All was silent as the tomb, excepting now and then the scream of a fish-hawk or the singing of a hermit-thrush that had approached the bank of the river after the firing had ceased, and seemed singing the funeral dirge of the red warriors who had already fallen. All of a sudden the thrush flew past Mayall into the forest, and the practiced ear of Mayall heard a rippling in the stream, like running water dashing against some slight obstruction. Anticipating the approach of the Indian warrior, he stepped suddenly from behind the tree, whilst the Indian was struggling with the current, and sent a ball from his rifle through the warrior's heart. He then floated down the rapid current, and sunk in the deep water below the rift. Mayall then took his gunlock from the pocket of the Indian on the shore, who had stayed behind to engineer and direct the crossing, placed it upon his own gun, dragged the Indian into the current of the river, and he, too, floated down, and sunk with the first two in the deep, dark waters of the Susquehanna. He then washed out all traces of the bloody strife, and bent his course homeward. He hurried on, avoiding the trodden path of the red man, until he reached the mouth of the Otego Creek, when night's sable curtain began to darken the landscape around him. He then ascended a high peak of the mountain, that not only overlooked the Valley of the Susquehanna, but also overlooked the lovely Valley of the Otego Creek. Here, after finding a suitable spot, and examining his rifle, and seeing that all was right, he laid down, weary and exhausted, to rest, without kindling a fire.