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Yellow Creek Stories

Robert W. SCHILLING

Chapter VI

The Hildenbrands

For over a century and a half this name Hildenbrand variously spelled, has been the name of a tiny branch of Long Run, the latter being the third stream to enter historic Yellow Creek on its right-flank; a territory recognized in the infancy of pioneer days as the best hunting ground in all the Yellow Creek valley country.

Among the early "squatters," in fact, the first, to settle in this region was a hunter and trapper named, Jacob Hildenbrand, who built a log cabin on the south bank of this stream, and moved his wife and two sons here in 1792. This fact gave this brook its euphonious name. The still remaining family grave stones mark the location of this episode, and to them these then commonplace deeds gave birth to this simple narrative of their trials in an effort to tame a truly howling wilderness.

To one not reasonably well grounded in our early local history, it is difficult to believe that these daring, restless pioneers came to this territory so early —even at a time when from the "Forks of the Ohio" westward all was ablaze with continual Indian outrages, so that often this scant fringe of population had to flee to the nearest blockhouse, or if they had the time retreat to a safer region east of the Blue Ridge mountains.

The incentive for early settlement of this Yellow Creek region was greatly encouraged by the fact that Col. Bouquet and his intrepid army traveled this Yellow Creek valley route to the Tuscarawas River in the autumn of 1764, and sixteen years later Col. McIntosh led another brave army of Indian fighters along this same trail; from the first fort west of the Ohio River, Fort McIntosh, to build the first fort in what is now Ohio, which he named Fort Laurens.

Even as early as April 12, 1785, the commanding officer at Fort McIntosh sent his trusted ensign down our Ohio River front with strict orders, "to warn off any and all squatters who had located or made any improvements, on the West or Indian side of the Ohio." On that date two families were living at the mouth of Yellow Creek, and several others a few miles below, so they were "warned off" and their cabins burned to the ground. It was here that Ensign Armstrong found out that many more had settled in the back country, along the streams as far as thirty miles from the Indian boundary line which the red man had repeatedly insisted, "no white man was to plant corn west of the Ohio River."

In 1793 when the Yellow Creek Blockhouse was built and occupied at the mouth of this creek, this region was still considered so wild, that Anthony Wayne brought his army half way down the Ohio between Fort Pitt and this Blockhouse, indicating that his men would get their rigorous army training in Indian stratagem, treachery and warfare under the exact hardships and continual dangers to be found on Indian battlegrounds.

And yet (a decade before this Blockhouse was built) there were some squattters dwelling on almost the same location, even though this then called Northwest Territory, had a governor and court five years prior to the time Yellow Creek Blockhouse was built, there were more than a hundred white people killed along our river front. Besides, our armies which had been fighting the Indians up to this time were slaughtered one after another. In St. Clair’s defeat, six hundred were killed and scalped in this one battle alone. So frequent and frightful were our defeats by the Indians that our infant republic was heartsick with fear, and goaded to exaspiration [sic]. In truth our federal government was so unnerved, that Anthony WAYNE, who had been appointed to head the western army against the Indians, was so often refused the right to attack these red devils, that he threatened resigning his leadership, if he was longer retarded from action.

When Wayne was given the right to move, the consent was given with many strings attached, and removed with fearful hesitation, until "Mad Anthony" made the conditions to act which were necessary, and applied his remedy to the satisfaction of all, and for all time.

With this being the Indian situation, it was in the year 1792 that a fur trader, by the name of George CLARK built himself a cabin and established a trading post at the mouth of Yellow Creek, where the following spring the Yellow Creek Blockhouse was built. He had a scant knowledge of the Wyandot tongue, but had an abundance of the white man’s rascality—which enabled him to cater to the back country squatters, as well as a few Indians. Clark would trade them lead, powder and salt for their hides, furs and ginseng. Although the site seemed rather poor for this kind of trade, he nevertheless enjoyed fair returns, when his shady operations were coupled with juggled arithmetic, short weights and other questionable business short cuts. Often when the customer returned to his home cabin, and related his experiences, some more erudite member would calculate his trading prowess and expose the fault, which frequently left a feeling of tense resentment in the loser’s mind, and a solemn promise to be more alert the next time.

One raw, frosty day in late autumn of 1792, a very large, but aged Wyandot Indian arrived at Clark’s trading station. He was mounted atop his lean, lank pony with a load of twenty buck skins, to trade for winter supplies. Now, it was customary in all trading at this stage of pioneer history, that two raccoon hides equalled [sic] the value of one doe skin; two doe skins equalled [sic] the value of one buck skin, the latter having the value of one dollar. Clark suggested that the quickest and best method of trade according to a new white man’s law was to weigh the hides, which he did quickly on his old rusty steelyards, whose scale of markings were undecipherable to him and the whole operation was an unknown quantity to the Indian. When the magical white man’s results were announced, the value of the pelts was equivalent to ten dollars in trade.

