A keen wind whipping in from the west swayed the tops of innumerable
pines, firs, spruces, and maples. They were goodly trees, unharmed as
yet by scathing fire or biting axe. Proudly they lifted their crests
to the wind and the sun, while down below, their great boles were
wrapped in perpetual shade and calm. Life, mysterious life, lurked
within those brooding depths, and well did the friendly trees keep the
many secrets of the denizens of the wild.

Through that trackless maze two wayfarers warily threaded their course
on a chill May day in the year seventeen hundred and eighty-three.
They were men, and their speed denoted the urgency of the business upon
which they were bent. They were clad in buckskin jackets, and homespun
trousers, which showed signs of hard usage. Moccasins encased their
feet, and squirrel-skin caps sat lightly upon their heads. Each
carried a heavy flint-lock musket in his hand, while at his side swung
the inevitable powder-horn, hung low enough so as not to interfere with
the small pack strapped across the shoulders.

Both travellers were peering intently forward, and when at length the
glint of shimmering water glimmered through the trees their faces
brightened with satisfaction. But just then the leader stopped dead in
his tracks, and glanced anxiously to the left. He was an Indian of
magnificent physique, and princely bearing, as straight as the trees
around him. His companion, too, was standing in a listening attitude a
few feet away. His keen ears had also caught a sound, and he knew its
meaning. He was a white man, much younger than the Indian, although
from his deeply-bronzed face he might have been mistaken for a native.
He measured up nobly to the other in size and bearing, as well as in
strength, woodland skill, and endurance on the trail.