“You’ve had a nightmare, and it did us a heap o’ good,” broke in Sam Barringford. “Your runnin’ around has scared off some redskins, I reckon.” By this time half a dozen were near. They gazed at the red warrior whom Barringford had laid low. “He is done for,” said Rodney. “He is too far gone even to question him.” But even as the young soldier spoke the red man raised up suddenly and flung his tomahawk squarely at Barringford. The fling was a weak one and the weapon fell short of its mark. Then the warrior sank back, gave a gasp, and was dead. “Game to the last,” muttered Barringford. “Don’t know as I blame him. Might be I’d do likewise, ef one o’ the varmin plugged me,” he added philosophically. It took several minutes for Mrs. Dobson to settle herself. Her husband stated that she often arose in her sleep. She had been terribly worked up over the red men ever since leaving Fort Pitt, and this had gotten on her nerves. The alarm kept the entire camp “on edge” until daybreak. Barringford and two others made several tours in the immediate vicinity, but could see or hear nothing more of the enemy. “They have either cleared out entirely, or else they know how to hide,” said the old frontiersman. “Do you think it is the same party that Packerson met?” questioned Rodney. “Like as not, Rodney. We ain’t seen or heard o’ anybody else on this trail.” They went on as before, and the following forenoon made a discovery that filled even the stoutest of them with horror. Coming to a spot where the road led down to a ford over a good-sized brook they beheld a man lying beside a rock, with one ear gone and part of his scalp cut away. The man was shot through the body and was all but dead. “Who shot you?” asked one of the frontiersman, running up. “Th—the Indians,” was the low and hoarse answer. “Water!” Water was brought, but the man was almost too weak to drink. One of the party recognized him as Stephen Banoggin, a trader well known in those days around Carlisle and Bedford. Banoggin had left Bedford ten days before, with a view of establishing a new trading post in the vicinity of Venango as soon as it seemed safe to do so. “All dead—all killed by the Indians!” was about all he could say. “Fool, fool that I was to attempt it! All dead!” And that night he expired. His tale was almost true, although not quite so. His pack-train had consisted of ten horses and nine men, including three negroes who were his slaves. The Indians—a mixed band under a chief called Crow Feather—had ambushed the train at the ford and slained or mortally wounded all but one negro and a white hunter named Sturm, a German from upper Pennsylvania. Sturm and the negro got away together, each however wounded. They traveled for four weeks in the forest, when Sturm went crazy. At last they reached a settlement, where the negro told his story. Sturm was placed under medical care and regained his reason some time later.