Stepping into the canoe he paddled across the lake to the mouth of a stream which was new to him. This stream led to the Lake of the Rushes where the girls and women gathered the rushes each spring to make new mats for the platforms of the wigwam. Here he had not been before. As Little Beaver paddled he saw many signs of spring, but he was searching for big game. He wanted to be the first young boy to bring a deer back to the village. Soon he beached his canoe on the side of the Rush Lake and moved inland searching for signs of the deer. Suddenly he came upon the tracks of what seemed to be a fine big buck. Following carefully along the track of the deer he noticed that the deer was moving slowly. Then suddenly the spaces between the tracks became bigger and he knew that the deer had begun to move faster. Suddenly the noises of the woods ceased and it was very quiet. Up ahead a shadow flitted across the trail. Little Beaver dropped upon his belly and then he heard it—the cry of the great horned owl. But still he knew that the owl would not cry at this time of day and from a short distance off the trail he heard an answering cry. Through the fading light among the trees up ahead, he saw a small group of warriors gather. One of these warriors placed his hand alongside his mouth, and the cry of the horned owl once again was heard and from another direction an answer. Then Little Beaver knew that these were unfriendly Indians from the north and they had invaded the land of the Cayugas. They could be here for one reason only, to raid his village. “I must return at once to the village and warn my people of this danger.” Little Beaver turned and retreated down the path to where he had left his canoe. Pushing it out into the lake he immediately began paddling as fast as his arms could go for the mouth of the stream that would lead into the next lake and to the shore of his village. He reached the mouth of the stream just as the dark storm clouds started to gather over the lake. And then it was raining and raining hard. This would slow up the attackers, but it would not stop them and Little Beaver had to get to his village quickly to warn his people of the danger. He dipped his paddle deep into the waters of the lake and the canoe moved forward. But now the wind was getting stronger and his arms began to ache from the effort. He paddled harder and harder but soon his arms became weak and he was still a great distance from the shore. Besides the danger of the storm it was fast approaching nightfall, and ahead Little Beaver could see the friendly fires of his village being lit one at a time. These would act as beacons of direction for the enemy. He chanced a glance behind and then he heard it again. The cry of the horned owl. The cry was coming from almost directly behind and in the dusk he could see the canoes of the enemy slipping from the stream into the lake.