The white rocks

Preface

Although this work is simply a narrative of facts which occurred many years ago in the vicinity of the oil lands of "Western Pennsylvania, it must not be supposed that I have written it merely to present to the world, for my own advantage, an exciting story. The object which I have in view, beyond all that, is, to set forth a lesson which may prove useful to those fair ones who are prone to regard outward show rather than real worth. If the perusal of this work shall induce the fair reader to reflect seriously on the subject presented, and shall move her to greater vigilance against flattery and deception— if the lesson herein contained shall prove a warning against the perfidy that too often lurks behind the smooth tongue, the handsome face and the portly figure — the chief object for which it was written shall have been accomplished.

I hope, too, that this story may contain a moral by which young men may profit. The manner in which Philip Kirke (who. was not naturally more wickedly-inclined, perhaps,

than the ordinary run of mortals) went from bad to worse,

PREFACE.

and from worse to worst of all, should admonish the young man, when tempted, to “ abstain from appearance of evil/’ If this were exclusively a work of fiction, I should be far from denying it ; but it is not. The facts on which this etory is based can he attested by every resident of the section of country where the scenes are laid. Not a few still live in that vicinity who distinctly remember the occurrence at the White Rocks, and who can relate, substantially, to-day, the story I have presented in these pages. The White Rocks and Delanys Cave, in the mountain, and the Robbers’ Den, on the Monongahela, still remain to speak for themselves.

A. F. Hill.

Chapter I. The Wounded Farmer

It was more than half a century ago. No graceful, gwan- !ikr. steamboats glided upon the surface of the winding Monongahela, as they do now; railroads were not yet dreamed of; steam was regarded as a useless, insignificant thing— merJy the ghost of departed water. Traveling, on an extensive. scale, was done in those old-time stages, specimens of which may still be seen in remote parts of the country. In locahues distant from stage lines, journeys were usually accomplished on horseback, or in those homely vehicles yclept “ carryalls.” Merchandise was transported across the land by means of heavy, clumsy wagons, while canal-boats and “keel-boats” comprised the chief accommodations in the way of water transportation.

Could the good people of those days have peered through the obscure vail of the future, and could they have been favored with just one moment’s glance at the present time; had they caught a glimpse of the steamboat riding upon the smooth river ; of the steamer plowing her way across the pathless ocean ; or of the noisy locomotive flying across the broad land ; they must have imagined themselves suddenly transported to the land of shadows and supernatural things.

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THE WHITE HOCKS.

They could not have believed that these strange things were merely the toys of their naughty grandchildren.

What a change half a century has wrought! We smile now as we look back only to the time when our grandfathers were young and vigorous men. We smile now at the simplicity of the sages of those times. Wonder if our grandchildren will have equal cause to smile when they look back on these fast times ? It may be ; but it is difficult to realize that the next fifty years’ progress of science can equal the last.

It was a cloudless morning in May. The sun was not up yet; but a glowing and brightening-up of the eastern horizon gave evidence of his speedy appearance. The dew hung heavily upon the green leaves of the bushes and trees that graced the wild shores of the Monongahela.

At this unseemly hour a boat swept around an angle of the river, and came in full view of a tall bluff, from which the stream turned aside a mile below. The course of the river in this intervening mile was straight as an arrow, and was hemmed in by lofty wooded hills on either side. The tall bluff, which turned the course of the stream to the left, was on the Fayette county side, about seventy miles from Pittsburg. It presented an appearance that was not strange in that vicinity ; such scenes were not uncommon along the Monongahela. It was very high — at least six or seven hundred feet — almost perpendicular; and though extremely rocky, was covered with bushes, stunted trees and wild vines.

