The Rider of the Black Horse Part 2

CHAPTER XVII
A PLACE OF REFUGE

The two men stared blankly at each other for an instant, and then the landlord, who apparently was the first to recover from his astonishment, said in a whisper, "Come on! We 'll go out to the barn! Come!"

Instantly Robert followed him, and as they started from the house they glanced about them in every direction, but not a glimpse could they obtain of the missing man. Neither had halted to continue the search, and as they entered the barn together a low exclamation of pleasure escaped Robert's lips, for there in the rude stalls before him was his own horse and also those of the recent visitors at the tavern.

"Take all three!" said Jacob quickly. "Take 'em, every one!"

"I don't want to leave you here alone"—began Robert.

"Never ye mind me, as I told ye before! Take the horses and get out; and the sooner the better for me an' you, too!"

​Robert hastily complied with the demand, for Russell and his companion might at any moment return now, and he fully understood what such a return would imply. A rope was passed through the bridles of the two horses when they had been withdrawn from their stalls, and then Robert with the end of the rope in his hand leaped quickly upon the back of Nero.

"Get right out o' here!" exclaimed Jacob, as he struck the rear horses when they passed out from the door.

The horses reared for a moment, but as Nero at once began to run they both responded to the pull upon them, and in a brief time were speeding down the road and soon had turned the bend, when the tavern and Jacob, who had remained standing upon the piazza watching the departure of his recent guest, could no longer be seen.

The night would soon be at hand, and with the oncoming darkness Robert was aware that both his own peril and his chance of escaping were increased. The shadows already were lengthening and the western sky had the deeper glow which indicated that the darkness would not long be delayed. He held his horse to the swift pace at which he was mov​ing, and was rejoiced to perceive that the other horses were following closely and without any apparent effort. Three miles had been covered before he stopped and permitted the wearied beasts to rest. Not a man had been seen since he had departed from Jacob Gunning's tavern, and though he had maintained a careful outlook, not a sign of peril had been discovered.

A feeling of relief swept over him, and as he started on once more, taking the road that led to the right, in the fork where he had halted, he even began to feel elated. He had escaped his pursuers, and by seizing their horses had deprived them of the means of following him. It was not likely that any of the band of Claudius Brown were in advance of him, for doubtless Russell and his huge comrade had been in the lead of others. What a commotion he could create in the American camp if by any chance he should succeed in returning safely not only with the letter from General Clinton but also with two horses! And there was a need of horses, too, amongst the troops.

His heart was heavy, however, when he thought of Jacob. He had been left to face the answer of Russell and Josh alone. Then ​his thoughts turned to the fate of Hannah Nott. What had become of her and her mother? The ruins of the home were not assuring, for, if Mr. Nott and the sons had been unable to prevent that calamity, was it probable that they had been any more successful in driving away the members of the marauding band? Then, too, there was Dirck Rykman and the report of his arrest for leading a band of Tories. Could it be possible that the sturdy young Dutchman had been false to his promises? If he had, then what might befall his little family would not be unlike that which the Notts had been compelled to suffer, though whatever might be done would be done by the men whose sympathies were on the side opposed to those who had harmed the Notts. But suffering was suffering whatever its source might be, and Robert Dorlon was seriously troubled as he rode forward, moving more slowly now that the immediate danger which he most feared, apparently no longer threatened him.

These thoughts were in his mind as he rode slowly up the long hill. When he came to the summit he could see the valley in the dim light stretching away before him, and for a moment his anxiety returned. He could per​ceive a rude path or roadway leading into the woods by his side, and suddenly he resolved to follow it. He was in need of rest himself, and his horse was even more wearied than he. In the early light of the morning he would be able to resume his journey, and would have less to fear because he would be in better condition, he assured himself, and resolutely he at once acted upon the impulse.

He had advanced not more than two hundred yards into the woods when he perceived the outlines of a rude building before him, and instantly he halted and peered intently at the structure. Not a light was to be seen near or within it, and not a sound broke in upon the stillness of the summer night. Dismounting, he tied Nero's bridle to the projecting limb of a tree and cautiously advanced on foot, but he had not gone far before he was convinced that the building was unoccupied, and yet it seemed strange to him that such a structure should be found in the woods.

More boldly he advanced now, and entering through the open doorway he discovered that there were two bunks on one side of the room, but he was not able to see that they had been used recently. He concluded that the building had been erected to serve as a shelter ​for some one who probably had been about to clear the land and build a home on the spot, but like so many others had been compelled to abandon the project when the war had broken out.

With a lighter heart Robert hastened back to the spot where he had left the horses, and soon returned with them to the building. It was but the work of a minute to remove the saddles and tether the animals, and as soon as this had been accomplished he entered the hut and threw himself into one of the bunks and in a brief time was sleeping soundly.

How long he had been asleep he did not know, but he was aroused by a whinny of one of the horses. The call was repeated, but in lower tones, and to Robert it seemed as if it was an evidence that the animal had recognized the approach of some one he knew. Springing from his bunk and thoroughly awake by this time, Robert grasped his pistol and peered out into the night. The whinny had not been repeated and silence was over all. The moon had long since disappeared and the gloom of the woods was unbroken even by any flickering shadows.

For several minutes Robert stood near the doorway listening intently and peering out ​into the woods; but still not satisfied when he had not discovered anything to increase his alarm, he stepped forth into the darkness and cautiously approached the place where he had left the horses.

To his surprise he perceived that one of them was no longer there, though the other two were apparently safe when he examined their straps, as he speedily did. Convinced that the other horse must in some way have broken loose, and that it was by him that the low whinny he had heard had been given, he began at once to search for the missing animal. He decided to move in a circle about the place, and somewhere within it he would doubtless find him.

He had completed the semi-circle and was in the rough path or roadway when he was startled to perceive the horse before him, but his consternation was great when he saw that a man was holding him, standing directly in front of the steed and grasping both sides of the bits. The man's face was turned in the direction where the other two horses were, and it was apparent from his attitude that he was awaiting a signal or the appearance of some one from that direction.

For a moment Robert was too startled by ​the unexpected sight to move from the place where he himself was standing, but quickly he recovered and stepped hastily back among the trees, still peering at the man. His first impulse to run to the place where the other two horses had been left he restrained, as he was convinced that his better course was to remain where he then was. If there was an- other member of the party, as apparently there was, then doubtless the man would come to the place where his companion was awaiting him.

Robert speedily discovered that his conjecture was correct, for in a brief time he perceived a man approaching leading both horses and holding each by the bit as he walked between their heads.

As he drew near Robert could hear him as he said, "I 've got 'em both, Joe."

"Did the fellow stir?" inquired the man who had been addressed as "Joe."

"I don't know; I did n't look this time. He was making noise enough when I looked into the hut before. Come on now."

"I don't just like it. We don't know who the fellow is. He may be a good friend to us for all that we know, and if he should turn out to be, why, we might be doing the very ​worst thing in taking these horses. We ought to know more about it."

"I tell you I know this horse. I 've seen Josh on it too many times to forget it."

"Josh may be here himself for all that we know."

"Then there's all the more reason for us to get out of this. If there really has been any mistake, why, it can be set right; and if there has n't, we 'll be mighty glad of the night's work. Come on!"

The two men began to move over the pathway toward the road, leading the three horses with them, and almost mechanically Robert began to follow them, darting swiftly from tree to tree and keeping well back from the path, though he did not lose sight of the men. He was in a whirl of excitement, for he fancied that he had recognized one of the men; but to expose himself suddenly would be likely to bring upon him a shot, as doubtless both men were prepared for quick action.

He waited until they were within twenty-five yards of the place where the pathway joined the road, and then, darting quickly ahead, he gained a shelter behind a huge tree, from which he peered out at the men, who were now almost upon him.

​"Halt! Stop a minute," he called in a low voice.

At the unexpected summons both men halted abruptly and, drawing their pistols, stood gazing eagerly all about them. It had been impossible to determine from just what direction the hail had come, and the alarm and consternation were natural. They did not know whether to advance or to go back, and perhaps under other circumstances their predicament might have made Robert laugh.

But he was in nowise inclined now to be light-hearted, for the issue was uncertain, and he had much to lose if his surmise should not prove to be correct.

"Is one of you Joseph Nott?" he inquired, after the brief silence.

"Who are you?" demanded the man in true Yankee fashion, as both faced the direction from which the question had been heard.

"That's not answering my question," responded Robert. "I'm a good friend of his, and if he is there everything will be all right. Here! Keep them covered with your guns, men," he added, as if he was addressing an imaginary company. "Don't let them move till my question is answered!"

​"What if Joe Nott is here?" demanded the other man.

"Then there 'll be no trouble."

"What do you want of him?" It was evident that Robert's trick was working well, and that in their uncertainty the two men dared not move, being ignorant of how many rifles might be aimed at them from the surrounding darkness.

"It 'll be time enough to tell when I know he's there."

"Come out and see for yourself."

"All right!" responded Robert instantly, deciding that boldness might be his very best protection. "Keep them covered," he called to his imaginary troops, "and if either tries to get away, shoot him!"

Stepping out into the pathway, Robert approached the two men and instantly perceived that one of them was indeed Joseph Nott, Hannah's brother.

"You 're Joe Nott all right enough," he said quietly. "You know who I am?"

"Yes. You 're Robert Dorlon," responded the young man, after he had peered into the face of the man before him.

"Well, then, what are you doing with my horses?" demanded Robert.

​"Your horses ? Are they yours?"

"Yes, or at least one of them is, and the other two are more mine than yours. Have you horses here?"

"Yes, back near the road. What are you doing here? Where are your men?"

"I have n't any men. I'm all alone."

"What!" exclaimed Joseph. And then he laughed heartily as he said, "It's a good one on us. We 'll never hear the last of it. But come along and we 'll hear the rest of it. You 're going on now, are n't you?"

 

CHAPTER XVIII
A COMPANION ON THE JOURNEY

In a secluded spot near the road the horses of Joseph Nott and his companion were found, and after a careful inspection, when it was seen that no apparent danger was near, preparations were at once made to depart.

"Where is Hannah, I mean your mother?" inquired Robert.

"Oh, they 're all right," responded Joseph.

"All right? Why, your home was burned and"—

"Yes, I know that."

"But"—

"Oh, come along! I 'll tell you about it when we 're started."

"Are you going my way?" inquired Robert in surprise.

"Just a little. I don't think I shall go on beyond Morristown, but one never can tell about such things."

"To Morristown!" exclaimed Robert, completely mystified.

"That's what I said, was n't it?" laughed Joseph.

​"I don't see"—

"Well, it is n't necessary that you should. It 'll be lighter pretty quick, anyway." Then turning to his companion, who had seldom spoken since the meeting, Joseph said a few words to him, but they were spoken in so low a tone that Robert was not able to hear what was said. The man, however, at once mounted his horse and started swiftly back over the road by which Robert had come, and in a brief time could no longer be seen.

Turning to Robert, Joseph then said, "Come on. We 'll not go so fast that I can't talk to you on the way. Yes, I'm going to Morristown. General Clinton had me start not long after you left. Probably he had some word that came after you went, but I don't know about that. Some one else may be on his way behind us, and we don't want to let him catch up with us the way I did with you."

"But I thought you went with your father and the boys to look after Hannah and your mother."

"I did."

"How did you happen to be back in the fort, then?"

"It did n't take long to look after my mo​ther and Hannah. They can almost look after themselves without any help from us."

"But the house is burned."

"Yes, it was on fire when we got there. We found mother and Hannah fighting it, but it did n't do any good. It was too late. Claud Brown and his gang had been there and gone. It would have done you good to hear mother tell how Hannah threw a bucket of water on the place where Claud himself started the fire and how he turned on her."

"He did?" exclaimed Robert angrily.

"Oh, yes, but the first he knew she let him have another bucket right in the face. It's a pity that girl is a girl. If she was only a man she'd be worth any dozen men in the whole army. She is n't afraid of anybody: and yet, let me tell you, Robert Dorlon, she is the best girl you can find the length of the Hudson River."

"Yes, I think so," responded Robert quietly. "She certainly helped me out of a bad affair. Where is she now?"

"She and my mother have gone back in the country to my aunt's. They 'll stay there for a while. My father is going to try to get hold of Claud Brown."

"He can't leave the fort."

​"He won't have to. There are other ways of doing it; but if the men who have been robbed and whose houses have been set on fire by that villain, once lay their hands on him, I would n't give much for his life."

"You seem to take the burning of your home as if it did n't amount to anything."

"Oh, I do, do I?" Joseph, as he spoke, turned sharply to his companion and his voice was harsh and hard, but only for the moment, for quickly he laughed lightly and then said: "We expected when we went into this affair that it would not fill our pockets. We 've lost everything except the dirt of our farm, and the only reason why we have n't lost that is because the Tories or the cowboys could n't steal it or burn it. I don't mind the redcoats so much as I do the Dutch butchers, and I can stand them better than I can the Tories, and the Tories are saints in glory compared with the cowboys. If my father and mother did n't whimper when the house was burned, I don't think I 've very much call to do it, do you?" he added with a laugh.

"No," replied Robert thoughtfully. "Did you know there was a man, who acted as if he had been hit on the head, in those lilac bushes out behind your house?"

​"When?" demanded Joseph, bringing his horse sharply to a standstill.

"Yesterday." And Robert related the story of his own discovery of the man and of the letter which he had found upon him and also how it had been forwarded by Jacob Gunning, who had sent his own daughter with it as the messenger. His own experiences in the tavern were recounted too, and so deeply interested was his companion that not once did he interrupt him till all had been related, even to the way in which he had escaped with the two additional horses which now were with them.

"I wonder if you could n't take my letter to General Washington?' said Joseph abruptly, when all had been told.

"Yes, but what would you do?"

"Go back. There's going to be something going on there, and I'd like to be on hand when it begins. It isn't necessary for both of us to go on. I don't believe that General Clinton would care."

"What was it he told you?"

"He told me to put the letter into the general's hands and not to let any one else even touch it."

"And yet you 're going to give it to me."

"No, I'm not," retorted Joseph, with a laugh ​that was as welcome as the morning sunshine that now was all about them. "I was only telling you what I'd like to do. But I 've no notion of doing it. I 've got to obey orders; and then, too, I don't want to tear myself away from such good company as I 've fallen in with."

Robert glanced at his companion for a moment and again noted the striking resemblance to Hannah. The same round face, bright blue eyes, light brown hair, and the evidence of abounding health and spirits were as apparent in Joseph as in his sister.

"I know what you 're thinking about," laughed Joseph.

"No, you don't," responded Robert, his dark face flushing slightly. "And I don't see what you are laughing about either," he added.

But Joseph laughed again, and then said, "I'm hungry enough to do what Nebuchadnezzar did, if we don't find some place where we can get something to eat pretty soon."

"There must be a place somewhere hereabouts."

"There is. There's one ahead yonder," said Joseph quickly, pointing as he spoke to a log house that could be seen in the distance. ​It was evidently occupied too, for a man could be seen in the yard with a yoke upon his shoulders, by means of which he was carrying some buckets to a barn on the opposite side of the road.

"Will it be safe?"

"You don't look as if you ought to be afraid," suggested Joseph, glancing at his stalwart companion for a moment.

Robert laughed as he replied: "I'm afraid for what I 've got on me as much or more than I am for myself. Do you know anything about this place or the man who lives there?"

"Not a thing."

"We 'll chance it anyway. I have a little money in my pocket. We can pay him for what we get."

"Lucky fellow," murmured Joseph, as they began to quicken the pace at which they were moving.

It became evident that the farmer had discovered their approach, for he had dropped the buckets upon the ground and had seated himself upon the "horse block" by the roadside, and it was plain that he was waiting for the coming of the two men.

"You do the talking," said Robert.

Will you do the fighting?"

​"I 'll do my share, but we shan't have any trouble. The old fellow is as mild and gentle as a dove."

Joseph made no response, and in a brief time the young soldiers drew rein on their horses as they halted in front of the man, who was seated on the section of a huge tree that served as a family horse block. He was an old man and his gray hair (he wore no hat) was thin, and one arm was apparently twisted and drawn out of shape. Evidently there was nothing to be feared from the man himself, but Joseph nevertheless was cautious, and after he had given the morning salutation he said, "We want some breakfast."

"Can't say that ye 're the first men I 've heard of in the same fix."

"Can we get some here? We 'll pay for it," Joseph added hastily.

"Pretty good horses ye 've got there," replied the man, apparently ignoring the question and glancing at the four horses as if he appreciated every one of their good points.

"Yes. We want them fed, too. Can you give them some oats?"

"Where might ye be goin'?"

"We 'might' be going in a good many ways, but the fact is that just now we don't ​want to go anywhere. We want to stay right here and get something to eat and something for our horses."

"Jes' so. So I heard ye remark." The man had not moved from the horse block, nor had he apparently turned his eyes away from the inspection of the animals. "Perhaps ye might want to be sellin' one o 'em?" he suggested.

"They 're not ours," replied Joseph.

"Ye don't say so. 'T is n't considered safe for ev'rybody to be seen ridin' 'long th' road 's early's this in the mornin' with horses that don't b'long to 'em."

"We 're not afraid. We 're just hungry," laughed Joseph. "You need n't be afraid of feeding horse thieves either, for we 're not quite in that class, and will pay you for every mouthful you give us."

"Want to put 'em in the barn?" inquired the man, rising for the first time from his seat on the horse block.

"No, I don't think so," spoke up Robert. There was something in the actions of the man that made him uneasy, though he could not explain what it was even to himself.

"Better put 'em in," persisted the man.

"All right. Put them in the barn. I'm the spokesman of the party," said Joseph. ​"You show us where to take them and we 'll look after them ourselves; and you can go into the house and get some breakfast for us. Your women will want to have a word, I take it."

"There are n't any women here."

"You live here alone?" demanded Joseph, in surprise.

"All alone."

Joseph was prompted to make some further inquiries, but he did not continue his questioning. "Show us where your oats are and then my friend will look after the horses; and I 'll go back to the house with you and help you get something for us to eat," he said. "If you 're the only one on this place, you 'll want some help if you 're going to get enough to satisfy two such hungry fellows as we are."

"I 've got some eggs."

"Good!"

"And some bacon."

"Better still!"

"An' I s'pose I can cook ye something or other besides."

"Don't tell us any more. I can't stand it," laughed Joseph. "Show us about feeding the horses, and then I 'll help you with the breakfast."

​The farmer delayed no longer, and as soon as the horses were led into the barn and the oat bins had been pointed out, Joseph left Robert to guard the horses while he himself returned with the man to the house. It was strange, he thought, that there should be such an abundance of oats and yet no horses in the barn, except those which he himself and his friend had brought; but he did not refer to the question in his mind, and in a surprisingly brief time the promised breakfast was ready. Robert had been summoned from the barn, and both young men were soon doing ample justice to the viands which were placed on the rude table. The man watched them with evident interest and apparently no unfriendly feeling, but he seldom spoke. At last when the breakfast had been eaten and the boys were ready to rise from the bench on which they had been seated, the man said,—

"Ye 've got one horse there I 've seen before."

"I guess not," replied Joseph laughingly, and yet glancing keenly at the man.

"He looks just the same as when Josh was ridin' him, an' Josh is lookin' for him now. He an' another man were here about half an hour before you two came."

CHAPTER XIX
IN THE AMERICAN CAMP

Robert and Joseph were too inexperienced to conceal their astonishment at the man's words. For a moment they gazed at him in silence, and then Robert hastily rising from his seat exclaimed, "Do you mean what you say? Were Josh and Russell really here?"

"Josh was here an' there was a man with him."

"And you think they were looking for us?"

"Accordin' t' th' description they gave of the men an' the horses they were after, I should say they were."

"How long have they been gone?" demanded Joseph.

"They left about a half an hour before ye came."

"Which way did they go?"

"They went on ahead. Now, boys," added the old man, with an abrupt change in his manner, "ye 've got t' look out right smart or they 'll get ye. Ye can stay here t'day an' ​I 'll hide ye so 't nobody on earth can find ye, an' probably by to-morrow it 'll be safe for ye to go on."

"We can't stay," replied Robert sharply. He was not without his suspicions of the man, though his eagerness to return to the American camp with his letter was the supreme desire in his heart at the time.

"I thought likely that was what ye'd say. I don't know 's it's the best thing, but it's nat'ral for boys like you. Now I 'll point out to ye a way ye can go without hitting the road for fifteen miles. Whether it 'll take ye out o' the way these men are followin' or not, I can't say. I'm a good friend t' th' Americans," he added. "I ought t' be, seein' as how I 've got two boys with General Clinton."

"What's their name?" demanded Joseph quickly.

"Brokaw."

"I know them. They 're good men, too. We'd better let this man show us the way," Joseph said to Robert. "It 'll be better for everybody."

As Robert quickly agreed, all three went out to the barn, and the old man mounted one of the horses while the young men leaped upon the backs of their own, and the little ​party at once departed. Near a brook that crossed the road their leader turned into the woods, and for nearly three hours led the way through an apparently pathless wood. Up the hills and through the heavily-wooded valleys they journeyed, seldom speaking and all the time keeping a careful lookout all about them.

At last they could once more see the road before them, and the old man leaping from his horse said to them, "Now I think ye 'll have no difficulty unless ye happen to run across Josh or some o' Claud Brown's men. I knew ye were bound for Morristown as soon as I set eyes on ye, an' I don't think ye 'll lose the way. Keep your eyes open for Josh."

"I did n't know the Thirteen came as far back as this," said Joseph.

"They go ev'rywhere. They have a place up here in the Ramapo Pass where they meet their friends, an' my advice to ye is not t' go that way. Can ye find yer way 'cross the country?"

"Yes," said Robert. "We can do that, I know. But if we happen to fall in with Josh or any of Claud Brown's gang"—

"Ye must n't fall in with 'em! That's what I'm tellin' ye not to do."

​"But you say they 're up here, too," suggested Joseph.

"Yes. I'm tellin' ye they 're everywhere, 'most, clear up t' Morristown. They 're like a roarin' lion goin' about seekin' whom they may devour. Don't ye let 'em set eyes on ye, much less their hands."

"How are you going back to your home?" inquired Robert.

"Walk."

"It must be fifteen miles."

"So it is, but it won't be th' first time I 've done it. Now ye'd better start, an' for a while I would n't let the grass grow under my feet either."

The boys expressed their thanks for his aid and then swiftly resumed their journey. For a time their fears made them watchful, but when two hours had elapsed and not a sign of the presence of their enemies had been discovered, a measure of confidence returned, and they soon halted for their midday meal.

The journey was speedily resumed, and when they had gone on until they were again slowly climbing one of the numerous long hills, Robert said to his companion, "You never told me how it was that you happened to be in that hut last night, nor who the man was with you."

​"Did n't I?" laughed Joseph. "That's too bad. Seems to me, though, that you never explained how it was that we caught you there either."

"You never asked me."

"Well, I 'll tell you. I won't ask you if you won't ask me. I'm under promise not to tell, though in a week or two I 'll let you know all about it."

"I'm agreed."

"You can't keep a secret, though."

Robert laughed and made no response. "I tell you you can't," added Joseph.

"Why? What do you know about it?"

"Hannah told me."

"Hannah?"

"Yes, my sister. You 've met her, I think."

"I don't see"—

"No, of course not. I hope we 'll come back together, and then I 'll tell you what I mean. We'd better put in our good work now."

Silence returned as the boys increased their speed. There were times when they met some of the country people, who stared blankly at them, but the riders gave no opportunity for questioning and speedily passed on.

On the third day they arrived safely in the ​camp they were seeking, and the letters they had brought were delivered into the hands of those for whom they were designed. It was a relief to Robert to learn that the British had abandoned the attempt to draw the Americans into battle near Brunswick and had returned to New York. Everything was uncertain as to their future movements, however. Rumors were current of Howe's plan to attack Boston, but the report would quickly be denied and another rumor would gain credence that he was about to move up the Hudson to meet the oncoming army of John Burgoyne.

Robert was somewhat chagrined to learn on the morning after his arrival that Joseph had been sent back to Fort Montgomery, but no word was given him as to his own duty. The horses they had succeeded in bringing had been received, but a fear was in the heart of the young soldier that his own failure to deliver to General Clinton the letter with which he had been intrusted had caused a loss of confidence in himself, and as the slow days passed on and still not a word was received, his fears, and his consequent chagrin, increased.

The reports, too, that came with the passing days caused the uncertainty and the ​alarm in the American army in New Jersey and on the Hudson to spread among the men, and Robert Dorlon shared fully in the prevailing uneasiness. Even his own feeling that somehow he was looked upon as one who had failed to deliver the letter which had been intrusted to him, though in his heart he knew that he had done well, was in a measure ignored in the prevailing excitement in the camp.

The reports came steadily of the advance of John Burgoyne's army, and of the apparent helplessness of the Americans to check it. From Cumberland Head to the falls of the River Bouquet, where it was reported that Burgoyne in person had welcomed the arrival of his Indian forces and had made an address that had greatly stirred his savage allies, the army had moved without hindrance. Rumors were current that the waters of Lake Champlain "swarmed" with the fleets that were transporting the redcoats and the red men. By the end of June the advancing forces had arrived at Crown Point and were in possession of the place, and then early in July came the most disheartening report of all—that the British had seized Fort Ticonderoga, and that the place had been abandoned by the ​Americans, without a single blow having been struck in its defense.

The rumors were conflicting, but there could be no doubt as to the truth of the fall of the fort, and that the troops were scattered, and were retreating before the host that with increasing confidence apparently was sweeping away all opposition on its onward march. At Skenesborough (Whitehall) Burgoyne next made his stand, and then it was soon reported that he had pushed on as far as Fort Anne, and by the first of August had penetrated as far as Fort Edward.

The complaints of the New England men against General Philip Schuyler, the failure of Congress to act and even to provide the necessary means of carrying on the war, the loud threats of Barry St. Leger as to what would befall the people of the Mohawk Valley if they failed to provide for his wants and to rally to the standard of King George, all found eager listeners in the little army under Washington, that was still striving to do its utmost for the cause of the contending colonies.

The desperate determination, however, to do their work did not fail them. Many of the New Jersey people, hopeless now of the ​success of Washington, were heeding the somewhat lurid "proclamations" which Howe caused to be scattered among the country districts. The groans of the American prisoners who were suffering in the improvised prisons in New York or on board the foul prison ships found a response in the hearts of the timid, who were eager to abandon the apparently hopeless task. Money was wanting, provisions were scarce, jealousy was rife among the leaders, and even the most devoted friends of the cause were clamoring for some decisive blow to be struck.

In the midst of all these perplexing and distressing problems, Washington found one that was even more trying than any of them, and that was to find out just what Howe intended to do, that is, if the British general did really know himself. In all probability Howe did not know just what he would do, until the summer was well-nigh gone. He was striving to mislead his foxy adversary, and not leave New York too poorly defended if the rebel leader should decide to attack there instead of going up the Hudson to the aid of the Northern army, and at the same time he was holding himself in readiness to go, or send aid, to John Burgoyne, in case his ​fellow officer required his assistance, which he still was unable to believe would be in the least necessary.

The ease with which Fort Ticonderoga had been taken, and the apparently futile efforts of the "rebels" to check the invasion, at last convinced Lord Howe that Burgoyne was abundantly able to look after his own interests, and that he himself would be free to adopt such measures for crushing the little rebel army near him as he might deem best. This very confidence, however, in all probability proved the undoing of Howe and Burgoyne. Had Howe gone up the Hudson and placed the ill-trained Continentals between his own forces and those of Burgoyne, there can be little doubt that they would have crushed the "rebels" in the north, and rent the colonies asunder as Burgoyne had planned to do. Confident, however, that Burgoyne required no aid from him, Lord Howe put to sea with a fleet of two hundred and twenty-eight ships, in which he had embarked an army of eighteen thousand men, and sailed to the south. At New York he left Sir Henry Clinton with seven thousand men to defend that place, and then he wrote a letter to John Burgoyne, in which he stated that he was about to sail for ​Boston and attack that town. This he intrusted to a messenger, who by design was captured by the Americans, and the message fell into the hands of Washington.

The American leader, the fox, as he was called by the British, was too keen to be deceived by the trick, and kept himself fully informed concerning the movements of his adversary. Accordingly he quickly recalled General Sullivan and General Sterling with their men to the west side of the Hudson, and with the greater part of his own army began to march toward Delaware Bay, whither it was reported that Howe had sailed. And yet it was difficult for Washington to believe that the present move of the British was anything more than one of the numerous tricks they had been trying to play upon him throughout the summer. Sullivan was to advance as far as Morristown and remain there, and every day Washington was expecting to receive word that the British had quickly returned to New York and were advancing with all haste up the Hudson. He could not persuade himself that Howe really was planning to abandon New York, give up all thought of going to the aid of Burgoyne, and make an attack upon Philadelphia, which, though it was the capital of ​the new nation, was not looked upon as valuable from a military point of view.

At last, however, he was convinced that the present advance of Howe was no trick, but that the British really were preparing for movements in the vicinity of Philadelphia, and accordingly he himself prepared to act.

At this critical moment Robert Dorlon discovered that he had not been forgotten or ignored as he had feared, and that he was once more to return to the region where he had had his former exciting experiences, which not for a moment had been forgotten in the prevailing excitement of the army.

CHAPTER XX
AT JACOB'S TAVERN ONCE MORE

It was a clear morning in August when Robert Dorlon set forth from the American camp again to be the "express" of the commander and to carry a letter to the army in the north. There had come to the leaders an increasing hope that, in spite of the failures and difficulties that thus far had beset the attempts to check the invasion by John Burgoyne, the outlook was not altogether dark, and this feeling almost unconsciously had come to be shared in by the men.

At all events, there was a spirit of determination in Robert Dorlon's heart to do his utmost, and as he entered the wilder region beyond the boundaries of the camp, the very surroundings seemed to stimulate him. Not only had he now the opportunity to redeem his apparent failure in his preceding journey, but there was also an added interest as he thought of the exciting experiences which were likely to be his before he should return; for, in spite of the perils that must be faced, there was a ​glow in his heart such as might come to almost any man of his years at such a time.

Whatever might befall him, the letter which he was carrying this time should not be lost come what might, he assured himself. And yet in the midst of his determination there was also an eagerness to learn what the fate of Dirck Rykman had been. Perhaps, also, he might see Jacob Gunning once more, for he was planning to go by the same route by which he and Joseph had returned to Morristown. The thought of Joseph naturally brought also the thought of his sister Hannah, and though he was aware that there was slight probability of his seeing the eager-hearted, fearless girl on his trip, for he might not stop even to make inquiries, nevertheless he was hoping that somehow he might at least have a word with her before his journey was ended. Then, too, there was the huge Josh and the dastardly leader of the Thirteen, Claudius Brown. Perhaps their evil deeds were at an end now, and they had been seized by the outposts of General Clinton. He heartily wished that it might prove to be so, though in the unsettled condition of affairs in the region of the Hudson there was slight likelihood of such good fortune, especially when they were aided by such ​a smooth and keen rascal as he was assured the Tory Russell was.

The early part of his journey was uneventful. Not even did he stop when a heavy thunder shower occurred near nightfall; but he was nevertheless rejoiced when soon after the skies had cleared he found himself near a farmhouse where he had been directed to stop for the night.

It was nearly noon of the third day when he beheld near the road before him the tavern of Jacob Gunning, and he quickened his pace as he gazed alertly all about him. But the peaceful summer day gave no sign of danger. A haze rested on the valley below, the metallic sounds of the locusts were heard in all directions, and the changing tints of the foliage added a coloring to the quiet scene. Not a person could be seen about the tavern as Robert rode up in front of the piazza, and even his hail at first received no response.

Dismounting, he led his horse by the bridle toward the open door of the barn, but he had not entered when Jacob Gunning himself appeared and without a word gazed at the new-comer. In appearance the landlord was even more lanky than when Robert had last seen him, and somehow it seemed to the young ​soldier that Jacob's bearing betokened a nameless anxiety or fear.

"Well, Jacob, here I am again," said Robert cheerily.

"So I see."

"You don't seem to be very glad to see me. Anything gone wrong?"

"Everything," replied Jacob moodily.

"That 's too bad. Perhaps it will"—

"How long ye plannin' t' stay here?" interrupted Jacob.

"Not very long. I want to get something to eat and I want to feed my horse. I shan't bother you long."

"I s'pose ye 're on th' same bus'ness ye were the last time?" suggested Jacob.

Yes."

"Jest 's I thought." As he spoke Jacob grasped the bridle of the horse, and, glancing sharply up and down the road, quietly and yet quickly led the way into the woods in the rear of the barn.

"What's this for?" inquired Robert, as he followed the landlord.

"’Cause it's best."

"Anything new?"

"No, it's th' same old story. I 've had my hands full since you were here."

​"What do you mean?"

"Jest what I'm tellin' ye. Business is all gone, an' every day or so there's somebody here that makes me almost decide t' quit an' leave."

"Jacob, did you know that Josh and Russell followed me when I left here?"

"I s'spected they did. In fact, I heard as much."

"How do you think they got horses?"

"Some o' their men were right near here all the time. They prob'ly took their horses and started."

"Has Russell been here since?"

"No. But he's likely to come most any time."

"What makes you think so?"

"I 've got my reasons."

"Have you suffered any because you helped me that day?"

"Not yet."

"I hope you won't. Jacob, I won't stop here now if you think I 'll be likely to make any trouble for you."

"It 'll be time enough t' talk o' that when I begin it myself," said the landlord solemnly. "I have n't turned ye away yet, have I?"

​"No; but I don't want to make it any harder for you. If you think"—

"I don't think. I don't do nothin' at all. All I can say is, I wish this pesky war was over. The way some o' my neighbors has been burned out o' house an' home is something I don't like to think about. My turn will come pretty quick, I s'pose. But I'm not complaining', he added gruffly. "I thought yer horse might be safer here in th' woods 'n it would be in the barn if anybody happened along. Come on, we 'll go up t' th' house now an' see if we can get ye somethin' t' eat. Ye won't get much, I c'n tell ye that afore we start."

"I don't want much, and I'd rather not trouble you if it is going to make it any harder for you. I can get something farther on."

Jacob did not reply, and so Robert followed him without a word until they were again near the barn. Here Jacob, as if by sheer force of habit, stopped and peered first down and then up the road by which Robert had come. Suddenly he started and gazed long in the latter direction, and Robert, startled by the landlord's manner, also looked anxiously up the road. A little cloud of dust could be seen in ​the distance, and in a moment out from it there emerged the forms of five horsemen, who were riding swiftly.

"Into the barn! Up into the mow! Cover yourself up good with the hay!" exclaimed Jacob, in a low voice.

Robert required no second bidding, and instantly darted into the barn and clambered up the low stationary ladder. Heedless of directions, he threw himself upon the hay and in a moment had burrowed beneath it until he could feel the loose boards under his feet, for the hay was nearly gone, and it was evident that a fresh supply had not been provided during the summer by Jacob, who had been busied in other ways.

Robert had barely settled himself in his hiding-place when he heard the voices of men in the yard in front of the barn. He could see nothing, but the men were speaking loudly, and he fancied that one voice sounded strangely familiar, although he was unable to decide just whose it was.

"Well, Jacob, we 've run the cub to earth this time. Chased him right into his hole."

Robert could hear the landlord as he replied, but as he spoke in low tones he could not distinguish what was said.

​"Oh, he's here fast enough," roared the man who had first spoken. "We have had word of him for five miles back. Now, will you turn him over to us?"

Again Jacob replied, but Robert still could not hear what was said.

"That won't do, Jake!" almost shouted the first speaker. "We know what we 're talkin' about, and the cub either went past here or he stopped here. If he's here, you 've got to give him up, an' that's all there is to it!"

There was a silence for a moment, and then the voice of the man became louder and harsher. "I don't wish ye any ill, Jake, though ye have served us a mean trick or two. I 'll let that all go if ye give up the cub now. If ye 'll say t' me that he went on past here I won't trouble ye any more, for with all yer failin's I never knew ye to lie, Jake, an' that's more'n I can say o' any other man in the county."

Suddenly Robert started in his hiding-place, for it had come to him in a flash that he knew that voice. It was the voice of Claudius Brown, and there could be no mistaking it now. He did not know how many men were with the leader, and with difficulty Robert restrained ​his impulse to leap down from the mow and rush to the aid of Jacob. However, he decided to await developments; but he lifted his head above the hay and discovered that he could distinctly hear all that was being said.

"I have n't seen him go past here," Jacob was saying.

"That's as good as sayin' ye have seen him come here. Now where is he, Jake? He's nothin' to you, an' ye 'll save yerself a heap o' trouble jest by givin' him up."

Robert's fears returned and he was tempted to try to flee from the barn. He realized how strong was the pressure upon Jacob, and he did not know him well enough to estimate his powers of resistance. If he only knew how many were in the assembly he could better decide. He resolved to creep up nearer to the side of the barn, and perhaps he might be able to find some small opening there through which he could see as well as hear what was occurring outside.

Cautiously he threw back the hay, and crawling stealthily over the mow he began to creep nearer the side he was seeking. In the midst of his endeavors he ceased abruptly as the voice of Claudius Brown suddenly became louder.

​"I tell you, Jake, it won't do! We 've been on the track o' this fellow an' we 're bound t' get him. There's money in it, too, if we find a letter on him, as I make no doubt we shall, an' I don't mind tellin' ye that we 'll give you your share. Now, will ye speak up?"

"If I knew, as I'm not sayin' I do, mind ye, ye ought t' know me well enough to understand I'm no Judas!" There was a ring in Jacob's voice that was new to Robert, and the young soldier's heart bounded within him. Come what might, he would not leave the man to fight his battles alone, he resolved. He had found a place through which he could peer forth, and when he perceived that Claudius Brown had four men with him, he quickly decided what plan he would follow if the man persisted in his demand.

"What 'll we do?" said Claudius Brown, turning to his companions.

"String him up!" replied one quickly. "That 'll make him speak; at least it worked all right back here three miles this mornin'."

"Smoke the fellow out," demanded another.

"Ye hear what my men say, Jake?" said the leader, turning again to the landlord as ​he spoke. "Have ye any choice between th' two?"

"I don't seem to have anything t' say 'bout it," replied Jacob quietly.

"Ye have ev'ry thing t' say, Jake. Jest tell us where the rascal is, an' there won't any harm come to you or to your belongin's."

"I told you, Claud Brown, that I was no Judas," retorted Jacob Gunning boldly. "Do what ye please, ye can't buy me up!" There was a ring in Jacob's voice that was inspiring to Robert, and he made ready to act. Before he moved, however, he decided to wait and see what Brown would do next, for it might still be possible that Jacob's very fearlessness might serve to send the men away. In a moment the problem was decided for him, but in a way of which Robert had never dreamed.

"We 'll do both!" shouted Claudius Brown angrily. "We 'll string him up an' smoke out the young rascal, too! Two of you," he added, pointing quickly to two of his men, "set fire to his house just as soon as we 've tied Jake up! Now then!" and at a signal from the leader all four rushed upon the landlord.

Robert waited to see no more, but rising ​hastily from his place he turned toward the border of the mow; but the hay was light in places, and suddenly the boards tipped and parted beneath his feet, and he was thrown headlong to the floor below.

CHAPTER XXI
THE SEARCH

It was only a few feet that Robert fell, for the barn was low and the distance between the partitions was slight; but as the young soldier struck the floor beneath him, his hat was flung far from him and for an instant he was almost stunned. A silence had greeted his unexpected appearance, but it was quickly broken when Claudius Brown with a shout called to his men: "There's the fellow himself! Don't let him get away! Get him! Get him!"

At the words Robert sprang to his feet and seizing the first of the men that rushed upon him, and exerting all his strength, he flung him hard against the side of the barn, where the man fell and did not rise. Desperately he struck the next man to advance upon him, but almost before he was aware of what was being done, the others had fallen upon him and he was borne to the floor, where he was helpless in the grasp of his captors.

"Had enough, young man?" shouted Clau​dius Brown with a laugh. Apparently the leader was so rejoiced at the unexpected good fortune which had befallen him that he was not mindful of the treatment two of his followers had received at the hands of the powerful young express. "If you have, stand up!" he added.

As Robert did not speak or move, he was roughly seized by the shoulders and lifted to his feet. Jacob Gunning had not moved from his position during the encounter, and as Robert glanced about him, his absolute helplessness was so apparent that he knew that any further attempt at defending himself would only cause him to increase his own peril. Accordingly he stood still and fearlessly looked into the faces of the men before him. Only once did he look at his hat, which had been flung in his fall far to one side of the barn, and quickly he turned his eyes away. Between the folds of his hat the small thin letter which had been intrusted to him had been placed, and for a moment there was a slight hope in his heart that it might not be found, If he should not be able to deliver it into the hands of the one to whom it had been ad- dressed, it would at least be a relief to know that it had not been secured by his enemies.

​A shout from Claudius Brown caused the man who had been about to carry out the leader's order to set fire to the house, to return and join his comrades, and at the same time the man whom Robert had thrown violently against the side of the barn slowly arose, and with an expression of rage upon his face advanced upon the helpless prisoner.

"Here! None of that!" said Brown sternly, as he perceived what the man was about to do. "We 'll leave all that till we have done our other work." Then turning sharply upon Robert, he said quietly, "Give me the letter, young man."

"What letter?" replied Robert boldly.

"Don't try any dodges. You know what I mean. Give me your letter."

"I have n't any letter. You can search me and see for yourself."

"I don't need you to tell me what I can do. You 'll find that out before you are many minutes older." Nevertheless a new expression appeared upon his face at Robert's words, and for a moment he seemed to be abashed by the very calmness of the young man before him. "You brought a letter from the army."

"I know it."

​"Where is it now?"

"I can't tell you. All I can say is that I have n't it any longer."

"What did you do with it?"

"What would I be supposed to do with a letter?" Robert was speaking boldly, for in spite of the fear in his heart he was convinced that his own safety, as well as the safety of the precious letter itself, would be best preserved in this manner.

"We 're in no mood to stand any foolishness," said Claudius Brown sharply. "Will you give me that letter?"

"I told you I did n't have any letter. You can search me and see for yourself."

"We can do that fast enough," replied the leader angrily, as he drew a knife from his belt and stepped forward. "Take off his coat!"

Instantly the prisoner's coat was torn roughly from him and cut into slits by the angry man. The search for the missing letter was not rewarded, and Robert again said quietly, "I told you the truth. I have n't the letter, but you won't believe me till you 've proved it, so go ahead."

"Take off his shoes!" ordered Claudius Brown.

​Robert's shoes were quickly removed from his feet, and these also were cut into bits, but still the letter was not found.

"Keep it up! We 'll find it yet!" ordered the leader.

"You won't find it, simply because it is n't here," said Robert.

Roughly the search was continued, and when at last a half hour had elapsed and still the missing letter was not found, Robert was standing with his clothing in tatters, and the anger of his captors becoming greater with the repeated failures that were made.

"The letter is n't on him. That's as plain as the nose on his face," said Claudius Brown at last. "Now, young man, tell us where it is!" he demanded.

"I shall not tell you what I did with it," replied Robert quietly. "You would n't believe me if I did, any more than you believed me when I told you that I did n't have it."

"Where is it?" demanded Claudius Brown savagely.

"I hope it is where General Clinton will soon get it. If he does n't, I can assure you that it won't be the fault of the man that took it."

​"Ask Jake," suggested one of the men. "Perhaps he gave it to him."

"Have you got that letter?' demanded Brown, turning savagely upon the landlord. Jacob Gunning only laughed and did not speak, and the anger of the leader apparently rose at the indifference of the man.

"We 'll search you, too, Jake, if you don't speak up!" growled Claudius Brown.

"I can tell you," interrupted Robert quickly.

"Tell, then!"

"He has n't got the letter, and he has n't the remotest idea who has it either."

"Don't you believe him, Claud," said one of the band. "Jake knows all about it, and it's more'n likely he's got it in his pocket now."

The suggestion seemed to increase the rage of the leader, and at his word two of the men came to his aid, the others being left to guard the prisoner.

"Now see here, Claud Brown," said Jacob slowly. "You know me an' I know you. What's the use o' all this foolishness?"

"Have you the letter, Jake?"

"I did n't know there was any letter; leastwise," he added, "I have n't seen anything o' it."

​"You knew he had a letter?"

"Suppose I did? What's that got to do with it?"

"Everything!" retorted Claudius Brown savagely. "We can't hang 'round here all day. We knew this cub here had a letter an' we know he has n't gone on any farther than your tavern. We can't find th' letter on him an' ye act 's if ye knew more 'bout it than ye 're willin' t' tell. It 'll be all the better for you, Jake, an' for every one concerned, if ye 'll own up to it right now."

"What 'll ye give me, Claud Brown?" laughed Jacob.

"You know what I 'll give ye if ye don't."

Jacob's laugh was irritating, and evidently the leader lost all control over himself. With an exclamation of anger he ordered his men to assist him, and in a few minutes the landlord was standing in tatters not unlike those that partly covered the body of Robert. The longed-for letter, however, was still missing, and the rage of the men now threatened to break all bounds.

"Jake Gunning, will ye own up where th' letter is?"

"No, I won't," said Jacob sturdily.

"He does n't know, I tell you!" interrupted Robert again.

​"You keep still! Your goose is n't all cooked yet, my friend!' snarled Claudius Brown, glaring at Robert for a moment. Then turning to Jacob again, he said, "I 'll be generous with you, Jake. I was to have five pounds if I got that letter. I 'll give you two if you 'll give it up."

"Make it two hundred an' I might talk with ye," laughed Jacob.

"He does n't know anything about the letter. Can't you believe me?" said Robert again.

Ignoring the interruption, Claudius Brown said once more to the landlord, "It's yer last chance, Jake. Will ye own up where the letter is?"

"No, I won't," and Jacob laughed as he spoke. Robert was unable to understand the change which apparently had come over the man. All his despondency was gone and he appeared even to be enjoying his present experience, which to his fellow prisoner seemed to be beyond all reason.

"Jake, do ye care more for that letter 'n ye do fer yer house?" demanded Brown.

"My advice to you, Claud Brown, is to leave my house alone," retorted Jacob, for the first time displaying any evidence of anger.

​"Will you give up the letter, then?"

"I told you I wouldn't."

"Burn up his old trap!" shouted Claudius Brown.

At his bidding one of his men ran quickly into the tavern, and it was evident that the command of the leader was about to be obeyed. As if by some prearranged signal both Robert and Jacob strove to throw off the men that held them, but Robert's hands had been securely bound and he was well-nigh helpless, and even the sturdy landlord was powerless in the grasp of the powerful men that held him in the barn.

In a brief time a curl of smoke could be seen issuing from the front door, and within a few minutes it was followed by flames that seemed all at once to envelop the entire building. Robert could see that Jacob's face was deathly pale and that his eyes almost seemed to reflect the blazing fires that were consuming his home, but he did not speak, and to all appearances was not minded to make any further resistance. It was difficult, however, for Robert to follow his example, though he realized that he, too, was as helpless as the landlord. For a moment he was tempted to declare where the letter was, but a brief ​reflection caused him to abandon the thought. He did not know what the letter contained, but he had been informed that it was of so great importance that, if it should be found impossible to deliver it, under no circumstances should it be allowed to fall into the hands of the enemy. No, it were better for one to suffer than for many, he assured himself. Better even that Jacob should be the loser than that the redcoats should be the gainer.

The flames had mounted higher and higher, and the little building; was almost concealed in the mass. The roar, too, could be plainly heard in the barn, and the dark expression on the face of Claudius Brown, who had remained by Jacob's side, afforded no intimation as to what his plans for the future were.

At last when a half hour had elapsed and the low tavern was hopelessly doomed, the leader turned once more to Jacob and said, "Now ye 'll believe that I mean what I say. Answer me; will you give up that letter now?"

"He has n't got the letter, I told you," interrupted Robert once more.

"You keep still and save your strength! You 'll need it all, young man," said Claudius ​Brown to Robert. Then turning again to Jacob, he said, "Your hear me?"

"Yes, I hear you. But you have n't heard me for the last time. Your five pounds won't go far in paying your debt."

"Save your wind, Jacob! If you don't give up that letter you 'll need it all. I'm not going to ask you again, Jake."

"The better for you, then!"

Claudius Brown said no more, but began to search the barn. He passed close to the place where Robert's hat was lying, but though the young express for a moment thought the letter was discovered, the leader passed it, apparently not suspecting its presence. He went into the stalls, and soon returned with two leathern halters in his hand.

Handing one to one of his fellows, he said sharply, pointing at Robert as he spoke: "Tie him to the timber, and tie him so that he can't get away either!"

Helpless, Robert was borne to the edge of the mow and securely fastened to the rude ladder which led to the hay above. His fears had increased keenly, and he fancied that he knew what was about to be done. Yet it seemed to him even then that Claudius Brown could not be such a heartless villain as the ​threatening actions proclaimed him to be. It was his last and desperate attempt to make him disclose the secret of the letter. Turning about, Robert perceived that the other halter had been placed about Jacob's neck, and already he was being led forth from the barn.

On the threshold Claudius Brown stopped for a moment as he glanced back and said, "We 'll swing Jake from his own apple-tree, and then we 'll see how much smoke this barn can make. We have n't got our letter, but we 'll make it a bit easier for the next man to speak when we tell him to."

Then he abruptly departed from the barn, taking Jacob with him, and before Robert could cry out he had disappeared around the corner.

CHAPTER XXII
IN PERIL

Soon after the leader had disappeared he returned to the barn, and stopping in front of the place where Robert was tied said to him, "Now, young man, I'm going to give you one more chance. We 've got your friend Jacob all ready to swing from a tree in front of his old tavern, an' we 've got you here where you 'll be able to report just how hot a barn is when it's on fire. Will you tell me where that letter is?"

Robert Dorlon gazed into the face of the cowboy, and for a moment did not speak. He could feel that the color had fled from his own face, and the expression on that of Claudius Brown was terrifying. The brutality, cruelty, and anger that were stamped there were only too apparent, and Robert was but too well assured that he would not easily escape from the clutches of this man. It was still impossible, however, for him to believe that even such a villain as Brown certainly was would carry out his threat. It was true the blazing ruins ​of Jacob's tavern afforded ample evidence that he was capable of dastardly work, but the threat he was now making to Robert seemed to be beyond the limits of even such villainy as his. Besides, he had given his word that as long as he was alive the letter that had been intrusted to him should not fall into the hands of the enemy.

Resolutely, though his knees trembled while he spoke, he looked into the face of Claudius Brown and said, "I 've told you the truth."

"Where is that letter?" shouted Claudius Brown again.

"I have n't it."

"Where is it?"

"I can't tell you."

"You will tell me! Take your choice. I 'll set the barn on fire and string up your sneaking friend, or you 'll tell me where that letter is."

For a moment almost beside himself with anger and fear, Robert struggled desperately at the cords that held him; but the work had been well done and he was helpless. A smile appeared on the face of the man before him as he watched the futile struggle, and then turning sharply to the man near him he said, "Burn up the old trap and the rat in it!"

​Without waiting to see that his order was obeyed he departed from the barn.

Slowly the cowboy drew forth his flint and tinder and apparently prepared to obey the command of the leader. Not even yet was Robert able to believe that Claudius Brown's words would be literally carried out, but he was nevertheless watching every movement of the man, who had scraped together a pile of loose hay near the side of the barn.

"You 're not going to set fire to that!" said Robert in low tones.

The man nodded his head but did not speak, and continued his preparations.

"Now, look here!" said Robert more sharply. "You understand what this is you 're doing, don't you? Suppose you do burn me up, what good will it do you? You 'll be found out, for when I don't report they 'll know something has happened to me, and they 'll look it up, too."

The man was kneeling before the pile now, but he hesitated a moment, glanced up at the helpless prisoner, and then without a word took up his flint and tinder from the floor beside him.

It was evident to Robert now that it was no idle threat which Claudius Brown had made, ​and that his words were to be obeyed literally. A great fear swept over him, and in an agony of terror he shouted: "Don't do that! I beg of you, don't do it! Just think what it is you 're doing! Suppose you were here in my place. Suppose you were tied here as I am. Cut this strap if you 're bound to set fire to the barn! Give me one chance to get away! Don't, don't leave me here! I 'll pay you, I 'll pay you well for it! Claud Brown's money won't be half as much as I 'll see that you get. If you leave me here you won't get a farthing from him or from anybody else. If you let me go, if you 'll cut these straps, you 'll be more than twice as well off. Don't do it! Don't do it! I beg of you, don't do it!"

The man looked up from his place, gazed steadily at Robert, and then without speaking struck a spark which fell upon the tinder, and in a moment there was a little curl of smoke and then a tiny blaze could be seen in the bottom of the pile. Robert began once more to strain desperately upon the cords that held him. There still might be a chance that he would be released before the barn was in a blaze, but the fear in his heart now was almost beyond control. Despite his efforts the straps ​held firmly, though he pulled upon them till his wrists were bleeding. Apparently the man gave him no thought, for he remained kneeling until he was positive that the fire was well started, and then he arose and walking to the doorway stood peering out as if he was waiting for some signal or the return of the leader.

The blaze was beginning to crackle and the smoke was carried all about the barn now, and Robert could see that the fire was beginning to creep up the side and spread out on the floor toward him. For a moment he ceased struggling and watched the creeping flames almost as if he had no direct interest in them.

The man now turned and, glancing first at the spreading fire and then at his helpless prisoner, placed his finger in his mouth and whistled shrilly.

In response to his call Claudius Brown himself came running swiftly to the barn, but before he entered he stopped abruptly, for there was a sudden shout from the man whom he had left, and a moment later a band of a dozen or more men ran swiftly toward the burning barn. The leader glanced keenly at them, and then, darting into the barn and drawing his knife, quickly severed the straps that bound Robert's hands, and said savagely, "Not a ​word of this! Don't you lisp a word about what has happened here or it 'll be the worse for you!"

There was no opportunity for Robert to reply, for he swiftly darted from the barn, his eyes smarting from the effect of the smoke and his eagerness to escape overpowering every other consideration. In the yard before the barn, however, he quickly stopped, for he instantly perceived that the new-comers were a band of redcoats, and there was a young lieutenant in command.

Evidently the officer was known to Claudius Brown, for he said sharply, "What's this, Brown?"

Before the leader responded, Robert glanced all about him eager to find some opening by which he might escape, but such an attempt would be hopeless, for the men were armed and he would be quickly overtaken. Instantly he darted into the barn again, and seizing the hat which had been lying neglected on the floor he dashed out once more, and stood quietly in the presence of the men, who had scarcely noticed his actions in the intense excitement that prevailed.

As he once more appeared Claudius Brown seized him by the shoulder, and he was com​pelled to follow, as all the men withdrew from the presence of the barn where the heat was becoming intense. As they came out into the road Robert could see that there were a half dozen more of the redcoats, and they were bending over some object of interest on the ground in front of the smoking ruins of the tavern.

"The man's alive," said some one, looking up as the officer approached.

"Who is he? What is he?"

"I'll tell you who he is," said Brown, stepping forward as he spoke. "He's Jake Gunning, that's who he is. He kept this tavern, and he won't do it again. He's a low down Whig, and his place here was a reg'lar meetin' place for all th' low down men like him. This fellow"—and as he spoke Brown shook Robert by the shoulder upon which his hold had not relaxed—"is an express from the rebels, an' he's stopped more'n once here at Jake's, but he won't do it again."

For a moment the young officer stared at the cowboy, and then without replying he pressed forward and bent low over the prostrate form of the man on the ground whom with a start Robert perceived to be Jacob himself. The cowboys, then, had indeed carried ​out their threat, and the landlord had suffered at their hands as Claudius Brown had promised. The sun was low in the western sky, but the blazing barn and still burning house threw a light all about the place that made everything distinct and plain. Not since the war had begun had the sight of the redcoats been a welcome one to Robert Dorlon, but now as he looked about him he rejoiced in their coming almost as if they had been friends. At least they would be protectors against the brutality of the unscrupulous gang of which Claudius Brown was the leader, and if he must fail on his errand, Robert was convinced that his failure would be less bitter if he was taken by the redcoats rather than left in the power of the merciless gang of cowboys. Besides, it was evident that Claudius Brown himself was in some fear of the young officer, who plainly knew him, and there was hope also in that fact. But even these things were for the moment ignored as he leaned forward eager to learn how it fared with Jacob Gunning.

In a moment the young lieutenant arose and said, "He 'll be all right in a little while." Then turning to Claudius Brown, he said sternly, "Did you hang him there on that tree, as the men say you did?"

​"Well, what if I did? What of it, anyway?" retorted Claudius Brown.

"That will be for Sir Henry to say. Why did you do it?"

"He would n't tell where th' letter was. We were n't goin' t' do more'n twist him a little. We should n't 'a' hurt him. We wanted t' make him own up." The leader's tones and manner had changed, and it was evident that he had no desire to increase the suspicions or anger of the officer.

"What letter?" demanded the lieutenant.

"The letter this man was carryin' t' General Clinton."

"General Clinton?" exclaimed the lieutenant in manifest surprise.

"Th' rebel gen'ral, not Sir Henry."

"Oh, yes, I see. Are you the express? Has this man told the truth?" said the lieutenant to Robert.

"Yes, sir, I suppose he has," replied Robert, who was convinced that his better course would be not to attempt to conceal his identity.

"You don't look like very much of an express," said the lieutenant, smiling dryly as he glanced at the young man's tattered garments.

"I did n't look this way three hours ago."

​"Did you bring a letter?"

"I had one, yes, sir," replied Robert quickly, "but because I would n't tell this villain," and he glared at Claudius Brown as he spoke, "to whom I had given it, he cut all my clothes into tatters and then set fire to Jacob's tavern, and not satisfied with that, tied me up in the barn, set fire to it, and hanged Jacob on the tree, where I take it you or your men found him."

"Did you do that? Take your hands off the man!" said the lieutenant to Brown.

"He would n't own up where the letter was. I'd had orders from somebody I don't think even you'd care to dispute." In spite of his manner, it was evident that the leader stood in some fear of what the officer might say or do. "I tried ev'ry way t' get 'em to own up peaceable, but they would n't do it."

"Quite likely," said the young officer dryly. "So you set fire to their buildings and tried to hang the man, did you?"

"I set fire t' th' tavern 'n th' barn. 'T was a nest o' snakes anyway, but I did n't intend t' kill either one o' th' men. I was goin' t' scare 'em into ownin' up where th' letter was."

"You people in the colonies beat me," said the young officer quietly. "I did n't want to ​come over here to fight men of my own race, and sometimes I wish I had stood out, as some of my friends did, and not come at all. That was why King George had to get Hessian troops to send over, for his own subjects did n't want to fight, especially when a good many of them thought the colonies were not all wrong either. But that's neither here nor there. I'm a good subject of his Majesty King George, God bless him,—and I don't believe in rebellion anyway, though I may not like the job of helping to put it down. But what beats me is, when I land in America, to find that the very worst and most bitter men are Americans. Why, you could n't find a man in the whole British army who would treat the rebels as you have just served these men—they may be your own friends and neighbors, for all I know. We can't do anything more here, and this man is coming around all right," he added, as he glanced at the burning buildings and then at Jacob Gunning, who now was sitting erect.

"Ye 're on yer way to Esopus, are n't ye, Lieutenant?" inquired Claudius Brown.

"Yes. Are you going, too?" responded the lieutenant suspiciously.

"We will if ye want us to. Ye 're to wait ​for the others down here to th' forks o' the road, are n't ye?"

"Yes. How did you know that?"

"Never ye mind," laughed Claudius Brown, plainly rejoiced to be restored to the good graces of the officer. "We 'll go 'long anyway with ye. I s'pose ye 'll take this man 'long?" he inquired, indicating Robert as he spoke.

"Yes. There is n't any use in searching him any more for the letter. You 've done that well. There is n't a spot as big as shilling left of his clothes."

"Ye 're right, th' isn't," laughed Brown. "The other man, what 'll ye do with him?"

"Leave him here. He will be all right soon and can look after himself. He's not a soldier and this man is," and he nodded at Robert as he spoke.

CHAPTER XXIII
AT THE FORK IN THE ROAD

"You 're to go with us," said the lieutenant to Robert. "Will you come along as you ought to, or shall I tie your hands?"

"You need n't tie my hands," replied Robert. "There are enough of you to look after me and I'm not armed, for they have n't left me anything to fight with except these," and as he spoke he held his hands up before him.

"You look as if you might be able to make good use of them if occasion required," replied the officer good-naturedly. "We 'll chance that, though. We must go on, for we can't do anything more here."

For a moment he paused and looked about him, and Robert almost unconsciously followed his example. The tavern had fallen, though from its ruins the flames were still rising, and a cloud of smoke was borne away by the light wind that was blowing. The rude little barn was a mass of blazing fire, and it was evident that nothing could be done to ​save it. Not far from where he was standing Robert perceived Jacob Gunning, who apparently had recovered somewhat from his brutal treatment by the gang of marauders, but there was nothing in his bearing to indicate that he was anything more than a disinterested spectator of the scene before him. His attitude was a source of some surprise to Robert, for he knew that if he himself had been the one to suffer such a loss ard endure such treatment as the landlord had been compelled to undergo at the hands of the ruffians, he would not meekly submit as Jacob was doing. His meditations were sharply interrupted by the word of the lieutenant, who said to Claudius Brown, "I want you to go with us."

"I have n't said I would n't," responded the man sulkily.

"I want all your men to go, too."

They 'll go all right."

"We 'll leave this fellow here," continued the officer, pointing at the disconsolate figure of Jacob Gunning. "He does n't look as if he'd do any damage anyway; and then, too, I don't want to have too many prisoners—just yet," he added, with a laugh, "One is enough."

​Assured now that he was to be taken with the redcoats, Robert attempted to move nearer Jacob. He was eager to speak to him of his horse, which he had left in the woods in the rear of the barn, but the lieutenant, perceiving his action, said hastily,—

"No, I cannot permit that."

Robert stopped obediently, convinced that he would only increase the suspicions of his captors if he persisted, and, besides, he was confident that if Jacob was left undisturbed he would look to the safety of Nero. Accordingly he turned and quickly took his place in the midst of the band that now prepared to depart, and at the word of the officer the men started on their march.

Robert found himself in the centre, with a double line of men in advance of him and the remainder in his rear, where Claudius Brown and his followers took their places. Not a word was spoken now; the lieutenant, who was in front of the first line, was moving swiftly, and the men were compelled to exert themselves to maintain the rapid pace at which he was advancing.

The sombre shadows of the great trees were almost ghostlike as the force proceeded over the rough way that led through the woods. ​The very silence was of itself impressive, and in spite of the feeling of depression that now possessed him, Robert Dorlon soon found himself looking eagerly forward to the time when the other division should be met at the fork in the road. Of the purpose and destination of the band he had no question, for it had been said by the leader himself in his conversation with Claudius Brown that they were bound for Esopus, and Robert was convinced that there could be but one object in such an advance. At Esopus the few prisoners whom the Americans had secured were held; and doubtless the coming of the lieutenant with his redcoats had something to do with a project for their release by their friends. There flashed into his mind the recollection of the letter which he himself had taken from the man whom he had discovered in the bushes in the rear of Hannah Nott's house, and he was striving to think out the possible connection between that fact and the present advance of the band, in the midst of which he was marching. Days had elapsed since his discovery, and Jacob Gunning had sent his own daughter with the letter to parties in whose hands the information would not be permitted to be useless.

​Still the men with him swung forward on their march, moving steadily, swiftly, silently, until they almost seemed to be like one body advancing in the night. An hour had elapsed since their departure from Jacob's ruined tavern, when at a low word from the lieutenant the entire band halted. There was a brief whispered conversation between the officer and Claudius Brown, and then the latter glided away and speedily disappeared.

The band meanwhile remained motionless in the road, but the men all apparently understood that Claudius Brown had been sent ahead to ascertain if possible whether or not their friends were waiting for their arrival. It was not difficult for Robert to conclude that they must be near the fork in the road where the expected meeting was to occur, and he was well-nigh as deeply interested as his companions. What the union of the two forces might mean he clearly understood, and he found himself waiting impatiently for the return of the cowboy.

Not many minutes had elapsed when he perceived Claudius Brown coming swiftly back along the road, and the lieutenant hastily advanced to meet him. A low conversation followed, only occasional bits of which could be ​heard by Robert, although he listened intently.

"Here?" he heard the lieutenant inquire in apparent surprise.

"No. There," replied Claudius Brown, but Robert could not hear any more.

The conversation was speedily ended and the officer turned back to his men. The word to advance was given, and the march was at once resumed. This time, however, the band proceeded more slowly, and soon Robert could see that they had withdrawn from the sheltering forest and were in an open space. Before him the fork in the road was to be clearly seen, and he looked eagerly for the presence of the men who were to join them. Not one, however, could he see.

On the side of the other road, near where it joined the one over which the band was marching, was a long dark stretch of forest whose borders came close up to the road itself, but of men near by nothing was to be seen. The officer, however, apparently was confident; and as soon as he had led the way to the fork, he turned sharply into the other road and advanced toward the woods, his men still following him obediently. Doubtless the man was about to lead his band into the adjacent woods ​and there await the coming of his allies, and Robert concluded that the other expected forces had not as yet arrived.

Almost mechanically he was moving with the men now, but the ever-present purpose to break away from them and strive to escape received a fresh impetus as he thought of the darkness among the great trees in the place to which they evidently were going.

Suddenly the peaceful scene was dispelled, and from the road behind them, from the woods, as well as from the road before them, arose shouts and shots, and almost as if they had sprung from the ground itself men appeared. Despite the sharp call of the lieutenant, who at first bravely stood his ground, the advancing little force of redcoats was thrown into confusion. The men scattered and fled, and the surprise and consternation were complete. But in whichever direction they turned, apparently enemies were there to meet them, and they were turned back only to try to escape by fleeing in another direction. But the shouts and the numbers of the attacking party increased with every passing moment.

Left to himself for the time, Robert Dorlon instantly made use of the unexpected opportunity to escape that had presented itself. ​As the men broke and fled, for a moment he stood motionless and glanced eagerly all about him, but it was impossible to distinguish friend from foe in the dim light. The shouting was also confusing, and the men appeared to be coming from every side.

Instantly he cast himself upon the ground by the roadside, resolved to lie quiet till the first excitement had passed. That the attacking party consisted of friends he had no doubt, and as soon as the redcoats had fled and the others were masters of the field, he would arise and declare himself. A feeling of exultation possessed him. He had been able to retain the precious letter which had been intrusted to his keeping, and soon he would be able to return and secure his horse, and then could once more push swiftly forward on his way. The shouts and calls of the men sounded almost like music in his ears. The presence of friends at such a moment, of all times, was most welcome. He lifted his head from the ground and gazed about him. He could see the dim outlines of men in the distance, but pursuers and pursued were much alike in the dim light. A half dozen men were coming swiftly up the road toward the place where he was lying, and they were shouting wildly ​to those who were far in advance of them. Ignoring his own peril, he raised himself from the ground, and instantly was seen by the approaching men, two of whom stopped and seized him, as one of them shouted, "Here's one! He must have been hit!"

Seizing Robert roughly by the shoulder, he said, "Come along with me, my man! I 'll put you where you won't bother the redcoats and Tories at Esopus again!"

Forgetful of the fact that the others did not know him, or could be aware of his presence in the force, perceiving only that his welcome was decidedly lacking in the cordial feeling which he himself had had, Robert roughly flung the man from him as he exclaimed, "Don't put your hands on me!"

"Give up, or I 'll blow your brains out!" shouted the man angrily, as he rose from the ground and started again with his companion toward Robert.

The powerful young express seized one of the advancing men by the shoulders and flung him far back from the road, and then turned upon the other who was raising his gun to his shoulder. Leaping upon him, Robert bore him to the ground, seized the gun in his hands, wrenched it from the grasp of the ​prostrate man, and instantly turned to face the first man, who had recovered from his fall, and was again about to rush upon him.

"Stand back there! Stop where you are!" he shouted in his excitement. "What do you want to treat one of your own men in this fashion for?"

"You 're a Tory! You 're a redcoat!" shouted the man in reply. "I saw you! You 're one of 'em! Give yourself up or it 'll be the worse for you!"—"Come back here and help us!" he shouted, calling to his companions who had rushed forward. "Come back here! Here's one of 'em who won't give himself up!"

Robert did not wait to ascertain what the effect of the call was as he said hastily, "I'm no redcoat. You 've made a mistake. I'm as good an American as you are. Come on! I 'll go with you."

"Come on, then!" exclaimed the man, as he rushed forward and roughly grasped Robert by one arm. "Take him by the other arm, Joe!" he called to his companion.

As the second man advanced, Robert peered into his face and exclaimed, "Joe Nott! What are you doing here?"

The man, startled by the unexpected de​mand, in turn peered into the face of Robert, and said in astonishment, "Are you young Dorlon?"

"I am!"

"Do you know him, Joe? Is he all right?" demanded the other.

"Sound as a button. Of course he's all right. But"—

"Come along then! Don't stand here like a hen with her head cut off! We must help chase the redcoats. Come on! Better keep an eye on him," he added warningly, as all three began to run swiftly in the direction in which their recent companions had disappeared.

Whether it was due to the delay or to the speed at which the surprised men were fleeing Robert did not know, but they were unable to obtain even a glimpse of any of the men who had broken and fled at the sudden attack, and in the course of a half hour all three returned to the fork in the road where it had been agreed that all should assemble after the pursuit of the band of redcoats. Most of the band were already there when the three returned, and it was discovered that five men had been secured and were prisoners in their hands. Robert quickly passed from one to ​another, hoping to find Claudius Brown in the number, but the leader of the Thirteen was not to be seen, and evidently he had succeeded in escaping from his pursuers. Then Robert quickly sought out his friend Joseph and said to him,—

"I must go back to the place where I left my horse. Can you come with me?"

"You 're a fine looking object!" exclaimed Joseph, with a laugh. "Your clothes look like a lot of holes tied together."

"Yours would, too, if you had been through what I have," replied Robert grimly.

"What's that?"

"I 'll tell you all about it on our way back, and you can tell me how you happened to be here. It was mighty fortunate that you were, for me, anyway."

"All right. Come on, I 'll ask Captain Wood."

The two young men sought the leader of the force of fifty men, and though at first he appeared to be somewhat suspicious of Robert, he was soon convinced by Joseph's word that he was what he claimed to be. He refused permission for Joseph to return with his friend, however, explaining that his presence might be required at any moment, and ​also that, as there was but one horse, there would be a disadvantage in two men going to secure it. Somewhat disappointed, the boys turned away, and Robert prepared to return to Jacob's tavern, or rather to the place where his tavern had stood; but before he set forth he was surprised as well as pleased by a word which Joseph gave him.

CHAPTER XXIV
THE DISAPPEARANCE OF JACOB

"You'd better stop and see Hannah," said Joseph, laughing lightly as he spoke.

"Where is she?"

"You know where Dirck Rykman's house is?"

"Yes."

"Well, she and mother are staying now at the first house beyond Dirck's. Don't you tell her that I suggested it, but I really think she'd like to know if you 've got all the ashes out of your hair yet."

"I 'll try to do it," responded Robert eagerly. "Will you be there, too?"

"Can't tell. I'm likely to be anywhere or nowhere these days."

Robert was eager to question his friend more fully, but the importance of at once returning and securing his horse was too great to admit of any delay, and accordingly he turned away and was soon moving swiftly over the road by which he and the force, that had been planning to rescue the captive redcoats ​that were held by the Americans at Esopus, had come. How different everything now was! All danger, it was true, had not departed, but the threatened attack upon Esopus was frustrated, his own letter he had succeeded in retaining, and the chances of his being able to deliver it into the hands of General Clinton had greatly improved. Despite his feeling of weariness, Robert was almost light-hearted as he moved onward through the darkness. It was true that he was now without any means of defense, and his clothing did not permit of his making a very agreeable presentation of himself if he chanced to meet any one, but that meeting for the present was what he most of all desired to avoid.

Even the perplexing questions as to how it chanced that Hannah Nott and her mother should now be where Joseph had declared they were, and whether or not Dirck Rykman had been released by the patrols who had seized him under such suspicious circumstances, would soon be solved, he assured himself, if he could secure his horse again; and in the renewed interest which the conviction afforded he quickened the pace at which he was moving, and in certain parts of the road even found himself running in his eagerness.

​At last he arrived at a spot from which he could see before him the ruins of Jacob Gunning's recent home. The smoke was still rising, and even the flames had not entirely died away; but as he approached a new fear arose in his mind that the landlord might already have departed from his ruined home and taken Nero with him.

The fear was speedily relieved, however, when he perceived a man moving about near the smouldering ruins of the barn, and in the dim light Robert recognized him as Jacob himself. Beginning to run, he called out, "Jacob, is that you?"

Apparently no heed was given to his hail, for the man did not even glance toward him. It was strange, Robert thought, but a second look confirmed his conviction that it was indeed Jacob who was wandering about the place, and, hastily approaching him, Robert said as he halted before him,—

"What are you doing, Jacob? Looking for something that was lost?"

The man lifted his head for a moment, gazed at Robert, and then without a word dropped it again and resumed his silent walk.

"Jacob! Jacob!" exclaimed Robert, "what's wrong? What are you doing?"

​"Everything is wrong," replied Jacob, in a low voice as he stopped again.

"I know it, Jacob. It's terrible! Every one of the villains ought to hang for it. But you are not the only one to suffer, Jacob," he added, attempting to console him.

"What's that got to do with it?" demanded Jacob harshly.

"Not much, I know. Still, it is n't quite as if you were the only one to suffer, you know."

"I don't see it."

"Have you done anything with my horse?" inquired Robert.

"‘Horse?' 'Horse?' What should I be doing with horses at a time like this? Just look at that, will you?" demanded Jacob, his voice breaking as he spoke and a great sob escaping him. "Here I 've lived ever since I was married. Here I wanted to live all my days. But the sooner it's all ended now the better for me," he added disconsolately.

"The Notts had their house burned, and by the same rascals, too," suggested Robert.

"That does n't alter my case. I'm sorry for them, but just tell me what I'm to do, will you?" he demanded savagely.

"I don't know, Jacob, unless you do just what the others are doing."

​What's that?"

"Going into the fight for our liberties. Every man of the Notts is in the army, and even Hannah and her mother are not giving up. At least, that's what Joseph told me."

"Give up? Who's been talkin' 'bout givin' up, I'd like to know. I have n't."

"No, you have n't. That's so, Jacob," said Robert soothingly.

"I have n't said a word 'bout givin' up," continued Jacob. "I 've been thinkin' an' thinkin' ever since th' men went away what I should do. You went away with 'em, did n't ye? How does it happen that ye 're back here?"

In response to the question, Robert recounted the events that had occurred near the fork in the road, but even his description of the confusion and flight of the band of redcoats apparently did not arouse any enthusiasm in the heart of the landlord. His dejection and despair were too great to be lightly shaken off, and as Robert looked at him his own heart went out in sympathy to the man whose home had been so wantonly destroyed.

"I 'll tell ye what I'm goin' t' do," said Jacob, in a low, intense voice. "I 've been thinkin' it all out ever since ye left. At first ​I thought I'd put straight for Fort Montgomery an' tell General Clinton I'd join the army an' fight as I 'll venture t' say mighty few o' his men 'll fight. I don't know whether t' call him General Clinton or Gov'nor Clinton now."

"Why not? What do you mean?"

"Why, General Clinton is the Governor now. Have n't ye heard 'bout it?"

"No, I have n't heard of it."

"Well! he is, whether ye heard of it or not."^[1]

"I'm glad of it."

"So'm I. But that has n't anything t' do with my plans."

"No," assented Robert.

"What I'm goin' t' do is to try to run this rascal to his hole."

Who?"

"Claud Brown."

"How will you do it?"

​"Do it? I don't know jest how I 'll do it, but I'm not concerned 'bout that. All I know is that 'twill be done, and done afore he's many days older, too. And I 'll be there," he added grimly. Then, his voice rising in the excitement that seemed to overpower him, he shouted, "I 'll chase him clear t' kingdom come, if I have to! I won't eat nor sleep till I get my hands on him! He's robbed the widows! He's turned traitor more times 'n he has hairs on his head! He's burnt up 'bout all th' houses that 'll stand burnin', I'm thinkin'. I 'll leave my family t' shift for themselves an' I 'll jest go at it day an' night till I bring Claud Brown to a place where he 'll quit his doin's for good an' all! He 'll find out that his game is n't all on one side, before I'm done with him!"

"When are you going to begin, Jacob?" inquired Robert.

"‘Begin?' I'm goin' t' begin now, right away! Good-by!" And before his startled companion was fully aware of what was occurring, Jacob Gunning had turned abruptly away, and disappeared as he ran swiftly out into the road in the direction from which Robert himself had just come.

Too surprised to protest, the young soldier ​stared at the spot where the landlord had disappeared, and his first thought was to follow the man, who seemed almost to have lost his wits; but in a moment he restrained the impulse, as he was aware that Jacob must go somewhere, for it was impossible for him to remain at his ruined home. Perhaps this departure was what he most needed. At least, it might serve to divert his thoughts in part from the horrible experiences through which he had recently been compelled to go.

Somewhat reassured by the thought, Robert turned hastily into the woods and began to search for his horse, nor was it long before he found him. A low whinny greeted his approach, and Robert could perceive that Nero was greatly excited, a condition which was not in the least surprising to his owner in view of the experiences of the night.

The animal was led from the woods; as soon as the highway had been gained Robert leaped upon his back, and in a moment horse and rider were speeding swiftly along the road into which the excited landlord himself had turned a brief time before. Although Robert kept a careful lookout for the man, nothing had been seen of him when the young express arrived at the fork in the road ​where the surprise and rout of the redcoats had occurred.

Even there no traces of the recent excitement were to be found, but in the very stillness there was something; almost ominous to the young rider. Almost unaware of what he was doing, he drew the rein more tightly on his horse, and found himself peering intently about him as he moved forward more slowly, fearful of discovering some one near. For a mile or more he cautiously proceeded on his way, but the tense silence of the night was not broken except by the sound of the footfalls of the horse he was riding. He soon turned into a road which he recognized as one over which he had before passed, and a feeling of increasing confidence returned to him. Perils were by no means gone, but the immediate fear of discovery by Claudius Brown or any of his gang had in a measure departed.

Steadily Robert continued on his way until in the light of the early morning he perceived the familiar little place of Dirck Rykman before him. He was eager to stop to make inquiries concerning his friend, and learn what had become of his little wife and child, but he could see no one about the house, and as he had convinced himself that ​it was necessary for him to stop at the house next beyond and at least permit his wearied horse to obtain some much-needed rest, he soon passed Dirck's lonely abode, and in a brief time could see the place where Joseph Nott had informed him that Hannah and her mother were staying.

It was by this time fully light, and the brightness of the early sun was flooding all things with its glory. Myriads of birds were to be heard in the woods and fields as he passed, and something of the peacefulness of the scene crept over Robert's heart. It was good, he thought, even for a brief time to be where the horrors of the sights he had recently seen no longer appeared; and, too, there was an added pleasure in the thought that he might soon see the resolute girl by whose quick wit and prompt action he had before escaped from Claudius Brown and his associates. As he drew near the house he discovered some one in the yard in front picking flowers from the bushes that bordered the walk from the house to the horse block by the side of the road. In a moment he perceived that it was Hannah herself, and he called to her as he leaped from the back of his horse and stopped near the horse block.

​"Joe told me you might stop here," she said, as she advanced to greet him.

"Joe? Has Joe been here? Is he here now?"

"I should think you would ask after my mother first," she said archly.

"I beg your pardon. Is your mother here? And is she well?"

"She is quite well, kind sir, and, if you desire, I will at once take you to her. Joseph said you might stop to pay your respects to her."

"I shall, I will, I am,"—began Robert in some confusion. Somehow this girl always seemed to deprive him of the ability to say just what he intended.

"I am, thou art, he is," laughed Hannah.

"You did not tell me if Joseph was here."

"He was, but he is not now. He's gone back to the fort."

"Will you give me some breakfast?"

"That I will. You must be hungry and tired after such a night," said Hannah kindly. Then for a moment she stopped, and, looking at Robert, began to laugh.

In some confusion the young express said tartly, "You seem to find me very funny. I don't know that I care to"—

​"Oh, Robert!" she said quickly, "if you could only see yourself! Where did you get those clothes?"

Robert, in the excitement of the night, had almost forgotten the condition of his own clothing, and as he glanced down at himself the first feeling of confusion speedily passed, and he, too, laughed at his own woe-begone appearance.

"You poor boy!" said Hannah gently, her eyes filling as she spoke. "You must have had a terrible time somewhere. Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm hungry," laughed Robert, his good humor instantly restored.

"Of course you are. Come right into the house— No, take your horse out to the barn and feed him, and then come in. By the time you are ready we 'll have something warm for you to eat."

