LITMIR.BIZ

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began to gather near the threatened farmstead. ’Siah Bolderwood having no farm of his own, was sent through the country raising men and guns for the defense of the Breckenridge place. On his way back he had stopped for Enoch Harding and learning that the boy had gone hunting before daybreak, the ranger followed him, arriving at the deer-lick in time to render important assistance in the dramatic scene just pictured. After crossing the creek at the spot where the boy’s father had met his frightful and mysterious death a few months before, the two volunteers, while still the day was new, reached the place of the settlers’ gathering.

      CHAPTER III

      THE AMBUSH

      The house of James Breckenridge was built at the foot of a slight ridge of land running east and west, which ridge was heavily wooded. It was only a mile from the Twenty-Mile Line and therefore particularly open to attack by the New York authorities. Once before had an attempt been made by the grasping land speculators of the sister colony to oust its rightful owner, but at that time naught but a wordy controversy had ensued, whereas the present attack bade fair to be more serious. Breckenridge had sent his family to the settlement in expectation of this trouble, while he and his neighbors made ready to meet the sheriff and his army. Some of the Bennington men had arrived at the farm the evening before when news went forth that the invaders were only seven miles away, at Sancock. But the greater number of the defenders came, as did ’Siah Bolderwood and young Enoch Harding, soon after sun-up.

      This gathering of Grants men was a memorable one. Heretofore, the clashes with the Yorkers had been little more than skirmishes in which half a dozen or a dozen men on both sides had taken part. Ethan Allen, Seth Warner, Remember Baker, and others of the more venturesome spirits, had seized some of the land-grabbers and their tools, and delivered upon their bared backs more strokes of “the twigs of the wilderness,” as Allen called the blue beech rods, than the unhappy Yorkers thus treated would forget in many a day.

      Ethan Allen was not as long in the settlement as many of the other men about him; but he was a born leader, and entering heart and soul into the cause of the Grants was soon acknowledged the most fiery spirit among the settlers. He was born in Litchfield, Conn., January 10, 1737, and probably came to the Hampshire Grants some time in ’69. Although but thirty-four years old at this time he carried his point in most arguments regarding the well-being of the settlers, and the Green Mountain boys, as his followers came to be called, fairly worshipped him. He was singularly handsome, with ruddy face, a ready wit, bold, unpolished, brave and almost a giant in size, for though not so tall as Seth Warner he was a much heavier and broader man.

      With this company of armed men, too, was Remember Baker and his flint-lock musket, which seldom left his side waking or sleeping. Baker was the best shot on the northern border and performed feats of marksmanship with this musket that could scarce be equaled by any of our famous marksmen to-day with their improved weapons. Like the stories told of Robin Hood and his cloth-yard shafts, Baker could split a wand with a bullet and always filed the flint on his musket to a sharp point.

      Other men there were in this early morning assembly destined to be heard from later in the affairs of the struggling community, but none so filled young Enoch Harding’s eye as did these two. Remember Baker lived not far from the Harding farm and Enoch often went there to visit young Robert Baker, or had Robert to stay all night with him at his home. But Enoch’s closest boy friend was James Breckenridge’s nephew, Lot, who was two years young Harding’s senior and bore arms on this morning with the older youths and men. At once when the two spied each other they found opportunity to step aside and hold such confidences as boys are wont. Yet they were so excited by the prospect of the forthcoming battle with the Yorkers that even Nuck’s adventure with the catamount was lightly passed over.

      Meanwhile the settlers were divided into several bands, each captained by an efficient officer who, as ’Siah Bolderwood expressed it, “had snuffed powder.” Bolderwood himself was given command of the larger number and arranged his men along the top of the ridge behind the house, where they would be concealed by the brush but could draw bead upon any person passing along the road or approaching the farmhouse. One hundred and twenty under a second leader were hidden beside the road while eighteen and an officer were stationed inside the house itself.

      These arrangements had scarce been made when a figure was descried approaching at top speed. It was a messenger to warn the settlers of the coming of the enemy. “Run down to the house, Nuck,” commanded ’Siah, “and get the news for me. Keep your heads down, lads! Let them Yorkers when they come, think there ain’t nobody to home!”

      Enoch crept through the brush and descended the slope, appearing before the house just as the runner reached it. Coming so suddenly from behind the dwelling Enoch startled the newcomer, who sprang back and placed his hand on the hunting knife at his belt. Then, with a contemptuous grunt, the messenger passed Enoch by and lifted the latch-string which had been left hanging out. Enoch followed him into the Breckenridge house.

      The runner was a tall Indian lad with a keen face and coal-black eyes and hair. Enoch knew him, for his people had camped for several years near the Harding place. But Jonas Harding had had that contempt for the red race which characterized many of the pioneer people and was the foundation for more than half the trouble between the whites and reds; and he had often expressed this contempt before young Crow Wing, who was a chief’s son although his tribe was scattered and decimated by disease. Crow Wing had hated Enoch’s father for his taunts and unkind words, and now that the elder Harding was dead the young Indian considered his son cast in the same mould and worthy of the same hatred which he had borne Jonas. Naturally Enoch would have shared his parent’s contempt for the Indians; but ’Siah Bolderwood, although he had camped, hunted and fought with Enoch’s father for so many years, did not share the latter’s opinion of the Indian character, and from him Enoch had imbibed many ideas of late which changed his opinion of the red men. There was a time, however, when the white boy had ridiculed Crow Wing and the latter had not forgotten.

      Enoch watched him now with admiration. The young brave had run for several miles, having been sent out toward Sancock by one of the settlers for whom he sometimes worked, but he breathed as easily as though he had walked instead of run. When one of the men in the Breckenridge kitchen spoke to him he answered in a perfectly even voice which showed no tremor of fatigue.

      “Him sheriff march now,” he said. “Mebbe t’ink um t’ree mile off.”

      “Where did you leave them?” asked the man in command of the house. The Indian youth told him. “And how many are there, Crow Wing?” asked another.

      “Many–many!” cried the Indian, his eyes flashing. He held up both hands and spread all his ten fingers rapidly seven times. “Seventy!” cried one of the white men. “He means seven hundred,” declared the leader. “That so, Crow Wing, eh?”

      The Indian nodded. “Many white men–many guns,” he said.

      “It’s not true,” growled one man. “You can’t believe anything an Injin says. Where would the New York sheriff get seven hundred men?”

      Crow Wing’s eyes flashed and he drew himself up proudly. “Me no lie–me speak true. Injin not two-tongue like white man!” he declared, with scorn, and turning his back on his traducer, stalked out of the house.

      The settlers, however, paid little attention to his departure. Enoch scuttled back to the ridge where ’Siah was waiting to hear the news. There he lay down beside Lot Breckenridge and the two boys talked earnestly as the men about them smoked or chatted while waiting for the coming of the Yorkers. Seven hundred seemed a great number to oppose. The odds would be more than two to one. Despite the ambush which had been so carefully laid for them, the sheriff and his men might fight as desperately as the settlers themselves.

      “Tell ye what!” whispered Lot to Enoch, “I ain’t fixin’ to git shot. Marm didn’t want Uncle Jim to let me come, but he said ev’ry gun’d count this mornin’, so she ’lowed I’d hafter. But she says if I git shot she’ll larrup me well.”

      Enoch chuckled. Although Lot was his senior he was more of a child than young Harding. The experiences of the last few months had aged Enoch a good deal. “My mother won’t whip me if I git shot; but I

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