I told him how she had come to the Bowmans the night before, and how, having stolen my mare, I bargained with her and must send her or guide her myself on the morrow to Cayadutta. I was conscious of his stifled mirth but paid no heed, for we were entering the pineries now, where all was inky dark, and the trail to be followed only by touch of foot. "Drop your bridle; Kaya will follow me," I called back softly to the girl, Penelope. "Hold to the saddle and be not afraid." "I am not afraid," said she. We were now moving directly toward Fonda's Bush, and not three miles from my own house, but presently we crossed the brook, ascended a hill, and so came out of the pinery and took a wide and starlit waggon-path which bore to the left, running between fields where great stumps stood. This was Sir William's carriage road to the Point; and twice we crossed the Kennyetto by shallow fords. Close beside this carriage path on the north, and following all the way, ran the Iroquois war trail, hard and clean as a sheep walk, worn more than a foot deep by the innumerable moccasined feet that had trodden it through the ages. Very soon we passed Nine-Mile Tree, a landmark of Sir William's, which was a giant pine left by the road to tower in melancholy majesty all alone. When I rode the hills as Brent-Meester, this pine was like a guide post to me, visible for miles. Now, as I passed, I looked at it in the silvery dusk of the stars and saw some strange object shining on the bark. "What is that shining on Nine-Mile Tree?" said I to Nick. He ran across the road; we marched on, I leading, then the Scotch girl on my mare, then my handful of men trudging doggedly with pieces a-trail. A moment later Nick same swiftly to my side and nudged me; and looking around I saw an Indian hatchet in his hand, the blade freshly brightened. "It was sticking in the tree," he breathed. "My God, John, the Iroquois are out!" Chill after chill crawled up my back as I began to understand the significance of that freshly polished little war-axe with its limber helve of hickory worn slippery by long usage, and its loop of braided deer-hide blackened by age. "Was there aught else?" I whispered. "Nothing except this Mohawk hatchet struck deep into the bark of Nine-Mile Tree, and sticking there." "Do you know what it means, Nick?" "Aye. Also, it is an _old_ war-axe _newly_ polished. And struck deep into the tallest pine in Tryon. Any fool must know what all this means. Shall you speak of this to the others, John?" "Yes," said I, "they must know at once." I waited for Kaya to come up, laid my hand on the bridle and called back in a low voice to my men: "Boys, an Indian war-axe was left sticking in Nine-Mile Tree. Nick drew it out. The hatchet is an old one, but _it is newly polished_!"