As she turned and ran into the house, Robert obeyed her suggestion, and taking his horse by the bridle started toward the barn. But he was startled by the sight that greeted him as he entered, and he did not return to the house until Hannah herself came to summon him.

1. ↑ In 1777, under the new constitution of the State of New York, General George Clinton was elected Governor and Lieutenant-Governor of the newly formed commonwealth. In the former office he continued eighteen years. In 1801 he was again elected Governor of New York, and three years afterward was elected Vice-President of the United States, an office which he was holding at the time of his death in 1812. His chief competitor in his first election was General Philip Schuyler.

CHAPTER XXV
THE COUNTERFEIT MONEY

Before him, kneeling upon the floor of the barn, in front of a low chest or bin, Robert perceived an old man. So engrossed had the man been in his own work, or so quiet had been Robert's approach, that the young express had stepped upon the floor before the other man had been made aware of his coming. An expression of consternation and fear swept over the man's face when he saw that he was discovered, and with a quick motion of his arm he swept something from the top of the chest into his pocket. Quick as was his action, Robert had seen what it was that the man was striving to conceal, and for a moment he hardly dared to trust the evidence of his own eyes, for it was money which the stranger had been examining, and a large roll of bills had been evidently in his possession.

Surprised as Robert was by the unexpected sight, the expression on his face did not change as he led his horse into the barn, and ​the old man quickly arose and faced him. Robert could see the manifest fear of the man, and the little eyes and crafty manner at once aroused his suspicions. His first thought had been that the man was indeed fortunate to be the possessor of any money, for the article was exceedingly scarce, as he himself had good reason to know, and even the strange place which the stranger had selected for counting his possessions did not at first make him suspect that anything was wrong. But the moment the man arose and faced him, his expression as well as his manner at once convinced Robert Dorlon that something was amiss. Still, he strove by his own manner to conceal his suspicions, and as he stopped on the barn floor he quietly gazed at the old man, who confronted him.

"Good-day, young sir," said the old man, with a nervous laugh that was more like a cackle than an expression of pleasure at the meeting.

"Good-day, sir," responded Robert respectfully, as he quietly returned the look which was given him. Whoever this man was or whatever he might be, he was assured that he himself had nothing to fear from him at the time.

​"He, he," tittered the man. "You are an early bird."

Robert did not feel that any response to the assertion was required, so he did not reply.

"Who might you be, young man? Are you?"—The man stopped abruptly and evidently was waiting for Robert to declare who he was and to explain his presence there at that early hour. But Robert had been taught caution, and was convinced that if he replied when he was spoken to he was properly fulfilling the popular requirement of the times.

"Do you come from the fort?" demanded the man.

"No, sir."

"Ah!" responded the old man, with evident relief. "I might have known," he added, as he glanced at Robert's garb,—a glance which Robert himself almost unconsciously followed,—and a smile crept over his face as he took in his somewhat startling appearance in the cut and tattered garments.

"Did you happen to meet with any parties?" inquired the old man. "If you did not come from the fort, doubtless you came from the opposite direction."

"Yes, sir."

​"From New York?" inquired the old man quickly.

"I should hardly like to tell you just where I came from," replied Robert, smiling as he spoke.

"I see, I see," responded the old man quickly. "It is well to be cautious in days like these. I was expecting some one this morning. I wonder if you can be the man."

"I stopped here to get some breakfast. I saw a friend of mine in front of the house. Is it your house?" he added.

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir. The house is mine. The Notts have been unfortunate, and my wife insisted that they should come here. I do not altogether approve. Still one must be hospitable. You did not tell me where you came from."

"No, sir," laughed Robert good-naturedly. The old man was a puzzle to him, but if his oddities were all that he had to fear, he need not be alarmed, he assured himself. "If you can give me some breakfast I 'll pay you for it," he added.

"Did you see what I was doing when you came into the barn?"

"Yes, sir."

"What was it?"

​"You were counting money."

"You have a keen eye. Do you like money?" he demanded abruptly.

"I might like it. I 've never had the chance to try," said Robert, with a laugh.

"And you would like the chance?"

"Yes, sir." Robert was becoming interested now, and already his suspicion of the man was assuming a more definite form.

"Ah, yes. Are you going to the fort?"

"I may stop there."

"If I should pay you well for stopping on your way there, would you do me a favor?"

"I fear I shall not be able to stop. I must push on up the river"—

"It will require no time. It can all be done in a minute."

What is it?"

"You are to leave this at the house of Josh Taggart. Do you know him?"

Robert could perceive that the old man was deeply interested in his reply, and his own suspicions were becoming stronger. The very name "Josh," though a dozen men might claim it, was strongly suggestive.

"Is he with Claud Brown?" he demanded sharply.

"Ah. You do know him, then."

​"I have met him."

"Then it may be that I need say no more. Have you had any dealings with him?" The old man's voice dropped and his little eyes seemed to Robert almost to come together, so intense was the expression in them.

"Yes, sir." He decided to try to lead the man on, and it might be that he would learn something which it would be well for the men at Fort Montgomery to know.

"Did he pay you well?"

"Yes, sir, he paid me well," replied Robert warmly.

"You have the 'word,' I see. It is wonderful how many are in this scheme."

"Yes, sir."

"This, then, is what I want you to leave at Josh's house. You may not find him there, but you can give it to his wife. She is a wise woman, and will understand what to do." As he spoke the old man held forth a clipping from a newspaper, and, wondering, Robert took it and read the following:—

"Persons going into the other colonies may be supplied with any number of counterfeited Congress notes for the price per ream. They are so neatly and exactly executed that there is no risk in getting them off, it being almost ​impossible to discover that they are not genuine. This has been proved by bills to a very large amount which have been successfully circulated. Inquire for Q. E. D. at the coffee house from eleven p.m. to four a.m. during the present month." ^[1]

Robert Dorlon did not change his position while he read the clipping twice through carefully. The first feeling of rage at the treacherous, dishonest man before him gave place to a calmer mind as he endeavored to think out what was best to be done. Of the dastardly work of the counterfeiters, of the false notes scattered throughout the country, he was aware, and he knew too of the sufferings of the people and the straits to which the leaders were put by the action of the unprincipled men who were taking advantage of the weakness of the colonies, not only for their own profit, but also increasing the suffering of the people who were deceived by them and induced to give up their produce or possessions for the worthless paper that was being scattered everywhere. And here was one of the men, who, while pretending to be a friend of the colonies, was engaged in the nefarious work of scattering ​and using the counterfeit paper money, which it was said was being provided by the bushel in New York and placed where it was most likely to accomplish that for which it had been made.

Somehow he had himself stumbled upon the "word" which served as a password among the trusty, but what it was that he had said he was unable to recall or to conjecture. He resolved to be cautious, and perhaps he might be able to learn more, though he was sincerely troubled by the fact that Hannah and her mother were staying in the house of this man.

"You want me to leave this at Josh's house?" inquired Robert at last.

"Yes, sir, yes. I did n't know at first whether I could trust you or not, but just as soon as you said what you did, then I knew you were one of us, too. Let me show you," and, with trembling fingers, the old man drew forth from his coat a package of bills—doubtless the very ones he had been counting when Robert had surprised him—and held them forth. "Here are eighty-eight Connecticut forty-shilling bills, and here is one of thirty dollars in Continental currency. They are n't so good as some, for they 're a bit pale; but most o' the Connecticut bills are ​done on copper, and not even George Washington himself could tell 'em from those in his own pocket. I 'll give you one o' these for your trouble, that is, if you want it. Probably, though, you 've got a good supply on hand yourself."

"I don't look it," replied Robert, gazing ruefully at his torn clothing. He had decided now what he would do, and with his mind once made up, was preparing to carry his plan into action. "Yes, I 'll take it. If I just give that piece of paper to Josh he 'll know what to do with it, will he?"

"Yes, sir, yes. He 'll know; or, if he does n't know, there are those with him who will know."

"You get most of your money, then, from some of Claudius Brown's men, don't you?"

"S-s-s-h!" said the man warningly, glancing timidly about him as he spoke.

"Could I get some at his house?"

"I don't know. I don't know anything about it. All you have to do is to leave that bit o' paper at Josh's. Better put up your horse now and come up to the house for something to eat. You say Hannah told you she was getting you some breakfast?"

"Yes, sir."

​As Robert began to lead his horse to the stall, he looked up quickly when he heard the voice of Hannah herself.

"It was breakfast, young man, not dinner, I promised to get you."

"It's too bad, Hannah," laughed Robert. "I did n't know I was so late. I was so interested in what this man—Mr."—

"Mr. Beach?"

"Yes, in what Mr. Beach was saying, that I did not know it was noon yet."

"It is n't, but it will be soon."

"I 'll feed my horse and come right up."

"I'm going to wait for you, this time. Mr. Beach," she added, as she turned to the old man, "will you please tell mother that we are ready and she can put the breakfast on the table?"

"Yes, miss, yes."

As the old man departed from the barn, Hannah turned quickly to Robert and said, "There! I 've got rid of him! What has he been saying to you, Robert?"

"He's been saying a good many things. He"—

"He's a bad man, Robert! I know he is. I don't know that any good men are left except my father and Joe and the boys."

​"My! What is it, Hannah?" Robert had stepped from the stall where he had placed his faithful horse, and as he looked down into Hannah's face his anger appeared for some reason to be as great as her own.

"Oh, he has n't hurt me He would n't dare to!" and the girl's eyes snapped as she spoke. "But I just know he's been doing things no friend of ours would ever do. Last night he and a man were talking for hours, I should say, out by the well."

"Could you hear them?"

"I could n't hear what they said, but I could see the man who was there. He was the biggest man I ever saw"—

"Josh!" interrupted Robert sharply.

"I saw the big man give him something that looked like a lot of money. You see, it was moonlight, and I could see everything they did. I don't know why my father had us come here! I despise this man, but my father thinks it is safer for us here, so I suppose we 'll stay. Oh, dear, I wish we were back in our own home and there wasn't any war."

"But you 're not back in your own home and there is war, Hannah," said Robert soberly. "We can't run from it, you know."

"Who is talking about running, I'd like to ​know? I'd have you to understand, Mr. Dorlon, that I'm not, if that's what you mean! Oh, dear me!" she suddenly exclaimed, "there comes the man now!"

And glancing out of the door Robert was alarmed as he beheld the huge Josh himself approaching the barn.

1. ↑ An exact reproduction of an advertisement as it appeared in a Tory paper in the year 1777.

CHAPTER XXVI
AN INTERRUPTED MEAL

The first impulse to flee was restrained as Robert watched the giant drawing near, for though it would be possible for him to dart past the clumsy man, it would be to leave Hannah alone with him, and he was not prepared for that. Besides, his horse was in the barn, and Robert Dorlon had no thought of losing his faithful friend, without at least an attempt to retain him.

As Josh drew near, Robert could perceive that he himself had been recognized, but the great moon-face of the giant did not betray either anger or surprise, and Robert, prepared to act as occasion might demand, waited quietly for the man to enter.

"Ho! ho!" roared Josh. "What's this I see?"

"Depends upon what you are looking at, I fancy," replied Robert sharply.

"Ho! ho! So it does! So it does!" shouted Josh. "Going with me?"

"Where are you going?"

​"Back to see some o' your old friends."

"No, I am not going," replied Robert, glancing at Hannah, who was standing beside him, and evidently as excited as he by the interview.

"Think ye better go 'long." Whether Josh was threatening or not, Robert was unable to decide, but he was determined not to give up without an effort to go on his way. He had carefully noted what might be done if such a crisis should come, and he was holding himself ready for action at any moment.

The interview was interrupted, however, by the return of Mr. Beach, who hastily said, "Glad to see ye, Josh. He! he! I was just goin' to have this young man leave a notice with ye. It was a bit I had cut out o' the paper, an' I knew 't would interest ye."

"Did you give it to him?" demanded Josh sharply.

"Why, yes. He! he! 'T was all right, was n't it? He had th' ' word' all right. I knew ye 'd want it jest as soon as ye could get it, Joshua."

For a moment the huge cowboy glared at the trembling man as if he was minded to deal with him as he deserved. "If I expected to come back into these parts very ​soon again, I 'd be for having both o' ye follow 'long with me an' let Claud deal with ye as he wanted to. You poor fool, don't you know who this fellow is?"

"No, no, Josh, I can't say that I do. He! he! He is a good friend. He knows the 'word.' He gave it to me himself."

"He's an express from Washington."

"Ye don't say so! He does n't look it. I'd never 'a' thought it."

In spite of his predicament, Robert smiled as he heard the words, for he was well aware that his own appearance was not such as to inspire respect or even fear in a beholder.

"That's what he is. He's goin' 'long with me, though, so ye 'll get off this time. But I can't see how ye came to let him know."

Robert had his own ideas as to whether he would accompany Josh or not, but he did not speak. Had it not been for the presence of Hannah he would at once have made a dash past the clumsy man who was standing in front of him, but if he could avoid a personal encounter it would be better for all concerned, he decided.

"Before any of you go, you 'll come up to the house and have something to eat," inter​rupted Hannah. "I know you are hungry," she added, looking shrewdly at Josh, "and we 've just got some breakfast for you. It's all ready now, and you won't have to wait long."

"Thank ye, miss," began Josh dubiously.

"Come on, Robert," said Hannah, quickly giving her friend a keen look as she turned to him for a moment.

"Will ye give me yer word ye won't try t' get away?" demanded Josh dubiously, of Robert.

"I 'll give you nothing!" said Robert tartly. "I shan't ask you if I can come or go." His hand was on his pistol as he spoke, and his face was flushed with anger. He would not go with this man, he reasoned, come what might.

"You won't any of you try to get away while you are eating that breakfast. I'm sure you are not afraid of me, and you are not afraid of him, are you?" Hannah demanded of Josh, as she pointed at Robert.

"Ho! ho! Afraid o' him? I'd take three such fellows an' knock their heads together any day o' the week for a half joe!"

There was a threatening movement on Robert's part, for his anger was rapidly mastering ​him. There were even thoughts of compelling the huge Josh to accompany him at the point of his pistol, but the expression on Hannah's face was puzzling to him, and, perplexed, he hesitated. There was more in the girl's words than appeared, and his confidence in her was so strong that he resolved to follow the implied suggestion she had given, though he was still at a loss to understand what it meant.

"Robert, you go first," said the girl resolutely, and we 'll follow."

Again the young express glanced at her, but still he was unable to understand. Nevertheless he obeyed and at once followed her suggestion, starting toward the house with the others quickly following. At Hannah's word they all proceeded to the kitchen, where the table had been prepared and food was awaiting their coming.

"Now then, you are n't afraid of him?" demanded Hannah of Josh.

"Ho! ho!" roared the giant.

"And, Robert, you are not afraid of him?" she then inquired of her friend.

"No, Hannah, I 'm not afraid of him, but I won't trust him," said Robert.

"Then let me take your pistols, both of ​you," she said sharply. "I 'll put them on the table, right at the other end, so you can see just where they are. You are not afraid of each other, and you can get them just as soon as you have eaten, but I'm afraid of the pistols and of you, too. I am sure I can serve you both better if you will do what I say. Come! Let me have them!" she added, as she held out her hands.

Still unable to comprehend her plan, but trusting her freely, Robert gave her his weapon, and in a moment Josh roared, "I guess I can stand it if he can. Here goes!" and he handed his pistol to Hannah, who took both his and Robert's and placed them at the extreme end of the table. Without departing from the room she called to her mother, and in a brief time the simple breakfast had been placed upon the table.

Despite his own anxiety, Robert at once began to eat, and his huge companion was not slow in following his example. Meanwhile Hannah bustled about the room, never once leaving it, though twice she whispered to her mother and several times seemed to question her with her eyes. Something was being done, Robert was confident, though what it was he was unable to conjecture. Suddenly the girl's ​manner changed and she stopped in front of the table and, looking laughingly at Robert, said, "I wish you could see yourself, now."

The face of the young express flushed slightly as he replied, "I'm happy even if my clothes don't look as new as they ought."

"‘The beggars are come to town.' I can see some in rags and some in tags, but I don't see any in velvet gowns."

"Ho! ho! ho!" roared Josh.

"Where did you meet with your mishap, kind sir?" inquired Hannah demurely.

"I am indebted to Claud Brown for all that." Robert spoke quietly, but he looked boldly into Josh's face as he spoke.

"I know how, and what for," said the huge man, as if he prided himself upon the keenness of his vision.

"Yes, I have no doubt. And before he's done with it, Claud Brown will be asking himself a hundred times why he ever was so foolish as to do it," spoke up Hannah.

"You can trust Claud Brown. He's cute," said Josh sagely.

"‘Trust' him?" retorted Hannah. "I'd as soon trust a rattler or a spotted adder."

"Ho! ho!" roared Josh, leaning back in his chair, which threatened to give way be​neath him. Suddenly he glanced at the table where the pistols had been placed, and discovered that both were gone.

Leaping to his feet, his rage evident in the expression upon his face, he shouted, "Here now, wench! That 'll never do! None o' yer tricks here! Put those pistols back or it 'll be the worse for you."

"I have n't your pistols," replied Hannah, as she backed toward the door.

"Give me my pistol!" shouted Josh, now thoroughly enraged, and seizing his chair he started toward her.

"Better look at the windows," retorted Hannah, as she darted from the room and hastily closed the door behind her.

Instantly both Josh and Robert glanced at the two open windows behind them, for both men had risen in the excitement and Robert had grasped his chair ready to follow the giant if he should pursue Hannah. At each window two men were standing with rifles at their shoulders, and all four guns were aimed directly at the three men in the room.

"Don't stir!" said one of the outsiders in a low voice. "Keep perfectly quiet and you 'll not suffer any harm."

Robert was too dazed to refuse, but he was ​vaguely wondering if this was a part of the intrepid girl's plan. The men wore no uniform, and one glimpse had been sufficient to convince Robert that all four of them were strangers to him. For a moment the very silence itself was as eloquent as it was awkward. Josh's face, too, was as blank as it was huge, but he did not move from his position. He did not know enough to be frightened, was Robert's comment to himself, as he could see the giant's abject helplessness. What his own position was he did not clearly perceive, but his confidence in Hannah, the fact that she had lured them all into the room and that the pistols had been secured, all seemed to him as parts of a scheme from which he had little to fear.

The door into the room was opened at this moment and four men entered, each with a rifle in his hands and ready for use. Three of the men covered the inmates with their guns, and one of them placing his rifle on the floor drew forth from his pocket a long strap with which he advanced upon Josh.

The giant's eyes flashed as he perceived what the purpose of the man was, and drawing back his fist he retreated to the wall and shouted, "I'm not afraid o' the lot! The first man that ​tries to lay a hand on me will get his head smashed!"

For a moment the man with the strap faltered, the appearance of Josh was so threatening. The giant was at least six feet and five inches in height, and his marvelous strength was manifest in his great shoulders as well as in his brawny arms and threatening bearing.

"Now look here, my good fellow," said one of the men with the rifles, "we are n't here to coddle you. You can take your choice between eight chunks of lead or having your hands tied."

For an instant Josh gazed stupidly at the speaker and then without a word held forth his hands, which were speedily bound behind his back by the man with the strap, who, although he was by no means small, still appeared almost a pygmy beside his huge captive.

"Now then, you 're next," said the man, approaching Mr. Beach.

"Me? Me?" screamed the terrified man. "I have n't done anything! I'm not to blame for these men being here! This is my house!"

"Hold out your hands!" said the man sternly.

"But I tell you you 've made a mistake! I have n't done anything! Don't take me away! ​I'm innocent! What are you taking me for? I never harmed anybody in all my life!" The man's terror was so abject that it was pitiful. He cast himself on the floor and cried aloud as he strove to grasp the knees of the man with the strap.

"What shall I do?" inquired the latter of the leader, hesitating for a moment.

"Tie him up!"

"What for? What for? Tell me what for," pleaded the old man.

"For the counterfeit money you 've been scattering," replied the leader sternly. "I doubt not you 've some of it about you now."

The face of the old man was drawn and pale as he gazed helplessly at his captors, but he offered no further protest, and in a brief time his hands were securely bound, as Josh's previously had been.

"Now, then, number three," said the man, as he turned to Robert.

"You don't want me and I'll explain if you'll give me a chance," said Robert.

