So, rifle a-trail, I led the way out into the Fish House road. CHAPTER XIII THE DROWNED LANDS For two weeks my small patrol of six remained in the vicinity of the Sacandaga, scouting even as far as Stony Creek, Silver Lake, and West River, covering Maxon, too, and the Drowned Lands, but ever hovering about the Sacandaga, where the great Iroquois War Trail runs through the dusk of primeval woods. But never a glimpse of Sir John did we obtain. Which was scarcely strange, inasmuch as the scent was already stone cold when we first struck it. And though we could trace the Baronet's headlong flight for three days' journey, by his dead fires and stinking camp débris, and, plainer still, by the trampled path made by his men and horses and by the wheel-marks of at least one cannon, our orders, which were to stop the War Trail from Northern enemies, permitted no further pursuit. Yet, given permission, I think I could have come up with him and his motley forces, though what my six scouts could have accomplished against nearly two hundred people is but idle surmise. And whether, indeed, we could have contrived to surprise and capture Sir John, and bring him back to justice, is a matter now fit only for idlest speculation. At the end of the first week I sent Joe de Golyer and Godfrey Shew into Johnstown to acquaint Colonel Dayton of what we had seen and what we guessed concerning Sir John's probable route. De Luysnes and Johnny Silver I stationed on Maxon's honest nose, where the valley of the Sacandaga and the Drowned Lands lay like a vast map at their feet, while Nick Stoner and I prowled the silent Iroquois trail or slid like a pair of otters through the immense desolation of the Drowned Lands, from the jungle-like recesses of which we could see the distant glitter of muskets where our garrison was drilling at Fish House, and a white speck to the southward, which marked the little white and green lodge at Summer House Point. We had found a damaged birch canoe near the Stacking Ridge, and I think it was the property of John Howell, who lived on the opposite side of the creek a mile above. But his log house stood bolted and empty; and, as he was a very rabid Tory, we helped ourselves to his old canoe, and Nick patched it with gum and made two paddles. In this leaky craft we threaded the spectral Drowned Lands, penetrating every hidden water-lead, every concealed creek, every lost pond which glimmered unseen amid cranberry bogs, vast wastes of stunted willow, pinxter shrubs in bloom, and the endless wilderness of reeds. Nesting black-ducks rose on clattering wings in scores and scores at our stealthy invasion; herons and bitterns flapped heavily skyward; great chain-pike, as long as a young boy, slid like shadows under our dipping paddles. But we saw no Indians.