he baby's head was
rolling from side to side. It was asleep! Close following the Indian,
there rode in single file a full company of other Indians. They were a
returning war party, laden with spoils.

Captain Brady raised his rifle. He had only the one load, but he did
not hesitate to use it. He waited; he must take care not to harm the
baby or the mother. Presently he had fair show. The rifle spoke; off
from the horse plunged the big Indian, bringing the baby and mother
with him.

"Why did you risk your one shot?" Captain Brady was afterward asked.

"Well," he grinned, "I figgered on getting plenty more powder off the
Injun."

At the rifle's crack the file of warriors bolted hither-thither,
scattering like quail for covert. Captain Brady rushed forward,
shouting loudly.

"Surround 'em, boys! Kill the rascals! At 'em, at 'em! Give 'em
Brandywine."

The Indians would think that he had an army. He ran to the fallen
brave and the struggling woman and baby. First he grabbed at the
powder-horn--but he could not tear it free.

The woman glared at him wildly. He looked like an Indian, himself.

"Why did you shoot your brother?" she cried. She did not understand.

"Jenny Stupe (or did he really say: "Jenny, stoop!"?), I'm Sam Brady.
Quick, now! Come with me and I'll save you both."

The Indians dared not charge, but they pelted him with bullets as he
dashed through the brush, carrying the baby and dragging Jenny by the
hand. Never a ball touched them.

They gained the strawberry patch. It was vacant--for his whoops had
alarmed Rangers Williamson and Wetzel as well as the Indians; and being
without ammunition they had legged it. Sam Brady had stirred up a
hornets' nest. There was no use in their staying.

The next day he and Jenny Stupe and the baby, tired and hungry, entered
Fort McIntosh on the Ohio River at the mouth of the Big Beaver. His
gun was still empty, but that had not mattered.

As an expert at leaving a blind trail or no trail at all, Captain Sam
Brady had no equal. Nothing pleased him more than to lose himself to
his own men; while to deceive the Indians, and lure them on, was his
constant joy. Consequently when, along in 1781, they captured him,
quite by accident, in his lone camp up the Beaver, they gladly hustled
him northward for a jubilee.

All the Wyandot town of Sandusky welcomed him with clubs and shrieks.
He was painted black--the paint of death--and tied loosely to