Suddenly an unearthly cry rang out from somewhere close to the river bank up stream.  Instantly a sentry on the parapet near us fired his piece.

“Oh, God!  What is it!” faltered Lois, grasping my arm.  But I sprang for the ladder and ran down it; and the scattered soldiers and officers below on the parade were already running some grasping their muskets, others drawing pistols and hangers.

We could hear musketry firing ahead, and drums beating to arms in our camp behind us.

“The cattle-guard!” panted an officer at my elbow as we ran up stream along the river-bank.  “The Senecas have made their kill again, God curse them!”

It was so.  Out of the woods came running our frightened cattle, with the guard plodding heavily on their flanks; and in the rear two of our soldiers urged them on with kicks and blow; two more retreated backward, facing the dusky forest with levelled muskets, and a third staggered beside them, half carrying, half trailing a man whose head hung down crimsoning the leaves as it dragged over them.

He had been smoking a cob pipe when the silent assassin’s hatchet struck him, and the pipe now remained clenched between his set teeth.  At first, for the dead leaves stuck to him, we could not see that he had been scalped, but when we turned him over the loose and horrible features, all wrinkled where the severed brow-muscles had released the skin, left us in no doubt.

“This man never uttered that abominable cry,” I said, shuddering.  “Is there yet another missing from the guard?”

“Oh, no, sir,” said the soldier who had dragged him.  “That there was a heifer bawling when them devils cut her throat.”

He stood scratching his head and gazing blankly down at his dead comrade.

“Jesus,” he drawled.  “What be I a-goin’ for to tell his woman now?”

CHAPTER XVI

 Lana Helmer

Our Sunday morning gun had scarce been fired when from up the river came the answering thunder of artillery.  Thirteen times did the distant cannon bellow their salute, announcing Clinton’s advance, our camp swarmed like an excited hive, mounted officers galloping, foot officers running, troops tumbling out as the drums rattled the “general” in every regimental bivouac.

Colonel Proctor’s artillery band marched out toward the landing place as I entered No. 2 Block-House and ran up the ladder, and I heard the ford-guard hurrahing and the garrison troops on the unfinished parapets answering them with cheer after cheer.

At my loud rapping on the flooring, Lois opened the trap for me, her lovely, youthful features flushed with excitement; Lana, behind her, beckoned me; and I sprang up into the loft and paid my duty to them both.

“What a noble earthquake of artillery up the river!” said Lois.  “Butler has no cannon, has he?”

“Not even a grasshopper!” said I gaily.  “Those cannon shot are Clinton’s how d’ye do!”