The Bushfighters/Chapter 5

ELL satisfied with his night's work, Putnam returned to the post and found a squad of nervous men about to set forth in search of him. He reported the presence of the Western Indians and the Frenchman to the lieutenant, who sent a messenger to General Lyman at Fort Edward as well as detailing a force to capture the foe.

This taking of prisoners was as important as the harassing of supply-trains and the destruction of enemy property. Both the English and French impressed upon their scouting-parties the imperative necessity of securing captives. It was largely through these that one antagonist learned what the other was planning to do.

Realizing the importance of capturing some of the trespassers, especially the officer, Putnam snatched two hours of sorely needed sleep and undertook a lone hunt for the terrified band. He scouted much more rapidly than the squad from the fort and at last found the trail leading northwest.

He followed it until it split up into several trails and decided the odds against success were too great to warrant a persistence in the task. The finding of Elizabeth Lidindick and the prevention of her sending information to Ticonderoga was fully as vital as the capture of the French officer.

Abandoning the chase, he turned his steps toward Fort Anne and traveled rapidly. His gaze constantly read the forest floor more from habit than because he expected to detect any enemy signs; and after covering several miles he was surprized to cut across a trail from the west.

There were a dozen men in the party, he estimated, one being a white man. The latter wore moccasins but was unable to disguise the white man's fashion of walking. It dawned on Putnam that this band, traveling rapidly and never pausing to hide their trail, was the same that had fled in terror from before the lodge of the dead sorcerer.

Anticipating pursuit from the post, they had split up and separated only to come together again. Now they were eager to strike Wood Creek and follow it down to Ticonderoga.

Their course promised to lead near Fort Anne, where they could follow Shone Creek to Wood, then on to South Bay, where doubtless they had canoes concealed. The remainder of the trip through the “Drowned Lands” into Lake Champlain would depend entirely upon their caution and a certain amount of night travel.

In the Spring of the preceding year Putnam had worked at chopping a road which was planned to follow Wood Creek down to Ticonderoga, and over which the English army was to advance. Johnson had recalled the axmen after deciding that the Lake George route would be better. That experience and a full year of scouting back and forth on both sides of George permitted Putnam to carry an exact map of the country in his head.

At midday he reached Shone Creek, the western tributary to Wood, a mile south of old Fort Anne. Here he made a discovery. Where the fleeing band had incautiously crossed the stream he observed that another trailer had cut in ahead of him, having come up from the south.

The new imprint was much smaller than those it followed and trod upon. The new tracks were also very fresh, as they had collected hardly any moisture although made in soil that was almost ooze. One impression on a rock near the opposite bank had not had time to dry.

Naturally Putnam thought of the Lidindick girl. She was hastening to overtake the savages, perhaps to gain Ticonderoga under their escort. Either that or she purposed sending some messsage [sic] by them.

Once away from the creek the signs were few and faint, and consisting of barely perceptible traces—a pebble partly dislodged from its earthy socket, or a twig scuffed from its matrix in the forest mold. Tiny voices, yet loud enough to assure the ranger that he was hot on the scent.

The course bore east of the creek, the signs being noticeable when the fugitives crossed any of the numerous rivulets. And always the small moccasins of the new trailer were to be found on top of the other tracks.

When about a mile above the old fort Putnam received his second surprize; another pair of moccasins cut in from the west and joined the others, treading upon the small tracks. A glance told him that this newcomer was a man of solid bulk, one who walked with the free, easy stride of the woodwise.

He was inventorying this fact when a violent agitation of some alders in a marshy spot ahead sent him diving to cover. There came a gurgling sound as if some one were choking; then an angry voice snarled:

“There! You young cat!”

PRINGING to his feet and running forward, Putnam burst upon a strange scene. A slim Indian youth was writhing on the ground, trying to recover bis breath, while Ephraim Willis sat on a log and tied his queue ribbon around a wound in his leg. At one side half-buried in the mire was a knife.

Now the youth got back his breath, and with the agility of a lynx leaped upon Willis and tore at him with his bare hands. With an oath Willis seized him and lifted him high above his head.

“Halt,” cried Putnam, leaping into view. “Put him down.”

“But the young hellion”

“Put him down instantly. I vouch for him.”