As the boat came in view of this picturesque and apparently lonely scene, one of its crew stood upright* drew forth a white pocket-handkerchief with a flourish which the occasion did not seem to warrant, deliberately wiped the perspiration from his brow, (if, indeed, there was any there,) and, with another flourish, returned it to his pocket. And it is a fact no less worthy of remark, that almost simultaneously a white speck appeared among the green leaves high on the

TITE WOUNDED FARMER.

face of the Kufl, fluttered there a moment, then disappeared like a spark. Any one witnessing this would have had no difficulty in making out that it was a signal of some nature, in answer to the pocket-handkerchief affair of the boat. It seemed to be satisfactory, too, for the boat now skimmed the water w T ith increased rajDidity, and soon neared the base of the bluff. It did not land on reaching the shore, nor yet turn aside; but, moving straight forward, darted right into the towering hill, and was lost to mortal view. There was at this point, however, a small nook or harbor, running back only thirty or forty feet; and its entrance was so narrow aa to b a perfectly concealed, except from the closest inspection, by the out-stretching branches of trees which grew upon either side and overhung the water. It was a snug little cove, and answered well the ey.il purpose for which it was used. We will follow the early navigators into the obscure retreat, and see what manner of work they are engaged in.

On making^ the boat fast, one of the party put a curiouslycontrived whistle to his lips, and uttered a sound so like the cry of the whip-poor-will, that to detect the difference would have required the nicest ear. It was answered by a similar sound from among the foliage, far up the rocky height, and the party in the harbor appeared to await the anival of some one from above.

While they are waiting let us describe them.

Four persons occupied the boat, which was only an ordinary skiff. The first was a somewhat handsome young man, who could not have been older than twenty-five. He possessed a sprightly figure, which gave evidence of strength as well as vivacity ; his features were of good shape, even amounting to symmetry ; his hair was long and dark, and his eye was of the blackest. Two others of the party were rough, and even villainous-looking men, of from thirty to forty. The fourth was a man past the prime of life, who lay in a half-reclining position in the boat. His dark hair, which was beginning to be interspersed with gray, was all disordered, tangled and 2

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matted together, here and there, with blood, which flowed from a wound in the head, and trickled over his face. He was in a state of insensibility ; his face was very pale, and he frequently uttered deep groans.

Footsteps were frequently heard descending the steep hill, and a stout, muscular, villainous-looking fellow, in a brimlesa fur cap and short jacket, made his appearance.

“ Hilloa, Bill! Coast clear?” said the young man, still sitting in the boat.

‘‘Yes, captain,” replied Bill, “it’s all right. Didn’t ye see my signal ?”

“Yes; but we cannot observe too much caution; for, in case ”

“ Hilloa ! ” suddenly ejaculated Bill, interrupting. “ What in Satan have ye got there ?”

“Why, Bill,” replied the young man, “you see things did not turn out quite so favorable as I could have wished.”

“ How so? You got the cash, I hope?”

“ Oh yes, that is all right; but ”

“ What!”

“ The old fool recognized me !" .

“ Then why did n’t ye finish him on the spot?”

“ Bill,” returned the young man addressed as captain, “ how often have I told you that I would never sanction such proceedings, if avoidable ?”

“Wery well then, captain,” said Bill, with resignation, “I never de-mon-strate when you express your ’tentions.”

“ Are the Busters up in the cave ?” asked the captain.

“Yes; both asleep. They stood guard till two o’clock, and I’ve been up since, waitin’ for you. But how dil it happen ?”

“ I’ll tell you in good time ; but first lay hold of old Harry — Sam and Joe will help you — and take him up to the cave, if possible.”

The wounded man was lifted from the boat in no very tender manner, and Bill, with the aid of Samuel and Joseph,

TIIE WOUNDED FARMER.

proceeded to carry the almost inanimate form up the steej acclivity. The way up was winding and tedious; and bu* for wide steps cut in the rocky hillside, it would have required actual climbing to ascend. The party had ascended to the height of thirty or forty feet, when Bill, who did net seem at all pleased with the state of affairs, impatiently grcwled out :

“Darn it all ! ¥ou awk’ard fellers is only in the way! Give me die old feller to myself, and if I don’t take him up to the cave in two minutes, my name aint Bill Hardin 1 ”

The others, thereupon, relinquished the whole burden t the redoubtable Bill, who lifted the body to his shoulder, as though it were a small sack of oats, and, with muscular strides, stalked up the rough stairway, and reached the point in question certainly within two minutes, proving conclusively that his cognomen wms Hardin, and that his given name was William.

