It was a good hour before the trail to Fort Oswego was gained—a rough, narrow path, first used by the buffalo of upper New York State and then by the Indians and traders. They advanced with caution, Shamer leading the way with his musket held before him, ready to fight at the first sign of an enemy.
The night proved to be clear, with no moon, but with countless stars. Along the trail all was silent—even the night birds failing to utter their lonely notes.
After a rest the journey along the trail was begun, Shamer leading the way as before. The forest was thick on either side, and in many spots there were rough rocks to cross, which made Raymond puff and blow over his load. More than once Dave said he would get down and try to walk, but the backwoodsman would not allow it.
“I’ve brought in a big deer on my shoulders more than once,” he declared. “And you don’t weigh any more.”
By daylight ten or eleven miles had been covered, and all were glad to rest again, by the side of a brook flowing into the lake. The journey had been no easier for Dave than for the others, and more than once he had felt like crying out with pain when Raymond gripped his sore limb harder than usual.
“Ours has certainly been an ill-fated expedition,” observed Raymond, as he munched a bit of biscuit, while the others did the same. “If we ever get out of it alive, it will be a sorry report we’ll have to offer to the commander at Fort Oswego and to Sir William Johnson.”
“I can’t see how we are to be blamed,” answered Dave. “We were attacked by a superior force and fought as well as we could.”
“Sir William told us to keep to the lake,” put in Shamer. “But of course we couldn’t do that with such a wind.”
It had been decided that it would be safest to rest during the day and travel at night. Accordingly Raymond and Shamer lay down for a nap of four hours, leaving Dave on guard.
The four hours were almost up, and the young soldier was beginning to feel sleepy himself, when a noise in the forest on the other side of the brook caused him to start up.