Very soon we passed Nine-Mile Tree, a landmark of Sir William's, which was a giant pine left by the road to tower in melancholy majesty all alone.
When I rode the hills as Brent-Meester, this pine was like a guide post to me, visible for miles.
Now, as I passed, I looked at it in the silvery dusk of the stars and saw some strange object shining on the bark.
"What is that shining on Nine-Mile Tree?" said I to Nick. He ran across the road; we marched on, I leading, then the Scotch girl on my mare, then my handful of men trudging doggedly with pieces a-trail.
A moment later Nick same swiftly to my side and nudged me; and looking around I saw an Indian hatchet in his hand, the blade freshly brightened.
"It was sticking in the tree," he breathed. "My God, John, the Iroquois are out!"
Chill after chill crawled up my back as I began to understand the significance of that freshly polished little war-axe with its limber helve of hickory worn slippery by long usage, and its loop of braided deer-hide blackened by age.
"Was there aught else?" I whispered.
"Nothing except this Mohawk hatchet struck deep into the bark of Nine-Mile Tree, and sticking there."
"Do you know what it means, Nick?"