After a long period of quiet study the Wyandot slowly remarked that his winter needs would be tobacco, powder, salt and lead, these also were weighed out on the magical balances, but the sharp eyes of the red man noticed that when his buck hides were weighed, that Clark used the light-side of the steelyards, but in weighing his tobacco and salt that the fur trader used the heavy side; besides the questionable use of one hand to aid the balance to keep a steady keel. Through all this shady manipulation the old Wyandot sat patiently and watched the whole procedure with complete poise and equinamity [sic] until the deal was completed without a single indication of his oncoming storm of anger. He carried his merchandise out and placed it in the packsaddle of his gaunt old pony tied nearby, and returned to Clark’s trading post—but what a changed man! The heretofore peaceable Wyandot was now changed to a vicious savage with blood in his eyes, and plenty of fight in his heart, because of the outrageous treatment accorded to him by Clark. He quickly grabbed the untrustworthy, rusty, steelyards, then strode out of the cabin door and with one mighty effort threw them out into the Ohio River. Then acting as if his ruffled feelings were partly compensated, he walked back into the trading post, sat down, filled his pipe and lighted it with an ember from the fire place. After taking one long draw on his pipe, he quietly told Clark that if he did not get all his merchandise in his skiff and be on his road across the river, that he would soon be resting on the bottom of the river with his magical steelyards.

Clark needed no second invitation. He was part way across the river while the red man was yet drawing clouds of smoke from his pipe—and he never returned.

The day was overcast with frowning clouds, and the chilly afternoon air was growing sharper, when the patient old Wyandot mounted his scrawny pony, and started towards his winter village somewhere beyond the headwaters of Yellow Creek. He was a wiser, but somewhat poorer Indian because of his experience in dealing with the white fur trader.

The Indian’s sharp eye indicated to him that the muddy waters of Yellow Creek were rapidly rising, so he crossed it at the first shallow riffle, near the entrance of Hollow Rock Run, and followed along the south shore of the creek until he reached the third stream entering on its right flank, now named "Long Run."

Noticing that the short gloomy, late autumn day was rapidly nearing its completion, he turned into Long Run’s narrow valley. He hoped he might kill a bear or deer, and tarry nearby for the night, could he but find some sheltered cover, the comforting shelter of some dry cavern, or overhanging cliff of rock to protect him during the raw, frosty night.

The Indian saw much game, but his hungry, leg weary, stumbling pony frightened all he saw from getting into shooting range, so he traveled slowly on, hoping for some better and more certain chance a little further along. At length he came to a dark narrow valley entering Long Run on its right, and peering through the dusky gloom of the hemlock roofed cove, there came slowly ambling towards him, a large black bear, also seeking a warm dry den to hibernate for the winter night. The Wyandot halted his pony, brought his flintlock into position and when the right moment came he fired, and the bear slumped in its tracks. He dismounted and quickly eviscerated the brute to lessen its weight, and was about to throw the unwieldly [sic] carcass upon the back of the pony, when he looked up and noticed a wisp of wood smoke curling up among the leafless trees, only a short distance away.

All this time, a rapidly increasing pack of snarling wolves were being attracted by the odor of the discarded entrails, and more were slinking in from all directions to feast and fight over this, to them delectable morsel of food. The Wyandot started towards the source of the smoke, hoping to find a place to warm himself and rest for the night. Although he knew little of the white man’s customs and none of his language, he hardly knew how to approach Jacob Hildenbrand’s cabin in such manner as to cause the least alarm, and to improve his chances for the most success in seeking shelter; so he gave several low whoops, as was the Indian customs to indicate his arrival was that of a peacable mission, although the starving, bloodthirsty wolves were nipping his nag’s legs, and their hideous howling almost drowned out his shivering voice. It was a picture that no doubt, the red man felt was not conducive to aid his wants, nor one to allay the new found white stranger’s fears, when he needed a favor.

At last with no signs of life appearing at the cabin door, he tied his pony in the narrow ravine below. Then clubbing the brazen, snapping wolves away from his pony, he again tried to arouse the hesitant inmates of the cabin to come to his aid. Failing to do so, he came and tried to open the door, but with no results, for it was solidly bolted from the inside. Again he looked and saw the telltale wisp of smoke at the chimney top, which indicated to his way of thinking that someone was inside, and perchance frightened by his noisy, unceremonious arrival at the HILDENBRAND cabin.

Then noticing an outside makeshift ladder, he climbed to the clapboard roof to try his luck at getting some favorable response to his efforts by yelling down the wide throated chimney, but his Wyandot tongue was no aid to ears not made to understand his language. He next concluded to lay his half frozen body across the chimney top to warm himself and smoke the cabin dweller out, but when Mrs. Hildenbrand discerned his meaning, she threw a pillow full of pigeon feathers into the fire place. That made the chimney roar with the blaze, to the Indian’s surprise and discomfiture.

