On Monday afternoon those in advance saw a pack-train approaching, composed of eight horses and one cart, and in charge of six frontiersmen and a trader named Packerson.
“Where bound, Packerson?” asked Sam Barringford.
“Fort Pitt,” was the short reply. Packerson was a rather silent man, of few words.
“Come straight through from Cumberland?”
“Yes.”
“See any Injuns?”
“Seven. Had a fight with ’em too,” answered the trader. Then his train came to a halt, and the others at once surrounded him for particulars of the encounter.
CHAPTER VIII
THE MASSACRE OF A PACK-TRAIN
Jed Packerson’s story was soon told. His party had first seen the Indians while crossing a high hill where a landslide had carried down many trees of the forest to the valley below. As soon as discovered the red men had run for shelter. Half an hour later one of the frontiersmen had given the alarm, and the next moment a shower of arrows had fallen around them, hitting one man in the shoulder. Then two guns had been discharged and a horse had been hit in the thigh and had stampeded. The whites had returned the fire of the Indians, who, however, had kept under cover. At least one red warrior had been wounded, and then the whole party had taken themselves to parts unknown. The horse to run away was still missing and Packerson had decided to let him go rather than lose time on a trail that appeared so dangerous.
The fight had occurred two days before, and the spot where the Indians had opened fire was less than sixteen miles away. This was disturbing news to Rodney and his friends, and after Packerson had continued on his way a council of war was held.