SIGN OF THE PROPHET THE SIGN OF THE PROPHET A TALE OF TECUMSEH AND TIPPECANOE [Illustration] BY James Ball Naylor _Author of “RALPH MARLOWE”_ AKRON, OHIO THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY NEW YORK 1901 CHICAGO COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY MADE BY THE WERNER COMPANY BOOK MANUFACTURERS AKRON, OHIO TO SAMUEL G. McCLURE _of The Ohio State Journal, who encouraged my early literary endeavors, this book is gratefully dedicated_. _Very Truly,_ _JAMES BALL NAYLOR_ THE SIGN OF THE PROPHET CHAPTER I. It was a hot, sultry morning in the latter part of August, 1811. A dugout canoe containing two occupants was swiftly speeding down the Scioto, at a point near which the city of Columbus now stands. The clear green water wimpled musically at the bow of the vessel, and a frothy wake bubbled and eddied at the stern. The surface of the stream lay cool and dark in the shadow of the overhanging trees; but where the red rays of the rising sun shot through the dense foliage and fell upon the pulseless bosom of the sluggish tide, they gave it the metallic luster of burnished copper. Great trees ranged themselves as stalwart sentinels along the shores, a part of the grand army that stretched away to the far distance on either hand. Their leaves were dark-green and glossy. Yellow and purple wild flowers lifted their fair faces to the morning sun and nodded a welcome. Feathered songsters fluttered among the gray boughs and chirped and warbled merrily. A venturesome fish popped several feet out of the water—just ahead of the swiftly flying dugout—and flashed its silver scales in a tantalizing manner. The occupants of the canoe gave little heed to the beauties of the scene. Seated in the bottom of their quivering, rocking craft, they rapidly and rhythmically dipped their light paddles. At each stroke the frail vessel lifted itself and sprang forward, like a thing of life. The forest receded from the western bank of the river, and low-lying fields of tall, rank corn took its place. Walled in by the growing maize, lay the straggling village of Franklinton—a cluster of rude log-huts. Cleared spaces appeared in the woods upon the eastern shore; and several cabins stood out against the background of encircling trees—the germ, the nucleus of the Capital City of to-day.