A light canoe of bark, containing a single human figure, moved swiftly

　　up one of the twin streams that form the Ohio. The water, clear and

　　deep, coming through rocky soil, babbled gently at the edges, where it

　　lapped the land, but in the center the full current flowed steadily and

　　without noise.

　　The thin shadows of early dusk were falling, casting a pallid tint over

　　the world, a tint touched here and there with living fire from the sun,

　　which was gone, though leaving burning embers behind. One glowing shaft,

　　piercing straight through the heavy forest that clothed either bank,

　　fell directly upon the figure in the boat, as a hidden light illuminates

　　a great picture, while the rest is left in shadow. It was no common

　　forest runner who sat in the middle of the red beam. Yet a boy, in

　　nothing but years, he swung the great paddle with an ease and vigor that

　　the strongest man in the West might have envied. His rifle, with the

　　stock carved beautifully, and the long, slender blue barrel of the

　　border, lay by his side. He could bring the paddle into the boat,

　　grasp the rifle, and carry it to his shoulder with a single, continuous

　　movement.

　　His most remarkable aspect, one that the casual observer even would have

　　noticed, was an extraordinary vitality. He created in the minds of those

　　who saw him a feeling that he lived intensely every moment of his life.

　　Born and-bred in the forest, he was essentially its child, a perfect

　　physical being, trained by the utmost hardship and danger, and with

　　every faculty, mental and physical, in complete coordination. It is only

　　by a singular combination of time and place, and only once in millions

　　of chances, that Nature produces such a being.

　　The canoe remained a few moments in the center of the red light, and its

　　occupant, with a slight swaying motion of the paddle, held it steady in

　　the current, while he listened. Every feature stood out in the glow, the

　　firm chin, the straight strong nose, the blue eyes, and the thick yellow

　　hair. The red blue, and yellow beads on his dress of beautifully tanned

　　deerskin flashed in the brilliant rays. He was the great picture of

　　fact, not of fancy, a human being animated by a living, dauntless soul.

　　He gave the paddle a single sweep and shot from the light into the

　　shadow. His canoe did not stop until it grazed the northern shore, where

　　bushes and overhanging boughs made a deep shadow. It would have taken

　　a keen eye now to have seen either the canoe or its occupant, and

　　Henry Ware paddled slowly and without noise in the darkest heart of the

　　shadow.

　　The sunlight lingered a little longer in the center of the stream. Then

　　the red changed to pink. The pink, in its turn, faded, and the whole

　　surface of the river was somber gray, flowing between two lines of black

　　forest.

　　The coming of the darkness did not stop the boy. He swung a little

　　farther out into the stream, where the bushes and hanging boughs would

　　not get in his way, and continued his course with some increase of

　　speed.

　　The great paddle swung swiftly through the water, and the length of

　　stroke was amazing, but the boy's breath did not come faster, and the

　　muscles on his arms and shoulders rippled as if it were the play of

　　a child. Henry was in waters unknown to him. He had nothing more than

　　hearsay upon which to rely, and he used all the wilderness caution that

　　he had acquired through nature and training. He called into use every

　　faculty of his perfect physical being. His trained eyes continually

　　pierced the darkness. At times, he stopped and listened with ears that

　　could hear the footfall of the rabbit, but neither eye nor ear brought

　　report of anything unusual. The river flowed with a soft, sighing sound.

　　Now and then a wild creature stirred in the forest, and once a deer

　　came down to the margin to drink, but this was the ordinary life of the

　　woods, and he passed it by.

　　He went on, hour after hour. The river narrowed. The banks grew higher

　　and rockier, and the water, deep and silvery under the moon, flowed in

　　a somewhat swifter current. Henry gave a little stronger sweep to the

　　paddle, and the speed of the canoe was maintained. He still kept within

　　the shadow of the northern bank.

　　He noticed after a while that fleecy vapor was floating before the moon.

　　The night seemed to be darkening, and a rising wind came out of the

　　southwest. The touch of the air on, his face was damp. It was the token

　　of rain, and he felt that it would not be delayed long.

　　It was no part of his plan to be caught in a storm on the Monongahela.

　　Besides the discomfort, heavy rain and wind might sink his frail canoe,

　　and he looked for a refuge. The river was widening again, and the banks

　　sank down until they were but little above the water. Presently he saw

　　a place that he knew would be suitable, a stretch of thick bushes and

　　weeds growing into the very edge of the water, and extending a hundred

　　yards or more along the shore.

　　He pushed his canoe far into the undergrowth, and then stopped it in

　　shelter so close that, keen as his own eyes were, he could scarcely see

　　the main stream of the river. The water where he came to rest was not

　　more than a foot deep, but he remained in the canoe, half reclining and

　　wrapping closely around himself and his rifle a beautiful blanket woven

　　of the tightest fiber.

　　His position, with his head resting on the edge of the canoe and his

　　shoulder pressed against the side, was full of comfort to him, and he

　　awaited calmly whatever might come. Here and there were little spaces

　　among the leaves overhead, and through them he saw a moon, now almost

　　hidden by thick and rolling vapors, and a sky that had grown dark and

　　somber. The last timid star had ceased to twinkle, and the rising wind

　　was wet and cold. He was glad of the blanket, and, skilled forest runner

　　that he was, he never traveled without it. Henry remained perfectly

　　still. The light canoe did not move beneath his weight the fraction

　　of an inch. His upturned eyes saw the little cubes of sky that showed

　　through the leaves grow darker and darker. The bushes about him were

　　now bending before the wind, which blew steadily from the south, and

　　presently drops of rain began to fall lightly on the water.

　　The boy, alone in the midst of all that vast wilderness, surrounded by

　　danger in its most cruel forms, and with a black midnight sky above him,

　　felt neither fear nor awe. Being what nature and circumstance had made

　　him, he was conscious, instead, of a deep sense of peace and comfort.

　　He was at ease, in a nest for the night, and there was only the remotest

　　possibility that the prying eye of an enemy would see him. The leaves

　　directly over his head were so thick that they formed a canopy, and, as

　　he heard the drops fall upon them, it was like the rain on a roof, that

　　soothes the one beneath its shelter.

　　Distant lightning flared once or twice, and low thunder rolled along the

　　southern horizon, but both soon ceased, and then a rain, not hard, but

　　cold and persistent, began to fall, coming straight down. Henry saw that

　　it might last all night, but he merely eased himself a little in the

　　canoe, drew the edges of the blanket around his chin, and let his

　　eyelids droop.

　　The rain was now seeping through the leafy canopy of green, but he did

　　not care. It could not penetrate the close fiber of the blanket, and the

　　fur cap drawn far down on his head met the blanket. Only his face was

　　uncovered, and when a cold drop fell upon it, it was to him, hardened by

　　forest life, cool and pleasant to the touch.

　　Although the eyelids still drooped, he did not yet feel the tendency to

　　sleep. It was merely a deep, luxurious rest, with the body completely

　　relaxed, but with the senses alert. The wind ceased to blow, and the

　　rain came down straight with an even beat that was not unmusical. No

　　other sound was heard in the forest, as the ripple of the river at the

　　edges was merged into it. Henry began to feel the desire for sleep by

　　and by, and, laying the paddle across the boat in such a way that it

　　sheltered his face, he closed his eyes. In five minutes he would have

　　been sleeping as soundly as a man in a warm bed under a roof, but with

　　a quick motion he suddenly put the paddle aside and raised himself a

　　little in the canoe, while one hand slipped down under the folds of the

　　blanket to the hammer of his rifle.

　　His ear had told him in time that there was a new sound on the river. He

　　heard it faintly above the even beat of the rain, a soft sound, long and

　　sighing, but regular. He listened, and then he knew it. It was made by

　　oars, many of them swung in unison, keeping admirable time.

　　Henry did not yet feel fear, although it must be a long boat full of

　　Indian warriors, as it was not likely, that anybody else would be abroad

　　upon these waters at such a time. He made no attempt to move. Where he

　　lay it was black as the darkest cave, and his cool judgment told him

　　that there was no need of flight.

　　The regular rhythmic beat of the oars came nearer, and presently as he

　　looked through the covert of leaves the dusky outline of a great war

　　canoe came into view. It contained at least twenty warriors, of what

　　tribe he could not tell, but they were wet, and they looked cold and

　　miserable. Soon they were opposite him, and he saw the outline of every

　　figure. Scalp locks drooped in the rain, and he knew that the warriors,

　　hardy as they might be, were suffering.

　　Henry expected to see the long boat pass on, but it was turned toward

　　a shelving bank fifty or sixty yards below, and they beached it there.

　　Then all sprang out, drew it up on the land, and, after turning it over,

　　propped it up at an angle. When this was done they sat under it in a

　　close group, sheltered from the rain. They were using their great canoe

　　as a roof, after the habit of Shawnees and Wyandots.

　　The boy watched them for a long time through one of the little openings

　　in the bushes, and he believed that they would remain as they were all

　　night, but presently he saw a movement among them, and a little flash

　　of light. He understood it. They were trying to kindle a fire-with flint

　　and steel, under the shelter of the boat. He continued to watch them

　　'lazily and without alarm.

　　Their fire, if they succeeded in making it, would cast no light upon him

　　in the dense covert, but they would be outlined against the flame, and

　　he could see them better, well enough, perhaps, to tell to what tribe

　　they belonged.

　　He watched under his lowered eyelids while the warriors, gathered in

　　a close group to make a shelter from stray puffs of wind, strove with

　　flint and steel. Sparks sprang up and went out, but Henry at last saw a

　　little blaze rise and cling to life. Then, fed with tinder and bark, it

　　grew under the roof made by the boat until it was ruddy and strong. The

　　boat was tilted farther back, and the fire, continuing to grow, crackled

　　cheerfully, while the flames leaped higher.

　　By a curious transfer of the senses, Henry, as he lay in the thick

　　blackness felt the influence of the fire, also. Its warmth was upon his

　　face, and it was pleasing to see the red and yellow light victorious

　　against the sodden background of the rain and dripping forest. The

　　figures of the warriors passed and repassed before the fire, and the boy

　　in the boat moved suddenly. His body was not shifted more than an inch,

　　but his surprise was great.

　　A warrior stood between him and the fire, outlined perfectly against

　　the red light. It was a splendid figure, young, much beyond the average

　　height, the erect and noble head crowned with the defiant scalplock, the

　　strong, slightly curved nose and the massive chin cut as clearly as if

　　they had been carved in copper. The man who had laid aside a wet blanket

　　was bare now to the waist, and Henry could see the powerful muscles play

　　on chest and shoulders as he moved.

　　The boy knew him. It was Timmendiquas, the great White Lightning of the

　　Wyandots, the youngest, but the boldest and ablest of all the Western

　　chiefs. Henry's pulses leaped a little at the sight of his old foe and

　　almost friend. As always, he felt admiration at the sight of the

　　young chief. It was not likely that he would ever behold such another

　　magnificent specimen of savage manhood.

　　The presence of Timmendiquas so far east was also full of significance.

　　The great fleet under Adam Colfax, and with Henry and his comrades in

　　the van, had reached Pittsburgh at last. Thence the arms, ammunition,

　　and other supplies were started on the overland journey for the American

　　army, but the five lingered before beginning the return to Kentucky.

　　A rumor came that the Indian alliance was spreading along the entire

　　frontier, both west and north. It was said that Timmendiquas, stung to

　　fiery energy by his defeats, was coming east to form a league with the

　　Iroquois, the famous Six Nations. These warlike tribes were friendly

　　with the Wyandots, and the league would be a formidable danger to the

　　Colonies, the full strength of which was absorbed already in the great

　　war.

　　But the report was a new call of battle to Henry, Shif'less Sol, and the

　　others. The return to Kentucky was postponed. They could be of greater

　　service here, and they plunged into the great woods to the north and,

　　east to see what might be stirring among the warriors.

　　Now Henry, as he looked at Timmendiquas, knew that report had told

　　the truth. The great chief would not be on the fringe of the Iroquois

　　country, if he did not have such a plan, and he had the energy and

　　ability to carry it through. Henry shuddered at the thought of the

　　tomahawk flashing along every mile of a frontier so vast, and defended

　　so thinly. He was glad in every fiber that he and his comrades had

　　remained to hang upon the Indian hordes, and be heralds of their

　　marches. In the forest a warning usually meant the saving of life.

　　The rain ceased after a while, although water dripped from the trees

　　everywhere. But the big fire made an area of dry earth about it, and the

　　warriors replaced the long boat in the water. Then all but four or five

　　of them lay beside the coals and went to sleep. Timmendiquas was one of

　　those who remained awake, and Henry saw that he was in deep thought. He

　　walked back and forth much like a white man, and now and then he folded

　　his hands behind his back, looking toward the earth, but not seeing it.

　　Henry could guess what was in his mind. He would draw forth the full

　　power of the Six Nations, league them with the Indians of the great

　　valley, and hurl them all in one mass upon the frontier. He was planning

　　now the means to the end.

　　The chief, in his little walks back and forth, came close to the edge of

　　the bushes in which Henry lay, It was not at all probable that he

　　would conclude to search among them, but some accident, a chance, might

　　happen, and Henry began to feel a little alarm. Certainly, the coming

　　of the day would make his refuge insecure, and he resolved to slip away

　　while it was yet light.

　　The boy rose a little in the boat, slowly and with the utmost caution,

　　because the slightest sound out of the common might arouse Timmendiquas

　　to the knowledge of a hostile presence. The canoe must make no plash in

　　the water. Gradually he unwrapped the blanket and tied it in a folded

　　square at his back. Then he took thought a few moments. The forest was

　　so silent now that he did not believe he could push the canoe through

　　the bushes without being heard. He would leave it there for use another

　　day and go on foot through the woods to his comrades.

　　Slowly he put one foot down the side until it rested on the bottom, and

　　then he remained still. The chief had paused in his restless walk back

　　and forth. Could it be possible that he had heard so slight a sound as

　　that of a human foot sinking softly into the water? Henry waited with

　　his rifle ready. If necessary he would fire, and then dart away among

　　the bushes.

　　Five or six intense moments passed, and the chief resumed his restless

　　pacing. If he had heard, he had passed it by as nothing, and Henry

　　raised the other foot out of the canoe. He was as delicate in his

　　movement as a surgeon mending the human eye, and he had full cause, as

　　not eye alone, but life as well, depended upon his success. Both feet

　　now rested upon the muddy bottom, and he stood there clear of the boat.

　　The chief did not stop again, and as the fire had burned higher, his

　　features were disclosed more plainly in his restless walk back and

　　forth before the flames. Henry took a final look at the lofty features,

　　contracted now into a frown, then began to wade among the bushes,

　　pushing his way softly. This was the most delicate and difficult task of

　　all. The water must not be allowed to plash around him nor the bushes

　　to rustle as he passed. Forward he went a yard, then two, five, ten, and

　　his feet were about to rest upon solid earth, when a stick submerged

　　in the mud broke under his moccasin with a snap singularly loud in the

　　silence of the night.

　　Henry sprang at once upon dry land, whence he cast back a single swift

　　glance. He saw the chief standing rigid and gazing in the direction from

　　which the sound had come. Other warriors were just behind him, following

　　his look, aware that there was an unexpected presence in the forest, and

　　resolved to know its nature.

　　Henry ran northward. So confident was he in his powers and the

　　protecting darkness of the night that he sent back a sharp cry, piercing

　　and defiant, a cry of a quality that could come only from a white

　　throat. The warriors would know it, and he intended for them to know it.

　　Then, holding his rifle almost parallel with his body, he darted swiftly

　　away through the black spaces of the forest. But an answering cry came

　　to his, the Indian yell taking up his challenge, and saying that the

　　night would not check pursuit.

　　Henry maintained his swift pace for a long time, choosing the more open

　　places that he might make no noise among the bushes and leaves. Now and

　　then water dripped in his face, and his moccasins were wet from the long

　　grass, but his body was warm and dry, and he felt little weariness. The

　　clouds were now all gone, and the stars sprang out, dancing in a sky of

　　dusky blue. Trained eyes could see far in the forest despite the night,

　　and Henry felt that he must be wary. He recalled the skill and tenacity

　　of Timmendiquas. A fugitive could scarcely be trailed in the darkness,

　　but the great chief would spread out his forces like a fan and follow.

　　He had been running perhaps three hours when he concluded to stop in a

　　thicket, where he lay down on the damp grass, and rested with his head

　　under his arm.

　　His breath had been coming a little faster, but his heart now resumed

　　its regular beat. Then he heard a soft sound, that of footsteps. He

　　thought at first that some wild animal was prowling near, but second

　　thought convinced him that human beings had come. Gazing through the

　　thicket, he saw an Indian warrior walking among the trees, looking

　　searchingly about him as if he were a scout. Another, coming from a

　　different direction, approached him, and Henry felt sure that they were

　　of the party of Timmendiquas. They had followed him in some manner,

　　perhaps by chance, and it behooved Mm now to lie close.

