The Scouts of the Valley
by Joseph A. Altsheler
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman

CHAPTER I

THE LONE CANOE

A light canoe of bark, containing a single human figure, moved
swiftly up one of the twin streams that form the Ohio. The
water, clear and deep, coming through rocky soil, babbled gently
at the edges, where it lapped the land, but in the center the
full current flowed steadily and without noise.

The thin shadows of early dusk were falling, casting a pallid
tint over the world, a tint touched here and there with living
fire from the sun, which was gone, though leaving burning embers
behind. One glowing shaft, piercing straight through the heavy
forest that clothed either bank, fell directly upon the figure in
the boat, as a hidden light illuminates a great picture, while
the rest is left in shadow. It was no common forest runner who
sat in the middle of the red beam. Yet a boy, in nothing but
years, he swung the great paddle with an ease and vigor that the
strongest man in the West might have envied. His rifle, with the
stock carved beautifully, and the long, slender blue barrel of
the border, lay by his side. He could bring the paddle into the
boat, grasp the rifle, and carry it to his shoulder with a
single, continuous movement.

His most remarkable aspect, one that the casual observer even
would have noticed, was an extraordinary vitality. He created in
the minds of those who saw him a feeling that he lived intensely
every moment of his life. Born and-bred in the forest, he was
essentially its child, a perfect physical being, trained by the
utmost hardship and danger, and with every faculty, mental and
physical, in complete coordination. It is only by a singular
combination of time and place, and only once in millions of
chances, that Nature produces such a being.

The canoe remained a few moments in the center of the red light,
and its occupant, with a slight swaying motion of the paddle,
held it steady in the current, while he listened. Every feature
stood out in the glow, the firm chin, the straight strong nose,
the blue eyes, and the thick yellow hair. The red blue, and
yellow beads on his dress of beautifully tanned deerskin flashed
in the brilliant rays. He was the great picture of fact, not of
fancy, a human being animated by a living, dauntless soul.

He gave the paddle a single sweep and shot from the light into
the shadow. His canoe did not stop until it grazed the northern
shore, where bushes and overhanging boughs made a deep shadow.
It would have taken a keen eye now to have seen either the canoe
or its occupant, and Henry Ware paddled slowly and without noise
in the darkest heart of the shadow.

The sunlight lingered a little longer in the center of the
stream. Then the red changed to pink. The pink, in its turn,
faded, and the whole surface of the river was somber gray,
flowing between two lines of black forest.

The coming of the darkness did not stop the boy. He swung a
little farther out into the stream, where the bushes and hanging
boughs would not get in his way, and continued his course with
some increase of speed.

The great paddle swung swiftly through the water, and the length
of stroke was amazing, but the boy's breath did not come faster,
and the muscles on his arms and shoulders rippled as if it were
the play of a child. Henry was in waters unknown to him. He had
nothing more than hearsay upon which to rely, and he used all the
wilderness caution that he had acquired through nature and
training. He called into use every faculty of his perfect
physical being. His trained eyes continually pierced the
darkness. At times, he stopped and listened with ears that could
hear the footfall of the rabbit, but neither eye nor ear brought
report of anything unusual. The river flowed with a soft,
sighing sound. Now and then a wild creature stirred in the
forest, and once a deer came down to the margin to drink, but
this was the ordinary life of the woods, and he passed it by.

He went on, hour after hour. The river narrowed. The banks grew
higher and rockier, and the water, deep and silvery under the
moon, flowed in a somewhat swifter current. Henry gave a little
stronger sweep to the paddle, and the speed of the canoe was
maintained. He still kept within the shadow of the northern
bank.

He noticed after a while that fleecy vapor was floating before
the moon. The night seemed to be darkening, and a rising wind
came out of the southwest. The touch of  the air on, his face
was damp. It was the token of rain, and he felt that it would
not be delayed long.

It was no part of his plan to be caught in a storm on the
Monongahela. Besides the discomfort, heavy rain and wind might
sink his frail canoe, and he looked for a refuge. The river was
widening again, and the banks sank down until they were but
little above the water. Presently he saw a place that he knew
would be suitable, a stretch of thick bushes and weeds growing
into the very edge of the water, and extending a hundred yards or
more along the shore.

He pushed his canoe far into the undergrowth, and then stopped it
in shelter so close that, keen as his own eyes were, he could
scarcely see the main stream of the river. The water where he
came to rest was not more than a foot deep, but he remained in
the canoe, half reclining and wrapping closely around himself and
his rifle a beautiful blanket woven of the tightest fiber.

His position, with his head resting on the edge of the canoe and
his shoulder pressed against the side, was full of comfort to
him, and he awaited calmly whatever might come. Here and there
were little spaces among the leaves overhead, and through them he
saw a moon, now almost hidden by thick and rolling vapors, and a
sky that had grown dark and somber. The last timid star had
ceased to twinkle, and the rising wind was wet and cold. He was
glad of the blanket, and, skilled forest runner that he was, he
never traveled without it. Henry remained perfectly still. The
light canoe did not move beneath his weight the fraction of an
inch. His upturned eyes saw the little cubes of sky that showed
through the leaves grow darker and darker. The bushes about him
were now bending before the wind, which blew steadily from the
south, and presently drops of rain began to fall lightly on the
water.

The boy, alone in the midst of all that vast wilderness,
surrounded by danger in its most cruel forms, and with a black
midnight sky above him, felt neither fear nor awe. Being what
nature and circumstance had made him, he was conscious, instead,
of a deep sense of peace and comfort. He was at ease, in a nest
for the night, and there was only the remotest possibility that
the prying eye of an enemy would see him. The leaves directly
over his head were so thick that they formed a canopy, and, as he
heard the drops fall upon them, it was like the rain on a roof,
that soothes the one beneath its shelter.

Distant lightning flared once or twice, and low thunder rolled
along the southern horizon, but both soon ceased, and then a
rain, not hard, but cold and persistent, began to fall, coming
straight down. Henry saw that it might last all night, but he
merely eased himself a little in the canoe, drew the edges of the
blanket around his chin, and let his eyelids droop.

The rain was now seeping through the leafy canopy of green, but
he did not care. It could not penetrate the close fiber of the
blanket, and the fur cap drawn far down on his head met the
blanket. Only his face was uncovered, and when a cold drop fell
upon it, it was to him, hardened by forest life, cool and
pleasant to the touch.

Although the eyelids still drooped, he did not yet feel the
tendency to sleep. It was merely a deep, luxurious rest, with
the body completely relaxed, but with the senses alert. The wind
ceased to blow, and the rain came down straight with an even beat
that was not unmusical. No other sound was heard in the forest,
as the ripple of the river at the edges was merged into it.
Henry began to feel the desire for sleep by and by, and, laying
the paddle across the boat in such a way that it sheltered his
face, he closed his eyes. In five minutes he would have been
sleeping as soundly as a man in a warm bed under a roof, but with
a quick motion he suddenly put the paddle aside and raised
himself a little in the canoe, while one hand slipped down under
the folds of the blanket to the hammer of his rifle.

His ear had told him in time that there was a new sound on the
river. He heard it faintly above the even beat of the rain, a
soft sound, long and sighing, but regular. He listened, and then
he knew it. It was made by oars, many of them swung in unison,
keeping admirable time.

Henry did not yet feel fear, although it must be a long boat full
of Indian warriors, as it was not likely, that anybody else would
be abroad upon these waters at such a time. He made no attempt
to move. Where he lay it was black as the darkest cave, and his
cool judgment told him that there was no need of flight.

The regular rhythmic beat of the oars came nearer, and presently
as he looked through the covert of leaves the dusky outline of a
great war canoe came into view. It contained at least twenty
warriors, of what tribe he could not tell, but they were wet, and
they looked cold and miserable. Soon they were opposite him, and
he saw the outline of every figure. Scalp locks drooped in the
rain, and he knew that the warriors, hardy as they might be, were
suffering.        

Henry expected to see the long boat pass on, but it was turned
toward a shelving bank fifty or sixty yards below, and they
beached it there. Then all sprang out, drew it up on the land,
and, after turning it over, propped it up at an angle. When this
was done they sat under it in a close group, sheltered from the
rain. They were using their great canoe as a roof, after the
habit of Shawnees and Wyandots.

The boy watched them for a long time through one of the little
openings in the bushes, and he believed that they would remain as
they were all night, but presently he saw a movement among them,
and a little flash of light. He understood it. They were trying
to kindle a fire-with flint and steel, under the shelter of the
boat. He continued to watch them 'lazily and without alarm.

Their fire, if they succeeded in making it, would cast no light
upon him in the dense covert, but they would be outlined against
the flame, and he could see them better, well enough, perhaps, to
tell to what tribe they belonged.

He watched under his lowered eyelids while the warriors, gathered
in a close group to make a shelter from stray puffs of wind,
strove with flint and steel. Sparks sprang up and went out, but
Henry at last saw a little blaze rise and cling to life. Then,
fed with tinder and bark, it grew under the roof made by the boat
until it was ruddy and strong. The boat was tilted farther back,
and the fire, continuing to grow, crackled cheerfully, while the
flames leaped higher.

By a curious transfer of the senses, Henry, as he lay in the
thick blackness felt the influence of the fire, also. Its warmth
was upon his face, and it was pleasing to see the red and yellow
light victorious against the sodden background of the rain and
dripping forest. The figures of the warriors passed and repassed
before the fire, and the boy in the boat moved suddenly.  His
body was not shifted more than an inch, but his surprise was
great.

A warrior stood between him and the fire, outlined perfectly
against the red light. It was a splendid figure, young, much
beyond the average height, the erect and noble head crowned with
the defiant scalplock, the strong, slightly curved nose and the
massive chin cut as clearly as if they had been carved in copper.
The man who had laid aside a wet blanket was bare now to the
waist, and Henry could see the powerful muscles play on chest and
shoulders as he moved.

The boy knew him. It was Timmendiquas, the great White Lightning
of the Wyandots, the youngest, but the boldest and ablest of all
the Western chiefs. Henry's pulses leaped a little at the sight
of his old foe and almost friend. As always, he felt admiration
at the sight of the young chief. It was not likely that he would
ever behold such another magnificent specimen of savage manhood.

The presence of Timmendiquas so far east was also full of
significance. The great fleet under Adam Colfax, and with Henry
and his comrades in the van, had reached Pittsburgh at last.
Thence the arms, ammunition, and other supplies were started on
the overland journey for the American army, but the five lingered
before beginning the return to Kentucky. A rumor came that the
Indian alliance was spreading along the entire frontier, both
west and north. It was said that Timmendiquas, stung to fiery
energy by his defeats, was coming east to form a league with the
Iroquois, the famous Six Nations. These warlike tribes were
friendly with the Wyandots, and the league would be a formidable
danger to the Colonies, the full strength of which was absorbed
already in the great war.

But the report was a new call of battle to Henry, Shif'less Sol,
and the others. The return to Kentucky was postponed. They
could be of greater service here, and they plunged into the great
woods to the north and, east to see what might be stirring among
the warriors.

Now Henry, as be looked at Timmendiquas, knew that report had
told the truth. The great chief would not be on the fringe of
the Iroquois country, if be did not have such a plan, and he had
the energy and ability to carry it through. Henry shuddered at
the thought of the tomahawk flashing along every mile of a
frontier so vast, and defended so thinly. He was glad in every
fiber that he and his comrades had remained to hang upon the
Indian hordes, and be heralds of their marches. In the forest a
warning usually meant the saving of life.

The rain ceased after a while, although water dripped from the
trees everywhere. But the big fire made an area of dry earth
about it, and the warriors replaced the long boat in the water.
Then all but four or five of them lay beside the coals and went
to sleep. Timmendiquas was one of those who remained awake, and
Henry saw that he was in deep thought. He walked back and forth
much like a white man, and now and then he folded his hands
behind his back, looking toward the earth, but not seeing it.
Henry could guess what was in his mind. He would draw forth the
full power of the Six Nations, league them with the Indians of
the great valley, and hurl them all in one mass upon the
frontier. He was planning now the means to the end.

The chief, in his little walks back and forth, came close to the
edge of the bushes in which Henry lay, It was not at all probable
that he would conclude to search among them, but some accident, a
chance, might happen, and Henry began to feel a little alarm.
Certainly, the coming of the day would make his refuge insecure,
and he resolved to slip away while it was yet light.

The boy rose a little in the boat, slowly and with the utmost
caution, because the slightest sound out of the common might
arouse Timmendiquas to the knowledge of a hostile presence. The
canoe must make no plash in the water. Gradually he unwrapped
the blanket and tied it in a folded square at his back. Then he
took thought a few moments. The forest was so silent now that he
did not believe he could push the canoe through the bushes
without being heard. He would leave it there for use another day
and go on foot through the woods to his comrades.

Slowly he put one foot down the side until it rested on the
bottom, and then he remained still. The chief had paused in his
restless walk back and forth. Could it be possible that he had
heard so slight a sound as that of a human foot sinking softly
into the water? Henry waited with his rifle ready. If necessary
he would fire, and then dart away among the bushes.

Five or six intense moments passed, and the chief resumed his
restless pacing. If he had heard, he had passed it by as
nothing, and Henry raised the other foot out of the canoe. He
was as delicate in his movement as a surgeon mending the human
eye, and he had full cause, as not eye alone, but life as well,
depended upon his success. Both feet now rested upon the muddy
bottom, and he stood there clear of the boat.

The chief did not stop again, and as the fire had burned higher,
his features were disclosed more plainly in his restless walk
back and forth before the flames. Henry took a final look at the
lofty features, contracted now into a frown, then began to wade
among the bushes, pushing his way softly. This was the most
delicate and difficult task of all. The water must not be
allowed to plash around him nor the bushes to rustle as he
passed. Forward he went a yard, then two, five, ten, and his
feet were about to rest upon solid earth, when a stick submerged
in the mud broke under his moccasin with a snap singularly loud
in the silence of the night.

Henry sprang at once upon dry land, whence he cast back a single
swift glance. He saw the chief standing rigid and gazing in the
direction from which the sound had come. Other warriors were
just behind him, following his look, aware that there was an
unexpected presence in the forest, and resolved to know its
nature.

Henry ran northward. So confident was he in his powers and the
protecting darkness of the night that he sent back a sharp cry,
piercing and defiant, a cry of a quality that could come only
from a white throat. The warriors would know it, and he intended
for them to know it. Then, holding his rifle almost parallel
with his body, he darted swiftly away through the black spaces of
the forest. But an answering cry came to his, the Indian yell
taking up his challenge, and saying that the night would not
check pursuit.

Henry maintained his swift pace for a long time, choosing the
more open places that he might make no noise among the bushes and
leaves. Now and then water dripped in his face, and his
moccasins were wet from the long grass, but his body was warm and
dry, and he felt little weariness. The clouds were now all gone,
and the stars sprang out, dancing in a sky of dusky blue.
Trained eyes could see far in the forest despite the night, and
Henry felt that he must be wary. He recalled the skill and
tenacity of Timmendiquas. A fugitive could scarcely be trailed
in the darkness, but the great chief would spread out his forces
like a fan and follow.

He had been running perhaps three hours when he concluded to stop
in a thicket, where he lay down on the damp grass, and rested
with his head under his arm.

His breath had been coming a little faster, but his heart now
resumed its regular beat. Then he heard a soft sound, that of
footsteps. He thought at first that some wild animal was
prowling near, but second thought convinced him that human beings
had come. Gazing through the thicket, he saw an Indian warrior
walking among the trees, looking searchingly about him as if he
were a scout. Another, coming from a different direction,
approached him, and Henry felt sure that they were of the party
of Timmendiquas. They had followed him in some manner, perhaps
by chance, and it behooved Mm now to lie close.

A third warrior joined them and they began to examine the ground.
Henry realized that it was much lighter. Keen eyes under such a
starry sky could see much, and they might strike his trail. The
fear quickly became fact. One of the warriors, uttering a short
cry, raised his head and beckoned to the others. He had seen
broken twigs or trampled grass, and Henry, knowing that it was no
time to hesitate, sprang from his covert. Two of the warriors
caught a glimpse of his dusky figure and fired, the bullets
cutting the leaves close to his head, but Henry ran so fast that
he was lost to view in an instant.

The boy was conscious that his position contained many elements
of danger. He was about to have another example of the tenacity
and resource of the great young chief of the Wyandots, and he
felt a certain anger. He, did not wish to be disturbed in his
plans, he wished to rejoin his comrades and move farther east
toward the chosen lands of the Six Nations; instead, he must
spend precious moments running for his life.

Henry did not now flee toward the camp of his friends. He was
too wise, too unselfish, to bring a horde down upon them, and he
curved away in a course that would take him to the south of them.
He glanced up and saw that the heavens were lightening yet more.
A thin gray color like a mist was appearing in the east. It was
the herald of day, and now the Indians would be able to find his
trail. But Henry was not afraid. His anger over the loss of
time quickly passed, and he ran swiftly on, the fall of his
moccasins making scarcely any noise as be passed.

It was no unusual incident. Thousands of such pursuits occurred
in the border life of our country, and were lost to the
chronicler. For generations they were almost a part of the daily
life of the frontier, but the present, while not out of the
common in itself, had, uncommon phases. It was the most splendid
type of white life in all the wilderness that fled, and the
finest type of red life that followed.

It was impossible for Henry to feel anger or hate toward
Timmendiquas. In his place he would have done what he was doing.
It was hard to give up these great woods and beautiful lakes and
rivers, and the wild life that wild men lived and loved. There
was so much chivalry in the boy's nature that he could think of
all these things while he fled to escape the tomahawk or the
stake.

Up came the sun. The gray light turned to silver, and then to
red and blazing gold. A long, swelling note, the triumphant cry
of the pursuing warriors, rose behind him. Henry turned his head
for one look. He saw a group of them poised for a moment on the
crest of a low hill and outlined against the broad flame in the
east. He saw their scalp locks, the rifles in their hands, and
their bare chests shining bronze in the glow. Once more he sent
back his defiant cry, now in answer to theirs, and then, calling
upon his reserves of strength and endurance, fled with a speed
that none of the warriors had ever seen surpassed.

Henry's flight lasted all that day, and he used every device to
evade the pursuit, swinging by vines, walking along fallen logs,
and wading in brooks. He did not see the warriors again, but
instinct warned him that they were yet following. At long
intervals he would rest for a quarter of an hour or so among the
bushes, and at noon he ate a little of the venison that he always
carried. Three hours later he came to the river again, and
swimming it he turned on his course, but kept to the southern
side. When the twilight was falling once more he sat still in
dense covert for a long time. He neither saw nor heard a sign of
human presence, and he was sure now that the pursuit had failed.
Without an effort he dismissed it from his mind, ate a little
more of the venison, and made his bed for the night.

The whole day had been bright, with a light wind blowing, and the
forest was dry once more. As far as Henry could see it circled
away on every side, a solid dark green, the leaves of oak and
beech, maple and elm making a soft, sighing sound as they waved
gently in the wind. It told Henry of nothing but peace. He had
eluded the pursuit, hence it was no more. This was a great,
friendly forest, ready to shelter him, to soothe him, and to
receive him into its arms for peaceful sleep.

He found a place among thick trees where the leaves of last year
lay deep upon the ground. He drew up enough of them for a soft
bed, because now and for the moment he was a forest sybarite. He
was wise enough to take his ease when he found it, knowing that
it would pay his body to relax.

He lay down upon the leaves, placed the rifle by his side, and
spread the blanket over himself and the weapon. The twilight was
gone, and the night, dark and without stars, as he wished to see
it, rolled up, fold after fold, covering and hiding everything.
He looked a little while at a breadth of inky sky showing through
the leaves, and then, free from trouble or fear, he fell asleep.

CHAPTER II

THE MYSTERIOUS HAND

Henry slept until a rosy light, filtering through the leaves,
fell upon his face. Then he sprang up, folded the blanket once
more upon his back, and looked about him. Nothing had come in
the night to disturb him, no enemy was near, and the morning sun
was bright and beautiful. The venison was exhausted, but he
bathed his face in the brook and resumed his journey, traveling
with a long, swift stride that carried him at great speed.

The boy was making for a definite point, one that he knew well,
although nearly all the rest of this wilderness was strange to
him. The country here was rougher than it usually is in the
great valley to the west, and as he advanced it became yet more
broken, range after range of steep, stony hills, with fertile but
narrow little valleys between. He went on without hesitation for
at least two hours, and then stopping under a great oak he
uttered a long, whining cry, much like the howl of a wolf.

It was not a loud note, but it was singularly penetrating,
carrying far through the forest. A sound like an echo came back,
but Henry knew that instead of an echo it was a reply to his own
signal. Then he advanced boldly and swiftly and came to the edge
of a snug little valley set deep among rocks and trees like a
bowl. He stopped behind the great trunk of a beech, and looked
into the valley with a smile of approval.

Four human figures were seated around a fire of smoldering coals
that gave forth no smoke. They appeared to be absorbed in some
very pleasant task, and a faint odor that came to Henry's
nostrils filled him with agreeable anticipations. He stepped
forward boldly and called:

"Jim, save that piece for me!"

Long Jim Hart halted in mid-air the large slice of venison that
he had toasted on a stick. Paul Cotter sprang joyfully to his
feet, Silent Tom Ross merely looked up, but Shif'less Sol said:

"Thought Henry would be here in time for breakfast."

Henry walked down in the valley, and the shiftless one regarded
him keenly.

"I should judge, Henry Ware, that you've been hevin' a foot
race," he drawled.

"And why do you think that?" asked Henry.

"I kin see where the briars hev been rakin' across your leggins.
Reckon that wouldn't happen, 'less you was in a pow'ful hurry."

"You're right," said Henry. "Now, Jim, you've been holding that
venison in the air long enough. Give it to me, and after I've
eaten it I'll tell you all that I've been doing, and all that's
been done to me."

Long Jim handed him the slice. Henry took a comfortable seat in
the circle before the coals, and ate with all the appetite of a
powerful human creature whose food had been more than scanty for
at least two days.

"Take another piece," said Long Jim, observing him with approval.
"Take two pieces, take three, take the whole deer. I always like
to see a hungry man eat. It gives him sech satisfaction that I
git a kind uv taste uv it myself."

Henry did not offer a word 'of explanation until his breakfast
was over. Then lie leaned back, sighing twice with deep content,
and said:

"Boys, I've got a lot to tell."

Shif'less Sol moved into an easier position on the leaves.

"I guess it has somethin' to do with them scratches on your
leggins."

"It has," continued Henry with emphasis," and I want to say to
you boys that I've seen Timmendiquas, the great White Lightning
of the Wyandots."

"Timmendiquas!" exclaimed the others together.

"No less a man than he," resumed Henry. " I've looked upon his
very face, I've seen him in camp with warriors, and I've had the
honor of being pursued by him and his men more hours than I can
tell. That's why you see those briar scratches on my leggins,
Sol."

"Then we cannot doubt that he is here to stir the Six Nations to
continued war," said Paul Cotter, "and he will succeed. He is a
mighty chief, and his fire and eloquence will make them take up
the hatchet. I'm glad that we've come. We delayed a league once
between the Shawnees and the Miamis; I don't think we can stop
this one, but we may get some people out of the way before the
blow falls."

"Who are these Six Nations, whose name sounds so pow'ful big up
here?" asked Long Jim.

"Their name is as big as it sounds," replied Henry. They are the
Onondagas, the Mohawks, Oneidas, Senecas, Cayugas, and
Tuscaroras. They used to be the Five Nations, but the Tuscaroras
came up from the south and fought against them so bravely that
they were adopted into the league, as a new and friendly tribe.
The Onondagas, so I've heard, formed the league a long, long time
ago, and their head chief is the grand sachem or high priest of
them all, but the head chief of the Mohawks is the leading war
chief."

"I've heard," said Paul, "that the Wyandots are kinsmen of all
these tribes, and on that account they will listen with all the
more friendliness to Timmendiquas."

"Seems to me," said Tom Ross, "that we've got a most
tre-men-je-ous big job ahead."

"Then," said Henry, "we must make a most tremendous big effort."

"That's so," agreed all.

After that they spoke little. The last coals were covered up,
and the remainder of the food was put in their pouches. Then
they sat on the leaves, and every one meditated until such time
as he might have something worth saying.   Henry's thoughts
traveled on a wide course, but they always came back to one
point. They had heard much at Pittsburgh of a famous Mohawk
chief called Thayendanegea, but most often known to the Americans
as Brant. He was young, able, and filled with intense animosity
against the white people, who encroached, every year, more and
more upon the Indian hunting grounds. His was a soul full kin to
that of Timmendiquas, ;and if the two met it meant a great
council and a greater endeavor for the undoing of the white man.
What more likely than that they intended to meet?

"All of you have heard of Thayendanegea, the Mohawk?" said Henry.

They nodded.

"It's my opinion that Timmendiquas is on the way to meet him. I
remember hearing a hunter say at Pittsburgh that about a hundred
miles to the east of this point was a Long House or Council House
of the Six Nations. Timmendiquas is sure to go there, and we
must go, too. We must find out where they intend to strike.
What do you say?"

"We go there!" exclaimed four voices together.

Seldom has a council of war been followed by action so promptly.

As Henry spoke the last word he rose, and tile others rose with
him. Saying no more, he led toward the east, and the others
followed him, also saying no more. Separately every one of them
was strong, brave, and resourceful, but when the five were
together they felt that they had the skill and strength of
twenty. The long rest at Pittsburgh had restored them after the
dangers and hardship of their great voyage from New Orleans.

They carried in horn and pouch ample supplies of powder and
bullet, and they did not fear any task.

Their journey continued through hilly country, clothed in heavy
forest, but often without undergrowth. They avoided the open
spaces, preferring to be seen of men, who were sure to be red
men, as little as possible. Their caution was well taken. They
saw Indian signs, once a feather that had fallen from a scalp
lock, once footprints, and once the bone of a deer recently
thrown away by him who had eaten the meat from it. The country
seemed to be as wild as that of Kentucky. Small settlements, so
they had heard, were scattered at great distances through the
forest, but they saw none. There was no cabin smoke, no trail of
the plow, just the woods and the hills and the clear streams.
Buffalo had never reached this region, but deer were abundant,
and they risked a shot to replenish their supplies.

They camped the second night of their march on a little peninsula
at the confluence of two creeks, with the deep woods everywhere.
Henry judged that they were well within the western range of the
Six Nations, and they cooked their deer meat over a smothered
fire, nothing more than a few coals among the leaves. When
supper was over they arranged soft places for themselves and
their blankets, all except Long Jim, whose turn it was to scout
among the woods for a possible foe.

"Don't be gone long, Jim," said Henry as he composed himself in a
comfortable position. "A circle of a half mile about us will
do."

"I'll not be gone more'n an hour," said Long Jim, picking up his
rifle confidently, and flitting away among the woods.

" Not likely he'll see anything," said Shif'less Sol, but I'd
shorely like to know what White Lightning is about. He must be
terrible stirred up by them beatin's he got down on the Ohio, an'
they say that Mohawk, Thayendanegea is a whoppin' big chief, too.
They'll shorely make a heap of trouble."

"But both of them are far from here just now," said Henry, "and
we won't bother about either."

He was lying on some leaves at the foot of a tree with his arm
under his head and his blanket over his body. He had a
remarkable capacity for dismissing trouble or apprehension, and
just then he was enjoying great physical and mental peace. He
looked through half closed eyes at his comrades, who also were
enjoying repose, and his fancy could reproduce Long Jim in the
forest, slipping from tree to tree and bush to bush, and finding
no menace.

"Feels good, doesn't it, Henry?" said the shiftless one. " I like
a clean, bold country like this. No more plowin' around in
swamps for me."

Yes," said Henry sleepily, " it's a good country."

The hour slipped smoothly by, and Paul said:

" Time for Long Jim to be back."

"Jim don't do things by halves," said the shiftless one. "Guess
he's beatin' up every squar' inch o' the bushes. He'll be here
soon."

A quarter of an hour passed, and Long Jim did not return; a half
hour, and no sign of him. Henry cast off the blanket and stood
up. The night was not very dark and he could see some distance,
but he did not see their comrade.

"I wonder why he's so slow," he said with a faint trace of
anxiety.

"He'll be 'long directly," said Tom Ross with confidence.

Another quarter of an hour, and no Long Jim. Henry sent forth
the low penetrating cry of the wolf that they used so often as a
signal.

"He cannot fail to hear that," he said, "and he'll answer."

No answer came. The four looked at one another in alarm. Long
Jim had been gone nearly two hours, and he was long overdue. His
failure to reply to the signal indicated either that something
ominous had happened or that- he had gone much farther than they
meant for him to go.

The others had risen to their feet, also, and they stood a little
while in silence.

"What do you think it means?" asked Paul.

"It must be all right," said Shif'less Sol. "Mebbe Jim has lost
the camp."

Henry shook his head.

"It isn't that," he said. "Jim is too good a woodsman for such a
mistake. I don't want to look on the black side, boys, but I
think something has happened to Jim."

"Suppose you an' me go an' look for him," said Shif'less Sol,
"while Paul and Tom stay here an' keep house."

"We'd better do it," said Henry. "Come, Sol."

The two, rifles in the hollows of their arms, disappeared in the
darkness, while Tom and Paul withdrew into the deepest shadow of
the trees and waited.

Henry and the shiftless one pursued an anxious quest, going about
the camp in a great circle and then in another yet greater. They
did not find Jim, and the dusk was so great that they saw no
evidences of his trail. Long Jim had disappeared as completely
as if he had left the earth for another planet. When they felt
that they must abandon the search for the time, Henry and
Shif'less Sol looked at each other in a dismay that the dusk
could not hide.

"Mebbe be saw some kind uv a sign, an' has followed it," said the
shiftless one hopefully. "If anything looked mysterious an'
troublesome, Jim would want to hunt it down."

"I hope so," said Henry, "but we've got to go back to the camp
now and report failure. Perhaps he'll show up to-morrow, but I
don't like it, Sol, I don't like it!"

"No more do I," said Shif'less Sol. "'Tain't like Jim not to
come back, ef he could. Mebbe he'll drop in afore day, anyhow."

They returned to the camp, and two inquiring figures rose up out
of the darkness.

"You ain't seen him?" said Tom, noting that but two figures had
returned.

"Not a trace," replied Henry. "It's a singular thing."

The four talked together a little while, and they were far from
cheerful. Then three sought sleep, while Henry stayed on watch,
sitting with his back against a tree and his rifle on his knees.
All the peace and content that be had felt earlier in the evening
were gone. He was oppressed by a sense of danger, mysterious and
powerful. It did not seem possible that Long Jim could have gone
away in such a noiseless manner, leaving no trace behind. But it
was true.

He watched with both ear and eye as much for Long Jim as for an
enemy. He was still hopeful that he would see the long, thin
figure coming among the bushes, and then hear the old pleasant
drawl. But he did not see the figure, nor did he hear the drawl.

Time passed with the usual slow step when one watches. Paul,
Sol, and Tom were asleep, but Henry was never wider awake in his
life. He tried to put away the feeling of mystery and danger.
He assured himself that Long Jim would soon come, delayed by some
trail that he had sought to solve. Nothing could have happened
to a man so brave and skillful. His nerves must be growing weak
when he allowed himself to be troubled so much by a delayed
return.

But the new hours came, one by one, and Long Jim came with none
of them. The night remained fairly light, with a good moon, but
the light that it threw over the forest was gray and uncanny.
Henry's feeling of mystery and danger deepened. Once he thought
he heard a rustling in the thicket and, finger on the trigger of
his rifle, he stole among the bushes to discover what caused it.
He found nothing and, returning to his lonely watch, saw that
Paul, Sol, and Tom were still sleeping soundly. But Henry was
annoyed greatly by the noise, and yet more by his failure to
trace its origin. After an hour's watching he looked a second
time. The result was once more in vain, and he resumed his seat
upon the leaves, with his back reclining against an oak. Here,
despite the fact that the night was growing darker, nothing
within range of a rifle shot could escape his eyes.

Nothing stirred. The noise did not come a second time from the
thicket. The very silence was oppressive. There was no wind,
not even a stray puff, and the bushes never rustled. Henry
longed for a noise of some kind to break that terrible,
oppressive silence. What he really wished to hear was the soft
crunch of Long Jim's moccasins on the grass and leaves.

The night passed, the day came, and Henry awakened his comrades.
Long Jim was still missing and their alarm was justified.
Whatever trail lie might have struck, he would have returned in
the night unless something had happened to him. Henry had vague
theories, but nothing definite, and he kept them to himself. Yet
they must make a change in their plans. To go on and leave Long
Jim to whatever fate might be his was unthinkable. No task could
interfere with the duty of the five to one another.

"We are in one of the most dangerous of all the Indian
countries," said Henry. "We are on the fringe of the region over
which the Six Nations roam, and we know that Timmendiquas and a
band of the Wyandots are here also. Perhaps Miamis and Shawnees
have come, too."

"We've got to find Long Jim," said Silent Tom briefly.

They went about their task in five minutes. Breakfast consisted
of cold venison and a drink from a brook. Then they began to
search the forest. They felt sure that such woodsmen as they,
with the daylight to help them, would find some trace of Long
Jim, but they saw none at all, although they constantly widened
their circle, and again tried all their signals. Half the
forenoon passed in the vain search, and then they held a council.

I think we'd better scatter," said Shif'less Sol, "an' meet here
again when the sun marks noon."

It was agreed, and they took careful note of the place, a little
hill crowned with a thick cluster of black oaks, a landmark easy
to remember. Henry turned toward the south, and the forest was
so dense that in two minutes all his comrades were lost to sight.
He went several miles, and his search was most rigid. He was
amazed to find that the sense of mystery and danger that he
attributed to the darkness of the night did not disappear wholly
in the bright daylight. His spirit, usually so optimistic, was
oppressed by it, and he had no belief that they would find Long
Jim.

At the set time he returned to the little hill crowned with the
black oaks, and as he approached it from one side he saw
Shif'less Sol coming from another. The shiftless one walked
despondently. His gait was loose and shambling-a rare thing with
him, and Henry knew that he, too, had failed. He realized now
that he had not expected anything else.   Shif'less Sol shook
his head, sat down on a root and said nothing. Henry sat down,
also, and tile two exchanged a look of discouragement.

"The others will be here directly," said Henry, "and perhaps Long
Jim will be with one of them."

But in his heart he knew that it would not be so, and the
shiftless one knew that he had no confidence in his own words.

" If not," said Henry, resolved to see the better side, we'll
stay anyhow until we find him. We can't spare good old Long
Jim."

Shif'less Sol did not reply, nor did Henry speak again, until lie
saw the bushes moving slightly three or four hundred yards away.

"There comes Tom," he said, after a single comprehensive glance,
"and he's alone."

Tom Ross was also a dejected figure. He looked at the two on the
hill, and, seeing that the man for whom they were searching was
not with them, became more dejected than before.

"Paul's our last chance," he said, as he joined them. He's
gen'rally a lucky boy, an' mebbe it will be so with him to-day."

I hope so," said Henry fervently. " He ought to be along in a
few minutes."

They waited patiently, although they really had no belief that
Paul would bring in the missing man, but Paul was late. The noon
hour was well past. Henry took a glance at the sun. Noon was
gone at least a half hour, and he stirred uneasily.

"Paul couldn't get lost in broad daylight," he said.

"No," said Shif'less Sol, "he couldn't get lost!"

Henry noticed his emphasis on the word "lost," and a sudden fear
sprang up in his heart. Some power had taken away Long Jim;
could the same power have seized Paul? It was a premonition, and
he paled under his brown, turning away lest the others see his
face. All three now examined the whole circle of the horizon for
a sight of moving bushes that would tell of the boy's coming.

The forest told nothing. The sun blazed brightly over
everything, and Paul, like Long Jim, did not come. He was an
hour past due, and the three, oppressed already by Long jim's
disappearance, were convinced that he would not return. But they
gave him a half hour longer. Then Henry said:

"We must hunt for him, but we must not separate. Whatever
happens we three must stay together."

I'm not hankerin' to roam 'roun jest now all by myself," said the
shiftless one, with an uneasy laugh.

The three hunted all that afternoon for Paul. Once they saw
trace of footsteps, apparently his, in some soft earth, but they
were quickly, lost on hard ground, and after that there was
nothing. They stopped shortly before sunset at the edge of a
narrow but deep creek.

"What do you think of it, Henry?" asked Shif'less  Sol.

"I don't know what to think," replied the youth, "but it seems to
me that whatever took away Jim has taken away Paul, also."

"Looks like it," said Sol, "an' I guess it follers that we're in
the same kind o' danger."

"We three of us could put up a good fight," said Henry, " and I
propose that we don't go back to that camp, but spend the night
here."

"Yes, an' watch good," said Tom Ross.

Their new camp was made quickly in silence, merely the grass
under the low boughs of a tree. Their supper was a little
venison, and then they watched the coming of the. darkness.  It
was a heavy hour for the three. Long Jim was gone, and then
Paul-Paul, the youngest, and, in a way, the pet of the little
band.

"Ef we could only know how it happened," whispered Shif'less Sol,
"then we might rise up an' fight the danger an' git Paul an' Jim
back. But you can't shoot at somethin' you don't see or hear.
In all them fights o' ours, on the Ohio an' Mississippi we knowed
what wuz ag'inst us, but here we don't know nothin'."

" It is true, Sol," sighed Henry. "We were making such big
plans, too, and before we can even start our force is cut nearly
in half. To-morrow we'll begin the hunt again. We'll never
desert Paul and Jim, so long as we don't know they're dead."

"It's my watch," said Tom. "You two sleep. We've got to keep
our strength."

Henry and the shiftless one acquiesced, and seeking the softest
spots under the tree sat down. Tom Ross took his place about ten
feet in front of them, sitting on the ground, with his hands
clasped around his knees, and his rifle resting on his arm.
Henry watched him idly for a little while, thinking all the time
of his lost comrades.   The night promised to be dark, a good
thing for them, as the need of hiding was too evident.