Growling viciously, Willis dropped the boy, who promptly snatched a knife from Putnam's belt and would have renewed his attack had not Putnam clutched his arm and wrenched the weapon from him, and demanded—

“How long since Joseph Brant of the Mohawks has made war on the English, the friends of Sir William Johnson?”

“English!” panted the boy, who was not over fourteen years of age. “Look at his French shirt. If he is English he is a renegade. My Mohawks shall roast and eat him.

“You cold-blooded young devil,” gasped Willis, astounded at such a speech from one he considered to be a child. “Wait till I get this hole in my leg tied up to suit and I'll give you the spanking of your life.”

“Enough of that, Willis,” Putnam sternly commanded. “Keep your mouth shut till you can speak with decency.”

Then to the boy, who struggled anew at the ranger's humiliating threat—

“Does a Mohawk warrior squirm like a cat when he knows he can not escape?”

Instantly the boy remembered his etiquette and stood with folded arms, glaring death at Willis, his thin chest rising and falling spasmodically; and this not from physical exhaustion but because of the shame the ranger's words had put upon him. Putnam released him, picked up the knife from the mud, wiped it clean and handed it to him, and gravely explained:

“This man is no renegade. He wears the hunting-shirt of our rangers far south. He is a friend of Sir William Johnson's. He came here from the Ohio, where you were born when your father and mother went hunting there. He has fought the Shawnees and Delawares and the Indians from above the big lakes. He comes to help Sir William Johnson whip the French.”

“He struck me and choked me,” was the guttural reminder.

“Well, your hide, did you do my leg any good?” roared Willis, holding up his blood- stained fingers and then pointing to his tightly tied queue ribbon.

A glint of satisfaction shone in young Brant's eyes. After all he had inflicted a worse injury than he had received. Beyond the slap at his pride he was uninjured.

“Willis, shut up,” growled Putnam. “Joseph Brant took his first war-path last Summer when he went with General Johnson to Lake George. He wouldn't have jumped you if he hadn't believed you was French. He knows all of Rogers' men, and you was a stranger.”

Willis hung his head and confessed:

“Well, mebbe the cub had some excuse. I was in the top of a big pitch-pine, watching the different openings in the bush. I saw a small band hustling along, one a white man. I put after them and found this youngster's tracks. Thinking he was one of the band, and wanting to take him off his guard, I asked on coming up to him—

“'Qui êtes vous?”

“'Qui êtes vous?” shrilly repeated young Brant, pointing an accusing finger. “My father was of the Wolf clan. I heard the man's French. I jumped. The Wolf does not wait all day before making his kill.” “Its all very plain. It's all a mistake,” soothed Putnam, with a side wink at Willis. “Your using French lingo made him think you was French. No, keepers of the eastern door will count more coups than he will by the time he has finished.”

“If I'd known you was a English Mohawk, Brant, I'd never spoke that cursed French,” mumbled Willis.

“Not English!” hissed Brant. “I am a Mohawk of the Extended Lodge. My home is at the Canajoharie Castle in the Mohawk Valley. No nation in the Long House has fought like mine. At one and the same time my people have carried on war with the Abnaki on the east, with the Conestoga in the south, with the Huron dogs and many Algonquin tribes in the west and north. We conquered the Delawares and made them say they were women and not fit to carry arms.”

“But if the Dutch hadn't come along and given you guns you'd 'a' been wiped out,” reminded Willis.

“Enough of that, Willis, or you go back to Albany town,” thundered Putnam, whose one desire was to remove any possible cause for a quarrel between the loyal Mohawks and the English.

Then to the angry youth:

“You were following our enemies. They were running from me. I killed four of them last night. They were wild Potawatomi men.”

“Good. You are a brave man,” softly cried Brant, his eyes glittering with admiration, his hand flashing out his knife and raising it in salute.

“I overturned their medicine-lodge. I killed their sorcerer and threw his scalp in the face of his warriors.”

“Good! Some time I will do the same, and the women will make up songs about my name!” exclaimed Brant, again saluting.

“Ask him if he's seen the girl,” Willis requested.

“You were following our enemies. Did you see a white girl dressed as a man with them?”

“There was no white girl with them.”

“Have you seen a white girl in the woods anywhere? One dressed as a ranger?”

Young Brant folded his arms and stared blankly at the towering pines.

“Which means he has, I guess,” mused Putnam. “And also means he'll say nothing. She has been to Canajoharie Castle and was welcome there. No use wasting any time on him.”

“Not a bit,” agreed Willis. “I know enough of their natur' to see that. Anyway he has answered us by his silence.”

The boy understood all this but gave no sign, his face remaining stolid almost to the degree of stupidity. Putnam said to him:

“You must be friends with my friend, with Sir William's friend, this ranger from the Monongahela and the Ohio. We must overtake those cowardly Western Indians and capture the French officer.”

“The Mohawks will eat the French officer. That for Hendrick's death.”

“We will catch him first,” said Putnam.

“We would have eaten Dieskau if Sir William Johnson hadn't stopped us.”

“We must catch this bird before we cook him,” soothed Putnam. “Willis, can you travel?”

“I can always travel. Let us be going, or we'll never overtake them.”

OUNG Brant, clothed only in thigh-leggings and breech-cloth, darted away like a weasel, easily picking up the trail and speedily leaving the rangers behind. He purposely left marks that they might follow at top speed and they soon saw the trail was doubling back to the creek. They followed until the trail ended at the bank.

Putnam scouted the opposite bank while Willis remained quiet and nursed his leg and muttered maledictions against the young Mohawk. Returning to him, Putnam remarked:

“They never crossed. They knew they was followed and they took to the creek to hide their trail. I think they must have found a canoe, as the bottom don't seem to be riled up and the water's hardly had time to settle. There ain't scarcely any current. How do you feel?”

“Ugly. This leg seems bound to bleed quite a lot. The whole kit of them Mohawks are a nuisance to us. We'd be better off without them.”

“Not much good,” agreed Putnam. “But when you must have dealings with them don't go out of your way to rile them. For if the Long House should lend any help to the French our porridge is spilled.

“Vaudreuil is keen to get more and more of the red devils, but after Dieskau fell into our grip he told me that they nearly drove him crazy. They was eating up his oxen and hogs and drinking his brandy about as fast as he could get it down from Montreal.

“He had planned to attack Fort Lyman when he come against us at William Henry. But his Indians wouldn't go there; afraid of the big guns. They was willing to attack Johnson, though, Lord! what a day that was. I was plumb discouraged when Johnson ordered five hundred men to march to Lyman at Fort Edward, and another five hundred to march toward South Bay.

“I'll never forget how old Hendrick broke a stick, then picked up a bundle of sticks and showed Johnson he couldn't break them. Johnson saw the point and kept his thousand men together. Well, you must get back to the road and catch a teamster and go to Fort Edward or Albany.”

“I ain't hurt enough for that. A couple of days' lay-off at Fort Willaim [sic] Henry”

“Small pox and other sickness there. Back to Edward, or Albany. That's your orders. Hold due west and pass south of French Mountain. You won't have to wait long before getting a ride.”

“What do I do after this hole gets mended?”

“If you ain't heard from me, scout up this way and find me.”

With that Putnam turned down the east bank of the creek, trusting that young Brant would pick up the trail and give his “discovery” signal.

He had not traveled long when the quiet of the creek was disturbed by a scattering volley.

“Our men attacking them,” he exulted, for the Indians he had frightened from the sorcerer's lodge had carried no firearms.

He started on the run, anxious to arrive in time to save the French officer, but came to a halt with his gun flung forward as a figure came through the bushes toward him.

One glance at the strong face and the grotesquely shaped and abnormally big nose, and his gun fell to his side.

“Major Rogers!” he greeted. “Your men have jumped some Indians I have been trailing all the way from back of Fort Edward.”

“I know, cap'n. Seth Pomeroy and a dozen rangers are chasing them to give them a dressing. They don't need us. I told them to take the officer alive and carry him to the fort. I hurried down here to meet you. Where's your new man?”

“Wounded and on his way to Fort Edward. How did you know about him, and that I was here?”

“Young Brant told me. He's keen to be a warrior all in a minute. Sir William is bound he shall go to school like a white man, but he can't ever school the Indian out of him. We've got some big business ahead of us. I'm going to fool the French till they think old Satan hisself is bedeviling them.”

Rogers, like Putnam, was sturdily built, and would have been prepossessing in appearance if not for his huge nose. Frontier born and bred, he knew every foot of the country from the Hudson to the St. Lawrence, and had traveled much between the English and French settlements in the rôle of smuggler, as it was generally believed. Despite his shortcomings his services to the colonies as a ranger were immeasurable; for his rangers were the great bulwark against an overwhelming surprize attack of the enemy.