"Don't you believe him," called Mr. Beach. "He's the worst one of all! He's got some of the bills on him now. Search him and see for yourselves. You 'll find a Connecticut bill for forty shillings on him now. Search him ​and you 'll find it just as I have said," he shouted. "You 'll find an advertisement, too, for a place where he can get more. He tried to get me to take it but I would n't. I'm innocent! I'm telling you the truth. He's the only guilty one. Ask Josh! Search him and see if I have n't spoken the truth!"

CHAPTER XXVII
TAR AND FEATHERS

"Hold out your hands, young man!" said the man sternly.

"I 'll do what you say, but if you will give me just a minute to explain I'm sure I can make everything clear to you." Robert spoke quietly, for he was convinced that it would be useless to protest in the midst of the present excitement. Accordingly he complied with the demand, and his wrists were speedily bound.

The other four men now entered the room, and the thongs were inspected by the one who evidently was the leader. As he approached Robert the young express said eagerly in a low voice, "Take me outside just for a minute. I 'll explain everything to you, or if you are going to the fort, I 'll wait till we get there. But if you 're not, you must listen to me."

"We 're not going to the fort," said the man dryly.

"Then let me tell you about it!" said ​Robert eagerly. "You 'll be sorry for your mistake if you don't. It is n't on my account I'm asking it! Hannah will tell you."

"She's gone."

"Gone? Gone where? When did she go?"

"When we came."

"Is her mother here? She 'll tell you," said Robert quickly.

"She's gone, too."

"Then you must let me tell you! It's a good deal more important than you think."

The man evidently was impressed, for turning to his men he bade them remain where they were while he led the prisoner outside the house.

"Now, then," he said curtly when they were in the open air, "what is it?"

"I'm an express, and on my way to Fort Montgomery, and then to the army in the north."

"How do I know that?" inquired the man suspiciously.

"Take off my hat. You'll find a letter inside, and the address on it will show you that I'm telling you the truth."

The man at once removed Robert's hat and discovered the letter within. He gazed at the ​paper dubiously for a moment, read the address inscribed on it, and then said, "This may be only a trick."

"You can send a man with me to Fort Montgomery," suggested Robert. "That 'll show whether I'm telling you the truth or not."

"Can't do that. Can't do it anyhow. I might read this letter," he added thoughtfully.

"You may do as you please about that. I have n't read it myself. I did n't think I had any right to open it. But I'm sure, if it will help me, there would n't be any objection. You must do as you think best."

"How did you happen to be here at this time?" inquired the man, although he made no move to open the letter.

The young express briefly recounted the events of the night and explained the cause of his presence in the house.

"I should think Hannah would have told me," said the man. It was evident that he was hesitating, but was not yet fully persuaded.

"Did she know? Did she expect you?" said Robert quickly.

The man smiled as he said, "I don't mind ​telling you it was all a part of the trap. Her father had her and her mother come here just to find out if this old rascal was really handling the counterfeit money, as it was reported that he was doing."

"And that was how you happened to come?"

"Partly," replied the man. "We 're out after Claud Brown and his gang. Two hundred of us, men and boys, are scouring the country, and we 'll get him if we have to chase him right into the house where Sir Henry Clinton is, or follow him clear to Montauk Point. His work has got to stop, and stop right now!"

"Good! good!" exclaimed Robert eagerly. "He's the man that served me this trick," and as he spoke Robert looked down at his torn and cut garments.

"He did? What for?"

"Trying to find that letter you have in your hands."

"Why did n't he find it, then?"

Robert explained how it was that his hat had escaped the search, and then said eagerly, "If you don't believe me you 'll at least send that letter right on to General Clinton, won't you?"

​"Have you a horse?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where is it?"

"In the barn."

"Young man, you take this letter to General Clinton yourself. I may be a fool for letting you go, but I 'm going to do it." Drawing his knife, he quickly cut the thongs by which Robert's hands were bound, and restoring to him the letter which he had taken, he said, "You'd better not waste any time."

"Thank you! Thank you, sir!" replied Robert eagerly, as he grasped the letter. "Where did you say Hannah and her mother had gone?" he inquired, as he prepared to start for the barn.

"I did n't say. If you 're bound for Fort Montgomery, it won't make any difference to you anyway. I don't mind telling you that she's at my house. She and my son are"—

"Are what?" demanded Robert quickly, as the man paused.

"It does n't concern you what they are," said the man tartly. "If you 're as anxious as you pretend to be to get inside the fort you 'll not stop to ask any more foolish questions here. I may change my mind about you ​if you don't look out, and decide to take you along with Josh."

Robert Dorlon made no response, but as he turned toward the barn somehow it seemed to him that, in spite of the release he had secured, there was something radically wrong with the day. It was not what the man had said so much as what he had implied that troubled him. It was easy to believe that the resolute girl had taken the part in the detection of the counterfeiter which the man had explained, but what had been implied in his words concerning her and his son? Robert did not even know what the man's name was nor where he lived, but it would be useless to stop longer to make inquiries, for the stranger might do as he had threatened and prevent him from proceeding on his way. It occurred to Robert that he might learn more at the fort if Joseph Nott or his brothers were there, and with this partial satisfaction he quickly led Nero forth from the barn, and leaping upon the back of the faithful animal was soon, despite his own weariness, speeding swiftly on his errand.

The day was bright and cloudless, and the heat of the late summer sun was intense, so that when two hours had elapsed he was glad of the opportunity to stop for a rest both for ​himself and for his horse at a sheltered spot by the roadside, where a spring poured its little stream of water into the tiny brook that for a time followed the same course he was pursuing.

As soon as he had quenched his thirst, he threw himself at full length upon the ground, while he permitted his wearied horse to obtain a brief respite as it cropped the grass and bushes by the side of the road. It was good to have a brief rest, he assured himself, and as he glanced for a moment at the sun he was confident that within two hours his letter would be safely delivered into the hands of General Clinton himself. A smile of satisfaction crept over his face at the thought, and somehow the peacefulness of the scene about him imparted something of its own charm to his feelings. Claud Brown and his evil comrades were for the time like the figures seen in a dream. Even the shrill cries of the counterfeiter were unreal. Jacob Gunning's anger and his determination to devote himself to running down the band of cowboys assumed somewhat more distinct form in view of the task of the unknown man and his seven comrades who had seized the huge Josh and the counterfeiter at the latter's home; but all ​these things were of minor importance compared with the puzzling part which Hannah Nott and her mother had had in the detection of the traitor.

Where was Hannah now? And what had the leader of the band, whose very name he did not know, implied in his statement concerning her and his son? The questions were troublous ones, but the young express was aroused from his reverie by the sound of a groan that seemed to issue from the bushes on the opposite side of the road.

Startled by the unexpected sound, Robert leaped to his feet, and for the first time realized that he had not secured his pistol when he had left the house where he had been seized. Even then he felt that he was not altogether to blame, for Hannah had removed his weapon when she had taken Josh's, and he had no knowledge where they had been placed.

He was listening intently for the startling sound to be repeated, but several minutes elapsed and the silence was unbroken save by a snort of his horse and the metallic noises of the locusts. And yet he could not persuade himself that he had been deceived, for the groan was by no means faint or indistinct.

​At last he took a club in his hands and moved cautiously across the road. He peered into the bushes, but was unable to perceive any cause for the startling sound. With his club he carefully parted the bushes and almost stepped back when he discovered something on the ground before him that instantly assured him his fears had not been without some foundation.

But what was it that he saw? At first Robert was unable in his excitement to determine whether it was the body of a man or of some beast. He thought of the similar experience he had had a few weeks before in the rear of Hannah's home, and grasping his club firmly in his hands pushed his way into the bushes until he stood over the prostrate body. And then he knew, for it was a man lying before him.

The upper part of the body had been stripped, and a thick coating of tar entirely covered it, and upon the tar a sack of feathers evidently had been thrown, so that the appearance of the man was scarcely human. A feeling of anger and of pity swept over Robert's heart; and for a moment, unmindful whether the man was an enemy or a friend, he was striving to think how he might be of ​service to the wretched victim of some lawless men.

"Are you hurt?" he inquired in a low voice.

The groan that arose in response to his query left no doubt as to the reply.

"If you can walk, come over here by the spring and I 'll help you."

A mumbled reply that sounded indistinctly like "I cannot see," caused Robert to seize one hand of the prostrate man and lift him to his feet.

"There you are!" he said cheerily. "You 're not half dead yet. Come along!"

Groaning pitifully, the man, who apparently was entirely blinded, obeyed, and, clutching Robert's hand, followed him as he led the way to the spring on the opposite side of the road. For a moment the young express gazed at the abject and wretched victim whose plight certainly was one to move a harder heart than that which he possessed.

"Stand still," he said quickly. "We 'll see what can be done for you." Seizing some broken branches, he at once began to scrape the foul mixture from the man's face, and in a brief time had succeeded in removing enough to enable the man to open his eyes and gaze about him.

​"That's right. We 'll soon have you in shape again!" said Robert heartily, as he resumed his task.

"I 'll have the law on 'em! I 'll see that ev'ry one o' the hussies has her due!"

Robert paused abruptly in his task as the unexpected burst of wrath escaped the victim's lips. Robert could see now that the man was young, apparently about his own age.

"When did this happen?" he demanded quietly.

"About an hour ago," responded the young man angrily.

"Where?"

"At Mistress Down's."

"I don't know where that is. Tell me about it," he added gently.

"The hussies were having a quilting frolic there or were doing something of the kind, and I stopped at the house just in a friendly way to see what they were doing."

"And did they treat you this way?" demanded Robert.

"They did. They did, indeed."

"I can't understand it. Were they girls or women?"

"Yes, they were."

"No men there?"

​"No, I was the only man."

"What made them do it?" said Robert slowly.

"They fancied that I said something against the colonies." ^[1]

"Did you?"

"Not much. I said that they would he beaten. And I hope they will!"

"And they gave you this coat of tar and feathers?"

"There's more molasses than tar."

"Then all I can say is that they 've wasted the tar and molasses and feathers, too."

"Oh! they 'll be paid for 'em every farthing's worth. That Hannah Nott"—

"Who?" interrupted Robert sharply.

"That hussy, Hannah Nott. She"—

"Did she have a part in this?"

Robert spoke quietly and his voice trembled slightly as he spoke, but his eagerness he could not conceal.

1. ↑ An incident recorded in Gaines' Mercury—a newspaper of the times.

CHAPTER XXVIII
THE ARMY IN THE NORTH

"She was there. She came just as they were pouring the feathers on me, and she laughed, too, the loudest of them all. I 'll have the law on her and on the parson's daughter, too. She was the ringleader and the worst one in the company."

"My opinion is that you will make a bad matter worse."

"I did n't ask you what your opinion was, did I?" demanded the young man angrily.

"I can't say that you did."

"What are you doing? You 're not going to leave me, are you?" Robert had approached his horse and apparently was preparing to mount and depart.

"My horse won't carry double. I 've scraped the tar off your face and you can see to do the rest of it yourself."

"Don't leave me! Don't leave me here alone!" pleaded the man.

"There are n't any girls here. You need not fear," called Robert mockingly as he rode ​swiftly away from the place. His sympathy for the unfortunate man was gone and he was disgusted that any one should have taken an opportunity, when the men doubtless had left their homes to engage in the struggle that was becoming narrower in its limits daily, and the girls and women had probably assembled to sew for the soldiers, to declare his distasteful opinions to the patriotic women. He had been treated as he justly deserved, and Robert assured himself that he had done more than could reasonably be expected of him. Perhaps at another time or under other circumstances the young express might have had more generous opinions, but the feeling then was high, and lawlessness was not looked upon as it ordinarily is in times of peace. But afterwards, when he again met Hannah Nott and inquired concerning the treatment of the unknown young man, he received no information, for Hannah refused to explain. Nor did he ever learn who the man was, for he soon disappeared from the region and never returned.

Without further delay Robert Dorlon rode swiftly from the place, nor did he once glance behind him at the unfortunate man, who remained standing beside the spring, or heed the ​calls which the man continued to send forth as long as Robert remained within sight.

Fort Montgomery was now not far distant, and Robert's thoughts were of his success in bringing the letter which had been intrusted to him. Even the exciting experiences through which he had been passing were in a measure forgotten, and he was thinking much more of what was still before him than of that through which he had safely passed. His perils became less as he drew nearer the fort, his confidence correspondingly increased, and his exultation was keen when at last he was admitted within the walls of Fort Montgomery and with his own hands delivered his precious letter to General Clinton himself.

On the following morning he was informed by the commander that he was to continue on his way to the army in the north, and with a new outfit of clothing and a pistol for his protection he started on his journey soon after he had received the word.

The unsolved problems that he had left behind him were not forgotten, but there was an added sense of security as he rode forward that was marvelously comforting. Between Fort Montgomery and the northern army, the Tories and the cowboys were less active than they ​were in the region below the fort, where the aid of the redcoats themselves was more easily secured. Robert soon discovered that his progress was not impeded, and on the third day he found himself in the midst of the army that was striving to block the advance of John Burgoyne.

Here he was to remain for several days, he soon learned, for important events were in the air, and though daily messengers were sent to the south, the commander requested the young express to remain until the word which he hoped to give might be secured, and then he might go back with a message that would cause the army in the vicinity of Philadelphia to share in the increasing confidence that was daily becoming more manifest among their fellows in the north.

And this air of growing confidence was certainly in evidence, as Robert Dorlon speedily perceived. Already the detachment of Hessians which Burgoyne had sent to Bennington to secure or destroy the stores there had met with an overwhelming defeat, and not the least of the causes of rejoicing was the discovery, which the British general had made, that apparently there were no Tories in the region to rally at his call and provide him with his ​much-needed provisions. The problem of supplies for his advancing army was already becoming a serious one for John Burgoyne. General Lincoln, with a resolute force of patriots, was stationed in the rear of the British, to cut off supplies from the north and to prevent any reinforcements breaking through to his aid. Before him was an army undisciplined but resolute, and daily becoming more determined. Not even the jealousies that were prevalent among its leaders or the pettiness of the little General Gates could entirely repress the feelings of the men, who were determined to do their utmost to drive back or at least hold back the invading army.

Another source of the growing confidence in the ranks of the little American army was due to the bravery of young Colonel Gansevoort up in the Mohawk Valley. He had, by the aid of Benedict Arnold and his men, beaten back the army of redcoats and Indians that had advanced from Oswego and planned to sweep on down the valley until they had arrived at Albany, where they had confidently believed that John Burgoyne's victorious army would join them, and together they would meet the force which Howe or Clinton would send up the Hudson to their aid. The result ​would be that the colonies would be cut asunder and the "rebellion" speedily be brought to an end.

Colonel Gansevoort had done his best in Fort Stanwix, which had been strengthened and renamed Fort Schuyler, but his force was insufficient to hold the place, his supplies were inadequate; and he had pitifully begged that men and supplies might be sent him from the army under Gates. General Schuyler had earnestly favored granting the request, and had been taunted in return by some of his fellow officers with a desire to weaken the army opposing John Burgoyne and so permit the British to win an easy victory. The taunt stung and hurt the noble man, but he was too much of a patriot to obtrude his own personal sufferings at such a crisis in his country's history, and so suffered in silence. However, Benedict Arnold and a little body of men as resolute as he at once started to the aid of the hard-pressed young colonel. Already the battle of Oriskany had been fought—one of the bloodiest of the Revolution. That sturdy old Dutchman, General Herkimer, had marched from Fort Dayton with a body of farmers and farmers' boys to aid Fort Stanwix, and had halted near where the city of ​Utica now stands until word might be received from the fort, to which he had already sent scouts with the promise of his coming; and he was expecting a force to come from the colonel to meet his own advancing troops, and then together they might enter the fort in safety. For he feared, and justly, as the event proved, the ability of his inexperienced followers to withstand an attack if they should be compelled to meet it alone.

Taunted by his over-confident men with cowardice, at last in anger he gave the word to advance; and at Oriskany his men marched into the trap which Brant had laid for them, and there the old general lost his life and many of his men fell. The Indians at last fled when they became alarmed by the rumored approach of a force from Fort Stanwix, but the promised aid to the young colonel did not fully materialize.

It was soon after this that Benedict Arnold with his men drew near, but, mindful of the catastrophe at Oriskany, he hesitated to proceed lest he, too, might be drawn into an ambush similar to that into which General Herkimer's men had fallen. About two miles from Fort Dayton there was living one of the most bitter and treacherous of all the Tories ​of the region. This man, Shoemaker by name, had assembled one evening at his house about fourteen of his fellow loyalists, who were trying to devise some means by which they might aid St. Leger, whose loud proclamations had failed to terrify Colonel Gansevoort or bring: much assistance from the friends of the king. Word of this gathering having come to the Americans, they sent a small band to seize the men who might be found in Shoemaker's house, and in the success that crowned their efforts they compelled all their prisoners to return with them to Fort Dayton.

Among these prisoners was a well-grown lad, Han Yost Schuyler, who had the reputation of being a half-wit, and had been granted much freedom in both armies. It had been discovered, however, that Han Yost was more a traitor than a fool, for he had been carrying word to St. Leger of the numbers and plans of the patriots. When it was found that Han Yost was among the prisoners secured, he, too, was tried with others by a "drumhead" court-martial which Arnold at once ordered, and with the others was condemned to die.

At once Han Yost's mother and brother made a great outcry. They came to the ​American leader, and with tears and entreaties besought that the half-wit might be spared. At the suggestion of Major Brooks, Arnold finally quietly arranged with the mother of the boy that Han Yost's brother should be retained and Han Yost be sent to spread the word among St. Leger's redcoats and Indians that a great force of patriots was advancing to the relief of Fort Stanwix. If Han Yost failed, then his brother was to suffer the penalty that had been determined upon for him. The proposal was eagerly accepted, and, with the scheme known only to a few of the American officers, Han Yost "escaped" from the guard- house, though his clothing was riddled with bullets in the attempt, and acting upon the stern command of Benedict Arnold at once started toward the British camps.

By this time Barry St. Leger had steadily drawn nearer the hardly beset little fort, and his lines were within a hundred and fifty yards of its walls. The defenders were as desperate and determined as ever, but even to the sturdy young colonel in command it seemed as if the end was at hand unless aid should speedily arrive from the south. He was aware that men were coming from the army of Gates, but the supreme question was, ​would they arrive before a final assault was made?

It was at this very time that Han Yost Schuyler, accompanied by two of the Oneida Indians,—the one tribe that had resisted Brant's appeals and remained friendly to the Americans,—was approaching the camp of St. Leger's Indian allies. As has been stated, Han Yost had been permitted freely to enter either camp, for he was looked upon as a half-wit, at least by the Americans, but his sudden appearance now at once aroused the interest of the red men. It chanced that their medicine men were at this very time consulting the Manitou as to what was best for his red-skinned children to do. Han Yost's unexpected appearance in their midst at once aroused their curiosity, and several of them gathered about him. Half-witted, Han Yost may have been, but he certainly put the half of his wits to good advantage. Thoroughly understanding Indian nature, he did not at once declare his purpose in coming, but began by certain mysterious signs to arouse their interest. And he succeeded. Then he began to explain that great numbers of American soldiers were advancing, and even then were near; and, as he pointed to the bullet holes ​in his coat, his words to the simple red men required no further confirmation. In response to their inquiries as to the numbers of their foes, he pointed up to the leaves on the trees, and his task was completed.

The rumor spread like wildfire among the warriors, and the friendly Oneida Indians who had accompanied Han Yost increased the confusion by their own startling words. They declared that the Americans had no desire to visit their vengeance upon their red brothers, but only upon St. Leger and his troops. If the warriors, however, should be found with St. Leger, there would be no doubt that they would be compelled to share his fate.

The alarm had speedily become consternation, and wildly the Indians began to flee. Barry St. Leger, almost in despair, did his utmost to calm them, but in vain. He threatened, he promised fire-water and fire-arms, he pleaded, he begged; but the flight was not stayed. Whenever the speed of the departing men appeared for the moment to slacken, Han Yost and the friendly Oneidas who followed the fleeing army would shout, "They 're coming! They 're coming!" and the swift pace would be instantly resumed.