Shif'less Sol soon fell asleep, as Henry, only three feet away,
knew by his soft and regular breathing, but the boy himself was
still wide-eyed.

The darkness seemed to sink down like a great blanket dropping
slowly, and the area of Henry's vision narrowed to a small
circle. Within this area the distinctive object was the figure
of Tom Ross, sitting with his rifle across his knees. Tom had an
infinite capacity for immobility. Henry had never seen another
man, not even an Indian, who could remain so long in one position
contented and happy. He believed that the silent one could sit
as he was all night.

His surmise about Tom began to have a kind of fascination for
him. Would he remain absolutely still? He would certainly shift
an arm or a leg. Henry's interest in the question kept him
awake. He turned silently on the other side, but, no matter how
intently he studied the sitting figure of his comrade, he could
not see it stir. He did not know how long he had been awake,
trying thus to decide a question that should be of no importance
at such a time. Although unable to sleep, be fell into a dreamy
condition, and continued vaguely to watch the rigid and silent
sentinel.

He suddenly saw Tom stir, and he came from his state of languor.
The exciting question was solved at last. The man would not sit
all night absolutely immovable. There could be no doubt of the
fact that he had raised an arm, and that his figure had
straightened. Then he stood up, full height, remained motionless
for perhaps ten seconds, and then suddenly glided away among the
bushes.

Henry knew what this meant. Tom had heard something moving in
the thickets, and, like a good sentinel, be had gone to
investigate. A rabbit, doubtless, or perhaps a sneaking raccoon.
Henry rose to a sitting position, and drew his own rifle across
his knees. He would watch while Tom was gone, and then lie would
sink quietly back, not letting his comrade know that lie had
taken his place.

The faintest of winds began to stir among the thickets. Light
clouds drifted before the moon. Henry, sitting with his rifle
across his knees, and Shif'less Sol, asleep in the shadows, were
invisible, but Henry saw beyond the circle of darkness that
enveloped them into the grayish light that fell over the bushes.
He marked the particular point at which he expected Tom Ross to
appear, a slight opening that held out invitation for the passage
of a man.

He waited a long time, ten minutes, twenty, a half hour, and the
sentinel did not return.  Henry came abruptly out of his dreamy
state. He felt with all the terrible thrill of certainty that
what happened to Long Jim and Paul had happened also to Silent
Tom Ross. He stood erect, a tense, tall figure, alarmed, but not
afraid. His eyes searched the thickets, but saw nothing. The
slight movement of the bushes was made by the wind, and no other
sound reached his ears.

But he might be mistaken after all! The most convincing
premonitions were sometimes wrong! He would give Tom ten minutes
more, and he sank down in a crouching position, where he would
offer the least target for the eye.

The appointed time passed, and neither sight nor sound revealed
any sign of Tom Ross. Then Henry awakened Shif'less Sol, and
whispered to him all that he had seen.

"Whatever took Jim and Paul has took him," whispered the
shiftless one at once.

Henry nodded.

"An' we're bound to look for him right now," continued Shif'less
Sol.

" Yes," said Henry, " but we must stay together. If we follow
the others, Sol, we must follow 'em together."

It would be safer," said Sol. " I've an idee that we won't find
Tom, an' I want to tell you, Henry, this thing is gittin' on my
nerves."

It was certainly on Henry's, also, but without reply he led the
way into the bushes, and they sought long and well for Silent
Tom, keeping at the same time a thorough watch for any danger
that might molest themselves. But no danger showed, nor did they
find Tom or his trail. He, too, had vanished into nothingness,
and Henry and Sol, despite their mental strength, felt cold
shivers. They came back at last, far toward morning, to the bank
of the creek. It was here as elsewhere a narrow but deep stream
flowing between banks so densely wooded that they were almost
like walls.

"It will be daylight soon," said Shif'less Sol, "an' I think we'd
better lay low in thicket an' watch. It looks ez ef we couldn't
find anything, so we'd better wait an' see what will find us."

"It looks like the best plan to me," said Henry, " but I think we
might first hunt a while on the other side of the creek. We
haven't looked any over there."

"That's so," replied Shif'less Sol, "but the water is at least
seven feet deep here, an' we don't want to make any splash
swimmin'. Suppose you go up stream, an' I go down, an' the one
that finds a ford first kin give a signal. One uv us ought to
strike shallow water in three or four hundred yards."

Henry followed the current toward the south, while Sol moved up
the stream. The boy went cautiously through the dense foliage,
and the creek soon grew wider and shallower. At a distance of
about three hundred yards lie came to a point where it could be
waded easily. Then he uttered the low cry that was their signal,
and went back to meet Shif'less Sol. He reached the exact point
at which they had parted, and waited. The shiftless one did not
come. The last of his comrades was gone, and he was alone in the
forest.

CHAPTER III

THE HUT ON THE ISLET

Henry Ware waited at least a quarter of an hour by the creek on
the exact spot at which he and Solomon Hyde, called the shiftless
one, had parted, but he knew all the while that his last comrade
was not coming. The same powerful and mysterious hand that swept
the others away had taken him, the wary and cunning Shif'less
Sol, master of forest lore and with all the five senses developed
to the highest pitch. Yet his powers had availed him nothing,
and the boy again felt that cold chill running down his spine.

Henry expected the omnipotent force to come against him, also,
but his instinctive caution made him turn and creep into the
thickest of the forest, continuing until he found a place in the
bushes so thoroughly hidden that no one could see him ten feet
away. There he lay down and rapidly ran over in his mind the
events connected with the four disappearances. They were few,
and he had little on which to go, but his duty to seek his four
comrades, since he alone must do it, was all the greater. Such a
thought as deserting them and fleeing for his own life never
entered his mind. He would not only seek them, but he would
penetrate the mystery of the power that had taken them.

It was like him now to go about his work with calmness and
method. To approach an arduous task right one must possess
freshness and vigor, and one could have neither without sleep.
His present place of hiding seemed to be as secure as any that
could be found. So composing himself he took all chances and
sought slumber. Yet it needed a great effort of the will to calm
his nerves, and it was a half hour before he began to feel any of
the soothing effect that precedes sleep. But fall asleep he did
at last, and, despite everything, he slept soundly until the
morning.

Henry did not awake to a bright day. The sun had risen, but it
was obscured by gray clouds, and the whole heavens were somber.
A cold wind began to blow, and with it came drops of rain. He
shivered despite the enfolding blanket. The coming of the
morning had invariably brought cheerfulness and increase of
spirits, but now he felt depression. He foresaw heavy rain
again, and it would destroy any but the deepest trail. Moreover,
his supplies of food were exhausted and he must replenish them in
some manner before proceeding further.

A spirit even as bold and strong as Henry's might well have
despaired. He had found his comrades, only to lose them again,
and the danger that had threatened them, and the elements as
well, now threatened him, too. An acute judge of sky and air, he
knew that the rain, cold, insistent, penetrating, would fall all
day, and that he must seek shelter if he would keep his strength.
The Indians themselves always took to cover at such times.

He wrapped the blanket around himself, covering his body well
from neck to ankle, putting his rifle just inside the fold, but
with his hand upon it, ready for instant use if it should be
needed. Then he started, walking straight ahead until he came to
the crown of a little hill. The clouds meanwhile thickened, and
the rain, of the kind that he had foreseen and as cold as ice,
was blown against him. The grass and bushes were reeking, and
his moccasins became sodden. Despite the vigorous walking, lie
felt the wet cold entering his system. There come times when the
hardiest must yield, and be saw the increasing need of refuge.

He surveyed the country attentively from the low hill. All
around was a dull gray horizon from which the icy rain dripped
everywhere. There was no open country. All was forest, and the
heavy rolling masses of foliage dripped with icy water, too.

Toward the south the land seemed to dip down, and Henry surmised
that in a valley he would be more likely to find the shelter that
he craved. He needed it badly. As he stood there he shivered
again and again from head to foot, despite the folds of the
blanket. So he started at once, walking fast, and feeling little
fear of a foe. It was not likely that any would be seeking him
at such a time. The rain struck him squarely in the face now.
Water came from his moccasins every time his foot was pressed
against the earth, and, no matter how closely he drew the folds
of the blanket, little streams of it, like ice to the touch,
flowed down his neck and made their way under his clothing. He
could not remember a time when he had felt more miserable.

He came in about an hour to the dip which, as he had surmised,
was the edge of a considerable valley. He ran down the slope,
and looked all about for some place of shelter, a thick windbreak
in the lee of a hill, or an outcropping of stone, but he saw
neither, and, as he continued the search, he came to marshy
ground. He saw ahead among the weeds and bushes the gleam of
standing pools, and he was about to turn back, when he noticed
three or four stones, in a row and about a yard from one another,
projecting slightly above the black muck. It struck him that the
stones would not naturally be in the soft mud, and, his curiosity
aroused, he stepped lightly from one stone to another. When he
came to the last stone that he had seen from the hard ground he
beheld several more that had been hidden from him by the bushes.
Sure now that he had happened upon something not created by
nature alone, he followed these stones, leading like steps into
the very depths of the swamp, which was now deep and dark with
ooze all about him. He no longer doubted that the stones, the
artificial presence of which might have escaped the keenest eye
and most logical mind, were placed there for a purpose, and he
was resolved to know its nature.

The stepping stones led him about sixty yards into the swamp, and
the last thirty yards were at an angle from the first thirty.
Then he came to a bit of hard ground, a tiny islet in the mire,
upon which he could stand without sinking at all. He looked back
from there, and he could not see his point of departure. Bushes,
weeds, and saplings grew out of the swamp to a height of a dozen
or fifteen feet, and he was inclosed completely. All the
vegetation dripped with cold water, and the place was one of the
most dismal that he had ever seen. But he had no thought of
turning back.

Henry made a shrewd guess as to whither the path led, but he
inferred from the appearance of the stepping stones-chiefly from
the fact that an odd one here and there had sunk completely out
of sight-that they had not been used in a long time, perhaps for
years. He found on the other side of the islet a second line of
stones, and they led across a marsh, that was almost like a black
liquid, to another and larger island.

Here the ground was quite firm, supporting a thick growth of
large trees.  It seemed to Henry that this island might be
seventy or eighty yards across, and he began at once to explore
it. In the center, surrounded so closely by swamp oaks that they
almost formed a living wall, he found what he had hoped to find,
and his relief was so great that, despite his natural and trained
stoicism, he gave a little cry of pleasure when he saw it.

A small lodge, made chiefly of poles and bark after the Iroquois
fashion, stood within the circle of the trees, occupying almost
the whole of the space. It was apparently abandoned long ago,
and time and weather had done it much damage. But the bark
walls, although they leaned in places at dangerous angles, still
stood. The bark roof was pierced by holes on one side, but on
the other it was still solid, and shed all the rain from its
slope.

The door was open, but a shutter made of heavy pieces of bark
cunningly joined together leaned against the wall, and Henry saw
that he could make use of it. He  stepped inside. The hut had a
bark floor which was dry on one side, where the roof was solid,
but dripping on the other. Several old articles of Indian use
lay about. In one corner was a basket woven of split willow and
still fit for service. There were pieces of thread made of
Indian hemp and the inner bark of the elm. There were also a
piece of pottery and a large, beautifully carved wooden spoon
such as every Iroquois carried. In the corner farthest from the
door was a rude fireplace made of large flat stones, although
there was no opening for the smoke.

Henry surveyed it all thoughtfully, and he came to the conclusion
that it was a hut for hunting, built by some warrior of an
inquiring mind who had found this secret place, and who had
recognized its possibilities. Here after an expedition for game
he could lie hidden from enemies and take his comfort without
fear. Doubtless he had sat in this hut on rainy days like the
present one and smoked his pipe in the long, patient calm of
which the Indian is capable.

Yes, there was the pipe, unnoticed before, trumpet shaped and
carved beautifully, lying on a small bark shelf. Henry picked it
tip and examined the bowl. It was as dry as a bone, and not a
particle of tobacco was left there. He believed that it had not
been used for at least a year. Doubtless the Indian who had
built this hunting lodge had fallen in some foray, and the secret
of it had been lost until Henry Ware, seeking through the cold
and rain, had stumbled upon it.

It was nothing but a dilapidated little lodge of poles and bark,
all a-leak, but the materials of a house were there, and Henry
was strong and skillful. He covered the holes in tile roof with
fallen pieces of bark, laying heavy pieces of wood across them to
hold them in place. Then he lifted the bark shutter into
position and closed the door. Some drops of rain still came in
through the roof, but they were not many, and he would not mind
them for the present. Then he opened the door and began his
hardest task.

He intended to build a fire on the flat stones, and, securing
fallen wood, he stripped off the bark and cut splinters from the
inside. It was slow work and he was very cold, his wet feet
sending chills through him, but be persevered, and the little
heap of dry splinters grew to a respectable size. Then he cut
larger pieces, laying them on one side while he worked with his
flint and steel on the splinters.

Flint and steel are not easily handled even by the most skillful,
and Henry saw the spark leap up and die out many times before it
finally took hold of the end of the tiniest splinter and grew.
He watched it as it ran along the little piece of wood and
ignited another and then another, the beautiful little red and
yellow flames leaping up half a foot in height. Already he felt
the grateful warmth and glow, but he would not let himself
indulge in premature joy.  He fed it with larger and larger
pieces until the flames, a deeper and more beautiful red and
yellow, rose at least two feet, and big coals began to form. He
left the door open a while in order that the smoke might go out,
but when the fire had become mostly coals he closed it again, all
except a crack of about six inches, which would serve at once to
let any stray smoke out, and to let plenty of fresh air in.

Now Henry, all his preparations made, no detail neglected,
proceeded to luxuriate. He spread the soaked blanket out on the
bark floor, took off the sodden moccasins and placed them at one
angle of the fire, while he sat with his bare feet in front.
What a glorious warmth it was! It seemed to enter at his toes
and proceed upward through his body, seeking out every little
nook and cranny, to dry and warm it, and fill it full of new glow
and life.

He sat there a long  time, his being radiating with physical
comfort. The moccasins dried on one side, and he turned the
other. Finally they dried all over and all through, and he put
them on again. Then he hung the blanket on the bark wall near
the fire, and it, too, would be dry in another hour or so. He
foresaw a warm and dry place for the night, and sleep. Now if
one only had food! But he must do without that for the present.

He rose and tested all his bones and muscles. No stiffness or
soreness had come from the rain and cold, and he was satisfied.
He was fit for any physical emergency. He looked out through the
crevice. Night was coming, and on the little island in the swamp
it looked inexpressibly black and gloomy. His stomach
complained, but he shrugged his shoulders, acknowledging
primitive necessity, and resumed his seat by the fire. There he
sat until the blanket had dried, and deep night had fully come.

In the last hour or two Henry did not move. He remained before
the fire, crouched slightly forward, while the generous heat fed
the flame of life in him. A glowing bar, penetrating the crevice
at the door, fell on the earth outside, but it did not pass
beyond the close group of circling trees. The rain still fell
with uncommon steadiness and persistence, but at times hail was
mingled with it. Henry could not remember in his experience a
more desolate night. It seemed that the whole world dwelt in
perpetual darkness, and that he was the only living being on it.
Yet within the four or five feet square of the hut it was warm
and bright, and he was not unhappy.

He would forget the pangs of hunger, and, wrapping himself in the
dry blanket, he lay down before the bed of coals, having first
raked ashes over them, and he slept one of the soundest sleeps of
his life. All night long, the dull cold rain fell, and with it,
at intervals, came gusts of hail that rattled like bird shot on
the bark walls of the hut. Some of the white pellets blew in at
the door, and lay for a moment or two on the floor, then melted
in the glow of the fire, and were gone.

But neither wind, rain nor hail awoke Henry. He was as safe, for
the time, in the hut on the islet, as if he were in the fort at
Pittsburgh or behind the palisades at Wareville. Dawn came, the
sky still heavy and dark with clouds, and the rain still falling.

Henry, after his first sense of refreshment and pleasure, became
conscious of a fierce hunger that no amount of the will could now
keep quiet. His was a powerful system, needing much nourishment,
and he must eat. That hunger became so great that it was acute
physical pain. He was assailed by it at all points, and it could
be repelled by only one thing, food. He must go forth, taking
all risks, and seek it.

He put on fresh wood, covering it with ashes in order that it
might not blaze too high, and left the islet. The stepping
stones were slippery with water, and his moccasins soon became
soaked again, but he forgot the cold and wet in that ferocious
hunger, the attacks of which became more violent every minute.
He was hopeful that he might see a deer, or even a squirrel, but
the animals themselves were likely to keep under cover in such a
rain. He expected a hard hunt, and it would be attended also by
much danger - these woods must be full of Indians - but be
thought little of the risk. His hunger was taking complete
possession of his mind. He was realizing now that one might want
a thing so much that it would drive away all other thoughts.

Rifle in hand, ready for any quick shot, he searched hour after
hour through the woods and thickets. He was wet, bedraggled, and
as fierce as a famishing panther, but neither skill nor instinct
guided him to anything. The rabbit hid in his burrow, the
squirrel remained in his hollow tree, and the deer did not leave
his covert.

Henry could not well calculate the passage of time, it seemed so
fearfully long, and there was no one to tell him, but he judged
that it must be about noon, and his temper was becoming that of
the famished panther to which he likened himself. He paused and
looked around the circle of the dripping woods. He had retained
his idea of direction and he knew that he could go straight back
to the hut in the swamp. But he had no idea of returning now. A
power that neither he nor anyone else could resist was pushing
him on his search.

Searching the gloomy horizon again, he saw against the dark sky a
thin and darker line that he knew to be smoke. He inferred,
also, with certainty, that it came from an Indian camp, and,
without hesitation, turned his course toward it. Indian camp
though it might be, and containing the deadliest of foes, he was
glad to know something lived beside himself in this wilderness.

He approached with great caution, and found his surmise to be
correct. Lying full length in a wet thicket he saw a party of
about twenty warriors-Mohawks he took them to be-in an oak
opening. They had erected bark shelters, they had good fires,
and they were cooking. He saw them roasting the strips over the
coals-bear meat, venison, squirrel, rabbit, bird-and the odor, so
pleasant at other times, assailed his nostrils. But it was now
only a taunt and a torment. It aroused every possible pang of
hunger, and every one of them stabbed like a knife.

The warriors, so secure in their forest isolation, kept no
sentinels, and they were enjoying themselves like men who had
everything they wanted. Henry could hear them laughing and
talking, and he watched them as they ate strip after strip of the
delicate, tender meat with the wonderful appetite that the Indian
has after long fasting. A fierce, unreasoning anger and jealousy
laid hold of him. He was starving, and they rejoiced in plenty
only fifty yards away. He began to form plans for a piratical
incursion upon them. Half the body of a deer lay near the edge
of the opening, he would rush upon it, seize it, and dart away.
It might be possible to escape with such spoil.

Then he recalled his prudence. Such a thing was impossible. The
whole band of warriors would be upon him in an instant. The best
thing that he could do was to shut out the sight of so much
luxury in which he could not share, and he crept away among the
bushes wondering what he could do to drive away those terrible
pains. His vigorous system was crying louder than ever for the
food that would sustain it. His eyes were burning a little too
brightly, and his face was touched with fever.

Henry stopped once to catch a last glimpse of the fires and the
feasting Indians under the bark shelters. He saw a warrior raise
a bone, grasping it in both hands, and bite deep into the tender
flesh that clothed it. The sight inflamed him into an anger
almost uncontrollable. He clenched his fist and shook it at the
warrior, who little suspected the proximity of a hatred so
intense. Then he bent his head down and rushed away among the
wet bushes which in rebuke at his lack of caution raked him
across the face.

Henry walked despondently back toward the islet in the swamp.
The aspect of air and sky had not changed. The heavens still
dripped icy water, and there was no ray of cheerfulness anywhere.
The game remained well hidden.

It was a long journey back, and as he felt that he was growing
weak he made no haste. He came to dense clumps of bushes, and
plowing his way through them, he saw a dark opening under some
trees thrown down by an old hurricane. Having some vague idea
that it might be the lair of a wild animal, he thrust the muzzle
of his rifle into the darkness. It touched a soft substance.
There was a growl, and a black form shot out almost into his
face. Henry sprang aside, and in an instant all his powers and
faculties returned. He had stirred up a black bear, and before
the animal, frightened as much as he was enraged, could run far
the boy, careless how many Indians might hear, threw up his rifle
and fired.

His aim was good. The bear, shot through the head, fell, and was
dead. Henry, transformed, ran up to him. Bear life had been
given up to sustain man's. Here was food for many days, and he
rejoiced with a great joy. He did not now envy those warriors
back there.

The bear, although small, was very fat. Evidently he had fed
well on acorns and wild honey, and he would yield up steaks
which, to one with Henry's appetite, would be beyond compare. He
calculated that it was more than a mile to the swamp, and, after
a few preliminaries, he flung the body of the bear over his
shoulder. Through some power of the mind over the body his full
strength had returned to him miraculously, and when he reached
the stepping stones he crossed from one to another lightly and
firmly, despite the weight that he carried.

He came to the little bark hut which he now considered his own.
The night had fallen again, but some coals still glowed under the
ashes, and there was plenty of dry wood. He did everything
decently and in order. He took the pelt from the bear, carved
the body properly, and then, just as the Indians had done, he
broiled strips over the coals. He ate them one after another,
slowly, and tasting all the savor, and, intense as was the mere
physical pleasure, it was mingled with a deep thankfulness. Not
only was the life nourished anew in him, but he would now regain
the strength to seek his comrades.

When he had eaten enough he fastened the body of the bear, now in
several portions, on hooks high upon the walls, hooks which
evidently had been placed there by the former owner of the hut
for this very purpose. Then, sure that the savor of the food
would draw other wild animals, he brought one of the stepping
stones and placed it on the inside of the door. The door could
not be pushed aside without arousing him, and, secure in the
knowledge, he went to sleep before the coals.

CHAPTER IV

THE RED CHIEFS

Henry awoke only once, and that was about half way between
midnight and morning, when his senses, never still entirely, even
in sleep, warned him that something was at the door. He rose
cautiously upon his arm, saw a dark muzzle at the crevice, and
behind it a pair of yellow, gleaming eyes. He knew at once that
it was a panther, probably living in the swamp and drawn by the
food. It must be very hungry to dare thus the smell of man.
Henry's hand moved slowly to the end of a stick, the other end of
which was a glowing coal. Then he seized it and hurled it
directly at the inquisitive head.

The hot end of the stick struck squarely between the yellow eyes.
There was a yelp of pain, and the boy heard the rapid pad of the
big cat's feet as it fled into the swamp. Then he turned over on
his side, and laughed in genuine pleasure at what was to him a
true forest joke. He knew the panther would not come, at least
not while he was in the hut, and he calmly closed his eyes once
more. The old Henry was himself again.

He awoke in the morning to find that the cold rain was still
falling. It seemed to him that it had prepared to rain forever,
but he was resolved, nevertheless, now that he had food and the
strength that food brings, to begin the search for his comrades.
The islet in the swamp would serve as his base-nothing could be
better-and he would never cease until he found them or discovered
what had become of them.

A little spring of cold water flowed from the edge of the islet
to lose itself quickly in the swamp. Henry drank there after his
breakfast, and then felt as strong and active as ever. As he
knew, the mind may triumph over the body, but the mind cannot
save the body without food. Then he made his precious bear meat
secure against the prowling panther or others of his kind, tying
it on hanging boughs too high for a jump and too slender to
support the weight of a large animal. This task finished
quickly, he left the swamp and returned toward the spot where lie
had seen the Mohawks.

The falling rain and the somber clouds helped Henry, in a way, as
the whole forest was enveloped in a sort of  gloom, and he was
less likely to be seen. But when he had gone about half the
distance he heard Indians signaling to one another, and, burying
himself as usual in the wet bushes, he saw two small groups of
warriors meet and talk. Presently they separated, one party
going toward the east and the other toward the west. Henry
thought they were out hunting, as the Indians usually took little
care of the morrow, eating all their food in a few days, no
matter how great the supply might be.

When he drew near the place he saw three more Indians, and these
were traveling directly south. He was quite sure now that his
theory was correct. They were sending out hunters in every
direction, in order that they might beat up the woods thoroughly
for game, and his own position anywhere except on the islet was
becoming exceedingly precarious. Nevertheless, using all his
wonderful skill, he continued the hunt. He had an abiding faith
that his four comrades were yet alive, and he meant to prove it.

In the afternoon the clouds moved away a little, and the rain
decreased, though it did not cease. The Indian signs multiplied,
and Henry felt sure that the forest within a radius of twenty
miles of his islet contained more than one camp. Some great
gathering must be in progress and the hunters were out to supply
it with food. Four times he heard the sound of shots, and thrice
more he saw warriors passing through the forest. Once a wounded
deer darted past him, and, lying down in the bushes, he saw the
Indians following the fleeing animal. As the day grew older the
trails multiplied. Certainly a formidable gathering of bands was
in progress, and, feeling that he might at any time be caught in
a net, he returned to the islet, which had now become a veritable
fort for him.

It was not quite dark when he arrived, and he found all as it had
been except the tracks of two panthers under the boughs to which
he had fastened the big pieces of bear meat. Henry felt a
malicious satisfaction at the disappointment of the panthers.

"Come again, and have the same bad luck," he murmured."

At dusk the rain ceased entirely, and he prepared for a journey
in the night. He examined his powder carefully to see that no
particle of it was wet, counted the bullets in his pouch, and
then examined the skies. There was a little moon, not too much,
enough to show him the way, but not enough to disclose him to an
enemy unless very near. Then he left the islet and went swiftly
through the forest, laying his course a third time toward the
Indian camp. He was sure now that all the hunters had returned,
and he did not expect the necessity of making any  stops for the
purpose of hiding. His hopes were justified, and as he drew near
the camp he became aware that its population had increased
greatly. It was proved by many signs. New trails converged upon
it, and some of them were very broad, indicating that many
warriors had passed. They had passed, too, in perfect
confidence, as there was no effort at concealment, and Henry
surmised that no white force of any size could be within many
days' march of this place. But the very security of the Indians
helped his own design. They would not dream that any one of the
hated race was daring to come almost within the light of their
fires.

Henry had but one fear just now, and that was dogs. If the
Indians had any of their mongrel curs with them, they would
quickly scent him out and give the alarm with their barking. But
he believed that the probabilities were against it. This, so he
thought then, was a war or hunting camp, and it was likely that
the Indians would leave the dogs at their permanent villages. At
any rate he would take the risk, and he drew slowly toward the
oak opening, where some Indians stood about. Beyond them, in
another dip of the valley, was a wider opening which he had not
seen on his first trip, and this contained not only bark
shelters, but buildings that indicated a permanent village. The
second and larger opening was filled with a great concourse of
warriors.

Fortunately the foliage around the opening was very dense, many
trees and thickets everywhere. Henry crept to the very rim,
where, lying in the blackest of the shadows, and well hidden
himself, he could yet see nearly everything in the camp. The men
were not eating now, although it was obvious that the hunters had
done well. The dressed bodies of deer and bear hung in the bark
shelters. Most of the Indians sat about the fires, and it seemed
to Henry that they had an air of expectancy. At least two
hundred were present, and all of them were in war paint, although
there were several styles of paint. There was a difference in
appearance, too, in the warriors, and Henry surmised that
representatives of all the tribes of the Iroquois were there,
coming to the extreme western boundary or fringe of their
country.

While Henry watched them a half dozen who seemed by their bearing
and manner to be chiefs drew together at a point not far from him
and talked together earnestly. Now and then they looked toward
the forest, and he was quite sure that they were expecting
somebody, a person of importance. He became deeply interested.
He was lying in a dense clump of hazel bushes, flat upon his
stomach, his face raised but little above the ground. He would
have been hidden from the keenest eye only ten feet away, but the
faces of the chiefs outlined against the blazing firelight were
so clearly visible to him that he could see every change of
expression. They were fine-looking men, all of middle age, tall,
lean, their noses hooked, features cut clean and strong, and
their heads shaved, all except the defiant scalp lock, into which
the feather of an eagle was twisted. Their bodies were draped in
fine red or blue blankets, and they wore leggins and moccasins of
beautifully tanned deerskin.

They ceased talking presently, and Henry heard a distant wailing
note from the west. Some one in the camp replied with a cry in
kind, and then a silence fell upon them all. The chiefs stood
erect, looking toward the west. Henry knew that he whom they
expected was at hand.

The cry was repeated, but much nearer, and a warrior leaped into
the opening, in the full blaze of the firelight. He was entirely
naked save for a breech cloth and moccasins, and he was a wild
and savage figure. He stood for a moment or two, then faced the
chiefs, and, bowing before them, spoke a few words in the Wyandot
tongue-Henry knew already by his paint that he was a Wyandot.

The chiefs inclined their heads gravely, and the herald, turning,
leaped back into the forest. In two or three minutes six men,
including the herald, emerged from the woods, and Henry moved a
little when he saw the first of the six, all of whom were
Wyandots. It was Timmendiquas, head chief of the Wyandots, and
Henry had never seen him more splendid in manner and bearing than
he was as he thus met the representatives of the famous Six
Nations. Small though the Wyandot tribe might be, mighty was its
valor and fame, and White Lightning met the great Iroquois only
as an equal, in his heart a superior.

It was an extraordinary thing, but Henry, at this very moment,
burrowing in the earth that be might not lose his life at the
hands of either, was an ardent partisan of Timmendiquas. It was
the young Wyandot chief whom he wished to be first, to make the
greatest impression, and he was pleased when he heard the low hum
of admiration go round the circle of two hundred savage warriors.
It was seldom, indeed, perhaps never, that the Iroquois had
looked upon such a man as Timmendiquas.

Timmendiquas and his companions advanced slowly toward the
chiefs, and the Wyandot overtopped all the Iroquois. Henry could
tell by the manner of the chiefs that the reputation of the
famous White Lightning had preceded him, and that they had
already found fact equal to report.

The chiefs, Timmendiquas among them, sat down on logs before the
fire, and all the warriors withdrew to a respectful distance,
where they stood and watched in silence. The oldest chief took
his long pipe, beautifully carved and shaped like a trumpet, and
filled it with tobacco which he lighted with a coal from the
fire. Then he took two or three whiffs and passed the pipe to
Timmendiquas, who did the same. Every chief smoked the pipe, and
then they sat still, waiting in silence.

Henry was so much absorbed in this scene, which was at once a
spectacle and a drama, that he almost forgot where he was, and
that he was an enemy. He wondered now at their silence. If this
was a council surely they would discuss whatever question had
brought them there! But he was soon enlightened. That low far
cry came again, but from the east. It was answered, as before,
from the camp, and in three or four minutes a warrior sprang from
the forest into the opening. Like the first, he was naked except
for the breech cloth and moccasins. The chiefs rose at his
coming, received his salute gravely, and returned it as gravely.
Then he returned to the forest, and all waited in the splendid
calm of the Indian.

Curiosity pricked Henry like a nettle. Who was coming now? It
must be some man of great importance, or they would not wait so
silently. There was the same air of expectancy that had preceded
the arrival of Timmendiquas. All the warriors looked toward the
eastern wall of the forest, and Henry looked the same way.
Presently the black foliage parted, and a man stepped forth,
followed at a little distance by seven or eight others. The
stranger, although tall, was not equal in height to Timmendiquas,
but he, too, had a lofty and splendid presence, and it was
evident to anyone versed at all in forest lore that here was a
great chief. He was lean but sinewy, and he moved with great
ease and grace. He reminded Henry of a powerful panther. He was
dressed, after the manner of famous chiefs, with the utmost care.
His short military coat of fine blue cloth bore a silver epaulet
on either shoulder. His head was not bare, disclosing the scalp
lock, like those of the other Indians; it was covered instead
with a small hat of felt, round and laced. Hanging carelessly
over one shoulder was a blanket of blue cloth with a red border.
At his side, from a belt of blue leather swung a silver-mounted
small sword. His leggins were of superfine blue cloth and his
moccasins of deerskin. Both were trimmed with small beads of
many colors.

The new chief advanced into the opening amid the dead silence
that still held all, and Timmendiquas stepped forward to meet
him. These two held the gaze of everyone, and what they and they
alone did had become of surpassing interest. Each was haughty,
fully aware of his own dignity and importance, but they met half
way, looked intently for a moment or two into the eyes of each
other, and then saluted gravely.

All at once Henry knew the stranger. He had never seen him
before, but his impressive reception, and the mixture of military
and savage attire revealed him. This could be none other than
the great Mohawk war chief, Thayendanegea, the Brant of the white
men, terrible name on the border. Henry gazed at him eagerly
from his covert, etching his features forever on his memory. His
face, lean and strong, was molded much like that of Timmendiquas,
and like the Wyandot he was young, under thirty.

Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea-it was truly he-returned to the
fire, and once again the trumpet-shaped pipe was smoked by all.
The two young chiefs received the seats of favor, and others sat
about them. But they were not the only great chiefs present,
though all yielded first place to them because of their character
and exploits.

Henry was not mistaken in his guess that this was an important
council, although its extent exceeded even his surmise.
Delegates and head chiefs of all the Six Nations were present to
confer with the warlike Wyandots of the west who had come so far
east to meet them. Thayendanegea was the great war chief of the
Mohawks, but not their titular chief. The latter was an older
man, Te-kie-ho-ke (Two Voices), who sat beside the younger. The
other chiefs were the Onondaga, Tahtoo-ta-hoo (The Entangled) ;
the Oneida, 0-tat-sheh-te (Bearing a Quiver) ; the Cayuga,
Te-ka-ha-hoonk (He Who Looks Both Ways) ; the Seneca,
Kan-ya-tai-jo (Beautiful Lake) ; and the Tuscarora,
Ta-ha-en-te-yahwak-hon (Encircling and Holding Up a Tree). The
names were hereditary, and because in a dim past they had formed
the great confederacy, the Onondagas were first in the council,
and were also the high priests and titular head of the Six
Nations. But the Mohawks were first on-the war path.

All the Six Nations were divided into clans, and every clan,
camping in its proper place, was represented at this meeting.

Henry had heard much at Pittsburgh of the Six Nations, their
wonderful league, and their wonderful history. He knew that
according to the legend the league had been formed by Hiawatha,
an Onondaga. He was opposed in this plan by Tododaho, then head
chief of the Onondagas, but he went to the Mohawks and gained the
support of their great chief, Dekanawidah. With his aid the
league was formed, and the solemn agreement, never broken, was
made at the Onondaga Lake. Now they were a perfect little state,
with fifty chiefs, or, including the head chiefs, fifty-six.

Some of these details Henry was to learn later. He was also to
learn many of the words that the chiefs said through a source of
which he little dreamed at the present. Yet he divined much of
it from the meeting of the fiery Wyandots with the highly
developed and warlike power of the Six Nations.

Thayendanegea was talking now, and Timmendiquas, silent and
grave, was listening. The Mohawk approached his subject
indirectly through the trope, allegory, and simile that the
Indian loved. He talked of the unseen deities that ruled the
life of the Iroquois through mystic dreams. He spoke of the
trees, the rocks, and the animals, all of which to the Iroquois
had souls. He called on the name of the Great Spirit, which was
Aieroski before it became Manitou, the Great Spirit who, in the
Iroquois belief, had only the size of a dwarf because his soul
was so mighty that he did not need body.

This land is ours, the land of your people and mine, oh, chief of
the brave Wyandots," he said to Timmendiquas. "Once there was no
land, only the waters, but Aieroski raised the land of Konspioni
above the foam. Then he sowed five handfuls of red seed in it,
and from those handfuls grew the Five Nations. Later grew up the
Tuscaroras, who have joined us and other tribes of our race, like
yours, great chief of the brave Wyandots."

Timmendiquas still said nothing. He did not allow an eyelid to
flicker at this assumption of superiority for the Six Nations
over all other tribes. A great warrior he was, a great
politician also, and he wished to unite the Iroquois in a firm
league with the tribes of the Ohio valley. The coals from the
great fire glowed and threw out an intense heat. Thayendanegea
unbuttoned his military coat and threw it back, revealing a bare
bronze chest, upon which was painted the device of the Mohawks, a
flint and steel. The chests of the Onondaga, Cayuga, and Seneca
head chiefs were also bared to the glow. The device on the chest
of the Onondaga was a cabin on top of a hill, the Caytiga's was a
great pipe, and the figure of a mountain adorned the Seneca
bronze.

"We have had the messages that you have sent to us,
Timmendiquas," said Thayendanegea, "and they are good in the eyes
of our people, the Rotinonsionni (the Mohawks). They please,
too, the ancient tribe, the Kannoseone (the Onondagas), the
valiant Hotinonsionni (the Senecas), and all our brethren of the
Six Nations. All the land from the salt water to the setting sun
was given to the red men by Aieroski, but if we do not defend it
we cannot keep it."

"It is so," said Timmendiquas, speaking for the first time. "We
have fought them on the Ohio and in Kaintuck-ee, where they come
with their rifles and axes. The whole might of the Wyandots, the
Shawnees, the Miamis, the Illinois, the Delawares, and the
Ottawas has gone forth against them. We have slain many of them,
but we have failed to drive them back. Now we have come to ask
the Six Nations to press down upon them in the east with all your
power, while we do the same in the west. Surely then your
Aieroski and our Manitou, who are the same, will not refuse us
success."

The eyes of Thayendanegea glistened.

"You speak well, Timmendiquas," he said. " All the red men must
unite to fight for the land of Konspioni which Aieroski raised
above the sea, and we be two, you and I, Timmendiquas, fit to
lead them to battle."

"It is so," said Timmendiquas gravely.

