Legends of the Shawangunk - Pages 117-148



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Tom Quick?" The young savage intimated that he felt a strong desire to do
so, and Tom agreed to show him the Indian slayer. After a long walk which
terminated at the brink of a high ledge, Tom told his companion to wait a
few moments and he would show him the person he desired to see. Tom went
to the edge of the precipice and peered over to the highway below. Here he
watched intently for a few minutes, and then suggested to the Indian to
take his place. The Indian cocked his rifle and hastily advanced to Tom's
side. "Where is he?" eagerly demanded the red man. "There," said Tom,
pointing so that the Indian would project his head and shoulders over the
brink in his desire to shoot the enemy of his race. "Further, a little
further," whispered Tom. The Indian hung as far over the precipice as he
could without losing his equilibrium. Tom quickly slipped around, and
grasping the shoulders of the savage from behind, shouted-"Shoot me! shoot
me, would you!" and with those words he hurled the Indian over the
precipice, where he was dashed to pieces among the rocks.

Two Indians once surprised Tom in his sleep. They bound him securely, and
after plundering the cabin in which they found him, set out for their own
country by way of the Delaware. One savage, with Tom's chattels upon his
shoulders, walked in advance; Tom came next, with his arms securely tied
behind him; and the remaining savage, with his rifle and that of his
companion, brought up the rear. One of these rifles was kept cocked in
readiness to shoot Tom if he attempted to escape. Their route led them
over a high ledge of rocks, where they were obliged to take a very
dangerous path far up on the cliff. At times the path was very narrow, and
it one point lay directly on the brow of the precipice. When they reached
the narrowest and most dangerous part of the path, Tom feigned to be very
dizzy, and refused to proceed further, although the blows of the Indian
fell thick and fast upon his shoulders. He leaned against the bank on the
upper side, and shuddered when he cast his eyes toward the river. The
savage next attempted to push him along, when by an adroit movement Tom
got between him and the precipice, and the next instant with a loud "ugh-
whoop," the savage was making an air-line descent towards the river. He
fell fifty feet or more and lodged in the fork of a sycamore, where he
hung helpless, and roaring lustily for his brother savage to come and help
him out. The rifles fell into the river. Tom relied on his heels for
safety, and ran pinioned as he was with astonishing celerity for home,
which he reached without further incident.

Tom was in the habit of concealing in the woods the guns he had taken from
the murdered Indians; and this circumstance on one occasion was the means
of saving his life. Two Indians had captured him, and were taking him off
by the Grassy Brook route. His arms were pinioned with deer-skin thongs.
It commenced to rain, and Tom was gratified to find that the moisture
caused the thongs to stretch, and ultimately they became so loose that he
could, when he chose, free his hands. He was very careful to conceal this
fact from the savages. Near the path they were pursuing was a very large
chestnut tree;

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and in the side of this tree furthest from the path was a large hollow
space. In this trunk Tom had shortly before concealed several guns, a
flask of powder, and some bullets. When they reached this tree Tom
expressed a great desire to go to it, and gave such a good reason therefor
that he was allowed to go. The Indians both stood by with guns ready
aimed, to guard against any attempt on his part at escape. Once behind the
tree which concealed his movements, he loaded two of the guns with
inconceivable rapidity. and fired upon one of the savages, who fell dead.

His companion attempted to get behind the nearest tree, but he never
reached it.

Tom was too quick for him and he shared the fate of his comrade.

Tom Quick was often the guest of John Showers, in the town of Lumberland.
On one occasion Quick and three or four other white hunters had sought the
shelter of Showers's bark roof, when a savage entered and asked to stay
all night. He was told he might lodge there after spending the evening
pleasantly, chatting around the ample fireplace, the party wrapped
themselves in their blankets and lay down upon the floor. All were soon
asleep except Tom Quick, who remained awake for a sinister purpose. When
the deep breathing of his companions announced that they were unconscious,
Tom got up and cautiously secured his gun. In a few minutes the hunters
were aroused by an explosion, and found the savage dead in their midst.
After the fatal shot was given, Tom immediately left for the woods. As the
Indians were then the almost exclusive occupants of that part of the
country, and would avenge their brother if they knew the whites were
responsible for his death, his murder was concealed for many years.

INDIAN STRATAGEM TO SLAY TOM QUICK

THE owner of the cabin at which Tom was staying kept a hog. An Indian had
formed a plan to make this hog an instrument to effect Tom's destruction.
One night, when no one but Tom was in the cabin, this Indian got into the
pen, and by holding the hog between his knees caused it to squeal as
lustily as though in the claws of a wild animal. This he supposed would
lead Tom to conclude a bear had made a raid on the hog-pen, and that he
would come to the rescue. But the wily hunter was not thrown off his guard
by this ruse. He cautiously peered through a crevice of the cabin; the pig
continued to keep up a great outcry, while Tom could see nothing that
would indicate the assailant was not an animal. Presently he was rewarded
with the sight of an Indian's head above the top log of the pen. The hog
proved to be of the perverse sort, which the Indian had hard work to
manage and at the same time keep a lookout for Tom's appearance. The
hunter, on discovering the nature of the aggressor, prepared to greet the
Indian's head

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should it appear again. The opportune moment arrived; the ball was sent on
its errand; the porker was speedily released, and with a mild yell of
pain, the savage broke for the woods. But he had received a fatal wound,
and Tom soon overtook him, and put a speedy end to his life.

Once, when Tom was in a field at work, he was accosted by an unarmed
Indian, who said he had discovered something "just over there" that he
very much wished him to go and see. Tom left his work, but did not fail to
notice the look of satisfaction on the Indian's countenance, as he started
to accompany him. This plainly indicated the design of the Indian and put
Tom on his guard. The scheming native had hid his gun in the woods, and
hoped to entice Tom into the vicinity unarmed, when he could be
dispatched. Tom had gone but a short distance when he discovered a hemlock
knot, which he thought would be a very good weapon in a rough-and-tumble
fight. He stooped to pick it up; but the savage perceiving his intention,
sprang upon him; and although he got hold of it he could not use it. A
severe and protracted struggle ensued for the possession of the weapon,
with varying advantage; and blows were given and received with the grim
determination of men who fight to the death. Tom finally came off victor;
but he was often heard to declare that this was the most severe fight in
which he was ever engaged. When the affray was over, and the Indian lay
dead on the field, Tom was so exhausted that it was with difficulty he
made his way to the house at which he was temporarily stopping.

Another native Indian attempted Tom's life while he was at work in the
saw-mill. Tom, always on the alert, had been made aware of the presence
and intention of his enemy, and so arranged his hat and coat as to deceive
him. The Indian sent a ball between the shoulders of the coat supposing
Tom was inside of it, at which the latter stepped out from his place of
hiding and shot the helpless and trembling savage through the heart.

Tom was once ranging the woods on the lookout for Indians, and came upon
one unexpectedly. Both parties sought shelter behind trees within gun-
shot, where they remained a long time, each endeavoring to get a shot at
the other without exposing himself. Various stratagems were resorted to
with the hope of drawing the other's fire, but each found they had a wary
foe to deal with. Tom at length thrust his cap cautiously from behind the
tree, when the report of the Indian's rifle was heard, and Tom fell to the
ground as though grievously wounded. The Indian dashed forward to rescue
the hunter's scalp, when Tom sprang up and aimed at his breast. As the
Indian saw the muzzle of the gun within a few feet of him, he exclaimed in
dismay, "Ugh-me cheated!" and fell dead at Tom's feet with a ball in his
heart.

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THE SAVAGES PLAN TOM QUICK'S CAPTURE

AT last, exasperated beyond measure at the death of so many of their
braves, three Indians banded together and pledged themselves they would
not return until Tom's death or capture was effected. They lay in ambush
all one season at one of Tom's favorite hunting-grounds; but their
intended victim not making his appearance, the approach of cold weather
compelled them to seek winter-quarters. With the coming of the next season
of flowers they resumed their station and watching. A white man was one
day observed coming up the river in a canoe. The Indians presently made
out it was not the one for whom they were watching, but a Tory for whom
they entertained a friendship. This Tory was, however, an intense hater of
Tom, and had more than once threatened to kill him. From him the warriors
learned that Tom was at Handsome Eddy, to which point they resolved to go,
and be governed by circumstances.

There they learned that Tom was living with one of his friends, and that
he was in the habit of going into the woods every night after a cow, and
that a bell was on the cow. The next day the three Indians went to the
place where the cow was pastured, and secreted themselves. Towards evening
they took the bell from the cow and drove the animal back into the woods.
They then took their station near Tom's residence where they could observe
what was going on without being themselves seen, and commenced ringing the
bell.

Just before sundown Tom started for the cow, rifle in hand as usual. As
soon as he heard the bell it occurred to him that its ring was unusual.
This admonished him to caution; and instead of proceeding directly toward
the sound, he took a wide circuit, during which he encountered the cow. He
now carefully crept forward and came up in the rear of the Indians, whose
attention was absorbed in the direction of the house, where they
momentarily expected Tom to show himself. As Tom approached from behind he
saw that one of the Indians had the bell, while the other two held their
arms in readiness for the conflict. He determined to attack all three. He
passed cautiously from tree to tree, so as to bring them within range,
with a view to kill two at the first shot. Before he got into position he
unfortunately stepped on a dry twig, which snapped under his foot.

Instantly the bell stopped ringing, and the Indians turned toward him with
their rifles cocked; but he had dodged behind a large hemlock which
screened him from view. They saw nothing but the cow which was quietly
grazing and walking towards them. Supposing her to have been the cause of
their alarm, they again commenced ringing and watching. Tom then left the
shelter of the friendly hemlock and reached his objective point. He took
deliberate aim, and the two armed savages were killed or

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disabled, and the bell-ringer wounded, but not sufficiently to prevent his
escape. But in his hurry he forgot to take his rifle.

The Indians were more exasperated than ever when they learned the fate of
the two braves. They organized a band of fifteen or twenty others, and
determined to spare no efforts to capture or slay Tom. Having found his
retreat, and a storm of rain accompanied by a dense fog favoring their
purpose, the Indians were enabled to surround the cabin of which he was
the solitary occupant, before he was aware of their presence.

When they had finally secured him, the joy of the redskins was unbounded.
As night was approaching and rain falling in torrents, the party
determined to spend the night in Tom's cabin. Tom's skins and other goods
were prepared for transportation, but his favorite rifle, standing in a
dark corner of the garret, escaped their notice. Among the things which
pleased them best was a keg of brandy, a liquid that Tom seldom used, but
of which he generally had a supply in his possession. They drank of it
freely, and its effect soon became visible; the crowd grew uproarious, and
menacing looks and gestures began to be directed by three or four of the
party towards their unfortunate prisoner.

It had been the leading object among the Indians to take him alive, so
that the whole tribe might participate in torturing him. It was to be
feared that some of the more ill-natured savages, under the inspiration of
the firewater, would anticipate the action of the tribe and kill him on
the spot. To put Tom out of reach of danger, and at the same time relieve
all from the restraint of standing guard over him, it was proposed to bind
him with additional thongs to a rafter in the garret-a proposition that
was heartily approved by all.

From his position Tom could hear what was transpiring in the room below.
He overheard an animated discussion, as to whether it was best to take his
scalp at once, or reserve him for the torture. Tom remained in an agony of
suspense, revolving in his mind, the while, the probability of making his
escape. But so desperate was his situation that hope died within him. He
even meditated suicide that he might deprive his captors of the pleasure
they anticipated in his torture, but he was too securely tied to admit of
even this alternative. About midnight the savages relapsed into a state of
quiet. So far as Tom could judge, they were either asleep or too drunk to
do him any harm. Ere long he heard the sound of steps, and some one seemed
to be ascending the ladder. A moment afterward the head of a savage
appeared above the floor. In one hand he held a brand of fire, and in the
other a formidable knife. He approached with unsteady feet, and stood
before his intended victim, with features distorted from the effects of
his potations, and with eyes gleaming and snakish. With knife uplifted,
and his body swaying to and fro, he regarded Tom an instant and prepared
to strike. The moment was a trying one to Tom, thus helplessly bound; but
instinctively he fell flat upon his face, and the knife passed harmlessly
over him. The drunken savage, having missed his mark and unable to
preserve his balance, fell headlong, striking his head so heavily

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against the log wall of the garret, that he lay in a stupid and senseless
heap upon the floor.

Having waited long enough to ascertain the noise did not awaken those
below, Tom essayed to get possession of the Indian's knife; but the thong
which was tied to his neck was too short to enable him to reach it. In the
effort to resume his erect position his foot came in contact with the
object he sought. Having secured it, and taking the handle between his
teeth he soon freed his ankles, and cut the thong that bound him to the
rafter. He next thrust the knife in a crevice so that the blade projected
firmly from the log; then, by turning on his back, his hands being tied
behind him, he managed to cut the remaining fastenings. Once free, he got
possession of his rifle, and having removed some of the bark which
composed the roof, leaped to the ground and reached Minisink entirely
destitute.

EARLY SETTLERS OF THE SHAWANGUNK REGION

ON the shore of Pleasant lake, in the town of Thompson, Nehemiah Smith
bought a tract of land at the beginning of the present century, built a
log house, and constructed barracks in which to store hay and grain. After
putting in some winter cereals, Smith returned to Southeast, Putnam
county, where his family resided. The following February, he started for
his new home in the wilds of Sullivan, accompanied by four of his
neighbors and their families. His own household consisted of his wife, two
children, and a nephew, a lad of thirteen years.

Crossing the river at Newburgh, they there hired teams to take them to the
end of their journey. The Newburgh and Cochecton turnpike was then good as
far as Montgomery; beyond that point, the roads had no existence except in
name. After leaving Montgomery, they traveled the first day as far as the
Barrens, where the accommodations were meagre for so large a party-one
room and an attic. The next night they reached Thompson's Mills, where was
a backwoods tavern. Here the facilities for entertaining travelers were
much better. Beyond this point the road was only a line of blazed trees.
The snow was deep, and the path unbroken; had the ground been bare they
could not have driven their team over the route on account of its
roughness. Up and down ravines, across streams, and under the sombre
foliage of hemlocks so dark at times that the sky could not he seen, the
party plodded; and they were obliged to look sharp about them to keep the
marked trees in view.

Slowly the jaded horses labored through the snow, sometimes sinking almost
to their backs, now plunging over the side of a cradle hole, or stumbling
over the trunk of a fallen tree. When the sleigh threatened to upset, then

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there was a panic among the women and children; but it was quickly
remedied when the strong arms of the men came to the rescue. They were
obliged to leave one sleigh load in the woods, where the goods remained
until the men returned and carried them on their backs to their
destination. At this time there was no house in Monticello, nor even a
line of marked trees to that point.

The dwellings of these settlers were very primitive structures, built of
logs with bark roofs. The floors-as soon as they could afford that luxury-
were made by splitting logs in half, and laying the flat side uppermost.
The fireplaces were commodious affairs, without jambs, into which a back-
log ten feet in length could be rolled. For windows they at first used
paper, previously rubbed with hog's lard-a kind of glazing that shed a
most beautiful light when the sun shone on it. The chimneys were made of
stones plastered with mud; the same primitive cement was used in stopping
up the chinks between the logs. When the room was lighted up of an evening
by the glowing fire extending nearly across one side of the house, there
was an air of comfort within the interior of that log-cabin that is not to
be found in the most sumptuous apartment. And when to the music of the
winds in the tall pines that grew by the door, there are added the lonely
howl of the wolf and the scream of the panther, while within all was safe
and snug, with the children sweetly sleeping in their cots-the picture is
complete.

There was no cellar under the floor. Potatoes and other vegetables were
stored in holes or dirt-cellars close by the house. A mound of earth was
heaped over these depositories, and it seems these mounds were a favorite
resort for wolves. Fifty years afterwards the wife of Nehemiah Smith used
to tell of having seen them there, at night, when the moon made them
visible. These animals were a source of great terror to the women and
children, and their howlings were generally continued long into the night.
Sheep were a necessity, as their wool was the chief reliance of the
settlers for winter clothing; but it was impossible to keep them unless
they were put into a safe enclosure every eight. A single wolf would
destroy a whole flock in a few minutes, its instinct leading it to rush
from one victim to another, giving each a snap in the throat, which was
always fatal.

The bedsteads were made in the most primitive way, with but a single post-
let all who believe that four posts are essential take notice-holes bored
into the logs of the apartment serving the purpose of the missing legs. A
bit of clapboard, riven from the red oak, supported on wooden pins driven
into the wall, contained the pewter dishes and spoons. The spinning wheel
was an essential adjunct to the family outfit, while a few chairs, some
pots and kettles, and an eight-by-ten looking-glass completed the
furniture.

A majority of the inhabitants of this period were of upright characters,
bold, energetic, and generous-hearted. Although subject to privations,
their lot in life, as a whole, was not an unhappy one. Said one of them:
"When I look back upon the first few years of our residence in the
wilderness, I am led to exclaim, Oh, happy days of primitive simplicity!
What little aristocratic

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feeling one brought with him was soon quelled, for we soon found ourselves
equally dependent on one another; and we enjoyed our winter evenings
around our blazing hearths in our log huts cracking note much better than
has fallen to our lots since the distinctions and animosities consequent
upon the accumulation of wealth have crept in among us." The following is
said to have been an actual occurrence:

In one of the back-woods settlements a visit was arranged by some of the
ladies, by way of paying their respects to a neighboring family who lived
a little out of the way. The lady of the house was very much pleased to
see them, and soon commenced preparing the usual treat on such state
occasions-a cup of tea and accompaniments. As the good woman had but one
fire-proof vessel in the house-an old broken bake-kettle-some time would
be consumed in the preparation of the repast. In the first place, some
pork was tried up in the kettle to get lard; secondly, some doughnuts were
made and fried in it; thirdly, some short cakes were baked in it;
fourthly, it was used as a bucket to draw water; fifthly, the water was
boiled in it; and sixthly the tea was put into it, and an excellent
beverage made. Thus with the old cracked bake-kettle a delicious meal was
prepared, and a very agreeable "social tea" was the result.

