In the Days of Poor Richard | Page 4

throw his
great arm eround you.'
"I strutted up an' down, like a turkey gobbler, an' bellered out a lot o'
that high-falutin' gab. I reckon I know how to shove an idee under their
hides. Ye got to raise yer voice an' look solemn an' point at the stars. A
powerful lot o' Injuns trailed back to Sir Bill, but they was a few went
over to the French. I kind o' mistrust thar's some o' them runnygades
behind us. They're 'spectin' to git a lot o' plunder an' a horse apiece an'

ride 'em back an' swim the river at the place o' the many islands. We'll
poke down to the trail on the edge o' the drownded lands afore sunrise
an' I kind o' mistrust we'll see sign."
Jack Irons was a son of the much respected John Irons from New
Hampshire who, in the fertile valley where he had settled some years
before, was breeding horses for the army and sending them down to Sir
William Johnson. Hence the site of his farm had been called Horse
Valley.
Mr. Binkus went to the near brook and repeatedly filled his old felt hat
with water and poured it on the fire. "Don't never keep no fire a-goin'
a'ter I'm dried out," he whispered, as he stepped back into the dark cave,
"'cause ye never kin tell."
The boy was asleep on the bed of boughs. Mr. Binkus covered him
with the blanket and lay down beside him and drew his coat over both.
"He'll learn that it ain't no fun to be a scout," he whispered with a yawn
and in a moment was snoring.
It was black dark when he roused his companion. Solomon had been up
for ten minutes and had got their rations of bread and dried venison out
of his pack and brought a canteen of fresh water.
"The night has been dark. A piece o' charcoal would 'a' made a white
mark on it," said Solomon.
"How do you know it's morning?" the boy asked as he rose, yawning.
"Don't ye hear that leetle bird up in the tree-top?" Solomon answered in
a whisper. "He says it's mornin' jest as plain as a clock in a steeple an'
that it's goin' to be cl'ar. If you'll shove this 'ere meat an' bread into yer
stummick, we'll begin fer to make tracks."
They ate in silence and as he ate Solomon was getting his pack ready
and strapping it on his back and adjusting his powder-horn.

"Ye see it's growin' light," he remarked presently in a whisper. "Keep
clost to me an' go as still as ye kin an' don't speak out loud never--not if
ye want to be sure to keep yer ha'r on yer head."
They started down the foot of the gorge then dim in the night shadows.
Binkus stopped, now and then, to listen for two or three seconds and
went on with long stealthy strides. His movements were panther-like,
and the boy imitated them. He was a tall, handsome, big-framed lad
with blond hair and blue eyes. They could soon see their way clearly.
At the edge of the valley the scout stopped and peered out upon it. A
deep mist lay on the meadows.
"I like day-dark in Injun country," he whispered. "Come on."
They hurried through sloppy footing in the wet grass that flung its dew
into their garments from the shoulder down. Suddenly Mr. Binkus
stopped. They could hear the sound of heavy feet splashing in the wet
meadow.
"Scairt moose, runnin' this way!" the scout whispered. "I'll bet ye a pint
o' powder an' a fish hook them Injuns is over east o' here."
It was his favorite wager--that of a pint of powder and a fish hook.
They came out upon high ground and reached the valley trail just as the
sun was rising. The fog had lifted. Mr. Binkus stopped well away from
the trail and listened for some minutes. He approached it slowly on his
tiptoes, the boy following in a like manner. For a moment the scout
stood at the edge of the trail in silence. Then, leaning low, he examined
it closely and quickly raised his hand.
"Hoofs o' the devil!" he whispered as he beckoned to the boy. "See
thar," he went on, pointing to the ground. "They've jest gone by. The
grass ain't riz yit. Wait here."
He followed the trail a few rods with eyes bent upon it. Near a little run
where there was soft dirt, he stopped again and looked intently at the
earth and then hurried back.

"It's a big band. At least forty Injuns in it an' some captives, an' the
devil an' Tom Walker. It's a mess which they ain't no mistake."
"I don't