CHAPTER V

THE IROQUOIS TOWN

Henry lay fully an hour in the bushes. He had forgotten about
the dogs that he dreaded, but evidently he was right in his
surmise that the camp contained none. Nothing disturbed him
while he stared at what was passing by the firelight. There
could be no doubt that the meeting of Timmendiquas and
Thayendanegea portended great things, but he would not be stirred
from his task of rescuing his comrades or discovering their fate.

They two, great chiefs, sat long in close converse. Others-older
men, chiefs, also-came at times and talked with them. But these
two, proud, dominating, both singularly handsome men of the
Indian type, were always there. Henry was almost ready to steal
away when he saw a new figure approaching the two chiefs. The
walk and bearing of the stranger were familiar, and HENRY knew
him even before his face was lighted tip by the fire. It was
Braxton Wyatt, the renegade, who had escaped the great battles on
both the Ohio and the Mississippi, and who was here with the
Iroquois, ready to do to his own race all the evil that he could.
Henry felt a shudder of repulsion, deeper than any Indian could
inspire in him. They fought for their own land and their own
people, but Braxton Wyatt had violated everything that an honest
man should hold sacred.

Henry, on the whole, was not surprised to see him. Such a chance
was sure to draw Braxton Wyatt. Moreover, the war, so far as it
pertained to the border, seemed to be sweeping toward the
northeast, and it bore many stormy petrels upon its crest.

He watched Wyatt as he walked toward one of the fires. There the
renegade sat down and talked with the warriors, apparently on the
best of terms. He was presently joined by two more renegades,
whom Henry recognized as Blackstaffe and Quarles. Timmendiquas
and Thayendanegea rose after a while, and walked toward the
center of the camp, where several of the bark shelters had been
enclosed entirely. Henry judged that one had been set apart for
each, but they were lost from his view when they passed within
the circling ring of warriors.

Henry believed that the Iroquois and Wyandots would form a
fortified camp here, a place from which they would make sudden
and terrible forays upon the settlements. He based his opinion
upon the good location and the great number of saplings that had
been cut down already. They would build strong lodges and then a
palisade around them with the saplings. He was speedily
confirmed in this opinion when he saw warriors come to the forest
with hatchets and begin to cut down more saplings. He knew then
that it was time to go, as a wood chopper might blunder upon him
at any time.

He slipped from his covert and was quickly gone in the forest.
His limbs were somewhat stiff from lying so long in one position,
but that soon wore away, and he was comparatively fresh when he
came once more to the islet in the swamp. A good moon was now
shining, tipping the forest with a fine silvery gray, and Henry
purveyed with the greatest satisfaction the simple little shelter
that he had found so opportunely. It was a good house, too, good
to such a son of the deepest forest as was Henry. It was made of
nothing but bark and poles, but it had kept out all that long,
penetrating rain of the last three or four days, and when he
lifted the big stone aside and opened the door it seemed as snug
a place as he could have wished.

He left the door open a little, lighted a small fire on the flat
stones, having no fear that it would be seen through the dense
curtain that shut him in, and broiled big bear steaks on the
coals. When he had eaten and the fire had died he went out and
sat beside the hut. He was well satisfied with the day's work,
and he wished now to think with all the concentration that one
must put upon a great task if he expects to achieve it. He
intended to invade the Indian camp, and he knew full well that it
was the most perilous enterprise that he had ever attempted. Yet
scouts and hunters had done such things and had escaped with
their lives. He must not shrink from the path that others had
trodden.

He made up his mind firmly, and partly thought out his plan of
operations. Then he rested, and so sanguine was his temperament
that he began to regard the deed itself as almost achieved.
Decision is always soothing after doubt, and he fell into a
pleasant dreamy state. A gentle wind was blowing, the forest was
dry and the leaves rustled with the low note that is like the
softest chord of a violin. It became penetrating, thrillingly
sweet, and hark! it spoke to him in a voice that he knew. It was
the same voice that he had heard on the Ohio, mystic, but telling
him to be of heart and courage. He would triumph over hardships
and dangers, and he would see his friends again.

Henry started up from his vision. The song was gone, and he
heard only the wind softly moving the leaves. It had been vague
and shadowy as gossamer, light as the substance of a dream, but
it was real to him, nevertheless, and the deep glow of certain
triumph permeated his being, body and mind. It was not strange
that he had in his nature something of the Indian mysticism that
personified the winds and the trees and everything about him.
The Manitou of the red man and the ancient Aieroski of the
Iroquois were the same as his own God. He could not doubt that
he had a message. Down on the Ohio he had had the same message
more than once, and it had always come true.

He heard a slight rustling among the bushes, and, sitting
perfectly still, he saw a black bear emerge into the open. It
had gained the islet in some manner, probably floundering through
the black mire, and the thought occurred to him that it was the
mate of the one he had slain, drawn perhaps by instinct on the
trail of a lost comrade. He could have shot the bear as he
sat-and he would need fresh supplies of food soon-but he did not
have the heart to do it.

The bear sniffed a little at the wind, which was blowing the
human odor away from him, and sat back on his haunches. Henry
did not believe that the animal had seen him or was yet aware of
his presence, although he might suspect. There was something
humorous and also pathetic in the visitor, who cocked his head on
one side and looked about him. He made a distinct appeal to
Henry, who sat absolutely still, so still that the little bear
could not be sure at first that he was a human being. A minute
passed, and the red eye of the bear rested upon the boy. Henry
felt pleasant and sociable, but he knew that he could retain
friendly relations only by remaining quiet.

If I have eaten your comrade, my friend," he said to himself, "it
is only because of hard necessity." The bear, little, comic, and
yet with that touch of pathos about him, cocked his head a little
further over on one side, and as a silver shaft of moonlight fell
upon him Henry could see one red eye gleaming. It was a singular
fact, but the boy, alone in the wilderness, and the loser of his
comrades, felt for the moment a sense of comradeship with the
bear, which was also alone, and doubtless the loser of a comrade,
also. He uttered a soft growling sound like the satisfied purr
of a bear eating its food.

The comical bear rose a little higher on his hind paws, and
looked in astonishment at the motionless figure that uttered
sounds so familiar. Yet the figure was not familiar. He had
never seen a human being before, and the shape and outline were
very strange to him. It might be some new kind of animal, and he
was disposed to be inquiring, because there was nothing in these
forests which the black bear was afraid of until man came.

He advanced a step or two and growled gently. Then he reared up
again on his hind paws, and cocked his held to one side in his
amusing manner. Henry, still motionless, smiled at him. Here,
for an instant at least, was a cheery visitor and companionship.
He at least would not break the spell.

"You look almost as if you could talk, old fellow," he said to
himself, "and if I knew your language I'd ask you a lot of
questions."

The bear, too, was motionless now, torn by doubt and curiosity.
It certainly was a singular figure that sat there, fifteen or
twenty yards before him, and he had the most intense curiosity to
solve the mystery of this creature. But caution held him back.

There was a sudden flaw in the light breeze. It shifted about
and brought the dreadful man odor to the nostrils of the honest
black bear. It was something entirely new to him, but it
contained the quality of fear. That still strange figure was his
deadliest foe. Dropping down upon his four paws, he fled among
the trees, and then scrambled somehow through the swamp to the
mainland.

Henry sighed. Despite his own friendly feeling, the bear, warned
by instinct, was afraid of him, and, as he was bound to
acknowledge to himself, the bear's instinct was doubtless right.
He rose, went into the hut, and slept heavily through the night.
In the morning he left the islet once more to scout in the
direction of the Indian camp, but he found it a most dangerous
task. The woods were full of warriors hunting. As he had
judged, the game was abundant, and he heard rifles cracking in
several directions.  He loitered, therefore, in the thickest of
the thickets, willing to wait until night came for his
enterprise. It was advisable, moreover, to wait, because be did
not see yet just how he was going to succeed. He spent nearly
the whole day shifting here and there through the forest, but
late in the afternoon, as the Indians yet seemed so numerous in
the woods, he concluded to go back toward the islet.

He was about two miles from the swamp when he heard a cry, sharp
but distant. It was that of the savages, and Henry instinctively
divined the cause. A party of the warriors had come somehow upon
his trail, and they would surely follow it. It was a mischance
that he had not expected. He waited a minute or two, and then
heard the cry again, but nearer. He knew that it would come no
more, but it confirmed him in his first opinion.

Henry had little fear of being caught, as the islet was so
securely hidden, but he did not wish to take even a remote chance
of its discovery. Hence he ran to the eastward of it, intending
as the darkness came, hiding his trail, to double back and regain
the hut.

He proceeded at a long, easy gait, his mind not troubled by the
pursuit. It was to him merely an incident that should be ended
as soon as possible, annoying perhaps, but easily cured. So he
swung lightly along, stopping at intervals among the bushes to
see if any of the warriors had drawn near, but he detected
nothing. Now and then he looked up to the sky, willing that
night should end this matter quickly and peacefully.

His wish seemed near fulfillment. An uncommonly brilliant sun
was setting. The whole west was a sea of red and yellow fire,
but in the east the forest was already sinking into the dark. He
turned now, and went back toward the west on a line parallel with
the pursuit, but much closer to the swamp. The dusk thickened
rapidly. The sun dropped over the curve of the world, and the
vast complex maze of trunks and boughs melted into a solid black
wall. The incident of the pursuit was over and with it its petty
annoyances. He directed his course boldly now for the stepping
stones, and traveled fast. Soon the first of them would be less
than a hundred yards away.

But the incident was not over. Wary and skillful though the
young forest runner might be, he had made one miscalculation, and
it led to great consequences. As he skirted the edge of the
swamp in the darkness, now fully come, a dusky figure suddenly
appeared. It was a stray warrior from some small band, wandering
about at will. The meeting was probably as little expected by
him as it was by Henry, and they were so close together when they
saw each other that neither had time to raise his rifle. The
warrior, a tall, powerful man, dropping his gun and snatching out
a knife, sprang at once upon his enemy.

Henry was borne back by the weight and impact, but, making an
immense effort, he recovered himself and, seizing the wrist of
the Indian's knife hand, exerted all his great strength. The
warrior wished to change the weapon from his right band, but he
dared not let go with the other lest he be thrown down at once,
and with great violence. His first rush having failed, he was
now at a disadvantage, as the Indian is not generally a wrestler.
Henry pushed him back, and his hand closed tighter and tighter
around the red wrist. He wished to tear the knife from it, but
he, too, was afraid to let go with the other hand, and so the two
remained locked fast. Neither uttered a cry after the first
contact, and the only sounds in the dark were their hard
breathing, which turned to a gasp now and then, and the shuffle
of their feet over the earth.

Henry felt that it must end soon. One or the other must give
way. Their sinews were already strained to the cracking point,
and making a supreme effort he bore all his weight upon the
warrior, who, unable to sustain himself, went down with the youth
upon him. The Indian uttered a groan, and Henry, leaping
instantly to his feet, looked down upon his fallen antagonist,
who did not stir. He knew the cause. As they fell the point of
the knife bad been turned upward, and it had entered the Indian's
heart.

Although he had been in peril at his hands, Henry looked at the
slain man in a sort of pity. He had not wished to take anyone's
life, and, in reality, he had not been the direct cause of it.
But it was a stern time and the feeling soon passed. The
Wyandot, for such he was by his paint, would never have felt a
particle of remorse had the victory been his.

The moon was now coming out, and Henry looked down thoughtfully
at the still face. Then the idea came to him, in fact leaped up
in his brain, with such an impulse that it carried conviction.
He would take this warrior's place and go to the Indian camp. So
eager was he, and so full of his plan, that he did not feel any
repulsion as he opened the warrior's deerskin shirt and took his
totem from a place near his heart. It was a little deerskin bag
containing a bunch of red feathers. This was his charm, his
magic spell, his bringer of good luck, which had failed him so
woefully this time. Henry, not without a touch of the forest
belief, put it inside his own hunting shirt, wishing, although he
laughed at himself, that if the red man's medicine had any
potency it should be on his own side.

Then he found also the little bag in which the Indian carried his
war paint and the feather brush with which he put it on. The
next hour witnessed a singular transformation. A white youth was
turned into a red warrior. He cut his own hair closely, all
except a tuft in the center, with his sharp hunting knife. The
tuft and the close crop he stained black with the Indian's paint.
It was a poor black, but he hoped that it would pass in the
night. He drew the tuft into a scalplock, and intertwined it
with a feather from the Indian's own tuft. Then he stained his
face, neck, hands, and arms with the red paint, and stood forth a
powerful young warrior of a western nation.

He hid the Indian's weapons and his own raccoon-skin cap in the
brush. Then he took the body of the fallen warrior to the edge
of the swamp and dropped it in. His object was not alone
concealment, but burial as well. He still felt sorry for the
unfortunate Wyandot, and he watched him until he sank completely
from sight in the mire. Then he turned away and traveled a
straight course toward the great Indian camp.

He stopped once on the way at a clear pool irradiated by the
bright moonlight, and looked attentively at his reflection. By
night, at least, it was certainly that of an Indian, and,
summoning all his confidence, he continued upon his chosen and
desperate task.

Henry knew that the chances were against him, even with his
disguise, but he was bound to enter the Indian camp, and he was
prepared to incur all risks and to endure all penalties. He even
felt a certain lightness of heart as he hurried on his way, and
at length saw through the forest the flare of light from the
Indian camp.

He approached cautiously at first in order that he might take a
good look into the camp, and he was surprised at what he saw. In
a single day the village had been enlarged much more. It seemed
to him that it contained at least twice as many warriors. Women
and children, too, had come, and he heard a stray dog barking
here and there. Many more fires than usual were burning, and
there was a great murmur of voices.

Henry was much taken aback at first. It seemed that he was about
to plunge into the midst of the whole Iroquois nation, and at a
time, too, when something of extreme importance was going on, but
a little reflection showed that he was fortunate. Amid so many
people, and so much ferment it was not at all likely that he
would be noticed closely. It was his intention, if the necessity
came, to pass himself off as a warrior of the Shawnee tribe who
had wandered far eastward, but he meant to avoid sedulously the
eye of Timmendiquas, who might, through his size and stature,
divine his identity.

As Henry lingered at the edge of the camp, in indecision whether
to wait a little or plunge boldly into the light of the fires, he
became aware that all sounds in the village-for such it was
instead of a camp-had ceased suddenly, except the light tread of
feet and the sound of many people talking low. He saw through
the bushes that all the Iroquois, and with them the detachment of
Wyandots under White Lightning, were going toward a large
structure in the center, which he surmised to be the Council
House. He knew from his experience with the Indians farther west
that the Iroquois built such structures.

He could no longer doubt that some ceremony of the greatest
importance was about to begin, and, dismissing indecision, he
left the bushes and entered the village, going with the crowd
toward the great pole building, which was, indeed, the Council
House.

But little attention was paid to Henry. He would have drawn none
at all, had it not been for his height, and when a warrior or two
glanced at him he uttered some words in Shawnee, saying that he
had wandered far, and was glad to come to the hospitable
Iroquois. One who could speak a little Shawnee bade him welcome,
and they went on, satisfied, their minds more intent upon the
ceremony than upon a visitor.

The Council House, built of light poles and covered with poles
and thatch, was at least sixty feet long and about thirty feet
wide, with a large door on the eastern side, and one or two
smaller ones on the other sides. As Henry arrived, the great
chiefs and sub-chiefs of the Iroquois were entering the building,
and about it were grouped many warriors and women, and even
children. But all preserved a decorous solemnity, and, knowing
the customs of the forest people so well, he was sure that the
ceremony, whatever it might be, must be of a highly sacred
nature. He himself drew to one side, keeping as much as possible
in the shadow, but he was using to its utmost power every faculty
of observation that Nature had given him.

Many of the fires were still burning, but the moon had come out
with great brightness, throwing a silver light over the whole
village, and investing with attributes that savored of the mystic
and impressive this ceremony, held by a savage but great race
here in the depths of the primeval forest. Henry was about to
witness a Condoling Council, which was at once a mourning for
chiefs who had fallen in battle farther east with his own people
and the election and welcome of their successors.

The chiefs presently came forth from the Council House or, as it
was more generally called, the Long House, and, despite the
greatness of Thayendanegea, those of the Onondaga tribe, in
virtue of their ancient and undisputed place as the political
leaders and high priests of the Six Nations, led the way. Among
the stately Onondaga chiefs were: Atotarho (The Entangled),
Skanawati (Beyond the River), Tehatkahtons (Looking Both Ways),
Tehayatkwarayen (Red Wings), and Hahiron (The Scattered). They
were men of stature and fine countenance, proud of the titular
primacy that belonged to them because it was the Onondaga,
Hiawatha, who had formed the great confederacy more than four
hundred years before our day, or just about the time Columbus was
landing on the shores of the New World.

Next to the Onondagas came the fierce and warlike Mohawks, who
lived nearest to Albany, who were called Keepers of the Eastern
Gate, and who were fully worthy of their trust. They were
content that the Onondagas should lead in council, so long as
they were first in battle, and there was no jealousy between
them. Among their chiefs were Koswensiroutha (Broad Shoulders)
and Satekariwate (Two Things Equal).

Third in rank were the Senecas, and among their chiefs were
Kanokarih (The Threatened) and Kanyadariyo (Beautiful Lake).

These three, the Onondagas, Mohawks, and Senecas, were esteemed
the three senior nations. After them, in order of precedence,
came the chiefs of the three junior nations, the Oneidas,
Cayugas, and Tuscaroras. All of the great chiefs had assistant
chiefs, usually relatives, who, in case of death, often succeeded
to their places. But these assistants now remained in the crowd
with other minor chiefs and the mass of the warriors. A little
apart stood Timmendiquas and his Wyandots. He, too, was absorbed
in the ceremony so sacred to him, an Indian, and he did not
notice the tall figure of the strange Shawnee lingering in the
deepest of the shadows.

The head chiefs, walking solemnly and never speaking, marched
across the clearing, and then through the woods to a glen, where
two young warriors had kindled a little fire of sticks as a
signal of welcome. The chiefs gathered around the fire and spoke
together in low tones. This was Deyuhnyon Kwarakda, which means
"The Reception at the Edge of the Wood."

Henry and some others followed, as it was not forbidden to see,
and his interest increased. He shared the spiritual feeling
which was impressed upon the red faces about him. The bright
moonlight, too, added to the effect, giving it the tinge of an
old Druidical ceremony.

The chiefs relapsed into silence and sat thus about ten minutes.
Then rose the sound of a chant, distant and measured, and a
procession of young and inferior chiefs, led by Oneidas,
appeared, slowly approaching the fire. Behind them were
warriors, and behind the warriors were many women and children.
All the women were in their brightest attire, gay with feather
headdresses and red, blue, or green blankets from the British
posts.

The procession stopped at a distance of about a dozen yards from
the chiefs about the council fire, and the Oneida, Kathlahon,
formed the men in a line facing the head chiefs, with the women
and children grouped in an irregular mass behind them. The
singing meanwhile had stopped. The two groups stood facing each
other, attentive and listening.

Then Hahiron, the oldest of the Onondagas, walked back and forth
in the space between the two groups, chanting a welcome. Like
all Indian songs it was monotonous. Every line he uttered with
emphasis and a rising inflection, the phrase "Haih-haih" which
may be translated "Hail to thee!" or better, "All hail!"
Nevertheless, under the moonlight in the wilderness and with rapt
faces about him, it was deeply impressive. Henry found it so.

Hahiron finished his round and went back to his place by the
fire. Atotarho, head chief of the Onondagas, holding in his
hands beautifully beaded strings of Iroquois wampum, came forward
and made a speech of condolence, to which Kathlahon responded.
Then the head chiefs and the minor chiefs smoked pipes together,
after which the head chiefs, followed by the minor chiefs, and
these in turn by the crowd, led the way back to the village.

Many hundreds of persons were in this procession, which was still
very grave and solemn, every one in it impressed by tile sacred
nature of this ancient rite. The chief entered the great door of
the Long House, and all who could find places not reserved
followed. Henry went in with the others, and sat in a corner,
making himself as small as possible. Many women, the place of
whom was high among the Iroquois, were also in the Long House.

The head chiefs sat on raised seats at the north end of the great
room. In front of them, on lower seats, were the minor chiefs of
the three older nations on the left, and of the three younger
nations on the right. In front of these, but sitting on the bark
floor, was a group of warriors. At the east end, on both high
and low seats, were warriors, and facing them on the western side
were women, also on both high and low seats. The southern side
facing the chiefs was divided into sections, each with high and
low seats. The one on the left was occupied by men, and the one
on the right by women. Two small fires burned in the center of
the Long House about fifteen feet apart.

It was the most singular and one of the most impressive scenes
that Henry had ever beheld. When all had found their seats there
was a deep silence. Henry could hear the slight crackling made
by the two fires as they burned, and the light fell faintly
across the multitude of dark, eager faces.  Not less than five
hundred people were in the Long House, and here was the red man
at his best, the first of the wild, not the second or third of
the civilized, a drop of whose blood in his veins brings to the
white man now a sense of pride, and not of shame, as it does when
that blood belongs to some other races.

The effect upon Henry was singular. He almost forgot that he was
a foe among them on a mission. For the moment he shared in their
feelings, and he waited with eagerness for whatever might come.

Thayendanegea, the Mohawk, stood up in his place among the great
chiefs. The role he was about to assume belonged to Atotarho,
the Onondaga, but the old Onondaga assigned it for the occasion
to Thayendanegea, and there was no objection. Thayendanegea was
an educated man, be had been in England, he was a member of a
Christian church, and be had translated a part of the Bible from
English into his own tongue, but now he was all a Mohawk, a son
of the forest.

He spoke to the listening crowd of the glories of the Six
Nations, how Hah-gweh-di-yu (The Spirit of Good) had inspired
Hiawatha to form the Great Confederacy of the Five Nations,
afterwards the Six; how they had held their hunting grounds for
nearly two centuries against both English and French; and how
they would hold them against the Americans. He stopped at
moments, and deep murmurs of approval went through the Long
House. The eyes of both men and women flashed as the orator
spoke of their glory and greatness. Timmendiquas, in a place of
honor, nodded approval. If he could he would form such another
league in the west.

The air in the Long House, breathed by so many, became heated.
It seemed to have in it a touch of fire. The orator's words
burned. Swift and deep impressions were left upon the excited
brain. The tall figure of the Mohawk towered, gigantic, in the
half light, and the spell that he threw over all was complete.

He spoke about half an hour, but when he stopped he did not sit
down. Henry knew by the deep breath that ran through the Long
House that something more was coming from Thayendanegea.
Suddenly the red chief began to sing in a deep, vibrant voice,
and this was the song that he sung:

  This was the roll of you,
  All hail! All hail! All hail!

  You that joined in the work,
  All hail! All hail! All hail!

  You that finished the task,
  All hail! All hail! All hail!

  The Great League,
  All hail! All hail! All hail!

There was the same incessant repetition of "Haih haih!" that
Henry had noticed in the chant at the edge of the woods, but it
seemed to give a cumulative effect, like the roll of thunder, and
at every slight pause that deep breath of approval ran through
the crowd in the Long House. The effect of the song was
indescribable. Fire ran in the veins of all, men, women, and
children. The great pulses in their throats leaped up. They
were the mighty nation, the ever-victorious, the League of the
Ho-de-no-sau-nee, that had held at bay both the French and the
English since first a white man was seen in the land, and that
would keep back the Americans now.

Henry glanced at Timmendiquas. The nostrils of the great White
Lightning were twitching. The song reached to the very roots of
his being, and aroused all his powers. Like Thayendanegea, he
was a statesman, and he saw that the Americans were far more
formidable to his race than English or French had ever been. The
Americans were upon the ground, and incessantly pressed upon the
red man, eye to eye. Only powerful leagues like those of the
Iroquois could withstand them.

Thayendanegea sat down, and then there was another silence, a
period lasting about two minutes. These silences seemed to be a
necessary part of all Iroquois rites. When it closed two young
warriors stretched an elm bark rope across the room from east to
west and near the ceiling, but between the high chiefs and the
minor chiefs. Then they hung dressed skins all along it, until
the two grades of chiefs were hidden from the view of each other.
This was the sign of mourning, and was followed by a silence.
The fires in the Long House had died down somewhat, and little
was to be seen but the eyes and general outline of the people.
Then a slender man of middle years, the best singer in all the
Iroquois nation, arose and sang:

  To the great chiefs bring we greeting,
  All hail! All hail! All hail!

  To the dead chiefs, kindred greeting,
  All hail! All hail! All hail!

  To the strong men 'round him greeting,
  All hail! All hail! All hail!

  To the mourning women greeting,
  All hail! All hail! All hail!

  There our grandsires' words repeating,
  All hail! All hail! All hail!

  Graciously, Oh, grandsires, hear,
  All hail! All hail! All hail!

The singing voice was sweet, penetrating, and thrilling, and the
song was sad. At the pauses deep murmurs of sorrow ran through
the crowd in the Long House. Grief for the dead held them all.
When he finished, Satekariwate, the Mohawk, holding in his hands
three belts of wampum, uttered a long historical chant telling of
their glorious deeds, to which they listened patiently. The
chant over, he handed the belts to an attendant, who took them to
Thayendanegea, who held them for a few moments and looked at them
gravely.

One of the wampum belts was black, the sign of mourning; another
was purple, the sign of war; and the third was white, the sign of
peace. They were beautiful pieces of workmanship, very old.

When Hiawatha left the Onondagas and fled to the Mohawks he
crossed a lake supposed to be the Oneida. While paddling along
he noticed that man tiny black, purple, and white shells clung to
his paddle. Reaching the shore he found such shells in long rows
upon the beach, and it occurred to him to use them for the
depiction of thought according to color. He strung them on
threads of elm bark, and afterward, when the great league was
formed, the shells were made to represent five clasped hands.
For four hundred years the wampum belts have been sacred among
the Iroquois.

Now Thayendanegea gave the wampum belts back to the attendant,
who returned them to Satekariwate, the Mohawk. There was a
silence once more, and then the chosen singer began the Consoling
Song again, but now he did not sing it alone. Two hundred male
voices joined him, and the time became faster. Its tone changed
from mourning and sorrow to exultation and menace. Everyone
thought of war, the tomahawk, and victory. The song sung as it
was now became a genuine battle song, rousing and thrilling. The
Long House trembled with the mighty chorus, and its volume poured
forth into the encircling dark woods.

All the time the song was going on, Satekariwate, the Mohawk,
stood holding the belts in his hand, but when it was over he gave
them to an attendant, who carried them to another head chief.
Thayendanegea now went to the center of the room and, standing
between the two fires, asked who were the candidates for the
places of the dead chiefs.

The dead chiefs were three, and three tall men, already chosen
among their own tribes, came forward to succeed them. Then a
fourth came, and Henry was startled. It was Timmendiquas, who,
as the bravest chief of the brave Wyandots, was about to become,
as a signal tribute, and as a great sign of friendship, an
adopted son and honorary chief of the Mohawks, Keepers of the
Western Gate, and most warlike of all the Iroquois tribes.

As Timmendiquas stood before Thayendanegea, a murmur of approval
deeper than any that had gone before ran through all the crowd in
the Long House, and it was deepest on the women's benches, where
sat many matrons of the Iroquois, some of whom were chiefs-a
woman could be a chief among the Iroquois.

The candidates were adjudged acceptable by the other chiefs, and
Thayendanegea addressed them on their duties, while they listened
in grave silence. With his address the sacred part of the rite
was concluded. Nothing remained now but the great banquet
outside - although that was much - and they poured forth to it
joyously, Thayendanegea, the Mohawk, and Timmendiquas, the
Wyandot, walking side by side, the finest two red chiefs on all
the American continent.

CHAPTER VI

THE EVIL SPIRIT'S WORK

Henry slipped forth with the crowd from the Long House, stooping
somewhat and shrinking into the smallest possible dimensions.
But there was little danger now that any one would notice him, as
long as he behaved with prudence, because all grief and solemnity
were thrown aside, and a thousand red souls intended to rejoice.
A vast banquet was arranged. Great fires leaped up all through
the village. At every fire the Indian women, both young and old,
were already far forward with the cooking. Deer, bear, squirrel,
rabbit, fish, and every other variety of game with which the
woods and rivers of western New York and Pennsylvania swarmed
were frying or roasting over the coals, and the air was permeated
with savory odors. There was a great hum of voices and an
incessant chattering. Here in the forest, among themselves, and
in complete security, the Indian stoicism was relaxed. According
to their customs everybody fell to eating at a prodigious rate,
as if they had not tasted anything for a month, and as if they
intended to eat enough now to last another month.

It was far into the night, because the ceremonies had lasted a
long time, but a brilliant moon shone down upon the feasting
crowd, and the flames of the great fires, yellow and blue, leaped
and danced. This was an oasis of light and life. Timmendiquas
and Thayendanegea sat together before the largest fire, and they
ate with more restraint than the others. Even at the banquet
they would not relax their dignity as great chiefs. Old
Skanawati, the Onondaga, old Atotarho, Onondaga, too,
Satekariwate, the Mohawk, Kanokarih, the Seneca, and others, head
chiefs though they were of the three senior tribes, did not
hesitate to eat as the rich Romans of the Empire ate, swallowing
immense quantities of all kinds of meat, and drinking a sort of
cider that the women made. Several warriors ate and drank until
they fell down in a stupor by the fires. The same warriors on
the hunt or the war path would go for days without food, enduring
every manner of hardship. Now and then a warrior would leap up
and begin a chant telling of some glorious deed of his. Those at
his own fire would listen, but elsewhere they took no notice.

In the largest open space a middle-aged Onondaga with a fine face
suddenly uttered a sharp cry: " Hehmio!" which he rapidly
repeated twice. Two score voices instantly replied, "Heh!" and a
rush was made for him. At least a hundred gathered around him,
but they stood in a respectful circle, no one nearer than ten
feet. He waved his hand, and all sat down on the ground. Then,
he, too, sat down, all gazing at him intently and with
expectancy.

He was a professional story-teller, an institution great and
honored among the tribes of the Iroquois farther back even than
Hiawatha. He began at once the story of the warrior who learned
to talk with the deer and the bear, carrying it on through many
chapters. Now and then a delighted listener would cry " Hah!"
but if anyone became bored and fell asleep it was considered an
omen of misfortune to the sleeper, and he was chased
ignominiously to his tepee. The Iroquois romancer was better
protected than the white one is. He could finish some of his
stories in one evening, but others were serials. When he arrived
at the end of the night's installment he would cry, "Si-ga!"
which was equivalent to our "To be continued in our next."  Then
all would rise, and if tired would seek sleep, but if not they
would catch the closing part of some other story-teller's
romance.

At three fires Senecas were playing a peculiar little wooden
flute of their own invention, that emitted wailing sounds not
without a certain sweetness. In a corner a half dozen warriors
hurt in battle were bathing their wounds with a soothing lotion
made from the sap of the bass wood.

Henry lingered a while in the darkest corners, witnessing the
feasting, hearing the flutes and the chants, listening for a
space to the story-tellers and the enthusiastic "Hahs!"  They
were so full of feasting and merrymaking now that one could
almost do as he pleased, and he stole toward the southern end of
the village, where he had noticed several huts, much more
strongly built than the others. Despite all his natural skill
and experience his heart beat very fast when he came to the
first. He was about to achieve the great exploration upon which
he had ventured so much. Whether he would find anything at the
end of the risk he ran, he was soon to see.

The hut, about seven feet square and as many feet in height, was
built strongly of poles, with a small entrance closed by a
clapboard door fastened stoutly on the outside with withes. The
hut was well in the shadow of tepees, and all were still at the
feasting and merrymaking. He cut the withes with two sweeps of
his sharp hunting knife, opened the door, bent his head, stepped
in and then closed the door behind him, in order that no Iroquois
might see what had happened.

It was not wholly dark in the hut, as there were cracks between
the poles, and bars of moonlight entered, falling upon a floor of
bark. They revealed also a figure lying full length on one side
of the but. A great pulse of joy leaped up in Henry's throat,
and with it was a deep pity, also. The figure was that of
Shif'less Sol, but be was pale and thin, and his arms and legs
were securely bound with thongs of deerskin.

Leaning over, Henry cut the thongs of the shiftless one, but he
did not stir. Great forester that Shif'less Sol was, and usually
so sensitive to the lightest movement, be perceived nothing now,
and, had he not found him bound, Henry would have been afraid
that he was looking upon his dead comrade. The hands of the
shiftless one, when the hands were cut, had fallen limply by his
side, and his face looked all the more pallid by contrast with
the yellow hair which fell in length about it. But it was his
old-time friend, the dauntless Shif'less Sol, the last of the
five to vanish so mysteriously.

Henry bent down and pulled him by the shoulder. The captive
yawned, stretched himself a little, and lay still again with
closed eyes. Henry shook him a second time and more violently.
Shif'less Sol sat up quickly, and Henry knew that indignation
prompted the movement. Sol held his arms and legs stiffly and
seemed to be totally unconscious that they were unbound. He cast
one glance upward, and in the dim light saw the tall warrior
bending over him.

"I'll never do it, Timmendiquas or White Lightning, whichever
name you like better!" he exclaimed. "I won't show you how to
surprise the white settlements. You can burn me at the stake or
tear me in pieces first. Now go away and let me sleep."

He sank back on the bark, and started to close his eyes again.
It was then that he noticed for the first time that his hands
were unbound. He held them up before his face, as if they were
strange objects wholly unattached to himself, and gazed at them
in amazement. He moved his legs and saw that they, too, were
unbound. Then he turned his startled gaze upward at the face of
the tall warrior who was looking down at him. Shif'less Sol was
wholly awake now. Every faculty in him was alive, and he pierced
through the Shawnee disguise. He knew who it was. He knew who
had come to save him, and he sprang to his feet, exclaiming the
one word:

"Henry!"

The hands of the comrades met in the clasp of friendship which
only many dangers endured together can give.

"How did you get here?" asked the shiftless one in a whisper.

"I met an Indian in the forest," replied Henry, "and well I am
now he."

Shif'less Sol laughed under his breath.

"I see," said he, "but how did you get through the camp? It's a
big one, and the Iroquois are watchful. Timmendiquas is here,
too, with his Wyandots."

"They are having a great feast," replied Henry, "and I could go
about almost unnoticed. Where are the others, Sol?"

"In the cabins close by."

"Then we'll get out of this place. Quick! Tie up your hair! In
the darkness you can easily pass for an Indian."

The shiftless one drew his hair into a scalp lock, and the two
slipped from the cabin, closing the door behind them and deftly
retying the thongs, in order that the discovery of the escape
might occur as late as possible. Then they stood a few moments
in the shadow of the hut and listened to the sounds of revelry,
the monotone of the story-tellers, and the chant of the singers.

"You don't know which huts they are in, do you?" asked Henry,
anxiously.

"No, I don't," replied tile shiftless one.

"Get back!" exclaimed Henry softly. "Don't you see who's passing
out there?"

"Braxton Wyatt," said Sol. "I'd like to get my hands on that
scoundrel. I've had to stand a lot from him."

"The score must wait. But first we'll provide you with weapons.
See, the Iroquois have stacked some of their rifles here while
they're at the feast."

A dozen good rifles had been left leaning against a hut near by,
and Henry, still watching lest he be observed, chose the best,
with its ammunition, for his comrade, who, owing to his
semi-civilized attire, still remained in the shadow of the other
hut.

"Why not take four?" whispered the shiftless one. "We'll need
them for the other boys."

Henry took four, giving two to his comrade, and then they hastily
slipped back to the other side of the hut. A Wyandot and a
Mohawk were passing, and they had eyes of hawks. Henry and Sol
waited until the formidable pair were gone, and then began to
examine the huts, trying to surmise in which their comrades lay.

"I haven't seen 'em a-tall, a-tall," said Sol, "but I reckon from
the talk that they are here. I was s'prised in the woods, Henry.
A half dozen reds jumped on me so quick I didn't have time to
draw a weepin. Timmendiquas was at the head uv 'em an' he just
grinned. Well, he is a great chief, if he did truss me up like a
fowl. I reckon the same thing happened to the others."

"Come closer, Sol! Come closer!" whispered Henry. More warriors
are walking this way. The feast is breaking up, and they'll
spread all through the camp."

A terrible problem was presented to the two. They could no
longer search among the strong huts, for their comrades.  The
opportunity to save had lasted long enough for one only. But
border training is stern, and these two had uncommon courage and
decision.

"We must go now, Sol," said Henry, "but we'll come back."

"Yes," said the shiftless one, "we'll come back."

Darting between the huts, they gained the southern edge of the
forest before the satiated banqueters could suspect the presence
of an enemy. Here they felt themselves safe, but they did not
pause. Henry led the way, and Shif'less Sol followed at a fair
degree of speed.

"You'll have to be patient with me for a little while, Henry,"
said Sol in a tone of humility. "When I wuz layin' thar in the
lodge with my hands an' feet tied I wuz about eighty years old,
jest ez stiff ez could be from the long tyin'. When I reached
the edge o' the woods the blood wuz flowin' lively enough to make
me 'bout sixty. Now I reckon I'm fifty, an' ef things go well
I'll be back to my own nateral age in two or three hours."

"You shall have rest before morning," said Henry, "and it will be
in a good place, too. I can promise that."

Shif'less Sol looked at him inquiringly, but he did not say
anything. Like the rest of the five, Sol had acquired the most
implicit confidence in their bold young leader. He had every
reason to feel good. That painful soreness was disappearing from
his ankles. As they advanced through the woods, weeks dropped
from him one by one. Then the months began to roll away, and at
last time fell year by year. As they approached the deeps of the
forest where the swamp lay, Solomon Hyde, the so called shiftless
one, and wholly undeserving of the name, was young again.

"I've got a fine little home for us, Sol," said Henry. "Best
we've had since that time we spent a winter on the island in the
lake. This is littler, but it's harder to find. It'll be a fine
thing to know you're sleeping safe and sound with five hundred
Iroquois warriors only a few miles away."

