In 1782, Miss Elizabeth Ewing and Miss McCormick were abducted by the Indians, between Shaver's Creek and Stone Valley. They had been to the former place, and were returning home by a path, when they were surprised and taken prisoners by a small band of roving Indians. It was late in October, at a time when no suspicion was entertained that the Indians would ever again enter the valley. None had been seen or heard of for months, and all the alarms and fears of savages had subsided; hence their absence was little thought of until they had been several days gone. It was then deemed entirely too late to send a force to recapture them.
When captured, they had some bread with them, which they scattered along the path they took, in hopes that if their friends followed it would give them a clue to the route they took. The wily savages detected the stratagem, and took the bread from them. They next broke the bushes along the path; but the Indians saw the object of this, too, and compelled them to desist. They then travelled for seven days, through sleet, rain, and snow, until they reached the lake, where Miss McCormick was given as a present to an old Indian woman who happened to take a fancy to her.
Miss Ewing was taken to Montreal, where, fortunately for her, an exchange of prisoners took place soon after, and she was sent to Philadelphia, and from thence made her way home. From her Mr. McCormick learned the fate of his daughter—her communication being the first word of intelligence he had received concerning her. He soon made his arrangements to go after her. The journey was a long one, especially by the route he proposed to take,—by way of Philadelphia and New York; nevertheless, the love he bore his daughter prompted him to undertake it cheerfully.
After many days' travelling he arrived at the place where Miss Ewing and Miss McCormick parted; but, alas! it was only to realize painfully the restless and migratory character of the Indians, who had abandoned the settlement and gone into the interior of Canada. Again he journeyed on, until he finally reached the place where the tribe was located, and found his daughter in an Indian family, treated as one of the family, and subject to no more menial employment than Indian women generally. The meeting of father and daughter, which neither expected, must have been an affecting one—a scene that may strike the imagination more vividly than pen can depict it.
Mr. McCormick made immediate arrangements to take his daughter with him; but, to his surprise, the Indians objected. Alone, and, as it were, in their power, he was at a loss what course to pursue, when he bethought himself of the power of money. That was the proper chord to touch; but the ransom-money asked was exorbitantly large. The matter was finally compromised by Mr. McCormick paying nearly all the money in his possession, retaining barely enough to defray their expenses; after which they went on their way rejoicing, and, after a weary journey, reached their home in safety.
It may be as well to mention that Miss McCormick was a sister to Robert McCormick, Sr., long a resident of Hollidaysburg, who died a year or two ago in Altoona, and the aunt of William, Robert, and Alexander McCormick, now residents of Altoona.
And now we come to the last Indian massacre in the Valley of the Juniata. It occurred on the left bank of the Little Juniata, near the farm of George Jackson, in the latter part of August, 1781.
At that time there was a regular force of militia in the garrison at Huntingdon, another at Shaver's Creek, and another at Fetter's. The Indians were well aware of this, for they constantly kept themselves advised by spies of the progress of affairs in the valley. The settlers, feeling secure in the presence of the militia, abandoned the forts and went to their farms. During the summer of 1781, the alarms were so few that people began to consider the days of their trials and tribulations as passed away; but it appears that it was ordained that another black crime should be added to the long catalogue of Indian cruelties.
One evening George Jackson, hearing a noise in a corn-field adjoining his house, went to the door to ascertain the cause. Dark as the night was, he made out the figures of two men, who he thought were stealing corn, or at least about no good; so he let loose his dogs—a hound and a bull-dog—upon them. The hound gave tongue, and both started directly into the field, where they bayed for some time; but the men did not quit the field. In ten minutes the dogs returned, and Mr. Jackson found that the skull of the bull-dog had been wounded with a tomahawk. This circumstance led him to suspect the real character of the intruders, and he went into his house, took down his rifle, and returned to the porch. The light which shone out of the door when Jackson opened it revealed the position of affairs to the Indians, and they ran to the other end of the corn-field, closely pursued by the hound.
Peter Crum, a worthy man, well known and highly respected by all the settlers in the neighborhood, was a near neighbor of Jackson's. He had rented the Minor Tub Mill, and on the morning after the above occurrence he went to the mill a little before daylight and set it going, then raised a net he had placed in the stream the night before; after which he started leisurely on his way home to get his breakfast. In his left hand he carried a string of fish, and over his right shoulder his rifle; for, notwithstanding the great security people felt, they were so much in the habit of constantly having a rifle for a travelling companion, that many of the old pioneers carried it on all occasions during the remainder of their lives.