Henry and his comrades themselves arrived there toward
the close of evening, just as the sun had set, blood red, behind
the mountains. Some report of them had preceded their coming,
and as soon as they had eaten they were summoned to the presence
of Colonel Zebulon Butler, who commanded the military force in
the valley. Singularly enough, he was a cousin of "Indian"
Butler, who led the invading army.
The five, dressed in deerskin hunting shirts, leggins, and
moccasins, and everyone carrying a rifle, hatchet, and knife,
entered a large low room, dimly lighted by some wicks burning in
tallow. A man of middle years, with a keen New England face, sat
at a little table, and several others of varying ages stood near.
The five knew instinctively that the man at the table was
Colonel Butler, and they bowed, but they did not show the
faintest trace of subservience. They had caught suspicious
glances from some of the officers who stood about the commander,
and they stiffened at once. Colonel Butler looked involuntarily
at Henry-everybody always took him, without the telling, for
leader of the group.
"We have had report of you," he said in cool noncommittal tones,"
and you have been telling of great Indian councils that you have
seen in the woods.
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