The place where he lived, the one summer, was about two
miles south of our house and this creek is really the middle branch of
the Ecorse).
There was no settlement between us and the Detroit River, a distance of
six miles. We looked along the Reed creek to see if any cattle had
crossed it.
While we were looking there we heard the report of a rifle close by us
and hurried up. It was an Indian who had just shot a duck in the head.
When we came to him father told him it was a lucky shot, a good shot to
shoot it in the head. He said, "Me allers shoot head not hurt body." He
took us to his wigwam, which was close by, showed us another duck with
the neck nearly shot off. Whether he told the truth, or whether these two
were lucky shots, I cannot tell, but one thing I do know, in regard to
him, if he told us the truth he was an extraordinary man and marksman.
Around his wigwam hung from half a dozen to a dozen deer skins; they hung
on poles. His family seemed to consist of his squaw and a young squaw
almost grown up. Father told him we had lost our cattle, oxen and cow,
and asked him if he had seen them.
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