William Spaws, a fifteen-year-old boy, was checking his beaver traps one morning along Beaver Creek. Little did he know that he would witness one of Kentucky's most tragic, vile events—the Massacre at Murder Branch.

William removed his shoes and socks, rolled up his pant legs, and stepped gingerly into the cold mountain water. He could feel the smooth sand and scattered pebbles underfoot. Since the creek was only knee-deep, he stood for a while, enjoying the rushing water as it brushed past his legs. It was then that he heard the crying. Someone was moving along the trail on the north side of the creek. William moved to the far bank without hesitation and hid in the tall cane. If his father had taught him anything about the forest, it was always to be cautious—no matter what. He had instilled in him "never rush into anything" and always take the time to assess the situation fully. With that in mind, William waited and watched from his hiding spot.

Within a few minutes, it was evident to William that whoever was coming down the path was in a hurry, with some on horseback while others were afoot. By the sound of their approach, they were not trying to conceal their movements. In fact, there was a great deal of noise. The clamor included the heavy thud of unshod ponies, the clanging of pots and pans, the shuffling of feet, and the crying of children. This William knew was an Indian raiding party returning from the settlements.

William, now squatting, remained silent and checked Old Bess to ensure she would be ready if needed. He had difficulty seeing the entire group. But, out front was a Shawnee warrior on a large grey mare. The Indian looked just like William's Pa said Indians would look. He was tall and muscular. His skin was golden brown, and he had raven black hair that reached his shoulders. A lone eagle feather protruded from a knot of hair on the back of his head, pointing downward toward his right shoulder. He wore a breechcloth, leggings, and moccasins. He was bare-chested except for a doe-skin leather vest decorated with porcupine quills and red and blue beadwork. In all, he was a very fine-looking Indian, noble yet dangerous. The other Indians were similarly dressed, although most had shaved heads with just a small hair knot and feather. None of the Indians William saw had on war paint.

Behind the fifteen or so warriors were thirty or more stolen horses in five groups of five or six. Each group was tethered along a long plaited leather strap, controlled by a single Indian, also on horseback. They kicked up a thick cloud of yellow dust as they passed. The captives came behind the horses, coughing from the choking dust and crying loudly. All were women and children of varying ages. Stripped of most of their clothing, they struggled along in their underclothes. Each had their hands tied with strips of leather. They were herded along like so many cattle by two large Indians, who poked at them with sharpened sticks. The barefoot children stayed as close as possible to their mothers. All appeared exhausted as they moved doggedly along the trail.

At the end of the long line of captives was one lone child. He wailed loudly every ten seconds or so. It was clear that he was in great pain from his raw and bleeding feet. Just as he reached where William had left the trail to cross the creek, he stopped and began to cry loudly. A large burley Indian came back to see what was wrong. William did not hear what he said to the boy. But, what he saw reminded him of just how dangerous this situation was. The warrior, unable to quiet the boy, raised his tomahawk and struck the child squarely on the top of his head. He then wheeled his horse around and rode off to join the rest of the party. The boy, seven or eight years old, sank to his knees, blood streaming down his face and onto his bare chest. He sat there upright momentarily as though he had just paused to rest. Then he toppled over to one side—dead.

William wasted no time getting himself in order. He quickly put on his shoes and socks and rolled his pants legs down. Once fully dressed, he moved out of the cane and started down the creek on the opposite shore. He intended to get back home in case the Indians decided to head that way, but he decided to follow at a close enough distance to see their intentions. He reasoned that they would probably follow Beaver Creek to the Licking River, then northeast on their way back to the Ohio River. Chances are that they crossed Ohio somewhere east of the town of Limestone.

The south shore of Beaver Creek had only a narrow, faint game trail, nothing like the wide trail on the northern shore. Nonetheless, he hurried along as best he could, trying not to make too much noise. Up ahead, he could hear the crying and wailing of the captives. The noise was so loud that it was unlikely that the Indians would hear him moving along in the brush. Still, there was no reason to think he was out of danger. It was well known that the Shawnee kept a warrior as a rear guard, just in case they were being followed.

