I said I did not.
"Folk at the Fish-House saw smoke on the Mayfield hills an hour since. That is twice in three days!"
"Well," said I, "what of that?"
"It is best that the Broadalbin settlement should hear of it."
"Do you mean that it may have been an Indian signal?"
"It may have been. I did not see it--the forest cut our view."
The westering sun, shining over the Mayfield hills, turned the dust to golden fog. Through it Cato's red coat glimmered, and the hunting-horn, curving up over his bent back, struck out streams of blinding sparks. Brass buttons on the patroon's broad coat-skirts twinkled like yellow stars, and the spurs flashed on his quarter-gaiters as he pounded along at a solid hand-gallop, hat crammed over his fat ears, pig-tail a-bristle, and the blue coat on his enormous body white with dust.
In the renewed melody of the song-birds there was a hint of approaching evening; shadows lengthened; the sunlight grew redder on the dusty road.
"The Broadalbin trail swings into the forest just ahead," said Dorothy, pointing with her whip-stock. "See, there where they are drawing bridle. But I mean to ride with you, nevertheless.... And I'll do it!"
The patroon was waiting for us when we came to the weather-beaten finger-post: