“Who shot you?” asked one of the frontiersman, running up.
“Th—the Indians,” was the low and hoarse answer. “Water!”
Water was brought, but the man was almost too weak to drink. One of the party recognized him as Stephen Banoggin, a trader well known in those days around Carlisle and Bedford. Banoggin had left Bedford ten days before, with a view of establishing a new trading post in the vicinity of Venango as soon as it seemed safe to do so.
“All dead—all killed by the Indians!” was about all he could say. “Fool, fool that I was to attempt it! All dead!” And that night he expired.
His tale was almost true, although not quite so. His pack-train had consisted of ten horses and nine men, including three negroes who were his slaves. The Indians—a mixed band under a chief called Crow Feather—had ambushed the train at the ford and slained or mortally wounded all but one negro and a white hunter named Sturm, a German from upper Pennsylvania. Sturm and the negro got away together, each however wounded. They traveled for four weeks in the forest, when Sturm went crazy. At last they reached a settlement, where the negro told his story. Sturm was placed under medical care and regained his reason some time later.
The sights presented to Rodney and the others at the ford were so revolting that Mrs. Dobson, Nell, and the twins were held back, that they might not see what had occurred. The slain were all scalped and an effort had been made to burn one at the stake. The bodies of the men and the dead horses lay together. Four horses were missing, and on these the Indians had packed such stores as they wanted, scattering the other goods or burning them.
“This is enough to make one sick!” said Rodney, as he turned away with a shudder. “These redskins must have been fiends!”
“They were certainly cold-blooded,” answered Barringford. “Poor Banoggin! He had better have stayed in the east.”
“Sam, this doesn’t look as if it would be safe for us to go any further.”
“Easily said, lad; but what are ye goin’ to do?”