is lust for vengeance had been satisfied he sent
the following remarkable address to Lord Dunmore:

"I appeal to any white man to say if ever he entered Logan's cabin
and he gave him not meat: if ever he came cold and naked and he
clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war
Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate of peace. Such was my
love for the whites that my countrymen pointed as they passed and
said: 'Logan is the friend of the white man.' I had even thought to
have lived with you but for the injuries of one man, Colonel Cresop,
who, last spring, in cold blood and unprovoked, murdered all the
relatives of Logan, not even sparing my women and children. There
runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature.
This called upon me for vengeance. I have sought it: I have killed
many; I have glutted my vengeance. For my country I will rejoice at
the beams of peace. But do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy
of fear. Logan never felt fear; he could not turn upon his heel to
save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one."

The war between the Indians and the pioneers was waged for years.
The settlers pushed farther and farther into the wilderness. The
Indians, who at first sought only to save their farms and their
stock, now fought for revenge. That is why every ambitious pioneer
who went out upon those borders carried his life in his hands; why
there was always the danger of being shot or tomahawked from behind
every tree; why wife and children were constantly in fear of the
terrible enemy.

To creep unawares upon a foe and strike him in the dark was Indian
warfare; to an Indian it was not dishonorable; it was not cowardly.
He was taught to hide in the long grass like a snake, to shoot from
coverts, to worm his way stealthily through the dense woods and to
ambush the paleface's trail. Horrible cruelties, such as torturing
white prisoners and burning them at the stake were never heard of
before the war made upon the Indians by the whites.

Comparatively little is known of the real character of the Indian of
that time. We ourselves sit before our warm fires and talk of the
deeds of the redman. We while away an hour by reading Pontiac's
siege of Detroit, of the battle of Braddock's fields, and of
Custer's last charge. We lay the book down with a fervent expression
of thankfulness that the day of the horrible redman is past. Because
little has been written on the