　　A third warrior joined them and they began to examine the ground. Henry

　　realized that it was much lighter. Keen eyes under such a starry sky

　　could see much, and they might strike his trail. The fear quickly became

　　fact. One of the warriors, uttering a short cry, raised his head and

　　beckoned to the others. He had seen broken twigs or trampled grass, and

　　Henry, knowing that it was no time to hesitate, sprang from his covert.

　　Two of the warriors caught a glimpse of his dusky figure and fired, the

　　bullets cutting the leaves close to his head, but Henry ran so fast that

　　he was lost to view in an instant.

　　The boy was conscious that his position contained many elements of

　　danger. He was about to have another example of the tenacity and

　　resource of the great young chief of the Wyandots, and he felt a certain

　　anger. He, did not wish to be disturbed in his plans, he wished to

　　rejoin his comrades and move farther east toward the chosen lands of

　　the Six Nations; instead, he must spend precious moments running for his

　　life.

　　Henry did not now flee toward the camp of his friends. He was too wise,

　　too unselfish, to bring a horde down upon them, and he curved away in a

　　course that would take him to the south of them. He glanced up and saw

　　that the heavens were lightening yet more. A thin gray color like a mist

　　was appearing in the east. It was the herald of day, and now the Indians

　　would be able to find his trail. But Henry was not afraid. His anger

　　over the loss of time quickly passed, and he ran swiftly on, the fall of

　　his moccasins making scarcely any noise as he passed.

　　It was no unusual incident. Thousands of such pursuits occurred in

　　the border life of our country, and were lost to the chronicler. For

　　generations they were almost a part of the daily life of the frontier,

　　but the present, while not out of the common in itself, had, uncommon

　　phases. It was the most splendid type of white life in all the

　　wilderness that fled, and the finest type of red life that followed.

　　It was impossible for Henry to feel anger or hate toward Timmendiquas.

　　In his place he would have done what he was doing. It was hard to give

　　up these great woods and beautiful lakes and rivers, and the wild life

　　that wild men lived and loved. There was so much chivalry in the boy's

　　nature that he could think of all these things while he fled to escape

　　the tomahawk or the stake.

　　Up came the sun. The gray light turned to silver, and then to red and

　　blazing gold. A long, swelling note, the triumphant cry of the pursuing

　　warriors, rose behind him. Henry turned his head for one look. He saw

　　a group of them poised for a moment on the crest of a low hill and

　　outlined against the broad flame in the east. He saw their scalp locks,

　　the rifles in their hands, and their bare chests shining bronze in the

　　glow. Once more he sent back his defiant cry, now in answer to theirs,

　　and then, calling upon his reserves of strength and endurance, fled with

　　a speed that none of the warriors had ever seen surpassed.

　　Henry's flight lasted all that day, and he used every device to evade

　　the pursuit, swinging by vines, walking along fallen logs, and wading in

　　brooks. He did not see the warriors again, but instinct warned him that

　　they were yet following. At long intervals he would rest for a quarter

　　of an hour or so among the bushes, and at noon he ate a little of the

　　venison that he always carried. Three hours later he came to the river

　　again, and swimming it he turned on his course, but kept to the southern

　　side. When the twilight was falling once more he sat still in dense

　　covert for a long time. He neither saw nor heard a sign of human

　　presence, and he was sure now that the pursuit had failed. Without an

　　effort he dismissed it from his mind, ate a little more of the venison,

　　and made his bed for the night.

　　The whole day had been bright, with a light wind blowing, and the forest

　　was dry once more. As far as Henry could see it circled away on every

　　side, a solid dark green, the leaves of oak and beech, maple and elm

　　making a soft, sighing sound as they waved gently in the wind. It told

　　Henry of nothing but peace. He had eluded the pursuit, hence it was no

　　more. This was a great, friendly forest, ready to shelter him, to soothe

　　him, and to receive him into its arms for peaceful sleep.

　　He found a place among thick trees where the leaves of last year lay

　　deep upon the ground. He drew up enough of them for a soft bed, because

　　now and for the moment he was a forest sybarite. He was wise enough to

　　take his ease when he found it, knowing that it would pay his body to

　　relax.

　　He lay down upon the leaves, placed the rifle by his side, and spread

　　the blanket over himself and the weapon. The twilight was gone, and the

　　night, dark and without stars, as he wished to see it, rolled up, fold

　　after fold, covering and hiding everything. He looked a little while at

　　a breadth of inky sky showing through the leaves, and then, free from

　　trouble or fear, he fell asleep.