"Then it'll suit me mighty well," said Shif'less Sol, grinning
broadly. "That's jest the place fur a lazy man like your humble
servant, which is me."

They reached the stepping stones, and Henry paused a moment.

"Do you feel steady enough, Sol, to jump from stone to stone?" he
asked.

"I'm feelin' so good I could fly ef I had to," he replied. "Jest
you jump on, Henry, an' fur every jump you take you'll find me
only one jump behind you!"

Henry, without further ado, sprang from one stone to another, and
behind him, stone for stone, came the shiftless one. It was now
past midnight, and the moon was obscured. The keenest eyes
twenty yards away could not have seen the two dusky figures as
they went by leaps into the very heart of the great, black swamp.
They reached the solid ground, and then the hut.

"Here, Sol," said Henry, "is my house, and yours, also, and soon,
I hope, to be that of Paul, Tom, and Jim, too."

"Henry," said Shif'less Sol, " I'm shorely glad to come."

They went inside, stacked their captured rifles against the wall,
and soon were sound asleep.

Meanwhile sleep was laying hold of the Iroquois village, also.
They had eaten mightily and they had drunk mightily. Many times
had they told the glories of Hode-no-sau-nee, the Great League,
and many times had they gladly acknowledged the valor and worth
of Timmendiquas and the brave little Wyandot nation.
Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea had sat side by side throughout
the feast, but often other great chiefs were with them-Skanawati,
Atotarho, and Hahiron, the Onondagas; Satekariwate, the Mohawk;
Kanokarih and Kanyadoriyo, the Senecas; and many others.

Toward midnight the women and the children left for the lodges,
and soon the warriors began to go also, or fell asleep on tile
ground, wrapped in their blankets. The fires were allowed to
sink low, and at last the older chiefs withdrew, leaving only
Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea.

"You have seen the power and spirit of the Iroquois," said
Thayendanegea. "We can bring many more warriors than are here
into the field, and we will strike the white settlements with
you."

"The Wyandots are not so many as the warriors of the Great
League," said Timmendiquas proudly, "but no one has ever been
before them in battle."

"You speak truth, as I have often heard it," said Thayendanegea
thoughtfully. Then be showed Timmendiquas to a lodge of honor,
the finest in the village, and retired to his own.

The great feast was over, but the chiefs had come to a momentous
decision. Still chafing over their defeat at Oriskany, they
would make a new and formidable attack upon the white
settlements, and Timmendiquas and his fierce Wyandots would help
them. All of them, from the oldest to the youngest, rejoiced in
the decision, and, not least, the famous Thayendanegea. He hated
the Americans most because they were upon the soil, and were
always pressing forward against the Indian. The Englishmen were
far away, and if they prevailed in the great war, the march of
the American would be less rapid. He would strike once more with
the Englishmen, and the Iroquois could deliver mighty blows on
the American rearguard. He and his Mohawks, proud Keepers of the
Western Gate, would lead in the onset. Thayendanegea considered
it a good night's work, and he slept peacefully.

The great camp relapsed into silence. The warriors on the ground
breathed perhaps a little heavily after so much feasting, and the
fires were permitted to smolder down to coals. Wolves and
panthers drawn by the scent of food crept through the thickets
toward the faint firelight, but they were afraid to draw near.
Morning came, and food and drink were taken to the lodges in
which four prisoners were held, prisoners of great value, taken
by Timmendiquas and the Wyandots, and held at his urgent
insistence as hostages.

Three were found as they had been left, and when their bonds were
loosened they ate and drank, but the fourth hut was empty. The
one who spoke in a slow, drawling way, and the one who seemed to
be the most dangerous of them all, was gone. Henry and Sol had
taken the severed thongs with them, and there was nothing to show
how the prisoner had disappeared, except that the withes
fastening the door had been cut.

The news spread through the village, and there was much
excitement. Thayendanegea and Timmendiquas came and looked at
the empty hut. Timmendiquas may have suspected how Shif'less Sol
had gone, but he said nothing. Others believed that it was the
work of Hahgweh-da-et-gah (The Spirit of Evil), or perhaps Ga-oh
(The Spirit of the Winds) had taken him away.

"It is well to keep a good watch on the others," said
Timmendiquas, and Thayendanegea nodded.

That day the chiefs entered the Long House again, and held a
great war council. A string of white wampum about a foot in
length was passed to every chief, who held it a moment or two
before handing it to his neighbors. It was then laid on a table
in the center of the room, the ends touching. This signified
harmony among the Six Nations. All the chiefs had been summoned
to this place by belts of wampum sent to the different tribes by
runners appointed by the Onondagas, to whom this honor belonged.
All treaties had to be ratified by the exchange of belts, and now
this was done by the assembled chiefs.

Timmendiquas, as an honorary chief of the Mohawks, and as the
real head of a brave and allied nation, was present throughout
the council. His advice was asked often, and when he gave it the
others listened with gravity and deference. The next day the
village played a great game of lacrosse, which was invented by
the Indians, and which had been played by them for centuries
before the arrival of the white man. In this case the match was
on a grand scale, Mohawks and Cayugas against Onondagas and
Senecas.

The game began about nine o'clock in the morning in a great
natural meadow surrounded by forest. The rival sides assembled
opposite each other and bet heavily. All the stakes, under the
law of the game, were laid upon the ground in heaps here, and
they consisted of the articles most precious to the Iroquois. In
these heaps were rifles, tomahawks, scalping knives, wampum,
strips of colored beads, blankets, swords, belts, moccasins,
leggins, and a great many things taken as spoil in forays on the
white settlements, such is small mirrors, brushes of various
kinds, boots, shoes, and other things, the whole making a vast
assortment.

These heaps represented great wealth to the Iroquois, and the
older chiefs sat beside them in the capacity of stakeholders and
judges.

The combatants, ranged in two long rows, numbered at least five
hundred on each side, and already they began to show an
excitement approaching that which animated them when they would
go into battle. Their eyes glowed, and the muscles on their
naked backs and chests were tense for the spring. In order to
leave their limbs perfectly free for effort they wore no clothing
at all, except a little apron reaching from the waist to the
knee.

The extent of the playground was marked off by two pair of "byes"
like those used in cricket, planted about thirty rods apart. But
the goals of each side were only about thirty feet apart.

At a signal from the oldest of the chiefs the contestants
arranged themselves in two parallel lines facing each other,
inside the area and about ten rods apart. Every man was armed
with a strong stick three and a half to four feet in length, and
curving toward the end. Upon this curved end was tightly
fastened a network of thongs of untanned deerskin, drawn until
they were rigid and taut. The ball with which they were to play
was made of closely wrapped elastic skins, and was about the size
of an ordinary apple.

At the end of the lines, but about midway between them, sat the
chiefs, who, besides being judges and stakeholders, were also
score keepers. They kept tally of the game by cutting notches
upon sticks. Every time one side put the ball through the
other's goal it counted one, but there was an unusual power
exercised by the chiefs, practically unknown to the games of
white men. If one side got too far ahead, its score was cut down
at the discretion of the chiefs in order to keep the game more
even, and also to protract it sometimes over three or four days.
The warriors of the leading side might grumble among one another
at the amount of cutting the chiefs did, but they would not dare
to make any protest. However, the chiefs would never cut the
leading side down to an absolute parity with the other. It was
always allowed to retain a margin of the superiority it had won.

The game was now about to begin, and the excitement became
intense. Even the old judges leaned forward in their eagerness,
while the brown bodies of the warriors shone in the sun, and the
taut muscles leaped up under the skin. Fifty players on each
side, sticks in hand, advanced to the center of the ground, and
arranged themselves somewhat after the fashion of football
players, to intercept the passage of the ball toward their goals.
Now they awaited the coming of the ball.

There were several young girls, the daughters of chiefs. The most
beautiful of these appeared. She was not more than sixteen or
seventeen years of age, as slender and graceful as a young deer,
and she was dressed in the finest and most richly embroidered
deerskin. Her head was crowned with a red coronet, crested with
plumes, made of the feathers of the eagle and heron. She wore
silver bracelets and a silver necklace.

The girl, bearing in her hand the ball, sprang into the very
center of the arena, where, amid shouts from all the warriors,
she placed it upon the ground. Then she sprang back and joined
the throng of spectators. Two of the players, one from each
side, chosen for strength and dexterity, advanced. They hooked
the ball together in their united bats and thus raised it aloft,
until the bats were absolutely perpendicular. Then with a quick,
jerking motion they shot it upward. Much might be gained by this
first shot or stroke, but on this occasion the two players were
equal, and it shot almost absolutely straight into the air. The
nearest groups made a rush for it, and the fray began.

Not all played at once, as the crowd was so great, but usually
twenty or thirty on each side struck for tile ball, and when they
became exhausted or disabled were relieved by similar groups.
All eventually came into action.

The game was played with the greatest fire and intensity,
assuming sometimes the aspect of a battle. Blows with the
formidable sticks were given and received. Brown skins were
streaked with blood, heads were cracked, and a Cayuga was killed.
Such killings were not unusual in these games, and it was always
considered the fault of the man who fell, due to his own
awkwardness or unwariness. The body of the dead Cayuga was taken
away in disgrace.

All day long the contest was waged with undiminished courage and
zeal, party relieving party. The meadow and the surrounding
forest resounded with the shouts and yells of combatants and
spectators. The old squaws were in a perfect frenzy of
excitement, and their shrill screams of applause or condemnation
rose above every other sound.

On this occasion, as the contest did not last longer than one
day, the chiefs never cut down the score of the leading side.
The game closed at sunset, with the Senecas and Onondagas
triumphant, and richer by far than they were in the morning. The
Mohawks and Cayugas retired, stripped of their goods and
crestfallen.

Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea, acting as umpires watched the
game closely to its finish, but not so the renegades Braxton
Wyatt and Blackstaffe. They and Quarles had wandered eastward
with some Delawares, and had afterward joined the band of
Wyandots, though Timmendiquas gave them no very warm welcome.
Quarles had left on some errand a few days before. They had
rejoiced greatly at the trapping of the four, one by one, in the
deep bush. But they had felt anger and disappointment when the
fifth was not taken, also. Now both were concerned and alarmed
over the escape of Shif'less Sol in the night, and they drew
apart from the Indians to discuss it.

"I think," said Wyatt, "that Hyde did not manage it himself, all
alone. How could he? He was bound both hand and foot; and I've
learned, too, Blackstaffe, that four of the best Iroquois rifles
have been taken. That means one apiece for Hyde and the three
prisoners that are left."

The two exchanged looks of meaning and understanding.

"It must have been the boy Ware who helped Hyde to get away,"
said Blackstaffe, "and their taking of the rifles means that he
and Hyde expect to rescue the other three in the same way. You
think so, too?"

"Of course," replied Wyatt. "What makes the Indians, who are so
wonderfully alert and watchful most of the time, become so
careless when they have a great feast?"

Blackstaffe shrugged his shoulders.

"It is their way," he replied. "You cannot change it. Ware
must have noticed what they were about, and he took advantage of
it. But I don't think any of the others will go that way."

"The boy Cotter is in here," said Braxton Wyatt, tapping the
side of a small hut. "Let's go in and see him."

"Good enough," said Blackstaffe. "But we mustn't let him know
that Hyde has escaped."

Paul, also bound hand and foot, was lying on an old wolfskin.
He, too, was pale and thin-the strict confinement had told upon
him heavily-but Paul's spirit could never be daunted. He looked
at the two renegades with hatred and contempt.

"Well, you're in a fine fix," said Wyatt sneeringly. "We just
came in to tell you that we took Henry Ware last night."

Paul looked him straight and long in the eye, and he knew that
the renegade was lying.

"I know better," he said.

"Then we will get him," said Wyatt, abandoning the lie, "and all
of you will die at the stake."

"You, will not get him," said Paul defiantly, "and as for the
rest of us dying at the stake, that's to be seen. I know this:
Timmendiquas considers us of value, to be traded or exchanged,
and he's too smart a man to destroy what be regards as his own
property. Besides, we may escape. I don't want to boast,
Braxton Wyatt, but you know that we're hard to hold."

Then Paul managed to turn over with his face to the wall, as if
he were through with them. They went out, and Braxton Wyatt said
sulkily:

"Nothing to be got out of him."

"No," said Blackstaffe, "but we must urge that the strictest
kind of guard be kept over the others."

The Iroquois were to remain some time at the village, because all
their forces were not yet gathered for the great foray they had
in mind. The Onondaga runners were still carrying the wampum
belts of purple shells, sign of war, to distant villages of the
tribes, and parties of warriors were still coming in. A band of
Cayugas arrived that night, and with them they brought a half
starved and sick, Lenni-Lenape, whom they had picked up near the
camp. The Lenni-Lenape, who looked as if he might have been when
in health a strong and agile warrior, said that news had reached
him through the Wyandots of the great war to be waged by the
Iroquois on the white settlements, and the spirits would not let
him rest unless he bore his part in it. He prayed therefore to
be accepted among them.

Much food was given to the brave Lenni-Lenape, and he was sent to
a lodge to rest. To-morrow he would be well, and he would be
welcomed to the ranks of the Cayugas, a Younger nation. But when
the morning came, the lodge was empty. The sick Lenni-Lenape was
gone, and with him the boy, Paul, the youngest of the prisoners.
Guards bad been posted all around the camp, but evidently the two
had slipped between. Brave and advanced as were the Iroquois,
superstition seized upon them. Hah-gweli-da-et-gah was at work
among them, coming in the form of the famished Lenni-Lenape. He
had steeped them in a deep sleep, and then he had vanished with
the prisoner in Se-oh (The Night). Perhaps lie had taken away
the boy, who was one of a hated race, for some sacrifice or
mystery of his own. The fears of the Iroquois rose. If the
Spirit of Evil was among them, greater harm could be expected.

But the two renegades, Blackstaffe and Wyatt, raged. They did
not believe in the interference of either good spirits or bad
spirits, and just now their special hatred was a famished
Lenni-Lenape warrior.

"Why on earth didn't I think of it?" exclaimed Wyatt. "I'm sure
now by his size that it was the fellow Hyde. Of Course he
slipped to the lodge, let Cotter out, and they dodged about in
the darkness until they escaped in the forest. I'll complain to
Timmendiquas."

He was as good as his word, speaking of the laxness of both
Iroquois and Wyandots. The great White Lightning regarded him
with an icy stare.

"You say that the boy, Cotter, escaped through carelessness?" he
asked.

"I do," exclaimed Wyatt.

"Then why did you not prevent it?"

Wyatt trembled a little before the stern gaze of the chief.

Since when," continued Timmendiquas, "have you, a deserter front
your own people, had the right to hold to account the head chief
of the Wyandots?"   Braxton Wyatt, brave though he undoubtedly
was, trembled yet more. He knew that Timmendiquas did not like
him, and that the Wyandot chieftain could make his position among
the Indians precarious.

"I did not mean to say that it was the fault of anybody in
particular," he exclaimed hastily, "but I've been hearing so much
talk about the Spirit of Evil having a hand in this that I
couldn't keep front saying something. Of course, it was Henry
Ware and Hyde who did it!"

"It may be," said Timmendiquas icily, "but neither the Manitou of
the Wyandots, nor the Aieroski of the Iroquois has given to me
the eyes to see everything that happens in the dark."

Wyatt withdrew still in a rage, but afraid to say more. He and
Blackstaffe held many conferences through the day, and they
longed for the presence of Simon Girty, who was farther west.

That night an Onondaga runner arrived from one of the farthest
villages of the Mohawks, far east toward Albany. He had been
sent from a farther village, and was not known personally to the
warriors in the great camp, but he bore a wampum belt of purple
shells, the sign of war, and he reported directly to
Thayendanegea, to whom he brought stirring and satisfactory
words. After ample feasting, as became one who had come so far,
he lay upon soft deerskins in one of the bark huts and sought
sleep.

But Braxton Wyatt, the renegade, could not sleep. His evil
spirit warned him to rise and go to the huts, where the two
remaining prisoners were kept. It was then about one o'clock in
the morning, and as he passed he saw the Onondaga runner at the
door of one of the prison lodges. He was about to cry out, but
the Onondaga turned and struck him such a violent blow with the
butt of a pistol, snatched from under his deerskin tunic, that he
fell senseless. When a Mohawk sentinel found and revived him an
hour later, the door of the hut was open, and the oldest of the
prisoners, the one called Ross, was gone.

Now, indeed, were the Iroquois certain that the Spirit of Evil
was among them. When great chiefs like Timmendiquas and
Thayendanegea were deceived, how could a common warrior hope to
escape its wicked influence!

But Braxton Wyatt, with a sore and aching head, lay all day on a
bed of skins, and his friend, Moses Blackstaffe, could give him
no comfort.

The following night the camp was swept by a sudden and tremendous
storm of thunder and lightning, wind and rain. Many of the
lodges were thrown down, and when the storm finally whirled
itself away, it was found that the last of the prisoners, he of
the long arms and long legs, had gone on the edge of the blast.

Truly the Evil Spirit had been hovering over the Iroquois
village.

CHAPTER VII

CATHARINE MONTOUR

The five lay deep in the swamp, reunited once more, and full of
content. The great storm in which Long Jim, with the aid of his
comrades, had disappeared, was whirling off to the eastward. The
lightning was flaring its last on the distant horizon, but the
rain still pattered in the great woods.

It was a small hut, but the five could squeeze in it. They were
dry, warm, and well armed, and they had no fear of the storm and
the wilderness. The four after their imprisonment and privations
were recovering their weight and color. Paul, who had suffered
the most, had, on the other hand, made the quickest recovery, and
their present situation, so fortunate in contrast with their
threatened fate a few days before, made a great appeal to his
imagination. The door was allowed to stand open six inches , and
through the crevice he watched the rain pattering on the dark
earth. He felt an immense sense of security and comfort. Paul
was hopeful by nature and full of courage, but when he lay bound
and alone in a hut in the Iroquois camp it seemed to him that no
chance was left. The comrades had been kept separate, and he had
supposed the others to be dead. But here he was snatched from
the very pit of death, and all the others had been saved from a
like fate.

"If I'd known that you were alive and uncaptured, Henry," he
said, " I'd never have given up hope. It was a wonderful thing
you did to start the chain that drew us all away."

"It's no more than Sol or Tom or any of you would have done,"
said Henry.

"We might have tried it," said Long Jim Hart, "but I ain't sure
that we'd have done it. Likely ez not, ef it had been left to me
my scalp would be dryin' somewhat in the breeze that fans a
Mohawk village. Say, Sol, how wuz it that you talked Onondaga
when you played the part uv that Onondaga runner. Didn't know
you knowed that kind uv Injun lingo."

Shif'less Sol drew himself up proudly, and then passed a
thoughtful hand once or twice across his forehead.

"Jim," he said, "I've told you often that Paul an' me hez the
instincts uv the eddicated. Learnin' always takes a mighty
strong hold on me. Ef I'd had the chance, I might be a
purfessor, or mebbe I'd be writin' poetry. I ain't told you
about it, but when I wuz a young boy, afore I moved with the
settlers, I wuz up in these parts an' I learned to talk Iroquois
a heap. I never thought it would be the use to me it hez been
now. Ain't it funny that sometimes when you put a thing away an'
it gits all covered with rust and mold, the time comes when that
same forgot little thing is the most vallyble article in the
world to you."

"Weren't you scared, Sol," persisted Paul, "to face a man like
Brant, an' pass yourself off as an Onondaga?"

"No, I wuzn't," replied the shiftless one thoughtfully, "I've
been wuss scared over little things. I guess that when your life
depends on jest a motion o' your hand or the turnin' o' a word,
Natur' somehow comes to your help an' holds you up. I didn't get
good an' skeered till it wuz all over, an' then I had one fit
right after another."

"I've been skeered fur a week without stoppin'," said Tom Ross;
"jest beginnin' to git over it. I tell you, Henry, it wuz
pow'ful lucky fur us you found them steppin' stones, an' this
solid little place in the middle uv all that black mud."

"Makes me think uv the time we spent the winter on that island
in the lake," said Long Jim.  "That waz shorely a nice place an'
pow'ful comf'table we wuz thar. But we're a long way from it
now. That island uv ours must be seven or eight hundred miles
from here, an' I reckon it's nigh to fifteen hundred to New
Orleans, whar we wuz once."

"Shet up," said Tom Ross suddenly. "Time fur all uv you to go to
sleep, an' I'm goin' to watch."

"I'll watch," said Henry.

"I'm the oldest, an' I'm goin' to have my way this time," said
Tom.

"Needn't quarrel with me about it," said Shif'less Sol. "A lazy
man like me is always willin' to go to sleep. You kin hev my
watch, Tom, every night fur the next five years."

He ranged himself against the wall, and in three minutes was
sound asleep. Henry and Paul found room in the line, and they,
too, soon slept. Tom sat at the door, one of the captured rifles
across his knees, and watched the forest and the swamp. He saw
the last flare of the distant lightning, and he listened to the
falling of the rain drops until they vanished with the vanishing
wind, leaving the forest still and without noise.

Tom was several years older than any of the others, and, although
powerful in action, be was singularly chary of speech. Henry was
the leader, but somehow Tom looked upon himself as a watcher over
the other four, a sort of elder brother. As the moon came out a
little in the wake of the retreating clouds, he regarded them
affectionately.

"One, two, three, four, five," he murmured to himself. "We're
all here, an' Henry come fur us. That is shorely the greatest
boy the world hez ever seed. Them fellers Alexander an' Hannibal
that Paul talks about couldn't hev been knee high to Henry.
Besides, ef them old Greeks an' Romans hed hed to fight Wyandots
an' Shawnees an' Iroquois ez we've done, whar'd they hev been?"

Tom Ross uttered a contemptuous little sniff, and on the edge of
that sniff Alexander and Hannibal were wafted into oblivion.
Then he went outside and walked about the islet, appreciating for
the tenth time what a wonderful little refuge it was. He was
about to return to the hut when he saw a dozen dark blots along
the high bough of a tree. He knew them. They were welcome
blots. They were wild turkeys that had found what had seemed to
be a secure roosting place in the swamp.

Tom knew that the meat of the little bear was nearly exhausted,
and here was more food come to their hand. "We're five pow'ful
feeders, an' we'll need you," he murmured, looking up at the
turkeys, " but you kin rest thar till nearly mornin'."

He knew that the turkeys would not stir, and he went back to the
hut to resume his watch. just before the first dawn he awoke
Henry.

"Henry," he said, "a lot uv foolish wild turkeys hev gone to rest
on the limb of a tree not twenty yards from this grand manshun uv
ourn. 'Pears to me that wild turkeys wuz made fur hungry fellers
like us to eat. Kin we risk a shot or two at 'em, or is it too
dangerous?"

"I think we can risk the shots," said Henry, rising and taking
his rifle. " We're bound to risk something, and it's not likely
that Indians are anywhere near."

They slipped from the cabin, leaving the other three still sound
asleep, and stepped noiselessly among the trees. The first pale
gray bar that heralded the dawn was just showing in the cast.

"Thar they are," said Tom Ross, pointing at the dozen dark blots
on the high bough.

"We'll take good aim, and when I say 'fire!' we'll both pull
trigger," said Henry.

He picked out a huge bird near the end of the line, but be
noticed when be drew the bead that a second turkey just behind
the first was directly in his line of fire. The fact aroused his
ambition to kill both with one bullet. It was not a mere desire
to slaughter or to display marksmanship, but they needed the
extra turkey for food.

"Are you ready, Tom?" he asked. " Then fire."

They pulled triggers, there were two sharp reports terribly loud
to both under the circumstances, and three of the biggest and
fattest of the turkeys fell heavily to the ground, while the rest
flapped their wings, and with frightened gobbles flew away.

Henry was about to rush forward, but Silent Tom held him back.

"Don't show yourself, Henry! Don't show yourself!" he cried
in tense tones.

"Why, what's the matter?" asked the boy in surprise.

"Don't you see that three turkeys fell, and we are only two to
shoot? An Injun is layin' 'roun' here some whar, an' he drawed a
bead on one uv them turkeys at the same time we did."

Henry laughed and put away Tom's detaining hand.

"There's no Indian about," he said. "I killed two turkeys with
one shot, and I'm mighty proud of it, too. I saw that they were
directly in the line of the bullet, and it went through both."

Silent Tom heaved a mighty sigh of relief, drawn up from great
depths.

"I'm tre-men-jeous-ly glad uv that, Henry," he said. "Now when I
saw that third turkey come tumblin' down I wuz shore that one
Injun or mebbe more had got on this snug little place uv ourn in
the swamp, an' that we'd hev to go to fightin' ag'in. Thar come
times, Henry, when my mind just natchally rises up an' rebels
ag'in fightin', 'specially when I want to eat or sleep. Ain't
thar anythin' else but fight, fight, fight, 'though I 'low a
feller hez got to expect a lot uv it out here in the woods?"

They picked up the three turkeys, two gobblers and a hen, and
found them large and fat as butter. More than once the wild
turkey had come to their relief, and, in fact, this bird played a
great part in the life of the frontier, wherever that frontier
might be, as it shifted steadily westward. As they walked back
toward the hut they faced three figures, all three with leveled
rifles.

"All right, boys," sang out Henry. "It's nobody but Tom and
myself, bringing in our breakfast."

The three dropped their rifles.

"That's good," said Shif'less Sol. "When them shots roused us
out o' our beauty sleep we thought the whole Iroquois nation,
horse, foot, artillery an' baggage wagons, wuz comin' down upon
us. So we reckoned we'd better go out an' lick 'em afore it wuz
too late.

"But it's you, an' you've got turkeys, nothin' but turkeys. Sho'
I reckoned from the peart way Long Jim spoke up that you wuz
loaded down with hummin' birds' tongues, ortylans, an' all them
other Roman and Rooshian delicacies Paul talks about in a way to
make your mouth water. But turkeys! jest turkeys! Nothin' but
turkeys!"

"You jest wait till you see me cookin' 'em, Sol Hyde," said Long
Jim. "Then your mouth'll water, an' it'll take Henry and Tom both
to hold you back."

But Shif'less Sol's mouth was watering already, and his eyes were
glued on the turkeys.

"I'm a pow'ful lazy man, ez you know, Saplin'," he said, "but I'm
goin' to help you pick them turkeys an' get 'em ready for the
coals. The quicker they are cooked the better it'll suit me."

While they were cooking the turkeys, Henry, a little anxious lest
the sound of the shots had been heard, crossed on the stepping
stones and scouted a bit in the woods. But there was no sign of
Indian presence, and, relieved, he returned to the islet just as
breakfast was ready.

Long Jim had exerted all his surpassing skill, and it was a
contented five that worked on one of the turkeys - the other two
being saved for further needs.

"What's goin' to be the next thing in the line of our duty,
Henry?" asked Long Jim as they ate.

"We'll have plenty to do, from all that Sol tells us," replied
the boy. "It seems that they felt so sure of you, while you were
prisoners, that they often talked about their plans where you
could hear them. Sol has told me of two or three talks between
Timmendiquas and Thayendanegea, and from the last one he gathered
that they're intending a raid with a big army against a place
called Wyoming, in the valley of a river named the Susquehanna.
It's a big settlement, scattered all along the river, and they
expect to take a lot of scalps. They're going to be helped by
British from Canada and Tories. Boys, we're a long way from
home, but shall we go and tell them in Wyoming what's coming?"

"Of course," said the four together.

"Our bein' a long way from home don't make any difference " said
Shif'less Sol. "We're generally a long way from home, an' you
know we sent word back from Pittsburgh to Wareville that we wuz
stayin' a while here in the east on mighty important business."

"Then we go to the Wyoming Valley as straight and as fast as we
can," said Henry. "That's settled. What else did you bear about
their plans, Sol?"

"They're to break up the village here soon and then they'll march
to a place called Tioga. The white men an' I hear that's to be a
lot uv 'em-will join 'em thar or sooner. They've sent chiefs all
the way to our Congress at Philydelphy, pretendin' peace, an'
then, when they git our people to thinkin' peace, they'll jump on
our settlements, the whole ragin' army uv 'em, with tomahawk an'
knife. A white man named John Butler is to command 'em."

Paul shuddered.

"I've heard of him," he said. "They called him 'Indian' Butler
at Pittsburgh. He helped lead the Indians in that terrible
battle of the Oriskany last year. And they say he's got a son,
Walter Butler, who is as bad as he is, and there are other white
leaders of the Indians, the Johnsons and Claus."

"'Pears ez ef we would be needed," said Tom Ross.

"I don't think we ought to hurry," said Henry. The more we know
about the Indian plans the better it will be for the Wyoming
people. We've a safe and comfortable hiding place here, and we
can stay and watch the Indian movements."

"Suits me," drawled Shif'less Sol. "My legs an' arms are still
stiff from them deerskin thongs an' ez Long Jim is here now to
wait on me I guess I'll take a rest from travelin."

"You'll do all your own waitin' on yourself," rejoined Long Jim;
'an I'm afraid you won't be waited on so Pow'ful well, either,
but a good deal better than you deserve."

They lay on the islet several days, meanwhile keeping a close
watch on the Indian camp. They really had little to fear except
from hunting parties, as the region was far from any settled
portion of the country, and the Indians were not likely to
suspect their continued presence. But the hunters were numerous,
and all the squaws in the camp were busy jerking meat. It was
obvious that the Indians were preparing for a great campaign, but
that they would take their own time. Most of the scouting was
done by Henry and Sol, and several times they lay in the thick
brushwood and watched, by the light of the fires, what was
passing in the Indian camp.

On the fifth night after the rescue of Long Jim, Henry and
Shif'less Sol lay in the covert. It was nearly midnight, but the
fires still burned in the Indian camp, warriors were polishing
their weapons, and the women were cutting up or jerking meat.
While they were watching they heard from a point to the north the
sound of a voice rising and failing in a kind of chant.

"Another war party comin'," whispered Shif'less Sol, "an' singin'
about the victories that they're goin' to win."

"But did you notice that voice?" Henry whispered back. " It's
not a man's, it's a woman's."

"Now that you speak of it, you're right," said Shif'less Sol.
"It's funny to hear an Injun woman chantin' about battles as she
comes into camp. That's the business o' warriors."

"Then this is no ordinary woman," said Henry.

"They'll pass along that trail there within twenty yards of us,
Sol, and we want to see her."

"So we do," said Sol, "but I ain't breathin' while they pass."

They flattened themselves against the earth until the keenest eye
could not see them in the darkness. All the time the singing was
growing louder, and both remained, quite sure that it was the
voice of a woman. The trail was but a short distance away, and
the moon was bright. The fierce Indian chant swelled, and
presently the most .singular figure that either had ever seen
came into view.

The figure was that of an Indian woman, but lighter in color than
most of her kind. She was middle-aged, tall, heavily built, and
arrayed in a strange mixture of civilized and barbaric finery,
deerskin leggins and moccasins gorgeously ornamented with heads,
a red dress of European cloth with a red shawl over it, and her
head bare except for bright feathers, thrust in her long black
hair, which hung loosely down her back. She held in one hand a
large sharp tomahawk, which she swung fiercely in time to her
song. Her face had the rapt, terrible expression of one who had
taken some fiery and powerful drug, and she looked neither to
right nor to left as she strode on, chanting a song of blood, and
swinging the keen blade.

Henry and Shif'less Sol shuddered. They had looked upon terrible
human figures, but nothing so frightful as this, a woman with the
strength of a man and twice his rage and cruelty. There was
something weird and awful in the look of that set, savage face,
and the tone of that Indian chant. Brave as they were, Henry and
the shiftless one felt fear, as perhaps they had never felt it
before in their lives. Well they might! They were destined to
behold this woman again, under conditions the most awful of which
the human mind can conceive, and to witness savagery almost
unbelievable in either man or woman. The two did not yet know
it, but they were looking upon Catharine Montour, daughter of a
French Governor General of Canada and an Indian woman, a
chieftainess of the Iroquois, and of a memory infamous forever on
the border, where she was known as "Queen Esther."

Shif'less Sol shuddered again, and whispered to Henry:

"I didn't think such women ever lived, even among the Indians."

A dozen warriors followed Queen Esther, stepping in single file,
and their manner showed that they acknowledged her their leader
in every sense. She was truly an extraordinary woman. Not even
the great Thayendanegea himself wielded a stronger influence
among the Iroquois. In her youth she had been treated as a white
woman, educated and dressed as a white woman, and she had played
a part in colonial society at Albany, New York, and Philadelphia.
But of her own accord she had turned toward the savage half of
herself, had become wholly a savage, had married a savage chief,
bad been the mother of savage children, and here she was, at
midnight, striding into an Iroquois camp in the wilderness, her
head aflame with visions of blood, death, and scalps.

The procession passed with the terrifying female figure still
leading, still singing her chant, and the curiosity of Henry and
Shif'less Sol was so intense that, taking all risks, they slipped
along in the rear to see her entry.

Queen Esther strode into the lighted area of the camp, ceased her
chant, and looked around, as if a queen had truly come and was
waiting to be welcomed by her subjects. Thayendanegea, who
evidently expected her, stepped forward and gave her the Indian
salute. It may be that he received her with mild enthusiasm.
Timmendiquas, a Wyandot and a guest, though an ally, would not
dispute with him his place as real head of the Six Nations, but
this terrible woman was his match ' and could inflame the
Iroquois to almost anything that she wished.

After the arrival of Queen Esther the lights in the Iroquois
village died down. It was evident to both Henry and the
shiftless one that they had been kept burning solely in the
expectation of the coming of this formidable woman and her
escort. It was obvious that nothing more was to be seen that
night, and they withdrew swiftly through the forest toward their
islet. They stopped once in an oak opening, and Shif'less Sol
shivered slightly.

"Henry," he said, "I feel all through me that somethin' terrible
is comin'. That woman back thar has clean give me the shivers.
I'm more afraid of her than I am of Timmendiquas or
Thayendanegea. Do you think she is a witch?"

"There are no such things as witches, but she was uncanny. I'm
afraid, Sol, that your feeling about something terrible going to
happen is right."

It was about two o'clock in the morning when they reached the
islet. Tom Ross was awake, but the other two slumbered
peacefully on. They told Tom what they had seen, and he told
them the identity of the terrible woman.

"I heard about her at Pittsburgh, an' I've heard tell, too, about
her afore I went to Kentucky to live. She's got a tre-men-jeous
power over the Iroquois. They think she ken throw spells, an'
all that sort of thing-an' mebbe she kin."

Two nights later it was Henry and Tom who lay in the thickets,
and then they saw other formidable arrivals in the Indian camp.
Now they were white men, an entire company in green uniforms, Sir
John Johnson's Royal Greens, as Henry afterward learned; and with
them was the infamous John Butler, or " Indian" Butler, as he was
generally known on the New York and Pennsylvania frontier,
middle-aged, short and fat, and insignificant of appearance, but
energetic, savage and cruel in nature. He was a descendant of
the Duke of Ormond, and had commanded the Indians at the terrible
battle of the Oriskany, preceding Burgoyne's capture the year
before.

Henry and Tom were distant spectators at an extraordinary council
around one of the fires. In this group were Timmendiquas,
Thayendanegea, Queen Esther, high chiefs of the distant nations,
and the white men, John Butler, Moses Blackstaffe, and the boy,
Braxton Wyatt. It seemed to Henry that Timmendiquas, King of the
Wyandots, was superior to all the other chiefs present, even to
Thayendanegea. His expression was nobler than that of the great
Mohawk, and it had less of the Indian cruelty.

Henry and Tom could not hear 'anything that was said, but they
felt sure the Iroquois were about to break up their village and
march on the great campaign they had planned. The two and their
comrades could render no greater service than to watch their
march, and then warn those upon whom the blow was to fall.

The five left their hut on the islet early the next morning, well
equipped with provisions, and that day they saw the Iroquois
dismantle their village, all except the Long House and two or
three other of the more solid structures, and begin the march.
Henry and his comrades went parallel with them, watching their
movements as closely as possible.

CHAPTER VIII

A CHANGE OF TENANTS

The five were engaged upon one of their most dangerous tasks, to
keep with the Indian army, and yet to keep out of its hands, to
observe what was going on, and to divine what was intended from
what they observed. Fortunately it, was early summer, and the
weather being very beautiful they could sleep without shelter.
Hence they found it convenient to sleep sometimes by daylight,
posting a watch always, and to spy upon the Indian camp at night.
They saw other reinforcements come for the Indian army,
particularly a strong division of Senecas, under two great war
chiefs of theirs, Sangerachte and Hiokatoo, and also a body of
Tories.

Then they saw them go into their last great camp at Tioga,
preparatory to their swift descent upon the Wyoming Valley.
About four hundred white men, English Canadians and Tories, were
present, and eight hundred picked warriors of the Six Nations
under Thayendanegea, besides the little band of Wyandots led by
the resolute Timmendiquas. "Indian" Butler was in general
command of the whole, and Queen Esther was the high priestess of
the Indians, continually making fiery speeches and chanting songs
that made the warriors see red. Upon the rear of this
extraordinary army hung a band of fierce old squaws, from whom
every remnant of mercy and Gentleness had departed.

From a high rock overlooking a valley the five saw "Indian"
Butler's force start for its final march upon Wyoming. It was
composed of many diverse elements, and perhaps none more
bloodthirsty ever trod the soil of America. In some preliminary
skirmish a son of Queen Esther had been slain, and now her fury
knew no limits. She took her place at the very head of the army,
whirling her great tomahawk about her head, and neither "Indian"
Butler nor Thayendanegea dared to interfere with her in anything
great or small.

Henry and his comrades, as they left their rock and hastened
toward the valley of Wyoming, felt that now they were coming into
contact with the great war itself. They had looked upon a
uniformed enemy for the first time, and they might soon see the
colonial buff and blue of the eastern army. Their hearts
thrilled high at new scenes and new dangers.