The point attained was a shelf, not more than six feet wide and twice as long, in the side of the hill facing the river, and about four hundred feet above the surface of the water. Here Bill deposited his groaning burden. There was no sign of a cave. The place was hidden from observation by trees, bushes, vines and overhanging foliage.

“ Well, what are ye goin’ to dp with him, captain ?” asked Bill, as the remainder. of the party came up.

“ I scarcely know,” replied the captain ; “ for the present put him in the cave, and see that he does not escape. It will never do for him to disclose what he sees here, in case he should recover. I don’t think he can recover, though.’*

“ Well, boys,” said Bill, addressing Sam and Joe, the other two villains, “ slide him in.”

Bill thrust aside some thick vines that covered the rocky walls which rose almost perpendicularly from the shelf to an additional height of two hundred feet, and disclosed a small opening, which was no other than the entrance to a spacious cavern in the hillside. The orifice was only large enough to

THE WHITE ROCKS.

admit the person of a man in a recumbent position. Bill entered to receive the wounded man, while Sam and Joe proceeded to discharge the duty of (as Bill expressed it) “sliding” him in. That done, the whole party entered; after which the vines were again carefully adjusted, so as to conceal the entrance ; and had any wandering juvenile chanced that way a moment after, clambering among the rugged rocks in quest of birds’ nests, he would have been as unconscious and unsuspecting of the presence of those terrible robbers and their den as though he were asleep in his bed in some distant farm-house.

The cavern was about thirty feet in length by fifteen in breadth, while its rough, irregular ceiling of rocks was about twenty-five feet high. The floor, consisting of solid rock, was quite smooth, and almost level, while innumerable fissures and ill-shapen recesses pierced the walls. In one of these recesses7 which took an upright position, was established a “fireplace,” while a dim ray of light, shining down through a long, narrow aqueduct, si owed that there was just a chance for the smoke to escape. Two rough-looking, ill-clad men were lying asleep, on a pallet of straw, in an obscure corner when our party entered.

Such is a brief picture of the “ Robbers’ Den.”

“ Now, cap’n,” said Bill, when the wounded man had been laid upon some straw near the damp wall, “how was it?”

“ I’ll tell you. We moved up the river about three miles, landed on the Greene county shore, concealed our boat, and made for the road, which was but half a mile or so distant. It was pretty dark, you know, and we had no path to follow ; so We went up the hill, which was neither very high nor very steep, and striking through a thick wood, soon came out on the road. There, we waited. It was about ten o’clock then, and I felt sure he had not passed yet. Hour after hour passed, and still he did not come. At last the moon rose, and soon made everything bright. About three o’clock I was just thinking that he must have passed, or taken some

TIIE WOUNDED FARMER.

other road, when I heard him coming. T told Sam and Joe to spring from the shade of the fence when he should come up 7 knock him from his horse, and get the money, while I should post myself six or eight steps ahead to catch the horse. My idea was to tie the horse to the fence near by, so that old Harry could find him when he should recover. But when he reached us, as ill luck would have it, Joe slipped and fell as he rushed into the road ; and as I sprang out to seize the bridle-rein, the moon shone full upon my face, and old White called out, 4 Phil. Kirk !’ just as Sam struck him from his horse. Sam, seeing that he recognized me, struck him several blows with his club before I could stop him, and I fear it is the last of old Harry White.”

“ What become o’ the hoss?” asked Bill.

“ He ran away, for I failed to seize the bridle-rein. So, fearing that a party might soon come in search of the rider, I told Sam and Joe to carry him to the boat. They did so, and it would require a sharp detective to track us here.”

“ You got the tin, of course ?” queried Bill.

