At the time they came to this county, Ben DAVIS, with a considerable band of followers, located himself on the pleasant banks of the creek which now bears his name, but which the Indians in tender remembrance of their former home, always called Mahoning.  And I must here say that I think it a pity that the euphonious Mahoning have been thrown away, and the harsh and unpoetic Ben Davis used instead.  Here, within 200 yards from where I write, stood their wigwams, and here enacted the various phases of savage life.  Here, the braves, to barbaric music, performed their war-dance, chanting their deeds of daring on the battle-field; or smoked their pipes, recounted their successful hunts of the swift footed deer, the sturdy bear or the fierce panther.  Here the patient squaw nursed her papoose and dreamed pleasant dreams of the possible future of her offspring.  Here, the gallant youth wooded and won his dusky bride, and enjoyed the perfect bliss, the satisfying rapture of knowing that the heart of her who is dearer to him than life is all his own.  Here, the boys threw the tomahawk, wrestled, run and engaged in various athletic sports, to fit them for their future career in life.  Hundreds of Beech trees near their encampment bear the numerous scars inflicted by the stroke of the tomahawk.  On many other trees are outlined the figures of men or animals; but the most characteristic memento was the scalp tree.  It was a large, tall tree, on whose smooth bark was recorded the number of scalps taken.  The number was over thirty; the marks were one above another, beginning about two feet from the ground and running up twenty to twenty five feet.    The emblem for a man was a round skullcap; that for a woman, the cap surmounted by a roll (to represent the twisted hair); that for a child was a broad, horizontal line.  This tree was a great curiosity to strangers, and was calculated to excite deep interest, as it was not only the memorial of the hard fought battle, but also of the lonely cabin surprised at the dead hour of night, and all its inmates ruthlessly butchered.  This tree is no longer to be seen; it was prostrated by a violent wind, many years since, much to my regret.

One day, in the Widow ADAIR's tavern, Ben DAVIS was boasting of his bloody deeds, unmindful of the angry glances of the crowd around him, and among other things, related how he, with his band, surprised a lonely settler in Kentucky, killing him with all his family except one boy, who happened to be a short distance from the cabin, when attacked, and who, although hotly pursued, eluded his enemies and escaped.  Now, in that crowded bar-room there was one intensely interested listener, a stern man, who heard from the lips of the old chieftain the particulars of the story of his family's massacre; for he was that flying boy who had saved his life by fleetness of foot when all his kindred fell.  Without a word he left the room.  The next day Ben DAVIS did not make his appearance in Brookville; but it excited but little remark, for he was erratic in his movements.  The second day, some one passing his camp found the old chief cold in death, with a bullet-hole in his forehead and his pipe fallen by his side, for he had been sitting by his fire smoking, when he received his sudden message to visit the happy hunting grounds of the Indian's paradise.  It was fitting death for so fierce a spirit, for, thought he had escaped the whistling shot and trenchant steel in many a battle, he finally fell a victim to private vengeance.  Public opinion, while unanimous as to the author of the deed, recognized the terrible provocation and justified the act, the more readily as many had lost friends by the hands of red men.  No judicial investigation was ever had, and Mr. YOUNG still held a respectable standing in society.