A little company of military men were on their way to the west, and encamped in the vicinity of Logan’s cabin. Not by the authority of their captain, but unknown to him, two or three set off in the night to inflict any injury which might be in their power upon the Indians they had heard were near. The husband and father was absent, but they lured one brother into the forest, and murdered him in cold blood, and then returned to destroy another as cruelly, and then shot the mother and little ones, leaving all upon the floor weltering in blood. Logan returned to find his cabin tenanted only by the dead, and vengeance for the first time was kindled in his bosom, and burned like a raging flame in his soul. Now he became the white man’s foe, and incited every son of the forest to slay without mercy their common enemy. Thus commenced the long and frightful Indian war which filled the whole land with terror, and for ten years stained our historical records with Indian atrocities, unparalleled in our colonial or national experience. The quiet peaceful homes of white men were invaded, and women and children either killed or carried away captive; but then it was not known why these outrages were committed. They were ascribed to Indian love of war, and carnage, and bloodshed; but wherever Indian cruelty may be traced, it will be found to have been preceded by acts more cruel and heartless on the part of white men Stranger,—there are who think and write The Indian’s soul untouched with light, And that to him belongs the guilt For all the blood his hand hath spilt! Like mine, his friendly homes among, They would have known God never made, A heart all darkness, and how long The Indian bore aggressive wrong. Old Logan was the white man’s friend; But injuries forced his love to end; Of children, wife, and kindred shorn, None left for him to joy or mourn, He rose in calm, vindictive ire, Beside his nation’s council fire, And bade them, by their fathers slain, No more in voiceless peace remain, But lift the brand, and battle cry, For vengeance, if not victory! “Welcome, Englishmen! welcome, Englishmen!” was the pleasant greeting our fathers heard on the shores of New England; and a similar hospitality was extended to all who came, by this unsuspicious and trusting people. In 1774, a deputation was sent to treat with the Sachems and chiefs, and to endeavor to appease their revenge. But Logan was a long time in yielding. No persuasion could induce him to attend a council that was to treat of peace. He would not talk with white men of peace. It was useless to contend longer, he knew—they might as well submit. There was no hope for the Indian but to flee before the armed legions which were pursuing them, but he would never be their friend.