Bears were formerly quite plenty in Sullivan county-probably wintering on
the lowlands which border on the lakes, and wandering into the hills in
summer. One of Nehemiah Smith's neighbors was a man by the name of Bailey.
Bruin was frequently seen passing through Bailey's premises. He seemed to
have a special fondness for hog's flesh, and sometimes raided Bailey's
pig-pen to satisfy his appetite. One night when Mr. Bailey was from home,
Mrs. Bailey was putting the little ones to bed when she heard a terrible
squealing out among the pigs. She understood what that meant-a bear had
got into the pen. She well knew the danger incurred by going out, but she
could not endure the thought of losing a fat pig. So bidding the children
be quiet until she returned, she took some blazing fire-brands and rushed
out to the sty, where a huge bear confronted her. The heroic woman shouted
with all her might, and pelted the bear with her blazing brands, so that
bruin was beaten off without getting his pig. Having the satisfaction of
seeing the hungry intruder run off into the woods, she returned to the
house and resumed her household duties.

Another neighbor of the Smith's, by the name of Warring, went out one
night to shoot deer. While chopping a few days before in the vicinity of
Dutch pond, he had noticed that deer-tracks were very plenty, and that two
runways passed within rifle shot of a large rock. He promised himself some
fine sport the first moonlight night. Such a night soon came; and, telling
his family he might remain away all night, but that they could expect some
venison steak for breakfast, he shouldered his rifle and started for the
woods. In due time he took up his position on the rock. There was snow on
the ground, and the bright moon overhead so lighted up the earth that he
could see a passing object distinctly.

He watched the two runways very patiently, but saw no game, and heard

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no sound except the hooting of an owl in an adjacent grove of hemlocks.
His vigil was becoming dull and tedious; the night was waning; he was
about making preparations to go home, when pat, pat, came the sound of
rapid steps, and he noticed a dark object coming up the path. Without
waiting to discover what the animal was, he fired. The creature gave a
howl of mingled pain and rage, rushed at the hunter furiously, and
attempted to jump upon the rock where he stood. It would have reached him,
and the snarling jaws would have closed upon him, only that he made a
vigorous thrust with his rifle and pushed the animal back. Again and again
it leaped at the man on the rock, and was as often beaten back. At last
the animal, whatever it was, ran one way and the hunter the other. Warring
reached home at an unexpected hour, but brought no venison. He visited the
place the next morning with his boys, and ascertained by the blood and
tracks around the rock that he had shot and wounded a very large wolf.
Though wolves were very numerous at the time, it was rare that they were so
pugnacious as this one showed himself to be.

Another settler in the vicinity of Pleasant lake was very much annoyed
with wolves. They seemed to gather at a certain pond about a mile away,
and every night would make the woods ring with their howling. One day this
settler slaughtered a cow, and hung up the meat in the attic of his log
cabin. That night the wolves gathered in numbers under his very eaves; and
the father being absent, the mother with the children went up into the
attic, drawing the ladder after them, being greatly terrified as they
heard the hungry beasts leaping against the door, and snarling and
snapping under the windows.

The first inhabitants of Sullivan had another source of annoyance-the bark
roofs of their cabins could not always be depended upon. On one occasion,
during the temporary absence of Nehemiah Smith from his home, there

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occurred a great storm of wind and rain. When the storm was at its height,
the roof of their house was blown away, and the family were left at the
mercy of the elements. Mrs. Smith put the children where they would be
partially sheltered and was diligently sweeping out the water when the
neighbors came to her relief.

One winter's night the family were gathered around the ample fire-place,
in which glowed a section of a tree that would have put to shame the
traditional yule-logs of our British ancestors. The night was tempestuous;
snow had been falling all day, and lay piled up in the woods to the depth
of several feet, but within all was snug and comfortable. The labors of
the day were over; the children were at their games; the older members of
the family were relating Revolutionary stories and incidents of frontier
experience; in short, the storm outside was unheeded, except when an
unusual blast swept along, rattling the windows and floors, and screeching
dismally down the chimney. The hour was approaching that the family were
to retire to rest, when sounds of disintegration were heard. The roof was
giving way above them. Mr. Smith slowly and cautiously ascended the ladder
by which they reached the loft-stairs were a luxury unknown at that time
in Sullivan county-when there came a crash! One half of the roof had slid
over the outer side of the house, leaving that part of the dwelling
roofless; and the other half of the roof, together with two feet of snow
that had accumulated on it, had fallen in upon the puncheons of the upper
floor. Had the catastrophe occurred an hour later, the rafters and snow
would have fallen upon the children, whose beds were in the attic. This
was an unfortunate dilemma for a stormy night, with a family of little
children, and the roads impassable. Yet the family lived through it; and
in after years used frequently to relate the incident to crowds of eager
listeners.

Jehiel Stewart was another pioneer settler of Sullivan county. He came
originally from Middletown, Connecticut; he first settled in Ulster
county, and after remaining about a year, he again emigrated, this time
journeying over the Shawangunk mountain. He travelled down the Beaverkill,
crossing and recrossing that stream twenty-five times before he reached
the Big Flats, where he concluded to settle. He cut his way through the
woods with an axe. His family and household goods he transported on ox-
sleds, driving his stock before him as he progressed. He camped out each
night, improvising some tents to protect them from the night air and from
the rain.

One evening after he had located his encampment and made preparations for
the night, he found that his cows were missing. Mounting a rock near by,
he saw some animals at a distance quietly feeding in a small opening,
which he supposed to be the missing cows. He called to his children to go
after them; but as the children approached the opening, the animals winded
them and ran off, making a peculiar rattling noise with their hoofs as
they ran. They proved to be a drove of elk.

It was during this journey that his little daughter got lost in the woods.

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Night came, and she did not return. The father and mother hunted for her
all night, and their fears were great when they heard the wolves howling
in the woods, and also the noises made by other wild animals. Morning
came, and still no traces of the child; they made up their minds she had
been torn in pieces and devoured by the wild beasts they had heard during
the night. They renewed their search the next morning with sorrowing
hearts and fearful forebodings, lest they should come upon her mangled
remains in the forest; what was their great joy presently to see her
coming toward them alive and well. In answer to their inquiries as to how
and where she had spent the night she said "Alongside a log, sleeping."
With childlike faith she had gone to sleep in the wilderness, undisturbed
by the noises around her.

Jonathan Hoyt, who, in 1804, moved into the town of Thompson, was another
representative pioneer settler. He came from Norwalk, Connecticut, and his
family consisted of a wife and three children. In April of that year he
started for his new home in the wilds of Sullivan, his caravansary
consisting of a span of horses, a yoke of oxen, and an immense butterfly
cart.

In the broad and flaring box of the cant were bestowed the household goods
of Mr. Hoyt, including sundry small canvas bags filled with coin and
placed inside the family chest. On top of all, when on their journey, were
perched the wife and children, who climbed to their elevated position by
means of a ladder. They first journeyed to a port on Long Island sound,
where the family, the teams, the butterfly cart and all, were put on board
a sloop, and in due time were landed at Newburgh.

Here the more serious obstacles of the journey were encountered. The oxen
and horses were attached to the cart, and the movement was made westward
on the Newburgh and Cochecton road. The turnpike, so far as completed, had
been but recently made; besides, the frost was only partially out of the
ground, so that their progress was slow. Sometimes the wheels would sink
so deep into the slough-holes that it became necessary to partially unload
the cart before the team could proceed. At other times one wheel of the
cart would remain firm on the partially thawed soil, while the other would
sink to the axle, causing the elevated wings of the vehicle to lurch with
an energy that threatened to hurl the women and children into the mud. So
forcible was this side movement that the chest was broken in pieces, and
the silver money it contained scattered over the bottom of the cart-box.
Fortunately the box had been so well constructed, and of such good
materials, that the money was found all safe when they reached the
Neversink.

Towards the close of the sixth day from Newburgh the journey was made down
the west side of the Shawangunk mountain. There at the foot was a broad,
turbid, and impassable river. The Basha's kill was swollen with the spring
freshet, the turnpike was submerged, leaving nothing visible but the
bridge. There was not at that time a solitary building on the western
slope of the mountain that would afford them shelter-not even a barn. They
could neither advance nor retreat, so they spent the night where they
were, in the

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mud, homesick and heartsick, and doubtless contrasting the wilds of
Sullivan with the pleasant home they had left in the land of plenty and
comfort.

The next day the floods subsided so that Mr. Hoyt mounted on one of his
horses, crossed the kill, and went in search of assistance. At the west
side of the Mamakating valley an enterprising individual had opened a log
tavern. Here Mr. Hoyt obtained an extra team, with which he returned to
his family. With the united efforts of the three strong teams the cart was
safely brought over the stream. That night the family found more
comfortable quarters in the log tavern.

When they reached the vicinity of their new home on the east bank of the
Neversink, Mr. Hoyt learned that the cabin he had built was untenable; the
snow of the previous winter had broken down its bark roof, and it was
little better than a ruin. The settlers informed him there was a small log
structure on the opposite bank of the Neversink that had been used as a
school-house, but was at that time vacant. Into this he moved his family
until he could build another house. The tracks of all sorts of wild
animals could be seen around the cabin when the Hoyts arrived there.

There was a saw-mill at Katrina falls, and Mr. Hoyt commenced hauling
white-pine lumber from this establishment. Settlers were scarce in the
vicinity, but money was much more so; and Mr. Hoyt having brought with him
a goodly supply of silver coin, men were found who were willing to leave
their own farm work to get it. In two weeks' time Mr. Hoyt's new house was
so far completed that he moved his family into it.

