Timmendiquas, the White Lightning of the Wyandots, was gone;
Thayendanegea, the real head of the Six Nations, had slipped
away; and with them had vanished the renegades. But they had
gone in haste. All around them were the evidences. The houses,
built of wood, were scores in number, and many of them contained
furniture such as a prosperous white man of the border would buy
for himself. There were gardens and shade trees about these, and
back of them, barns, many of them filled with Indian corn.
Farther on were clusters of bark lodges, which had been inhabited
by the less progressive of the Iroquois.
Henry stood in the center of the town and looked at the houses
misty in the moonlight. The army had not yet made much noise,
but he was beginning to hear behind him the ominous
word,"Wyoming," repeated more than once. Cornelius Heemskerk had
stopped revolving, and, standing beside Henry, wiped his
perspiring, red face.
"Now that I am here, I think again of the blue plates of Holland,
Mr. Ware," he said. "It is a dark and sanguinary time. The men
whose brethren were scalped or burned alive at Wyoming will not
now spare the town of those who did it.
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