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Updated: June 5, 2025
She is sometimes known as Katharine Montour. A son of hers was killed in the conflict, and she was so angered that she had sixteen captives placed around the rock, and meant to slay them all, while the warriors prevented them from escaping. Nevertheless two of the young men jumped up and started on a run for the river. The guards dashed after them.
"How can I?" said I, laughing. "Who is this busy hag, Catrine Montour?" "They say," said Dorothy, waving her fan thoughtfully, "that her father was that Count Frontenac who long ago governed the Canadas, and that her mother was a Huron woman. Many believe her to be a witch. I don't know. Milk curdles in the pans when she is running through the forest ... they say.
"Dorothy, who is this Catrine Montour?" I asked. "A woman, cousin; a terrible hag who runs through the woods, and none dare stop her." "A real hag? You mean a ghost?" "No, no; a real hag, with black locks hanging, and long arms that could choke an ox." "Why does she run through the woods?" I asked, amused. "Why? Who knows? She is always seen running." "Where does she run to?" "I don't know.
After leaving Muskingum, Gist, Croghan, and Montour went together to a village on White Woman's Creek, so called from one Mary Harris, who lived here. She was born in New England, was made prisoner when a child forty years before, and had since dwelt among her captors, finding such comfort as she might in an Indian husband and a family of young half-breeds.
It was that of a woman, middle-aged, tall and powerful, naked to the waist, her body covered with red and black paint, her long black hair hanging in a loose cloud down her back. She held a fresh scalp, taken from a white head, aloft in either band. It was Catharine Montour, and it was she who had first emitted the scalp yell. After her came more warriors, all bearing scalps.
For, deep in the secret shadows of that dreadful place where this vile hag, Catharine Montour, ruled it in Catharines-town, dwelt also all that now remained of the Cat-Nation Eries People of the Cat a dozen, it was rumoured, scarcely more and demons all, serving that horrid warlock, Amochol, the Sorcerer of the Senecas.
"And that is like to be her business," muttered Van Horn. "The painted forest-men are in the hills, and if Senecas, Cayugas, and Onondagas do not know it this night, it will be no fault of Catrine Montour." "Ride on, Peter," said Dorothy, and checked her horse till my mare came abreast. "Are you afraid?" I whispered. "Afraid? No!" she said, astonished. "What should arouse fear in me?"
"Let the Lenape tell you of women!" retorted a Tuscarora sachem, calmly. At this opening of an old wound the Oneidas called on the Lenape to answer; but the Lenape sat sullen and silent, with flashing eyes fixed on the Mohawks. Then Catrine Montour, lashing herself into a fury, screamed for vengeance on the people who had broken the chain-belt with the Long House.
"Nor mine at anything save a savage," said I, fearfully peering behind me while my mare trembled under me. "I think we have seen a savage, that is all," fell Dorothy's calm voice. "I think we have seen Catrine Montour." At the name, Van Horn swore steadily. "If that be the witch Montour, she runs like a clansman with the fiery cross," I said, shuddering.
"It has been reported to me," said the General, quietly, "that the Butlers, father and son, are in this county to attend a secret council; and that, with the help of Catrine Montour, they expect to carry the Mohawk nation with them as well as the Cayugas and the Senecas.
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