For several years the wolves annoyed them very much, and he found it very
difficult to rear cattle or keep sheep. On one occasion the wolves killed
eighteen sheep near the entrance to his door yard, where he found them
lying about on the snow next morning. It was quite common for him to find
the carcasses of yearlings in his fields, and occasionally his cattle
would come home bleeding from wounds inflicted by the blood-letting and
stealthy brutes.

A few years of labor brought comparative competence to the early settlers,
whose privations for a time were very great. Here and there, throughout
the valleys; was a small clearing, literally choked with stumps and
stubborn roots; and in the midst of the clearing stood a little, low,
bark-roofed, mud-plastered log-cabin, with a stick-and-mud chimney, with a
hole sawed in the logs that served as a window. Near this was a log pen,
open to the blasts and snows of winter, in which the pioneer stored
whatever of hay or grain he could gather for the subsistence of his
shivering cattle. These "children of the wilderness" had no difficulty in
procuring meat, as the surrounding woods abounded in deer and bears, which
could be had fresh from the shambles in a few hours' time. Wherever the
beech-nut flourished the sweetest pork could be fattened, in which
toothsome edible bears often came in for their share with the settlers.

Wheat could be raised in sufficient quantities alongside the charred
stumps, but to get it converted into flour was the great difficulty. It
often required a journey of days to reach a flour mill, and then each
customer was

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required to await his turn for his grist, which sometimes consumed a day
or two more.

Samp and coarse meal were made at home in various ways. Some had a heavy
wooden pestle fastened to a spring pole, with which a half bushel of corn
could be pounded at once. This was thought to be a great institution.
Later on, small mill-stones, made from the "grit" of Shawangunk mountain,
and operated by hard labor, were introduced into the settlements, by which
laborious and tedious operation a semblance of flour could be obtained.
Even the water-mills of the most approved pattern of those times were
cumbersome and unsatisfactory affairs. One of these was put up in Sullivan
county by a man named Thompson, and was facetiously dubbed Thompson's
samp-mortar by the early settlers. The whole building would shake and
quake to such an extent when the stones were revolving that even
venturesome boys would flee from it.

A BORDER ALARM

THERE is nothing that will excite the sympathies of a border settlement
more than the alarm of a child missing or lost in the woods. The
uncertainty as to its fate, compassion for its agonized parents, and a
realizing sense of the feelings of the little one, exposed to Indian
capture, or to be torn in pieces and devoured by wild beasts, or to the
slower process of perishing by cold and hunger,-all call forth the deepest
human sympathy.

In 1810 the entire population of Bethel* town turned out, and for eight
days searched the roads for little Johnny Glass, and did not relinquish
them efforts until all hope of finding him alive was abandoned.

The lad was living with his parents near White lake. His mother sent him
to carry dinner to his father, who, with some men was chopping wood about
a mile away. He reached them safely and started for home, but for some
reason got bewildered and lost his way. When the lad did not return in the
afternoon, his mother felt no anxiety, as she surmised Johnny had got
permission from his father to remain in the woods with the next until they
returned at nightfall. But when the father arrived in the evening and
reported that the lad had immediately started on his return trip, the
dreadful truth flashed upon the minds of the household.

Every parent can imagine the scene that ensued-the distress of the mother,
the wild energy of the father. Hastily summoning his nearest neighbors,
the father spent the night in a fruitless search in the woods, while the
mother remained at home rendered frantic by the intensity of her grief.
By the next morning the tidings had spread far and wide, and a thorough

* Quinlan.

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and systematic search was instituted-all the settlement joining in the
work of beating the swamps and thickets. The search was continued from day
to day, until all courage and hope were lost. No trace of the boy could be
found, and the supposition was that he had perished from terror, cold and
hunger, or that he had met with a more speedy and less dreaded death by
being devoured by wild beasts, which were then numerous and ferocious.
As was afterward ascertained, when little Johnny left the path he traveled
almost directly from home. When night overtook him, bewildered, weary and
hungry, he lay down by the side of a fallen tree and cried himself to
sleep, where he slept until morning. On awakening he again started to find
his way out of the woods, wandering at random. In this way he continued to
travel ten days, with nothing to eat except wild berries, and seeing no
living thing except the beasts and wild birds of the forest.

One night as he lay in a fevered sleep on his couch of leaves alongside a
log, he was aroused by the bleating of a deer in distress; then he heard
the angry growl and snarl of a catamount, and knew the ferocious animal
was drinking the blood of his harmless victim. He lay very quiet, as he
did not know how soon he might meet with a similar fate.

On the eleventh day of his wanderings he was a pitiable object. His
clothes were tattered; his body emaciated and cheeks sunken; his limbs had
scarcely strength to carry his body about, while his feet were so sore and
swollen that he could scarcely bear his weight on them. He was about to
lie down exhausted, first calling the name of mother, as he had done
scores of times before, with no answer save the echoes of the forest, when
his ears were greeted with the tinkling of a cow-bell. The sound gave him
renewed life. It nerved him for one more effort. With difficulty he slowly
made his way in the direction of the sound, leaving marks of blood on the
leaves at every step. He soon came to a clearing in which were several
cattle feeding. At sight of him the animals started for home. It was near
night and he knew if his strength lasted he could find succor. Finally he
was obliged to crawl on his hands and knees, and thus he proceeded until
he came in sight of a house. This proved to be the dwelling of a Mr. Lain,
who lived on the Callicoon.

When Mrs. Lain started to milk the cows she discovered the lost boy on the
ground near her door. She took him in her arms and carried him into her
dwelling. The good woman had a kindly heart and a sound head, and she
treated the wanderer as she would her own son, and with as good judgment
as though bred a physician. She bathed him, dressed his sores, put him
into a warm bed, judiciously fed and cared for him until he had revived
sufficiently to tell his name and residence. News of his safety was then
sent to his parents, who for ten days had mourned him as dead. He lived to
be an old man, but he never fully recovered from the effects of the
adventure, and ever after needed the controlling influence of a mind more
sound than his own.

In the town of Forestburgh, years ago, there lived a little girl named
Mary Frieslebau. She was a lovely child, full of life and animation. One
day she

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went to the house of a neighbor on an errand with some other children. It
was in winter; a deep snow lay on the ground, and the wood-choppers and
lumbermen had cut the woods up into roads in all directions. In playing
hide-and-seek on their way home, Mary became separated from the other
children, and they lost sight of her altogether. Calling her by name, and
receiving no answer, the children returned without her, and supposing she
would immediately follow, did not mention the circumstances when they
reached home. An hour or more afterward, when her parents sought for her,
the children pointed out the spot where she was last seen; and although a
score or more engaged in the search, they failed to find her.

It so happened that a quack doctor by the name of Heister was living in
Orange county, who was looked upon with suspicion by the people of this
neighborhood where he sometimes came on professional visits. Inasmuch as
he was seen to pass along the road with his wife about the time of Mary's
disappearance, they surmised he was concerned in abducting her. Some
children having reported they had seen Mary in Heister's sleigh, served to
confirm their suspicions; and accordingly a warrant was made out, and the
doctor and his wife were arrested and brought to Forestburgh for
examination. Two days were spent in investigating the affair by a Justice
of Peace, and the evidence was so much against the prisoners that all
believed them guilty; they were therefore held for trial and were required
to give bail.

A rain had meantime fallen, which carried off a portion of the snow with
which the ground was covered, with the result of exposing a portion of the
dress of little Mary, where she lay in the snow with her face downward.
She had fallen down exhausted after being separated from her companions,
and was concealed from view by the snow which at the time was rapidly
falling. She had probably perished before her parents had set out to look
for her.

This chapter would not be complete did it not include the adventures of
Mrs. Silas Reeves, the wife of an early settler of Fallsburgh. Her husband
manufactured mill-stones and was absent from home most of the time. Mrs.
Reeves was one of your true women, who met the hardships and privations of
frontier life with a courage undaunted. At one time she traveled several
miles to the house of a neighbor and brought back living coals to
replenish her fire.

One evening, her cows having failed to come home, she bade her children
remain in the house while she went after them, and told them not to be
afraid of the dark, as she would be gone but a little while. Taking up the
chubby babe and kissing it, she gave it and its little sister into the
charge of their elder brother, a bright lad of six; then shutting and
securing the door behind her, started on her errand. As it began to grow
dark the smaller ones showed symptoms of fear; but the little fellow was
equal to his charge. As the hours went by, and the mother did not return,
he gave them their frugal supper and put them both to bed; not, however,
without a protest from the babe, who wanted to sit up till his mamma came
home. Then propping himself up in his chair, the whole household was soon
wrapt in slumber.

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Early next morning, a neighbor in passing found the children alone, and
heard their story. The two younger were clamoring lustily for their mamma,
while the boy was offering such consolation as he was able. The children
were at once sent to the house of a relative to be cared for, while the
neighborhood was aroused and search made for Mrs. Reeves. For three days
the inhabitants far and near were ranging the woods looking for her, and
when they at last found her, she was exhausted and almost speechless,
having lain down to die. One night she climbed to the top of a high rock to
get out of the reach of the wolves that were on her track. Here she was
serenaded all night, during which they made many unsuccessful attempts to
reach her; nor did they leave her until the dawn of day, when they vanished
into the forest.

