Old Dame Nature by the timeless operations of slow ceaseless erosion alone, unaided by glacial action, laid out these hills and the winding Tarburner valley with the brook cuddling at their base. So deftly coordinated were the mammoth symmetrical hills to the graceful curves of chuckling Tarburner brook, couched at their feet, that the whole plan eventuated in an epitome of grace and beauty that captivated the eye of the red warrior and the white hunter alike. To fully compensate the lack of this region in tillage value, this was counterpoised by substituting, a luxuriant wealth of rare, wild beauty, besides many promising sites for the future development of water power, when needed.

The whole sleepy Tarburner valley possessed a fantastic charm born out of its seemingly disordered ruggedness; this totality of confused topography having the added value of holding and hiding a multitude of deep, well-kept secrets. Even though the hills and deep glen breathe a solemn, drowsy atmosphere of reverential fascination, one cannot help in his meditations thinking that the Architect who laid the ancient cornerstones beneath these massive hills secretly chuckled to Himself when His work was completed.

One is helpless to gather a panoramic picture of Tarburner valley in the entirety, for this Architect synchronized and harmonized his blueprints so perfectly that in trailing the brook down its rocky, serpentine course, the successive massive drapery of forested hills in front of the observer screen the following scene from view as completely as the uncut pages in a new book conceal the printing from the reader’s eye.

So, in passing down this valley to the fourth uncut page of this unread volume of nature’s bookcraft, one will observe standing near the center of the valley, like an aged sentinel, a gnarled red oak upon which hangs this story. Although this old oak has weathered the storms for several centuries, it shows plainly that by the frequent abuse its growth has been stunted by the inexorable acts of relentless time.

During the heyday of the wily, red savage, so tradition runs, a pair of bald eagles chose the topmost branches of this tree for their ponderous nest, but this, years afterwards, fell to the earth by its own sheer weight. Sometime later a colony of busy beavers dug at the foot of this oak and anchored a strong dam across the narrow valley. This dam, after the lapse of many years, was cast aside by one of the frequent floods that this narrow valley must often suffer. In this latter catastrophe the course of the stream was deflected, and in the change much soil was torn away from the base of this patriarchal oak. Yet it stands today firm and erect, entirely dependent on its strong, tough taproot to sustain its life, while the Indian hunter, the screaming eagle and busy beaver have long forsaken this valley.

Since the days of the white hunter west of the Alleghenies, this picturesque glen was for many years a hunter and trapper’s paradise, and many a noted hardy pioneer boasted of his successful hunting trips in Tarburner valley long before this land west of the Ohio was safe for white settlement.

It was on such a hunting trip in Tarburner in early 1800 that Gabriel DANIELS and his sturdy sons stopped to rest under this old red oak. At that time the eagle eye of the father remarked,

Now Gabriel Daniels, who always bore the homespun name of "Gabe Dannels," determined then and there to return to Tarburner valley and make a tomahawk claim on this power site and build a sawmill. His resolution, for once, was fulfilled when he moved all his worldly goods, which consisted mostly of a wife and ten sturdy grown sons, in the late autumn of 1800 to Tarburner.

Daniels, it was learned from his wife, was a Virginian born in the Piedmont region of that state when the boundary lines were still indefinite, so that on this point of birth he was not certain. He always made the questionable claim that one of his grandparents was either a Crotan Indian or was taken captive by some Virginia tribe on All Fools’ Day, 1622. At any rate, there was a storm in the ancestral tree that resulted from a battle fought by the colonists near Jamestown, Virginia, in which the red savages were successful in killing many and making the rest of them prisoners.

"Gabe Dannells," now past middle age, as was the custom of his time, wore long hair and a beard as luxuriant as a witch-hazel thicket that almost hid his tawny face. His speech bore a pattern of having been born in a backwoods settlement, long segregated from any nearby community, for his vernacular still held the earmarks of that used in the early years of King James’ rule. This only added credence that his parentage might have stemmed from the "Lost Colony," as stated in Virginia history.

As unlucky as was his birth record, his lucky star was the fact of the possession of his luxuriant growth of "chin brush," for it hid from view the fact that he was almost chinless—but in no way did it conceal the truth that "Gabe" was a victim of all too many of the obsessions and phobias that afflict humanity. Among his worst fear was spectrophobia—a more or less common affliction in his time and neighborhood. He was afraid to be by himself at any time—never hunted alone, although an enthusiastic hunter and trapper. In his earlier years he had been treated, or mistreated, for one of these mental maladies, by an old herb doctor in the Smoky Mountain country. This medical man laid claim he could cure him by striking "Gabe’s" head with a maul especially made from a mistletoe limb. The stroke must be an energetic one, exactly over the locality in the brain where the "snarl" was engendering the trouble. "Gabe" took the treatment, and outside of being unconscious for several days, his troubled mentality was no better.

When the large Daniels family moved into Tarburner valley, they cleared the necessary space for a building and erected a large, round log cabin, where they wintered and lived mostly by hunting. These sturdy young hunters were as uncultured as Shawnee savages, but could outclass the wild red men in the chase or with traps.

"Gabe," with the boys’ help, worked on the water sawmill and springtime had most of the work done, ready to saw the many tall hemlock and birch trees into lumber.

The long forbay (still to be seen at this day) was all completed to connect it with the beaver dam. This was left as the final act before the water of Tarburner would flow a thousand feet of elevation it was to drop on the undershot water wheel. After this work was finished the chuckling water dashed down the tail race to re-enter Tarburner brook. The boys had the log yard filled with many logs for the slow "up-and-down" saw to work upon.

Soon everything was in readiness to start the mill, and "Gabe" went up the east bank of the long forbay to shovel out the few yards of earth that still connected it with the beaver dam. Even now the anxious water had filled the log forbay and was falling over the spillway at the mill.

Looking into the bottom of this last freshly excavated ditch, "Gabe Dannels" spied a skeleton, now nicely washed clean of mud by the clear, rapid flow of water, with a fling arrow point firmly lodged in the bones of the skull—a victim of some Indian combat of early days—a find of evil connotation to "Dannells’" mode of interpretation.

The sight of this Indian skeleton sent a frigid shiver deep into the marrow of old "Gabe’s" bones. It’s an evil omen of some devilish spirit to hobble his success, he thought. It’s the beginning of trouble to "hant" my steps. "I’ll watch and see what’s doing and see it first," he soliloquized to himself.

That same afternoon he rolled one of his logs into the path of the slow-moving saw, clamped the "dogs," and then walked along the long forbay towards the beaver dam. When nearing the dam he saw, to his utter amazement, a doe and her two fawns standing in the mill pond—but one fawn was pure white.

Old "Gabe" groaned aloud as he rapidly trotted back down the forbay to the sawmill. He took time to turn the log before he left for the cabin to tell his wife, "Mandy," of his doleful find and its sinister significance. When his hard-working wife saw him approaching, she grew alarmed at his strange appearance and quickly inquired,

"Gabe’s" wife need not coax him to take to his bed; for he already there, chilling and groaning beneath the covers, while she hurriedly made him a large cup of "hot rye and boneset" to break his bone chills an’quit th’ misery. The dejected husband kept repeatedly chattering.

Apparently "Gabe’s" own suggestions only mired him deeper and deeper into despair, so his faithful wife frequently tried to change the trend of his thinking by talking about her husband’s favorite sport of hunting, but she failed completely.

If there was anything "Gabe Dannells’" liked more than a hunting trip, it was another hunting trip. To him the most heavenly music rolled from the red mouth of a trailing hound; his highest pastime was to relate stories of his prowess in which he always outwitted his fellow hunters and brought back the game.

The sawyer had had "spells" like this before, but this time he lapsed deeper and longer into his favorite phobia; in fact, the family despaired his sanity. As his soul had always been easily rocked by stormy weather, Mandy hoped that a freshing north wind might in some way clear his mental horizon, at least enough so that he could get a fresh start again.

The only thing "Gabe" seemed satisfied to do was to stay in bed with his two double-barrelled flintlock pistols at his side, acting always like he expected something to pounce upon him at any moment and rather peeved because of the tardiness of the attack. This overpowering obsession and psychic storm kept up for so long that the Daniels family had reached the point that this time the sawyer’s "hant" had congealed and refused to thaw out even with brightest and warmest of south winds.

After they had tried many "yarbs steeped in a lease spigin of whiskey" and all other cures they were told about, still "pap got poorlier and poorlier." At the last moment a clearing north breeze brought the first evidence of a change for the better, since for the first time Gabe inquired about the mill and suggested that his son, Timothy, go up and shut the water gate, since there had been a heavy rain that night.

The order was no sooner given until Timothy was on the way to the mill, glad to do anything to please his father.

When the boy reached the log yard, he was frightened almost stiff at the sight of great quantities of fresh blood scattered over the newly-sawn slab, but could detect no reason for this apparent tragedy. He turned and ran back to the cabin and told the story of what he had seen, which failed to ameliorate the troubled sawyer but only added wood to the fire.

In fact this new episode threw old "Gabe" into a fit of depression so deep that even when the cause was finally discovered, he was still filled with suspicion and doubts. The truth was a large bear that stormy night was ambling about the sawmill and had noticed the threatening "up-and-down" saw in motion. Seemingly Bruin became peeved at the silly action of this man-made contraption, and in his rage he tightly clutched the saw to his breast with his shaggy paws to his own destruction.