At the point where Cold Cave Creek enters Beaver Creek, the Indians turned due north. It was just as William had thought. They were headed for the Licking. That meant there was no immediate danger to his family on Dan Ridge. At that moment, he made a decision only a fifteen-year-old boy would make. He decided to follow the Indians and their captives to the Licking. He knew it was unlikely that he could do anything to help them.

Here, where the two creeks joined, he steadily climbed up the side of a steep hill. He knew that a wide animal trail crossed its western face. This way, he could parallel the group and watch them from above. This game trail provided an excellent vantage point since it was covered with low brush, meaning he could not be observed. He crept along the path for an hour until he arrived at a precipice overlooking a small clearing below. Here, another creek joined from the hills to the east. The Indians dismounted and watered their horses in the clear waters of Beaver Creek. The captives were also allowed to drink, albeit under heavy guard. William could see that the captives were utterly exhausted. The Indians had pushed their captives too hard. It was clear that they needed to rest.

The captives were placed together under a large willow tree near the creek bank. They huddled together as best as they could, still crying and trying to console one another. The Indians squatted to one side, talking. Some of them began to argue and after only a few minutes, all were engaged. Several of the Indians gestured toward the captives. Although most of the warriors were Shawnee, a few were from another tribe, as indicated by their dress and manners. These might have been Delaware or Mingos, but it wasn't easy to tell from William's vantage point. Tomahawks were drawn, threats were made, and some of the group had to be restrained. The leader, who William had seen at the head of the war party, interceded. He pointed to the captives and to the horses. Without hesitation, two of the disgruntled warriors rushed over to the captives and cut loose two women. The other disgruntled warriors retrieved eight of the stolen horses. Within just a few minutes, the selected captives had been placed behind two of the mounted Indians. The eight horses were tied together on a long line and led by another warrior. Once everything was in place, the entire group thundered north along the creek trail. The remaining Indians hooted and howled at them as they rode away—apparently in disgust.

A council was convened among the remaining Indians. They talked for several minutes. One warrior pointed back down the trail and gestured wildly—apparently, he was worried that they were being followed by the local militia, which had been called out by now. He ran over to the captives and continued his gesturing. Even William understood what he was saying. The captives were slowing them down. It was the horses they were after, and the captives were becoming a burden. It was easy to see that most of the group agreed. They had tried to move them too fast. Most would never reach the Ohio River, much less the Ohio villages.

Once again, the Indians squatted to listen to what their leader had to say. Then it was decided. The remaining stolen horses were gathered and tied together as before. In this way, one followed the other. A single-mounted warrior could move four or more along the path by himself. All but four of the Indians mounted their horses and began moving down the path. The four who stayed behind, including the leader, moved toward the frightened captives. One by one, they were all tomahawked to death—women and children alike. William looked away as the massacre began. How could they do that to another human being? he thought to himself. When he looked back, he was astonished at what he saw. The Indians were scalping the dead. They moved methodically from one body to the next, using their knives to first cut a ring around the upper part of the skull. Then, with a firm tug of the hair, the round, bloody scalp popped neatly off. The Indians tucked one edge of the scalp in their waistband, with the women's long hair hanging down like a gruesome grass skirt. Having finished, they returned to their horses and rode north down Beaver Creek.Far below lay the bodies of eighteen women and children. Their blood stained the waters of the small creek that would forever be known as Murder Branch.

William waited several moments before rising. Although he wanted desperately to go down to the massacre site to see if anyone had survived, he reasoned that it was not a wise thing to do. Just because these Indians had gone, it didn't mean that there were no others. In fact, this might even be the start of a general uprising. Cautiously, William moved back along the game trail, wiping tears from his eyes with this shirt sleeve. He now realized that everything his father had told him about Indians was true. They were savages and fit only to be killed—before they killed you. On this day, William saw his first real live Indians—they were not to be his last.

William began moving back along the trail that had led him to the overlook. By now, he had forgotten about the traps along Beaver Creek and wanted only to return to his family. He traced his way back to where Beaver and Cold Cave intersected from the south. Here, he turned up a steep ravine, going home the same way he had come that morning. After a few minutes, he paused to clear his mind and to once again check Old Bess. He had lost his pack somewhere along the line, probably at the creek crossing. He hadn't even noticed it was missing—too much had happened. There was too much risk even to consider retrieving it. He was glad he had his rifle, powder horn, and leather pouch.

After a short rest to catch his breath, he continued the climb up the steep ravine. Although only a few hours had passed, it seemed like an eternity since he had passed this way. At last, he reached the top of the ravine. Now, all he had to do was follow the ridgeline trail, and he would be safely home. After hurrying along the trail for a mile, he pulled up to a dead stop. For a moment, he stood silently and listened intently. He was sure he heard voices but could not pinpoint exactly where they came from. Just to be safe, he moved off the side of the trail and waited. High up in the sky, he could see four large buzzards circling. He thought about those who had been killed and wondered if the buzzards had already detected them. A cold wind stirred the dust, blowing it down the trail away from him. He waited patiently, unmoving, just like his Pa had taught him. "Don't try to outsmart an Injun," he'd said. "You'll lose ever time."

Satisfied that he had heard only the wind, he continued onward. At a place where the trail makes a sharp turn to the right, he caught a glimpse of movement just off to the side. His first instinct was that he had perhaps glimpsed a deer, but instinctively, he knew it wasn't a deer—it was an Indian. What he saw next frightened him into action. The Indian, about twenty yards away in mixed woods, had his bow drawn with an arrow pointed directly at him. Instantly, he snapped Old Bess to his shoulder and pulled back the hammer. Both men fired simultaneously. The Indian's arrow went wide, but the ball from Old Bess caught the Indian just below his chin, tearing through his neck and severing his spinal cord. William did not wait to see if his shot was true. The instant he fired, he turned and ran back up the trail as fast as possible. His mind raced as he wondered if he had hit his target. William ran with no concern for how much noise he might be making. After a mile or so, mostly uphill, he paused to get his breath. He knew that he couldn't wait long; if there were other Indians, they would soon be in hot pursuit. He figured he had an even chance if they were on foot. At fifteen, William was strong and fast. He made up for what he lacked in numbers in strength and agility. After all, this was his neighborhood. He knew every nook and cranny of it for ten miles around.

He didn't have to wait long. He could hear his pursuers coming along the trail, shouting war hoops. By now, they most likely had determined from his tracks that he was alone—probably just a young boy. Nonetheless, there was little doubt that they were bent on revenge. The removal of young William's scalp would be a fine prize, even if it had been at the expense of their comrade.

At the sound of the warriors getting closer, William began a fast jog up the trail. His pursuers were still at a distance, and he knew he could outrun them if he kept up a steady pace. The important thing was to remain calm. He knew that the Indians would also have to stop to rest; no one could run flat out for any time. Running wouldn't be as important as where he would take them on the trail.

Arriving where he had left the ravine, William turned right instead of left. This would eventually take him over the cliffs toward Blackwater Creek. If his pursuers wanted a challenge, he was about to give them one. Following a very faint game trail, William began moving again downhill toward the cliffs. Last fall, he had tracked a wounded bear along this very game trail and had killed it just short of the cliff line. It was during that trip, he had found a way down the eighty-foot cliff to a small branch that eventually led out to Blackwater Creek. It was an alternate route home, although dangerous and not for the faint of heart.

