of Colonel Barry St. Leger's regular troops,
reinforced by Sir John Johnson's regiment of Royal Greens,
Colonel Butler's Rangers, McCraw's outlaws, and seven hundred
Mohawk, Seneca, and Cayuga warriors under Brant and Walter
Butler. I will add, sir, that we shall hold this fort to the
end. Respectfully,

"MARINUS WlLLETT,
Lieutenant-Colonel."

Standing knee-deep in the thick undergrowth, I read this letter aloud to
my riflemen, amid a shocked silence; then folded it for transmission to
General Schuyler when opportunity might offer, and signed Murphy to
lead forward.

So Rya's Pup was right. Walter Butler had made his first mark on the red
Oswego trail!

We marched in absolute silence, Murphy leading, every nerve on edge,
straining eye and ear for a sign of the enemy's scouts, now doubtless
swarming forward and to cover the British advance.

But the wilderness is vast, and two armies might pass each other
scarcely out of hail and never know.

Towards sundown I caught my first glimpse of a hostile Iroquois
war-party. We had halted behind some rocks on a heavily timbered slope,
and Mount was scrutinizing the trail below, where a little brook crossed
it, flowing between mossy stones; when, without warning, a naked Mohawk
stalked into the trail, sprang from rock to rock, traversing the bed of
the brook like a panther, then leaped lightly into the trail again and
moved on. After him, in file, followed some thirty warriors, naked save
for the clout, all oiled and painted, and armed with rifles. One or two
glanced up along our slope while passing, but a gesture from the leader
hastened their steps, and more quickly than I can write it they had
disappeared among the darkening shadows of the towering timber.

"Bad luck!" breathed Murphy; "'tis a rocky road to Dublin, but a shorter
wan to hell! Did you want f'r to shoot, Jack? Look at Dave Elerson an'
th' thrigger finger av him twitchin' all a-thremble! Wisha, lad! lave
the red omadhouns go. Arre you tired o' the hair ye wear, Jack Mount?
Come on out o' this, ye crazy divil!"

Circling the crossing-place, we swung east, then south, coming presently
to a fringe of trees through which the red sunset glittered,
illuminating a great stretch of swamp, river, and cleared land beyond.
"Yonder's the foort," whispered Murphy--"ould Stanwix--or Schuyler, as
they call it now. Step this way, sorr; ye can see it plain across the
Mohawk shwamps."