Some of the men scowled at him.
"Is that smoke?" I asked, sharply. "Answer me, McCraw!"
"A canna' deny it," he said, with a mad chuckle.
"Is it Indian smoke?" demanded Van Horn.
"Aweel," he replied, craning his skinny neck and cocking his head
impudently--"aweel, a'll admit that, too. It's Indian smoke; a canna
deny it, no."
"Is it a Mohawk signal?" I asked, bluntly.
At which he burst out into a crowing laugh.
"What does he say?" called out the man from the tavern. "What does he
say, Francy McCraw?"
"He says it maun be Mohawk smoke, Danny Redstock."
"And what if it is?" blustered Redstock, shouldering his way to McCraw,
rifle in hand. "Keep your black looks for your neighbors, Andrew Bowman.
What have we to do with your Mohawk fires?"
"Herman Salisbury!" cried Bowman to a neighbor, "do you hear what this
Tory renegade says?"
"Quiet! Quiet, there," said Redstock, swaggering out into the road.
"Francy McCraw, our good neighbors are woful perplexed by that thread o'
birch smoke yonder."
"Then tell the feckless fools tae watch it!" screamed McCraw, seizing
his rifle and menacing the little throng of men and women who had closed
swiftly in on him. "Hands off me, Johnny Putnam--back, for your life,
Charley Cady! Ay, stare at the smoke till ye're eyes drop frae th'
sockets! But no; there's some foulk 'ill tak' nae warnin'!"
He backed off down the road, followed by Redstock, rifles cocked.
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