The two young Delaware had no trouble following the trail of this boy who had killed their brother, Cakasca. Although the three had been hunting in Kentucky for the last six suns, they had little to show for their efforts. Since the Kentucky settlers had arrived, the hunting had dwindled to nearly nothing. They were only one of a dozen hunting parties south of the Great River. Now, they would have to return home empty-handed, carrying with them the body of their young brother. They must have the scalp of this young man. Only that would appease the tribe, but—even that would not comfort their mother.

William knew that he had youth on his side. At fifteen, he was in excellent health with the strength and stamina of a young buck. But these men who were following him had lived outdoors all their lives. They, too, were strong and full of resolve. After all, he had killed their companion. It was a foregone conclusion that if they caught him, they would kill him without hesitation.

He made his way along the base of the towering cliffs for over an hour. He knew that his pursuers would not give up until they had him dead at their feet, his scalp tucked neatly into their belts. He knew well that he was truly engaged in a life-and-death struggle, and for him to survive, he would have to rely on all of his senses and judgment. As he hurried along, he stayed as close to the cliff wall as possible, often backtracking, just like his father had taught him. He needed every slight advantage he could get. But, it seemed that the pursuing Indians grew closer every minute. Finally, he stopped behind a large boulder to catch his breath. To his amazement, he could hear his pursuers talking somewhere just below him. William listened intently, even though he could not understand what was being said.

William's pursuers had also stopped to catch their breath. They realized that it was senseless to continue at this pace. They'd had a glimpse of William at the beginning of the chase and realized he was a young man in his physical prime. They also realized they could unlikely catch this human jackrabbit before sundown.

"My brother, this one is a young boy, swift and cunning. Soon, darkness will be upon us, and we must see to Cakasca. We cannot abandon him to the forest animals," said Mateo

"No! We must go on while we still have light. We must track this white devil child down and gain revenge for our young brother. I will not rest until this white boy is dead by my knife," replied an angry Topika.

"I understand what you are saying, but we must take care of our brother, who lies dead along the forest trail."

"If you have no heart for this hunt—then you go! Go back and tend to Cakasca!"

"No heart! I want this revenge as much as you, my brother, but it grows late, and this young one knows these cliffs and streams. He will likely slip away during the night."

"It will not be so! I will find him in his hiding place and lift his scalp. I will hang it high on our lodge pole where all can see. I will point to it and say, 'There is the one who killed my brother Cakasca. I have taken his scalp in revenge!'"

"Brother, I hear what you say. I, too, grieve for Cakasca, but this is foolish. You will not catch this young one. He has vanished like the morning mist. "

"I will not give up! I will track him down! You return to our fallen brother. I will meet you at the great river-crossing place. Wait for me there for no more than two suns; if I do not return, cross the great river and take Cakasca to our village. I will return when I can."

"I will do these things, my brother. Here, take my knife. When you find the white devil, use it to take his life. Do this for me."

Although William could not understand what the Indians below were saying, he was sure it was about him. He could tell by the tone of their voices that they were arguing. He could only guess as to why. Perhaps they were arguing about who would kill him first.

Night was rapidly falling, and William knew he had to find a secure hiding place. A few miles further on, he arrived at Spaws, a creek named by his father. Since he had not heard from his pursuers for the last thirty minutes, he thought perhaps they had given up the search. Fortunately, he was familiar with this particular watershed and believed he knew where he could hide—someplace no one could find him.

He approached a high horseshoe-shaped cliff with a small waterfall a mile upstream. Just last year, while hunting along this same creek, he found a narrow passage in the rocks that allowed him to climb up the cliff face. It wasn't easy to climb in the failing light, but William made it without incident. At the top, several yards upstream, he found what he was looking for—a small double rockshelter, one atop the other. He had spent the night in the lower shelter twice, but the upper shelter was nearly impossible to get to—at least from the sandstone streambed.