“Yes,” replied the captain, “here it is;” and he produced a canvas bag, a glance at whose exterior was sufficient to convince any rational man that it contained coin or buttons.

“ How much, d’ye think?” asked Bill.

“ About a thousand, I should say, if it is a ,lf gold and, turning the contents out on the table, the captain proceeded to ascertain the exact sum in dollars, which proved to be eleven hundred.

“ A good night’s work ! Eh, Cap.?”

“Yes,” said the captain of the robbers, abstractedly, glancing uneasily at the form of the suffering victim ; “ but I wish things had turned out as I intended. I am sorry now, Bill, that you did not go instead of me. Old White don’t know you, and if he had seen you it could have made no difference ; but me — well, it’s done now, and he must this 'place .’*

“ Not alive, anyhow,” suggested Bill.

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The young man did not reply. He was, apparently, in deep thought; and there was anxiety — almost remorsewritten on his face. A deep groan from the wounded man startled him.

“ He’s a beginnin* to revive, captain,” said Joe, who sat near the wounded man.

The captain arose and approached the sufferer. The latter slowly opened his eyes, and his lips moved.

“ Water ! Oh give me water ! ” he groaned.

A tin cup was applied to his lips, from which he eagerly drank. He then gazed wildly around him — stared at the strange faces, at the strange place, at the rough walls, and dark recesses of the cave.

“ Where am I?” he exclaimed, wildly.

44 Don’t be uneasy,” Bill mockingly replied, by way of quieting the unfortunate man.

“ Where am I ? What has happened?” persistently asked the sufferer.

“ You’re safe, old boy,” returned Bill. 44 Don’t git skeered. You got to make this yer home ; so, make yerself as uncomfortable as possible. Yer only got yer head cracked a leetle/

“ Bill!” said the captain, reproachfully.

Henry White started on hearing the captain’s voice, and bent his eyes upon him.

44 Philip Kirke !” he exclaimed. “ You here ! You ! Oh, I thought that part only a dream — only a dream ! But I see it all now! I’ve been robbed — murdered ! Yes, murdered!’*. he almost screamed. 4 ‘ And by you, Philip Kirke ! By you I Oh, Mary ! Mary ! Mary !” And he sank pale and quivering upon his miserable bed.

Philip Kirke had started back on meeting the eye of the honest old man, whose confidence he had betrayed, and whose murderer he was. He now slunk away, and left the cavern. For several hours he remained without, wandering among the rocks that clung to the bluff, once almost falling over the brink of a steep precipice. But a harrowing shadow

THE WOUNDED FARMER.

IP followed him, and lie could not flee from it. It was conscience. Oh if last night’s work could be undone ! Robbery is bad enough; but that honest old man must die — then, Philip Kirke, you are a murderer !

When he again returned to the cave he was haggard and pale.

“ How is he?” he asked, hoarsely.

“ Asleep,” replied one of the robbers, who had remained in the cave during the past night, and who was now up and watching by the dying man.

“ How long has he been sleeping ?” asked Kirke, approaching.

“ Ever since I’ve been up.”

“ Poor old White ! it’s all up with him,” said Kirke.

“ Glad of it,” said Bill, coming that moment from a distant part of the cave ; “ glad of it, for dead men tell no ”

“ Bill, I tell you I don’t want any man’s blood on my head, and, least of all, the blood of old Henry White. Had I foreseen this, I never would have gone out to waylay him. I don’t mind robbing the man in whose house I have spent many a happy hour — at whose table I have sat time after time — who has extended to me every hospitality, and even confidence; but to murder him for his gold! Oh! — Well, it can’t be helped now — it’s done !” he said, with energy, and with the air of a man who was struggling with conscience, and just beginning to gain a slight advantage — “it’s done now, and, whatever may be the result, I’ll not make myself uncomfortable about it.”

“ You’d be a fool if you did,” observed Bill.