SAM'S POINT, OR THE BIG NOSE OF AIOSKAWASTING

THE traveler in the region of the Shawangunk has not failed to notice that
remarkable feature of the mountain known as Sam's Point. Even when seen at
such a distance that the mountain looks like a blue cloud suspended above
the earth, this promontory stands out in full relief against the sky. The
name has its origin in one of those quaint legends with which the vicinity
abounds. The story as handed down by tradition, and still related by the
residents of the neighborhood, is as follows:

Samuel Gonsalus was a famous hunter and scout. He was born in the

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present town of Mamakating; was reared in the midst of the stirring scenes
of frontier life and border warfare, in which he afterward took such a
conspicuous part; and was at last laid to rest in an unassuming grave in
the vicinity where occurred the events which have caused his name to be
handed down, with some lustre, in the local annals.

He lived on the west side of the mountain, a locality greatly exposed to
Indian outrage, and his whole life was spent in the midst of constant
danger. His knowledge of the woods, and his intimate acquaintance with the
haunts and habits of his savage neighbors, rendered his services during
the French and Indian War of inestimable value. He possessed many sterling
qualities, not the least among which was an abiding devotion to the cause
of his country. No risk of his life was too imminent, no sacrifice of his
personal interest too great, to deter him from the discharge of duty.

When the treacherous Indian neighbors planned a sudden descent on an
unsuspecting settlement, "Sam Consawley," as he was familiarly called,
would hear rumors of the intended massacre in the air by some means known
only to himself, and his first act would be to carry the people warning of
their danger. At other times he would join in the expeditions against
bands of hostiles; it was on such occasions that he rendered the most
signal service. Though not retaining any official recognition of
authority, it was known that his voice and counsel largely controlled the
movements of the armed bodies with which he was associated, those in
command yielding to his known skill and sagacity.

His fame as a hunter and Indian fighter was not confined to the circle of
his friends and associates. The savages both feared and hated him. Many a
painted warrior had he sent to the happy hunting-grounds; many a time had
they lain in wait for him, stimulated both by revenge and by the proffer
of a handsome bounty on his scalp; but he was always too wary for even the
wily Indian.

In September of 1758 a scalping party of Indians made a descent into the
country east of the Shawangunk. The warriors were from the Delaware, and
had crossed by the old Indian trail* leading through the mountain pass
known as "The Traps;" their depredations in the valley having alarmed the
people, they were returning by this trail, closely pursued by a large body
from the settlements. At the summit of the mountain the party surprised
Sam, who was hunting by himself.

As soon as the savages saw him they gave the war-whoop, and started in
pursuit. Now was an opportunity, thought they, to satisfy their thirst for
revenge. Sam was a man of great physical strength, and a fleet runner.

Very few of the savages could outstrip him in an even race. But the
Indians were between him and the open country, and the only way left was
toward the precipice. He knew all the paths better than did his pursuers,
and he had

* During the spring of 1887, the writer followed this old war trail for a
considerable distance, it being still plainly visible.

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already devised a plan of escape, while his enemies were calculating
either on effecting his capture, or on his throwing himself from the
precipice to avoid a more horrid death at their hands.

He ran directly to the point, and pausing to give a shout of defiance at
his pursuers, leaped from a cliff over forty feet in height. As he
expected, his fall was broken by a clump of hemlocks, into the thick
foliage of which he had directed his jump. He escaped with only a few
slight bruises. The Indians came to the cliff, but could see nothing of
their enemy; and supposing him to have been mutilated and killed among the
rocks, and being themselves too closely pursued to admit of delay in
searching for a way down to the foot of the ledge, they resumed their
flight, satisfied that they were rid of him. But Sam was not dead, as some
of them afterward found to their sorrow. To commemorate this exploit, and
also to bestow a recognition of his numerous services, this precipice was
named Sam's Point.

Sam had a nephew by the name of Daniel Gonsalus, who was captured by the
Indians when he was about five or six years old. The savages were lurking
in the vicinity of Mamakating farms; and being too feeble in numbers or
too cowardly to make an open attack, they sought to effect their purpose
by making secret reprisals. One day the boy, having ventured too far from
home, was captured and carried away. He was soon missed, and search made
for him, but all to no avail; and after some days his parents gave him up
as lost. Whether he had been carried off by some strolling band of
Indians, or had become bewildered in the woods, and so perished, was to
his agonized parents merely a matter of conjecture.

The Indians, on leaving the valley, stopped and rested at a lake in the
mountains, where they remained several days. The boy became the adopted
son of a warrior and his squaw; he formed an acquaintance with several of
the young Indians, and engaged with them in their sports. Among other
things they brought together some small stones and made a miniature wall.
After this the band wandered from place to place, and Daniel lost all
knowledge of the direction in which his parents lived.

For a time he was watched closely; but eventually was regarded as fully
adopted into the tribe, and was suffered to go where he pleased. After
some time had elapsed, the band again encamped by a lake, when Daniel
discovered the little wall of stones he helped build when he was first
captured. His love for his white friends had not diminished, nor had his
desire to return to them abated. He would have made his escape from his
captors long before, only that he did not know which way to go. Here was a
discovery that made plain the way to home and friends.

Waiting a favorable opportunity he set out on his journey, reaching the
residence of his father safely after an absence of three years, where he
was received by the family as one raised from the grave.
Elizabeth Gonsalus, another relative of Samuel, was captured by savages
when she was seven years of age. She was carrying a pail from her father's

135

house to a field near by. Her way led through bars; the rails were all
down but the upper one; and as she stopped to pass under this, she was
caught by a painted Indian. He so terrified her by threats that she could
not give an alarm, and conveyed her to his party encamped near by. In
company with other captives she was taken several days' march in a
southwest course over the mountains and along the banks of the rivers
until they reached a town in interior Pennsylvania. Here she remained a
prisoner twenty years.

Her disappearance from home had been so sudden and mysterious, that her
friends were in deep distress as to her probable fate. Had she wandered
into the woods and perished? Such instances were comparatively frequent.
Had she been killed and devoured by wild beasts? Such a fate was by no
means uncommon in a country abounding with wild animals. Or, worse than
all, had she been carried off to become the unwilling slave of a brutal
savage? These questions had been asked for twenty long years. Her father
inclined to the theory that she had been captured by the savages, and
continued, year after year, to make inquiries of those who had been among
the Indians, in the almost despairing hope that he would yet find tidings
of his lost daughter.

At last he heard of a white woman who was with a clan near Harrisburgh,
the circumstances of whose capture led him to suspect she might be the one
long sought. He lost no time in searching for the clan, with whom he had
the good fortune to find the white woman. Twenty years of a life of
servitude, with brutal treatment, had so changed her appearance that he
could trace no resemblance in her to the little girl he had lost so long
before. He listened to her story, some particulars of which led the father
to claim her and carry her back to his home. She had entirely forgotten
the names of her family. When taken to the house in which she was born,
she went directly to the bars where she was taken prisoner by the Indian.

The shock and fright of her capture twenty years before had fixed the
locality so firmly in her memory, that she pointed out the place where the
Indian seized her, and gave some of the details attending her capture.
There was no longer any doubt-the lost one was restored to the fold.

"GROSS" HARDENBURGH
A NARRATIVE OF EARLY LAND TROUBLES

THE man whose crimes and subsequent history form the subject of this
chapter was a resident of the Neversink valley. The deeds of violence
attributed to this man are yet traditionary in that locality, and still
serve as themes to while away many a winter evening as they are told by
the fathers to the younger members of the family, seated by they firesides
of the log-cabins and cottages of the neighborhood.

136

Fear the beginning of the present century the people of this valley were
agitated over the question of title to lands. The settlers had very
generally paid for the farms they occupied, the title to which they had
acquired under the Beekman patent, and had made considerable improvements
in the way of clearing up wild lands, and putting up comfortable log-
cabins and barns, which greatly enhanced the value of the property. They
had settled down with the purpose of obtaining a competence that would
assure them a serene and comfortable old age; and now they were threatened
with the loss of the fruits of years of trial and sacrifice by a defective
title. These pioneers would not look with favor on any one who sought to
dispossess them of their farms, even were he a man of sterling qualities,
and in possession of a valid title; but it does not appear that Gerard, or
"Gross" Hardenburgh, who figured as a rival claimant to the land, enjoyed
either of these qualifications. Gross Hardenburgh-we take the liberty of
using the name by which he is usually spoken of-was the son of Johannis
Hardenburgh, and was born in Rosendale, Ulster county. He was of a haughty
and willful temper, and greatly addicted to drink. In early life he
married Nancy Ryerson, an estimable lady, by whom he had several children.

During the War of the Revolution he espoused the cause of the Colonies
with a devoted patriotism, and frequently imperiled his life in the
struggle. His time, his means, and his influence were thrown without
reserve into the scale. Quinlan, whom we quote largely, says he organized
two companies of infantry, both of which were engaged in defending the
frontier against the incursions of the savages, one of them being
commanded by him in person.

At the attack on Wawarsing, in 1781, it will be recollected that Captain
Hardenburgh hastened forward to the relief of the settlement; and having
thrown his detachment into a small stone house, he with a force of only
nine men bravely withstood the advance of nearly four hundred Indians and
Tories. So stubborn was the defense of the little garrison that thirteen
of the enemy were left dead on the field. This Captain was none other than
Gross Hardenburgh, by whose courage and leadership Wawarsing was saved
from utter annihilation.

