In 1792, when the country in this vicinity was clothed in its swaddlings of nature, and the red man and wild beasts alone trod the hills and valleys west of the Ocmulgee, a solitary huntsman was wending his way north, south of the Towaliga, about where the public road to Forsyth is now being turnpiked. The party was a model of his class—large, muscular, completely equipped, a frame strong in its every development, and a general contour which indicated that he knew nothing of fear, and dreaded not the dangers of the wilderness in which he was traveling. A deep melancholy on his face, the flashing of his dark eyes, and an occasional sight, evidenced he carried an "iron in his soul," and was actuated by a purpose that knew no turning. This was Gabriel Dunlap—a Georgian. His object in thus absenting himself from society will be seen hereafter.
Dunlap was a careful and wary hunter, and in this hitherto untrodden field was specially on the alert. He knew that dangers lurked around, and was cautious at every step. While thus walking and watching, he was startled by the war whoop of the savages, which seemed to burst from every ambush around him. He knew his retreat was cut off, for a hundred savages emerged from the thickets lining the Towaliga. Therefore, but one course was left to be pursued—that of taking a due north direction. Leaving the river and crossing the hills, he ran without any purpose beyond making his escape. And thus he ran for miles—as the yells of his pursuers would subside, hope bracing him up, again depressed by the reiteration of the voices of his enemies. At length, when almost ready to fall from exhaustion and thirst—his vitals scorched as with fire—hope whispered "a little farther." And soon, overjoyed and exhausted, he was able to spring into a canebrake dark as night, where he slept unconscious of anything that occurred around him.
Reinforcements.
When he awoke, yet half dreaming, Dunlap gazed about him some time before he could "realize the situation." With great effort he arose, staggered forward, but fell against a larger stone, and here, to his delight, he heard the trickling of water. Quickly he sought to slake his burning thirst, and soon found, and enjoyed, what seemed ice water in a canebrake in August. He drank until every desire for water was satisfied, yet none of the unpleasant feelings that often follow such indulgence were experienced. On the contrary, he felt new life and vigor, and set out to place a greater distance between himself and his enemies. His only safe course he knew, was to travel in a northerly direction, and, after imbibing another copious draught from the welcome fountain, he set out, toiling through the cane that covered the bottom. When he was about reaching the northern edge of this dense retreat, a well known signal greeted his ear. To this he responded. His response was replied to by another signal, when he quickly emerged from the brake, ascended the hill; and on approaching a large oak then standing on the site of the present Elder Hotel, was greeted thus:
"Hallo, Gabe! whar did you cum from? Have you been squattin' in the thicket yonder?"
"I'll be smashed," answered Dunlap, "If here aint Jube Cochran. And, Jube, I'm gladder to see you than if I had knocked out a panther's eye with old Betsey here, and without picking her flint, on a two hundred yard line. Cause why—I'm lost and aint nowhar ef you aint some place."
And next the two friends met with a hearty shake of hands and a union of warm hearts, such as conventionalities and civilization have long since driven from the brightest spot in Georgia. The huntsmen refreshed the inner man, recounted their several recent adventures, and then sought a place of rest, which they soon found among the rocks skirting the river.
Here they slept until midnight, when the report of a gun aroused them. Snuffing danger in the breeze, they at once not only became watchful, but sought to discover the whereabouts of their daring neighbor; and finally, in the darkness, almost ran against two human forms, whether paleface or Indian they could not make out, when Cochran hailed:
"Who's thar?"
"Watson," was the reply, and soon there was another happy greeting; when all four of the party (one a small boy named Ben Fitzpatrick) walked to the top of the hill between two creeks, and again rested until day break, reciting the customary yarns of the border.