That night when the victorious rangers had returned to Plattsburg it was a town of glad, thankful hearts, and human love ran strong. The thrilling stories of the day were told, the crucial moment, the providential way in which at every hopeless pass, some easy, natural miracle took place to fight their battle and back their country's cause. The harrying of the flying rear-guard, the ambuscade over the hill, the appearance of an American scout at the nick of time to warn them—the shooting, and his disappearance—all were discussed.
Then rollicking Seymour and silent Fiske told of their scouting on the trail of the beaten foe; and all asked, “Where is Kittering?” So talk was rife, and there was one who showed a knife he had picked up near the ambuscade with R. K. on the shaft.
Now a dark-faced scout rose up, stared at the knife, and quickly left the room. In three minutes he stood before General Macomb, his words were few, but from his heart:
“It is my boy, Nibowaka; it is Rolf; my heart tells me. Let me go. I feel him praying for me to come. Let me go, general. I must go.”
It takes a great man to gauge the heart of a man who seldom speaks. “You may go, but how can you find him tonight?”
“Ugh, I find him,” and the Indian pointed to a little, prick-eared, yellow cur that sneaked at his heels.
“Success to you; he was one of the best we had,” said the general, as the Indian left, then added: “Take a couple of men along, and, here, take this,” and he held out a flask.
Thus it was that the dawning saw Rolf on a stretcher carried by his three scouting partners, while Skookum trotted ahead, looking this way and that—they should surely not be ambushed this time.
And thus the crowning misfortune, the culminating apes of disaster—the loss of his knife—the thing of all others that roused in Rolf the spirit of rebellion, was the way of life, his dungeon's key, the golden chain that haled him from the pit.