As he advanced in years his habits of dissipation grew upon him to such an
extent, that his existence was little better than one continuous debauch,
which tended to confirm and inflame his evil propensities, while it
obscured what was commendable in his disposition. He became morose,
impetuous, tyrannical and uncongenial in the extreme. It is said of him
that in his old age, when traveling about the country, he would order the
innkeeper with whom he lodged to cover his table with candles and the
choicest liquors, and taking his seat solitary and alone, drink himself
into beastly insensibility.

Owing to his vicious and morose ways, his father disowned him, and devised
his share of the paternal estate to the heirs of his wife, Nancy Ryerson.
This act of the elder Hardenburgh seemed to extinguish the last spark of
manhood that lingered in the heart of his eccentric son.

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The death of Nancy Ryerson antedated that of her husband, and several of
her children died unmarried; consequently the purpose of the father was
defeated, the dissipated son inheriting the property of his deceased
children. Gross Hardenburgh is said to have made the impious and heartless
boast, that while his father disinherited him, the Almighty it made all
right by removing some of his own children. Such were the antecedents of
the man who was about to enter upon the work of evicting the settlers of
Sullivan. Little hope of mercy could any expect who were in his power.

His controversy with his father, his wife, his children, and the settlers
of the Neversink valley, had the effect of arousing a spirit of antagonism
against him which time has scarcely softened, nor the teachings of charity
perceptibly modified; few, even at this late day, choosing to say a word
in his defense. He hated his family, and defied the world. When he at last
met his fate there was not one left to mourn his loss; while many could
not conceal their joy that his presence would no longer afflict them.

Before proceeding to extreme measures, Hardenburgh made a general offer of
one hundred acres of wild upland to each settler of the disputed territory
for his improvements; but the occupants of the valley met his overtures
with defiance. They had purchased the bottom lands of the Neversink in
good faith, and were not disposed to yield up their improvements for wild
mountain lands. They believed that Hardenburgh's claim was fraudulent; or
should it prove otherwise, that the state would provide a remedy for the
difficulty.

Meanwhile, finding that his offers were refused. Hardenburgh instituted
suits of ejectment against several of the settlers. Without waiting,
however, for the courts to decide the question, he took the law into his
own hands, and commenced the work of seizing upon property and forcibly
dispossessing the inhabitants. In the fall of 1806 he took six hundred
bushels of grain in bulk, and all the growing crops, from James Brush and
his three sons. The grain was placed in a grist-mill owned by himself,
which stood on the site of the Hardenburgh saw-mill.* Gross also owned a
house and barn in the vicinity, and his son also owned some buildings
there. Among the latter was a barn in which was stored three hundred
bushels of grain, which had been forcibly taken from the settlers.

It was not long before the mill, houses, and barns, were all destroyed by
fire. Under such circumstances it was strongly suspected that the
dissatisfaction of the settlers had an intimate connection with the
burning of the property, and that a terrible vengeance awaited upon the
patentee. Some of the Hardenburgh family were then residing near by, but
became so alarmed that they soon left the neighborhood.

During that same year it is asserted that Hardenburgh forcibly set the
family of James Brush out of doors, and kicked Mrs. Brush as she went,
though

* Quinlan's "History of Sullivan."

138

only three days before she had given birth to a child which she then held
in her arms. During the absence from home of a neighbor, Jacob Maraquet,
his family were ejected, Mrs. Maraquet being dragged from her home by the
hair of her head. She died a few days afterward from the effects of her
treatment.

During the two years following, outrage followed outrage. Hardenburgh was
excited to frenzy, and the blood of the settlers was fully aroused. The
usurper of their lands was looked upon as a common enemy, whose death
would prove a public blessing.

In November, 1808, Gross Hardenburgh passed through the Neversink valley.
He was at that time seventy-five years of age. Notwithstanding he had led
a life of dissolute habits, he was sill active and energetic, and
controlled his spirited and somewhat perverse horse with skill and
boldness. He was, withal, possessed of a magnificent physique, on which
neither time nor dissipation had made perceptible inroads; and he boasted
of a weight of two hundred and fifty pounds. He feared neither man nor
beast and appeared to entertain no respect for his Creator.

Calling on his way along the valley at the house of one of the Grants, he
made the emphatic declaration that "he would raise more hell in the next
seven years than had ever been on earth before."

When passing along what is locally known as the "Dugway," he noticed that
the chimney of a house owned by him, and occupied by a man named John
Coney, was not completed. Calling Coney from the house he upbraided him in
a towering passion, and concluded with the remark that "unless the chimney
was topped out when he came back he would throw him out of doors." Coney
immediately employed the services of a neighbor, and the chimney was
finished next day.

Hardenburgh went that night at the house of his son, and soon after
sunrise on the following morning he started to go up the river. About an
hour afterward he was found in the road, helpless and speechless. His
horse was caught about a mile above. Hardenburgh was taken to a
neighboring house, where he lingered until about three o'clock the next
morning, when he died. He did not know that he had been shot, and those
about him did not think best to acquaint him with the fact. Before he died
he was heard to remark that his friends had often told him his horse would
throw and probably kill him, "and now," said he, "he has done it."

While preparing his body for burial, a bullet-hole was found in his coat,
and a wound in his shoulder. His friends were unwilling to admit he had
been murdered, and were on the point of burying him without an inquest. An
old soldier standing by, who had seen many wounds received in battle,
declared that nothing but lead could have made the hole in the dead man's
shoulder. A coroner was sent for, and the nearest physicians (one of them
Hardenburgh's son Benjamin) were requested to be present.

A crowd of people surrounded Van Benscoten's house where the inquest took
place, and was attended with scenes and incidents almost too shocking for

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credence. Some of them brought jugs of whiskey to make merry over the
death of their enemy, and drunkenness became the order of the day. One,
who had just come from butchering hogs, as he beheld the dead man prepared
for dissection, exclaimed: "That is fatter pork than I have killed to-
day." The speaker bore unfriendly relations to one of the physicians; and,
while the dissection was going on, he continued: "That is more than I ever
expected to see-my two greatest enemies-one cutting the other up!" When
the body was opened, and the heart exposed, he cried: "My God! that's what
I've longed to see for many a day!"

Another composed and sang an obscene and irreverent song, in which he
described the death of Hardenburgh, the feeding of birds on his body, and
other indelicate details. This greatly pleased the assembled multitude,
and was repeated so often, that some can yet recite parts of the
composition.

Quinlan, from whom we glean most of the preceding, says that a woman of
the neighborhood, whose descendants are among the most respectable
citizens of Fallsburgh, declared that "Gross had gone to --, to fee more
lawyers." One of the witnesses, on being asked if he knew who shot
Hardenburgh, answered that he did not; but expressed regret that he did
not himself do the deed, as "Doctor Benjamin had offered two hundred acres
of land to have his father put out of the way."

These remarks evoked shouts of merriment from the crowd. Vain were all
efforts to preserve order; decorum and decency were set aside; the
rejoicing of the settlers, inflamed by the all-potent rum, took the form
of the revels of Pandemonium.

From evidence elicited at the inquest and from subsequent developments, it
is supposed the assassins were three in number, and that they were posted
behind a tree about eight rods from the road, where they had cut away some
laurels that had obstructed their view. The ball had entered the victim's
shoulder, and passed through, breaking the back-bone; and the shock to his
nervous system was such as to instantly deprive him of sensation. This
accounts for the circumstance of his not hearing the report of the gun.

Several were suspected of being implicated in the murder, some of them
being arrested either as principals or accessories; it is probable that a
number of individuals in the "infected" district could tell more than they
were willing to disclose. When the fatal shot vas heard in the valley, one
of the men who was at work on the chimney at the "Dug-way," slapped his
hands and remarked, "That's a dead shot! An old fat buck has got it now!"
A tradition is current in the neighborhood that a suspected person moved
west, who, on his death-bed, confessed that he assisted at the murder, but
stubbornly refused to disclose the name of any of his accomplices. If the
death of Gross Hardenburgh was the result of a conspiracy involving a
number of persons, the secret has been well kept; and guilty souls,
blackened with the horrible crime, have gone down to the grave with the
burden of their unconfessed transgression. After the assassination, such
of the settlers as had not

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removed from the valley, found no difficulty in making satisfactory terms
with the heirs of Hardenburgh. Thus was ended what the old settlers termed
the "Hardenburgh war," a term by which it is usually spoken of to this day
by the residents of the valley.

LITTLE JESSIE MITTEER AND THE BEAR-TRAP

"BE sure and start for home early; you know I don't like to have Jessie
out after dark, when there are so many wild animals about. You remember it
was only a night or so ago that we heard the wolves howl dreadfully over
by the creek; and I heard to-day they killed some sheep of Job Jansen's."
Such was the parting injunction of Mrs. Samuel Mitteer, as her husband and
little daughter Jessie set out one afternoon on an errand to the house of
a neighbor some three miles distant. The husband bade her not to disturb
herself on that account, assuring her that he would be home before
nightfall; and the little girl, first kissing her mamma good-bye, took her
father's hand and departed in high spirits.

They reached their destination, but were obliged to wait a short time for
the neighbor to return. The business being arranged, the men engaged in a
friendly chat, and the moments flew by unheeded. The sun had already
disappeared behind the wall of forest to the west when Samuel bethought
himself of his promise to his wife. Still, he did not dream of any more
serious result than a little anxiety on the part of the good woman; and
taking his daughter by the hand, set out on their homeward journey as fast
as her little feet could carry her.

