With Ethan Allen at Ticonderoga

Remember Baker lived at Arlington, and the distance from that new settlement, it could hardly be called a village, to Bennington was about two and a half miles. Enoch Harding might have given the alarm to the neighbors of the captured man, but he knew that they would not be able to pursue the Yorkers, for good horse flesh was scarce outside of Bennington. And Robbie would doubtless rouse them, anyway, as soon as he was recovered from his fright. As he saw it, Enoch believed his duty to point to the Catamount Inn, and we have seen how quickly a company was formed there for the chase of the Yorkers and their prisoner.

Enoch had ridden Baker’s horse hard into town and now he followed behind the ten rescuers, urging the animal to still greater efforts. The hard-packed snow rang merrily under the hoofs of the steeds. Fortunately the boy’s mount had been well “sharpened” by the local smith shortly before, or riding recklessly as he did the horse might have suffered a fall, and Enoch been flung off. Nevertheless he could not keep up with Isaac Clark and his companions, so gradually fell behind. His steed’s wind was sound, however, and he pursued the trail steadily.

The rescuers showed no hesitation in choosing their route. There were but a few beaten trails and they knew the road John Munro and his party would take with the prisoner to the bank of the Hudson. They could not miss it. The road from Arlington broke into this main trail at a point not far beyond the confines of Bennington and there it was at once apparent that the sledge and horsemen had passed that way not long before. There were plain marks of the runners and the ice and snow were cut up by the feet of the flying horses. The fact that the Yorkers numbered as many–if not more–than themselves, did not disturb the Green Mountain Boys in the least. “A Grants man who is not good for two or three of the scurvy Yorkers, is no good at all!” Stephen Fay had declared when they set forth, and probably the only emotions the ten felt as they rode on were eagerness and wrath.

Meanwhile, behind them raced Enoch Harding, desiring mightily to “be in at the death,” as the fox-hunters say. His heavy farmhorse could not compete with the mounts of the possé, however, and with tears in his eyes he saw them increase the distance between themselves and his animal. But he doggedly pursued the road, while the clatter of hoofs grew mellow in the distance. The morning was very still; the moon had sunk now and the stars were fading before the gray light of the coming day. In the east behind him the sky was even streaked with pink above the mountain-tops; the wind blew more keenly and he suddenly awoke to the fact that he was almost perished with the cold, for he had stopped for neither greatcoat nor mittens.

Finally arriving at the top of a ridge of land he saw before him–at least two miles along the road and just mounting another ridge–a group of flying horses with a sledge in their midst, the prisoner and his captors. At first he did not see the Green Mountain Boys at all; but as his own horse plunged down the slope he suddenly observed the squadron which had left the Bennington Inn, come out of the dip of the valley where the trees were thickest, and begin the ascent of the further ridge. The two parties were less than half a mile apart.

But from the elevation he was on Enoch had seen something else. The second ridge was lower than this and over it and not very far beyond he had caught a glimpse of the frozen Hudson! The river was not far away. Would the settlers catch the scoundrelly New York justice and his companions before they reached the river?

And this must be done if they would rescue Captain Baker. It was all very well to talk of following the party to Albany; but that would simply result in the imprisonment of all in the jail. Once at the river the Yorkers would be among friends and would find plenty of people to help them beat off the Green Mountain Boys. The latter understood this well enough. They did not need young Enoch Harding to tell them, and it was quite evident to the boy that his friends were spurring their horses desperately up the farther slope in a last grand burst of speed to overtake the fugitives.

On and on they sped and finally, when Enoch reached the dip of the vale, Clark and his party were over the hill and had disappeared. The boy dared not urge his horse up the ascent too rapidly and he lost much precious time before reaching the summit. But once here he had a broad outlook over the slope and plain beyond and if he could not be present, at least he had an unobstructed view of the end of the chase. The Green Mountain Boys had spurred down the hill madly and gained upon the sledge so rapidly that the faint-hearted Yorkers were thrown into a panic. The horses attached to the sledge gave out and one of them slipped and fell in the harness. Instead of stopping to help Munro get the animal on its feet, the horsemen, with the fear of punishment from the angry pursuers before their eyes, rode on and scattered in the thick woods beyond, leaving the doughty justice to meet the possé alone. Munro was not a physical coward and he felt that with the majesty of the law–New York law–behind him, he could face Baker’s friends.

They bore down upon him with threatening cries, but he stood his ground and warned them at the top of his voice neither to shoot nor to try to rescue his prisoner. There was no need of firearms, of course, for they were ten to one now. But they laughed his authority to scorn. What! allow him to carry ’Member Baker to Albany to be tried by a judge who was himself interested in land speculations, and by a jury antagonistic to the settlers of the Grants? It was preposterous!

Baker, who suffered sorely from his wounds, was untied and placed upon one of the horses which could carry double. The possé felt ugly, but they did not harm the justice and after some wordy warfare rode away again, leaving Munro to get his horse up and harnessed again to the sledge without their help. His threats of future punishment for the entire party were unnoticed. Their wild ride had been crowned with success, for they had recovered their wounded comrade within a mile of the Hudson River, and they took him home without any molestation.

But Captain Baker was weak from the loss of blood and terribly shaken by the experience and was in bed and under the care of a surgeon for some days. The news of the Yorkers’ raid spread throughout the Grants and the settlers whose fears had been lulled to sleep by the peace of the winter, were roused to a realization of the fact that the land grabbers intended to be quite as active in the future as they had been in the past. The next training day the conversation of the Green Mountain Boys who were present in Bennington was bitter indeed. Cochran, and such reckless spirits, were for retaliating with fire and bullet on the New York border. Nevertheless Warner and other more moderate men counseled forbearance.

“We overawed the sheriff’s army last year, it is true. But at that time we had given the people of New York no reasonable excuse for attacking us,” declared Warner. “We’ve beech-sealed more than one surveyor and warned New York settlers off the farms they had stolen since then. We’ve been obliged to use force and now force will be used against us. But I find that many of these New York settlers have been brought here under a misapprehension. They did not understand the controversy before they got the farms, and believed that the land-grabbers really owned the property of which they are in possession. To visit our righteous wrath upon helpless women and children will not help the cause of the Grants.”

