the Highland road. It
carried Benedict Arnold and his wife and their baggage. Jack and
Solomon passed and recognized them.

"What does that mean, I wonder?" Jack queried.

"Dun know," Solomon answered.

"I'm scared about it," said the younger scout. "I am afraid that this
money seeker has the confidence of Washington. He has been a good
fighting man. That goes a long way with the Chief."

Colonel Irons stopped his horse. "I am of half a mind to go back," he
declared.

"Why?"

"I didn't tell the General half that Reed said to me. It was so bitter
and yet I believe it was true. I ought to have told him. Perhaps I
ought now to go and tell him."

"There's time 'nough," said Solomon. "Wait till we git back.
Sometimes I've thought the Chief needed advice but it's allus turned
out that I was the one that needed it."

The two horsemen rode on in silence. It was the middle of the
afternoon of that memorable July day. They were bound for the neutral
territory between the American and British lines, infested by "cow
boys" from the south and "skinners" from the north who were raiding the
farms of the settlers and driving away their cattle to be sold to the
opposing armies. The two scouts were sent to learn the facts and
report upon them. They parted at a cross-road. It was near sundown
when at a beautiful brook, bordered with spearmint and wild iris, Jack
watered and fed his horse and sat down to eat his luncheon. He was
thinking of Arnold and the new danger when he discovered that a man
stood near him. The young scout had failed to hear his approach--a
circumstance in no way remarkable since the road was little traveled
and covered with moss and creeping herbage. He thought not of this,
however, but only of the face and form and manner of the stranger. The
face was that of a man of middle age. The young man wrote in a letter:

"It was a singularly handsome face, smooth shaven and well shaped with
large, dark eyes and a skin very clean and perfect--I had almost said
it was transparent. Add to all this a look of friendliness and
masterful dignity and you will understand why I rose to my feet and
took off my hat. His stature was above my own, his form erect. I
remember nothing about his clothes save that they were dark in color
and seemed to be new and admirably fitted.

"'You are John Irons, Jr., and I am Henry Thornhill,' said he. 'I saw
you at Kinderhook where I used to live. I liked you then