"I can't guess, lad," replied Barnabas, shaking his head, "an' it's hard to say where they're bound for. They ain't been gone long, an' from the looks of things they numbered nine or ten. We must have crossed their trail somewhere's back without seein' it. From here," stepping forward and pointing to the trodden grass, "they went almost due north. I reckon they're striking for the bridle-road yonder, which runs sort of parallel with the course we're making--" He stopped suddenly as he spied a glittering object at his feet: "A Britisher's spur!" he exclaimed, picking it up. "An' the pattern the dragoons wear. What on earth does this mean?" "It means a squad of the enemy's cavalry, Barnabas," declared Evan Jones. "I believe you, man," said Barnabas, "who else but the cussed British would have cut limbs for bedding? An' the camp-fires show that they didn't reckon on any other travelers bein' in the neighborhood. I'm clean beat to know--" "Here's something else," interrupted Nathan, handing Barnabas a large horn button of an odd color. The old man looked at it intently. His eyes flashed, and his teeth showed behind his parted lips. "Simon Glass!" he cried. "Simon Glass?" echoed three or four voices. "Aye, Simon Glass, men," repeated Barnabas. "I'll swear to this button. It came off his buckskin coat, an' the inhuman fiend lost it here hisself." "I've heard of Simon Glass," Nathan said curiously. "Who is he?" "You don't want to meet him, lad," Barnabas answered grimly. "If ever there was a devil in human shape he's that same. He's a little squatty man, with one eye out; but the other's worth half a dozen. An' his face is a criss-cross of knife-scars. "There ain't any crime too bad for the wretch," Barnabas continued earnestly. "Until eight years back he lived about Wyoming, an' every one was afraid of him. He shot two men what crossed him, an' robbed an' murdered another. Then he had to light out, an' the next heard of him was that he'd killed a man an' woman up at Niagara. When the war begun he turned Tory an' joined the British, an' since then they say he's killed a heap of Americans in cold blood. I have a score agin him, an' I won't forget it. An' as for this old buckskin coat--why, he's been wearin' it steady for fifteen years, an' he wore it on this very spot last night. I know the buttons." "What can he be doing here?" asked a Scotchman named Collum McNicol. "He may have some bloody work of his own on hand," replied Barnabas, "but it's more likely he's been hired to lead these dragoons up to join Butler's forces at Wyoming. An' yet it ain't natural for such a little handful of British to march a hundred and fifty miles up country from Clinton's army. Well, it's no use guessin'. We can't overtake the party, seein' they're mounted, and p'raps it's just as well. But if we do run across 'em--along the way or up at Wyoming, I'll have a bullet ready for Simon Glass. We've fooled too long, men--march on."