Many of his hearers, however, were not convinced. “’Member Baker’s been beaten and his wife and boy ill-treated. What are we going to do about it?” was the demand.

“Complaint has already been made to Governor Tryon of New York, and John Munro may be punished by his own side for what he did the other night.”

“And there’s ’Member’s gun,” spoke up another ill-affected partisan. “Munro stole it and has got it to his house. I’m told so by a neighbor of his. ’Member thinks a deal of that gun.”

“I’ll get that,” said Warner, quickly. “’Member shall have his property back before next training day.”

And with that promise the disaffected spirits were satisfied for the time being. When Enoch rode away from Bennington on his return home that afternoon, the Connecticut giant overtook him on the road. Warner was a fine-looking man, younger even than Ethan Allen and idolized by the women and children of the community as Allen was by the men. But there was nothing effeminate about Warner. He was of the better class of borderers, possessing more education than most of his neighbors and with that measure of refinement and cultivation which placed George Washington above the majority of his associates. Warner had no patrician bearing, however, but entered into the work, sports and pursuits of his fellows. He was a superb horseman and rode on this day a mount which the governor of New York himself might covet.

Enoch Harding had grown used, by this time, to seeing these prominent leaders of the Grants and had spoken with Captain Warner before. “Master Harding, your road lies my way for some distance,” declared Warner, smiling on the boy. “We will go together.”

“You do not ride this way frequently, sir,” said Enoch.

“Nay. But you heard my promise to-day. I must get ’Member’s gun. That rascally Munro may have to be taught a lesson, too.”

“But will you go alone?” cried the boy.

Warner laughed. “Why, it is a peaceful mission. See–I have not even my rifle–only my sword as captain of our military company. A show of force might only make matters worse–and dear knows they are bad enough as it stands.”

“Munro will be among his friends, sir. Ought you not to have somebody with you?”

“There might be some doubt regarding that, Master Harding. A man like Munro is never blessed with an overabundance of friends. He may have minions that, for wage, would help him in his nefarious deeds. But I shall meet him when he least expects to see a Green Mountain Boy and I fear no serious trouble. But if you have doubt as to my safety,” and he smiled again, “you may ride with me and see that the doughty ’Squire does not capture and run away with me as he attempted to with Captain Baker.”

Enoch’s eyes sparkled at this permission and he spurred on after Captain Warner although the direction was one which carried him some distance out of his way. A two hours’ ride brought them to the settlement where the New York justice lived. Before they reached the place the figure of Warner was spied and recognized and Munro met the Green Mountain Boy in the roadway before his own house, surrounded by several of his neighbors. Enoch kept in the rear and as they rode up the boy unslung his gun and laid it across his saddle. Warner smiled as he noted this act, and then his face grew stern again as he drew rein before the much-hated Yorker.

“Master Munro,” he said, without parley, “it has been brought to my attention that, upon your late evening visit to Captain Remember Baker, you carried away from his house a certain weapon which Captain Baker highly prizes. You mistook it for your own, I presume, and the duties of your office have doubtless been so onerous since then that you have not had opportunity to return it. Happening to be in this neighborhood I have stopped to request the return of the gun.”

“Ha, ye rebel!” exclaimed Munro. “Dare ye put yourself in the lion’s jaws in this way? I’ll show ye—”

“Whether I have put myself in the jaws of a lion or a jackal may be a question which is aside from our present discussion,” interrupted Warner, scornfully. “I have come for Captain Baker’s property.”

“Baker is an outlaw–as are you,” declared Munro, wrathfully, “and as such I took away his arms. An’ I shall keep the gun.”

“Now, ’Squire, if you had stated the reverse of that proposition I should have the more easily believed you,” cried Warner, with flashing eyes. “Even a New York justice of the peace may not rob his neighbor with impunity in the Grants. I shall carry that gun away with me to-day. So, sir, deliver it without further ado!”

“Ye threaten me, do ye?” cried Munro, lashing himself into a rage. “Seize this villain, neighbors! I call on ye to assist in the capture of Seth Warner, the outlaw!” He seized the bridle of Warner’s horse, which reared with him and struck out angrily. But the justice hung on, still calling to the bystanders to interfere and help him. Enoch urged his own horse forward; but there was no fear of the neighbors aiding in Seth Warner’s capture. They refused to do so, and perhaps as much out of fear of the Connecticut man himself, as out of dislike for the justice.

Warner’s horse was a mettlesome beast and Munro’s act in seizing the bridle angered it. The Green Mountain boy had all he could do to handle his steed for a moment and, as Munro continued to cling to the bridle, Warner suddenly whipped out his sword and whirling it about his head brought the flat of the weapon down upon the officer’s pate! The blow caused Munro to relax his hold and knocked him to the ground, where he lay, roaring with pain and anger. Warner rode over him and approached the open door of the house to which Mrs. Munro, frightened by her husband’s overthrow, quickly brought the gun in question and handed it to the victor.

“Many thanks, ’Squire Munro!” cried Warner, waving the gun above his head and holding in his charger. “And when next ye seek to impound me, come in force, sir–come in force!” and letting his mount go, he and Enoch rode away at a swift canter.

Young Harding went home that night full of the afternoon’s doings, and loud in his praise of Captain Warner’s prowess. He and Bryce made many plans for the reception of the Yorkers if they came to their farm; but after this matters were quiet for some weeks and the settlers were enabled to begin the spring work and get the seed into the ground in peace. On May 19th Governor Tryon sent a letter to the Grants proposing a conference and promising amnesty to all those who had taken an active part in the raids of the Green Mountain Boys excepting Ethan Allen, Seth Warner, Baker and Robert Cochran. The King had commanded that New York do nothing further toward surveying or settling the lands east of Lake Champlain and the Twenty-Mile Line until the difficulty could be properly adjusted, and Tryon promised that the land-grabbers should be kept away from the Grants.

