curried into the forest.

By evening the Iroquois were not only mystified but much alarmed. Who
was this thing that struck in the night and left no trail? An evil
spirit had come among them--roosted perhaps in the trees!

If a squaw had removed a log or two from the pile Piskaret would have
been torn to pieces, but fortune still stayed with him and he was not
molested save by cold and hunger.

Tonight, however, the Iroquois chattered affrightedly until late; and
when, after the noises had died away, Piskaret, cramped and chilled but
eager, for a third time stole through the darkness to a lodge, he knew
that his game was up. In this lodge two watchers had been posted--one
at either end; and they were awake.

The same in the next lodge, and the next. Wherever he applied his eye
to a crack in the bark walls, he saw two sentries, armed and
alert--until finally he arrived at a lodge wherein one of the sentries,
the one near the door, was squatted drowsy and half asleep.

So Piskaret softly placed his bundle of scalps where he might find it
instantly, on a sudden threw aside the birch-bark door-flap, struck
terribly with his club, yelled his war-cry that all might hear, grabbed
his bundle of scalps and ran hard for the forest. From every lodge the
Iroquois poured in pursuit.

All the rest of this night he ran, making northward, with the Iroquois
pelting and whooping after; but the records say that he was the
swiftest runner in the North--therefore he had little fear of being
overtaken.

All the next day he ran, only now and then pausing, to show himself,
and yell, and tempt the Iroquois onward; for he had another plan. At
night-fall there were but six Iroquois left on his trail, and these
were about worn out.

Now in the gathering darkness, noting his enemies falter, Piskaret
sprang aside to a hollow tree and hid himself again. The tired
Iroquois straggled near, and when they lost the trail they willingly
quit, in order to roll in their bear-skins and sleep until the light of
morning.

Whereupon, after granting them a little time, Piskaret crept out,
killed every one of them, added their six scalps to his package, and
having rested until day, sped north, with his dreadful trophies, to
report at the island of Allumette.

That this is a true story of the famous Adirondack warrior Piskaret may
be proved by the old French chronicles of those very times.

[1] The noun Algonkin, meaning an Indian, is also s