On one occasion, while out with a small party of his rangers in pursuit of the Indians, he had gone as far as Slippery Rock Creek, a branch of Beaver River, in Western Pennsylvania, without seeing any signs of his foe. Here, however, he struck upon a fresh trail, which led up the creek, and he hastened in pursuit of the savages, who were some distance in advance. He followed the trail until evening, when he was obliged to wait the return of daylight before he could pursue it further. At the earliest dawn he started afresh, and without stopping to break his fast, he hurried on, bent on coming up with the enemy before they could reach their towns. His precipitancy had nearly cost him his life, for although the party in front did not dream of his proximity, yet a body of warriors, far outnumbering his own small band, had discovered _his_ trail, and were following it with as much avidity as he was pursuing their comrades. Brady discovered those in front, just as they were finishing their morning meal and preparing to renew their journey. Placing his men in such a manner as to intercept them, should any attempt to escape, at a given signal they delivered a close and well-directed volley, and started up to rush upon the enemy with their tomahawks, when the band in their rear fired upon them in turn, taking them completely by surprise, killing two of their number, and throwing the remainder into confusion. Finding himself thus between two fires, and vastly outnumbered, there was nothing left but flight; and Brady, directing his men to look out for themselves, started off at his topmost speed in the direction of the creek.