The farmers were delighted with this letter. They had been living in continual fear of dispossession since the first attack on the Breckenridge farm in ’69. Now they felt that they would be free to follow the peaceful pursuits of their calling and began to improve their possessions, believing that, after all, the right would prevail. None were more pleased at this turn of affairs than the widow Harding and Enoch. Bryce, it must be confessed, felt a little disappointed that he had seen no active service; but they were all happy in their work and the Harding place bade fair to be one of the most profitable farms in the township that year.

The boys labored well and after the second corn hoeing in August the work was so far along that Enoch was able to accompany ’Siah Bolderwood on a hunting trip. The old ranger, lacking any regular abiding place of his own, often visited the Hardings and helped in the work of the farm. But he was a wanderer by nature and could not stay in one place long at a time. So, being off to the northward, the widow allowed Enoch to join him for a week or two.

It was not wholly game that Bolderwood was after, however. At least, not game for present killing. He was mapping out his next winter’s campaign against the wild creatures of the forest. His strings of traps and dead-falls would be laid along the route which he and his young comrade traversed. Reaching the southern extremity of Lake Champlain Bolderwood found a canoe which, well hidden in a hollow log–all that remained of a monster king of the woodland–had lain untouched since his last visit to the lake. In this light bark they set sail upon that beautiful body of water on the shores of which the French and English had so often met in battle. It has been well said that the Champlain Valley was the school grounds of the early colonists, and that here were largely unfolded the elements of character which became of supreme importance in the Revolutionary struggle.

On the west bank of this lower, and narrower, portion of the lake, stood the frowning walls of Fort Ticonderoga–“Old Ti” as the settlers called it–wrested not long since from the French backed by their Huron and Algonquin allies. That promontory signalized a more ancient landmark of history even than the Pilgrim stone at Plymouth, and one quite as important to our country at large. Eleven years before the Mayflower began her voyage to America, Champlain met the Iroquois in battle on the site of Ticonderoga, and this battle made the Iroquois the friends of the English and the enemies of the French for generations. Ticonderoga was an important link in the chain of French posts extending from the St. Lawrence to the Mississippi, which was designed to shut the English colonists into that narrow strip of the continent east of the Alleghanies.

From the beginning Fort Frederick (Crown Point) and Ticonderoga were a menace to the English. From these points the red allies of the French descended upon the border settlements to the south and burned and pillaged at pleasure. Two fearful campaigns were needed to reduce Ticonderoga and place the command of the Champlain in the hands of the British. Since its capture Ticonderoga had fallen somewhat into decay, for with the changing of the Canadian government from French to English, danger of attack, even by Indian bands, from the north was little to be expected by the settlers who had flocked into the rich lands near the lake after the close of the war.

Bolderwood and his young comrade passed Old Ti and, continuing up the lake, paddled by Crown Point and reached the mouth of the Otter. Here they encamped for several days, hunting and fishing, and living in a nomadic fashion that charmed Enoch. But when they were about to return another party of hunters came to the spot–men whom Bolderwood knew–bound for the upper end of the lake and into the wilderness lying east of that point. Enoch could not go so far because of the work on the farm; but he urged Bolderwood to accompany this party, as he knew very well he could find his way home in safety by either the land or water route. In fact, he rather coveted the chance to make his way home alone, for he wished to prove to the ranger his ability to do for himself.

It was therefore arranged that the boy should take Bolderwood’s canoe and go up Otter Creek to a certain settler’s house, there to leave the canoe and make his way overland to Bennington, and the next day they separated. The hunters did not start until afternoon on their northern journey, however, and Enoch left at the same time. Not far up the creek was a settlement of Hampshire farmers who on one occasion had been driven out by Yorkers in the employ of a Scotchman named Reid. But the Yorkers who had taken these farms stayed but a short time and the real owners of the property had come back the year before. Here Enoch expected to remain the first night of his lonely journey.

He did not arrive until late, however, and the houses were in darkness–indeed they seemed deserted. The mill (built by Colonel Reid’s followers) stood silent, the stones having been broken by the Green Mountain Boys on the occasion of the driving out of the New York settlers. Enoch, having heard such good accounts of this settlement, was astonished by the appearance of inactivity.

Nevertheless he landed and soon found a stockade surrounding a blockhouse, which was evidently occupied. The people seemed to live under this single roof as though they were in fear of an Indian raid, and the boy approached the place cautiously. He was not molested, however, for no watch was being kept; but when he rapped smartly on the door he knew by the sudden hush of voices within that the occupants of the dwelling were startled. There was the clatter of arms and a sudden command. Fearing that he might be treated as an enemy, Enoch knocked again and was about to raise his voice in the “view halloa” of the settlers, when the door was snapped open for an instant and the sharp blade of a sword thrust out of the darkness, the light of the candles having been quenched at his first summons.

The boy sprang back with an exclamation of fear, and only his agility saved him from serious injury, for the point of the sword cut a slit in his hunting coat. And the attack, so utterly unexpected, quite deprived him of speech or further motion as the heavy door slammed in his face. Such a welcome was, to say the least, disconcerting.

The late visitor at the Otter Creek settlement shrank away from the door and, dumbfounded by the sword-thrust which was evidently meant for his heart instead of his coat, waited to see what the next move of those in the blockhouse would be. He heard low voices and words which sounded like military commands. Suppose the occupants of the wooden fort should fire upon him?

At this idea he dropped upon all fours and it is perhaps well that he did so, for one bullet did come from a loophole, singing viciously above his head. Then an angry voice of command rose on the night air: “Haud yir hand, mon! Let’s see an’ it be fri’nd or foe.” The tone and accent were broadly Scotch, and this, too, added to Enoch’s amazement. He had not heard of Scotch people coming to Otter Creek since those placed there by Colonel Reid had been driven forth. At once his suspicions were aroused, but he cried aloud:

“I am a friend and am alone. I only came for a night’s lodging.”

“’Tis a laddie, mon! There’s naught t’ fear,” declared the voice within, as though answering some objection which Enoch could not hear. The candles were lighted and in another moment the door was opened again, revealing a tall, raw-boned Scot with a shock of red hair and beard. He grasped a bared sword, almost as big as a two-handed claymore, and he looked sternly upon the boy as the latter approached.