They had gathered at Pittsburgh, and, through the captivity of
the four in the Iroquois camp, they had some general idea of the
Wyoming Valley and the direction in which it lay, and, taking one
last look at the savage army, they sped toward it. The time was
the close, of June, and the foliage was still dark green. It was
a land of low mountain, hill, rich valley, and clear stream, and
it was beautiful to every one of the five. Much of their course
lay along the Susquehanna, and soon they saw signs of a more
extended cultivation than any that was yet to be witnessed in
Kentucky. From the brow of a little hill they beheld a field of
green, and in another field a man plowing.

"That's wheat," said Tom Ross.

"But we can't leave the man to plow," said Henry, "or he'll
never harvest that wheat. We'll warn him."

The man uttered a cry of alarm as five wild figures burst into
his field. He stopped abruptly, and snatched up a rifle that lay
across the plow handles. Neither Henry nor his companions
realized that their forest garb and long life in the wilderness
made them look more like Indians than white men. But Henry threw
up a hand as a sign of peace.

"We're white like yourselves," he cried, "and we've come to warn
you! The Iroquois and the Tories are marching into the valley!"

The man's face blanched, and he cast a hasty look toward a little
wood, where stood a cabin from which smoke was rising. He could
not doubt on a near view that these were white like himself, and
the words rang true.

"My house is strong," he said, "and I can beat them off. Maybe
you will help me."

"We'd help you willingly enough," said Henry, "if this were any
ordinary raiding band, but 'Indian' Butler, Brant, and Queen
Esther are coming at the head of twelve or fifteen hundred men.
How could we hold a house, no matter how thick its walls, against
such an army as that? Don't hesitate a moment! Get up what you
can and gallop."

The man, a Connecticut settler-Jennings was his name-left his
plow in the furrow, galloped on his horse to his house, mounted
his wife and children on other horses, and, taking only food and
clothing, fled to Stroudsburg, where there was a strong fort. At
a later day he gave Henry heartfelt thanks for his warning, as
six hours afterward the vanguard of the horde burned  his home
and raged because its owner and his family were gone with their
scalps on their own heads.

The five were now well into the Wyoming Valley, where the
Lenni-Lenape, until they were pushed westward by other tribes,
had had their village Wy-wa-mieh, which means in their language
Wyoming. It was a beautiful valley running twenty miles or more
along the Susquehanna, and about three miles broad. On either
side rose mountain walls a thousand feet in height, and further
away were peaks with mists and vapors around their crests. The
valley itself blazed in the summer sunshine, and the river
sparkled, now in gold, now in silver, as the light changed and
fell.

More cultivated fields, more houses, generally of stout logs,
appeared, and to all that they saw the five bore the fiery
beacon. Simon Jennings was not the only man who lived to thank
them for the warning. Others were incredulous, and soon paid the
terrible price of unbelief.

The five hastened on, and as they went they looked about them
with wondering eyes-there were so many houses, so many cultivated
fields, and so many signs of a numerous population. They had
emerged almost for the first time from the wilderness, excepting
their memorable visit to New Orleans, although this was a very
different region. Long Jim spoke of it.

"I think I like it better here than at New Or-leeyuns," he said.
"We found some nice Frenchmen an' Spaniards down thar, but the
ground feels firmer under my feet here."

"The ground feels firmer," said Paul, who had some of the
prescience of the seer, "but the skies are no brighter. They
look red to me sometimes, Jim."

Tom Ross glanced at Paul and shook his head ominously. A
woodsman, he had his superstitions, and Paul's words weighed upon
his mind. He began to fear a great disaster, and his experienced
eye perceived at once the defenseless state of the valley. He
remembered the council of the great Indian force in the deep
woods, and the terrible face of Queen Esther was again before
him.

"These people ought to be in blockhouses, every one uv 'em," he
said. "It ain't no time to be plowin' land."

Yet peace seemed to brood still over the valley. It was a fine
river, beautiful with changing colors. The soil on either side
was as deep and fertile as that of Kentucky, and the line of the
mountains cut the sky sharp and clear. Hills and slopes were
dark green with foliage.

It must have been a gran' huntin' ground once," said Shif'less
Sol.

The alarm that the five gave spread fast, and other hunters and
scouts came in, confirming it. Panic seized the settlers, and
they began to crowd toward Forty Fort on the west side of the
river. Henry and his comrades themselves arrived there toward
the close of evening, just as the sun had set, blood red, behind
the mountains. Some report of them had preceded their coming,
and as soon as they had eaten they were summoned to the presence
of Colonel Zebulon Butler, who commanded the military force in
the valley. Singularly enough, he was a cousin of "Indian"
Butler, who led the invading army.

The five, dressed in deerskin hunting shirts, leggins, and
moccasins, and everyone carrying a rifle, hatchet, and knife,
entered a large low room, dimly lighted by some wicks burning in
tallow. A man of middle years, with a keen New England face, sat
at a little table, and several others of varying ages stood near.

The five knew instinctively that the man at the table  was
Colonel Butler, and they bowed, but they did not show the
faintest trace of subservience. They had caught suspicious
glances from some of the officers who stood about the commander,
and they stiffened at once. Colonel Butler looked involuntarily
at Henry-everybody always took him, without the telling, for
leader of the group.

"We have had report of you," he said in cool noncommittal tones,"
and you have been telling of great Indian councils that you have
seen in the woods. May I ask your name and where you belong?"

"My name," replied Henry with dignity, "is Henry Ware, and I come
from Kentucky. My friends here are Paul Cotter, Solomon Hyde,
Tom Ross, and Jim Hart. They, too, come from Kentucky."

Several of the men gave the five suspicious glances. Certainly
they were wild enough in appearance, and Kentucky was far away.
It would seem strange that new settlers in that far land should
be here in Pennsylvania. Henry saw clearly that his story was
doubted.

"Kentucky, you tell me?" said Colonel Butler. "Do you mean to
say you have come all that tremendous distance to warn us of an
attack by Indians and Tories?"

Several of the others murmured approval, and Henry flushed a
little, but he saw that the commander was not unreasonable. It
was a time when men might well question the words of strangers.
Remembering this, he replied:

"No, we did not come from Kentucky just to warn you. In fact, we
came from a point much farther than that. We came from New
Orleans to Pittsburgh with a fleet loaded with supplies for the
Continental armies, and commanded by Adam Colfax of New
Hampshire."

The face of Colonel Butler brightened.

"What!" he exclaimed, "you were on that expedition? It seems to
me that I recall hearing of great services rendered to it by some
independent scouts."

"When we reached Pittsburgh," continued Henry, ""it was our first
intention to go back to Kentucky, but we heard that a great war
movement was in progress to the eastward, and we thought that we
would see what was going on. Four of us have been captives among
the Iroquois. We know much of their plans, and we know, too,
that Timmendiquas, the great chief of the Wyandots, whom we
fought along the Ohio, has joined them with a hand of his best
warriors. We have also seen Thayendanegea, every one of us."

"You have seen Brant?" exclaimed Colonel Butler, calling the
great Mohawk by his white name.

"Yes," replied Henry. "We have seen him, and we have also seen
the woman they call Queen Esther. She is continually urging the
Indians on."

Colonel Butler seemed convinced, and invited them to sit down.
He also introduced the officers who were with him, Colonel John
Durkee, Colonel Nathan Dennison, Lieutenant Colonel George
Dorrance, Major John Garrett, Captain Samuel Ransom, Captain
Dethrie Hewitt, and some others.

"Now, gentlemen, tell us all that you saw," continued Colonel
Butler courteously."  You will pardon so many questions, but we
must be careful. You will see that yourselves. But I am a New
England man myself, from Connecticut, and I have met Adam Colfax.
I recall now that we have heard of you, also, and we are grateful
for your coming. Will you and your comrades tell us all that you
have seen and heard?"

The five felt a decided change in the atmosphere. They were no
longer possible Tories or renegades, bringing an alarm at one
point when it should be dreaded at another. The men drew closely
around them, and listened as the tallow wicks sputtered in the
dim room. Henry spoke first, and the others in their turn.
Every one of them spoke tersely but vividly in the language of
the forest. They felt deeply what they had seen, and they drew
the same picture for their listeners. Gradually the faces of the
Wyoming men became shadowed. This was a formidable tale that
they were hearing, and they could not doubt its truth.

"It is worse than I thought it could be," said Colonel Butler at
last."  How many men do you say they have, Mr. Ware?"

"Close to fifteen hundred."

"All trained warriors and soldiers. And at the best we cannot
raise more than three hundreds including old men and boys, and
our men, too, are farmers."

"But we can beat them. Only give us a chance, Colonel!"
exclaimed Captain Ransom.

"I'm afraid the chance will come too soon," said Colonel Butler,
and then turning to the five: "Help us all you can. We need
scouts and riflemen. Come to the fort for any food and
ammunition you may need."

The five gave their most earnest assurances that they would stay,
and do all in their power. In fact, they had come for that very
purpose. Satisfied now that Colonel Butler and his officers had
implicit faith in them they went forth to find that, despite the
night and the darkness, fugitives were already crossing the river
to seek refuge in Forty Fort, bringing with them tales of death
and devastation, some of which were exaggerated, but too many
true in all their hideous details. Men had been shot and scalped
in the fields, houses were burning, women and children were
captives for a fate that no one could foretell. Red ruin was
already stalking down the valley.

The farmers were bringing their wives and children in canoes and
dugouts across the river. Here and there a torch light flickered
on the surface of the stream, showing the pale faces of the women
and children, too frightened to cry. They had fled in haste,
bringing with them only the clothes they wore and maybe a blanket
or two. The borderers knew too well what Indian war was, with
all its accompaniments of fire and the stake.

Henry and his comrades helped nearly all that night. They
secured a large boat and crossed the river again and again,
guarding the fugitives with their rifles, and bringing comfort to
many a timid heart. Indian bands had penetrated far into the
Wyoming Valley, but they felt sure that none were yet in the
neighborhood of Forty Fort.

It was about three o'clock in the morning when the last of the
fugitives who had yet come was inside Forty Fort, and the labors
of the five, had they so chosen, were over for the time. But
their nerves were tuned to so high a pitch, and they felt so
powerfully the presence of danger, that they could not rest, nor
did they have any desire for sleep.

The boat in which they sat was a good one, with two pairs of
oars. It had been detailed for their service, and they decided
to pull up the river. They thought it possible that they might
see the advance of the enemy and bring news worth the telling.
Long Jim and Tom Ross took the oars, and their powerful arms sent
the boat swiftly along in the shadow of the western bank. Henry
and Paul looked back and saw dim lights at the fort and a few on
either shore. The valley, the high mountain wall, and everything
else were merged in obscurity.

Both the youths were oppressed heavily by the sense of danger,
not for themselves, but for others. In that Kentucky of theirs,
yet so new, few people lived beyond the palisades, but here were
rich and scattered settlements; and men, even in the face of
great peril, are always loth to abandon the homes that they have
built with so much toil.

Tom Ross and Long Jim continued to pull steadily with the long
strokes that did not tire them, and the lights of the fort and
houses sank out of sight. Before them lay the somber surface of
the rippling river, the shadowy hills, and silence. The world
seemed given over to the night save for themselves, but they knew
too well to trust to such apparent desertion. At such hours the
Indian scouts come, and Henry did not doubt that they were
already near, gathering news of their victims for the Indian and
Tory horde. Therefore, it was the part of his comrades and
himself to use the utmost caution as they passed up the river.

They bugged the western shore, where they were shadowed by banks
and bushes, and now they went slowly, Long Jim and Tom Ross
drawing their oars so carefully through the water that there was
never a plash to tell of their passing. Henry was in the prow of
the boat, bent forward a little, eyes searching the surface of
the river, and ears intent upon any sound that might pass on the
bank. Suddenly he gave a little signal to the rowers and they
let their oars rest.

"Bring the boat in closer to the bank," he whispered. Push it
gently among those bushes where we cannot be seen from above."

Tom and Jim obeyed. The boat slid softly among tall bushes that
shadowed the water, and was hidden completely. Then Henry
stepped out, crept cautiously nearly up the bank, which was here
very low, and lay pressed closely against the earth, but
supported by the exposed root of a tree. He had heard voices,
those of Indians, he believed, and he wished to see. Peering
through a fringe of bushes that lined the bank he saw seven
warriors and one white face sitting under the boughs of a great
oak. The face was that of Braxton Wyatt, who was now in his
element, with a better prospect of success than any that he had
ever known before. Henry shuddered, and for a moment he
regretted that he had spared Wyatt's life when he might have
taken it.

But Henry was lying against the bank to hear what these men might
be saying, not to slay. Two of the warriors, as he saw by their
paint, were Wyandots, and he understood the Wyandot tongue.
Moreover, his slight knowledge of Iroquois came into service, and
gradually he gathered the drift of their talk. Two miles nearer
Forty Fort was a farmhouse one of the Wyandots had seen it-not
yet abandoned by its owner, who believed that his proximity to
Forty Fort assured his safety. He lived there with his wife and
five children, and Wyatt and the Indians planned to raid the
place before daylight and kill them all. Henry had heard enough.
He slid back from the bank to the water and crept into the boat.

"Pull back down the river as gently as you can," he whispered,
"and then I'll tell you."

The skilled oarsmen carried the boat without a splash several
hundred yards down the stream, and then Henry told the others of
the fiendish plan that he had heard.

"I know that man," said Shif'less Sol. "His name is Standish. I
was there nine or ten hours ago, an' I told him it wuz time to
take his family an' run. But he knowed more'n I did. Said he'd
stay, he wuzn't afraid, an' now he's got to pay the price."

"No, he mustn't do that," said Henry. "It's too much to pay for
just being foolish, when everybody is foolish sometimes. Boys,
we can yet save that man an' his wife and children. Aren't you
willing to do it?"

"Why, course," said Long Jim. "Like ez not Standish will shoot
at us when we knock on his door, but let's try it."

The others nodded assent.

"How far back from the river is the Standish house, Sol?" asked
Henry.

"'Bout three hundred yards, I reckon, and' it ain't more'n a mile
down."

"Then if we pull with all our might, we won't be too late. Tom,
you and Jim give Sol and me the oars now."

Henry and the shiftless one were fresh, and they sent the boat
shooting down stream, until they stopped at a point indicated by
Sol. They leaped ashore, drew the boat down the bank, and
hastened toward a log house that they saw standing in a clump of
trees. The enemy had not yet come, but as they swiftly
approached the house a dog ran barking at them. The shiftless
one swung his rifle butt, and the dog fell unconscious.

"I hated to do it, but I had to," he murmured. The next moment
Henry was knocking at the door.

"Up! Up!" he cried, "the Indians are at hand, and you must run
for your lives!"

How many a time has that terrible cry been heard on the American
border!

The sound of a man's voice, startled and angry, came to their
ears, and then they heard him at the door.

"Who are you?" he cried. "Why are you beating on my door at such
a time?"

"We are friends, Mr. Standish," cried Henry, "and if you would
save your wife and children you must go at once! Open the door!
Open, I say!"

The man inside was in a terrible quandary. It was thus that
renegades or Indians, speaking the white man's tongue, sometimes
bade a door to be opened, in order that they might find an easy
path to slaughter. But the voice outside was powerfully
insistent, it had the note of truth; his wife and children,
roused, too, were crying out, in alarm. Henry knocked again on
the door and shouted to him in a voice, always increasing in
earnestness, to open and flee. Standish could resist no longer.
He took down the bar and flung open the door, springing back,
startled at the five figures that stood before him. In the dusk
he did not remember Shif'less Sol.

"Mr. Standish," Henry said, speaking rapidly, "we are, as you can
see, white. You will be attacked here by Indians and renegades
within half an hour. We know that, because we heard them talking
from the bushes. We have a boat in the river; you can reach it
in five minutes. Take your wife and children, and pull for Forty
Fort."

Standish was bewildered.

"How do I know that you are not enemies, renegades, yourselves?"
he asked.

"If we had been that you'd be a dead man already," said Shif'less
Sol.

It was a grim reply, but it was unanswerable, and Standish
recognized the fact. His wife had felt the truth in the tones of
the strangers, and was begging him to go. Their children were
crying at visions of the tomahawk and scalping knife now so near.

"We'll go," said Standish. "At any rate, it can't do any harm.
We'll get a few things together."

"Do not wait for anything! "exclaimed Henry. "You haven't a
minute to spare! Here are more blankets! Take them and run for
the boat! Sol and Jim, see them on board, and then come back!"

Carried away by such fire and earnestness, Standish and his
family ran for the boat. Jim and the shiftless one almost threw
them on board, thrust a pair of oars into the bands of Standish,
another into the hands of his wife, and then told them to pull
with all their might for the fort.

"And you," cried Standish, "what becomes of you?"

Then a singular expression passed over his face-he had guessed
Henry's plan.

"Don't you trouble about us," said the shiftless one. "We will
come later. Now pull! pull!"

Standish and his wife swung on the oars, and in two minutes the
boat and its occupants were lost in the darkness. Tom Ross and
Sol did not pause to watch them, but ran swiftly back to the
house. Henry was at the door.

"Come in," he said briefly, and they entered. Then he closed the
door and dropped the bar into place. Shif'less Sol and Paul were
already inside, one sitting on the chair and the other on the
edge of the bed. Some coals, almost hidden under ashes,
smoldered and cast a faint light in the room, the only one that
the house had, although it was divided into two parts by a rough
homespun curtain. Henry opened one of the window shutters a
little and looked out. The dawn had not yet come, but it was not
a dark night, and he looked over across the little clearing to
the trees beyond. On that side was a tiny garden, and near the
wall of the house some roses were blooming. He could see the
glow of pink and red. But no enemy bad yet approached.
Searching the clearing carefully with those eyes of his, almost
preternaturally keen, he was confident that the Indians were
still in the woods. He felt an intense thrill of satisfaction at
the success of his plan so far.

He was not cruel, he never rejoiced in bloodshed, but the
borderer alone knew what the border suffered, and only those who
never saw or felt the torture could turn the other cheek to be
smitten. The Standish house had made a sudden and ominous change
of tenants.

"It will soon be day," said Henry, "and farmers are early risers.
Kindle up that fire a little, will you, Sol? I want some smoke
to come out of the chimney."

The shiftless one raked away the ashes, and put on two or three
pieces of wood that lay on the hearth. Little flames and smoke
arose. Henry looked curiously about the house. It was the usual
cabin of the frontier, although somewhat larger. The bed on
which Shif'less Sol sat was evidently that of the father and
mother, while two large ones behind the curtain were used by the
children. On the shelf stood a pail half full of drinking water,
and by the side of it a tin cup. Dried herbs hung over the
fireplace, and two or three chests stood in the corners. The
clothing of the children was scattered about. Unprepared food
for breakfast stood on a table. Everything told of a hasty
flight and its terrible need. Henry was already resolved, but
his heart hardened within him as he saw.

He took the hatchet from his belt and cut one of the hooks for
the door bar nearly in two. The others said not a word. They
had no need to speak. They understood everything that he did.
He opened the window again and looked out. Nothing yet appeared.
"The dawn will come in three quarters of an hour," he said, "and
we shall not have to wait long for what we want to do."

He sat down facing the door. All the others were sitting, and
they, too, faced the door. Everyone had his rifle across his
knees, with one hand upon the hammer. The wood on the hearth
sputtered as the fire spread, and the flames grew. Beyond a
doubt a thin spire of smoke was rising from the chimney, and a
watching eye would see this sign of a peaceful and unsuspecting
mind.

"I hope Braxton Wyatt will be the first to knock at our door,"
said Shif'less Sol.

"I wouldn't be sorry," said Henry.

Paul was sitting in a chair near the fire, and he said nothing.
He hoped the waiting would be very short. The light was
sufficient for him to see the faces of his comrades, and he
noticed that they were all very tense. This was no common watch
that they kept. Shif'less Sol remained on the bed, Henry sat on
another of the chairs, Tom Ross was on one of the chests with his
back to the wall. Long Jim was near the curtain. Close by Paul
was a home-made cradle. He put down his hand and touched it. He
was glad that it was empty now, but the sight of it steeled his
heart anew for the task that lay before them.

Ten silent minutes passed, and Henry went to the window again.
He did not open it, but there was a crack through which he could
see. The others said nothing, but watched his face. When he
turned away they knew that the moment was at hand.

"They've just come from the woods," he said, "and in a minute
they'll be at the door. Now, boys, take one last look at your
rifles."

A minute later there was a sudden sharp knock at the door, but no
answer came from within. The knock was repeated, sharper and
louder, and Henry, altering his voice as much as possible,
exclaimed like one suddenly awakened from sleep:

"Who is it? What do you want?"

Back came a voice which Henry knew to be that of Braxton Wyatt:

"We've come from farther up the valley. We're scouts, we've been
up to the Indian country. We're half starved. Open and give us
food!"

"I don't believe you," replied Henry. "Honest people don't
come to my door at this time in the morning."

Then ensued a few moments of silence, although Paul, with his
vivid fancy, thought he heard whispering on the other side of the
door.

"Open!" cried Wyatt, "or we'll break your door down!" Henry said
nothing, nor did any of the others. They did not stir. The fire
crackled a little, but there was no other sound in the Standish
house. Presently they heard a slight noise outside, that of
light feet.

"They are going for a log with which to break the door in,"
whispered Henry. "They won't have to look far. The wood pile
isn't fifty feet away."

"An' then," said Shif'less Sol, "they won't have much left to do
but to take the scalps of women an' little children."

Every figure in the Standish house stiffened at the shiftless
one's significant words, and the light in the eyes grew sterner.
Henry went to the door, put his ear to the line where it joined
the wall, and listened.

"They've got their log," he said, "and in half a minute they'll
rush it against the door."

He came back to his old position. Paul's heart began to thump,
and his thumb fitted itself over the trigger of his cocked rifle.
Then they heard rapid feet, a smash, a crash, and the door flew
open. A half dozen  Iroquois and a log that they held between
them were hurled into the middle of the room. The door had given
away so easily and unexpectedly that the warriors could not check
themselves, and two or three fell with the log. But they sprang
like cats to their feet, and with their comrades uttered a cry
that filled the whole cabin with its terrible sound and import.

The Iroquois, keen of eyes and quick of mind, saw the trap at
once.  The five grim figures, rifle in hand and finger on
trigger, all waiting silent and motionless were far different
from what they expected. Here could be no scalps, with the long,
silky hair of women and children.

There was a moment's pause, and then the Indians rushed at their
foes. Five fingers pulled triggers, flame leaped from five
muzzles, and in an instant the cabin was filled with smoke and
war shouts, but the warriors never had a chance. They could only
strike blindly with their tomahawks, and in a half minute three
of them, two wounded, rushed through the door and fled to the
woods. They had been preceded already by Braxton Wyatt, who had
hung back craftily while the Iroquois broke down the door.

CHAPTER IX

WYOMING

The five made no attempt to pursue. In fact, they did not leave
the cabin, but stood there a while, looking down at the fallen,
hideous with war paint, but now at the end of their last trail.
Their tomahawks lay upon the floor, and glittered when the light
from the fire fell upon them. Smoke, heavy with the odor of
burned gunpowder, drifted about the room.

Henry threw open the two shuttered windows, and fresh currents of
air poured into the room. Over the mountains in the east came
the first shaft of day. The surface of the river was lightening.

"What shall we do with them?" asked Paul, pointing to the silent
forms on the floor.

"Leave them," said Henry. "Butler's army is burning everything
before it, and this house and all in it is bound to go. You
notice, however, that Braxton Wyatt is not here."

"Trust him to escape every time," said Shif'less Sol. "Of course
he stood back while the Indians rushed the house. But ez shore
ez we live somebody will get him some day. People like that
can't escape always."

They slipped from the house, turning toward the river bank, and
not long after it was full daylight they were at Forty Fort
again, where they found Standish and his family. Henry replied
briefly to the man's questions, but two hours later a scout came
in and reported the grim sight that he had seen in the Standish
home. No one could ask for further proof of the fealty of the
five, who sought a little sleep, but before noon were off again.

They met more fugitives, and it was now too dangerous to go
farther up the valley. But not willing to turn back, they
ascended the mountains that hem it in, and from the loftiest
point that they could find sought a sight of the enemy.

It was an absolutely brilliant day in summer. The blue of the
heavens showed no break but the shifting bits of white cloud, and
the hills and mountains rolled away, solid masses of rich, dark
green. The river, a beautiful river at any time, seemed from
this height a great current of quicksilver. Henry pointed to a
place far up the stream where black dots appeared on its surface.
These dots were moving, and they came on in four lines.

"Boys," he said, "you know what those lines of black dots are?"

"Yes," replied Shif'less Sol, "it's Butler's army of Indians,
Tories, Canadians, an' English. They've come from Tioga Point on
the river, an' our Colonel Butler kin expect 'em soon."

The sunlight became dazzling, and showed the boats, despite the
distance, with startling clearness. The five, watching from
their peak, saw them turn in toward the land, where they poured
forth a motley stream of red men and white, a stream that was
quickly swallowed up in the forest.

"They are coming down through the woods on the fort, said Tom
Ross.

"And they're coming fast," said Henry. "It's for us to carry the
warning."

They sped back to the Wyoming fort, spreading the alarm as they
passed, and once more they were in the council room with Colonel
Zebulon Butler and his officers around him.

"So they are at hand, and you have seen them?" said the colonel.

"Yes," replied Henry, the spokesman, "they came down from Tioga
Point in boats, but have disembarked and are advancing through
the woods. They will be here today."

There was a little silence in the room. The older men understood
the danger perhaps better than the younger, who were eager for
battle.

"Why should we stay here and wait for them?" exclaimed one of the
younger captains at length-some of these captains were mere boys.
"Why not go out, meet them, and beat them ?"

"They outnumber us about five to one," said Henry. "Brant, if he
is still with them, though be may have gone to some other place
from Tioga Point, is a great captain. So is Timmendiquas, the
Wyandot, and they say that the Tory leader is energetic and
capable."

"It is all true!" exclaimed Colonel Butler. "We must stay in the
fort! We must not go out to meet them! We are not strong
enough!"

A murmur of protest and indignation came from the younger
officers.

"And leave the valley to be ravaged! Women and children to be
scalped, while we stay behind log walls!" said one of them
boldly.

The men in the Wyoming fort were not regular troops, merely
militia, farmers gathered hastily for their own defense.

Colonel Butler flushed.

"We have induced as many as we could to seek refuge," he said.
"It hurts me as much as you to have the valley ravaged while we
sit quiet here. But I know that we have no chance against so
large a force, and if we fall what is to become of the hundreds
whom we now protect?"

But the murmur of protest grew. All the younger men were
indignant. They would not seek shelter for themselves while
others were suffering. A young lieutenant saw from a window two
fires spring up and burn like torch lights against the sky. They
were houses blazing before the Indian brand.

"Look at that!," he cried, pointing with an accusing finger, "and
we are here, under cover, doing nothing!"

A deep angry mutter went about the room, but Colonel Butler,
although the flush remained on his face, still shook his head.
He glanced at Tom Ross, the oldest of the five.

"You know about the Indian force," he exclaimed. What should we
do?"

The face of Tom Ross was very grave, and he spoke slowly, as was
his wont.

"It's a hard thing to set here," he exclaimed, "but it will be
harder to go out an' meet 'em on their own ground, an' them four
or five to one."

"We must not go out," repeated the Colonel, glad of such backing.

The door was thrust open, and an officer entered.

"A rumor has just arrived, saying that the entire Davidson family
has been killed and scalped," he said.

A deep, angry cry went up. Colonel Butler and the few who stood
with him were overborne. Such things as these could not be
endured, and reluctantly the commander gave his consent. They
would go out and fight. The fort and its enclosures were soon
filled with the sounds of preparation, and the little army was
formed rapidly.

"We will fight by your side, of course," said Henry, "but we
wish to serve on the flank as an independent band. We can be of
more service in that manner."

The colonel thanked them gratefully.

"Act as you think best," he said.

The five stood near one of the gates, while the little force
formed in ranks. Almost for the first time they were gloomy upon
going into battle. They had seen the strength of that army of
Indians, renegades, Tories, Canadians, and English advancing
under the banner of England, and they knew the power and
fanaticism of the Indian leaders. They believed that the
terrible Queen Esther, tomahawk in hand, had continually chanted
to them her songs of blood as they came down the river. It was
now the third of July, and valley and river were beautiful in the
golden sunlight. The foliage showed vivid and deep green on
either line of high hills. The summer sun had never shown more
kindly over the lovely valley.

The time was now three o'clock. The gates of the fort were
thrown open, and the little army marched out, only three hundred,
of whom seventy were old men, or boys so young that in our day
they would be called children. Yet they marched bravely against
the picked warriors of the Iroquois, trained from infancy to the
forest and war, and a formidable body of white rovers who wished
to destroy the little colony of "rebels," as they called them.

Small though it might be, it was a gallant army. Young and old
held their heads high. A banner was flying, and a boy beat a
steady insistent roll upon a drum. Henry and his comrades were
on the left flank, the river was on the right. The great gates
had closed behind them, shutting in the women and the children.
The sun blazed down, throwing everything into relief with its
intense, vivid light playing upon the brown faces of the
borderers, their rifles and their homespun clothes. Colonel
Butler and two or three of his officers were on horseback,
leading the van. Now that the decision was to fight, the older
officers, who had opposed it, were in the very front. Forward
they went, and spread out a little, but with the right flank
still resting on the river, and the left extended on the plain.

The five were on the edge of the plain, a little detached from
the others, searching the forest for a sign of the enemy, who was
already so near. Their gloom did not decrease. Neither the
rolling of the drum nor the flaunting of the banner had any
effect. Brave though the men might be, this was not the way in
which they should meet an Indian foe who outnumbered them four or
five to one.

"I don't like it," muttered Tom Ross.

"Nor ' do I," said Henry, "but remember that whatever happens we
all stand together."

"We remember!" said the others.

On-they went, and the five moving faster were now ahead of the
main force some hundred yards. They swung in a little toward the
river. The banks here were highland off to the left was a large
swamp. The five now checked speed and moved with great wariness.
They saw nothing, and they heard nothing, either, until they went
forty or fifty yards farther. Then a low droning sound came to
their ears. It was the voice of one yet far away, but they knew
it. It was the terrible chant of Queen Esther, in this moment
the most ruthless of all the savages, and inflaming them
continuously for the combat.

The five threw themselves flat on their faces, and waited a
little. The chant grew louder, and then through the foliage they
saw the ominous figure approaching. She was much as she had been
on that night when they first beheld her. She wore the same
dress of barbaric colors, she swung the same great tomahawk about
her head, and sang all the time of fire and blood and death.

They saw behind her the figures of chiefs, naked to the breech
cloth for battle, their bronze bodies glistening with the war
paint, and bright feathers gleaming in their hair. Henry
recognized the tall form of Timmendiquas, notable by his height,
and around him his little band of Wyandots, ready to prove
themselves mighty warriors to their eastern friends the Iroquois.
Back of these was a long line of Indians and their white allies,
Sir John Johnson's Royal Greens and Butler's Rangers in the
center, bearing the flag of England. The warriors, of whom the
Senecas were most numerous, were gathered in greatest numbers on
their right flank, facing the left flank of the Americans.
Sangerachte and Hiokatoo, who had taken two English prisoners at
Braddock's defeat, and who had afterwards burned them both alive
with his own hand, were the principal leaders of the Senecas.
Henry caught a glimpse of "Indian" Butler in the center, with a
great blood-red handkerchief tied around his head, and, despite
the forest, he noticed with a great sinking of the heart how far
the hostile line extended. It could wrap itself like a python
around the defense.

"It's a tale that will soon be told," said Paul.

They went back swiftly, and warned Colonel Butler that the enemy
was at band. Even as they spoke they heard the loud wailing
chant of Queen Esther, and then came the war whoop, pouring from
a thousand throats, swelling defiant and fierce like the cry of a
wounded beast. The farmers, the boys, and the old men, most of
whom had never been in battle, might well tremble at this ominous
sound, so great in volume and extending so far into the forest.
But they stood firm, drawing themselves into a somewhat more
compact body, and still advancing with their banners flying, and
the boy beating out that steady roll on the drum.

The enemy now came into full sight, and Colonel Butler deployed
his force in line of battle, his right resting on the high bank
of the river and his left against the swamp. Forward pressed the
motley army of the other Butler, he of sanguinary and cruel fame,
and the bulk of his force came into view, the sun shining down on
the green uniforms of the English and the naked brown bodies of
the Iroquois.

The American commander gave the order to fire. Eager fingers
were already on the trigger, and a blaze of light ran along the
entire rank. The Royal Greens and Rangers, although replying
with their own fire, gave back before the storm of bullets, and
the Wyoming men, with a shout of triumph, sprang forward. It was
always a characteristic of the border settler, despite many
disasters and a knowledge of Indian craft and cunning, to rush
straight at his foe whenever he saw him. His, unless a trained
forest warrior himself, was a headlong bravery, and now this
gallant little force asked for nothing but to come to close grips
with the enemy.

The men in the center with "Indian" Butler gave back still more.
With cries of victory the Wyoming men pressed forward, firing
rapidly, and continuing to drive the mongrel white force. The
rifles were cracking rapidly, and smoke arose over the two lines.
The wind caught wisps of it and carried them off down the river.

"It goes better than I thought," said Paul as he reloaded his
rifle.

"Not yet," said Henry, "we are fighting the white men only.
Where are all the Indians, who alone outnumber our men more than
two to one?"

"Here they come," said Shif'less Sol, pointing to the depths of
the swamp, which was supposed to protect the left flank of the
Wyoming force.

The five saw in the spaces, amid the briars and vines, scores of
dark figures leaping over the mud, naked to the breech cloth,
armed with rifle and tomahawk, and rushing down upon the
unprotected side of their foe. The swamp had been but little
obstacle to them.

Henry and his comrades gave the alarm at once. As many as
possible were called off immediately from the main body, but they
were not numerous enough to have any effect. The Indians came
through the swamp in hundreds and hundreds, and, as they uttered
their triumphant yell, poured a terrible fire into the Wyoming
left flank. The defenders were forced to give ground, and the
English and Tories came on again.

The fire was now deadly and of great volume. The air was filled
with the flashing of the rifles. The cloud of smoke grew
heavier, and faces, either from heat or excitement, showed red
through it. The air was filled with bullets, and the Wyoming
force was being cut down fast, as the fire of more than a
thousand rifles converged upon it.

The five at the fringe of the swamp loaded and fired as fast as
they could at the Indian horde, but they saw that it was creeping
closer and closer, and that the hail of bullets it sent in was
cutting away the whole left flank of the defenders. They saw the
tall figure of Timmendiquas, a very god of war, leading on the
Indians, with his fearless Wyandots in a close cluster around
him. Colonel John Durkee, gathering up a force of fifty or
sixty, charged straight at the warriors, but he was killed by a
withering volley, which drove his men back.

Now occurred a fatal thing, one of those misconceptions which
often decide the fate of a battle. The company of Captain
Whittlesey, on the extreme left, which was suffering most
severely, was ordered to fall back. The entire little army,
which was being pressed hard now, seeing the movement of
Whittlesey, began to retreat. Even without the mistake it is
likely they would have lost in the face of such numbers.

The entire horde of Indians, Tories, Canadians, English, and
renegades, uttering a tremendous yell, rushed forward. Colonel
Zebulon Butler, seeing the crisis, rode up and down in front of
his men, shouting: "Don't leave me, my children! the victory is
ours!" Bravely his officers strove to stop the retreat. Every
captain who led a company into action was killed. Some of these
captains were but boys. The men were falling by dozens.

All the Indians, by far the most formidable part of the invading
force, were through the swamp now, and, dashing down their
unloaded rifles, threw themselves, tomahawk in hand, upon the
defense. Not more than two hundred of the Wyoming men were left
standing, and the impact of seven or eight hundred savage
warriors was so great that they were hurled back in confusion. A
wail of grief and terror came from the other side of the river,
where a great body of women and children were watching the
fighting.

"The battle's lost," said Shif'less Sol,

"Beyond hope of saving it," said Henry, "but, boys, we five are
alive yet, and we'll do our best to help the others protect the
retreat."

They kept under cover, fighting as calmly as they could amid such
a terrible scene, picking off warrior after warrior, saving more
than one soldier ere the tomahawk fell. Shif'less Sol took a
shot at "Indian" Butler, but he was too far away, and the bullet
missed him.

"I'd give five years of my life if he were fifty yards nearer,"
exclaimed the shiftless one.

But the invading force came in between and he did not get another
shot. There was now a terrible medley, a continuous uproar, the
crashing fire of hundreds of rifles, the shouts of the Indians,
and the cries of the wounded. Over them all hovered smoke and
dust, and the air was heavy, too, with the odor of burnt
gunpowder. The division of old men and very young boys stood
next, and the Indians were upon them, tomahawk in hand, but in
the face of terrible odds all bore themselves with a valor worthy
of the best of soldiers. Three fourths of them died that day,
before they were driven back on the fort.

The Wyoming force was pushed away from the edge of the swamp,
which had been some protection to the left, and they were now
assailed from all sides except that of the river. "Indian"
Butler raged at the head of his men, who had been driven back at
first, and who had been saved by the Indians. Timmendiquas, in
the absence of Brant, who was not seen upon this field, became by
valor and power of intellect the leader of all the Indians for
this moment. The Iroquois, although their own fierce chiefs,
I-Tiokatoo, Sangerachte, and the others fought with them,
unconsciously obeyed him. Nor did the fierce woman, Queen
Esther, shirk the battle. Waving her great tomahawk, she was
continually among the warriors, singing her song of war and
death.

