And, “What the devil do you make of it, Major?” says Sullivan, in a low voice.  “It sounds like a log-rolling in March.”

“My scouts give me no explanation,” says Parr grimly.  “I think the rascals are terrified.”

“Send Boyd and that young interpreter,” said Sullivan curtly.

So, as nobody could understand exactly what these noises indicated, and as headquarters’ scouts could obtain no information, Lieutenant Boyd and I, with my Indians, left our supper of fresh roast corn and beans and went forward at once.  We moved out of the defile with every precaution, passing the throat of the rocky pass and wading the little trout-brook over which our trail led, the Chemung River now lying almost south of us.  Low mountains rose to the north and west, very dark and clear against the stars; and directly ahead of us we saw the small Indian town surrounded by corn fields; and found it utterly deserted, save for bats and owls; and not even an Indian dog a-prowling there.

A little way beyond it we crossed another brook close to where it entered the river, opposite an island.  Here the Chemung makes a great bend, flowing in more than half a circle; and there are little hills to the north, around which we crept, hearing always the stirring and movements of men ahead of us, and utterly unable to comprehend what they were so busily about.

Just beyond the island another and larger creek enters the river; and here, no longer daring to follow the Seneca trail, we turned southwest, slinking across the river flats, through the high Indian grass, until we came to a hardwood ridge, from whence some of these sounds proceeded.

We heard voices very plainly, the splintering of saplings, and a heavier, thumping sound, which the Mohican whispered to us was like hewn logs being dragged over the ground and then piled up.  A few moments later, Tahoontowhee, who had crept on ahead, glided up to us and whispered that there was a high breastwork of logs on the ridge, and that many men were cutting bushes, sharpening the stems, and planting them to screen this breastwork so that it could not be seen from the Seneca trail north of us, along which lay our army’s line of march.  A pretty ambuscade, in truth!  But Braddock’s breed had passed.

Silently, stealthily, scarcely breathing, we got out of that dangerous place, recrossed the grassy flats, and took to the river willows the entire way back.  At the mouth of the pass, where my battalion lay asleep, we found Major Parr anxiously awaiting us.  He sent Captain Simpson back with the information.

Before I could unlace my shirt, drag my pack under my head, and compose myself to sleep, Boyd, who had stretched himself out beside me, touched my arm.

“Are you minded to sleep, Loskiel?”

“I own that I am somewhat inclined that way,” said I.

“As you please.”

“Why?  Are you unwell?”

He lay silent for a few moments, then: