We got to cut eround 'em an' plow straight through the bush an' over Cobble Hill an' swim the big creek an' we'll beat 'em easy." It was a curious, long, loose stride, the knees never quite straightened, with which the scout made his way through the forest.

It covered ground so swiftly that the boy had, now and then, to break into a dog-trot in order to keep along with the old woodsman.

They kept their pace up the steep side of Cobble Hill and down its far slope and the valley beyond to the shore of the Big Creek.
"I'm hot 'nough to sizzle an' smoke when I tech water," said the scout as he waded in, holding his rifle and powder-horn in his left hand above the creek's surface.
They had a few strokes of swimming at mid-stream but managed to keep their powder dry.
"Now we've got jest 'nough hoppin' to keep us from gittin' foundered," said Solomon, as he stood on the farther shore and adjusted his pack.
"It ain't more'n a mile to your house." They hurried on, reaching the rough valley road in a few minutes.
"Now I'll take the bee trail to your place," said the scout.

"You cut ercrost the medder to Peter Boneses' an' fetch 'em over with all their grit an' guns an' ammunition." Solomon found John Irons and five of his sons and three of his daughters digging potatoes and pulling tops in a field near the house.
The sky was clear and the sun shining warm.

Solomon called Irons aside and told him of the approaching Indians.
"What are we to do ?" Irons asked.
"Send the women an' the babies back to the sugar shanty," said Solomon.
"We'll stay here 'cause if we run erway the Boneses'll git their ha'r lifted.