rest that surrounded his dwelling. The sun was descending towards the
western hills in all her flaming glory as Mayall reached the summit of
the dividing ridge between the Otego Creek and the Susquehanna Valley.
Cautiously and slowly he descended the hill, keeping on the Indian
trail.

As the shades of night hovered over the forest, Mayall left the trail
and took his post on a small hill not far from the river, where he could
hear the Indians preparing wood for their evening fire, and occasionally
he could hear the child, Nelly Murphrey, crying for its mother. Mayall
cautiously advanced through the thick forest, guided by the sound of the
child's voice weeping and often calling for its mother, who lay wrapped
in wakeful dreams several miles away. The voice of this weeping child
nerved the old hunter's arm with the strength of a Samson, and filled
his heart with a vengeance not his own. The hours seemed to linger into
days as he lay crouched in the dark. At last the camp-fire of the
Indians blazed up and illuminated the forest. Mayall lay secreted in a
little thicket behind a knoll, where he could hear every word that was
said, and he well understood the Indian dialect.

One Indian, who seemed to be their leader, said there would be no danger
unless they got the old hunter on the trail, and to avoid him they must
be up and away as soon as the day-star appeared.

The Indians partook of their evening meal and laid down to slumber and
rest, not dreaming that the bold hunter, like the panther, was crouching
near with sharpened tomahawk and knife, panting for an opportunity to
avenge a woman's wrongs.

As the night wore away all became silent, excepting an occasional
outbreak from little Nelly Murphrey, calling for her mother. The
camp-fire no longer blazed, but the dying coals were yet red, and gave
sufficient light to see the nine dark forms stretched on the forest
floor. Mayall now began to move forward with cautious steps. He soon
discovered by the flickering of the embers that the Indian on the watch
had fallen asleep, with the stolen child nestling between him and the
Indian warrior beside him.

Mayall took a cautious look. No Indian in his blanket stirred. All was
silent, excepting the low murmuring of the Susquehanna rolling by. He
noiselessly rested his gun behind a tree, and leaped like a tiger upon
his prey, with his tomahawk in one hand, which he swung as fast as death
could deal a blow, and his long knife gl