rted in the direction of the
creek, which also was my destination. I planned resting there over night
and then crossing the main ridge of the Alleghanies during the next day,
stopping the night with the Greenwood family on Dunlap's Creek.

Thence it would be an easy ride to Salem where I would find Colonel Andrew
Lewis, commander of the county militia. I hoped he would provide a
messenger for forwarding my despatches to Governor Dunmore in
Williamsburg. I had no desire to visit the seat of government, nor was my
disinclination due to the bustle and confusion of its more than a thousand
inhabitants.

A mile from where the Indians had camped I came upon two white men. They
were at one side of the trace and curiously busy among some rocks at the
top of a fifty-foot cliff. They were hauling a rope from a deep crack or
crevice in the rocks and were making hard work of it.

We discovered each other at the same moment, and they called on me to lend
them a hand. Leaving my horse in the trace, I hastened over the rough
ground to learn what they wanted. As I drew nearer I recognized them as
Jacob Scott and William Hacker, confirmed "Injun-haters."

"How d'ye do, Morris," greeted Hacker. "Catch hold here and help haul him
up."

"Who is it?" I asked, seizing the rope which was composed of leather belts
and spancel-ropes.

"Lige Runner," grunted Hacker, digging in his heels and pulling in the
rope hand over hand. Runner, as I have said, was another implacable foe of
all red men.

"All together!" panted Scott.

My contribution of muscle soon brought Runner's head into view. We held
the rope taut while he dragged himself on to the ledge.

"Did you git it?" eagerly demanded Hacker.

The triumphant grin was surety for his success down the crevice. He rose
and tapped a fresh scalp dangling at his belt.

"I got it," he grimly replied. "Had to follow him most to the bottom where
his carcass was wedged between the rocks. Morning, Morris. Traveling far?
Seen any Injun-signs on the way?"

I shook my head, preferring they should not learn about the three Indians
making for Howard's Creek.

"What does all this mean, Runner? Do scalps grow at the bottom of holes?"

"This one seemed to," he answered with a deep chuckle. "Didn't git a fair
crack at him, as he was running mighty cute. Rifle held fire the nick of a
second too long. I knew he was mortal hit, but he managed to reach this
hole. Then the skunk jumped in a-purpose to mak