But the Indians intercepted him, and hemmed him in on the brink of an almost perpendicular slope, [Footnote: The hill overlooks Wheeling; the slope has now much crumbled away, and in consequence has lost its steepness.] some three hundred feet high.

So sheer was the descent that they did not dream any horse could go down it, and instead of shooting they advanced to capture the man whom they hated.

McColloch had no thought of surrendering, to die by fire at the stake, and he had as little hope of resistance against so many foes.

Wheeling short round, he sat back in the saddle, shifted his rifle into his right hand, reined in his steed, and spurred him over the brink.

The old horse never faltered, but plunged headlong down the steep, boulder-covered, cliff-broken slope.