The time was
the close, of June, and the foliage was still dark green. It was
a land of low mountain, hill, rich valley, and clear stream, and
it was beautiful to every one of the five. Much of their course
lay along the Susquehanna, and soon they saw signs of a more
extended cultivation than any that was yet to be witnessed in
Kentucky. From the brow of a little hill they beheld a field of
green, and in another field a man plowing.
"That's wheat," said Tom Ross.
"But we can't leave the man to plow," said Henry, "or he'll
never harvest that wheat. We'll warn him."
The man uttered a cry of alarm as five wild figures burst into
his field. He stopped abruptly, and snatched up a rifle that lay
across the plow handles. Neither Henry nor his companions
realized that their forest garb and long life in the wilderness
made them look more like Indians than white men. But Henry threw
up a hand as a sign of peace.
"We're white like yourselves," he cried, "and we've come to warn
you! The Iroquois and the Tories are marching into the valley!"
The man's face blanched, and he cast a hasty look toward a little
wood, where stood a cabin from which smoke was rising.
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