“Ha! ’tis wrang for a laddie t’ be oot this time o’ night,” he declared. “Air ye sure alone?”

“Quite alone,” Enoch replied. “I have been hunting west of here and we camped at the mouth of the creek. My comrades have gone northward and I was returning home by way of the creek. I did not know that the settlers here were in fear of Indians—”

“Ha! ’tis little we think o’ them rid chiels. There’s war nor they in yon forest-land, an’ well we ken that.”

“Who do you mean?” demanded Enoch, now stepping within the open door.

“Why, the robber Allen, an’ his followers. We do oor wark wi’ guns in oor han’s for fear of them same outlaws. Eh, mon! but they’re a bold mob.”

Enoch made no reply, but advanced to the gun rack and stood up his rifle and dropped his pack. He knew now what had occurred at the settlement. The land-grabber Reid had come back to the Grants, ousted the Hampshire settlers, and again established minions of his own in their places. The boy glanced about and saw at least a dozen hardy looking Scots. Every one of them had doubtless served in Colonel Reid’s regiment of Highlanders. They were descended from men almost as wild and bloodthirsty as the red Indians themselves, and although ordinarily they might be harmless enough, that thrust of the sword had shown Enoch that they were likely to fight first and inquire the reason for it afterward. They had come to Otter Creek in force this time, and evidently determined to battle for their master’s holdings under the New York law.

But the man who had let him in, and who was a Cameron, was evidently bent upon treating hospitably the guest which he had so nearly run through with his sword. “Jamie Henderson,” he said to one of the solemn faced Scots, “speir ane o’ the wimmen t’ gie us a bite for the lad,” and the repast which was prepared and put before him was generous and kindly given. While he was eating and John Cameron sat by to watch him enjoy the food, Enoch gathered courage to ask a few questions.

“We heard down Bennington way that Colonel Reid’s people had left this land and the settlers who formerly owned it had come back,” he said, suggestively. The Scot’s eyes contracted as he looked at the visitor. “Aye, aye?” he said, questioningly. “How long have you been here?” queried the boy.

“Sin’ June. The men ye call settlers were nae proper holders o’ their titles. Lieutenant-Colonel Reid bought this land and put fairmers here first.”

“But he did not get his title from New Hampshire,” Enoch said.

“Nae–w’y should he? New York owns the land to yon big river–th’ Connecticut call ye it? Our fri’nds settled here in ’69. The titles these auld settlers held wes no guide–na, na! But Colonel Reid is a guide mon–’deed yes.”

“How do you make that out?” demanded Enoch. He wanted to tell the Scot what he thought of this business, but he dared not. He knew Ethan Allen and the other leaders of the Green Mountain Boys should know of it, and as he, perhaps, was the first to learn of the return of the Scotch, he must get away early in the morning and reach Bennington in the quickest possible time. While the Grants men were resting in supposed safety and peace because of Governor Tryon’s letter promising inactivity on the part of the land speculators, the latter were hurrying their minions over the line, evicting the rightful owners of the Grants, and stealing their farms. The boy’s heart swelled with anger; but he was wise enough to hold his tongue and say nothing to rouse the suspicions of the Scots.

In reply to his question regarding Colonel Reid’s “guideness” Cameron told how he, with other Scots, had landed in New York early in June and had been engaged by the Colonel at once to go and occupy his land in the Disputed Territory. Reid came with them to the settlement, being at considerable expense to transport them, their wives, children and baggage. The day after their arrival while viewing the land covered by Reid’s title, they observed a crop of Indian corn, wheat, and garden stuff, and a stack of hay belonging to two New England men who, according to Cameron, had squatted on the land without right or title. Reid paid these two men $15 for their standing crops and the hay and made over the same to his new tenants. This was a novel way of telling how the owners of the titles to the farms received from the New Hampshire governor years before, were evicted. But Enoch held his peace. He had considerable doubt in his own mind regarding Colonel Reid’s “guideness,” nevertheless, and rose early in the morning and left the settlement in Bolderwood’s canoe. Instead of keeping on up the Otter he turned back to the lake. The route by which he and the ranger had come from Bennington would be far shorter than the one he had started upon; so he went back that way. News of the return of Reid’s people must be conveyed to Ethan Allen and the other leaders of the Green Mountain Boys as quickly as possible.

He scarcely stopped for food, so anxious was he to get home. He met nobody on his trip until he reached Manchester and there his story was hardly believed, for the letter of the New York governor in May, inviting the Grants representatives to a council, had made a strong and favorable impression upon public sentiment. This council had advised that all legal processes against the Grants settlers cease and even now the echoes had not died away of the jubilation of the deluded people over what was considered the end of the bitter controversy.

But when he arrived at home and told his mother of his discovery she, like the truly patriotic woman she was, became vastly disturbed. “You may not rest idly here, Enoch, while such wrong is being done. Colonel Allen should know of it at once. He rode past here but yesterday on his way to Bennington, and gave us a cry. He asked for you, too,” she said, with pride, “and told me how well you carried yourself at training. There is a council being held in town to-day, I believe, for I suspect that Colonel Allen and Captain Warner have not been deceived by the false promises of Governor Tryon. And this business at the Otter Creek will wake up many of those who would cry ‘Peace!’ when there is no peace. Bryce will saddle the horse for you, Enoch,” she added, “and while you eat I will prepare your best breeches and coat. You cannot appear at the inn before the gentlemen in your old clothing.”

The careful woman bustled away and laid out her son’s Sabbath suit and his boughten shoes and, tired as Enoch was, he rode away toward Bennington an hour after reaching the ox-bow farm.

As his mother had declared, Colonel Allen and several other leaders were in conference in Stephen Fay’s private parlor, and when he had whispered his story to the innkeeper, the latter brought him at once before the gentlemen, rightly considering the matter of such importance as to brook no delay in the telling. Never before had Enoch seen Ethan Allen in any capacity but that of a leader in action. In the boy’s mind he had ever been connected with scenes of riot, or in the capacity of a commander on training day. But it was a very serious looking group which surrounded the table now, and the man at the head of the board lacked nothing in dignity and stern bearing in comparison with the other members of the committee.

It was Allen, however, who turned from the subject under discussion and beckoned Master Fay and Enoch nearer. “What have we here?” he asked. “Something of moment, I warrant, from the look on Stephen’s face. And there is young Nuck Harding. Is aught amiss in your district, lad?”

“Nay, Colonel,” Enoch replied; “but I have been in the north and bring back news that my mother was sure you would wish to hear at once. So I rode over without delay to tell you, sir.”

“God bless the woman!” Allen exclaimed, heartily. “She’s fighting away there in the wilderness with her pack of babies in a way to make grown men blush. I was by there but yesterday.... And what’s the news you bring, Nuck?”

“The Yorkers have come back to the mill on Otter Creek.”

“What, sir?” cried Allen, leaping from his chair.

“That’s not to be believed,” cried one of the others. “How know ye this, boy?”

Enoch told them, using few words; but the tremor in his voice showed the depth of his feeling. The injury done the settlers–the treachery of the Yorkers–had affected him as it had his mother. Allen listened with marked attention, having dropped back into his wide-armed chair, but he watched the boy’s countenance the while. “Egad!” cried he when the story was done, “there’s a boy after my own heart. He knows when he sees a snake in the brush!” Then he turned instantly to his companions. “We will postpone this other matter, gentlemen. What we may do in the event of his Majesty’s placing other and more onerous burdens upon these colonies, affects us not so nearly as what these New York Tories do to us now. We have no standing either with the colonies or with the King; we are outlaws, forsooth; our hand is against every man’s and every man’s hand against us. Yet, belike in time the trouble between the King and the colonies may be the salvation of the Hampshire Grants.

“We have other business now. I am away at once, friends,” he said, rising again. “Do so to me and more also, if I allow more time than is necessary to pass before I fall upon those Scotch scoundrels and smite them hip and thigh! Send the word around, Stephen Fay. Let them that will gather here. Be sure Warner knows of this; I will send for ’Member myself. His company will be first ready, I have no doubt. ’Member’s wound is scarce yet healed, and the sting of it needs dressing,” and he laughed, knowing Captain Baker’s fiery temper and his hatred of the Yorkers who had served him so evilly that very spring. “Let it be known that we start from Bennington by sunrise.”

Enoch returned home, more than a little puffed with pride because of Colonel Allen’s commendation and although he was too young to join the party which, under Allen and Captain Baker, marched to punish the Scots at Vergennes, he knew that his fortunate discovery would make him something of a hero in the eyes of his mates. The Green Mountain Boys fell upon the Scots unexpectedly, burned the cabins, pastured their horses in the standing corn, broke the millstones to pieces, and drove the New York settlers to Crown Point where they took shelter until the land-speculator, Reid, could gain them transportation to other and more honestly acquired lands. As for Reid himself, had he been overtaken by the Grants men he certainly would have been “viewed”–a phrase used by the Green Mountain Boys, meaning to be whipped. The settlement was, however, for the time being abandoned by both parties, for it was so deep in the wilderness that neither could properly defend it from attack.

After his return from this hunting trip, Enoch Harding was forced to neglect the training days on several occasions because of the increased work at home. The harvest was soon upon them and nobly had the fields of the ox-bow farm borne for the widow and her children. While they were hard at work getting under cover, or in stack, the last of their crops, the Manchester Convention was held, from which James Breckenridge and Captain Jehiel Hawley were sent to London to represent the struggling settlers, their former minister to the king, Samuel Robinson, having died before accomplishing the work which he had so well begun.

With the discovery that Governor Tryon’s declaration of an armistice had been an act of treachery, and that the Yorkers were likely to continue their raids and seize the honestly purchased lands of the New Hampshire settlers, as Colonel Reid had at Vergennes, the Hardings began to fear the return of Simon Halpen again. But the summer and fall passed without the little family being alarmed. With the snow came hog-killing, and among pioneer people this season was usually one of rejoicing. In the old times it had been a sort of festival, for with the first fall of snow all danger from marauding bands of red men ceased. The Indians would not send out war parties when every footstep would be plainly visible to the white settlers. The pioneers longed for the snow as soon as their scanty crops were out of the field, for they were safe then until the spring. So instead of celebrating “harvest home” they rejoiced at “hog killing time.”

The Hardings had quite a drove of hogs which ran wild in the forest during the summer and fed on the mast in the fall. But every few days the widow fed them near the hovel, so as to keep them in the habit of coming home, and particularly to teach the youngsters where to come if the old swine should be killed by bears or wild-cats. Now the whole drove was brought up and “folded” and for two weeks every member of the family was busy. During that time the bulk of their winter’s meat was salted down, the toothsome sausage made, and all the other delicacies which old-fashioned folks knew so well how to prepare from the pig. Somebody has said that at our present day abatoirs they can put to some use every part of the animal but the pig’s squeal; pioneer housewives were almost as economical.

When the hard work was over Mistress Harding allowed the children to invite some of the neighborhood youngsters for an evening frolic and such a gathering had not been enjoyed since the famous stump burning. Enoch was nearly sixteen now and although Bryce was almost as tall as his elder brother, the first named was broadening out wonderfully. Few young men of Bennington under nineteen could have thrown Enoch in a match of strength, and he had really become the head of the household. But he was still enough of a boy to enjoy the party to the full.

There was an old hovel near the house, but nearer the river bank, which their father had first erected–even before building the house itself–when he came to the ox-bow, and for years this hovel had sheltered the cattle. But the fall before he died the pioneer had erected a new and better stable and shed, quite handy to the house. The children, therefore, had long considered this hovel their own especial playhouse. At spare moments Enoch and Bryce built a stone and clay chimney and laid a good hearth in the old structure, and now they planned to have the party here, where they could do quite as they pleased.

The girls had scoured the woods for beech, hazel, and hickory nuts, and Robbie Baker came over on his horse with nigh a bushel of peeled chestnuts which his father brought him from Manchester way after the first frost. Then, there were potatoes to roast and a wild turkey which Nuck had shot two days before and hung in the smoke-house. The bird was not plucked, but after being entrailed was stuffed with chestnuts to give it a flavor and then rolled in the tub of sticky clay brought up from the creek bottom. This great ball was put in the fire early so that by supper-time it would be done to a turn. The pigs’ tails had all been saved and cleaned, too, and being likewise rolled in clay were baked in the ashes.

The girls had brought flour bread and made Johnny-cake, and although there was no tablecloth, the long board table was roomy and fairly groaned under the good things heaped upon it. The ball of mud, all hard and red now and cracked like a badly burned brick, was rolled out upon the hearth and Enoch broke it with one blow of the axe. The hard shell fell apart and to the burned clay adhered every feather and pin-quill of the great gobbler which would not have weighed an ounce less than twenty-five pounds. And the flesh was done to a turn.

In the midst of the good time, while the fun waxed furious, the door of the hovel opened and there stood in the opening the tall, slim figure of Crow Wing. As he had come unbidden to the stump burning, so he came now unexpectedly to this frolic. The white children welcomed him boisterously, for his people had moved away from the Walloomscoik and for months he had not been seen near Bennington. But Crow Wing had evidently not come to join in the merrymaking. His face was impassive and much older in expression than it had been the year before. And in his hair was a bunch of eagle feathers which showed that, to his own people even, he was now a brave and no longer a boy.

“Umph!” he grunted, drawing the blanket draped from his shoulders more closely around him. “Harding–me talk to you!” He looked boldly at Enoch, and the latter waving the others back, followed the Indian out of the hovel. Without speaking or looking behind him Crow Wing led the white boy to the riverside, and some distance from the hovel. There he halted and pointed suddenly across the stream in the direction of that place in the forest where Enoch had once seen the mysterious white man sitting beside the campfire.

“’Member?” asked Crow Wing, flashing a keen glance at the white boy.

“The man in the woods!” exclaimed Enoch. “You wish to tell me something about him?”

“Umph! He come again. Look out. Crow Wing tell you, because white boy strong–know how to fight. Watch ’em sharp!” and with this brief declaration the Indian youth strode away and the astonished Enoch watched him disappear in the tall brush along the creek bank. He went back to the merry party at the hovel with a heavy heart and not until after the last of the visitors had gone home–the boys swinging pine torches and giving the warwhoop to scare off any lurking wolves or catamounts–did Enoch find opportunity to tell his mother of Crow Wing’s warning.

“Simon Halpen is surely coming to evict us,” he declared. “I am sure it was he I saw in the forest last year. And now, taking advantage of our being lulled by hopes of peace, he will try to strike an unexpected blow as Colonel Reid did.”

“The neighbors will help us,” the widow said.

“But suppose he comes with a big force? And we cannot expect the neighbors to neglect their own homes,” said Enoch. “I will try and see Captain Baker, if you think it best, mother.”

“Captain Baker will help us. He knows how hard it would be if the Yorkers stripped us of our all. He is a kind-hearted man, though often rude and fretful.”

“Well, marm, he has cause to be fretful,” said Enoch. “Perhaps we can get a few of the boys to stay with us nights for awhile.”

And this they did, for Captain Baker sent three or four sturdy Green Mountain Boys around to the widow’s farm every night for a week. But the Yorker and his crew did not appear. At this time, when he might have been of such assistance to them, ’Siah Bolderwood was away. He had recently bought a track of land on the lake shore not far from Old Ti and had gone to look it over and build some sort of a camp there, thus utilizing his time to good advantage before the trapping season began.

Even after their fears were lulled, either Enoch or Bryce remained always in sight of the house. But about a fortnight after the hog-killing frolic an incident occurred which served to take both Bryce and Enoch away from the cabin. There had been a second fall of snow and the nights were becoming very cold. But all the wild animals had not yet sought their winter sleeping quarters, for there descended upon the Hardings’ hog-pen an old bear who evidently desired one more meal of succulent pork before retiring to his burrow. The remaining swine were shut up now in a close yard of logs; but the bear got over that fence with ease.

The trouble occurred in the early morning and aroused by the clamor Enoch, despite the inch or two of snow on the ground, grabbed the rifle and ran out just as he got out of bed and without shoes or stockings. But when he saw the huge bear seeking to climb out of the enclosure, hugging a lively shote to his furry breast, the boy was not likely to notice the cold and snow. He climbed the end logs of the hog-pen himself so as to get a shot at the marauder, and rested the rifle on the top rail; but the logs were slippery and just as he pulled the trigger he went down himself and the charge flew high over the bear’s head, while Enoch sprawled most ungracefully on the ground.

The old bear uttered a wild “oof-oof!” and without trying to climb the barrier again, flung his huge body against it and a length of the fence went down with a crash. By this time Bryce, who had kept the old musket by his side since Crow Wing’s warning, and slept in the loft, was aroused by the disturbance, and he pushed up the corner of the bark roof and blazed away at the beast just as it scrambled through the wreck of the hog fence. The bear had continued to cling to the squealing and kicking shote, for bruin is a strangely perverse and obstinate creature, unwilling to give up what he has once set his mind upon. There was a wild shriek of agony from the poor pig and when the bear moved clumsily away still clinging to the porker there was a broad trail of blood on the snow.

“I shot him! I shot him!” yelled Bryce, dodging down into the loft and beginning to hastily pull on his breeches. But when he came down-stairs Enoch had returned to the house and was calmly dressing. “Why didn’t ye foller him?” demanded the younger boy. “He’s bad wounded. He’d dropped that shote in a minute.”

“You killed the shote all right,” said Enoch in disgust. “Neither of the shots touched the bear at all. There’s no use chasing after the critter now. We’ll wait till after breakfast. He won’t go far, lugging that shote.”

The bear was fat and in the best possible condition for salting down for winter use. So even Mrs. Harding had no objection to make when the boys started after breakfast to follow the trail. She herself, with the help of the younger children, collected the hogs in the pen again and put up the log fence. Meanwhile Nuck and Bryce found that the bear had made for a piece of swamp about two miles away. The swamp was close grown with saplings and brush, while here and there a monster tree shot skyward. Some of these big trees were so old that they had become hollow and without doubt there was more than one lair of wild creatures in the swamp.

But it was easy enough to follow the early morning visitor to the cabin. After carrying the shote into the edge of the swamp, bruin had stopped and made a hasty meal upon the porker. Indeed the boys, who started on his trail scarcely two hours after the raid had been committed, undoubtedly disturbed him at his repast. The shote was not completely eaten when they found the bear’s breakfast-table. “It is a mighty big bear anyway,” Bryce declared, looking at the marks of the marauder’s feet. “He couldn’t have brought that pig so far if he hadn’t been.”

“He warn’t big enough for you to hit,” said Nuck, slyly.

“Huh! guess you can’t crow any,” responded the younger boy. “You missed him good and wide, too.”

They hurried on then, easily tracking the big, human-like spoor of the bear in the soil which here was not frozen. Indeed, in some places they “slumped in” rather deeply. The bear seemed to have picked out his path by instinct. But he could not hide his trail and before long the hunters came to a huge tree standing amid a clump of brush on the top of a hillock. The high ground was surrounded by water and rather hard to come at; but the boys were determined to get the bear after chasing it so far. They approached with caution, however, Enoch making Bryce remain in the rear.

“If I fire and don’t kill him you must be in reserve with your gun,” he whispered cautiously. “He’d be an ugly customer if he turned on us. He’s as big as a steer.”

“Huh! who’s afraid?” demanded Bryce.

“Jest you remember how father was killed,” Enoch said, gravely. “Who’d ha’ believed a bull-deer could kill an old hunter like him? You do as I say!”

So Bryce dropped behind and watched his brother crawl up the side of the hummock with infinite caution, parting the brush with the barrel of his rifle, which he held in readiness to use at any instant. Suddenly, from the heart of the brush clump, there sounded an angry growl. The bear was not to be taken unawares. And when a big bear growls in anger the sound is hair-raising to the uninitiated. Bryce felt a chill in the region of his spine and if his old cap did not actually rise off his head, it certainly felt as though it would. He was to one side of Nuck’s position so as not to get his brother between him and the bear should the creature come forth, and suddenly he saw the shaggy head and shoulders of the beast rise up over the brush. It looked enormous and when the bear opened its jaws, and displayed its great teeth and blood-red gums, it was indeed a fearsome spectacle.

“Shoot him! shoot him!” exclaimed Bryce, excitedly. But Nuck remained comparatively cool–at least, to all appearance. He stood up, too, with the rifle at his shoulder. The bear stretched wide his great fore-paws and plunged forward to seize the boy; but the rifle spoke and the smoke of the piece hid the creature for a moment.

When the cloud passed there was a great commotion in the brush, and Bryce saw that Nuck had darted back several paces and was rapidly loading his gun again. The younger boy could not see the bear; but it was badly wounded without doubt. The thrashing in the brush told that. Recovering his courage he pushed forward and finally saw the huge brown body on the ground, writhing in the muscular activity which follows death. The charge of Nuck’s rifle had reached a vital spot.

But something more Bryce saw. A second bear had followed the dead one from the hollow tree, and the boy observed this one whisk back into the dark opening between two roots. The tree was all of a dozen feet in circumference and there was doubtless a good-sized cavity in the tall trunk. “Come on! come on!” cried Bryce, excitedly. “Here’s another, Nuck.”

“Have a care, boy!” responded the older lad. “Don’t go too near. It may turn on us.” He hastily finished the loading of his rifle and came up the hill again. They could see the entrance to the lair plainly; but no sight could they get of the second bear. Bryce brought a handful of clods and flung one after another into the hole in the tree. The bear did not even growl, so they were pretty sure that the missiles had not reached it. “He’s climbed up inside,” declared Nuck. “I warrant that tree’s holler up to the first crotch.”

“What’ll we do?” demanded Bryce. “You shot that one, Nuck. Now I wanter git the other, before we go home.”

“We’ll smoke him out,” declared the elder brother. “You stay right here and watch, and I’ll get some wood.” Nuck had brought a tomahawk which, with his skinning knife, was thrust into his belt. With the hatchet he obtained dry branches from the lower limbs of some spruce-trees which grew near, and packed a big fagot through the mire to the hillock where Bryce stood guard. This wood he flung into the mouth of the lair, started the fire with his flint and steel, and when the flames began to wreathe the branches hungrily, he flung on leaves and grass to make a “smudge.” His suspicions regarding the hollowness of the tree proved true, for the draft through the hollow hole acted like a chimney and sucked the smoke upward. It began to wreathe out between the first limbs, some thirty feet or more from the ground.

Suddenly there was a great clatter and scraping of claws inside the tree and then there popped out between the branches the head and shoulders of a smaller bear than the one which now lay still in the bushes. “Wait till he gits out!” shouted Nuck, as the excited Bryce raised his musket. “If you shoot him there he’ll tumble back into the hole.”

Bryce was cool enough to see the wisdom of this advice and stay his hand. But in a moment the bear was completely out and then he fired. The bullet struck home and the bear lost its hold upon the limbs and dropped to the ground, landing with fearful force at the roots of the tree. But it was not dead and after a moment’s struggle, got upon its feet again. But the shock had dazed it and for a little it could neither see its assailants nor find any means of escape. Nuck ran in, placed the muzzle of his rifle within a foot of the creature, and finished it off with despatch.

Bryce was dancing about and yelling like a wild Indian; but it was not for joy over the death of this second bear. He was pointing on high and Nuck looked upward to see a third bear in the tree-top. This one had followed the second out of the hollow trunk and was mounting among the branches with great agility. The smoke pouring up through the hollow had driven the whole family into the open air. The Hardings reloaded their guns with despatch and then, on either side of the tree, fired at the remaining bear. Both bullets went true, but in falling the bear became wedged in the crotch of a big limb and Nuck, throwing aside his shoes and stockings, essayed to climb the trunk to push the dead beast off to the ground.

This was no simple matter, for all he had to cling to were the knots and “warts” on the side of the trunk. It was almost like climbing up the wall of a house. But he reached the first crotch finally and after resting a spell, found the remainder of the climb easy enough. Before he pushed the carcass of the bear out of its resting-place he took an observation of the forest, for he was high above the swamp here and could see beyond the creek. In some way they would have to get the carcasses to the creek bank and transport them to the cabin by canoe. It would be no easy task.

And as he scanned the stretch of river which he could see from his high perch he suddenly observed something which almost caused him to lose his hold upon the tree and fall, like the bear, to the ground. Coming up the stream were two canoes, each paddled by a couple of Indians, and with three white men in each craft. Even at that distance Enoch knew them to be strangers, and they were not a hunting party. Naturally his mind reverted to the warning Crow Wing had brought him a fortnight before, and without stopping to dislodge the dead bear, he descended the tree in utmost haste.

“Why don’t you push the bear off?” shouted Bryce from below.

Nuck leaned over and placed his finger on his lips, shaking his head warningly. Then he slid down the remainder of the way, falling in a heap on the carcass of the second bear. “Quick!” he gasped, seizing his shoes and stockings. “They’re coming.”

“What’s coming?”

“The Yorkers. I seen ’em on the river. Two canoes full.”

“Simon Halpen!” exclaimed the younger boy, his face blanching.

“I don’t know. Couldn’t tell any of ’em so far away. But they be’n’t Bennington men, that’s sure.” Nuck was hastily pulling on his stockings. “You run back and tell mother. I’ll watch ’em till they land and see what they intend to do.”

“But the bears—” began Bryce.

“We’ll have to leave ’em. That one in the tree will be all right for a while for sure. Now hurry.”

Bryce obeyed at once and a moment later the elder boy started off in the other direction for the bank of the creek. He ran carefully, however, so as not to make any noise and thus warn the canoe party of his presence. In half an hour he was abreast of the boats, for they progressed but slowly up the stream. Here he had a good view of the men. In the first canoe he saw Crow Wing and another young Indian of his tribe, while the paddlers in the second were likewise Iroquois. The white men were Yorkers he was sure, and all were heavily armed.

As he scrutinized the whites his eyes rested finally on one man in the leading canoe whom he was sure he had seen before. He could not mistake that lean, dark face and hooked nose. Whether or not it was the person he had seen in the wood the day of Sheriff Ten Eyck’s fiasco at the Breckenridge farm, he was certain of the man’s identity. It was Simon Halpen who, under a New York patent, claimed territory on the Walloomscoik, a part of which the Harding farm was.

Dodging from tree to tree, the boy followed the canoes and finally, before they came in sight of the Harding house, saw the party land. The Indians remained with the canoes; but the white men disembarked with considerable baggage. One of the men carried a surveyor’s instrument, while a second bore a chain. Halpen led them and when he had seen the party strike into the forest in the direction of the house, Enoch sped away on a parallel trail and headed them off, arriving first at the destination.

He found that his mother and the children had already put up the shutters and made ready to receive the Yorkers. The cattle were shut in the yard surrounding the barn and the smaller children were put in their mother’s bed to be out of the way. Bryce went into the loft where he could watch for the appearance of the enemy; but Enoch remained outside the door, his rifle in the hollow of his arm, ready to parley with the Yorkers who soon were reported by Bryce as coming through the lower fields.

A masterful spirit had entered into Enoch Harding during the past few months. He was no longer a child; he thought and acted as a man in many things. Now, with this danger threatening them all, he did not shrink from the ordeal, and none might know his inmost feelings from the expression of his face. He did not speak to his mother, nor did she seek to advise him. Long before they had talked this emergency over, and it had been agreed that the homestead must and should be defended even to the point of firing on the Yorkers who might come to dispossess them. The legal authority claimed by Simon Halpen was not recognized in the Grants and did the Hardings put themselves in Halpen’s power by agreeing to let the New York authorities arbitrate the matter, they would lose all that they had toiled and suffered for during the past ten years.

The widow saw that the windows of the cabin were shuttered and that Bryce had both powder and bullets beside him in the loft. Then she went into her own chamber and falling upon her knees prayed as only a mother can whose children are in bodily and imminent danger. How far the Yorkers would dare go–to what lengths Halpen might force the fight for the ox-bow farm–it was impossible even to imagine. He was a cruel and unscrupulous man, but he had already had a taste of the temper of the Bennington settlers and perhaps the remembrance of the beech-sealing which had been dealt out to him two years and more before, would make him chary of coming to blows.

Soon the six Yorkers appeared around the corner of the log fence which enclosed the cattleyard. Four of them, including Halpen, were armed with guns. The surveyor and his assistant carried their tools only, and walked in the rear of the more warlike quartette. Their leader, his lean, black face clouded by a threatening scowl, strode across the home lot and approached the cabin door. His beady eyes glittered and when he was enraged his hooked nose seemed to glow a dull red beneath the dusky skin, like a half-heated iron.

Simon Halpen was much better dressed than the citizens of Bennington were apt to be, and he carried himself haughtily. His hair was done carefully and the queue tied with a silk ribbon. His rifle was silver-mounted and his powder-horn was partly of silver filagree work. In every way–dress, accoutrements and manner–he bore out the account the Hardings had received of him, that he was a wealthy and proud man. The three other armed men were fellows of the baser sort, hired at Albany for the purpose of driving the widow and her children from their home.

Enoch Harding thought this as he saw the party approach, and his heart beat faster while his cheeks were dyed with crimson. Should these men march up and deprive his mother and brothers and sisters of their home? Not as long as he held a gun and had powder and shot with which to load it! The fearful thought of shooting down one or more of these men in cold blood did not shock him now. The bitterness which filled his heart against Simon Halpen overbore any other emotion. He raised his rifle threateningly and cried aloud: “Halt there–halt I say! What d’ye want on our land?”