friend promised that his boy would "set me" over the river after dinner, and I could look over Big Bottom from where the Indians watched the colony during the day preceding the massacre.
The promise was kept. And that afternoon, as I reached the foot of one of the spurs of Wallace Ridge, my young, barefooted guide pointed out a slight rounded trough which led away north and south. It was what remains yet of the old, deep-worn path of Indians and the pioneers of the valley, who, for many years, followed only the runways of the red race which preceded them there. In the chestnut oak forest on the summit of the ridge the path, as Mr. Brokaw had remarked, was as plain as a country road. I had found an Indian trail—and a most interesting and original approach to the whole study of the early history of America. For I saw the narrow path as that murdering band saw it a century before; I rested where they lurked, overlooking the sports of the garrison below them, before descending to their deadly work. Then with the passing years the long line of pioneers passed by me in