Her merry voice rang through the woods, now growing dim and solemn with
the gathering darkness: and they had already passed the Hemlock wamp, and
were more than half way home, when their ears were greeted with a sound
that made the father involuntarily clutch the arm of his little companion
with an energy that could not fail to alarm her. Again the sound came
through the darkening forest aisles and echoed from hill to hill, and at
last died away to a whisper.

"What is it, Papa?" exclaimed the child, whose quick glance noted the
strange demeanor of her father; "is it anything that will hurt us? I do
wish I was with Mamma!" Without deigning a reply, Samuel caught the child
in his arms, and ran in the direction of home with all his might.

Reader, did you ever hear the howl of a wolf in the woods of a still
night-when some old forester opens his jaws and sends forth a volume of
sound so deep, so prolonged, so changeful, that, as it rolls through the
forest and comes back in quavering echoes from the mountains, you are
ready to declare that his single voice is an agglomerate of a dozen all
blended into one? Then as you wait for the sound to die away, perhaps,
across the valley, another will open

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His mouth and answer with a howl as deep, and wild, and variable as the
first; then a third and a fourth will join in the chorus until the woods
will be full of howling and noise? If you have heard this weird music of
the forest, far from home, without means of protection, and with helpless
beings in your charge, then you may realize the feelings of Samuel Mitteer
as he fled along the path with the speed of a deer.

Mr. Mitteer hoped he might reach home before the first wolf had time to
call the others to its assistance, as he understood their habits
sufficiently to know these animals seldom attack singly. He was within a
mile of his house, and less than half that distance from the clearing. So
great was the effort he was making in his flight, encumbered by the weight
of the child, that he began to show signs of exhaustion; he feared lest
his strength should fail entirely before he reached a place of safety.

To add to his terror he knew by the well-known sounds that the pack had
collected, and that the hungry brutes were upon his track. The disclosure
added new energy to his frame. He was a powerfully built man, and rock and
tree flew by as he sped on in his flight. Yet his were the efforts of
sheer despair, as he heard the din of snarling beasts, and knew they were
rapidly gaining in the race.

He thought of home; he wondered if his friends heard the howling of the
pack, and knew that he was making a race for life. He imagined what would
be their feelings when they should find his fleshless bones is the woods
next day; and even calmly conjectured as to what would be the sensation of
being torn limb from limb by the fierce brutes.

Nearer, ever nearer, came the howling and snarling of the pack. He
realized that his moments were numbered if he depended on the speed of his
flight alone. By abandoning his child he knew he could climb a tree beyond
the reach of his pursuers; but he could not do so with her on his
shoulders. Rather than leave her to her fate he would die with her-the
little one whose arms were then encircling his neck, and whose breath came
thick and fast against his cheek. Ah, that death shriek, when at last her
form would be crushed in the jaws of the bloodthirsty brutes-would it
strike him dead?

"I see them coming, Papa," said little Jessie, who from her position
could look back over her father's shoulder, "and, oh, Papa, there are so
many of them; you won't let them hurt me, will you?" A scarcely audible
groan was the only response.

While every means of escape was being canvassed in the mind of the
agonized parent with a rapidity that is possible only in times of great
danger, he bethought himself of a bear-trap he had seen in the vicinity
but a short time before. Could he reach the trap? It was worth the trial.
All that human energy could do he would accomplish. Striking obliquely
from the path he bounded away. The door to the trap was raised when he
last saw it; if still in that position he believed he could place the
child inside and spring the trap; but if the door was down, he knew he
would not have time to raise

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the ponderous weight, and all would yet be lost. It was a forlorn hope at
the best.

What is that object looming up directly in his path? It is the bear-trap.
But the door! the door! The shadows of the forest render the vision
indistinct. He cannot tell whether the door is shut or raised. It appears
to be shut. A few more steps will decide. Already he hears the panting of
the brutes at his heels, and expects each moment to feel their sharp claws
ill his flesh. There is a mist before his eyes. He feels that his strength
is failing. One moment, and-"Thank God," he cries; "the door is raised."
With a wild energy begotten of despair he tears the terrified child from
his breast, thrusts her through the opening, touches the spindle and down
comes the ponderous door with a thud. Then seizing an overhanging limb he
swung himself up out of reach just as the jaws of the foremost wolf came
together as he snapped after his prey.

JESSIE MITTEER AND THE BEAR-TRAP

Now that the necessity for immediate exertion no longer existed, the
reaction was so great that Mr. Mitteer feared he would fall from the tree
from sheer exhaustion; to prevent such an occurrence, he tied himself
securely with his cravat and handkerchief. All night long the wolves
perambulated about that bear-trap and tree, and made the night hideous
with their howling. It was a night ever to be remembered by both father
and child. They were sufficiently near to one another to converse, so they
could cheer each other during the long and tedious hours.

The trap in which little Jessie lay was built so strongly that the largest
bear could not get out after it had once sprung the door. The father had
told her to keep as near the centre of the pen as she could, and she would
be safe: Though out of reach of harm, her position was far from enviable,
with the ferocious brutes all around and over her prison, thrusting their
noses and their

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sharp claws into the crevices between the logs in their frantic efforts to
reach her. Morning came at last, but Mr. Mitteer dare not leave his perch
for fear their late assailants might yet be lurking in the vicinity.
The people in the village of Liberty where he resided had heard the
unusual howling of the wolves during the night, and much anxiety had been
felt, as it was feared they were on his track; the wife and mother had
been inconsolable. She had spent the whole night in alternately going to
the door of her log cabin to listen to the wolves in the forest through
which her husband and child were to return, and then throwing herself upon
the bed and giving way to violent paroxysms of grief. Before sunrise a
party was sent in search of the wanderers. Proceeding along the Hurley
road the relieving party hallooed the names of the missing ones, and
presently were rewarded with an answer. Then, following up the direction
of the sound, they came upon Mr. Mitteer still in the tree, and little
Jessie safe and sound in her bear-trap. The wolves had gone, but had left
behind abundant evidences of their visit. The father and child were
speedily restored to their friends, who had given up all hope of ever
seeing them alive. Though Samuel Mitteer lived many years after this
occurrence, he ever after exhibited an almost childish terror at the
howling of a wolf.

A RIVAL OF ISRAEL PUTNAM

EVERY schoolboy has heard the story of Israel Putnam and the wolf.
Comparatively few have heard of the similar experience of a lad in a
panther den at Callicoon. Without detracting from the glory of Putnam, we
think the story of little William Lane, of Callicoon, worthy of honorable
mention.

In the spring of 1843 the track of a very large panther was discovered,
and a party of hunters turned out and followed it to its den in a ledge of
rocks. Closing up the entrance to the cave carefully, they went home,
proposing to return next day with reinforcements.

The following day they were on the ground and found everything as they had
left it. They first dislodged the rocks for about twenty feet, or half way
to the extremity of the den, so as to admit the passage of a man to that
point; beyond this they found the hole too small and the surrounding
material immovable. A small lamp was tied to the end of a pole and thrust
inward far enough to enable the "fiery eye-balls" of the monster to be
seen. A candle was next placed so that the light would shine on the barrel
of a rifle, and thus enable the daring man who attempted to shoot the
panther to take sure aim. The first shot was fired by William Adams, who
wounded the game, causing it to scream so terribly that every one fled
front the spot, fearing the enraged creature would emerge and rend them in
pieces. Except a few contusions,

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caused by a hasty scramble over fallen tree-trunks and scraggy rocks, no
damage was incurred. One by one the hunters returned and obtained a
furtive view of the scene of terror. All seemed quiet, and after a hasty
consultation, the entrance was again securely walled up and the place
abandoned for the night.

On the third day all the men and boys that the surrounding country
afforded mere assembled to witness the sport. They were armed with an
endless variety of weapons,-rifles, shot-guns, bayonets, hatchets, axes,
crowbars, and butcher knives. It was agreed to resume the plan of
operations adopted the day previous. The boulders were once more rolled
away from the entrance, and the lights properly placed. A brother of
William Adams, the hero of the previous day, went into the passage as far
as he was able and fired. The same scene followed as on the second day,
the screams of the panther causing a panic in the whole crowd, and the
forty men and boys ran as if life depended on the celerity of their
flight.

The company rallied sooner than on the former occasion, however, and John
Hankins fired the third shot, prostrating the panther in his lair. But how
to get him out was the difficulty. None but a lad could enter; and now was
a rare opportunity to test the bravery of the boys. One lad volunteered
but at the last moment his courage failed him. Next a spirited little
fellow named William Lane threw off his coat, hat and vest, and arming
himself with a hunting axe and dirk, went into the den, accompanied by Mr.
Hankins as far as the latter could get. While his friends remained outside
in breathless suspense, young Lane cautiously crept through the narrow
passage, pausing occasionally to listen. The panther still exhibited signs
of life, as the boy could see by the faint light of his lamp. As soon as
young Lane was within reach he buried the blade of his axe in its brain,
and then applied the dirk to its throat-a very hazardous experiment. The
young hero then ended his adventure by hauling out the body of the
panther, which proved to be the largest of its kind.

PANTHER HUNTING AT LONG POND

NO sports are more thoroughly enjoyed by robust men than those of hunting
and trapping. The freedom from restraint; the mountain air and vigorous
exercise; living in constant communion with Nature, with just enough of
danger to add relish to a calling full of excitement and adventure-these
are among the causes that lend to such an existence a charm that no other
life can give.