They were driven steadily back toward the fort, and the little
band crumbled away beneath the deadly fire. Soon none would be
left unless they ran for their lives. The five drew away toward
the forest. They saw that the fort itself could not hold out
against such a numerous and victorious foe, and they had no mind
to be trapped. But their retreat was slow, and as they went they
sent bullet after bullet into the Indian flank. Only a small
percentage of the Wyoming force was left, and it now broke.
Colonel Butler and Colonel Dennison, who were mounted, reached
the fort. Some of the men jumped into the river, swam to the
other shore and escaped. Some swam to a little island called
Monocacy, and hid, but the Tories and Indians hunted them out and
slew them. One Tory found his brother there, and killed him with
his own hand, a deed of unspeakable horror that is yet mentioned
by the people of that region. A few fled into the forest and
entered the fort at night.

CHAPTER X

THE BLOODY ROCK

Seeing that all was lost, the five drew farther away into the
woods. They were not wounded, yet their faces were white despite
the tan. They had never before looked upon so terrible a scene.
The Indians, wild with the excitement of a great triumph and
thirsting for blood, were running over the field scalping the
dead, killing some of the wounded, and saving others for the
worst of tortures. Nor were their white allies one whit behind
them. They bore a full part in the merciless war upon the
conquered. Timmendiquas, the great Wyandot, was the only one to
show nobility. Several of the wounded he saved from immediate
death, and he tried to hold back the frenzied swarm of old squaws
who rushed forward and began to practice cruelties at which even
the most veteran warrior might shudder. But Queen Esther urged
them on, and "Indian" Butler himself and the chiefs were afraid
of her.

Henry, despite himself, despite all his experience and powers of
self-control, shuddered from head to foot at the cries that came
from the lost field, and he was sure that the others were doing
the same. The sun was setting, but its dying light, brilliant
and intense, tinged the field as if with blood, showing all the
yelling horde as the warriors rushed about for scalps, or danced
in triumph, whirling their hideous trophies about their heads.
Others were firing at men who were escaping to the far bank of
the Susquehanna, and others were already seeking the fugitives in
their vain hiding places on the little islet.

The five moved farther into the forest, retreating slowly, and
sending in a shot now and then to protect the retreat of some
fugitive who was seeking the shelter of the woods. The retreat
had become a rout and then a massacre. The savages raged up and
down in the greatest killing they had known since Braddock's
defeat. The lodges of the Iroquois would be full of the scalps
of white men.

All the five felt the full horror of the scene, but it made its
deepest impress, perhaps, upon Paul. He had taken part in border
battles before, but this was the first great defeat. He was not
blind to the valor and good qualities of the Indian and his claim
upon the wilderness, but he saw the incredible cruelties that he
could commit, and he felt a horror of those who used him as an
ally, a horror that he could never dismiss from his mind as long
as he lived.

"Look!" he exclaimed, "look at that!"

A man of seventy and a boy of fourteen were running for the
forest. They might have been grandfather and grandson.
Undoubtedly they had fought in the Battalion of the Very Old and
the Very Young, and now, when everything else was lost, they were
seeking to save their lives in the friendly shelter of the woods.
But they were pursued by two groups of Iroquois, four warriors in
one, and three in the other, and the Indians were gaining fast.

"I reckon we ought to save them," said Shif'less Sol.

"No doubt of it," said Henry. "Paul, you and Sol move off to the
right a little, and take the three, while the rest of us will
look out for the four."

The little band separated according to the directions, Paul and
Sol having the lighter task, as the others were to meet the group
of four Indians at closer range. Paul and Sol were behind some
trees, and, turning at an angle, they ran forward to intercept
the three Indians. It would have seemed to anyone who was not
aware of the presence of friends in the forest that the old man
and the boy would surely be overtaken and be tomahawked, but
three rifles suddenly flashed among the foliage. Two of the
warriors in the group of four fell, and a third uttered a yell of
pain. Paul and Shif'less Sol fired at the same time at the group
of three. One fell before the deadly rifle of Shif'less Sol, but
Paul only grazed his man. Nevertheless, the whole pursuit
stopped, and the boy and the old man escaped to the forest, and
subsequently to safety at the Moravian towns.

Paul, watching the happy effect of the shots, was about to say
something to Shif'less Sol, when an immense force was hurled upon
him, and he was thrown to the ground. His comrade was served in
the same way, but the shiftless one was uncommonly strong and
agile. He managed to writhe half way to his knees, and he
shouted in a tremendous voice:

"Run, Henry, run! You can't do anything for us now!"

Braxton Wyatt struck him fiercely across the mouth. The blood
came, but the shiftless one merely spat it out, and looked
curiously at the renegade.

"I've often wondered about you, Braxton," he said calmly. " I
used to think that anybody, no matter how bad, had some good in
him, but I reckon you ain't got none."

Wyatt did not answer, but rushed forward in search of the
others. But Henry, Silent Tom, and Long Jim had vanished. A
powerful party of warriors had stolen upon Shif'less Sol and
Paul, while they were absorbed in the chase of the old man and
the boy, and now they were prisoners, bound securely. Braxton
Wyatt came back from the fruitless search for the three, but his
face was full of savage joy as he looked down at the captured
two.

"We could have killed you just as easily," he said, "but we
didn't want to do that. Our friends here are going to have their
fun with you first."

Paul's cheeks whitened a little at the horrible suggestion, but
Shif'less Sol faced them boldly. Several white men in uniform
had come up, and among them was an elderly one, short and squat,
and with a great flame colored handkerchief tied around his bead.

"You may burn us alive, or you may do other things jest ez bad to
us, all under the English flag," said Shif'less Sol, " but I'm
thinkin' that a lot o' people in England will be ashamed uv it
when they hear the news."

"Indian" Butler and his uniformed soldiers turned away, leaving
Shif'less Sol and Paul in the hands of the renegade and the
Iroquois. The two prisoners were jerked to their feet and told
to march.

"Come on, Paul," said Shif'less Sol. "'Tain't wuth while fur us
to resist. But don't you quit hopin', Paul. We've escaped from
many a tight corner, an' mebbe we're goin' to do it ag'in."

"Shut up!" said Braxton Wyatt savagely. "If you say another word
I'll gag you in a way that will make you squirm."

Shif'less Sol looked him squarely in the eye. Solomon Hyde, who
was not shiftless at all, had a dauntless soul, and he was not
afraid now in the face of death preceded by long torture.

"I had a dog once, Braxton Wyatt," he said, "an' I reckon he wuz
the meanest, ornierest cur that ever lived. He liked to live on
dirt, the dirtier the place he could find the better; he'd rather
steal his food than get it honestly; he wuz sech a coward that he
wuz afeard o' a rabbit, but ef your back wuz turned to him he'd
nip you in the ankle. But bad ez that dog wuz, Braxton, he wuz a
gentleman 'longside o' you."

Some of the Indians understood English, and Wyatt knew it. He
snatched a pistol from his belt, and was about to strike Sol with
the butt of it, but a tall figure suddenly appeared before him,
and made a commanding gesture. The gesture said plainly: "Do
not strike; put that pistol back!"  Braxton Wyatt, whose soul was
afraid within him, did not strike, and he put the pistol back.

It was Timmendiquas, the great White Lightning of the Wyandots,
who with his little detachment had proved that day how mighty the
Wyandot warriors were, full equals of Thayendanegea's Mohawks,
the Keepers of the Western Gate. He was bare to the waist. One
shoulder was streaked with blood from a slight wound, but his
countenance was not on fire with passion for torture and
slaughter like those of the others.

"There is no need to strike prisoners," he said in English.
"Their fate will be decided later."

Paul thought that he caught a look of pity from the eyes of the
great Wyandot, and Shif'less Sol said:

"I'm sorry, Timmendiquas, since I had to be captured, that you
didn't capture me yourself. I'm glad to say that you're a great
warrior."

Wyatt growled under his breath, but he was still afraid to speak
out, although he knew that Timmendiquas was merely a distant and
casual ally, and had little authority in that army. Yet he was
overawed, and so were the Indians with him.

"We were merely taking the prisoners to Colonel Butler," he said.
"That is all."

Timmendiquas stared at him, and the renegade's face fell. But he
and the Indians went on with the prisoners, and Timmendiquas
looked after them until they were out of sight.

"I believe White Lightning was sorry that we'd been captured,"
whispered Shif'less Sol.

"I think so, too," Paul whispered back.

They had no chance for further conversation, as they were driven
rapidly now to that point of the battlefield which lay nearest to
the fort, and here they were thrust into the midst of a gloomy
company, fellow captives, all bound tightly, and many wounded.
No help, no treatment of any kind was offered for hurts. The
Indians and renegades stood about and yelled with delight when
the agony of some man's wound wrung from him a groan. The scene
was hideous in every respect. The setting sun shone blood red
over forest, field, and river. Far off burning houses still
smoked like torches. But the mountain wall in the east, was
growing dusky with the coming twilight. From the island, where
they were massacring the fugitives in their vain hiding places,
came the sound of shots and cries, but elsewhere the firing had
ceased. All who could escape had done so already, and of the
others, those who were dead were fortunate.

The sun sank like a red ball behind the mountains, and darkness
swept down over the earth. Fires began to blaze up here and
there, some for terrible purpose. The victorious Iroquois;
stripped to the waist and painted in glaring colors, joined in a
savage dance that would remain forever photographed on the eye of
Paul Cotter. As they jumped to and fro, hundreds of them, waving
aloft tomahawks and scalping knives, both of which dripped red,
they sang their wild chant of war and triumph. White men, too,
as savage as they, joined them. Paul shuddered again and again
from head to foot at this sight of an orgy such as the mass of
mankind escapes, even in dreams.

The darkness thickened, the dance grew wilder. It was like a
carnival of demons, but it was to be incited to a yet wilder
pitch. A singular figure, one of extraordinary ferocity, was
suddenly projected into the midst of the whirling crowd, and a
chant, shriller and fiercer, rose above all the others. The
figure was that of Queen Esther, like some monstrous creature out
of a dim past, her great tomahawk stained with blood, her eyes
bloodshot, and stains upon her shoulders. Paul would have
covered his eyes had his hands not been tied instead, he turned
his head away. He could not bear to see more. But the horrible
chant came to his ears, nevertheless, and it was reinforced
presently by other sounds still more terrible. Fires sprang up
in the forest, and cries came from these fires. The victorious
army of "Indian" Butler was beginning to burn the prisoners
alive. But at this point we must stop. The details of what
happened around those fires that night are not for the ordinary
reader. It suffices to say that the darkest deed ever done on
the soil of what is now the United States was being enacted.

Shif'less Sol himself, iron of body and soul, was shaken. He
could not close his ears, if he would, to the cries that came
from the fires, but he shut his eyes to keep out the demon dance.
Nevertheless, he opened them again in a moment. The horrible
fascination was too great. He saw Queen Esther still shaking her
tomahawk, but as he looked she suddenly darted through the
circle, warriors willingly giving way before her, and disappeared
in the darkness. The scalp dance went on, but it had lost some
of its fire and vigor.

Shif'less Sol felt relieved.

"She's gone," he whispered to Paul, and the boy, too, then opened
his eyes. The rest of it, the mad whirlings and jumpings of the
warriors, was becoming a blur before him, confused and without
meaning.

Neither he nor Shif'less Sol knew how long they had been sitting
there on the ground, although it had grown yet darker, when
Braxton Wyatt thrust a violent foot against the shiftless one and
cried:

"Get up! You're wanted!"

A half dozen Seneca warriors were with him, and there was no
chance of resistance. The two rose slowly to their feet, and
walked where Braxton Wyatt led. The Senecas came on either side,
and close behind them, tomahawks in their hands. Paul, the
sensitive, who so often felt the impression of coming events from
the conditions around him, was sure that they were marching to
their fate. Death he did not fear so greatly, although he did
not want to die, but when a shriek came to him from one of the
fires that convulsive shudder shook him again from head to foot.
Unconsciously he strained at his bound arms, not for freedom, but
that he might thrust his fingers in his ears and shut out the
awful sounds. Shif'less Sol, because he could not use his hands,
touched his shoulder gently against Paul's.

"Paul," he whispered, "I ain't sure that we're goin' to die,
leastways, I still have hope; but ef we do, remember that we
don't have to die but oncet."

"I'll remember, Sol," Paul whispered back.

"Silence, there!" exclaimed Braxton Wyatt. But the two had said
all they wanted to say, and fortunately their senses were
somewhat dulled. They had passed through so much that they were
like those who are under the influence of opiates. The path was
now dark, although both torches and fires burned in the distance.
Presently they heard that chant with which they had become
familiar, the dreadful notes of the hyena woman, and they knew
that they were being taken into her presence, for what purpose
they could not tell, although they were sure that it was a bitter
one. As they approached, the woman's chant rose to an uncommon
pitch of frenzy, and Paul felt the blood slowly chilling within
him.

"Get up there!" exclaimed Braxton Wyatt, and the Senecas gave
them both a push. Other warriors who were standing at the edge
of an open space seized them and threw them forward with much
violence. When they struggled into a sitting position, they saw
Queen Esther standing upon a broad flat rock and whirling in a
ghastly dance that had in it something Oriental. She still swung
the great war hatchet that seemed always to be in her hand. Her
long black hair flew wildly about her head, and her red dress
gleamed in the dusk. Surely no more terrible image ever appeared
in the American wilderness! In front of her, lying upon the
ground, were twenty bound Americans, and back of them were
Iroquois in dozens, with a sprinkling of their white allies.

What it all meant, what was about to come to pass, nether Paul
nor Shif'less Sol could guess, but Queen Esther sang:

  We have found them, the Yengees
  Who built their houses in the valley,
  They came forth to meet us in battle,
  Our rifles and tomahawks cut them down,
  As the Yengees lay low the forest.
  Victory and glory Aieroski gives to his children,
  The Mighty Six Nations, greatest of men.

  There will be feasting in the lodges of the Iroquois,
  And scalps will hang on the high ridge pole,
  But wolves will roam where the Yengees dwelt
  And will gnaw the bones of them all,
  Of the man, the woman, and the child.
  Victory and glory Aieroski gives to his children,
  The Mighty Six Nations, greatest of men.

Such it sounded to Shif'less Sol, who knew the tongue of the
Iroquois, and so it went on, verse after verse, and at the end of
each verse came the refrain, in which the warriors joined:

"Victory and glory Aieroski gives to his children. The mighty Six
Nations, greatest of men."

"What under the sun is she about?" whispered Shif'less Sol.

"It is a fearful face," was Paul's only reply.

Suddenly the woman, without stopping her chant, made a gesture to
the warriors. Two powerful Senecas seized one of the bound
prisoners, dragged him to his feet, and held him up before her.
She uttered a shout, whirled the great tomahawk about her head,
its blade glittering in the moonlight, and struck with all her
might. The skull of the prisoner was cleft to the chin, and
without a cry he fell at the feet of the woman who had killed
him. Paul uttered a shout of horror, but it was lost in the
joyful yells of the Iroquois, who, at the command of the woman,
offered a second victim. Again the tomahawk descended, and again
a man fell dead without a sound.

Shif'less Sol and Paul wrenched at their thongs, but they could
not move them. Braxton Wyatt laughed aloud. It was strange to
see how fast one with a bad nature could fall when the
opportunities were spread before him. Now he was as cruel as the
Indians themselves. Wilder and shriller grew the chant of the
savage queen. She was intoxicated with blood. She saw it
everywhere. Her tomahawk clove a third skull, a fourth, a fifth,
a sixth, a seventh, and eighth. As fast as they fell the
warriors at her command brought up new victims for her weapon.
Paul shut his eyes, but he knew by the sounds what was passing.
Suddenly a stern voice cried:

"Hold, woman! Enough of this! Will your tomahawk never be
satisfied?"

Paul understood it , the meaning, but not the words. He opened
his eyes and saw the great figure of Timmendiquas striding
forward, his hand upraised in protest.

The woman turned her fierce gaze upon the young chief.
"Timmendiquas," she said, "we are the Iroquois, and we are the
masters. You are far from your own land, a guest in our lodges,
and you cannot tell those who have won the victory how they shall
use it. Stand back!"

A loud laugh came from the Iroquois. The fierce old chiefs,
Hiokatoo and Sangerachte, and a dozen warriors thrust themselves
before Timmendiquas. The woman resumed her chant, and a hundred
throats pealed out with her the chorus:

Victory and glory Aieroski gives to his children The mighty Six
Nations, greatest of men.

She gave the signal anew. The ninth victim stood before her, and
then fell, cloven to the chin; then the tenth, and the eleventh,
and the twelfth, and the thirteenth, and the fourteenth, and the
fifteenth, and the sixteenth-sixteen bound men killed by one
woman in less than fifteen minutes. The four in that group who
were left had all the while been straining fearfully at their
bonds. Now they bad slipped or broken them, and, springing to
their feet, driven on by the mightiest of human impulses, they
dashed through the ring of Iroquois and into the forest. Two
were hunted down by the warriors and killed, but the other two,
Joseph Elliott and Lebbeus Hammond, escaped and lived to be old
men, feeling that life could never again hold for them anything
so dreadful as that scene at "The Bloody Rock."

A great turmoil and confusion arose as the prisoners fled and the
Indians pursued. Paul and Shif'less Sol; full of sympathy and
pity for the fugitives and having felt all the time that their
turn, too, would come under that dreadful tomahawk, struggled to
their feet. They did not see a form slip noiselessly behind
them, but a sharp knife descended once, then twice, and the bands
of both fell free.

"Run! run!" exclaimed the voice of Timmendiquas, low but
penetrating. "I would save you from this!"

Amid the darkness and confusion the act of the great Wyandot was
not seen by the other Indians and the renegades. Paul flashed
him one look of gratitude, and then he and Shif'less Sol darted
away, choosing a course that led them from the crowd in pursuit
of the other flying fugitives.

At such a time they might have secured a long lead without being
noticed, had it not been for the fierce swarm of old squaws who
were first in cruelty that night. A shrill wild howl arose, and
the pointing fingers of the old women showed to the warriors the
two in flight. At the same time several of the squaws darted
forward to intercept the fugitives.

"I hate to hit a woman," breathed Shif'less Sol to Paul, "but I'm
goin' to do it now."

A hideous figure sprang before them. Sol struck her face with
his open hand, and with a shriek she went down. He leaped over
her, although she clawed at his feet as he passed, and ran on,
with Paul at his side. Shots were now fired at him, but they
went wild, but Paul, casting a look backward out of the corner of
his eye, saw that a real pursuit, silent and deadly, had begun.
Five Mohawk warriors, running swiftly, were only a few hundred
yards away. They carried rifle, tomahawk, and knife, and Paul
and Shif'less Sol were unarmed. Moreover, they were coming fast,
spreading out slightly, and the shiftless one, able even at such
a time to weigh the case coolly, saw that the odds were against
them. Yet he would not despair. Anything might happen. It was
night. There was little organization in the army of the Indians
and of their white allies, which was giving itself up to the
enjoyment of scalps and torture. Moreover, he and Paul were,
animated by the love of life, which is always stronger than the
desire to give death.

Their flight led them in a diagonal line toward the mountains.
Only once did the pursuers give tongue. Paul tripped over a
root, and a triumphant yell came from the Mohawks. But it merely
gave him new life. He recovered himself in an instant and ran
faster. But it was terribly hard work. He could hear Shif'less
Sol's sobbing breath by his side, and he was sure that his own
must have the same sound for his comrade.

"At any rate one uv 'em is beat," gasped Shif'less Sol. "Only
four are ban-in' on now."

The ground rose a little and became rougher. The lights from the
Indian fires had sunk almost out of sight behind them, and a
dense thicket lay before them. Something stirred in the thicket,
and the eyes of Shif'less Sol caught a glimpse of a human
shoulder. His heart sank like a plummet in a pool. The Indians
were ahead of them. They would be caught, and would be carried
back to become the victims of the terrible tomahawk.

The figure in the bushes rose a little higher, the muzzle of a
rifle was projected, and flame leaped from the steel tube.

But it was neither Shif'less Sol nor Paul who fell. They heard a
cry behind them, and when Shif'less Sol took a hasty glance
backward he saw one of the Mohawks fall. The three who were left
hesitated and stopped. When a second shot was fired from the
bushes and another Mohawk went down, the remaining two fled.

Shif'less Sol understood now, and he rushed into the bushes,
dragging Paul after him. Henry, Tom, and Long Jim rose up to
receive them.

"So you wuz watchin' over us! "exclaimed the shiftless one
joyously. "It wuz you that clipped off the first Mohawk, an' we
didn't even notice the shot."

"Thank God, you were here!" exclaimed Paul. "You don't know what
Sol and I have seen!"

Overwrought, he fell forward, but his comrades caught him.

CHAPTER XI

THE MELANCHOLY FLIGHT

Paul revived in a few minutes. They were still lying in the
bushes, and when he was able to stand up again, they moved at an
angle several hundred yards before they stopped. One pistol was
thrust into Paul's hand and another into that of Shif'less Sol.

Keep those until we can get rifles for you," said Henry. "You may
need 'em to-night."

They crouched down in the thicket and looked back toward the
Indian camp. The warriors whom they had repulsed were not
returning with help, and, for the moment, they seemed to have no
enemy to fear, yet they could still see through the woods the
faint lights of the Indian camps, and to Paul, at least, came the
echoes of distant cries that told of things not to be written.

"We saw you captured, and we heard Sol's warning cry," said
Henry. " There was nothing to do but run. Then we hid and
waited a chance for rescue."

"It would never have come if it had not been for Timmendiquas,"
said Paul.

"Timmendiquas!" exclaimed Henry.

"Yes, Timmendiquas," said Paul, and then be told the story of
"The Bloody Rock," and how, in the turmoil and excitement
attending the flight of the last four, Timmendiquas had cut the
bonds of Shif'less Sol and himself.

"I think the mind o' White Lightnin', Injun ez he is," said
Shif'less Sol, "jest naterally turned aginst so much slaughter
an' torture o' prisoners."

"I'm sure you're right," said Henry.

"'Pears strange to me," said Long Jim Hart, "that Timmendiquas
was made an Injun. He's jest the kind uv man who ought to be
white, an' he'd be pow'ful useful, too. I don't jest eggzactly
understan' it."

"He has certainly saved the lives of at least three of us," said
Henry. "I hope we will get a chance to pay him back in full."

"But he's the only one," said Shif'less Sol, thinking of all that
he had seen that night. "The Iroquois an' the white men that's
allied with 'em won't ever get any mercy from me, ef any uv 'em
happen to come under my thumb. I don't think the like o' this
day an' night wuz ever done on this continent afore. I'm for
revenge, I am, like that place where the Bible says, 'an eye for
an eye, an' a tooth for a tooth,' an' I'm goin' to stay in this
part o' the country till we git it!"

It was seldom that Shif'less Sol spoke with so much passion and
energy.

"We're all going to stay with you, Sol," said Henry. We're
needed here. I think we ought to circle about the fort, slip in
if we can, and fight with the defense."

"Yes, we'll do that," said Shif'less Sol, "but the Wyoming fort
can't ever hold out. Thar ain't a hundred men left in it fit to
fight, an' thar are more than than a thousand howlin' devils
outside ready to attack it. Thar may be worse to come than
anything we've yet seen."

"Still, we'll go in an' help," said Henry. "Sol, when you an'
Paul have rested a little longer we'll make a big loop around in
the woods, and come up to the fort on the other side."

They were in full accord, and after an hour in the bushes, where
they lay completely hidden, recovering their vitality and energy,
they undertook to reach the fort and cabins inclosed by the
palisades. Paul was still weak from shock, but Shif'less Sol had
fully recovered. Neither bad weapons, but they were sure that
the want could be supplied soon. They curved around toward the
west, intending to approach the fort from the other side, but
they did not wholly lose sight of the fires, and they heard now
and then the triumphant war whoop. The victors were still
engaged in the pleasant task of burning the prisoners to death.
Little did the five, seeing and feeling only their part of it
there in the dark woods, dream that the deeds of this day and
night would soon shock the whole civilized world, and remain, for
generations, a crowning act of infamy. But they certainly felt
it deeply enough, and in each heart burned a fierce desire for
revenge upon the Iroquois.

It was almost midnight when they secured entrance into the fort,
which was filled with grief and wailing. That afternoon more
than one hundred and fifty women within those walls had been made
widows, and six hundred children had been made orphans. But few
men fit to bear arms were left for its defense, and it was
certain that the allied British and Indian army would easily take
it on the morrow. A demand for its surrender in the name of King
George III of England had already been made, and, sitting at a
little rough table in the cabin of Thomas Bennett, the room
lighted only by a single tallow wick, Colonel Butler and Colonel
Dennison were writing an agreement that the fort be surrendered
the next day, with what it should contain. But Colonel Butler
put his wife on a horse and escaped with her over the mountains.

Stragglers, evading the tomahawk in the darkness, were coming in,
only to be surrendered the next day; others were pouring forth in
a stream, seeking the shelter of the mountains and the forest,
preferring any dangers that might be found there to the mercies
of the victors.

When Shif'less Sol learned that the fort was to be given up, be
said:

"It looks ez ef we had escaped from the Iroquois jest in time to
beg 'em to take us back."

"I reckon I ain't goin' to stay 'roun' here while things are
bein' surrendered," said Long Jim Hart.

"I'll do my surrenderin' to Iroquois when they've got my hands
an' feet tied, an' six or seven uv 'em are settin' on my back,"
said Tom Ross.

"We'll leave as soon as we can get arms for Sol and Paul," said
Henry. "Of course it would be foolish of us to stay here and be
captured again. Besides, we'll be needed badly enough by the
women and children that are going."

Good weapons were easily obtained in the fort. It was far better
to let Sol and Paul have them than to leave them for the Indians.
They were able to select two fine rifles of the Kentucky pattern,
long and slender barreled, a tomahawk and knife for each, and
also excellent double-barreled pistols. The other three now had
double-barreled pistols, too. In addition they resupplied
themselves with as much ammunition as scouts and hunters could
conveniently carry, and toward morning left the fort.

Sunrise found them some distance from the palisades, and upon the
flank of a frightened crowd of fugitives. It was composed of one
hundred women and children and a single man, James Carpenter, who
was doing his best to guide and protect them. They were
intending to flee through the wilderness to the Delaware and
Lehigh settlements, chiefly Fort Penn, built by Jacob Stroud,
where Stroudsburg now is.

When the five, darkened by weather and looking almost like
Indians themselves, approached, Carpenter stepped forward and
raised his rifle. A cry of dismay rose from the melancholy line,
a cry so intensely bitter that it cut Henry to the very heart.
He threw up his hand, and exclaimed in a loud voice:

"We are friends, not Indians or Tories! We fought with you
yesterday, and we are ready to fight for you now!"

Carpenter dropped the muzzle of the rifle. He had fought in the
battle, too, and he recognized the great youth and his comrades
who had been there with him.

"What do you want of us?" asked he.

"Nothing," replied Henry, "except to help you."

Carpenter looked at them with a kind of sad pathos.

"You don't belong here in Wyoming," he said, "and there's nothing
to make you stick to us. What are you meaning to do?"

"We will go with you wherever you intend to go," replied Henry;
"do fighting for you if you need it, and hunt game for you, which
you are certain to need."

The weather-beaten face of the farmer worked.

"I thought God had clean deserted us," he said, "but I'm ready to
take it back. I reckon that he has sent you five to help me with
all these women and little ones."

It occurred to Henry that perhaps God, indeed, had sent them for
this very purpose, but he replied simply:

"You lead on, and we'll stay in the rear and on the sides to
watch for the Indians. Draw into the woods, where we'll be
hidden."

Carpenter, obscure hero, shouldered his rifle again, and led on
toward the woods. The long line of women and children followed.
Some of the women carried in their arms children too small to
walk. Yet they were more hopeful now when they saw that the five
were friends. These lithe, active frontiersmen, so quick, so
skillful, and so helpful, raised their courage. Yet it was a
most doleful flight. Most of these women had been made widows
the day before, some of them had been made widows and childless
at the same time, and wondered why they should seek to live
longer. But the very mental stupor of many of them was an aid.
They ceased to cry out, and some even ceased to be afraid.

Henry, Shif'less Sol, and Tom dropped to the rear. Paul and Long
Jim were on either flank, while Carpenter led slowly on toward
the mountains.

"'Pears to me," said Tom, "that the thing fur us to do is to
hurry 'em up ez much ez possible."

"So the Indians won't see 'em crossing the plain," said Henry.
"We couldn't defend them against a large force, and it would
merely be a massacre. We must persuade them to walk faster."

Shif'less Sol was invaluable in this crisis. He could talk
forever in his-placid way, and, with his gentle encouragement,
mild sarcasm, and anecdotes of great feminine walkers that he had
known, he soon had them moving faster.

Henry and Tom dropped farther to the rear. They could see ahead
of them the long dark line, coiling farther into the woods, but
they could also see to right and left towers of smoke rising in
the clear morning sunlight. These, they knew, came from burning
houses, and they knew, also, that the valley would be ravaged
from end to end and from side to side. After the surrender of
the fort the Indians would divide into small bands, going
everywhere, and nothing could escape them.

The sun rose higher, gilding the earth with glowing light, as if
the black tragedy had never happened, but the frontiersmen
recognized their greatest danger in this brilliant morning.
Objects could be seen at a great distance, and they could be seen
vividly.

Keen of sight and trained to know what it was they saw, Henry,
Sol, and Tom searched the country with their eyes, on all sides.
They caught a distant glimpse of the Susquehanna, a silver spot
among some trees, and they saw the sunlight glancing off the
opposite mountains, but for the present they saw nothing that
seemed hostile.

They allowed the distance between them and the retreating file to
grow until it was five or six hundred yards, and they might have
let it grow farther, but Henry made a signal, and the three lay
down in the grass.

"You see 'em, don't you!" the youth whispered to his comrade.

"Yes, down thar at the foot o' that hillock," replied Shif'less
Sol; " two o' em, an' Senecas, I take it."

"They've seen that crowd of women and children," said Henry.

It was obvious that the flying column was discovered. The two
Indians stepped upon the hillock and gazed under their hands. It
was too far away for the three to see their faces, but they knew
the joy that would be shown there. The two could return with a
few warriors and massacre them all.

"They must never get back to the other Indians with their news,"
whispered Henry. "I hate to shoot men  from ambush, but it's got
to be done. Wait, they're coming a little closer."

The two Senecas advanced about thirty yards, and stopped again.

"S'pose you fire at the one on the right, Henry," said Tom, " an'
me an' Sol will take the one to the left." " All right," said
Henry. "Fire!"

They wasted no time, but pulled trigger. The one at whom Henry
had aimed fell, but the other, uttering a cry, made off, wounded,
but evidently with plenty of strength left.

"We mustn't let him escape! We mustn't let him carry a
warning!" cried Henry.

But Shif'less Sol and Tom Ross were already in pursuit, covering
the ground with long strides, and reloading as they ran. Under
ordinary circumstances no one of the three would have fired at a
man running for his life, but here the necessity was vital. If
he lived, carrying the tale that he had to tell, a hundred
innocent ones might perish. Henry followed his comrades,
reloading his own rifle, also, but he stayed behind. The Indian
had a good lead, and he was gaining, as the others were compelled
to check speed somewhat as they put the powder and bullets in
their rifles. But Henry was near enough to Shif'less Sol and
Silent Tom to hear them exchange a few words.

"How far away is that savage?" asked Shif'less Sol.

"Hundred and eighty yards," said Tom Ross.

"Well, you take him in the head, and I'll take him in the body."

Henry saw the two rifle barrels go up and two flashes of flame
leap from the muzzles. The Indian fell forward and lay still.
They went up to him, and found that he was shot through the head
and also through the body.

"We may miss once, but we don't twice," said Tom Ross.

The human mind can be influenced so powerfully by events that the
three felt no compunction at all at the shooting of this fleeing
Indian. It was but a trifle compared with what they had seen the
day and night before.

"We'd better take the weapons an' ammunition o' both uv 'em,"
said Sol. "They may be needed, an' some o ' the women in that
crowd kin shoot."

They gathered up the arms, powder, and ball, and waited a little
to see whether the shots had been heard by any other Indians, but
there was no indication of the presence of more warriors, and the
rejoined the fugitives. Long Jim had dropped back to the end of
the line, and when he saw that his comrades carried two extra
rifles, he understood.

"They didn't give no alarm, did they?" he asked in a tone so low
that none of the fugitives could hear.

"They didn't have any chance," replied Henry. "We've brought
away all their weapons and ammunition, but just say to the women
that we found them in an abandoned house."

The rifles and the other arms were given to the boldest and most
stalwart of the women, and they promised to use them if the need
came. Meanwhile the flight went on, and the farther it went the
sadder it became. Children became exhausted, and had to be
carried by people so tired that they could scarcely walk
themselves. There was nobody in the line who had not lost some
beloved one on that fatal river bank, killed in battle, or
tortured to death. As they slowly ascended the green slope of
the mountain that inclosed a side of the valley, they looked back
upon ruin and desolation. The whole black tragedy was being
consummated. They could see the houses in flames, and they knew
that the Indian war parties were killing and scalping everywhere.
They knew, too, that other bodies of fugitives, as stricken as
their own, were fleeing into the mountains, they scarcely knew
whither.

As they paused a few moments and looked back, a great cry burst
from the weakest of the women and children. Then it became a sad
and terrible wail, and it was a long time before it ceased. It
was an awful sound, so compounded of despair and woe and of
longing for what they had lost that Henry choked, and the tears
stood in Paul's eyes. But neither the five nor Carpenter made
any attempt to check the wailing. They thought it best for them
to weep it out, but they hurried the column as much as they
could, often carrying some of the smaller children themselves.
Paul and Long Jim were the best as comforters. The two knew how,
each in his own way, to soothe and encourage. Carpenter, who
knew the way to Fort Penn, led doggedly on, scarcely saying a
word. Henry, Shif'less Sol, and Tom were the rear guard, which
was, in this case, the one of greatest danger and responsibility.

Henry was thankful that it was only early summer the Fourth of
July, the second anniversary of the Declaration of
Independence-and that the foliage was heavy and green on the
slopes of the mountain. In this mass of greenery the desolate
column was now completely hidden from any observer in the valley,
and he believed that other crowds of fugitives would be hidden in
the same manner. He felt sure that no living human being would
be left in the valley, that it would be ravaged from end to end
and then left to desolation, until new people, protected by
American bayonets, should come in and settle it again.

At last they passed the crest of the ridge, and the fires in the
valley, those emblems of destruction, were hidden. Between them
and Fort Penn, sixty miles away, stretched a wilderness of
mountain, forest, and swamp. But the five welcomed the forest.
A foe might lie there in ambush, but they could not see the
fugitives at a distance. What the latter needed now was
obscurity, the green blanket of the forest to hide them.
Carpenter led on over a narrow trail; the others followed almost
in single file now, while the five scouted in the woods on either
flank and at the rear. Henry and Shif'less Sol generally kept
together, and they fully realized the overwhelming danger should
an Indian band, even as small as ten or a dozen warriors, appear.
Should the latter scatter, it would be impossible to protect all
the women and children from their tomahawks.

The day was warm, but the forest gave them coolness as well as
shelter. Henry and Sol were seldom so far back that they could
not see the end of the melancholy line, now moving slowly,
overborne by weariness. The shiftless one shook his head sadly.

"No matter what happens, some uv 'em will never get out o' these
woods."

His words came true all too soon. Before the afternoon closed,
two women, ill before the flight, died of terror and exhaustion,
and were buried in shallow graves under the trees. Before dark a
halt was made at the suggestion of Henry, and all except
Carpenter and the scouts sat in a close, drooping group. Many of
the children cried, though the women had all ceased to weep.
They had some food with them, taken in the hurried flight, and
now the men asked them to eat. Few could do it, and others
insisted on saving what little they had for the children. Long
Jim found a spring near by, and all drank at it.

The six men decided that, although night had not yet come, it
would be best to remain there until the morning. Evidently the
fugitives were in no condition, either mental or physical, to go
farther that day, and the rest was worth more than the risk.

When this decision was announced to them, most of the women took
it apathetically. Soon they lay down upon a blanket, if one was
to be had; otherwise, on leaves and branches. Again Henry
thanked God that it was summer, and that these were people of the
frontier, who could sleep in the open. No fire was needed, and,
outside of human enemies, only rain was to be dreaded.

And yet this band, desperate though its case, was more fortunate
than some of the others that fled from the Wyoming Valley. It
had now to protect it six men Henry and Paul, though boys in
years, were men in strength and ability - five of whom were the
equals of any frontiersmen on the whole border. Another crowd of
women was escorted by a single man throughout its entire flight.

Henry and his comrades distributed themselves in a circle about
the group. At times they helped gather whortleberries as food
for the others, but they looked for Indians or game, intending to
shoot in either case. When Paul and Henry were together they
once heard a light sound in a thicket, which at first they were
afraid was made by an Indian scout, but it was a deer, and it
bounded away too soon for either to get a shot. They could not
find other game of any kind, and they came back toward the
camp-if a mere stop in the woods, without shelter of any kind,
could be called a camp.

The sun was now setting, blood red. It tinged the forest with a
fiery mist, reminding the unhappy group of all that they had
seen. But the mist was gone in a few moments, and then the
blackness of night came with a weird moaning wind that told of
desolation. Most of the children, having passed through every
phase of exhaustion and terror, had fallen asleep. Some of the
women slept, also, and others wept. But the terrible wailing
note, which the nerves of no man could stand, was heard no
longer.

The five gathered again at a point near by, and Carpenter came to
them.

"Men," he said simply, "don't know much about you, though I
know you fought well in the battle that we lost, but for what
you're doin' now nobody can ever repay you. I knew that I never
could get across the mountains with all these weak ones."

The five merely said that any man who was a man would help at
such a time. Then they resumed their march in a perpetual circle
about the camp.

