all barefoot boy came out of the mill,
looked at us a moment, then turned and legged it up the road tight as
he could go. The Oneida, smoking his pipe, saw the lad's hasty flight,
and smiled slightly.

"Yes, Little Otter," I said, "they take us for some of Sir John's
people. You'll see them coming presently with their guns. Hark! There
goes a signal-shot now!"

The smacking crack of a rifle echoed among the hills; a conch-horn's
melancholy note sounded persistently.

"Let us go on to the Yellow Tavern," I said; and we rose and limped
forward, leading the horse, whose head hung wearily.

Before we reached the Oswaya mill some men in their shirt-sleeves shot
at us, then ran down through an orchard, calling on us to halt. One
carried a shovel, one a rifle, and the older man, whom I knew as a
former tenant of my father, bore an ancient firelock. When I called out
to him by name he seemed confused, demanding to know whether we were
Whigs or Tories; and when at length he recognized me he appeared to be
vastly relieved. It seemed that he, Wemple, and his two sons had been
burying apples, and that hearing the shot fired, had started for their
homes, where already the alarm had spread. Seeing us, and supposing we
had cut him off from the settlement, he had decided to fight his way
through to the mill.

"I'm mighty glad you ain't shot, Mr. Renault," he said in his thin,
high voice, scratching his chin, and staring hard at the Oneida.
"Seein' these here painted injuns sorter riled me up, an' I up an' let
ye have it. So did Willum here. Lord, sir, we've been expecting Sir
John for a month, so you must kindly excuse us, Mr. Renault!"

He shook his white head and looked up the road where a dozen armed men
were already gathered, watching us from behind the fences.

"Sir John is on the Sacandaga," I said. "Why don't you go to Johnstown,
Wemple? This is no place for your people."

He stood, rubbing his hard jaw reflectively.

"Waal, sir," he piped, "it's kind er hard to leave all you've got in
the world." He added, looking around at his fields: "I'd be a pauper if
I quit. Mebbe they won't come here, after all. Mebbe Sir John will go
down the Valley."

"Besides, we ain't got our pumpkins in nor the winter corn stacked,"
observed one of his sons sullenly.

We all turned and walked slowly up the road in the direction of the big
yellow tavern, old Wemple shaking his head, and talking all the while
in a thin, flat, high-pitched