Richmond Palladium

A Kentuckian's Revenge.

The head of navigation of a beautiful stream now peopled by thousands of Old Kentucky's sons and daughters, was once the scene of events which marked the settlement of that fine country. A tale of blood and revenge is on the lips of the descendants of the pioneers of that region, of thrilling interest: and no one who has been so fortunate as to pass a few days under the roof of a native, has failed to receive a minute account of the drama, the actors in which, have long since been gathered to their fathers.

At the close of an autumn day, shortly after the emigrants from Virginia began to settle the valley of Licking, the family of a settler, consisting of five sons, the youngest about sixteen, and three daughters, retired to rest, after enjoying a frugal repast. The country was, at the time infested by Indians, whose depredations caused great alarm and taught the settlers the necessity of making their rude dwellings as secure as possible against the attacks of an insidious foe. The family referred to, had, accordingly, strongly secured the only entrance to their cabin, by every means in their power; one of them (the youngest of the boys) standing watch, to give the alarm should any attack be made.

Just before daybreak, he heard the quick report of a rifle, and before he could rouse the sound sleepers from their straw couches, the cabin was in flames—the horrid yells of the savages, freezing the purple current in his veins! In a moment the sleepers awoke to a sense of their great danger. Not a second was to be lost. The fire was bursting through the space between the logs, and it was evident they must all perish if they remained in the cabin. To escape was impossible surrounded, as they were; and they were compelled to choose between a dreadful death by fire, and the murderous tomahawks of the unrelenting red men. The conclusion is soon told.

The door was opened, and as they rushed out, they were all shot down, with the exception of the boy alluded to, who managed to escape by secreting himself in a thicket close by. The savages secured their scalps, and departed, just as the morning sun rose on the dead bodies and smoking ruins of the cabin.

As soon as they disappeared, and were "clear out of sight," as the Jerseyman said, the youth emerged from the bushes, and sought what a few hours before was his home. What a change. There lay, close together, his dead kindred—blood gushed at every pore! He was alone! No fond mother was there to soothe the anguish of his soul—no kind father to direct his wayward steps. The only house he knew of was twenty miles distant and assistance could not be procured in time to be of any benefit to him, in hurrying the dead. He gazed on the cherished forms for a moment—a tear was in his eye—but it was the last he ever shed! He went to work and dug a grave for the only relatives he had on earth—drove a stake down to mark the spot, and collecting some shucked corn which had escaped the fire slung it over his shoulder, and left a spot he could on contemplation without feelings of unspeakable regret.

We cannot follow the young hero through his long journeyings: he succeeded in finding the trail of the Indians, and followed it with the sagacity of a woodsman, until at length he discovered their encampment. What followed will be easily surmised by the reader. In the still hour of night, he crept through the jungle grass to the place where they slept, and securing one of their knives, cut the throats of all! He then gathered some rotten branches, which he threw over them, and set fire to watch his foes burn.—V. O. Cres.