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.