Even the white men shared in the panic, ​and when at last a measure of order was restored the red men had deserted their allies, and Barry St. Leger and his followers sailed from Oswego and again passed over the beautiful St. Lawrence, and did not stop until they were once more in Montreal itself. Han Yost saved himself, Fort Stanwix, Colonel Gansevoort and his men, by the success of his ruse; and with the Mohawk Valley once more freed of its foes, Benedict Arnold with his brave and sturdy followers hastened back to rejoin the army which was threatening the invasion of John Burgoyne. Ticonderoga had fallen, the battle of Hubbardton had been lost, the American army had retreated and drawn their enemy on until now, when, if Howe's men from New York could be prevented from coming up the Hudson, there was beginning to be a strong hope that the invasion itself would prove to be most disastrous to those who had planned it. General Putnam had sent up reinforcements from the highlands of the Hudson; General Washington had sent Morgan with five hundred of his most skillful sharpshooters; and when Arnold returned it was to learn that the spirits of the soldiers were high and hope was daily becoming stronger. The incompe​tent dandy, General Gates, had taken the place of honest Philip Schuyler, but not even his pettiness could dampen the ardor of his men. His army was spread out along the western bank of the Hudson from Stillwater down to Half Moon, and Burgoyne's troops were on the eastern bank about thirty miles farther up than the Americans' lines, and extended from Fort Edward to Batten Kill.

All these things Robert Dorlon learned soon after his arrival, but his own personal experiences and what befell him were to be entirely outside the deeds of the heroic little army of patriots.

CHAPTER XXIX
BENEATH THE BRUSH HEAP

The days passed slowly, and still no word was given the young express concerning his return to the army near Philadelphia. Aware as he was of the troubles and jealousies in the northern army, and knowing also, as he did, what must be the anxiety in the heart of the great commander, his own uneasiness increased with the passing days, and was not allayed by the suggestions he received from some of the men, who were specially warm in their feelings toward General Philip Schuyler, that General Gates himself was not too strongly inclined to keep in close touch with Washington. Still Robert knew that messengers had been sent from the northern army to the southward, and several times he endeavored to secure at least the permission he desired to return, even if he was not to be the bearer of a message from General Gates.

At last came the day when as the bearer of a letter from the north he was prepared to set forth on his return. The increasing excite​ment among the men, the knowledge that sharp and doubtless decisive engagements were soon to occur, and his own eagerness to learn how it fared with the patriots who were doing their utmost to hold General Howe in or near Philadelphia, combined to make Robert Dorlon earnest and alert when at last he rode from the camp.

When, two days later, he arrived at Fort Montgomery, he discovered that the same feeling of excitement that he had been aware of in the army was now prevalent in the fort, but as he watched the defenders, his hopes somehow were not strong that they would be able to make a very decided defense of the place if Clinton's men should attack it, as it was daily rumored they were about to do. Already the British had moved up the Hudson, but their actions appeared to be somewhat uncertain, and it was not difficult to conjecture the cause.

On the day following that in which he had entered Fort Montgomery, Robert departed, intrusted with an additional letter for General Washington, and warned repeatedly that in view of the increased and increasing activities in the region below there was need of additional precautions on his own part as well as ​the exercise of his utmost discretion in this journey which it was hoped would be the last that it would be necessary for him to make before the results of the campaign would be known. It was a source of some disappointment to him that he had been unable to see Joseph Nott or any of his brothers, and so learn how it had fared with Hannah and various other persons, whose fate and deeds had become of great interest to him.

However, the spirits of the young express were high when he was started on his way, for the early morning air was crisp and cool, and the very excitement under which he was laboring was itself a strong appeal to him. He rode swiftly past some of the places that had become familiar to him in his previous journeys, but he dared not stop, for the command for him to make haste had been imperative, and his fears for his own safety were not lightly to be ignored.

Early in the afternoon the weather changed, a drizzling rain set in, and soon he was wet and miserable; though not for a moment did he abandon the even, steady gait at which he was riding. He had been passing through a long stretch of woods, where the falling leaves and the dreary appearance of the trees ​had increased the sense of desolateness that somehow had crept into his heart. It was therefore with a feeling of relief that he perceived before him a clearing, with a little house that was situated on a knoll somewhat back from the roadside. Between the woods and the house the land had been cleared, but stumps and piles of brush disfigured it, and though he peered eagerly before him he was unable to discover any person within sight. He resolved to stop for a moment at the house, and with this thought in his mind he spoke quickly to Nero and prepared to quicken the speed of his faithful beast.

Suddenly, directly in front of him and at a distance of not more than twenty yards, three men stepped into the road, and with their rifles in their hands waited for him to approach. A large dog was with them, and Robert could hear its low growls as it advanced toward him. Instantly he drew rein on his horse, and though he did not stop, he advanced slowly, watching the men keenly and striving to discover if he had ever seen any of them before. They were all three strangers to him, he speedily perceived, but his fears were not allayed by the fact, and their attitude and bearing increased his alarm. Almost ​instinctively he concluded that they must have been aware of his coming and had been lying in wait for him, concealed among the trees that were thick and high on the right of the spot where the forest ceased and the new open roadway appeared.

When he had arrived within twenty feet of the men, he stopped, and, striving to appear indifferent, saluted the strangers. The dog was sniffing about his horse's heels, but though its appearance was threatening Robert gave it but slight heed, for he was waiting anxiously for the strangers to declare themselves or explain why they had taken their stand in the wood with the evident intention of blocking his further advance.

"What's the news from up the river?" demanded one of the men.

Almost unconsciously Robert's hand was placed upon his pistol, but he had not drawn the weapon when he replied. "Good news," he said quietly.

"What's going on?"

"They seem to be waiting."

"For what?"

"For each other."

"Young man, we know who you are. There isn't any use in mincing matters. We 've had ​word of your coming, and we 're here for your letters."

Robert Dorlon felt a shiver sweep over his body as the man spoke, but his attitude for an instant did not change. His hand was still upon his pistol, but he knew that the rifles in the hands of these men, who evidently were his enemies, would be heard before he himself could fire.

There was a gleam in his eyes, however, that did not imply fear or despair as quickly he drew forth the weapon and fired directly at the men; then he shouted to Nero, pulled savagely upon the rein, turned his horse back into the wood, and prepared to attempt, at least, to escape.

With great leaps Nero responded, and for a moment a slight hope rose in Robert's heart that he might succeed. He had not waited to discover what the effect of his own shot had been, and as his horse bounded forward he leaned low upon the neck of the faithful animal and did not once look behind him. His eyes, too, were closed; and the seconds seemed to him to be like hours as he waited for the reports of their guns. Nor had he gone far before the loud reports were heard. There was a sharp pain in his shoulder and he was aware that he had been struck by a bullet, but he still clung ​desperately to Nero's neck and his heart leaped as he realized that his horse was unhurt, and upon him now depended every hope of escape. Apparently Nero shared in the desire, for he was bounding forward with great leaps, and if his speed could be maintained only for a brief time Robert knew he could have nothing to fear from his foes. Only a few yards remained between him and the seclusion of the forest. Already he was within its borders and his hopes rose high, but they were instantly dashed to the ground when again the loud report of a rifle was heard behind him, and suddenly Nero stumbled and fell forward. The bullet had entered the faithful animal's skull, Robert could perceive even as he fell.

Still desperate and determined in spite of his own suffering, Robert, when he discovered that he himself was unharmed by the fall, started quickly into the woods by the roadside, and summoning all his strength ran swiftly forward. But a fresh source of alarm appeared as he heard the dog approaching from amongst the trees. It was not barking, and so could not reveal its presence by sound; and stopping for the moment and seizing a club from the ground Robert braced himself against a tree and waited for the dog to approach; for it was near now, ​and the young express instantly decided that his own safety would more likely be secured if he could rid himself of the savage brute. In a moment the huge dog bounded forward, and as it perceived Robert it growled savagely, but did not stop. The brute leaped forward, and Robert, exerting all his strength, brought his club down upon the animal's head. Without a sound the dog dropped to the ground and lay motionless. Again in his desperation Robert struck the animal, and then, flinging the club far from him, resumed his flight. Not a sound had been heard from the pursuing men, but that they were in swift pursuit he had no question.

Suddenly and to his consternation he perceived that he was once more upon the border of the clearing. Before him were the heaps of brush, the charred stumps, and the little house in the distance upon the knoll. His first impulse had been to turn back, and then it occurred to him that greater safety might be found in the clearing than within the borders of the forest. Glancing quickly about him, he ran swiftly forward past the first pile of brush, and then on to the second. With frantic haste he tore apart the branches heaped together there, crawled beneath the pile, and pulled back the branches over him and lay still.

​For a brief time his excitement was so intense, and his fear of discovery was so great, that even the sense of his own exhaustion was not realized. As the minutes passed, however, and the silence about him was unbroken, he became conscious of his own weakness and of the pain in his shoulder. The loss of blood evidently had been great, he discovered, and he was powerless to aid himself now; but, aware that any exertion on his part might increase his danger as well as add to his suffering, he did his utmost to lie still.

The pain was becoming more intense, and soon a thirst was upon him that was well-nigh unbearable. Still he dared not move from his hiding-place, though all his strength of will was required to compel him to remain where he was.

Suddenly he heard a sound near him that caused him to forget his misery for a moment. A dog was sniffing about the brush heap, and as Robert peered out he could see that it was the same dog which he had felled a little while before in the woods. The blows he had given had not been fatal, he concluded with a sinking of his heart, and his present peril was greatly increased by the presence of the dog near his hiding-place. Even then he could see ​that the dog had discovered him, for it stood with bristling hair growling and gazing straight at him. The crisis must be met, Robert instantly decided, and, drawing his knife from his pocket, he grasped it in his hand, thrust aside the brushes, and, exposing himself, prepared for the attack.

With a snarl the savage beast rushed upon him, but Robert, who had not risen from the ground, with all the strength he could muster drove the blade into the animal's side. The dog had already seized upon the sleeve of Robert's coat, but instantly relaxed its grasp, a low whine escaped it, and, trembling for a moment, it fell forward upon the ground and did not rise. With a sigh of relief Robert realized that one peril had been removed, but still without rising, and to make assurance doubly sure, he drew the dead body of the dog under the brush, once more covered himself with the protecting branches and resumed his former place.

As soon as he was convinced that his pursuers had not been closely following the dog, and that they apparently were not near, the sense of his former suffering returned with redoubled force. The pain in his shoulder was becoming almost more than he felt he could ​endure, and his thirst was now tormenting him. Resolutely he strove to hold himself where he was, though the effort cost him much. He lost all conception of time. The sun sank lower and lower in the western sky, but he was hardly aware that the day was passing. He might have been lying under the brush heap for hours, so far as his own comprehension was concerned.

He roused himself slightly when he heard the sound of voices near him, and peering forth he beheld the three men who had been pursuing him. They were approaching his place of concealment, but somehow even the fear of discovery had become a matter of supreme indifference to Robert. He wondered what they would say when they found him. And would they be angry over the death of the dog? The question amused him, but even while it occurred, the men passed on without stopping, and Robert was dimly aware that his hiding-place had not been discovered after all. The men were gone and he was safe for the present.

As the moments dragged on, his thirst became overpowering. Even life, he persuaded himself, was no longer to be desired if it must be had at the price of such suffering. His lips were parched, his throat burning. At last when ​the dusk had deepened, he crept from beneath the pile of brush, and in the distance saw the light from the window of the little house on the knoll. He would seek that, he resolved, and then, with unsteady steps, falling at times and then creeping for a distance, he went slowly forward. Miles must have been covered and days consumed in that tiresome journey, he assured himself; but at last when he stood by the window and peered into the lighted room, all his fears returned, though he found himself unable to turn and flee from the spot.

CHAPTER XXX
MARTHA

Within the room, which was dimly lighted by a candle, Robert could see the three men who had pursued him. They were seated about a table, and the words of their conversation could be distinctly heard by him as he stood by the open window. Not one of the men had he ever seen before that day, he was convinced, but their words for the moment speedily banished even the thought of his own suffering and peril from his mind.

"Russell was right," one of them was saying.

"Yes, he was right enough; but what 'll he have to say for us now, I'd like to know?" responded another.

"We did our best. I can't see for the life of me what became of the fellow."

"What's become of the dog?" said one who had been silent.

"That's so!" replied the first speaker, "I'd forgotten the dog."

Stepping to the door, the man flung it ​open and whistled shrilly. Robert crouched close to the side of the house, fearful lest his presence should be discovered, and watched the man whom he could plainly see waiting for a call to be answered.

In a brief time the man returned to his seat by the table, and the young express breathed more freely. His escape had been a narrow one, but his eagerness to hear what was said prevented him even then from fleeing.

"Strange," said the man. "The dog never did that before."

"We ought to have kept him close to us and followed him," said one.

"We did n't, and we 've lost our game," retorted the first speaker. "The question for us to decide now is what we shall do."

"We'd better go down the river and report," suggested the one who had taken but a little part in the conversation.

"Fine report we 'll have to make," said one bitterly.

"It 'll have to be made."

"Yes, Jack's right. We'd better go, and the sooner the better."

His suggestion was approved, and the three men at once arose. For a moment Robert was ​tempted to run, so great was his fear of discovery. His own weakness and his eagerness to learn what they were about to do, however, caused him to delay, and in a moment he perceived that the men were departing by another door in the rear of the little house. He heard the door close behind them, but he still remained in his position, his eyes fixed upon the woman, evidently the wife of one of the men, who remained in the room, and her attitude betrayed the fear or dejection that seemed to possess her.

Suddenly the door was opened again, and one of the men entered. "Martha," he said, "we may not be back till morning, and it may be that we shall be gone several days. Don't look for me till I come."

"Oh, Tom!" she said hastily, "what makes you go? It's nothing to you, anyway!"

"I must, Martha. I don't like to leave you alone, but I hope the dog 'll show up pretty soon. If anything happens, you 'll know what to do."

"Yes, Tom."

In a moment the door was again closed, and the man was gone. Robert waited where he was, feeling himself almost unable to ​move, and in a brief time he heard the sound of the men approaching. Once more he drew closer to the side of the house and threw himself at full length upon the ground, pressing against the wall in his eagerness to conceal his presence. The men, however, passed without perceiving him, doubtless so engrossed with their own purposes that they had no mind to be on the watch for other things at the moment. They advanced into the road, and soon could no longer be heard.

For a time Robert did not move from the position he had taken. There was a sense of relief in the fact that he had not been discovered, but even this was soon lost in the raging thirst that once more became his. He realized that it was useless for him to attempt to flee, and the peril of capture was gone, at least for the moment. He gazed up into the heavens, and the sight of the myriads of twinkling stars seemed only to increase his agony, for they were far away. The pain in his shoulder, too, was intense, and, combined as it was with his thirst, made him almost frantic. It was more than could be endured, and at last Robert arose from the ground and in sheer desperation approached the door. There was no one but the woman ​within the house, and he had decided to ask her help even if he should be compelled to declare who and what he was.

His first low rap was unheeded, but when he had repeated his summons the door was suddenly opened and he beheld the woman before him, holding a candle in her hand. Even the expression of alarm visible upon her face was unheeded by the desperate young express, and he said hurriedly, "Will you please give me a drink of water?"

"Who are you?" demanded the woman as she held her candle higher until its light fell full upon his face. "Are you ill?" she inquired in a lower tone.

"Yes, I think I am. I am wounded."

"Come in," she said quickly.

Robert could not have explained even to himself why it was that he obeyed, but he at once entered the room and sank heavily into one of the chairs. His appearance seemed to touch the heart of his hostess, for she instantly took a dipper, and, filling it with water from a bucket that was in the room, handed it to him without a word. It was not returned until Robert had drunk all it contained, and as he looked up he perceived that the woman was gazing intently into his face.

​"Are you the man my husband and the others are trying to get?" she inquired. Her voice was not unkind, and suddenly Robert resolved to trust himself to her.

"Yes, madam," he said quietly.

For a moment she did not speak, nor did Robert look up from the floor upon which he had fixed his gaze. He was trembling, for he was fully aware what her reply would mean to him.

"Poor boy!" said the woman at last, sympathetically. "Tom would never forgive me if he knew, but I cannot turn you away. It is n't safe for you to be here, though I don't think the men will come back before morning. You have been shot, you say. Let me help you. Where was it?"

Robert pointed to his shoulder, but could not trust himself to speak. The woman's kindness had touched him deeply, and in his wretchedness he felt that his chin was quivering.

"Come over here," she said gently; and assisting him to stand she led him to a couch in the room, upon which the young soldier was soon lying. Then with deft and gentle fingers she bared his shoulder and examined his wound.

​"You have lost a good deal of blood, but I think you will soon be all right again," she said; "the bullet went straight through."

Robert did not reply, but as she bathed his aching shoulder, applied some of the humble lotions to the wound and then bound it up once more, he felt that her skill was almost as great as her kindness had been.

"There," she said, when her task at last had been completed, "I may not have visited my enemy, but my enemy has visited me, and I have done my best for him."

"Shall I go now?" inquired Robert feebly.

For a moment the good woman seemed to hesitate, and then she said in her determined manner, "No, you stay right where you are, for the night, anyway."

"But I don't want them to get me," said Robert simply.

"I don't want them to, either; and what's more, they shan't if I can prevent it. I don't know what Tom would think of me if he knew, but he does n't know; and if he does n't come back pretty soon, he won't know. You lie right where you are and go to sleep, and I 'll keep watch."

"You are very good to me," murmured Robert. There was a nameless comfort in her ​manner, and soon the nearly exhausted young soldier was asleep.

It was daylight before he awoke, and when he opened his eyes he beheld the woman seated in a chair by the window and looking toward the road. For a brief time he did not stir, but lay quietly watching her. He was refreshed by his sleep, but as he tried to move, the pain in his shoulder returned, and he became aware how weak he was.

The woman turned and glanced at him, and perceiving that his eyes were open she came quickly to his side.

"Better?" she inquired simply.

"I think so."

"What do you intend to do now?"

"I must try to go on."

"Where?"

"I—I don't know."

"I 've been thinking about you."

"That's good of you." In the clearer light Robert could see that she was a woman in middle life, and as he saw the kindly and motherly expression in her face he was reminded of his own mother back among the hills of Jersey.

"You can't stay here," she said.

"No-o. I don't believe I can."

​"And you can't go on."

"No. I can't go on," said Robert simply.

"Then what are you going to do?" she inquired.

"I—I—don't know," he responded hopelessly. Then rousing himself for the moment, he sat up and said, endeavoring to speak bravely, "I must try to go. I 'll not give up. Besides, I 'll be a trouble to you if I don't go, and if your husband should"—

"Never you mind Tom. I 'll look after him," she said lightly, as she arose and came to him.

Once more she bathed and dressed his aching shoulder, and then, working with great haste as Robert thought, she prepared him some breakfast, of which he was able to eat sparingly. Refreshed by what had been done for him, Robert said hastily, "I 'll go now."

"You can't go. You 're not strong enough."

"But I can't stay," he protested miserably.

"No, you can't stay; that is, you can't stay here. Listen, and I 'll tell you what you 're to do. Two years ago Tom thought he would make some maple sugar." She stopped for a moment, and Robert gazed at ​her, wondering what the making of maple sugar had to do with him in his present state of misery.

"I told him it would n't be any earthly good," she resumed, "and now he knows I was right. Of course I 've never referred to it, for, of all things, a man does n't like to hear 'I told you so,' least of all from his wife. He built a little sugar-house back in the woods, but he does n't go near it. I'm going to take you there."

"Will it be safe?"

"Safer than as if you were in Fort Montgomery, according to my way of thinking. No one will be likely to come near this place, and I 'll put you there, and look after you, too. Come! We must n't delay, for Tom may come back at any moment now, and what he would say if he should find you here or me taking care of you, I think I can guess. But I don't want to hear it. Come! I 'll help you."

Feebly Robert arose from the couch, but he himself was startled as he discovered how weak he was. It seemed to him shameful to be compelled to lean upon the arm of the woman as he did, but nevertheless he did so. Slowly they made their way out of the house ​and into the woods, and at last arrived at the little sugar-house of which she had told him.

Leaving him within, she returned to the house and soon came back, her arms laden with blankets, which she spread upon the floor, and made up a rude but not uncomfortable bed, upon which he at once placed himself.

"There!" she said, as she prepared to depart. "Don't you try to leave till I bring you word, and don't you be frightened if I don't come as often as you expect me. I shan't forget you or neglect you, either. I 'll see that you have enough to eat, and when you 're stronger and the right time has come for you to go, then I 'll let you know, but don't try to do anything yourself till then. What you 've got to do is to keep quiet and not give any suspicion that there's some one in this sugar-house. I don't know what Tom 'll think of me."

She was gone before Robert could reply.

