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“Savage Times”       Adirondack Memories      by Jon Kopp

 On a sunny May day, in 1899, while boating on the Raquette River, Delbert Dye, an employee of the State Forestry at Axton made a discovery which caused some excitement. Along the old Indian Carry, at a bend in the river where Stony Creek empties into it, there was a high sandy bank and each spring the bank was slowly worn away by high flood waters. At this point Dye happened to discern something resembling a human skull projecting from the bank, He pulled to the bank and not only unearthed the skull but a complete skeleton. It was laying face downward, half buried in the sand, and after being exhumed, close examination failed to disclose any clew to the identity. Not even a button could be found.

 The Skull showed six or seven axe marks, one extending three inches diagonally above the ear. All the blows were struck from behind. Professor Roth, of the State Forestry, said: "The man was undoubtedly middle aged, perhaps 6 feet 2 inches in stature and indications point to foul play. As the body was in dry sand it might have been where found from 10 to 20 years."  

 A famous story of early Adirondack infamy comes from the 1830's, concerning the trapper Nat Foster. He was a crack shot and had a long running feud with a full-blooded Indian named Peter Waters (known locally as Drid). One day in September 1833, Drid attacked Nat with a knife, wounding his arm. Nat went home to get his gun while Drid and the others paddled up the Fulton Chain on a hunting trip. Later that day, Nat shot and killed Drid from the shoreline at a place now referred to as Indian Point, up the channel from Old Forge. Later, Drid's body was brought back to the Dam and buried on the shore of the beach. Two stones marked the site and it was carefully tended by another Native American named Maurice Dennis for many years. Nat Foster stood trial for his crime but was acquitted in a well-publicized trial in Herkimer.

 Many years after the American Revolution racial tensions between the new settlers and Native Americans were still high. In the minds of many, the Adirondacks were still contested territory, especially among trappers who competed for the valuable fur resource.

 The following Tupper Lake tale I found in the 1849 edition of the Elizabethtown Post, titled the “Joe Downs Story”. It’s a conversation between the guide, Joe Downs, and his green-horn sport. They are about to embark on a wilderness trek. The discussion turns to Indians, believe what you will, you’ll certainly get the tenure of the times;

 "Shall we have any Company" I inquired,

 “No, not a white face within 40 miles of us, they’ll be plenty of redskins, half a dozen canoes went up the river yesterday, but they ain’t of no account.”

 "But, don't you ever have any difficulty with them?"

 “Why no, not what you may call real downright difficulty, we used to, a good many years ago, but now, although they'll murder you if they get a chance for a pack of skins, they don't value a scalp. Not since I finished off one of the biggest scoundrels in the whole St. Regis nation, I haven’t been troubled."

 “How was that?”

 "Why, I'll tell you; you see, it was way towards Tupper's Lake. There had been a light fall of snow and I was scouting around when I happen to make a circumbendibus and came across my own track, and there I saw the mark of an Indian's foot right on my trail. Thinks I, that is kind of queer; the fellow must have been following me; however, I’ll try him and make sure; so I made another large circle, and again struck my own track, and there was the Indian's footprint again. Says I, this won't do, I must find out what this customer wants, and how he'll have it. So, I stopped short and soon got sight of him. He knew that I saw him, so he came along up in the most friendly manner you can think. But, I didn't like his looks and he was altogether too darned glad to see me. He had no gun but a lot of skins and rat-traps. Thinks I, maybe, old fellow, your gun has burnt, or you have pawned it for rum, and you can't raise skins enough, to remedy it, and you want mine, and perhaps you'll get it.”

 “At last, I grew kind of nervous. I knew that fellow would hatchet me if I gave him a chance, and yet I didn't want to shoot him right down just on suspicion. But, I thought, if I let him cut my throat first, it would be too late to shoot him afterwards. So I concluded that the best way would be to give him a chance to play his hand; and, if it so be, he'd lead the wrong card, why I should have a right to take the trick. Just then, at the right time, a partridge flew into a clump that stood five or six rods off.”

 “So, I kind of maneuvered round a little. I drew out my ramrod as if to feel whether the ball in my rifle was well down, but instead of returning it again, I kept it in my hand, and without letting the vagabond see me, I got out a handful of powder. I then sauntered off to the bush, shot the partridge, and in an instant passed my hand over the muzzle of my rifle and dropped the powder in. I picked up the bird, and then just took and run my ramrod right down upon the powder. Now, he thought was his chance before I loaded

my gun again. He came towards me with his hatchet in his hand. I saw that he was determined to act wicked, and began to back off; he still came on, I lowered my rifle and told him to keep away. He raised his tomahawk, gave one yell, and bounded right at me. When he was just about three or four feet from the muzzle, I fired. You never see a fellow jump so. He kicked his heels up in the air and came, down plump on his head." 

“Dead?”

 "Dead as Julius Caesar, he never winked; the ramrod, a good hard, tough piece, of hickory had gone clean through him, and stuck out about two feet from his back.  

I took his traps, however, I didn't keep them long, gave them away to a half-drowned redskin, who had lost his in trying to cross the river, right at the head of the Big Wolf chute. There's a story about that too; but we'll put off till we get up to our camp. So, what do you say; shall we go?"

"Agreed," said I. And in a few words our plans were all laid, and we returned to town to make arrangements for carrying them out.”          (this story from the June 3rd 1899 edition of the Elizabethtown Post)

There was no DNA testing in 1900. David Dye never found out who was buried in the sands of the Indian Carry. We can only guess, imaginary visions of a wilder Adirondacks, when revolutionary tensions between the immigrants and Native Americans still lingered in an uncharted, lawless wilderness.