Now Andre fared along down the road alone on the back of the mare Nancy.  He came to an outpost of the Highland army and presented his pass.  It was examined and endorsed and he went on his way.  He met transport wagons, a squad of cavalry and, later, a regiment of militia coming up from western Connecticut, but no one stopped him.  In the faded hat and coat and trousers of Reuben Smith, this man, who called himself John Anderson, was not much unlike the farmer folk who were riding hither and thither in the neutral territory, on their petit errands.  His face was different.  It was the well kept face of an English aristocrat with handsome dark eyes and hair beginning to turn gray.  Still, shadowed by the brim of the old hat, his face was not likely to attract much attention from the casual observer.  The handsome mare he rode was a help in this matter.  She took and held the eyes of those who passed him.  He went on unchallenged.  A little past the hour of the high sun he stopped to drink at a wayside spring and to give his horse some oats out of one of the saddle-bags.  It was then that a patriot soldier came along riding northward.  He was one of Solomon’s scouts.  The latter stopped to let his horse drink.  As his keen eyes surveyed the south-bound traveler, John Anderson felt his danger.  At that moment the scout was within reach of immortal fame had he only known it.  He was not so well informed as Solomon.  He asked a few questions and called for the pass of the stranger.  That was unquestionable.  The scout resumed his journey.

Andre resolved not to stop again.  He put the bit in the mare’s mouth, mounted her and rode on with his treasure.  The most difficult part of his journey was behind him.  Within twelve hours he should be at Clinton’s headquarters.

Suddenly he came to a fork in the road and held up his horse, uncertain which way to go.  Now the great moment was come.  Shall he turn to the right or the left?  On his decision rests the fate of the New World and one of the most vital issues in all history, it would seem.  The left-hand road would have taken him safely to New York, it is fair to assume.  He hesitates.  The day is waning.  It is a lonely piece of road.  There is no one to tell him.  The mare shows a preference for the turn to the right.  Why?  Because it leads to Tarrytown, her former home, and a good master.  Andre lets her have her way.  She hurries on, for she knows where there is food and drink and gentle hands.  So a leg of the mighty hazard has been safely won by the mare Nancy.  The officer rode on, and what now was in his way?  A wonder and a mystery greater even than that of Nancy and the fork in the road.  A little out of Tarrytown on the highway the horseman traveled, a group of three men were hidden in the bush—­ragged, profane, abominable cattle thieves waiting for cows to come down out of the wild land to be milked.  They were “skinners” in the patriot militia, some have said; some that they were farmers’ sons not in the army.  However that may have been, they were undoubtedly rough, hard-fisted fellows full of the lawless spirit bred by five years of desperate warfare.  They were looking for Tories as well as for cattle.  Tories were their richest prey, for the latter would give high rewards to be excused from the oath of allegiance.