Some women did not sleep at all that night. It is not easy to
conceive what the frontier women of America endured so many
thousands of times. They had seen their husbands, brothers, and
sons killed in the battle, and they knew that the worst of
torture had been practiced in the Indian camp. Many of them
really did not want to live any longer. They merely struggled
automatically for life. The darkness settled down thicker and
thicker; the blackness in the forest was intense, and they could
see the faces of one another only at a little distance. The
desolate moan of the wind came through the leaves, and, although
it was July, the night grew cold. The women crept closer
together, trying to cover up and protect the children. The wind,
with its inexpressibly mournful note, was exactly fitted to their
feelings. Many of them wondered why a Supreme Being had
permitted such things. But they ceased to talk. No sound at all
came from the group, and any one fifty yards away, not
forewarned, could not have told that they were there.

Henry and Paul met again about midnight, and sat a long time on a
little hillock. Theirs had been the most dangerous of lives on
the most dangerous of frontiers, but they had never been stirred
as they were tonight. Even Paul, the mildest of the five, felt
something burning within him, a fire that only one thing could
quench.

"Henry," said he, "we're trying to get these people to Fort Penn,
and we may get some of them there, but I don't think our work
will be ended them. I don't think I could ever be happy again if
we went straight from Fort Penn to Kentucky."

Henry understood him perfectly.

"No, Paul," he said, "I don't want to go, either, and I know the
others don't. Maybe you are not willing to tell why we want to
stay, but it is vengeance. I know it's Christian to forgive your
enemies, but I can't see what I have seen, and hear what I have
heard, and do it."

"When the news of these things spreads," said Paul, "they'll send
an army from the east. Sooner or later they'll just have to do
it to punish the Iroquois and their white allies, and we've got
to be here to join that army."

"I feel that way, too, Paul," said Henry.

They were joined later by the other three, who stayed a little
while, and they were in accord with Henry and Paul.

Then they began their circles about the camp again, always
looking and always listening. About two o'clock in the morning
they heard a scream, but it was only the cry of a panther.
Before day there were clouds, a low rumble of distant thunder,
and faint far flashes of lightning. Henry was in dread of rain,
but the lightning and thunder ceased, and the clouds went away.
Then dawn came, rosy and bright, and all but three rose from the
earth. The three-one woman and two children-had died in silence
in the night, and they were buried, like the others, in shallow
graves in the woods. But there was little weeping or external
mourning over them. All were now heavy and apathetic, capable of
but little more emotion.

Carpenter resumed his position at the head of the column, which
now moved slowly over the mountain through a thick forest matted
with vines and bushes and without a path. The march was now so
painful and difficult that they did not make more than two miles
an hour. The stronger of them helped the men to gather more
whortleberries, as it was easy to see that the food they had with
them would never last until they reached Fort Penn, should they
ever reach it.

The condition of the country into which they had entered steadily
grew worse. They were well into the mountains, a region
exceedingly wild and rough, but little known to the settlers, who
had gone around it to build homes in the fertile and beautiful
valley of Wyoming. The heavy forest was made all the more
difficult by the presence everywhere of almost impassable
undergrowth. Now and then a woman lay down under the bushes, and
in two cases they died there because the power to live was no
longer in them. They grew weaker and weaker. The food that they
had brought from the Wyoming fort was almost exhausted, and the
wild whortleberries were far from sustaining. Fortunately there
was plenty of water flowing tinder the dark woods and along the
mountainside. But they were compelled to stop at intervals of an
hour or two to rest, and the more timid continually expected
Indian ambush.

The five met shortly after noon and took another reckoning of the
situation. They still realized to the full the dangers of Indian
pursuit, which in this case might be a mere matter of accident.
Anybody could follow the broad trail left by the fugitives, but
the Iroquois, busy with destruction in the valley, might not
follow, even if they saw it. No one could tell. The danger of
starvation or of death from exhaustion was more imminent, more
pressing, and the five resolved to let scouting alone for the
rest of the day and seek game.

"There's bound to be a lot of it in these woods," said Shif'less
Sol, "though it's frightened out of the path by our big crowd,
but we ought to find it."

Henry and Shif'less Sol went in one direction, and Paul, Tom, and
Long Jim in another. But with all their hunting they succeeded
in finding only one little deer, which fell to the rifle of
Silent Tom. It made small enough portions for the supper and
breakfast of nearly a hundred people, but it helped wonderfully,
and so did the fires which Henry and his comrades would now have
built, even had they not been needed for the cooking. They saw
that light and warmth, the light and warmth of glowing coals,
would alone rouse life in this desolate band.

They slept the second night on the ground among the trees, and
the next morning they entered that gloomy region of terrible
memory, the Great Dismal Swamp of the North, known sometimes, to
this day, as "The Shades of Death."

CHAPTER XII

THE SHADES OF DEATH

"The Shades of Death" is a marsh on a mountain top, the great,
wet, and soggy plain of the Pocono and Broad mountains. When the
fugitives from Wyoming entered it, it was covered with a dense
growth of pines, growing mostly out of dark, murky water, which
in its turn was thick with a growth of moss and aquatic plants.
Snakes and all kinds of creeping things swarmed in the ooze.
Bear and panther were numerous.

Carpenter did not know any way around this terrible region, and
they were compelled to enter it. Henry was again devoutly
thankful that it was summer. In such a situation with winter on
top of it only the hardiest of men could survive.

But they entered the swamp, Carpenter silent and dogged, still
leading. Henry and his comrades kept close to the crowd. One
could not scout in such a morass, and it proved to be worse than
they bad feared. The day turned gray, and it was dark among the
trees. The whole place was filled with gloomy shadows. It was
often impossible to judge whether fairly solid soil or oozy murk
lay before them. Often they went down to their waists.
Sometimes the children fell and were dragged up again by the
stronger. Now and then rattle snakes coiled and hissed, and the
women killed them with sticks. Other serpents slipped away in
the slime. Everybody was plastered with mud, and they became
mere images of human beings.

In the afternoon they reached a sort of oasis in the terrible
swamp, and there they buried two more of their number who had
perished from exhaustion. The rest, save a few, lay upon the
ground as if dead. On all sides of them stretched the pines and
the soft black earth. It looked to the fugitives like a region
into which no human beings had ever come, or ever would come
again, and, alas! to most of them like a region from which no
human being would ever emerge.

Henry sat upon a piece of fallen brushwood near the edge of the
morass, and looked at the fugitives, and his heart sank within
him. They were hardly in the likeness of his own kind, and they
seemed practically lifeless now. Everything was dull, heavy, and
dead. The note of the wind among the leaves was somber. A long
black snake slipped from the marshy grass near his feet and
disappeared soundlessly in the water. He was sick, sick to death
at the sight of so much suffering, and the desire for vengeance,
slow, cold, and far more lasting than any hot outburst, grew
within him. A slight noise, and Shif'less Sol stood beside him.

"Did you hear?" asked the shiftless one, in a significant tone.

"Hear what?" asked Henry, who had been deep in thought.

"The wolf howl, just a very little cry, very far away an' under
the horizon, but thar all the same. Listen, thar she goes
ag'in!"

Henry bent his ear and distinctly heard the faint, whining note,
and then it came a third time.

He looked tip at Shif'less Sol, and his face grew white -- but
not for himself.

"Yes," said Shif'less Sol. He understood the look. We are
pursued. Them wolves howlin' are the Iroquois. What do you
reckon we're goin' to do, Henry?"

"Fight!" replied the youth, with fierce energy. "Beat 'em off!"

"How?"

Henry circled the little oasis with the eye of a general, and his
plan came.

"You'll stand here, where the earth gives a footing," he said,
"you, Solomon Hyde, as brave a man as I ever saw, and with you
will be Paul Cotter, Tom Ross, Jim Hart, and Henry Ware, old
friends of yours. Carpenter will at once lead the women and
children on ahead, and perhaps they will not hear the battle that
is going to be fought here."

A smile of approval, slow, but deep and comprehensive, stole over
the face of Solomon Hyde, surnamed, wholly without fitness, the
shiftless one. "It seems to me," he said, "that I've heard o'
them four fellers you're talkin' about, an' ef I wuz to hunt all
over this planet an' them other planets that Paul tells of, I
couldn't find four other fellers that I'd ez soon have with me."

"We've got to stand here to the death," said Henry.

"You're shorely right," said Shif'less Sol.

The hands of the two comrades met in a grip of steel.

The other three were called and were told of the plan, which met
with their full approval. Then the news was carried to
Carpenter, who quickly agreed that their course was the wisest.
He urged all the fugitives to their feet, telling them that they
must reach another dry place before night, but they were past
asking questions now, and, heavy and apathetic, they passed on
into the swamp.

Paul watched the last of them disappear among the black bushes
and weeds, and turned back to his friends on the oasis. The five
lay down behind a big fallen pine, and gave their weapons a last
look. They had never been armed better. Their rifles were good,
and the fine double-barreled pistols, formidable weapons, would
be a great aid, especially at close quarters.

"I take it," said Tom Ross, "that the Iroquois can't get through
at all unless they come along this way, an' it's the same ez ef
we wuz settin' on solid earth, poppin' em over, while they come
sloshin' up to us."

"That's exactly it," said Henry. "We've a natural defense which
we can hold against much greater numbers, and the longer we hold
'em off, the nearer our people will be to Fort Penn."

"I never felt more like fightin' in my life," said Tom Ross.

It was a grim utterance, true of them all, although not one among
them was bloodthirsty.

"Can any of you hear anything?" asked Henry. "Nothin'," replied
Shif'less Sol, after a little wait, "nothin' from the women
goin', an' nothin' from the Iroquois comin'."

"We'll just lie close," said Henry. "This hard spot of ground
isn't more than thirty or forty feet each way, and nobody can get
on it without our knowing it."

The others did not reply. All lay motionless upon their sides,
with their shoulders raised a little, in order that they might
take instant aim when the time came. Some rays of the sun
penetrated the canopy of pines, and fell across the brown,
determined faces and the lean brown hands that grasped the long,
slender-barreled Kentucky rifles. Another snake slipped from the
ground into the black water and swam away. Some water animal
made a light splash as he, too, swam from the presence of these
strange intruders. Then they beard a sighing sound, as of a foot
drawn from mud, and they knew that the Iroquois were approaching,
savages in war, whatever they might be otherwise, and expecting
an easy prey. Five brown thumbs cocked their rifles, and five
brown forefingers rested upon the triggers. The eyes of woodsmen
who seldom missed looked down the sights.

The sound of feet in the mud came many times. The enemy was
evidently drawing near.

"How many do you think are out thar?" whispered Shif'less Sol to
Henry.

"Twenty, at least, it seems to me by the sounds." "I s'pose the
best thing for us to do is to shoot at the first head we see."

"Yes, but we mustn't all fire at the same man."

It was suggested that Henry call off the turns of the marksmen,
and he agreed to do so. Shif'less Sol was to fire first. The
sounds now ceased. The Iroquois evidently had some feeling or
instinct that they were approaching an enemy who was to be
feared, not weak and unarmed women and children.

The five were absolutely motionless, finger on trigger. The
American wilderness had heroes without number. It was Horatius
Cocles five times over, ready to defend the bridge with life.
Over the marsh rose the weird cry of an owl, and some water birds
called in lonely fashion.

Henry judged that the fugitives were now three quarters of a mile
away, out of the sound of rifle shot. He had urged Carpenter to
marshal them on as far as be could. But the silence endured yet
a while longer. In the dull gray light of the somber day and the
waning afternoon the marsh was increasingly dreary and mournful.
It seemed that it must always be the abode of dead or dying
things.

The wet grass, forty yards away, moved a little, and between the
boughs appeared the segment of a hideous dark face, the painted
brow, the savage black eyes, and the hooked nose of the Mohawk.
Only Henry saw it, but with fierce joy-the tortures at Wyoming
leaped up before him-he fired at the painted brow. The Mohawk
uttered his death cry and fell back with a splash into the mud
and water of the swamp. A half dozen bullets were instantly
fired at the base of the smoke that came from Henry's rifle, but
the youth and his comrades lay close and were unharmed.
Shif'less Sol and Tom were quick enough to catch glimpses of
brown forms, at which they fired, and the cries coming back told
that they had hit.

"That's something," said Henry. "One or two Iroquois at least
will not wear the scalp of white woman or child at their belts."

"Wish they'd try to rush us," said Shif'less Sol. "I never felt
so full of fight in my life before."

"They may try it," said Henry. "I understand that at the big
battle of the Oriskany, farther up in the North, the Iroquois
would wait until a white man behind a tree would fire, then they
would rush up and tomahawk him before he could reload."

"They don't know how fast we kin reload," said Long Jim, "an'
they don't know that we've got these double-barreled pistols,
either."

"No, they don't," said Henry, "and it's a great thing for us to
have them. Suppose we spread out a little. So long as we keep
them from getting a lodging on the solid earth we hold them at a
great disadvantage."

Henry and Paul moved off a little toward the right, and the
others toward the left. They still had good cover, as fallen
timber was scattered all over the oasis, and they were quite sure
that another attack would be made soon. It came in about fifteen
minutes. The Iroquois suddenly fired a volley at the logs and
brush, and when the five returned the fire, but with more deadly
effect, they leaped forward in the mud and attempted to rush the
oasis, tomahawk in hand.

But the five reloaded so quickly that they were able to send in a
second volley before the foremost of the Iroquois could touch
foot on solid earth. Then the double barreled pistols came into
play. The bullets sent from short range drove back the savages,
who were amazed at such a deadly and continued fire. Henry
caught sight of a white face among these assailants, and he knew
it to be that of Braxton Wyatt. Singularly enough he was not
amazed to see it there. Wyatt, sinking deeper and deeper into
savagery and cruelty, was just the one to lead the Iroquois in
such a pursuit. He was a fit match for Walter Butler, the
infamous son of the Indian leader, who was soon to prove himself
worse than the worst of the savages, as Thayendanegea himself has
written.

Henry drew a bead once on Braxton Wyatt-he had no scruples now
about shooting him-but just as he was about to pull the trigger
Wyatt darted behind a bush, and a Seneca instead received the
bullet. He also saw the renegade, Blackstaffe, but he was not
able to secure a shot at him, either. Nevertheless, the Iroquois
attack was beaten back. It was a foregone conclusion that the
result would be so, unless the force was in great numbers. It is
likely, also, that the Iroquois at first had thought only a
single man was with the fugitives, not knowing that the five had
joined them later.

Two of the Iroquois were slain at the very edge of the solid
ground, but their bodies fell back in the slime, and the others,
retreating fast for their lives, could not carry them off. Paul,
with a kind of fascinated horror, watched the dead painted bodies
sink deeper. Then one was entirely gone. The hand of the other
alone was left, and then it, too, was gone. But the five had
held the island, and Carpenter was leading the fugitives on
toward Fort Penn. They had not only held it, but they believed
that they could continue to hold it against anything, and their
hearts became exultant. Something, too, to balance against the
long score, lay out there in the swamp, and all the five, bitter
over Wyoming, were sorry that Braxton Wyatt was not among them.

The stillness came again. The sun did not break through the
heavy gray sky, and the somber shadows brooded over "The Shades
of Death."  They heard again the splash of water animals, and a
swimming snake passed on the murky surface. Then they heard the
wolf's long cry, and the long cry of wolf replying.

"More Iroquois coming," said Shif'less Sol." Well, we gave them a
pretty warm how d'ye do, an' with our rifles and double-barreled
pistols I'm thinkin' that we kin do it ag'in."

"We can, except in one case," said Henry, " if the new party
brings their numbers up to fifty or sixty, and they wait for
night, they can surround us in the darkness. Perhaps it would be
better for us to slip away when twilight comes. Carpenter and
the train have a long lead now."

"Yes," said Shif'less Sol," Now, what in tarnation is that?"

"A white flag," said Paul.   A piece of cloth that had once been
white had been hoisted on the barrel of a rifle at a point about
sixty yards away.

"They want a talk with us," said Henry.

"If it's Braxton Wyatt," said Long Jim, "I'd like to take a shot
at him, talk or no talk, an' ef I missed, then take another."

"We'll see what they have to say," said Henry, and he called
aloud: "What do you want with us?"

"To talk with you," replied a clear, full voice, not that of
Braxton Wyatt.

"Very well," replied Henry, "show yourself and we will not fire
upon you."

A tall figure was upraised upon a grassy hummock, and the hands
were held aloft in sign of peace. It was a splendid figure, at
least six feet four inches in height. At that moment some rays
of the setting sun broke through the gray clouds and shone full
upon it, lighting up the defiant scalp lock interwoven with the
brilliant red feather, the eagle face with the curved Roman beak,
and the mighty shoulders and chest of red bronze. It was a
genuine king of the wilderness, none other than the mighty
Timmendiquas himself, the great White Lightning of the Wyandots.

"Ware," he said, "I would speak with you. Let us talk as one
chief to another."

The five were amazed. Timmendiquas there! They were quite sure
that he had come up with the second force, and he was certain to
prove a far more formidable leader than either Braxton Wyatt or
Moses Blackstaffe. But his demand to speak with Henry Ware might
mean something.

"Are you going to answer him?" said Shif'less Sol.

"Of course," replied Henry.

"The others, especially Wyatt and Blackstaffe, might shoot."

"Not while Timmendiquas holds the flag of truce; they would not
dare."

Henry stood up, raising himself to his full height. The same
ruddy sunlight piercing the somber gray of the clouds fell upon
another splendid figure, a boy only in years, but far beyond the
average height of man, his hair yellow, his eyes a deep, clear
blue, his body clothed in buckskin, and his whole attitude that
of one without fear. The two, the white and the red, kings of
their kind, confronted each other across the marsh.

"What do you wish with me, Timmendiquas?" asked Henry. In the
presence of the great Wyandot chief the feeling of hate and
revenge that had held his heart vanished. He knew that Paul and
Shif'less Sol would have sunk under the ruthless tomahawk of
Queen Esther, if it had not been for White Lightning. He himself
had owed him his life on another and more distant occasion, and
he was not ungrateful. So there was warmth in his tone when he
spoke.

"Let us meet at the edge of the solid ground," said Timmendiquas,
"I have things to say that are important and that you will be
glad to hear."

Henry walked without hesitation to the edge of the swamp, and the
young chief, coming forward, met him. Henry held out his hand in
white fashion, and the young chief took it. There was no sound
either from the swamp or from those who lay behind the logs on
the island, but some of the eyes of those hidden in the swamps
watched both with burning hatred.

"I wish to tell you, Ware," said Timmendiquas, speaking with the
dignity becoming a great chief, "that it was not I who led the
pursuit of the white men's women and children. I, and the
Wyandots who came with me, fought as best we could in the great
battle, and I will slay my enemies when I can. We are warriors,
and we are ready to face each other in battle, but we do not seek
to kill the squaw in the tepee or the papoose in its birch-bark
cradle."

The face of the great chief seemed stirred by some deep emotion,
which impressed Henry all the more because the countenance of
Timmendiquas was usually a mask.

"I believe that you tell the truth," said Henry gravely.

"I and my Wyandots," continued the chief, "followed a trail
through the woods. We found that others, Senecas and Mohawks,
led by Wyatt and Blackstaffe, who are of your race, had gone
before, and when we came up there had just been a battle. The
Mohawks and Senecas had been driven back. It was then we learned
that the trail was made by women and little children, save you
and your comrades who stayed to fight and protect them."

"You speak true words, Timmendiquas," said Henry.

"The Wyandots have remained in the East to fight men, not to kill
squaws and papooses," continued Timmendiquas. "So I say to you,
go on with those who flee across the mountains. Our warriors
shall not pursue you any longer. We will turn back to the valley
from which we come, and those of your race, Blackstaffe and
Wyatt, shall go with us."

The great chief spoke quietly, but there was an edge to his tone
that told that every word was meant. Henry felt a glow of
admiration. The true greatness of Timmendiquas spoke.

"And the Iroquois?" he said, "will they go back with you?"

"They will. They have killed too much. Today all the white
people in the valley are killed or driven away. Many scalps have
been taken, those of women and children, too, and men have died
at the stake. I have felt shame for their deeds, Ware, and it
will bring punishment upon my brethren, the Iroquois. It will
make so great a noise in the world that many soldiers will come,
and the villages of the Iroquois will cease to be."

"I think it is so, Timmendiquas," said Henry. "But you will be
far away then in your own land."

The chief drew himself up a little.

"I shall remain with the Iroquois," he said. "I have promised to
help them, and I must do so."

"I can't blame you for that," said Henry, "but I am glad that you
do not seek the scalps of women and children. We are at once
enemies and friends, Timmendiquas."

White Lightning bowed gravely. He and Henry touched hands again,
and each withdrew, the chief into the morass, while Henry walked
back toward his comrades, holding himself erect, as if no enemy
were near.

The four rose up to greet him. They had heard part of what was
said, and Henry quickly told them the rest.

"He's shorely a great chief," said Shif'less Sol. He'll keep his
word, too. Them people on ahead ain't got anything more to fear
from pursuit."

He's a statesman, too," said Henry. "He sees what damage the
deeds of Wyoming Valley will do to those who have done them. He
thinks our people will now send a great army against the
Iroquois, and I think so, too."

"No nation can stand a thing like that," said Paul, and I didn't
dream it could happen."

They now left the oasis, and went swiftly along the trail left by
the fugitives. All of them had confidence in the word of
Timmendiquas. There was a remote chance that some other band had
entered the swamp at a different point, but it was remote,
indeed, and it did not trouble them much.

Night was now over the great swamp. The sun no longer came
through the gray clouds, but here and there were little flashes
of flame made by fireflies. Had not the trail been so broad and
deep it could easily have been lost, but, being what it was, the
skilled eyes of the frontiersmen followed it without trouble.

"Some uv 'em are gittin' pow'ful tired," said Tom Ross, looking
at the tracks in the mud. Then he suddenly added: "Here's whar
one's quit forever."

A shallow grave, not an hour old, had been made under some
bushes, and its length indicated that a woman lay there. They
passed it by in silence. Henry now appreciated more fully than
ever the mercy of Timmendiquas. The five and Carpenter could not
possibly have protected the miserable fugitives against the great
chief, with fifty Wyandots and Iroquois at his back.
Timmendiquas knew this, and he had done what none of the Indians
or white allies around him would have done.

In another hour they saw a man standing among some vines, but
watchful, and with his rifle in the hollow of his arm. It was
Carpenter, a man whose task was not less than that of the five.
They were in the thick of it and could see what was done, but he
had to lead on and wait. He counted the dusk figures as they
approached him, one, two, three, four, five, and perhaps no man
ever felt greater relief. He advanced toward them and said
huskily:

"There was no fight! They did not attack!"

"There was a fight," said Henry, "and we beat them back; then a
second and a larger force came up, but it was composed chiefly of
Wyandots, led by their great chief, Timmendiquas. He came
forward and said that they would not pursue women and children,
and that we could go in safety."

Carpenter looked incredulous.

"It is true," said Henry, "every word of it."

"It is more than Brant would have done," said Carpenter, "and it
saves us, with your help."

"You were first, and the first credit is yours, Mr. Carpenter,"
said Henry sincerely.

They did not tell the women and children of the fight at the
oasis, but they spread the news that there would be no more
pursuit, and many drooping spirits revived. They spent another
day in the Great Dismal Swamp, where more lives were lost. On
the day after their emergence from the marsh, Henry and his
comrades killed two deer, which furnished greatly needed food,
and on the day after that, excepting those who had died by the
way, they reached Fort Penn, where they were received into
shelter and safety.

The night before the fugitives reached Fort Penn, the Iroquois
began the celebration of the Thanksgiving Dance for their great
victory and the many scalps taken at Wyoming. They could not
recall another time when they had secured so many of these
hideous trophies, and they were drunk with the joy of victory.
Many of the Tories, some in their own clothes, and some painted
and dressed like Indians, took part in it.

According to their ancient and honored custom they held a grand
council to prepare for it. All the leading chiefs were present,
Sangerachte, Hiokatoo, and the others. Braxton Wyatt,
Blackstaffe, and other white men were admitted. After their
deliberations a great fire was built in the center of the camp,
the squaws who had followed the army feeding it with brushwood
until it leaped and roared and formed a great red pyramid. Then
the chiefs sat down in a solemn circle at some distance, and
waited.

Presently the sound of a loud chant was heard, and from the
farthest point of the camp emerged a long line of warriors,
hundreds and hundreds of them, all painted in red and black with
horrible designs. They were naked except the breechcloth and
moccasins, and everyone waved aloft a tomahawk as he sang.

Still singing and brandishing the tomahawks, which gleamed in the
red light, the long procession entered the open space, and danced
and wheeled about the great fire, the flames casting a lurid
light upon faces hideous with paint or the intoxication of
triumph. The glare of their black eyes was like those of Eastern
eaters of hasheesh or opium, and they bounded to and fro as if
their muscles were springs of steel. They sang:

  We have met the Bostonians* in battle,
  We slew them with our rifles and tomahawks.
  Few there are who escaped our warriors.
  Ever-victorious is the League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee.

[*Note: All the Americans were often called Bostonians by the
Indians as late as the Revolutionary War.]

  Mighty has been our taking of scalps,
  They will fill all the lodges of the Iroquois.
  We have burned the houses of the Bostonians.
  Ever-victorious is the League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee.

  The wolf will prowl in their corn-fields,
  The grass will grow where their blood has soaked;
  Their bones will lie for the buzzard to pick.
  Ever-victorious is the League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee.

  We came upon them by river and forest;
  As we smote Wyoming we will smite the others,
  We will drive the Bostonians back to the sea.
  Ever-victorious is the League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee.

The monotonous chant with the refrain, "Ever-victorious is the
League of the Ho-de-no-sau-nee," went on for many verses.
Meanwhile the old squaws never ceased to feed the bonfire, and
the flames roared, casting a deeper and more vivid light over the
distorted faces of the dancers and those of the chiefs, who sat
gravely beyond.

Higher and higher leaped the warriors. They seemed unconscious
of fatigue, and the glare in their eyes became that of maniacs.
Their whole souls were possessed by the orgy. Beads of sweat,
not of exhaustion, but of emotional excitement, appeared upon
their faces and naked bodies, and the red and black paint
streaked together horribly.

For a long time this went on, and then the warriors ceased
suddenly to sing, although they continued their dance. A moment
later a cry which thrilled every nerve came from a far point in
the dark background. It was the scalp yell, the most terrible of
all Indian cries, long, high-pitched, and quavering, having in it
something of the barking howl of the wolf and the fiendish shriek
of a murderous maniac. The warriors instantly took it up, and
gave it back in a gigantic chorus.

A ghastly figure bounded into the circle of the firelight. It
was that of a woman, middle-aged, tall and powerful, naked to the
waist, her body covered with red and black paint, her long black
hair hanging in a loose cloud down her back. She held a fresh
scalp, taken from a white head, aloft in either band. It was
Catharine Montour, and it was she who had first emitted the scalp
yell. After her came more warriors, all bearing scalps. The
scalp yell was supposed to be uttered for every scalp taken, and,
as they had taken more than three hundred, it did not cease for
hours, penetrating every part of the forest. All the time
Catharine Montour led the dance. None bounded higher than she.
None grimaced more horribly.

While they danced, six men, with their hands tied behind them and
black caps on their heads, were brought forth and paraded around
amid hoots and yells and brandishing of tomahawks in their faces.
They were the surviving prisoners, and the black caps meant that
they were to be killed and scalped on the morrow. Stupefied by
all through which they had gone, they were scarcely conscious
now.

Midnight came. The Iroquois still danced and sang, and the calm
stars looked down upon the savage and awful scene. Now the
dancers began to weary. Many dropped unconscious, and the others
danced about them where they lay. After a while all ceased.
Then the chiefs brought forth a white dog, which Hiokatoo killed
and threw on the embers of the fire. When it was thoroughly
roasted, the chiefs cut it in pieces and ate it. Thus closed the
Festival of Thanksgiving for the victory of Wyoming.

CHAPTER XIII

A FOREST PAGE

When the survivors of the band of Wyoming fugitives that the five
had helped were behind the walls of Fort Penn, securing the food
and rest they needed so greatly, Henry Ware and his comrades felt
themselves relieved of a great responsibility. They were also
aware how much they owed to Timmendiquas, because few of the
Indians and renegades would have been so forbearing.
Thayendanegea seemed to them inferior to the great Wyandot.
Often when Brant could prevent the torture of the prisoners and
the slaughter of women and children, he did not do it. The five
could never forget these things in after life, when Brant was
glorified as a great warrior and leader. Their minds always
turned to Timmendiquas as the highest and finest of Indian types.

While they were at Fort Penn two other parties came, in a fearful
state of exhaustion, and also having paid the usual toll of death
on the way. Other groups reached the Moravian towns, where they
were received with all kindness by the German settlers. The five
were able to give some help to several of these parties, but the
beautiful Wyoming Valley lay utterly in ruins. The ruthless fury
of the savages and of many of the Tories, Canadians, and
Englishmen, can scarcely be told. Everything was slaughtered or
burned. As a habitation of human beings or of anything
pertaining to human beings, the valley for a time ceased to be.
An entire population was either annihilated or driven out, and
finally Butler's army, finding that nothing more was left to be
destroyed, gathered in its war parties and marched northward with
a vast store of spoils, in which scalps were conspicuous. When
they repassed Tioga Point, Timmendiquas and his Wyandots were
still with them. Thayendanegea was also with them here, and so
was Walter Butler, who was destined shortly to make a reputation
equaling that of his father, "Indian" Butler. Nor had the
terrible Queen Esther ever left them. She marched at the head of
the army, singing, horrid chants of victory, and swinging the
great war tomahawk, which did not often leave her hand.

The whole force was re-embarked upon the Susquehanna, and it was
still full of the impulse of savage triumph. Wild Indian songs
floated along the stream or through the meadows, which were quiet
now. They advanced at their ease, knowing that there was nobody
to attack them, but they were watched by five woodsmen, two of
whom were boys. Meanwhile the story of Wyoming, to an extent
that neither Indians nor woodsmen themselves suspected, was
spreading from town to town in the East, to invade thence the
whole civilized world, and to stir up an indignation and horror
that would make the name Wyoming long memorable. Wyoming had
been a victory for the flag under which the invaders fought, but
it sadly tarnished the cause of that flag, and the consequences
were to be seen soon.

Henry Ware, Paul Cotter, Sol Hyde, Tom Ross, and Jim Hart were
thinking little of distant consequences, but they were eager for
the present punishment of these men who had committed so much
cruelty. From the bushes they could easily follow the canoes,
and could recognize some of their occupants. In one of the rear
boats sat Braxton Wyatt and a young man whom they knew to be
Walter Butler, a pallid young man, animated by the most savage
ferocity against the patriots. He and Wyatt seemed to be on the
best of terms, and faint echoes of their laughter came to the
five who were watching among the bushes on the river bank.
Certainly Braxton Wyatt and he were a pair well met.

"Henry," said Shif'less Sol longingly, "I think I could jest
about reach Braxton Wyatt with a bullet from here. I ain't over
fond o' shootin' from ambush, but I done got over all scruples so
fur ez he's concerned. Jest one bullet, one little bullet,
Henry, an' ef I miss I won't ask fur a second chance."

"No, Sol, it won't do," said Henry. "They'd get off to hunt us.
The whole fleet would be stopped, and we want 'em to go on as
fast as possible."

"I s'pose you're right, Henry," said the shiftless one sadly,
"but I'd jest like to try it once. I'd give a month's good
huntin' for that single trial."

After watching the British-Indian fleet passing up the river,
they turned back to the site of the Wyoming fort and the houses
near it. Here everything had been destroyed. It was about dusk
when they approached the battlefield, and they heard a dreadful
howling, chiefly that of wolves.

I think we'd better turn away," said Henry. " We couldn't do
anything with so many."

They agreed with him, and, going back, followed the Indians up
the Susquehanna. A light rain fell that night, but they slept
under a little shed, once attached to a house which had been
destroyed by fire. In some way the shed had escaped the flames,
and it now came into timely use. The five, cunning in forest
practice, drew up brush on the sides, and half-burned timber
also, and, spreading their blankets on ashes which had not long
been cold, lay well sheltered from the drizzling rain, although
they did not sleep for a long time.

It was the hottest period of the year in America, but the night
had come on cool, and the rain made it cooler. The five,
profiting by experience, often carried with them two light
blankets instead of one heavy one. With one blanket beneath the
body they could keep warmer in case the weather was cold.

Now they lay in a row against the standing wall of the old
outhouse, protected by a six- or seven-foot slant of board roof.
They had eaten of a deer that they had shot in the morning, and
they had a sense of comfort and rest that none of them had known
before in many days. Henry's feelings were much like those that
he had experienced when he lay in the bushes in the little canoe,
wrapped up from the storm and hidden from the Iroquois. But here
there was an important increase of pleasure, the pattering of the
rain on the board roof, a pleasant, soothing sound to which
millions of boys, many of them afterwards great men, have
listened in America.

It grew very dark about them, and the pleasant patter, almost
musical in its rhythm, kept up. Not much wind was blowing, and
it, too, was melodious. Henry lay with his head on a little heap
of ashes, which was covered by his under blanket, and, for the
first time since he had brought the warning to Wyoming, he was
free from all feeling of danger. The picture itself of the
battle, the defeat, the massacre, the torture, and of the savage
Queen Esther cleaving the heads of the captives, was at times as
vivid as ever, and perhaps would always return now and then in
its original true colors, but the periods between, when youth,
hope, and strength had their way, grew longer and longer.

Now Henry's eyelids sank lower and lower. Physical comfort and
the presence of his comrades caused a deep satisfaction that
permeated his whole being. The light wind mingled pleasantly
with the soft summer rain. The sound of the two grew strangely
melodious, almost piercingly sweet, and then it seemed to be
human. They sang together, the wind and rain, among the leaves,
and the note that reached his heart, rather than his ear,
thrilled him with courage and hope. Once more the invisible
voice that had upborne him in the great valley of the Ohio told
him, even here in the ruined valley of Wyoming, that what was
lost would be regained.       The chords ended, and the echoes,
amazingly clear, floated far away in the darkness and rain.
Henry roused himself, and came from the imaginative borderland.
He stirred a little, and said in a quiet voice to Shif'less Sol:

"Did you hear anything, Sol?"

"Nothin' but the wind an' the rain."

Henry knew that such would be the answer.

"I guess you didn't hear anything either, Henry," continued the
shiftless one, "'cause it looked to me that you wuz 'bout ez near
sleep ez a feller could be without bein' ackshooally so."

"I was drifting away," said Henry.

He was beginning to realize that he had a great power, or rather
gift. Paul was the sensitive, imaginative boy, seeing everything
in brilliant colors, a great builder of castles, not all of air,
but Henry's gift went deeper. It was the power to evoke the
actual living picture of the event that bad not yet occurred,
something akin in its nature to prophecy, based perhaps upon the
wonderful power of observation, inherited doubtless, from
countless primitive ancestors. The finest product of the
wilderness, he saw in that wilderness many things that others did
not see, and unconsciously he drew his conclusions from superior
knowledge.

The song had ceased a full ten minutes, and then came another
note, a howl almost plaintive, but, nevertheless, weird and full
of ferocity. All knew it at once. They had heard the cry of
wolves too often in their lives, but this had an uncommon note
like the yell of the Indian in victory. Again the cry arose,
nearer, haunting, and powerful. The five, used to the darkness,
could see one another's faces, and the look that all gave was the
same, full of understanding and repulsion.

"It has been a great day for the wolf in this valley," whispered
Paul, "and striking our trail they think they are going to find
what they have been finding in such plenty before."

"Yes," nodded Henry, "but do you remember that time when in the
house we took the place of the man, his wife and children, just
before the Indians came?"

"Yes," said Paul.

"We'll treat them wolves the same way," said Shif'less Sol.

"I'm glad of the chance," said Long Jim.

"Me, too," said Tom Ross.

The five rose up to sitting positions against the board wall, and
everyone held across his knees a long, slender barreled rifle,
with the muzzle pointing toward the forest. All accomplished
marksmen, it would only be a matter of a moment for the stock to
leap to the shoulder, the eye to glance down the barrel, the
finger to pull the trigger, and the unerring bullet to leap
forth.

"Henry, you give the word as usual," said Shif'less Sol.

Henry nodded.

Presently in the darkness they heard the pattering of light feet,
and they saw many gleaming eyes draw near. There must have been
at least thirty of the wolves, and the five figures that they saw
reclining, silent and motionless, against the unburned portion of
the house might well have been those of the dead and scalped,
whom they had found in such numbers everywhere. They drew near
in a semicircular group, its concave front extended toward the
fire, the greatest wolves at the center. Despite many feastings,
the wolves were hungry again. Nothing had opposed them before,
but caution was instinctive. The big gray leaders did not mind
the night or the wind or the rain, which they had known all their
lives, and which they counted as nothing, but they always had
involuntary suspicion of human figures, whether living or not,
and they approached slowly, wrinkling back their noses and
sniffing the wind which blew from them instead of the five
figures. But their confidence increased as they advanced. They
had found many such burned houses as this, but they had found
nothing among the ruins except what they wished.

The big leaders advanced more boldly, glaring straight at the
human figures, a slight froth on their lips, the lips themselves
curling back farther from the strong white teeth. The outer ends
of the concave semicircle also drew in. The whole pack was about
to spring upon its unresisting prey, and it is, no doubt, true
that many a wolfish pulse beat a little higher in anticipation.  
With a suddenness as startling as it was terrifying the five
figures raised themselves, five long, dark tubes leaped to their
shoulders, and with a suddenness that was yet more terrifying, a
gush of flame shot from five muzzles. Five of the wolves-and
they were the biggest and the boldest, the leaders-fell dead upon
the ashes of the charred timbers, and the others, howling their
terror to the dark, skies, fled deep into the forest.

Henry strode over and pushed the body of the largest wolf with
his foot.

