"Sounds as if it might be that way," said Henry. "The site of their camp is not more than a mile distant now, and the tents may be pitched somewhere in the woods." "Reckon we're near, Henry, I smell smoke, and it's the smoke that comes out of a pipe." "I smell it too. It's straight ahead. It must be one of the officers. We'll have to be slow and mighty particular. There's a big moon and all the stars are out." The night, as if to atone for the one that had gone before, was particularly brilliant. The dripping woods were luminous with silvery moonlight and the three used every tree and bush as they approached the point from which the tobacco smoke came. The woods were so dense there that they heard the men before they saw them. It was first a hum of voices and then articulated words. "It seems that these forest expeditions are not to be taken lightly, Wyatt," said a heavy growling voice. "No, Colonel Alloway," Braxton Wyatt replied in smooth tones. "There are no roads in the wilderness. If we want one we'll have to make it. It's the cannon that hold us back." "The Indians could move fast without them." "Yes, sir, but we must have 'em. We can't break through the palisades without 'em." "Why, young sir, these red warriors can annihilate anything to be found in Kentucky!" "They did not do it, sir, when we attacked Wareville last year." "Lack of leadership! Lack of leadership!" "If you'll pardon me, sir, I don't think it was. The Indians have to fight in their own way, and the Kentucky riflemen are the best in the world. Why, sir, the things they can do with their rifles are amazing. A musket is like an old-fashioned arquebus compared with their long-barreled weapons. I know one of them--and I must say it, though I hate him--who could kill running deer at two hundred yards, as fast as you could hand him the rifles, never missing a shot." "A William Tell of the woods, so to speak!" said the heavy, gruff voice, sounding an incredulous note. "You'll believe me, sir, if you meet 'em," said Wyatt earnestly. "I don't love 'em any more'n you do, much less perhaps, but I've learned enough to dread their rifles. I was telling you about the one who is such a terrible marksman, though the others are nearly as good. Last night before the rain one of the Wyandots found the trace of a footstep in the forest. It was a trace, nothing more, and not even an Indian could follow it, but I've an idea that it's the very sharpshooter I was telling you about." "And what of it? Why should we care anything for a stray backwoodsman." "He's very dangerous, very dangerous, sir, I repeat, and he's sure to have four others with him." "And who are the dreadful five?" There was a note of irony in the voice.