It was in May, 1780, that he commenced his march. The season was uncommonly wet. Every considerable stream was swollen; neither road, bridge nor house facilitated their march, or shielded their repose. Part of their provision was picked up by the way, as they crept, rather than marched through the wilderness by night, and lay concealed in its branches by day. The slightest trace of his movement, the print of a white man's foot on the sand of a river, might have occasioned the extermination of the party. Brady was versed in all the wiles of Indian "strategy," and, dressed in the full war dress of an Indian warrior, and well acquainted with their languages, he led his band in safety near to the Sandusky towns, without seeing a hostile Indian. The night before he reached Sandusky he saw a fire, approached it, and found two squaws reposing beside it. He passed on without molesting them. But his Chickasaws now deserted. This was alarming, for it was probable they had gone over to the enemy. However, he determined to proceed. With a full knowledge of the horrible death that awaited him if taken prisoner, he passed on, until he stood beside the town, and on the bank of the river. His first care was to provide a place of concealment for his men. When this was effected, having selected one man as the companion of his future adventures, he waded the river to an island partially covered with driftwood, opposite the town, where he concealed himself and comrade for the night. In constancy of purpose, in cool, deliberate courage, the Captain of the Rangers will compare with any hero of this age, or any other. Neither banner nor pennon waved over him. He was hundreds of miles in the heart of an enemy's country—an enemy who, had they possessed it, would have given his weight in gold for the pleasure of burning him to death with a slow fire—adding to his torments, both mental and physical, every ingredient that savage ingenuity could supply. Who that has poetry of feeling, or feeling of poetry, but must pause over such a scene, and, in imagination, contemplate its features! The murmuring river; the sylvan landscape; as each was gazed upon by that lonely, but dauntless warrior, in the still midnight hour. The next morning a dense fog spread over hill and dale, town and river. All was hid from Brady's eyes, save the logs and brush around him. About eleven o'clock it cleared off, and afforded him a view of about three thousand Indians, engaged in the amusements of the race ground. They had just returned from Virginia or Kentucky with some very fine horses. One gray horse in particular attracted his notice. He won every race until near evening, when, as if envious of his speed, two riders were placed on him, and thus he was beaten. The starting post was only a few rods above where Brady lay, and he had a pretty fair chance of enjoying the amusement, without the risk of losing any thing by betting on the race.