. He boasted that he had never left a battle-field without making his "mark," and he was not disposed to begin now. One of the savages sprung into the path and made at him, but finding his antagonist prepared, he "treed" again. Joe, knowing there were two of the varmints, looked earnestly about him for the other, and soon discovered him between two saplings, engaged in reloading his piece. The trees were scarcely large enough to shield his person, and in pushing down the ball, he exposed his hips, when Joe, quick as thought, drew a bead, and firing, struck him in the exposed part. Now that his rifle was empty, the big Indian who had first made his appearance, rushed forward, feeling sure of his prey, and rejoicing in the anticipated possession of the white man's scalp. Joe was not going to resign this necessary and becoming covering to his head without a struggle, and stood, calmly awaiting the savage, with his rifle clubbed and his feet braced for a powerful blow. Perceiving this, his foe halted within ten paces, and with all the vengeful force of a vigorous arm, threw his tomahawk full at Joe's face. With the rapidity of lightning it whirled through the air; but Joe, equally quick in his movements, dodged it, suffering only a slight cut
