The sign of the prophet — Edition Insights

It was a hot, sultry morning in the latter part of August, 1811.

A dugout canoe containing two occupants was swiftly speeding down the Scioto, at a point near which the city of Columbus now stands.

The clear green water wimpled musically at the bow of the vessel, and a frothy wake bubbled and eddied at the stern. The surface of the stream lay cool and dark in the shadow of the overhanging trees; but where the red rays of the rising sun shot through the dense foliage and fell upon the pulseless bosom of the sluggish tide, they gave it the metallic luster of burnished copper. Great trees ranged themselves as stalwart sentinels along the shores, a part of the grand army that stretched away to the far distance on either hand. Their leaves were dark-green and glossy. Yellow and purple wild flowers lifted their fair faces to the morning sun and nodded a welcome. Feathered songsters fluttered among the gray boughs and chirped and warbled merrily. A venturesome fish popped several feet out of the water—just ahead of the swiftly flying dugout—and flashed its silver scales in a tantalizing manner.

The occupants of the canoe gave little heed to the beauties of the scene. Seated in the bottom of their quivering, rocking craft, they rapidly and rhythmically dipped their light paddles. At each stroke the frail vessel lifted itself and sprang forward, like a thing of life. The forest receded from the western bank of the river, and low-lying fields of tall, rank corn took its place. Walled in by the growing maize, lay the straggling village of Franklinton—a cluster of rude log-huts. Cleared spaces appeared in the woods upon the eastern shore; and several cabins stood out against the background of encircling trees—the germ, the nucleus of the Capital City of to-day.

The two paddlers looked neither to the right, nor to the left, but laboriously bent to their work. Suddenly a man parted the bushes upon the western shore and, stepping down to the water’s edge, called lustily:

“Hello! That you, Ross Douglas?”

“Yes,” answered the man in the stern of the dugout. “What do you want?”

Both paddlers ceased their efforts and allowed the craft to drift with the lazy current.

“W’y, y’r dog come to my cabin this mornin’—all wet an’ draggled as though he’d swum the river,” returned the voice from the shore. “He ’peared to be tuckered out an’ hungry—an’ went whinin’ ’round as if he was huntin’ fer you. I fed him, an’ then tied him up in the cabin. Do you want him?”

The paddler in the bow of the canoe turned his head and looked at his companion, at the same time uttering a grunt of surprise and incredulity.

“You may keep him until I come back,” called the man who had answered to the name of Ross Douglas, lifting his paddle and preparing to resume his journey.

“Hold on there, Ross!”—shouted the individual on shore. “What do you mean—where’re you goin’?”

“Going to join General Harrison’s army at Vincennes.”

And the suspended paddles dipped, and the dugout leaped forward.

“Stop, I say!” bellowed the man who had hailed the voyagers, running along the shelving sands and gesticulating wildly. “Ross Douglas, you ain’t a goin’ to run off like that an’ leave an ol’ friend, without shakin’ his paw an’ biddin’ him good-by—I’m danged if you are! Stop, ’r I’ll send a bullet spinnin’ out there—I will, by Sally Matildy!”

“But I’m in a hurry,” Douglas laughed good-humoredly.

“It don’t make no differ’nce,” persisted the other. “Come in here.”

“Turn the prow toward shore, Bright Wing,” Douglas said in a low tone to his companion.

“Ugh!” grunted the latter—and obeyed.

A few moments later the canoe beached itself and the two paddlers sprang ashore. The one who had occupied the bow of the craft was an Indian—young, lithe, and strong. His forehead was high and narrow; his nose, slightly aquiline. His eyes were small, black, and piercing; his brawny chest and muscular arms were bare. His straight, blue-black hair—braided and ornamented with beads and perforated shells and coins—reached his waist. Breeches, leggings, and moccasins of tanned buckskin constituted his dress. In his belt were tomahawk and scalping-knife; and he carried a heavy rifle. He belonged to the Wyandot tribe, and was an adopted son of the noble chief, Leatherlips.