His intelligence was that of a child of seven. When about that age his people were massacred on the Greenbriar and he had been left for dead with a portion of his scalp ripped off and a ghastly wound in his head. By some miracle he had survived, but with his mental growth checked. Physically he had developed muscle and bone until he was a giant in strength. The red men believed him to be under the protection of the Great Spirit, and when they heard him wandering through the woods, sometimes weeping like a peevish child because some little plan had gone awry, more often laughing uproariously at that which would tickle the fancy of a seven-year-old, they made mad haste to get out of his path. His instinct to kill was aroused against Indians only. Perhaps it was induced by a vague memory of dark-skinned men having hurt him at some time. Nor was he always possessed by this ungovernable rage. Sometimes he would spend a day in an Indian camp, but woe to the warrior who even inadvertently crossed his whims. He was not skilled in woodcraft beyond the cunning necessary for surprising easy game such as turkeys, squirrels and rabbits. Regardless of his enormous appetite food was gladly given him at every cabin; for wherever he sought shelter, that place was safe from any Indian attack. While Mrs. Moulton hurried her child to the fort and hushed its weeping with pot-pie the young men raised a yelping chorus and came dancing into the clearing with all the prancing steps of the red men. Deep-voiced oaths and thunderous welcomes were showered upon Baby Kirst as he proudly rode among them, his huge face further distended by a broad grin. Awkwardly dismounting from his rawbone horse, he stared around the circle and with one hand held behind him tantalizingly said: "Got something. Sha'n't let you peek at it." "Let's see it, Baby," coaxed Runner, his tone such as he might use in pleading with a child. "No!" And Baby shook his head stubbornly and grinned mischievously. "'Lasses on mush. Heaps of it, Baby," bribed Davis. Baby became interested. Davis repeated his offer. Slowly Baby drew from behind him the scalp of a white man. It was long, dark brown hair, burned to a yellowish white at the ends by the sun. "That's Ben Kirby's hair!" gasped Scott, staring in horror at the exhibit. Then aside, "Good God, he ain't took to killing whites, has he?" "Where'd you git it, Baby?" coaxed Hacker. "Davis will give you a big bowl of mush and 'lasses." "That man had it," proudly informed Baby, and he fished from the bosom of his hunting-shirt a hank of coarse black hair. "A Shawnee sculp or I'm a flying-squirrel!" yelled Runner. "Don't you understand it, men? Some dog of a Shawnee rubbed out Kirby. His hair's been off his head these six weeks. No wonder he ain't come in to help you folks to fort.