o heroes of the kind so dear
to all lovers of chivalry and romance. There are heroes, perhaps,
but they are the patient sad-faced kind, of whom few take cognizance
as they hurry onward. But cannot we all remember some one who
suffered greatly, who accomplished great deeds, who died on the
battlefield--some one around whose name lingers a halo of glory? Few
of us are so unfortunate that we cannot look backward on kith or kin
and thrill with love and reverence as we dream of an act of heroism
or martyrdom which rings down the annals of time like the melody of
the huntsman's horn, as it peals out on a frosty October morn purer
and sweeter with each succeeding note.

If to any of those who have such remembrances, as well as those who
have not, my story gives an hour of pleasure I shall be rewarded.

PROLOGUE

On June 16, 1716, Alexander Spotswood, Governor of the Colony of
Virginia, and a gallant soldier who had served under Marlborough in
the English wars, rode, at the head of a dauntless band of
cavaliers, down the quiet street of quaint old Williamsburg.

The adventurous spirits of this party of men urged them toward the
land of the setting sun, that unknown west far beyond the blue
crested mountains rising so grandly before them.

Months afterward they stood on the western range of the Great North
mountains towering above the picturesque Shenandoah Valley, and from
the summit of one of the loftiest peaks, where, until then, the foot
of a white man had never trod, they viewed the vast expanse of plain
and forest with glistening eyes. Returning to Williamsburg they told
of the wonderful richness of the newly discovered country and thus
opened the way for the venturesome pioneer who was destined to
overcome all difficulties and make a home in the western world.

But fifty years and more passed before a white man penetrated far
beyond the purple spires of those majestic mountains.

One bright morning in June, 1769, the figure of a stalwart, broad
shouldered man could have been seen standing on the wild and rugged
promontory which rears its rocky bluff high above the Ohio river, at
a point near the mouth of Wheeling Creek. He was alone save for the
companionship of a deerhound that crouched at his feet. As he leaned
on a long rifle, contemplating the glorious scene that stretched
before him, a smile flashed across his bronzed cheek, and his heart
bounded as he forecast the future of that spot. In the river belo