Over time, the stream had cut through the soft sandstone to a depth of nearly twenty feet, forming something of a rock canyon. If William could get into the upper rockshelter, no one would be able to see him. Moving around in the streambed to get a better look, he noticed a branch from a towering hemlock hanging down over the rockshelter face. If he could climb up that tree, he could swing into the shelter. Slowly, he began the climb up the steep rock face. And, although it was difficult to see the hand and footholds in the near total darkness, somehow he made it to the top. Scampering over to the massive tree, he reached out and grabbed the limb. Sure enough, with his added weight, the limb lowered him onto the rockshelter ledge below just in time. In the gathering gloom, William could make out the form of an Indian standing at the top of the falls. He, too, had found the narrow passage up the waterfalls.

William moved far to the back of the upper shelter. Behind a long slab of rock that had fallen from the roof, he made his bed for the night. With his pack gone, he had no food or water. To keep him company, he had only Old Bess, who was always fully charged and ready for use if needed. He had learned long ago from his father that no matter what else you lose in the woods, you must never lose your gun. His father was fond of saying, "Even if ye run plum out of powder 'n shot, yer rifle still makes a right fine club."

That night, William would not sleep. Lying silently in the darkness, he doubted that he had actually seen the Indian at the top of the falls. Moving out from behind the rock, he relieved himself quietly on the rockshelter wall. It was then that he thought he smelled smoke. Could it be that the Indian was now in the lower rockshelter and had built a small fire to ward off the night chill? thought William. And although a wave of panic rushed through William, he composed himself. "No need to worry," he said to himself softly, "Old Bess will protect me."

That night would be the longest night of William's young life. He lay on his back, listening intently to all the night sounds. Over and over, he heard his mother say, "William, you snore louder than your father!" William knew it would not do for him to go to sleep only to wake up and find that he had given himself away by snoring. He passed the hours reviewing the events of the day.

Long before daylight, the morning birds began to sing. Their songs filled the sandstone canyon and drifted out over the trickling falls. The stream below gurgled softly as it found its way through the scattered rocks. Somewhere below, someone coughed loudly. I hope you catch your death, thought William. Save me a lot of trouble.

At daybreak, the Indian in the rockshelter below began to stir. First, he drank from the stream and washed his hands and face. After a few moments, he gathered up his belongings, including a long rifle, not much different than Old Bess, and headed upstream. William knew that he would not be gone long. Once he found no sign to follow he would return to the rockshelter, where William would be waiting.

As anticipated, the Indian soon returned. He traced his way back to the edge of the falls and then returned to the rockshelter. After a few moments of silence, William heard the sound of leather against sandstone. Immediately, he knew that his pursuer was climbing up the sandstone wall. Apparently, he had noticed the upper rockshelter and was determined to get a look for himself. William waited patiently, checking Old Bess one last time to ensure she would be ready when the critical moment came. Amazingly, William was not frightened—after all, there was only one way to get into the rockshelter. He moved slowly to the far end of the large rock slab, where he would have the line of sight he needed. He listened intently, trying to distinguish the morning sounds from those of the Indian moving along the top of the cliff. With a great whoosh, the intruder swept into the rockshelter. At that same instant, a flame leaped from the barrel of Old Bess. The ball tore through the Indian's chest, carrying him over the shelter's lip. With a great thud, he landed in the streambed below. William wiped his eyes from the acrid smoke and quickly reloaded—just in case. Once that was done, he crept to the edge and looked over. Far below, he could see the Indian lying lifelessly at the edge of the stream. A long string of blood seeped from his body and began to stain the water red. William Spaws had killed his second human being in as many days.

Cautiously, William moved along the top of the cliff until he found a place where he could safely climb down to the creek below. Moving back to where the Indian lay, he approached the body. The Christian thing to do, he reasoned, was to bury the body, but the wise thing to do was to leave it where it lay and continue on his way home. There was no way to be sure his companions were not making their way to his location after hearing the shot. With that thought in mind, he turned from home. He'd had enough adventure for a fifteen-year-old boy to last him a lifetime.