"I suppose we only gratified a kind of sentiment in shooting
those wolves," he said, " but I for one am glad we did it."

"So am I," said Paul.

"Me, too," said the other three together.

They went back to their positions near the wall, and one by one
fell asleep. No more wolves howled that night anywhere near
them.

When the five awakened the next morning the rain had ceased, and
a splendid sun was tinting a blue sky with gold. Jim Hart built
a fire among the blackened logs, and cooked venison. They had
also brought from Fort Penn a little coffee, which Long Jim
carried with a small coffee pot in his camp kit, and everyone had
a small tin cup. He made coffee for them, an uncommon wilderness
luxury, in which they could rarely indulge, and they were
heartened and strengthened by it.

Then they went again up the valley, as beautiful as ever, with
its silver river in the center, and its green mountain walls on
either side. But the beauty was for the eye only. It did not
reach the hearts of those who had seen it before. All of the
five loved the wilderness, but they felt now how tragic silence
and desolation could be where human life and all the daily ways
of human life had been.

It was mid-summer, but the wilderness was already reclaiming its
own. The game knew that man was gone, and it had come back into
the valley. Deer ate what had grown in the fields and gardens,
and the wolves were everywhere. The whole black tragedy was
written for miles. They were never out of sight of some trace of
it, and their anger grew again as they advanced in the blackened
path of the victorious Indians.

It was their purpose now to hang on the Indian flank as scouts
and skirmishers, until an American army was formed for a campaign
against the Iroquois, which they were sure must be conducted
sooner or later. Meanwhile they could be of great aid, gathering
news of the Indian plans, and, when that army of which they
dreamed should finally march, they could help it most of all by
warning it of ambush, the Indian's deadliest weapon.

Everyone of the five had already perceived a fact which was
manifest in all wars with the Indians along the whole border from
North to South, as it steadily shifted farther West. The
practical hunter and scout was always more than a match for the
Indian, man for man, but, when the raw levies of settlers were
hastily gathered to stem invasion, they were invariably at a
great disadvantage. They were likely to be caught in ambush by
overwhelming numbers, and to be cut down, as had just happened at
Wyoming. The same fate might attend an invasion of the Iroquois
country, even by a large army of regular troops, and Henry and
his comrades resolved upon doing their utmost to prevent it. An
army needed eyes, and it could have none better than those five
pairs. So they went swiftly up the valley and northward and
eastward, into the country of the Iroquois. They had a plan of
approaching the upper Mohawk village of Canajoharie, where one
account says  that Thayendanegea was born, although another
credits his birthplace to the upper banks of the Ohio.

They turned now from the valley to the deep woods. The trail
showed that the great Indian force, after disembarking again,
split into large parties, everyone loaded with spoil and bound
for its home village. The five noted several of the trails, but
one of them consumed the whole attention of Silent Tom Ross.

He saw in the soft soil near a creek bank the footsteps of about
eight Indians, and, mingled with them, other footsteps, which he
took to be those of a white woman and of several children,
captives, as even a tyro would infer. The soul of Tom, the good,
honest, and inarticulate frontiersman, stirred within him. A
white woman and her children being carried off to savagery, to be
lost forevermore to their kind! Tom, still inarticulate, felt
his heart pierced with sadness at the tale that the tracks in the
soft mud told so plainly. But despair was not the only emotion
in his heart. The silent and brave man meant to act.

"Henry," he said, "see these tracks here in the soft spot by the
creek."

The young leader read the forest page, and it told him exactly
the same tale that it had told Tom Ross.

"About a day old, I think," he said.

"Just about," said Tom; "an' I reckon, Henry, you know what's in
my mind."

"I think I do," said Henry, " and we ought to overtake them by
to-morrow night. You tell the others, Tom."

Tom informed Shif'less Sol, Paul, and Long Jim in a few words,
receiving from everyone a glad assent, and then the five followed
fast on the trail. They knew that the Indians could not go very
fast, as their speed must be that of the slowest, namely, that of
the children, and it seemed likely that Henry's prediction of
overtaking them on the following night would come true.

It was an easy trail. Here and there were tiny fragments of
cloth, caught by a bush from the dress of a captive. In one
place they saw a fragment of a child's shoe that had been dropped
off and abandoned. Paul picked up the worn piece of leather and
examined it.

"I think it was worn by a girl," he said, "and, judging from its
size, she could not have been more than eight years old. Think
of a child like that being made to walk five or six hundred miles
through these woods!"

"Younger ones still have had to do it," said Shif'less Sol
gravely, "an' them that couldn't-well, the tomahawk."

The trail was leading them toward the Seneca country, and they
had no doubt that the Indians were Senecas, who had been more
numerous than any others of the Six Nations at the Wyoming
battle. They came that afternoon to a camp fire beside which the
warriors and captives had slept the night before.

"They ate bar meat an' wild turkey," said Long Jim, looking at
some bones on the ground.

"An' here," said Tom Ross, "on this pile uv bushes is whar the
women an' children slept, an' on the other side uv the fire is
whar the warriors lay anywhars. You can still see how the bodies
uv some uv 'cm crushed down the grass an' little bushes."

"An' I'm thinkin'," said Shif'less Sol, as he looked at the trail
that led away from the camp fire,  "that some o' them little ones
wuz gittin' pow'ful tired. Look how these here little trails are
wobblin' about."

"Hope we kin come up afore the Injuns begin to draw thar
tomahawks," said Tom Ross.

The others were silent, but they knew the dreadful significance
of Tom's remark, and Henry glanced at them all, one by one.

"It's the greatest danger to be feared," he said, "and we must
overtake them in the night when they are not suspecting. If we
attack by day they will tomahawk the captives the very first
thing."

"Shorely,', said the shiftless one.

"Then," said Henry, " we don't need to hurry. "We'll go on until
about midnight, and then sleep until sunrise."

They continued at a fair pace along a trail that frontiersmen far
less skillful than they could have followed. But a silent dread
was in the heart of every one of them. As they saw the path of
the small feet staggering more and more they feared to behold
some terrible object beside the path.

"The trail of the littlest child is gone," suddenly announced
Paul.

"Yes," said Henry, "but the mother has picked it up and is
carrying it. See how her trail has suddenly grown more uneven."

"Poor woman," said Paul. "Henry, we're just bound to overtake
that band."

"We'll do it," said Henry.

At the appointed time they sank down among the thickest bushes
that they could find, and slept until the first upshot of dawn.
Then they resumed the trail, haunted always by that fear of
finding something terrible beside it. But it was a trail that
continually grew slower. The Indians themselves were tired, or,
feeling safe from pursuit, saw no need of hurry. By and by the
trail of the smallest child reappeared.

"It feels a lot better now," said Tom Ross. "So do I."

They came to another camp fire, at which the ashes were not yet
cold. Feathers were scattered about, indicating that the Indians
had taken time for a little side hunt, and had shot some birds.

"They can't be more than two or three hours ahead," said Henry,
"and we'll have to go on now very cautiously."

They were in a country of high hills, well covered with forests,
a region suited to an ambush, which they feared but little on
their own account; but, for the sake of extreme caution, they now
advanced slowly. The afternoon was long and warm, but an hour
before sunset they looked over a hill into a glade, and saw the
warriors making camp for the night.

The sight they beheld made the pulses of the five throb heavily.
The Indians had already built their fire, and two of them were
cooking venison upon it. Others were lying on the grass,
apparently resting, but a little to one side sat a woman, still
young and of large, strong figure, though now apparently in the
last stages of exhaustion, with her feet showing through the
fragments of shoes that she wore. Her head was bare, and her
dress was in strips. Four children lay beside her' the youngest
two with their heads in her lap. The other two, who might be
eleven and thirteen each, had pillowed their heads on their arms,
and lay in the dull apathy that comes from the finish of both
strength and hope. The woman's face was pitiful. She had more
to fear than the children, and she knew it. She was so worn that
the skin hung loosely on her face, and her eyes showed despair
only. The sad spectacle was almost more than Paul could stand.

"I don't like to shoot from ambush," he said, "but we could cut
down half of those warriors at our firs fire and rush in on the
rest."

"And those we didn't cut down at our first volley would tomahawk
the woman and children in an instant," replied Henry. " We
agreed, you know, that it would be sure to happen. We can't do
anything until night comes, and then we've got to be mighty
cautious."

Paul could not dispute the truth of his words, and they withdrew
carefully to the crest of a hill, where they lay in the
undergrowth, watching the Indians complete their fire and their
preparations for the night. It was evident to Henry that they
considered themselves perfectly safe. Certainly they had every
reason for thinking so. It was not likely that white enemies
were within a hundred miles of them, and, if so, it could only be
a wandering hunter or two, who would flee from this fierce band
of Senecas who bad taken revenge for the great losses that they'
had suffered the year before at the Oriskany.

They kept very little watch and built only a small fire, just
enough for broiling deer meat which they carried. They drank at
a little spring which ran from under a ledge near them, and gave
portions of the meat to the woman and children. After the woman
had eaten, they bound her hands, and she lay back on the grass,
about twenty feet from the camp fire. Two children lay on either
side of her, and they were soon sound asleep. The warriors, as
Indians will do when they are free from danger and care, talked a
good deal, and showed all the signs of having what was to them a
luxurious time. They ate plentifully, lolled on the grass, and
looked at some hideous trophies, the scalps that they carried at
their belts. The woman could not keep from seeing these, too,
but her face did not change from its stony aspect of despair.
Then the light of the fire went out, the sun sank behind the
mountains, and the five could no longer see the little group of
captives and captors.

They still waited, although eagerness and impatience were tugging
at the hearts of every one of them. But they must give the
Indians time to fall asleep if they would secure rescue, and not
merely revenge. They remained in the bushes, saying but little
and eating of venison that they carried in their knapsacks.

They let a full three hours pass, and the night remained dark,
but with a faint moon showing. Then they descended slowly into
the valley, approaching by cautious degrees the spot where they
knew the Indian camp lay. This work required at least three
quarters of an hour, and they reached a point where they could
see the embers of the fire and the dark figures lying about it.
The Indians, their suspicions lulled, had put out no sentinels,
and all were asleep. But the five knew that, at the first shot,
they would be as wide awake as if they had never slept, and as
formidable as tigers. Their problem seemed as great as ever. So
they lay in the bushes and held a whispered conference.

"It's this," said Henry. " We want to save the woman and the
children from the tomahawks, and to do so we must get them out of
range of the blade before the battle begins."    "How?" said Tom
Ross.

"I've got to slip up, release the woman, arm her, tell her to run
for the woods with the children, and then you four must do the
most of the rest."

"Do you think you can do it, Henry ?" asked Shif'less Sol.

I can, as I will soon show you. I'm going to steal forward to
the woman, but the moment you four hear an alarm open with your
rifles and pistols. You can come a little nearer without being
heard."

All of them moved up close to the Indian camp, and lay hidden in
the last fringe of bushes except Henry. He lay almost flat upon
the ground, carrying his rifle parallel with his side, and in his
right hand. He was undertaking one of the severest and most
dangerous tests known to a frontiersman. He meant to crawl into
the very midst of a camp of the Iroquois, composed of the most
alert woodsmen in the world, men who would spring up at the
slightest crackle in the brush. Woodmen who, warned by some
sixth sense, would awaken at the mere fact of a strange presence.

The four who remained behind in the bushes could not keep their
hearts from beating louder and faster. They knew the tremendous
risk undertaken by their comrade, but there was not one of them
who would have shirked it, had not all yielded it to the one whom
they knew to be the best fitted for the task.

Henry crept forward silently, bringing to his aid all the years
of skill that he had acquired in his life in the wilds. His body
was like that of a serpent, going forward, coil by coil. He was
near enough now to see the embers of the fire not yet quite dead,
the dark figures scattered about it, sleeping upon the grass with
the long ease of custom, and then the outline of the woman apart
from the others with the children about her. Henry now lay
entirely flat, and his motions were genuinely those of a serpent.
It was by a sort of contraction and relaxation of the body that
he moved himself, and his progress was absolutely soundless.

The object of his advance was the woman. He saw by the faint
light of the moon that she was not yet asleep. Her face, worn
and weather beaten, was upturned to the skies, and the stony look
of despair seemed to have settled there forever. She lay upon
some pine boughs, and her hands were tied behind her for the
night with deerskin.

Henry contorted himself on, inch by inch, for all the world like
a great snake. Now he passed the sleeping Senecas, hideous with
war paint, and came closer to the woman. She was not paying
attention to anything about her, but was merely looking up at the
pale, cold stars, as if everything in the world had ceased for
her.

Henry crept a little nearer. He made a slight noise, as of a
lizard running through the grass, but the woman took no notice.
He crept closer, and. there he lay flat upon the grass within six
feet of her, his figure merely a slightly darker blur against the
dark blur of the earth. Then, trusting to the woman's courage
and strength of mind, he emitted a hiss very soft and low, like
the warning of a serpent, half in fear and half in anger.

The woman moved a little, and looked toward the point from which
the sound had come. It might have been the formidable hiss of a
coiling rattlesnake that she heard, but she felt no fear. She
was too much stunned, too near exhaustion to be alarmed by
anything, and she did not look a second time. She merely settled
back on the pine boughs, and again looked dully up at the pale,
cold stars that cared so little for her or hers.

Henry crept another yard nearer, and then he uttered that low
noise, sibilant and warning, which the woman, the product of the
border, knew to be made by a human being. She raised herself a
little, although it was difficult with her bound hands to sit
upright, and saw a dark shadow approaching her. That dark shadow
she knew to he the figure of a man. An Indian would not be
approaching in such a manner, and she looked again, startled into
a sudden acute attention, and into a belief that the incredible,
the impossible, was about to happen. A voice came from the
figure, and its quality was that of the white voice, not the red.

"Do not move," said that incredible voice out of the unknown. "I
have come for your rescue, and others who have come for the same
purpose are near. Turn on one side, and I will cut the bonds
that hold your arms."

The voice, the white voice, was like the touch of fire to Mary
Newton. A sudden fierce desire for life and for the lives of her
four children awoke within her just when hope had gone the call
to life came. She had never heard before a voice so full of
cheer and encouragement. It penetrated her whole being.
Exhaustion and despair fled away.       

"Turn a little on your side," said the voice.

She turned obediently, and then felt the sharp edge of cold steel
as it swept between her wrists and cut the thongs that held them
together. Her arms fell apart, and strength permeated every vein
of her being.

"We shall attack in a few moments," said the voice, "but at the
first shots the Senecas will try to tomahawk you and your
children. Hold out your hands."

She held out both hands obediently. The handle of a tomahawk was
pressed into one, and the muzzle of a double-barreled pistol into
the other. Strength flowed down each hand into her body.

"If the time comes, use them; you are strong, and you know how,"
said the voice. Then she saw the dark figure creeping away.

CHAPTER XIV

THE PURSUIT ON THE RIVER

The story of the frontier is filled with heroines, from the far
days of Hannah Dustin down to the present, and Mary Newton, whom
the unknown figure in the dark had just aroused, is one of them.
It had seemed to her that God himself had deserted her, but at
the last moment he had sent some one. She did not doubt, she
could not doubt, because the bonds had been severed, and there
she lay with a deadly weapon in either hand. The friendly
stranger who had come so silently was gone as he had come, but
she was not helpless now. Like many another frontier woman, she
was naturally lithe and powerful, and, stirred by a great hope,
all her strength had returned for the present.

Nobody who lives in the wilderness can wholly escape
superstition, and Mary Newton began to believe that some
supernatural creature had intervened in her behalf. She raised
herself just a little on one elbow and surveyed the surrounding
thicket. She saw only the dead embers of the fire, and the dark
forms of the Indians lying upon the bare ground. Had it not been
for the knife and pistol in her hand, she could have believed
that the voice was only a dream.

There was a slight rustling in the thicket, and a Seneca rose
quickly to his knees, grasping his rifle in both hands. The
woman's fingers clutched the knife and pistol more tightly, and
her whole gaunt figure trembled. The Seneca listened only a
moment. Then he gave a sharp cry, and all the other warriors
sprang up. But three of them rose only to fall again, as the
rifles cracked in the bushes, while two others staggered from
wounds.

The triumphant shout of the frontiersmen came from the thicket,
and then they rushed upon the camp. Quick as a flash two of the
Senecas started toward the woman and children with their
tomahawks, but Mary Newton was ready. Her heart had leaped at
the shots when the Senecas fell, and she kept her courage. Now
she sprang to her full height, and, with the children screaming
at her feet, fired one barrel of the pistol directly into the
face of the first warrior, and served the second in the same way
with the other barrel when he was less than four feet away.
Then, tomahawk in hand, she rushed forward. In judging Mary
Newton, one must consider time and place.

But happily there was no need for her to use her tomahawk. As
the five rushed in, four of them emptied their double-barreled
pistols, while Henry swung his clubbed rifle with terrible
effect. It was too much for the Senecas. The apparition of the
armed woman, whom they had left bound, and the deadly fire from
the five figures that sprang upon them, was like a blow from the
hand of Aieroski. The unhurt and wounded fled deep into the
forest, leaving their dead behind. Mary Newton, her great deed
done, collapsed from emotion and weakness. The screams of the
children sank in a few moments to frightened whimpers. But the
oldest, when they saw the white faces, knew that rescue had come.

Paul brought water from the brook in his cap, and Mary Newton was
revived; Jim was reassuring the children, and the other three
were in the thickets, watching lest the surviving Senecas return
for attack.

"I don't know who you are, but I think the good God himself must
have sent you to our rescue," said Mary Newton reverently.

"We don't know," said Paul, "but we are doing the best we can.
Do you think you can walk now?"

"Away from the savages? Yes!" she said passionately. She looked
down at the dead figures of the Senecas, and she did not feel a
single trace of pity for them. Again it is necessary to consider
time and place.

"Some of my strength came back while I was lying here," she said,
"and much more of it when you drove away the Indians."

"Very well," said Henry, who had returned to the dead camp fire
with his comrades, "we must start on the back trail at once. The
surviving Senecas, joined by other Iroquois, will certainly
pursue, and we need all the start that we can get."

Long Jim picked up one of the two younger children and flung him
over his shoulder; Tom Ross did as much for the other, but the
older two scorned help. They were full of admiration for the
great woodsmen, mighty heroes who had suddenly appeared out of
the air, as it were, and who had swept like a tornado over the
Seneca band. It did not seem possible now that they, could be
retaken.

But Mary Newton, with her strength and courage, had also
recovered her forethought.

"Maybe it will not be better to go on the back trail," she said.
"One of the Senecas told me to-day that six or seven miles
farther on was a river flowing into the Susquehanna, and that
they would cross this river on a boat now concealed among bushes
on the bank. The crossing was at a sudden drop between high
banks. Might not we go on, find the boat, and come back in it
down the river and into the Susquehanna?"

"That sounds mighty close to wisdom to me," said Shif'less Sol.
"Besides, it's likely to have the advantage o' throwin' the
Iroquois off our track. They'll think, o' course, that we've
gone straight back, an' we'll pass 'em ez we're going forward."

"It's certainly the best plan," said Henry, "and it's worth our
while to try for that hidden boat of the Iroquois. Do you know
the general direction?"

"Almost due north."

"Then we'll make a curve to the right, in order to avoid any
Iroquois who may be returning to this camp, and push for it."

Henry led the way over hilly, rough ground, and the others
followed in a silent file, Long Jim and Tom still carrying the
two smallest children, who soon fell asleep on their shoulders.
Henry did not believe that the returning Iroquois could follow
their trail on such a dark night, and the others agreed with him.

After a while they saw the gleam of water. Henry knew that it
must be very near, or it would have been wholly invisible on such
a dark night.

"I think, Mrs. Newton," he said, "that this is the river of which
you spoke, and the cliffs seem to drop down just as you said they
would."

The woman smiled.

"Yes," she said, "you've done well with my poor guess, and the
boat must be hidden somewhere near here."

Then she sank down with exhaustion, and the two  older children,
unable to walk farther, sank down beside her. But the two who
slept soundly on the shoulders of Long Jim and Tom Ross did not
awaken. Henry motioned to Jim and Tom to remain there, and
Shif'less Sol bent upon them a quizzical and approving look.

"Didn't think it was in you, Jim Hart, you old horny-handed
galoot," he said, "carryin' a baby that tender. Knew Jim could
sling a little black bar 'roun' by the tail, but I didn't think
you'd take to nussin' so easy."

"I'd luv you to know, Sol Hyde," said Jim Hart in a tone of high
condescension, "that Tom Ross an' me are civilized human bein's.
In face uv danger we are ez brave ez forty thousand lions, but
with the little an' the weak we're as easy an' kind an' soft ez
human bein's are ever made to be."

"You're right, old hoss," said Tom Ross.

"Well," said the shiftless one, "I can't argify with you now, ez
the general hez called on his colonel, which is me, an' his
major, which is Paul, to find him a nice new boat like one o'
them barges o' Clepatry that Paul tells about, all solid silver,
with red silk sails an' gold oars, an' we're meanin' to do it."

Fortune was with them, and in a quarter of an hour they
discovered, deep among bushes growing in the shallow water, a
large, well-made boat with two pairs of oars and with small
supplies of parched corn and venison hidden in it.

"Good luck an' bad luck come mixed," said the shift-less one,
"an' this is shorely one o' our pieces o' good luck. The woman
an' the children are clean tuckered out, an' without this boat we
could never hev got them back. Now it's jest a question o'
rowin' an' fightin'."

"Paul and I will pull her out to the edge of the clear water,"
said Henry, "while you can go back and tell the others, Sol."

"That just suits a lazy man," said Sol, and he walked away
jauntily. Under his apparent frivolity he concealed his joy at
the find, which he knew to be of such vast importance. He
approached the dusky group, and his really tender heart was
stirred with pity for the rescued captives. Long Jim and Silent
Tom held the smaller two on their shoulders, but the older ones
and the woman, also, had fallen asleep. Sol, in order to conceal
his emotion, strode up rather roughly. Mary Newton awoke.

"Did you find anything?" she asked.

"Find anything?" repeated Shif'less Sol. "Well, Long Jim an' Tom
here might never hev found anything, but Henry an' Paul an' me,
three eddicated men, scholars, I might say, wuz jest natcherally
bound to find it whether it wuz thar or not. Yes, we've
unearthed what Paul would call an argosy, the grandest craft that
ever floated on this here creek, that I never saw before, an'
that I don't know the name uv. She's bein' floated out now, an'
I, the Gran' Hidalgo an' Majordomo, hev come to tell the princes
and princesses, an' the dukes and dukesses, an' all the other
gran' an' mighty passengers, that the barge o' the Dog o' Venice
is in the stream, an' the Dog, which is Henry Ware, is waitin',
settin' on the Pup to welcome ye."

"Sol," said Long Jim, "you do talk a power uv foolishness, with
your Dogs an' Pups."

"It ain't foolishness," rejoined the shiftless one. "I heard
Paul read it out o' a book oncet, plain ez day. They've been
ruled by Dogs at Venice for more than a thousand years, an' on
big 'casions the Dog comes down a canal in a golden barge,
settin' on the Pup. I'll admit it 'pears strange to me, too, but
who are you an' me, Jim Hart, to question the ways of foreign
countries, thousands o' miles on the other side o' the sea?"

"They've found the boat," said Tom Ross, "an' that's enough!"     

"Is it really true?" asked Mrs. Newton.

"It is," replied Shif'less Sol, "an' Henry an' Paul are in it,
waitin' fur us. We're thinkin', Mrs. Newton, that the roughest
part of your trip is over."

In another five minutes all were in the boat, which was a really
fine one, and they were delighted. Mary Newton for the first
time broke down and wept, and no one disturbed her. The five
spread the blankets on the bottom of the boat, where the children
soon went to sleep once more, and Tom Ross and Shif'less Sol took
the oars.

"Back in a boat ag'in," said the shiftless one exultantly.
"Makes me feel like old times. My fav'rite mode o' travelin'
when Jim Hart, 'stead o' me, is at the oars."

"Which is most o' the time," said Long Jim.

It was indeed a wonderful change to these people worn by the
wilderness. They lay at ease now, while two pairs of powerful
arms, with scarcely an effort, propelled the boat along the
stream. The woman herself lay down on the blankets and fell
asleep with the children. Henry at the prow, Tom Ross at the
stern, and Paul amidships watched in silence, but with their
rifles across their knees. They knew that the danger was far
from over. Other Indians were likely to use this stream, unknown
to them, as a highway, and those who survived of their original
captors could pick up their trail by daylight. And the Senecas,
being mad for revenge, would surely get help and follow.     
Henry believed that the theory of returning toward the Wyoming
Valley was sound. That region had been so thoroughly ravaged now
that all the Indians would be going northward. If they could
float down a day or so without molestation, they would probably
be safe. The creek, or, rather, little river, broadened, flowing
with a smooth, fairly swift current. The forest on either side
was dense with oak, hickory, maple, and other splendid trees,
often with a growth of underbrush. The three riflemen never
ceased to watch intently. Henry always looked ahead. It would
have been difficult for any ambushed marksman to have escaped his
notice. But nothing occurred to disturb them. Once a deer came
down to drink, and fled away at sight of the phantom boat gliding
almost without noise on the still waters. Once the far scream of
a panther came from the woods, but Mary Newton and her children,
sleeping soundly, did not hear it. The five themselves knew the
nature of the sound, and paid no attention. The boat went
steadily on, the three riflemen never changing their position,
and soon the day began to come. Little arrows of golden light
pierced through the foliage of the trees, and sparkled on the
surface of the water. In the cast the red sun was coming from
his nightly trip. Henry looked down at the sleepers. They were
overpowered by exhaustion, and would not awake of their own
accord for a long time.

Shif'less Sol caught his look.

"Why not let 'em sleep on?" he said.

Then he and Jim Hart took the oars, and the shiftless one and Tom
Ross resumed their rifles. The day was coming fast, and the
whole forest was soon transfused with light.

No one of the five had slept during the night. They did not feel
the need of sleep, and they were upborne, too, by a great
exaltation. They had saved the prisoners thus far from a
horrible fate, and they were firmly resolved to reach, with them,
some strong settlement and safety. They felt, too, a sense of
exultation over Brant, Sangerachte, Hiokatoo, the Butlers, the
Johnsons, Wyatt, and all the crew that had committed such
terrible devastation in the Wyoming Valley and elsewhere.

The full day clothed the earth in a light that turned from silver
to gold, and the woman and the children still slept. The five
chewed some strips of venison, and looked rather lugubriously at
the pieces they were saving for Mary Newton and the children.

"We ought to hev more'n that," said Shif'less Sol. Ef the worst
comes to the worst, we've got to land somewhar an' shoot a deer."

"But not yet," said Henry in a whisper, lest he wake the
sleepers. "I think we'll come into the Susquehanna pretty soon,
and its width will be a good thing for us. I wish we were there
now. I don't like this narrow stream. Its narrowness affords
too good an ambush."

"Anyway, the creek is broadenin' out fast," said the shiftless
one, "an' that is a good sign., What's that you see ahead,
Henry-ain't it a river?"

"It surely is," replied Henry, who caught sight of a broad
expanse of water, "and it's the Susquehanna. Pull hard, Sol! In
five more minutes we'll be in the river."

It was less than five when they turned into the current of the
Susquehanna, and less than five more when they heard a shout
behind them, and saw at least a dozen canoes following. The
canoes were filled with Indians and Tories, and they had spied
the fugitives.

"Keep the women and the children down, Paul," cried Henry.

All knew that Henry and Shif'less Sol were the best shots, and,
without a word, Long Jim and Tom, both powerful and skilled
watermen, swung heavily on the oars, while Henry and Shif'less
Sol sat in the rear with their rifles ready. Mary Newton awoke
with a cry at the sound of the shots, and started to rise, but
Paul pushed her down.

"We're on the Susquehanna now, Mrs. Newton," he said, " and we
are pursued. The Indians and Tories have just seen us, but don't
be afraid. The two who are watching there are the best shots in
the world."

He looked significantly at Henry and Shif'less Sol, crouching in
the stern of the boat like great warriors from some mighty past,
kings of the forest whom no one could overcome, and her courage
came back. The children, too, had awakened with frightened
cries, but she and Paul quickly soothed them, and, obedient to
commands, the four, and Mary Newton with them, lay flat upon the
bottom of the boat, which was now being sent forward rapidly by
Jim Hart and Tom. Paul took up his rifle and sat in a waiting
attitude, either to relieve one of the men at the oars or to
shoot if necessary.

The clear sun made forest and river vivid in its light. The
Indians, after their first cry, made no sound, but so powerful
were Long Jim and Tom that they were gaining but little, although
some of the boats contained six or eight rowers.

As the light grew more intense Henry made out the two white faces
in the first boat. One was that of Braxton Wyatt, and the other,
he was quite sure, belonged to the infamous Walter Butler. Hot
anger swept through all his veins, and the little pulses in his
temples began to beat like trip hammers. Now the picture of
Wyoming, the battle, the massacre, the torture, and Queen Esther
wielding her great tomahawk on the bound captives, grew
astonishingly vivid, and it was printed blood red on his brain.
The spirit of anger and defiance, of a desire to taunt those who
had done such things, leaped up in his heart.

"Are you there, Braxton Wyatt?" he called clearly across the
intervening water. "Yes, I see that it is you, murderer of women
and children, champion of the fire and stake, as savage as any of
the savages. And it is you, too, Walter Butler, wickeder son of
a wicked father. Come a little closer, won't you? We've
messengers here for both of you!"

He tapped lightly the barrel of his own rifle and that of
Shif'less Sol, and repeated his request that they come a little
closer.

They understood his words, and they understood, also, the
significant gesture when he patted the barrel of the rifles. The
hearts of both Butler and Wyatt were for the moment afraid, and
their boat dropped back to third place. Henry laughed aloud when
he saw. The Viking rage was still upon him. This was the
primeval wilderness, and these were no common foes.

"I see that you don't want to receive our little messengers," he
cried. "Why have you dropped back to third place in the line,
Braxton Wyatt and Walter Butler, when you were first only a
moment ago? Are you cowards as well as murderers of women and
children?"

"That's pow'ful good talk," said Shif'less Sol admiringly.
"Henry, you're a real orator. Give it to 'em, an' mebbe I'll get
a chance at one o' them renegades."

It seemed that Henry's words had an effect, because the boat of
the renegades pulled up somewhat, although it did not regain
first place. Thus the chase proceeded down the Susquehanna.

The Indian fleet was gaining a little, and Shif'less Sol called
Henry's attention to it.

"Don't you think I'd better take a shot at one o' them rowers in
the first boat?" he said to Henry. "Wyatt an' Butler are a
leetle too fur away."

"I think it would give them a good hint, Sol!" said Henry. "Take
that fellow on the right who is pulling so hard."

The shiftless one raised his rifle, lingered but a little over
his aim, and pulled the trigger. The rower whom Henry had
pointed out fell back in the boat, his hands slipping from the
handles of his oars. The boat was thrown into confusion, and
dropped back in the race. Scattering shots were fired in return,
but all fell short, the water spurting up in little jets where
they struck.

Henry, who had caught something of the Indian nature in his long
stay among them in the northwest, laughed in loud irony.

"That was one of our little messengers, and it found a listener!"
he shouted. "And I see that you are afraid, Braxton Wyatt and
Walter Butler, murderers of women and children! Why don't you
keep your proper places in the front?"

"That's the way to talk to 'em," whispered Shif'less Sol, as he
reloaded. "Keep it up, an' mebbe we kin git a chance at Braxton
Wyatt hisself. Since Wyoming I'd never think o' missin' sech a
chance."

"Nor I, either," said Henry, and he resumed in his powerful
tones: "The place of a leader is in front, isn't it? Then why
don't you come up?"

Braxton Wyatt and Walter Butler did not come up. They were not
lacking in courage, but Wyatt knew what deadly marksmen the
fugitive boat contained, and he had also told Butler. So they
still hung back, although they raged at Henry Ware's taunts, and
permitted the Mohawks and Senecas to take the lead in the chase.

"They're not going to give us a chance," said Henry. "I'm
satisfied of that. They'll let redskins receive our bullets,
though just now I'd rather it were the two white ones. What do
you think, Sol, of that leading boat? Shouldn't we give another
hint?"

"I agree with you, Henry," said the shiftless one. They're
comin' much too close fur people that ain't properly interduced
to us. This promiskus way o' meetin' up with strangers an'
lettin' 'em talk to you jest ez ef they'd knowed you all their
lives hez got to be stopped. It's your time, Henry, to give 'em
a polite hint, an' I jest suggest that you take the big fellow in
the front o' the boat who looks like a Mohawk."

Henry raised his rifle, fired, and the Mohawk would row no more.
Again confusion prevailed in the pursuing fleet, and there was a
decline of enthusiasm. Braxton Wyatt and Walter Butler raged and
swore, but, as they showed no great zeal for the lead themselves,
the Iroquois did not gain on the fugitive boat. They, too, were
fast learning that the two who crouched there with their rifles
ready were among the deadliest marksmen in existence. They fired
a dozen shots, perhaps, but their rifles did not have the long
range of the Kentucky weapons, and again the bullets fell short,
causing little jets of water to spring up.

"They won't come any nearer, at least not for the present," said
Henry, "but will hang back just out of rifle range, waiting for
some chance to help them."

Shif'less Sol looked the other way, down the Susquehanna, and
announced that he could see no danger. There was probably no
Indian fleet farther down the river than the one now pursuing
them, and the danger was behind them, not before.

Throughout the firing, Silent Tom Ross and Long Jim Hart had not
said a word, but they rowed with a steadiness and power that
would have carried oarsmen of our day to many a victory.
Moreover, they had the inducement not merely of a prize, but of
life itself, to row and to row hard. They had rolled up their
sleeves, and the mighty muscles on those arms of woven steel rose
and fell as they sent the boat swiftly with the silver current of
the Susquehanna.

Mary Newton still lay on the bottom of the boat. The children
had cried out in fright once or twice at the sound of the firing,
but she and Paul bad soothed them and kept them down. Somehow
Mary Newton had become possessed of a great faith. She noticed
the skill, speed, and success with which the five always worked,
and, so long given up to despair, she now went to the other
extreme. With such friends as these coming suddenly out of the
void, everything must succeed. She had no doubt of it, but lay
peacefully on the bottom of the boat, not at all disturbed by the
sound of the shots.

Paul and Sol after a while relieved Long Jim and Tom at the oars.
The Iroquois thought it a chance to creep up again, but they were
driven back by a third bullet, and once more kept their distance.
Shif'less Sol, while he pulled as powerfully as Tom Ross, whose
place he had taken, nevertheless was not silent.

"I'd like to know the feelin's o' Braxton Wyatt an' that feller
Butler," he said. " Must be powerful tantalizin' to them to see
us here, almost where they could stretch out their hands an' put
'em on us. Like reachn' fur ripe, rich fruit, an' failin' to git
it by half a finger's length."

"They are certainly not pleased," said Henry," but this must end
some way or other, you know."

"I say so, too, now that I'm a-rowin'," rejoined the shiftless
one, "but when my turn at the oars is finished I wouldn't care.
Ez I've said more'n once before, floatin' down a river with
somebody else pullin' at the oars is the life jest suited to me."

Henry looked up. "A summer thunderstorm is coming," he said, "
and from the look of things it's going to be pretty black.
Then's when we must dodge 'em."

He was a good weather prophet. In a half hour the sky began to
darken rapidly. There was a great deal of thunder and lightning,
but when the rain came the air was almost as dark as night. Mary
Newton and her children were covered as much as possible with the
blankets, and then they swung the boat rapidly toward the eastern
shore. They had already lost sight of their pursuers in the
darkness, and as they coasted along the shore they found a large
creek flowing into the river from the east.

They ran up the creek, and were a full mile from its mouth when
the rain ceased. Then the sun came out bright and warm, quickly
drying everything.

They pulled about ten miles farther, until the creek grew too
shallow for them, when they hid the boat among bushes and took to
the land. Two days later they arrived at a strong fort and
settlement, where Mary Newton and her four children, safe and
well, were welcomed by relatives who had mourned them as dead.

CHAPTER XV

"THE ALCOVE"

They arrived at the fort as evening was coming on, and as soon as
food was served to them the five sought sleep. The frontiersmen
usually slept soundly and for a long time after prodigious
exertions, and Henry and his comrades were too wise to make an
exception. They secured a single room inside the fort, one given
to them gladly, because Mary Newton had already spread the fame
of their exploits, and, laying aside their hunting shirts and
leggins, prepared for rest.

"Jim," said Shif'less Sol, pointing to a low piece of furniture,
flat and broad, in one corner of the room, "that's a bed. Mebbe
you don't think it, but people lay on top o' that an' sleep
thar."

Long Jim grinned.

"Mebbe you're right, Sol," he said. "I hev seen sech things ez
that, an' mebbe I've slep' on 'em, but in all them gran' old
tales Paul tells us about I never heard uv no big heroes sleepin'
in beds. I guess the ground wuz good 'nough for A-killus,
Hector, Richard-Kur-de-Leong, an' all the rest uv that fightin'
crowd, an' ez I'm that sort uv a man myself I'll jest roll down
here on the floor. Bein' as you're tender, Sol Hyde, an' not
used to hard life in the woods, you kin take that bed yourself,
an' in the mornin' your wally will be here with hot water in a
silver mug an' a razor to shave you, an' he'll dress you in a
ruffled red silk shirt an' a blue satin waistcoat, an' green
satin breeches jest comin' to the knee, where they meet yellow
silk stockin's risin' out uv purple satin slippers, an' then
he'll clap on your head a big wig uv snow-white hair, fallin' all
about your shoulders an' he'll buckle a silver sword to your
side, an' he'll say: "Gentlemen, him that hez long been known ez
Shif'less Sol, an' desarvin' the name, but who in reality is the
King o' France, is now before you. Down on your knees an' say
your prayers!"