‘Gabe Dannells" would not accept this explanation in its entirety. Although it was told him many times, still there were some fixed beliefs on this episode he was slow to give up. Surely the skeleton and the white fawn had some premonitory part in this latest catastrophe. At the thought of the bloody saw, "Gabe" chilled and groaned. His good wife, Mandy, gave him a large potions of "yards an’ rye"—often the rye without the herbs—her favorite for "break bone fever," so that at times it was difficult to know whether it was the besetment or the remedy that was causing some of the patient’s eccentric words and actions.

The following night the rain storm cleared away and the full moon shone on old "Gabe’s" bed. All at once he sat up in bed, for he was sure he had seen something; he fastened his eyes at the foot of the bed where he thought he could see two grinning faces, the sight of which threw him into a new paroxysm of chills and anger. With a shaking, groaning voice he shouted sharply at the supposed evil spirits,

The phantom faces refused to obey "Gabe’s" command and this refusal provoked him into greater angry tantrums when he yelled,

No sooner said than done, all triggers were pulled at once, and six of "Gabe’s" toes rattled against the cabin wall with the sound of falling ripe pawpaws. This was a minor noise compared with the tornado of curses, shrieks and other howls of pain to be heard under the canopy of powder smoke which filled the cabin.

The following day old Doctor GUNN from the Virginia side was sent for, to trim the ragged edges of "Gabe’s" toes, which was done to the accompaniment of many heartrending shouts and groans. After giving the fresh surface a liberal application of cobwebs and puffball dust, the wise old doctor smiled as he listened to "Gabe’s" story and solemnly suggested that the old sawyer would soon be able to go back to his trade.

"Doc, I figger I’m a’feelin’ pearter now," replied the sawyer, and at that moment Doctor Gunn realized by intuition that "Gabe" would "throw off" his psychic storm, with the aid of a liberal dose of suggestive therapy, and that at that moment was the logical time for a well-balanced foundation dose.

"Gabe Dannels" had old Doctor Gunn to write this exact date on a nicely shaved clapboard, and hung it on a peg on the cabin wall, where it would always be in sight. He anxiously awaited that day, and seemed to be improving rapidly and was full of delight anticipating this event.

When Walpurgis night came "Gabe Dannells" was champing at the bit to go hunting, and had his hunting ground picked out, on the high hill east of his sawmill. Early that evening "Gabe," in his commanding voice, ordered,

"Gabe" himself led th’ houn’ dawgs, "old Flint and Wolf," as they "holped" his toeless feet to move along up the steep hill. The boys led the way, the anxious dogs yanking and pulling the old sawyer until they had nearly reached the sharp hilltop, when, with a wheezy, puffed-out voice, "Gabe" commanded,

Old "Gabe acting now as if he was in his third heaven, answered,

Due to the yipping, squalling dogs and the excited shouts of "Gabe" giving rapid-fire directions of how to aim the "riflegun" so as to bring down both varmints with one shot, "Gabe" did not apparently hear Timothy’s sharp warning that they were standing on the sharp edge of the hilltop—in fact, a razor-edged hill with a steep cliff to the west.

The hunters were now all crowded back of Timothy while he maneuvered for position to get the best aim and save ammunition by bringing down both "critters" at one shot. For only an instant was all quiet, and Timothy fired at the mark. What happened during the next few minutes was uncertain, but the shot brought down a vicious painter, with his hide packed full of fight, squalling, striking and clawing and sliding right down the flintlock barrel. Although uninjured in its descent, it had dislodged the second varmint—a porcupine. In the melee, the three hunters were knocked over the steep cliff amid an assortment of hideous noises from all the participants. The lantern and flintlock went bouncing down the bluff, which added only a small amount of the grand total of grunts and groans of the hunters and fierce yelps of the hounds. At last Timothy called out of the uproar and confusion,

Both boys called for their father, but even then they could hear something still rolling down the hillside, like a sawlog, reversing its polarity as the head or feet struck the saplings, until at last the quickened, timed thumping and groaning ended in a loud shout as a climax, by the splash of the rolling body hitting the chilly water of Tarburner run.

The boys listened until the last crescendo shout, when Timothy, with much feeling in his voice, remarked,

Finally the sons called aloud for their father, but they could hear nothing but the howling dogs still making for home. The boys made their way to the valley below, and with heavy hearts approached the cabin. Both hesitated to enter and tell what had happened, but at last they found this sad rite had to be taken. They slowly pushed open the cabin door and, catching their mother’s eye, asking chokingly,

"No boys when yore pap cam bammin down thet hellside, some saplin’ het the right spot that atime. He seems right peart now an‘ has taken a big slug of rye. He’s gone ter saw tomorrer. He’s spittin’ regular now."