“Broadalbin Bush,” she murmured, clearing her eyes of the clouded hair and feeling for her stirrups with small, moccasined toes.  “Hark!  Now we hear the Kennyetto roaring below the hill.  See, cousin, it is sunset, the west blazes, all heaven is afire!  Ah! what sorcery has turned the world to paradise—­riding this day with you?”

She turned in her saddle with an exquisite gesture, pressed her outstretched hand against my lips, then, gathering bridle, launched her horse straight through the underbrush, out into a pasture where, across a naked hill, a few log-houses reddened in the sunset.

There hung in the air a smell of sweetbrier as we drew bridle before a cabin under the hill.  I leaned over and plucked a handful of the leaves, bruising them in my palm to savor the spicy perfume.

A man came to the door of the cabin and stared at us; a tap-room sluggard, a-sunning on the west fence-rail, chewed his cud solemnly and watched us with watery eyes.

“Andrew Bowman, have you seen aught to fright folk on the mountain?” asked Dorothy, gravely.

The man in the doorway shook his head.  From the cabins near by a few men and women trooped out into the road and hastened towards us.  One of the houses bore a bush, and I saw two men peering at us through the open window, pewters in hand.

“Good people,” said Dorothy, quietly, “the patroon sends you word of a strange smoke seen this day in the hills.”

“There’s smoke there now,” I said, pointing into the sunset.

At that moment Peter Van Horn galloped up, halted, and turned his head, following the direction of my outstretched arm.  Others came, blinking into the ruddy evening glow, craning their necks to see, and from the wretched tavern a lank lout stumbled forth, rifle shouldered, pewter a-slop, to learn the news that had brought us hither at that hour.

“It is mist,” said a woman; but her voice trembled as she said it.

“It is smoke,” growled Van Horn.  “Read it, you who can.”

Whereat the fellow in the tavern window fell a-laughing and called down to his companion:  “Francy McCraw!  Francy McCraw!  The Brandt-Meester says a Mohawk fire burns in the north!”

“I hear him,” cried McCraw, draining his pewter.

Dorothy turned sharply.  “Oh, is that you, McCraw?  What brings you to the Bush?”

The lank fellow turned his wild, blue eyes on her, then gazed at the smoke.  Some of the men scowled at him.

“Is that smoke?” I asked, sharply.  “Answer me, McCraw!”

“A canna’ deny it,” he said, with a mad chuckle.

“Is it Indian smoke?” demanded Van Horn.

“Aweel,” he replied, craning his skinny neck and cocking his head impudently—­“aweel, a’ll admit that, too.  It’s Indian smoke; a canna deny it, no.”

“Is it a Mohawk signal?” I asked, bluntly.

At which he burst out into a crowing laugh.