Cyrus Dodge had a thrilling adventure at Long Pond, one of the many
beautiful sheets of water found in the county of Sullivan. This pond was
conspicuous in times gone by for its large trout, and for the numbers of
deer

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found in its vicinity. One day in mid-summer, Dodge went to this lake to
look for deer. He sat under some huge trees that grew near the shore,
waiting for the deer to come to the water. While thus engaged, his
attention was directed to a suspicious noise overhead. Looking up he saw a
large catamount on at limb just above him. The animal was watching him
intently, as though mentally discussing the relative merits of a man or
deer for dinner. Believing there could be no merit in procrastination,
Dodge brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired. The next instant he
heard a dull thud on the ground at his feet, and saw that the turf and
dead leaves were being crimsoned by the blood of a panther in its dying
throes.

The report of his rifle started other lithe forms into activity among the
tree-tops, and, as Dodge declared afterwards, he believed the woods were
full of panthers, and realized that he was in great peril.

Knowing the aversion of the cat-tribe to water, he waded out into the lake
waist deep. As he loaded his gun he counted no less than five panthers
among the trees that lined the shore. They were probably a mother and her
young; and the latter, though nearly grown, had continued to follow the
old one. The hunter kept up a fusilade from his position in the water
until three more panthers were brought down. The other two ran off and
were seen no more. He then waded ashore, skinned the four panthers and
made the best of his way homeward, sensibly concluding that it was a
dangerous locality for deer hunting.

One day in mid-winter a hunter by the name of Sheeley discovered the track
of a large animal not far from a cabin occupied by a widow. He followed
the track until it led to a den in the rocks. He examined the entrance
carefully, but did not care to explore the interior alone. The next day,
in company with a companion, he revisited the place. The passage into the
lair of the animal was very narrow, so that a person could enter only by
creeping on his hands and feet. Procuring a sapling, they tied a birch
bark to one extremity, and thrust the lighted end into the hole. By the
light they discovered a very large panther quietly reposing in the cave. A
rifle-ball speedily deprived the animal of life, and the hunters started
home with their game. On their way they came upon the half-devoured
carcass of a large buck, which the panther had killed, and had been
feeding upon.

William Woodward, while roaming through the woods in the town of Rockland,
discovered a panther's den. Though entirely alone he crept into it. The
lady of the house was not at home, but was absent foraging, leaving her
children to take care of themselves. Woodward took up the little panther
kittens, thrust them inside his torn shirt, and carried them home. Had the
old mother panther discovered him in the act of purloining her little
ones, this story would have had a different ending.

Peter Stewart and a young friend were once hunting in this town, but with
no success. Game seemed to be scarce. They examined the mountain runways,
and the crossings in the soft spongy soil of the valleys, without find-

146

ing the print of a hoof. While passing near a ledge they discovered a hole
in the rocks, near which were a number of bones of deer and other animals.
This they concluded was the lair of some wild beast, which was in the
habit of bringing food home to its young. Examining carefully the priming
of their guns, they secreted themselves within easy gun-shot of the hole,
and awaited the development of events.

In a few moments they saw a bear come out of the hole with a young panther
in his mouth. As Stewart's friend was abort to shoot, the other signaled
him to withhold his fire. The bear quickly crunched the life out of the
kitten, went back into the hole, and presently issued forth with another
one struggling in his teeth. Bruin had come upon a panther family in the
absence of the old ones, and had thought this was his opportunity. As he
crushed this second kitten between his jaws, it gave a loud squeal. The
cry was heard by its mother who happened to be returning home. Soon there
was heard the sound of swift feet, and the crashing through brush and dry
branches of some rapidly moving body. Then a large panther merged into
view, with eyes blazing and hair bristling-boding dire vengeance on the
despoiler of its home.

The bear saw the panther coming, and his animal instinct took in the
situation. He saw he was about to reap the fruits of his indiscretion. He
made an awkward effort to shamble away, but was too closely pursued by the
infuriated beast; to escape he took refuge in a tree. But the tree
afforded no asylum from the sharp claws and teeth of the panther. The bear
rolled himself into a ball and dropped to the ground, and again essayed to
shuffle off. His antagonist was once more upon him; and forced to
extremities Bruin turned to fight and a fierce and bloody conflict ensued.
The hunters were meanwhile looking on with breathless interest while the
actors in this drama of the forest were contributing to their
entertainment. However, the end was soon reached. The bear proved no match
for his adversary, and the feline monster, fastening its teeth in the
shoulder of his victim, with its hind feet ripped out his intestines. The
hunters now both fired upon the panther and killed it. Then skinning both
animals, they hung the bear meat out of the reach of wolves, and went for
assistance to take the carcass home.

BEAR HUNT ON THE MONGAUP RIVER

THE pioneers of the region of the Shawangunk, who were, by turns,
lumbermen, farmers, hunters and soldiers, as inclination led or occasion
required, were a robust race of men, fearless and active, who thoroughly
enjoyed forest life. Encounters with the fierce denizens of the forest
were frequent, always exciting, and occasionally hazardous in the extreme.
This territory abounded in wild game, and was a famous hunting-ground for
both

147

white and red men, even after the country adjacent had settled down to
civilization. After the War of the Revolution it is said that "John Land,
the Tory," trapped enough beaver in the town of Cochecton to pay for four
hundred acres of land. David Overton used to tell of standing in his
father's door in the town of Rockland, and shooting deer enough to supply
the family. Once he counted thirty of these animals at one time in a pond
near the house. Five or six of the larger ones seemed to be standing in a
circle and pawing the water with their forefeet.

In the winter of 1819, three young men by the name of Burnham, Horton and
Brown, residing in Forestburgh, engaged in a hear hunt. Burnham, while
turning from his work in the woods, discovered fresh bear tracks in the
snow, and engaged the others to go with him and capture the animal. Armed
with rifle and axe, before daylight the next morning they were on the
trail, which they followed for several hours until the track came to a
flat on the Mongaup river. Here the snow was very much trampled, and they
judged the bear's winter-quarters must be in the vicinity. The three
commenced to search, when Burnham found a hole near the centre of the flat
under some large rocks, with bear tracks leading to and from it. He called
out to his companions that he had found the den, and presently all three
were peering into it, but could see nothing.

They then cut a pole and thrust it into the opening, when they found the
end of the pole came in contact with some soft substance. Burnham then
split the end and twisted it vigorously against the substance, and was
rewarded with some short, black hairs, which were held in the split. They
had found the bear, and the animal was within reach of the pole. One of
the men suggested they would better go home, but Burnham utterly refused
to leave until he had killed the bear.

His next move was to make the stick very sharp, with which he punched the
bear with all his might. Immediately there was an angry growl within, with
a scrambling of feet and scratching of claws; the bear seized the
sharpened end and pushed the pole outwardly, carrying Burnham with it.
Burnham dropped the pole, stepped back, caught up his rifle, and aimed it
just as the bear reached the entrance. As he showed his head at the hole,
Burnham fired, and the bear fell back into his retreat.

At first they could not determine whether or not the bear was dead; a few
vigorous punches with the pole satisfied them on that point. They then
tried to get out their game with crooked sticks, but their efforts wore
fruitless. Then Burnham went head-first into the den, and taking hold of
the bear's shaggy coat, his companions, by pulling on his legs, drew out
both him and the bear.

While waiting to get breath, they heard a noise under the rocks, and
presently the head of another bear was thrust forth, which speedily met
the fate of its companion.

It was now dusk and they were occupied with the question as to how to get
the bear home. The feet of the small bear were tied together and slung

148

across the shoulder of one of the party. The large bear was suspended from
a pole and carried by the other two. In this way they reached the road, a
mile distant, just at dark, where they met a team with an empty sled, on
which they were permitted to deposit their game. On reaching home, tired
and hungry as they were, they would not eat until a steak was cut from one
of the bears and prepared for their supper.

Zephaniah and Nathan Drake, also of the town of Forestburgh, once had an
adventure with a bear. They were out hunting and the dogs had driven Bruin
up a tree. The hunters came up and saw the bear seated on a limb thirty
feet or more from the ground, calmly eyeing the dogs. Zephaniah quickly
brought his rifle to bear upon the animal, when Nathan meekly advised him
to be careful and make a sure shot. "Why," said Zeph., a little vexed at
the suggestion; "I can shoot the critter's eye right out of his head." The
ball, however, missed its mark, but it shattered the upper jaw so that the
bear's nose and about half of its upper teeth turned up over its forehead.
The bear fell to the ground, and the dogs fell upon the bear. The bear
caught one of the dogs between his paws and attempted to crush it; when the
other dog bit the black brute so viciously, that he dropped the first dog
and turned his attention to the other. Thus the battle went on back and
forth, the animals being so mixed up that the brothers dare not shoot, for
fear of killing their dogs.

Zephaniah finally sailed in with his hunting knife, when the bear left the
dogs and attacked his human assailant. The man retreated as the animal
advanced upon him. His heel caught in a laurel bush, down he went upon his
back, with the bear on top, and the dogs on top of all. For a brief period
there was a lively tussle among the bushes. Every actor in that drama was
in earnest, as much so as though thousands were witnessing the progress of
the fight. From impulse Zephaniah threw up his hand to keep off his
assailant as much as possible, and thrust his finger into Bruin's mouth.
The bear's jaws, torn and mangled, as they were, closed on one of the
fingers and crushed it.