skelps to ye!" said old Stoner. "If ye see Francy
McCraw, jest tell him thar's a rope an' a apple-tree waitin' fur him
down to Fundy's Bush!"

"Tell Danny Redstock an' Billy Bones that the Stoner boys is smellin'
almighty close on their trail!" called out the elder youth.

Elerson, in his saddle, gathered the bridles that Mount handed him and
rode off into the darkness, leading Mount's horse and Sir George's at a
trot. We filed off due west, Murphy and Mount striding in the lead, the
noise of the river below us on our left. A few rods and we swung south,
then west into a wretched stump-road, which Sir George said was the
Mayfield road and part of the Sacandaga trail.

The roar of the Kennyetto accompanied us, then for a while was lost in
the swaying murmur of the pines. Twice we passed trodden carrying-places
before the rushing of the river sounded once more far below us in a
gorge; and we descended into a hollow to a ford from which an Indian
trail ran back to the north. This was the Balston trail, which joined
the Fish-House road; and Sir George said it was the trail I should have
followed had it not been necessary for me to meet him at Fonda's Bush to
relieve him of his horse.

Now, journeying rapidly west, our faces set towards the Mayfield hills,
we passed two or three small, cold brooks, on stepping-stones, where the
dark sky, set with stars, danced in the ripples. Once, on a cleared
hill, we saw against the sky the dim bulk of a lonely barn; then nothing
more fashioned by human hands until, hours later, we found Murphy and
Mount standing beside some rough pasture bars in the forest. How they
had found them in the darkness of the woods--for we had long since left
the stump-road--I do not know; but the bars were there, and a brush
fence; and Murphy whispered that, beyond, a cow-path led to
Beacraft's house.

Now, wary of ambuscade, we moved on, rifles primed and cocked,
traversing a wet path bowered by willow and alder, until we reached a
cornfield, fenced with split rails. The path skirted this, continuing
under a line of huge trees, then ascended a stony little hill, on which
a shadowy house stood.

"Beacraft's," whispered Murphy.

Sir George suggested that we surround the house and watch it till dawn;
so Mount circled the little hill and took station in the north, Sir
George moved eastward, Murphy crept to the west, and I sat down under
the last tree in the lane, cocked rifle on my knees, pan sheltered