“ I never meant to murder Km,” continued Kirke, by way of giving conscience j .8 up de grace , “and if he dies ”

“ Wh.Kh I’ll bet my hat he will,” put in the unfeeling William,

“ why, I’ll consider it but a stroke of ill-fortune,

and ”

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“ That he orter had better luck,** interrupted Bill.

“Well, I’m sorry he hadn’t. “However,” said the cap* tain, by way of dismissing, for good and all, the question at issue between himself and conscience, “ whatever is to bo will be ; so, it was no fault of mine.”

“ Exactly,” agreed Bill. “ I knowed you was a sensible feller. So, take a drink, and let’s have breakfast, for it’s about time, and all’s ready.”

Bill produced a stone jug, containing what he termed “rye tea;” also a tincup, and the captain of the robbers suddenly placed himself outside about a gill.

“ That s the way to keep up your sperrits,” said Bill. “ First let a few o’ them kind o’ sperrits go down , and up’ll come your'n . Ha, tra !” and William Hardin laughed immoderately at his own wit.

The robbers now assembled for breakfast. As they subsisted on the farmers of the neighboring settlements, their larder was always full of every variety of edibles ; and as Bill prided himself, and with some propriety, on his ability to superintend systematically the cooking department, they lived well. Whatever was to be found on any farmer’s table graced theirs, and that, too, in some profusion.

CHAPTFU II.

DEATH IN THE CAVE.

The robbers were but six in number. Philip Kirke, whom they called capta/n, v al lied from Ohio about two years previously, after 1 L'L g a man in a duel. In Pittsburg he fell in with a gang of counterfeiters, became one

of their number, and passed some months verv ^"'ofitably.

DEATH IN THE CAVE.

The gang being at length broken up — thanks to the sagacity of a certain well-known detective of that time — most of its members were arrested and punished ; but Philip, with four common thieves of the fraternity, escaped. The five ruffians resolved to direct their steps up the Monongahela river, establish an institution of their own, and make frequent descents upon the rural settlements.

Two of these individuals were Sam and Joe, whom we have mentioned ; and the remaining two were brothers of the name of Brewster — which name was rendered, by their companions in crime, “Buster;” and, accordingly, they were always spoken of as the “Busters.” Their Christian names, if they ever had any, were scarcely known to their companions, and almost forgotten by themselves.

These five promising gentlemen first established their headquarters in an old dilapidated house, about three milea from the present site of Brownsville, which was then but a little village. They had not been there long till it was their fortune to contribute to the general welfare of the people at large, by rescuing a notorious murderer, whose name was William Hardin, from the hands of two constables who had arrested him, as it chanced, near their rendezvous. It occurred in the daytime ; and, leaving the two thwarted officials for dead, the whole party fled from that locality, directing their steps still up the river. A few days after they, by mere chance, discovered the cave in the hillside overlooking the river, which they at once adopted a a their rendezvous.

A more favorable spot vxuld not well be conceived. There were rich settlements in tnat locality ; but just here the country consisted of wild, rough hills and uncleared land; and there was not a habitation within a mile and a half. The country beyond the river, at this point, partook of the same nature, and it was highly improbable that any human being should, for some years to ensue, discover their retreat.

There was a little village, situated on the right bank of

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the Monongahela, about four miles above the robbers’ den, known at that time by the name of Weston. Thriving farmers occupied the surrounding country. They lived contented and happy in the midst of “homely joys and destiny obscure.” Few of them had ever been beyond the limits of their own native county ; and they lived in blissful ignorance of great cities and their innumerable vices. The extent of their traveling was, perhaps, an occasional visit to Weston, for the purpose of selling their produce, or trading it for necessary articles. Some of the more enterprising occasionally took a trip to Pittsburg with a flatboat load of grain, or a drove of cattle or sheep. These were regarded as useful men, inasmuch as they bought up the products of the country at fair prices, shipping them to Pittsburg, and kept money in continual circulation. Among these was Henry White, who was much esteemed lor his honesty and enterprise.

