So nobly perished one of the best and bravest frontiers-men, fighting where he had been summoned by sympathy and affection, not by the orders of any superior officer. No knight ever set lance in rest under a more purely chivalric impulse than did this plain, pretending, half-educated pioneer. Two hundred and fifty miles away he had heard the warning note of peril, seen the fair young face of his brother's daughter (she who long before had sought him out among his savage captors and restored him to his kins-folk), and felt the impulse of manly self-devotion to save her and her friends from impending doom. He obeyed the noble impulse and--he died like a man, and somewhere beneath our thoughtless footsteps his bones lie buried.[F] [F] Chicago should not be without a statue of this early hero, martyred in her service. A miniature exists purporting to give his features, and as to his form, that could be easily reproduced from description, while his Indian dress would serve to give grace and dignity to the work. Among the first streets named, when the village of Chicago was laid out (1831), was one called after him--for he was not yet forgotten. Part of the street-the stretch north of the river--still retains the great name, but the most important portion, that traversing the business heart of the city, has been arbitrarily changed to "Fifth Avenue," there being no Fourth or Sixth Avenue adjoining it on either side to excuse the ungrateful, barbarous innovation. In the Calumet Club is preserved the identical hatchet worn by Captain Wells during the last fight, with authenticating documents furnished by James Madison Wolcott, of South Toledo, Ohio, his grandson by his wife Wa-nan-ga-peth (daughter of Me-che-kan-nah-quah or Little Turtle) through his daughter Ah-mah-qua-zah-quah ("A sweet breeze"), who married Judge James Wolcott. It is related that Wa-nan-ga-peth received the news of her husband's death from a stranger Indian who entered, told the message, laid down the hatchet in token of its truth, and departed, unknown as he came. This narrative of the fight itself, as seen by Mrs. Heald and related to me by her son, is marked by a style of severe simplicity and good faith that seems to command confidence in the mind of the reader. There is no point in the artless story where one is compelled to pause and make a mental allowance for the bias of the narrator, for her excitement and the uncertainty such a state of mind might throw over her accuracy, or even for the errors (save those of omission) which the lapse of years might have caused. All seems natural, unforced and trustworthy. The story goes on: