d over and plucked a handful of the leaves,
bruising them in my palm to savor the spicy perfume.

A man came to the door of the cabin and stared at us; a tap-room
sluggard, a-sunning on the west fence-rail, chewed his cud solemnly and
watched us with watery eyes.

"Andrew Bowman, have you seen aught to fright folk on the mountain?"
asked Dorothy, gravely.

The man in the doorway shook his head. From the cabins near by a few
men and women trooped out into the road and hastened towards us. One of
the houses bore a bush, and I saw two men peering at us through the open
window, pewters in hand.

"Good people," said Dorothy, quietly, "the patroon sends you word of a
strange smoke seen this day in the hills."

"There's smoke there now," I said, pointing into the sunset.

At that moment Peter Van Horn galloped up, halted, and turned his head,
following the direction of my outstretched arm. Others came, blinking
into the ruddy evening glow, craning their necks to see, and from the
wretched tavern a lank lout stumbled forth, rifle shouldered, pewter
a-slop, to learn the news that had brought us hither at that hour.

"It is mist," said a woman; but her voice trembled as she said it.

"It is smoke," growled Van Horn. "Read it, you who can."

Whereat the fellow in the tavern window fell a-laughing and called down
to his companion: "Francy McCraw! Francy McCraw! The Brandt-Meester says
a Mohawk fire burns in the north!"

"I hear him," cried McCraw, draining his pewter.

Dorothy turned sharply. "Oh, is that you, McCraw? What brings you to the
Bush?"

The lank fellow turned his wild, blue eyes on her, then gazed at the
smoke. Some of the men scowled at him.

"Is that smoke?" I asked, sharply. "Answer me, McCraw!"

"A canna' deny it," he said, with a mad chuckle.

"Is it Indian smoke?" demanded Van Horn.

"Aweel," he replied, craning his skinny neck and cocking his head
impudently--"aweel, a'll admit that, too. It's Indian smoke; a canna
deny it, no."

"Is it a Mohawk signal?" I asked, bluntly.

At which he burst out into a crowing laugh.

"What does he say?" called out the man from the tavern. "What does he
say, Francy McCraw?"

"He says it maun be Mohawk smoke, Danny Redstock."

"And what if it is?" blustered Redstock, shouldering his way to McCraw,
rifle in hand. "Keep your black looks for your neighbors, Andrew Bowman.
What have we to do with your Mohawk fires?"

"Herman Salisbury!" cried Bowman to a nei