For more than a year the good people of Weston and vicinity had been conscious of the presence of a band of thieves. Sheep had been stolen from their fields, horses from their stables, wheat and corn from their granaries, -poultry from their farm-yards, hams from their cellars, and even valuables and money from their houses ; and not unfrequently had travelers been waylaid, knocked down and robbed. Many were the surmises of the country people as to who the robbers were, whence they had come, and where they held forth. The strangest part of it was, that not one of them had ever been seen. The traveler had jelt them, and the farmer had missed his property, but no one had ever enjoyed the privilege of gazing upon one of tho desperadoes. Some expressed it as their deliberate opinion that the robbers were a species of wild men, who inhabited the fields and woods, or the adjacent mountains; some believed that they were rascals from Pittsburg, who made frequent excursions to the rural districts; while oth&is. taking into consideration their almost constant presence,

DEATH IN THE CAVE.

argued that they must have a place of rendezvous not far off — most probably in the mountains. It was clear that there was an organized band of marauders somewhere, and that they were very attentive to the people of the vicinity of W eston.

One of the first victims of the robbers was a young man, who occasionally made his appearance at Weston. He was from Pittsburg, and came to the village in the character of a trader; sometimes purchasing grain, and at other times making collections of choice cattle for the markets.' He made his head-quarters at the village tavern, to which he returned one evening a little later than usual, with his clothes torn, disordered, and covered with dust, and several bruises on his head and face, among which was a delightful one just below the eye. He stated that about dark, while leisurely returning from a neighboring farmer’s, he had suddenly received a blow on the head from a heavy weapon, dealt by an unseen hand ; that before he could turn he received another, which sent him stunned and reeling to the earth; that he knew nothing for a short period, and that when he recovered he found his pockets turned inside out, and his money gone. Luckily he had taken but little money with him that morning, and his loss was not great. When we state that the name of this unfortunate (?) young man was Philip Kirke, the reader will readily discern that the whole affair was a well-acted farce.

Frequent robberies occurred after this, and at the time of the commencement of our story, the secret robbers had become a very terror to the people of the settlement.

There was one redeeming trait in their conduct : they never murdered. Many had been knocked down and robbed by the unseen brigands, but none had been killed; sometimes they were not even stunned ; but their pockets were rifled in a twinkling, and ere they could spring up and look about them the cunning assailants had vanished.

After such occasions parties sometimes hastily formed, and,

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armed with rifles and pistols, went in search of the offenders, but always with the same result — to find no trace of them. Armed parties had frequently searched the adjacent mountains and wild river hills, in the hope of discovering theii rendezvous, but in vain.

The marauders had at times extended their depredation* to the left shore of the river, but they confined their operations chiefly to the Fayette county side.

All their depredations were attributable to Captain Philip Kirke and his party of five, who inhabited the well-concealed den on the face of the steep river-hill. Kirke frequently visited Weston as a trader; occasionally, indeed, purchasing a small flock of sheep and driving them to Pittsburg, by which he, of course, never lost anything. In the meantime he managed to communicate almost daily with his companions at the den, frequently giving them information to facilitate their operations, and the news generally. Even while staying in the village, he sometimes participated in adventures himself, totally unsuspected by the victims whom he met daily, face to face.

On one occasion, he and a wealthy farmer, with prospects of a speculation, purchased a large lot of cattle, drove them to Pittsburg, and sold them at a good price; but while returning to Weston they were waylaid and robbed of the whole proceeds, much to the sympathy of the people of that locality. It is needless to observe that the robbery had been arranged by Philip Kirke with his friends at the cave.

A week prior to the events narrated in the first chapter, Philip Kirke, while in the village, had met Henry White (with whom he was a great favorite), who confided to him that he was about to visit Pittsburg, to get a sum of money that was due him for a lot of grain that he had sold there ; that he expected the money to be paid him in gold ; that he was going to travel on horseback, and that he should return by a road on the opposite side of the river, as a precaution against the terrible robbers, who seldom visited Greene