As the sound of firing grew fainter, indicating that some of the fleeing savages at least had managed to escape, Rogers explained in detail his plans to his right-hand man. It was nothing short of a scout below Crown Point and an attack on some of the enemy's shipping.

Its audacity appealed to Putnam instantly. Many times before this Rogers had picked the Connecticut farmer for his companion on scouts down the lake and to the close vicinity of Ticonderoga. Under their leadership Roger's Rangers had made a name which was a household word throughout the colonies.

After he had finished explaining his plans Putnam briefly related his experiences in Albany and his pursuit of the Lidindick girl. As Rogers listened there was a suggestion of worry on his bold face. His features relaxed, however, when Putnam told of Lidindick's death.

“So Jan the Rogue is dead, eh?” he mused. “It's best so. It's best so.”

“Ephraim Willis fears the girl is lost and will come to harm in these wild woods. I fear she will be able to make Montreal and tell a parcel of things we don't want the French to know,” added Putnam.

“Elizabeth Lidindick won't get lost,” slowly Rogers assured him. “More than once she has ranged the Iroquois country in perfect safety when the English traders didn't dare enter the Mohawk Valley. That's the Dutch blood in her. There's more than one vrouw in Albany who has gone alone through the forests of the Long House and made their bargains with the Iroquois, and returned with the best of the bargain at that. Jan's girl can give points to lots of rangers when it comes to following a trail or hiding her own. And old Jan's dead.”

Putnam concealed a smile; for he believed Rogers and Lidindick had been partners in any smuggling deals before the war broke out. Rogers now continued:

“About the girl. I don't believe she can do us any harm. If you ever come across her, send for me before turning her over to the army officers. She's a wild little thing and might do herself harm by saying things in a boasting way.

“She isn't the right sort for a spy. Her mother was French. Her father always held it against the English for taking Dutch Orange and making it Albany, and, on the side, spoiling the Dutch traders' game with the Long House. The girl doesn't see where she owes anything to his Majesty. I'm glad your man Willis is interested in her.”

“I am not. He's of a sober, honest Connecticut family. She's half-French, half-Dutch. He should take a Connecticut girl for a wife; never this girl, who has dressed up as a fop and strutted through the tap-rooms in New York, and who is now living like a wildcat out in the woods.”

“You mustn't misjudge her, Israel,” Rogers gravely insisted. “I tell you she is a good girl even if Jan the Rogue was her father, and even if she did cut up some capers down in New York and is doing up here the things you say she is.”

“Scalps and brimstone! Didn't I see the message she tried to send through by the Caughnawaga Iroquois? Didn't it advise Montcalm to strike a quick blow now while the colonies are shaken over the fall of Oswego?”

“But she's half-French,” Rogers reminded him. “She sees no more harm in that than you do in fetching news to Fort William Henry telling what we can do to Ticonderoga. But this isn't getting us on our way.”

S THERE were no further sounds of the chase and as neither Pomeroy nor any of his men showed up Rogers took it for granted the pursuit of the Indians had continued out of hearing, and at once decided to make for Fort William Henry and get his novel and daring scouting expedition under way. A six-mile tramp across-country brought them to the fort, which consisted of log ramparts reinforced with earth, built in the shape of an irregular square and duly bastioned.

Not much attempt at leveling the surrounding forests had been made until General Winslow received the news of Oswego's fall and the probable advance of the French in force. Now that he daily expected to be attacked he kept his men at work, early and late, felling huge areas of giant trees until the ground for a mile between the fort and the mountain-slopes was one immense abatis. Any approach from the east was guarded against by the extensive marsh-lands. The rangers did not enter the fort as smallpox had broken out and the camp was generally sickly. Skirting the defenses, Rogers led the way to the lake where five light whale-boats awaited him. Two score rangers were lounging near these, and in response to their commander's shrill whistle enough more came up on the run to make the total an even fifty men.

These were picked men and obviously had been informed of the part they were to play; for without waiting for further orders they scrambled into the boats. Rogers motioned for Putnam to join him, and as his boat started to lead the way down Lake George he informed the other.

“One thing I haven't told you, and it's the best notion of the whole plan. I had these boats made unusually light. I've been waiting for you to come back to Albany and take part in the fun.

“We'll carry the boats across to South Bay and pass Ticonderoga at night right under their noses and they'll never dream we're anywhere near them. When we strike on Champlain they'll think we dropped from the sky.”

The boats were rowed ten miles down the lake without any sign of an enemy scout being discovered. Landing on the east shore behind Long Island, the men were ordered to follow behind Rogers and Putnam, each ten carrying one of the boats.

The course pursued by Rogers led through a gorge in the mountains and entered Dieskau's Path almost at right angles. This path was made by Baron Dieskau's force in the previous Fall, when the baron marched to capture Fort William Henry and was himself taken prisoner. Arriving at South Bay, the boats were launched and the men allowed to rest. Night came, and after eating a cold ration the men prepared to row down the creek to within eight miles of Ticonderoga.

Putnam, uneasy when inactive, gained permission to scout along Dieskau's Path, between which and the creek extended a strip of marsh, or as the English called it, “the Drowned Lands.” He covered five miles through the darkness and came to a brook that emptied into a small sheet of water, which was to be known as “Putnam's Pond.” After he had forded this and had halted to reconnoiter the darkness with his ears he heard a sound of splashing, carelessly made and yet not such as that which a fish makes in breaking water. Noiselessly feeling his way to the mouth of the brook, he gained the edge of the pond, when more splashing brought him to a halt.

Whatever was disturbing the water was on his left, and as he turned in that direction he found a growth of bushes barred his way. He worked cautiously along this low wall until his moccasins found a narrow game-trail.

Droping [sic] on all fours to avoid the interlacing boughs, he followed the narrow tunnel for a rod or two. His hands touched something that caused him to draw back on his heels and throw up his rifle to ward off a blow. The splashing was repeated and the cause of his alarm remained innocuous.

Stretching forth a hand, he gently passed it back and forth until satisfied it was a hunting-shirt, heavily befringed. Extending his discoveries, he found the other garments and a ranger's hat and a pair of moccasins. It was not until he picked up a moccasin that he began to understand; and his lips puckered to emit a low whistle of surprize.

Catching himself in time, he clamped his lips together grimly and examined the footgear with both hands. Finally replacing it, he softly called—

“Elizabeth Lidindick!”

“Qui êtes vous?” gasped a frightened voice.

“Israel Putnam. I'm going back to the path. You stop your swimming and come ashore and put on your clothes. Then you'll go to Fort Edward with me.”

He could hear her catch her breath in dismay. Then she frantically promised:

“Yes, yes, Captain Putnam. I'll come as soon as you go.”

“I'm going now, and you be sharp. I've got six children back home. Four of them are little girls. I'm going back to the main path, and you see that you hustle ashore.”

With this warning he noisily returned to the path and waited. He didn't know whether to be glad or sorry for stumbling upon the girl. It meant he must at least conduct her as far as Fort William Henry, where he might secure an escort to take her to General Lyman.

Because of the smallpox at William Henry he would not dare take any escort unless it be some of the rangers who camped apart from the garrison. But even should he succeed in this particular the delay would compel him to miss taking part in Major Rogers' daring venture down Lake Champlain. The prospect of foregoing this treat caused him to scowl heavily and feel unkindly toward the girl.

“The bothersome minx,” he groaned. “Has to turn up just as we're going to have some fun. Why couldn't she be caught while that moon-calf of a Ephraim Willis was on hand to take her in charge?”

And yet the capture was most important. It was a piece of good luck that should give him much pleasure. It meant the stopping of a most dangerous leak. Aside from the general information which she would find ways of obtaining and sending through to the French, she would have been sure to discover the Rogers expedition.

“You 'most ready?” he impatiently called out.

“Almost. Is Ephraim Willis with you?”

“In Albany. Wounded.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry.”

“Probably. I'm in a hurry. Come out here soon's you can.”

“I'm coming in just a minute.”

He thought he heard her enter the path, and he stood with his gun outstretched, so she might not play any tricks and duck by him in the darkness and follow the path north. Since Rogers declared her woodcraft was superior to that of many rangers Putnam did not propose she should evade him.

His arm grew weary of holding out the gun and he knew she had had ample time to join him. But if she had quit the path he was positive his sharp hearing would have detected the move.

“Elizabeth Lidindick,” he softly called.

There was no answer.

“I am coming to you. You're trying to make a fool of me,” he warned.

The quiet of the woods and marsh continued. He turned back into the bushes but had advanced only a few steps when her mocking laugh rang out in the direction of the little brook. Retracing his steps to the path, he made for the brook, hoping to overtake her. But as he reached the stream she laughed again, this time farther away.

“The hussy fooled me!” he muttered. “But what can a man do when he comes on a young woman in swimming? Well, it's good riddance if she keeps moving south. We can pick her up when we come back. I've done my part, and to chase her in this darkness would be just the kind of a game she would like to play.”

IS conscience clear, he found he was was much relieved by her escape. He was free to continue his original errand, and he turned about and pressed on north as fast as the darkness would permit. There was the imminent danger that she too would change her course and follow him and seek to learn the reason of his abandoning pursuit of her to scout toward Ticonderoga. Yet he could not see how to combat with that contingency.

Four miles beyond Two Rocks was a brook that all but cut the neck of land from Lake George to the creek. It was at the mouth of this stream that Rogers would hide his boats and men during the day. On reaching the rendezvous Putnam proposed to throw out a guard to cover the path. If the girl followed him she would walk into a trap.

From the pond to the brook was nearly ten miles. Anxious to cover the distance and report the girl's possible presence to Rogers, Putnam swept his gun back and forth before him and rapidly passed through the darkness, his woodcraft keeping him informed of wolf and fox and bear lurking on either side of the trail.

Aside from the licensed night prowlers he discovered no trace of enemy scouts. Once he thought he heard an alien rustling on the bushes on his left, a slight sound instinct would not accept as being harmless. But almost before the suspicion could grow the diabolic yowling of a wildcat eased his mind and he passed on.

That first protest of the subconscious demanded recognition, however; and after a few rods he halted and listened. There was no further yowling, no sound of the creature passing through the bush.

For five minutes he waited, almost tempted to return. Then in the woods ahead of him he detected a faint noise and decided that the cat was genuine. It had stalked him for a bit and on catching the man-smell had passed on ahead to seek better game.

He resumed his way and was passing under a big spruce when instinct again told him to be on his guard, only this time it seemed to shriek the warning. Before he could set in motion any process of reasoning he threw up the gun be-between [sic] both hands to shield his head just as a light body, dropping from an overhanging bough, fell upon him. Dropping the gun and leaping back, he caught a wildly struggling figure in his arms and cut his fingers slightly on a knife. As he felt the slim, wiry limbs writhing desperately to break his hold he ejaculated—

“Brant!”

The struggling figure became quiet.

“Captain Putnam?” sorrowfully asked the boy.

“The same, youngster; and you've cut my hand. No coup, or new name for that, eh?”

“Ugh! Then I will cut my own.”

And he placed a hand on Putnam's wrist and the ranger felt the drip of warm blood.

“Good Heavens, you young fool! What did you want to do that for? It don't help me any. Bad enough for one of us to be sliced up,” rebuked Putnam. “You making a noise like a wildcat back there?”

“It was a Mohawk cat,” confessed young Brant. “I thought I was discovered just as I was getting ready to attack. So I ran ahead and got up in the tree.”

“What are you doing up here? Did Pomeroy get the Frenchman?”

“He got away,” hissed the boy, and he spat in the darkness to show his contempt for the white man's woodcraft. “They killed some of the Indians. Dirty dogs!”

“What are you up here for?” repeated Putnam.

“I was trying to catch the Frenchman. I heard boats in the river. I think the French went to attack the fort and got afraid and are going home. I shall try to find a scalp.”

“Our men in the boats,” Putnam told him.

Then came an inspiration, and he asked—

“Do you want to do good work for the English?”

“For the English and Sir William. I do not care much about the English who live over here.”

“For Sir William then. I have just left Jan the Rogue's daughter back in the path. She must not come this way or the French will capture us, and some of those Two Mountain Indians will have us in a kettle. You know her. Find her and see that she goes to General Lyman.”

“The Mohawks call her the Laughing One. She has been to our castles many times. She knows the woods like an Indian. I will find her. She shall not go to Ticonderoga.”

“See she is taken to General Lyman. He will send her to Albany, where she can do no more mischief.”

Young Brant moved away from him, then softly called back:

“She shall go where she will so long as she doesn't go north. She is a friend of my people.”

“That's the Mohawk of it,” grumbled Putnam. “The brat is crazy to become a warrior by killing the French. But he'd turn against the settlers to help that minx.”