It was Henry who spoke, and he addressed his father. The pair were trudging along the snow-clad trail, with Dave and Sam Barringford slightly in advance. It was a mild, clear day in January, with the sun kissing every mound of white and causing it to glitter as if with diamonds. The little expedition had been on the march four days, and all evidence of civilization had been left behind. They were taking what Sam Barringford and two of the other frontiersmen considered a “short cut” on the route to Fort Pitt. Whether or not they would stop at the fort when they arrived in that vicinity was still an open question. On the one hand, they did not wish to lose the time to do so, and on the other, they wanted to make certain that no news from the West had come to the stronghold during their absence. So far they had seen no trace of the Indians—indeed, they had met no strangers of any kind. The loneliness of the wilderness winter was on all sides of them. Sometimes they journeyed for hours through the untracked snow without a single sound disturbing them. At times this oppressiveness was hard on Dave and caused him to grow so “blue” that he hardly knew what to do. Henry tried to cheer him up, but with little success. The frontiersmen were all of the silent kind—their calling had rendered them so—and conversation dragged, enlivened only now and then by the talk of the men who urged along the horses. The steeds did their best, but the footing was uncertain, and more than once they went down into pitfalls partly covered with snow and had to be hauled out by main strength. “The Injuns have certainly left this neighborhood,” observed Sam Barringford, after another spell of silence. “Not a sign on ’em anywhere.” “I am glad of that,” answered Joseph Morris. “I want to meet nobody until we arrive at Fort Pitt or the trading post.” “When I war to Fort Cumberland I heard a report about Pontiac,” went on the old frontiersman. “They said he war goin’ west—to stir up the redskins along the Mississippi and lower Ohio, to make another attack on the English. It war said the French trappers an’ traders would help him.” “Such a thing is possible,” answered Joseph Morris. “Of one thing I am certain: Pontiac will not rest until he has either won a victory or been killed.” It was true that Pontiac was again active, this time close to the banks of the Illinois River. Here he essayed to unite the western tribes against the English,—a work that availed him little. The Indian uprisings at Fort Pitt, Detroit, and other points had created a terrible feeling against the red men in all portions of the Colonies, but this hatred was most bitter in Pennsylvania, especially in Paxton township, where a large body of settlers of Irish and Scotch blood organized themselves into a command popularly known as the Paxton Boys. This command hunted down the Indians on all sides, and even slaughtered a harmless tribe, living under the protection of some Moravian missionaries.