Boyd said:  “There is a gentleman, one Major Ebenezer Lockwood, hereabouts.  Do you know him?”

“No, sir.”

“What?  Why, that seems strange!”

The man’s face paled, and he remained silent for a few moments.  Then, furtively, his eyes began for the hundredth time to note the details of our forest dress, stealing stealthily from the fringe on legging and hunting shirt to the Indian beadwork on moccasin and baldrick, devouring every detail as though to convince himself.  I think our pewter buttons did it for him.

Boyd said gravely:  “You seem to doubt us, Mr. Hays,” and read in the man’s unsteady eyes distrust of everything on earth—­ and little faith in God.

“I do not blame you,” said I gently.  “Three years of hell burn deep.”

“Yes,” he said, “three years.  And, as you say, sir, there was fire.”

He stood quietly silent for a space, then, looking timidly at me, he rolled back his sleeves, first one, then the other, to the shoulders.  Then he undid the bandages.

“What is all that?” asked Boyd harshly.

“The seal of the marauders, sir.”

“They burnt you?  God, man, you are but one living sore!  Did any white man do that to you?”

“With hot horse-shoes.  It will never quite heal, they say.”

I saw the lieutenant shudder.  The only thing he ever feared was fire—­ if it could be said of him that he feared anything.  And he had told me that, were he taken by the Iroquois, he had a pistol always ready to blow out his brains.

Boyd had begun to pace the room, doubling and undoubling his nervous fingers.  The landlord replaced the oil-soaked rags, rolled down his sleeves again, and silently awaited our pleasure.

“Why do you hesitate to tell us where we may find Major Lockwood?” I asked gently.

For the first time the man looked me full in the face.  And after a moment I saw his expression alter. as though some spark—­ something already half dead within him was faintly reviving.

“They have set a price on Major Lockwood’s head,” he said; and Boyd halted to listen—­ and the man looked him in the eyes for a moment.

My lieutenant carried his commission with him, though contrary to advice and practice among men engaged on such a mission as were we.  It was folded in his beaded shot-pouch, and now he drew it out and displayed it.

After a silence, Hays said: 

“The old Lockwood Manor House stands on the south side of the village of Poundridge.  It is the headquarters and rendezvous of Sheldon’s Horse.  The Major is there.”

“Poundridge lies to the east of Bedford?”

“Yes, sir, about five miles.”

“Where is the map, Loskiel?”

Again I drew it from my hunting shirt; we examined it, and Hays pointed out the two routes.

Boyd looked up at Hays absently, and said:  “Do you know Luther
Kinnicut?”