They all laughed and went on, little dreaming that at about the same time the men of whom they had been speaking were setting off down the Mohawk. Toward evening the coming of a severe thunder storm forced them to seek a shelter of some kind.
“There is an old hut not far away,” Ira said. “I spent a night there on my way to the fort. It is in fairly good repair, and will give us decent refuge from the storm.”
While speaking he had turned into the woods, and was followed by the other lads. A short walk brought them to the cabin, and just in time, for hardly were they inside when the rain began to fall.
It was not a terrific storm, and soon resolved into a steady down-pour of rain, which caused the young travelers to be thankful for so good a shelter. They ate supper from the contents of their packs, and swept a corner of the room, intending to make their beds on the hard floor.
Before lying down, however, Late made ready to close the door against any chance intruders; but he stepped back quickly, exclaiming in a low tone:
“David Daggett and some other men are comin’! Hark! don’t you hear their voices?”
His comrades listened a moment, and Ira said:
“Quick! we must get into the loft!”
The next instant he had climbed up the rude pole to the floor above. Joe followed, while Late delayed only long enough to throw up their guns and traps, after which he also ascended. Pulling the pole up after him, he covered the opening with a sort of trapdoor, and none too soon, for in another minute the old Tory entered the cabin accompanied by three men.
“Feel in your pocket, Hiram, and see if your flint and steel are handy,” Master Daggett said. “If there’s any wood here, we’ll build a fire to dry our clothes.”