"Ah, Pearson! is that you?" Mr. Welch asked. "I thought I knew your
long, sweeping stroke at a distance. You have been hunting, I see;
that is a fine stag you have got there. What is the news?"

"About as bad as can be, Master Welch," the hunter said. "The
Iroquois have dug up the tomahawk again and are out on the war-path.
They have massacred John Brent and his family. I heard a talk of it
among some hunters I met ten days since in the woods. They said that
the Iroquois were restless and that their chief, War Eagle, one of
the most troublesome varmints on the whole frontier, had been
stirring 'em up to war. He told 'em, I heard, that the pale-faces
were pushing further and further into the Injun woods, and that,
unless they drove 'em back, the redskin hunting grounds would be
gone. I hoped that nothing would come of it, but I might have known
better. When the redskins begin to stir there's sure to be mischief
before they're quiet again."

The color had somewhat left Mr. Welch's cheeks as the hunter spoke.

"This is bad news, indeed, Pearson," he said gravely. "Are you sure
about the attack on the Brents?"

"Sartin sure," the hunter said. "I met their herder; he had been down
to Johnson's to fetch a barrel of pork. Just when he got back he
heard the Injun yells and saw smoke rising in the clearing, so he
dropped the barrel and made tracks. I met him at Johnson's, where he
had just arrived. Johnson was packing up with all haste and was going
to leave, and so I said I would take my canoe and come down the lake,
giving you all warning on the way. I stopped at Burns' and Hooper's.