The recovery of the young express was much slower than he had hoped. The days dragged on till a week had elapsed, and still the good woman forbade him to try to depart, declaring that he was not strong enough. Daily she visited him and dressed his wound, ​and brought him food, but of reports she had heard as to what was being done by redcoats or continentals not a word would she give him. She might be disloyal to "Tom" to the extent of feeding his enemy, but beyond that not a step would she go.

On the eighth day Robert declared that he was fully recovered. His pale face and evident weakness belied his statement, but the good woman nodded her head and said, "To-morrow you shall go if you desire."

Up to this time no one had come to the shelter except the woman, and, mindful of his promise to her, Robert had not ventured from the little building. After her departure on the day when her consent to his leaving on the morrow had been given, he had left the door partly open to let in the air and shut out a part of the feeling of loneliness. His meditations were sharply interrupted as he heard the low voices of two people approaching, and in his excitement he instantly recognized one as that of Russell.

CHAPTER XXXI
A TINY SILVER BULLET

That the voice he had heard was Russell's, Robert was convinced, but to attempt to flee was not to be thought of; for the men were near his hiding-place, and to his consternation halted not far from the door.

"Everything is clear up the river now all the way to Albany," Russell was saying.

What could he mean by the words? In spite of his own fears Robert Dorlon found himself listening, breathless with interest, to what was being said. Even his own alarm could not prevent the fear from sweeping over him that misfortunes must have overtaken the patriots, and if the statement was true, then even the forts must have fallen. Could it be true? Breathlessly he listened to the words that were spoken, and in a brief time his worst fears were confirmed.

"Yes," Russell resumed, "Sir Henry did not feel that it was wise for him to leave New York till his reinforcements came, but when thay did come he started up the river, and inside a week had cleared the way."

​"How many reinforcements did he get?" inquired the other man.

"Three thousand."

"He did n't wait long."

"Not after they came. He started up the river and landed near Peekskill, as I was teling you. It did n't take him long to outwit old Put,—as the rebels call him, I understand,—and then he kept on to the forts. The rebels put up a pretty good fight, but they could n't hold out, though they did their best. Sir Henry sent up a messenger before the attack, ordering the Clintons to surrender"—

"It was strange that Clinton should be the name of the commander on each side, was n't it?"

"Yes, and this George Clinton and his brother are shrewd fellows, too. They kept up the fight till night; but, you see, Sir Henry had the men; then, too, the boats in the river kept up a heavy fire, and at last the rebels were driven out and ran, at least those who were still alive."

"How many did they lose?"

"About three hundred."

"How many did Sir Henry lose?"

"About a hundred and fifty."

​"Where is he now?"

"I fancy he is n't very far from Esopus," laughed Russell. "There won't be much left of the rebel town when he's done with it."

"Did George and James Clinton both get out of the forts?"

"Yes, worse luck."

"How many men do you think they have now?"

"A couple of hundred, perhaps. This will be great news for General Burgoyne. He's hard put to it, according to reports."

"So I hear."

"Yes, they have given him a hard fight, and his supplies were cut off. But as soon as I get there it 'll all be changed," Russell added lightly.

"How's that?"

"I have the word he's waiting for. And he must get it, too!"

"Will you come into the house? Martha will be glad to have you."

"No, I thank you; but I 'll wait here till it is a little darker, and then I 'll push on. The boats have gone up the river; but just as soon as I can get past this part of the country I know where I can get a horse, and I 'll make such time that there won't be any more ​trouble for Sir John. When he learns that help is right at hand, he 'll be all right."

"Shall I go with you?"

"No. Leave me here, and I 'll look after myself. Good-night."

Robert was eager to see if the man with Russell, evidently the husband of the good woman who had cared for him, did indeed depart; but he dared not move from his hiding-place. A sudden resolution had been formed by him, and he was determined to do his best to carry it out. If this man was the bearer of information of such vital importance to John Burgoyne, then it was imperative that he should be prevented from going farther on his journey. In spite of the fall of the near-by forts, there still might be hope left, he thought, if only John Burgoyne might be prevented from receiving word of the approach of his allies. Weak as Robert still was, he nevertheless was determined to make the attempt. If Russell should enter the sugar-house he would attack him, and it might be that, taken unawares, the man might be held there, or at least prevented from going farther. Perhaps the message itself might be secured.

In the excitement aroused by the thought, Robert waited a brief time, standing ready ​to leap upon Russell if he entered; but the man did not come, and the silence outside the building was unbroken. Unable to endure the suspense longer, he peered forth; but as he looked about him he could not see anything of the man whose words he had overheard. Only the tall trees with their sombre shadows were about him. The air was chilly, but Robert was unaware of anything save the unexpected disappearance of Russell.

For a moment he tried to think out clearly what he should do, for he had no thought of abandoning the attempt to follow him. He soon concluded that the man would make for the road and trust to the darkness to protect him. He was by no means assured that he himself could find the road, but instantly decided to make the attempt, and at once started in the direction in which it seemed to him it must lie.

He was rejoiced when in a brief time he came within sight of Martha's house, but had slight fear of being seen, though he passed it at a distance, and then soon found himself in the road he was seeking. There was no question as to the direction Russell must have taken, he hastily concluded, and at once started back in the way from which ​he himself had come on that eventful day when he had been shot in the shoulder. He recalled the familiar scenes as he proceeded with all the haste he was able to make, but all the time he maintained a careful outlook for Russell, who he was well assured could not be far in advance of him.

An hour passed, but the longed-for sight of Russell was not obtained. Robert was already feeling severely the strain of the efforts he was making, but he gave slight heed to his own weakness or suffering, so eager was he to prevent the messenger from escaping him. At times he ran till, panting and almost fainting, he was compelled to stop to rest, but every time he speedily resumed his journey, eager to overtake the man who, he was confident, was somewhere not far in advance.

Two hours later Robert perceived the figure of a man in the road ahead of him. He was too far away to be recognized, but his movements were suspicious, and Robert at once concluded that the man whom he was seeking: was before him. There was need of increased caution on his own part now, and he kept close to the border of the road, that he might dart into the woods if his presence should be discovered.

​With the coming of daylight, a great glow in the sky before him made him realize that there was more than the light of the sun to cause such an appearance. The man before him evidently was impressed by the same fact, for he stopped, peered intently about him, and then began to advance with quickened speed. It was difficult now for Robert to follow. His weakness, and the pain which came with every step he took, seemed almost unbearable ; but doggedly he held to his way, though he had no conception of what the blazing sky might portend. The one thought in his mind was that he must not lose sight of Russell, and desperately he held himself to the task.

At last it seemed to him that he could go no farther. The road appeared to rise and fall before him like the waves of the sea. Great weights seemed to be attached to his feet, and with every step his sufferings increased. Suddenly he perceived Russell (if, indeed, the man was Russell) stop abruptly, apparently listen intently, and then dart quickly into the woods.

Startled by the unexpected movement, Robert was at a loss to understand what it meant. He prepared, however, to follow, when ​he discovered four men approaching. Evidently the sight of them had alarmed Russell; and if he feared their coming, then it must have been because he had known they were no friends of his. There was comfort in the thought, and instantly Robert shouted to the advancing men.

His voice was too feeble to make them hear at first, but his second attempt arrested their attention, and at once they ran to the place where he was standing. In advance was Joseph Nott, and never had the sight of a face been more welcome to Robert than that of his friend.

"Oh, Joe!" he almost gasped. "There's a man in there. You must get him."

"In where?" demanded Joseph quickly.

"In there! Right there!" replied Robert, pointing to the place where Russell had darted into the woods. "You must get him! He must n't get away!"

The manner of the young express, as well as his words, was sufficiently startling to cause his friend to respond instantly. Bidding Robert wait for their return where he was, Joseph called loudly to his friends, and instantly all four darted into the woods and disappeared from sight.

​In breathless suspense Robert waited for their return. He well understood the determination of Russell, and the importance of his present object was so great that the young express knew he would not be taken easily. His surprise was therefore the greater when he perceived the four men returning in a brief time, and in their midst was Russell himself.

"We 've got him, Robert!" called Joseph as he approached. "We found him hiding behind a stump, and as we all had the drop on him before he could wink, it was n't any trick at all to make him come with us. Who is he, and what made you say we must get him?"

"He's a messenger. He's an express from Sir Henry. He's got a word on him now for John Burgoyne from Sir Henry."

Russell stared at Robert as he spoke, as if he could not believe what he had heard; then suddenly wrenching one hand free he thrust it into a pocket, drew forth something which the others could not see, placed it in his mouth, and then with apparent calmness faced his captors.

"He's swallowed it!" exclaimed Robert aghast. "He's swallowed it!"

"We 'll take him to the general," said Joseph quickly. "He 'll know what to do."

​"Is he near here?" inquired Robert.

"Yes, yes, only a little way up the road. The redcoats landed and set fire to Esopus this morning; General Clinton was near by and he rushed up with his men, but it was too late. The town's burned from end to end."

The explanation of the blaze he had seen in the early morning was now clear to Robert, and he said, "Have they gone?"

"The redcoats?"

"Yes."

"Yes, they got back to their boats and have gone up the river."

With all haste the little party started toward the place where General Clinton was to be found, Joseph being compelled to assist Robert at times, so weak had the latter become. It was not long before they arrived, and in spite of the excitement due to the burning town, their explanation of the cause of their desire to see the general at once, speedily admitted them into his presence. There Joseph briefly explained who and what his prisoner was, and also declared that they had seen him hastily swallow something only a few moments before.

General Clinton listened sharply, and then grimly gave an order for an emetic to be admin​istered to the prisoner. In spite of Russell's protests and struggles the nauseous dose was swallowed, and in a brief time a small silver bullet was disgorged.

An examination speedily revealed that this oval bullet was opened by a tiny screw in the middle, and there within was found a small scrap of very thin paper on which was written: "Nous y voici, and nothing between us and Gates. I sincerely hope this little success of ours will facilitate your operations."

"When was this written?" demanded General Clinton of Russell.

"Yesterday."

"Where?"

"At Fort Montgomery after we—our—after Sir Henry captured it."

"John Burgoyne will never see it."

Russell, however, made no response, and was led at once from the presence of the general.

The captors also departed, and Joseph found a place where he could leave Robert for a time, while he himself attended to certain duties that could not be delayed or neglected. It was an hour afterwards when he returned to his friend, and there was an expression on his face such as Robert had never before seen.

"What is it, Joe?" he said hastily.

​"Come and see," replied Joseph, in a low voice.

Not a word was spoken by either until they came to the roadside, and there Robert pointed to a lifeless body that was hanging from a limb of an apple-tree.

"It's Russell," gasped Robert.

Joseph silently nodded assent and then said, "That's not all, Robert; I 've more and worse than that to tell you about. Come with me."

And, sick at heart, Robert followed his friend.

CHAPTER XXXII
CONCLUSION

"He deserved it," said Robert thoughtfully, his spirits being deeply depressed by the horrible sight he had seen.

"Yes, he did, and more," responded Joseph promptly. "If he's the only one with a word for Burgoyne, we may still be able to win. But things are in bad shape up north, I hear. It's now or never with us."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, except that the reports are that the redcoats up there are in a trap; and if Clinton does n't get through pretty soon, it 'll be all up with them."

"Somebody else may have carried word to him of what Sir Henry is doing and planning to do," suggested Robert somewhat gloomily. His own physical condition was not such as to warrant him in taking a very bright outlook.

"Never give up till you have to!" retorted Joseph. "That's my motto. At all events, the world is rid of Russell and a few other villains like him."

​"Who?"

"Claud Brown, Josh, and another man whose name I do not know."

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I say."

"Has Claud Brown been caught?"

"Yes, sir. Caught and hanged, and Josh and the other man, too!"

"Hanged?"

"Yes, sir. That 's just what I mean."

"Tell me about it."

"There is n't much to tell besides that. There were a good many up here who had had their barns burned, and had suffered so much that at last they decided to run the rascals down. You know how Josh was taken, but they kept up the chase till they got Claud Brown, too. They had to go clear down to Long Island to get him, though."

"I should n't think they'd have dared to go as far as that."

"Dared? They dared do anything to lay hands on the rascals. Jake Gunning was the leader, and they say he was almost crazy, he was so mad."

"Yes, I know," responded Robert quietly. He recalled the time when he had last seen Jacob, and it was not difficult for him to ​understand now how the landlord had been among the most active of the outraged men of the region who had at last risen in their wrath and pursued the leaders of the cowboys until they had run them to earth.

"They brought them back to Orange County, and kept them chained in the old jail," explained Joseph. "Chained them to the floor, too, for they did n't intend to let them get away this time. And they did n't," he added significantly.

"Where was it—that it took place?" inquired Robert.

"In the courtyard of the jail. It was just filled with people, who wanted to make sure that they'd seen the last of Claud Brown. They had; but I'm thinking, from what I hear, that there are some others who 'll do their best to take up the work he quit then forever."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, I'm told Claud Brown's son Dick is on the war-path, and is furious over his father's death. He 'll give us plenty to think of, and to do, too."

"Josh was n't such a bad fellow," suggested Robert.

"He did n't know enough to be very bad. ​But he ought to have known enough to keep away from Claud Brown. He was known by the company he kept," retorted Joseph, with a laugh.

It was difficult for Robert to understand how his friend could look upon these events lightly. For himself, the horror of them was so great that it seemed to him the effect would never depart. The very fact that he had had experiences of his own with these outlaws made the fate that had overtaken them the more impressive. It might all be, as Joseph suggested, a part of the expected events of war-time, but the horror of it was none the less real.

"Joe," he said, "do you know what became of Dirck?"

"Dirck Rykman? Oh, he's back in his old home as chipper as ever."

"He is?"

"Yes. That was a mistake about his being taken. Oh, he was taken all right enough, but they found out that he was being used by the Tories and that he did n't understand what it was he was doing. This fellow Russell," he added, "when we took him back there in the woods must have thought at first we were taking him to Sir Henry, for he asked us if we ​knew where Clinton was; and when we told him we did, he seemed to be mighty glad. He wasn't looking for the Clinton we were thinking of, though. His face showed that."

"Yes," assented Robert, whose thoughts were of Dirck. "You say Dirck went back to his home? Did he take his family with him? I should think he'd have been afraid for them. It is n't safe."

"No, it is n't, and that's a fact. But you can't move Dirck by any such little things as that, you know. He's a regular Dutchman and does n't know how to change."

"That's not so bad."

"No. There seem to be plenty, though, who do know how in these days," laughed Joseph. "They 're first on one side and then on the other."

"Joe, did they ever do anything with that old man who was doing so much with counterfeit money?"

"No, they did n't do anything, but it was n't because they did n't want to or try to. He was a slippery old fellow, and got away when he found out what was going on. Probably went down to New York."

"He 'll be safe there."

"For a while, yes. We 're going to have ​New York in our own grip before you know it."

"Does n't look very much like it now."

Robert was low spirited. The loss of the forts by the Americans, the burning of Esopus, the confidence of the redcoats, were all to him disheartening. Then, too, his own outlook was not promising. He realized that he was still suffering from the effect of his recent adventure, and the loss of Nero was something not easily repaired. How he was to return to the great commander was a problem yet to be solved. For the present he decided to remain where he then was, and as soon as General Clinton, who had bidden him do this very thing, should learn how it fared with Gates in the north and could find time for other matters, he promised to give his personal attention to the needs of the young express.

Already it was known that a battle had occurred at Bemis Heights (September 19, 1777). But the results had not been decisive. Then had occurred the fight at Stillwater (October 7, 1777); and although victory rested with the sturdy Americans, John Burgoyne's surrender had not as yet been made. Doubtless he was waiting for the arrival of his allies ​from New York; and though his plight was desperate, like the sturdy Briton that he was he was not willing to give up until the last hope was gone.

Down near Philadelphia had occurred the battle of Brandywine, where the Americans had been defeated with a heavy loss, and already some were comparing the defeats which Washington suffered with the success which apparently was following the efforts of General Gates in the north, few realizing how the great-hearted Washington was simply striving to hold Howe's army where it then was to prevent aid being sent to Burgoyne, ignoring any possible reflection that might be made upon his own seeming failure. On October 4th (1777) had occurred the battle of Germantown, where the carefully made plans of Washington and the success that almost crowned his efforts were thwarted by the action of one of his generals on the field, who had gone into the fight intoxicated.

Still, in spite of defeats, Washington had succeeded in holding Howe near Philadelphia and preventing him from sending or going himself to the aid of his comrade-in-arms in the north, whose plight with every passing day became more desperate. Even a retreat ​into Canada was impossible for Burgoyne now, for his enemies were in his rear as well as before his face. His sole hope rested upon Clinton, and if he had received the message which had been hidden within the tiny silver bullet that his messenger had vainly endeavored to conceal when he had been made a prisoner, doubtless he would have held out a little longer, and the history of the United States would have been far different from that which it has since become.

In his desperation, with no knowledge of Clinton's approach, and with no word received of his coming, John Burgoyne at last, on the 17th day of October, 1777, surrendered with his entire army, and all fears of his invasion were at an end.

It would be impossible to describe the enthusiasm of the people when news of this great event was received, and nowhere was the excitement greater than in the little force that still remained with General Clinton in Orange County. Even Robert Dorlon apparently forgot his own sufferings, and joined enthusiastically in the celebrations that followed.

"This means that we can go home now," said Joseph joyfully to Robert.

​"It means that you can."

"Yes, and you 're to go home with me, too."

"No, I must go back just as soon as I can get a horse."

"You are n't fit to," said Joseph eagerly. "Besides, I thought you might be glad to stay a few days with us. Hannah will be there, you know," he added demurely.

"Where?"

"At my uncle's. It is n't more than ten miles from here. And there won't be anything to do but to have a good time—no cowboys, no counterfeiters, no redcoats; just the family, for we 'll all be home. Our time is up now."

"I'd like to." Robert hesitated, for the invitation of his friend was appealing to him strongly, and for many reasons.

"You must, and that's all there is to it! Come on. We 'll go to see General Clinton this minute!"

Robert followed his friend, and in a brief time they were standing before the general. Joseph was the spokesman, and in his boyish enthusiasm he begged for permission for Robert to accompany him home. He told of his friend's recent adventures and the illness ​which had followed, and then repeated his request for the desired permission.

General Clinton smiled, for he was as happy as his men over the surrender of Burgoyne and the return of Sir Henry and his troops to the city. "I think I can give you the permission you desire," he said kindly. "Truly, you do not look as if you were fit to ride to Philadelphia."

"Thank you, General," said Robert quietly. "Have you a horse for me?"

"Yes." General Clinton glanced keenly but not unkindly at the young man as he spoke.

"Then I will start now."

For a moment Joseph stared at his friend as if he were angry, and then without a word both young men passed out.

"I don't understand," said Joseph sharply, when they were outside.

"Yes, you do, Joe. You'd do the same thing if you were in my place. My time is up, but I must report. Then I 'll come back and stay till you are tired of seeing me about the house."

Impulsively Joseph turned and grasped his friend's hand, but he did not speak.

It was six weeks later when Robert Dorlon returned to the region. There was a color in ​his bronzed face that indicated that he was once more strong and well. Snow was on the ground, but the appearance of his horse showed that he had in nowise suffered from the cold. Robert halted in front of a little clearing which he recognized as the one where he had received aid from the good woman whose husband called her "Martha." Suddenly he decided to go up to the house and thank her for all she had done for him; but when he rapped loudly upon the door, he discovered that the house was deserted. It was long after the war was ended that he was enabled to thank the good woman for her help, but when and where he met her are outside the limits of this present tale.

Swiftly Robert resumed his journey, and not long afterwards arrived at the house he was seeking. There Joseph and Hannah met him at the door, and after Joseph had warmly greeted his friend, his sister said sharply, "Why did n't you stop here last October, when Joe invited you? Did n't you want to?"

"You know I did, Hannah," replied Robert, with a laugh.

"Why did n't you, then?"

"Because I had to do what I ought to do first. I wanted to stop, but I knew I ought to ​go back and report. So I did," said Robert simply.

"Are you glad to come now?"

"I should n't be here if I was n't," laughed Robert.

"Robert Dorlon, if you had stopped then, I should not have been glad to see you at all. You had no business to stop then."

"Are you glad to see me now?" he inquired.

The warm-hearted girl impulsively held forth her hand, and Robert had no question as to his welcome.

This article uses material from the Wikipedia article  Metasyntactic variable, which is released under the  Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.