The Tanacharison party had beaten the soldiers and were camped with other Mingos, waiting. Then, as the soldiers staggered on to the fort, Washington trudging beside the first file with Robert the Hunter close to him, two figures in breech-clouts and of painted skin strode through the trampled, wet grass to meet them.
One was Scarouady; the other was his son the Buck, a fine young warrior. Scarouady stepped to Washington, and he said, clapping his rifle with his open hand:
“Ho, brother! I am here.”
“I am glad to see my brother,” Washington answered. “Does he bring news?”
“I bring my son, to fight for Washington,” said Scarouady. “We have seen the French upon the war trail, to eat up the English.”
“Where?”
“They were yesterday at Redstone Creek. It is well my brother did not go there. They land from canoes paddled up the Monongahela, and march into the woods.”
“How many?” Washington asked.
“As many hundreds as the fingers of my hands,” said Scarouady. “One-third Indians, two-thirds French. They should be here in two more days. What does my brother plan to do?”
“I will receive them here,” replied Washington. “My soldiers are tired and hungry. They cannot travel. If we go on we shall be caught on the road and cut to pieces. Now we will face the French. I see no Indians to help me, but my men are brave.”