“Welcome back, Nick,” he then said.  “Where did you leave my son?”

“He tell dere,” answered the Indian, presenting a note, which the captain read.

“This is all right, Nick; and it shows you have been a true man.  Your wages shall be paid to-night.  But, this letter has been written on the eastern bank of the Hudson, and is quite three weeks old—­why have we not seen you, sooner?”

“Can’t see, when he don’t come.”

“That is plain enough; but why have you not come back sooner?  That is my question.”

“Want to look at country—­went to shore of Great Salt Lake.”

“Oh!—­Curiosity, then, has been at the bottom of your absence?”

“Nick warrior—­no squaw—­got no cur’osity.”

“No, no—­I beg your pardon, Nick; I did not mean to accuse you of so womanish a feeling.  Far from it; I know you are a man.  Tell us, however, how far, and whither you went?”

“Bos’on,” answered Nick, sententiously.

“Boston!  That has been a journey, indeed.  Surely my son did not allow you to travel in his company through Massachusetts?”

“Nick go alone.  Two path; one for major; one for Tuscarora.  Nick got dere first.”

“That I can believe, if you were in earnest.  Were you not questioned by the way?”

“Yes.  Tell ’em I’m Stockbridge—­pale-face know no better.  T’ink he fox; more like wood-chuck.”

“Thank you, Nick, for the compliment.  Had my son reached Boston before you came away?”

“Here he be”—­answered the Indian, producing another missive, from the folds of his calico shirt.

The captain received the note which he read with extreme gravity, and some surprise.

“This is in Bob’s handwriting,” he said, “and is dated ’Boston, June 18th, 1775;’ but it is without signature, and is not only Bob, but Bob Short.”

“Read, dear Willoughby,” exclaimed the anxious mother.  “News from him, concerns us all.”

“News, Wilhelmina!—­They may call this news in Boston, but one is very little the better for it at the Hutted Knoll.  However, such as it is, there is no reason for keeping it a secret, while there is one reason, at least, why it should be known.  This is all.  ’My dearest sir—­Thank God I am unharmed; but we have had much to make us reflect; you know what duty requires—­my best and endless love to my mother, and Beulah—­and dear, laughing, capricious, pretty Maud.  Nick was present, and can tell you all.  I do not think he will extenuate, or aught set down in malice."’ And this without direction, or signature; with nothing, in fact, but place and date.  What say you to all this, Nick?”

“He very good—­major dere; he know.  Nick dere—­hot time—­a t’ousand scalp—­coat red as blood.”

“There has been another battle!” exclaimed the captain; “that is too plain to admit of dispute.  Speak out at once, Nick—­which gained the day; the British or the Americans?”