The Wyandot now sure that someone was in the cabin, carefully crawled down from the rooftop to again try the bolted door. But just as he came to the ground, Jacob Hildenbrand, the builder and owner of the cabin returned home from his line of traps. He had heard the commotion, and thinking all might not be well, had hurried back to his cabin, to determine the cause.

He arrived just in time to see the old Wyandot vigorously working at the barricaded door, but he was then standing at such an angle that he feared to shoot for it might endanger the safety of those inside. In changing his position, he frightened the Indian’s pony. The animal was plunging and trying to break loose, when the Wyandot seeing the predicament, ran towards the frightened beast, but in doing so stumbled over a tangle of wild grape vines just as Hildenbrand fired—and missed his mark.

The Indian lay in his now protected position and implored Hildenbrand in his most pathetic Wyandot lingo that he meant no harm to anyone, for he was only seeking shelter for the night, and at that moment had no weapons on his person to harm anyone.

Hildenbrand as was the custom, reloaded his flintlock and cautiously approached the fallen Indian who was continuously offering reasons for his strange actions in the most pitiful voice—but in a language well know to Hildenbrand. As the latter approached him he held out his hand to bind his promise of friendship, as was also an old practice of the red man, so that Hildenbrand feeling that all was reasonably certain, safe and above board, asked the Wyandot to come into the cabin and warm himself by the fire.

Jacob Hildenbrand now aproached the cabin door and asked his wife to open it. The request was promptly complied with by removing of the heavy oaken bold—at which both the white and red man entered. The Wyandot moved quietly over to the open fire, where he finished skinning his bear.

Out of one hind quarter of the bear carcass, he cut with his keen knife several pounds of the meat and handed to Mr. Hildenbrand, with the suggestion that his wife roast it for him, as he was very hungry.

The obedient wife attended to this chore promptly, but in her agitated state of mind, she inadvertently must not have seasoned the meat to the red man’s taste, for when roasted and handed to him on a trencher, the Wyandot took a large mouthful, then made a strange wry face, as if in great pain, and almost choked. Then he handed the trencher and meat back to the lady practically untouched. The first thought that came to her mind was that the Indian suspected poison on his meat, and then again she wondered if he was angry, for she could think of no reason for his actions in refusing the meat.

A short time later the Indian wrapped his warm bear skin about him, and lay down before the snapping, cracking open fireplace, apparently with full confidence in his safety and was soon snoring in deep slumber, lulled to deeper sleep by the scream of a nearby wildcat and the howling wolves.

The Hildenbrand family also retired, but with a feeling all might not be entirely well, for might not this intruder be only the agent to later release the heavy inside door bolt and admit his murderous confederates, secretly waiting on the outside for the chance to enter and kill them all.

Jacob Hildenbrand carefully noted that his gun was perfectly primed, and located so as to be reached quickly with the least effort, as was also his killing axe and skinning knife.

The children climbed reluctantly into their trundle bed—although they remained perfectly silent, they never closed their sharp eyes, but kept the latter carefully focused on the old Wyandot who was lying stretched comfortably asleep before the large open fireplace in his bear skin robe.

About midnight the Indian ceased snoring, awoke and propped himself on one elbow, and stirred the fire quietly but with no noise; then looked about the cabin intently, to note that all were quiet and apparently asleep. To this fact he seemed satisfied, for a few moments later he arose to his feet, reached for his knife, and repeatedly ran the top of his brown finger along the sharp blade. There he stood in the shadow of the fireplace like one in deep medication, with no motion except that he repeatedly kept slowly sliding his finger along the keen edge of his heavy hunting knife. To the boys he seemed like some furtive blood thirsty beast awaiting the proper moment to leap on some unsuspecting prey for the kill.

Needless to say there were eight alert, vigilant eyes watching these strange questionable actions. On several occasions Jacob Hildenbrand was ready with tense fingers to grab his gun and knife and complete this grisly, ghastly drama, but with confidence in his timing and faith in his bravery, he patiently abided his time. Then the Indian again stooped to a sitting posture. Was it only a position to add strength to his plunge to kill the whole family at one tremendous swoop? Was it—well, the Wyandot carved a large chunk of meat from the other bear ham, placed it on a hickory spit, and held it over the red embers to roast. When completely roasted to suit himself, he ate it all and again lay down completely satisfied and comfortable, to sleep the remainder of the long night.

This was a relief to both the red man and the Hildenbrand family.

It seems that Mrs. Hildenbrand had put too much pepper on the first roast to suit the Wyandot’s tongue, so he used this method to overcome her fault, and give no offense, by roasting his meat according to the method of his ancestors.


 

 

Janice Garlock Donley
700 Tenth Street • Oakmont, PA 15139 USA

412-828-6557• jdonley@garlock-elliott.org


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