She knew
there was cause for fear, for nearly all the able bodied men in Wyoming
were absent with the patriot army, fighting for independence. The
inhabitants in the valley had begged Congress to send some soldiers
to protect them, and the relatives of the women and children had asked
again and again that they might go home to save their loved ones from
the Tories and Indians; but the prayer was refused. The soldiers in the
army were too few to be spared, and no one away from Wyoming believed
the danger as great as it was.

But the people themselves knew the peril, and did their best to prepare
for it. But who should know more about the Indians and Tories than Omas,
the great Delaware warrior?

When, therefore, he said these words to Mrs. Ripley, that woman's heart
beat faster. She heard the laughter and prattle of the children in
the house, and she thought of that bright boy, playing with his young
friends not far away.

"Where can we go?" she asked, in the same guarded voice.

"With Omas," was the prompt reply; "hide in wigwam of Omas. Nobody hurt
palefaced friend of Omas."

It was a trying situation. The brave woman, who had passed through many
dangers with her husband, knew what a visit from the Tories and Indians
meant; but she shrank from leaving Wyoming, and all her friends and
neighbors.

"When will they come?" she asked; "will it be in a few weeks or in a few
days?"

"Getting ready now; Brandt with Iroquois--Butler with Tory--soon be
here."

"But do you mean that we shall all go with you tonight?"

The Delaware was silent for a few seconds. His active brain was busy,
reviewing the situation.

"No," he finally said; "stay here till Omas come back; then go with
him--all go--den no one be hurt."

"Very well; we will wait till you come to us again. We will take good
care of Linna."

And without another word the Delaware turned once more, strode to the
forest, which was then in fullest leaf, and vanished among the trees.

Mrs. Ripley walked slowly back to the door. On the threshold she halted,
and looked around again for her absent boy. It was growing dark, and she
began to feel a vague alarm for him.

A whistle fell on her ear. It was the sweetest music she had ever heard,
for it came from the lips of her boy.

He was in sight, coming along the well worn path that led in front of
the other dwellings and to her own door. When he saw her, he waved his
hand in salutation, but could not afford to