The Winning of the West, Volume Two | Page 4

De Haas mentions one such case
where the husband, though he received his wife well, always hated the
copper-colored addition to his family; the latter, by the way, grew up a
thorough Indian, could not be educated, and finally ran away, joined
the Revolutionary army, and was never heard of afterwards.] while the
children were adopted into the tribe, and grew up precisely like their
little red-skinned playmates. Sometimes, when they had come to full
growth, they rejoined the whites; but generally they were enthralled by
the wild freedom and fascination of their forest life, and never forsook
their adopted tribesmen, remaining inveterate foes of their own color.
Among the ever-recurring: tragedies of the frontier, not the least
sorrowful was the recovery of these long-missing children by their
parents, only to find that they had lost all remembrance of and love for
their father and mother, and had become irreclaimable savages, who
eagerly grasped the first chance to flee from the intolerable
irksomeness and restraint of civilized life. [Footnote: For an instance
where a boy finally returned, see "Trans-Alleghany Pioneers," p. 119;
see also pp. 126, 132, 133, for instances of the capture and treatment of
whites by Indians.]
The Attack on Wheeling.
Among others, the stockade at Wheeling [Footnote: Fort Henry. For an
account of the siege, see De Haas, pp. 223-340. It took place in the
early days of September.] was attacked by two or three hundred Indians;
with them came a party of Detroit Rangers, marshalled by drum and
fife, and carrying the British colors. [Footnote The accounts of the
different sieges of Wheeling were first written down from the
statements of the pioneers when they had grown very aged. In
consequence, there is much uncertainty as to the various incidents.
Thus there seems to be a doubt whether Girty did or did not command
the Indians in this first siege. The frontiersmen hated Girty as they did
no other man, and he was credited with numerous actions done by other

white leaders of the Indians; the British accounts say comparatively
little about him. He seems to have often fought with the Indians as one
of their own number, while his associates led organized bands of
rangers; he was thus more often brought into contact with the
frontiersmen, but was really hardly as dangerous a foe to them as were
one or two of his tory companions.] Most of the men inside the fort
were drawn out by a stratagem, fell into an ambuscade, and were slain;
but the remainder made good the defence, helped by the women, who
ran the lead into bullets, cooled and loaded the guns, and even, when
the rush was made, assisted to repel it by firing through the loopholes.
After making a determined effort to storm the stockade, in which some
of the boldest warriors were slain while trying in vain to batter down
the gates with heavy timbers, the baffled Indians were obliged to retire
discomfited. The siege was chiefly memorable because of an incident
which is to this day a staple theme for story-telling in the cabins of the
mountaineers. One of the leading men of the neighborhood was Major
Samuel McColloch, renowned along the border as the chief in a family
famous for its Indian fighters, the dread and terror of the savages, many
of whose most noted warriors he slew, and at whose hands he himself,
in the end, met his death. When Wheeling was invested, he tried to
break into it, riding a favorite old white horse. But the Indians
intercepted him, and hemmed him in on the brink of an almost
perpendicular slope, [Footnote: The hill overlooks Wheeling; the slope
has now much crumbled away, and in consequence has lost its
steepness.] some three hundred feet high. So sheer was the descent that
they did not dream any horse could go down it, and instead of shooting
they advanced to capture the man whom they hated. McColloch had no
thought of surrendering, to die by fire at the stake, and he had as little
hope of resistance against so many foes. Wheeling short round, he sat
back in the saddle, shifted his rifle into his right hand, reined in his
steed, and spurred him over the brink. The old horse never faltered, but
plunged headlong down the steep, boulder-covered, cliff-broken slope.
Good luck, aided by the wonderful skill of the rider and the marvellous
strength and sure-footedness of his steed, rewarded, as it deserved, one
of the most daring feats of horsemanship of which we have any
authentic record. There was a crash, the shock of a heavy body, half
springing, half falling, a scramble among loose rocks, and the snapping

of saplings and bushes; and in another moment the awe-struck Indians
above saw their unharmed foe,