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"That's only because o' what I seen at Keeney's Knob," he hoarsely whispered. "When I meet one of 'em in a settlement I skedaddle afore I lose my grip. I mustn't do anything that'll fetch a parcel of 'em down to carry off some other feller's little sister. If I know'd she was dead " "If you'd stop killing long enough to question some of the Shawnees you might learn the truth."
All Virginia was familiar with the terrible story of the Cousin massacre at Keeney's Knob. Fully as tragic and horrible to me, perhaps, was the terrible change in the only survivor. He became an Injun-killer as soon as he was able to handle a rifle; and a Virginia boy of twelve was ashamed when he failed to bring down his squirrel shot through the head.
Cousin drew up his leg to kick free, then smiled sweetly and said: "It's my big day, Morris. Don't go for to meddle with my medicine. Everything's all right at last. I've found the long trace that leads to my little sister. She's waitin' to put her hand in mine, as she used to do on Keeney's Knob."
Your search is ended. Your sister died in the raid on Keeney's Knob." "My little sister," he whispered. He went with me passively enough, and he did not speak until we had struck into the main trail of the Shawnees. Then he asked: "You did not kill him?" "No." "It's best that way. There're 'nough others. They'll pay for it."
Young Cousin flashed into my mind, and I asked: "Do you know of a white woman she would be nineteen years old now named Cousin? She was captured by Shawnees at Keeney's Knob ten years ago." For half a minute I was doubtful if he understood my query. Then he shook his head. I was disappointed as it seemed to be an excellent chance to learn whether the girl be dead or alive.
He stared at her stupidly, and mumbled: "You remember me. You called my name. You know I am your brother. You know we lived on Keeney's Knob. You remember the creek " "I remember," she quietly interrupted. "A very long time ago. Very long. I am a Shawnee now. My heart is red." Her words stunned him for a bit, then he managed to gasp out, "Who is this man?"
He talked like you do. He called some o' the red devils his friends. He believed in 'em, too. Cornstalk, the Shawnee devil, was his good friend. "Daddy an' mammy 'lowed we could live on Keeney's Knob till all git-out bu'sted up an' never have no trouble with friendly Injuns. That was ten years ago. I was eight years old. Then Cornstalk made his last visit. Daddy had just brought in some deer meat.
"If they would only be friendly with the Indians! It is so simple " "I know a fellow about your age," I broke in. "The Indians killed his people on Keeney's Knob ten years ago and stole his little sister. He doesn't know whether she is dead or a captive. His folks were friendly. They were butchered after making a feast for Cornstalk and his warriors. There are many such cases.
We ain't forgitting what happened at Keeney's Knob, at the Clendennin farm on the Greenbriar; nor the scores of killings up in Tygart's Valley, and in other places. Give 'em the pewter every chance you can! That's my religion." "That's the talk, Lige!" cried Scott. "Ike Crabtree would 'a' liked to been in this fun." "He'll feel cut up when he hears about our luck," said Hacker.
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