At the settlement he found all as it had been. The soldiers had not returned and the agent had vanished. A hundred plans were being made for the journey into the wilderness. A few families announced that they would not go. The Governor would not forsake them utterly; if he did, they would rather seek for help among their fellow countrymen across the river than trust themselves to the forest.
In Albany, the deputies sought out quietly the German families whom they knew and from their houses were able to make inquiries. That there was an Indian settlement of Schoharie was certain. There were at that time in Albany several Mohawk Indians from the neighborhood of Schenectady, another Indian village, who could answer questions. With one, whom the English called John Meyndert, the deputies talked before the day was over. With grunts and nods he promised to be their guide and interpreter, and in his canoe and the canoe of another Indian they traveled to Schenectady, where, after a night's rest, they started across a line of rough hills toward the southwest.
Of the beauties of the September woods the seven deputies saw nothing. With eyes fixed upon the man in front, each man walked doggedly and stubbornly on, determined not to yield to the fatigue which the rapid pace produced. Soft of tread and sure of foot John Meyndert stalked ahead as silent as the tree trunks among which he moved. An occasional "Ugh" when the slipping foot of one of the travelers threatened an ugly fall, or a shake of the head when some one pointed to a fruit or berry which looked as though it were edible, formed his share of the conversation.
At last, at noon of a pleasant day, Meyndert halted his long stride and pointed downward. They had reached and crossed a rough elevation whose loose stones made it almost impossible to climb. Now, wearily, the deputies lifted their eyes toward Meyndert and followed his pointing finger.
It was John Conrad who cried out first.
"Oh, see!"
In a second the last of the party had come out on the little shelf of rock to which Meyndert had led them. Peter Kniskern pointed with a shaking hand.
"Schoharie?"
The Indian answered with a grin.
Then, for a long time, no one spoke a word, and no one moved except to wipe from his eyes the tears of which middle age had learned not to be ashamed.