



Produced by sp1nd, Richard J. Shiffer and the Distributed
Proofreading volunteers at http://www.pgdp.net for Project
Gutenberg. (This file was produced from images generously
made available by The Internet Archive.)





[Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this
text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant
spellings and other inconsistencies. Text that has been changed to
correct an obvious error is noted at the end of this ebook.]




  How Canada was Won

  A Tale of Wolfe and Quebec

  BY
  CAPTAIN F. S. BRERETON

  Author of "With Wolseley to Kumasi" "Jones of the 64th"
  "With Roberts to Candahar" "A Soldier of Japan"
  "Roger the Bold" &c. &c.

  _ILLUSTRATED BY WILLIAM RAINEY, R.I._

  LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LIMITED
  THE COPP CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED
  TORONTO


[Illustration: STEVE AND MAC CAPTURING THE FRENCH GUNS]


  _Copyright, 1908, in the United States, America,
  by H. M. Caldwell Co._

  _Published simultaneously in Great Britain and
  the United States._




Contents


   CHAP.                                   Page

      I. THE CAMP ON THE RIVER                9

     II. FRENCH OUTLAWS AND ROBBERS          25

    III. FLIGHT BY NIGHT                     43

     IV. STEVE MAKES A SUGGESTION            61

      V. JULES LAPON IS DISAPPOINTED         79

     VI. LEFT IN CHARGE                      97

    VII. THE ALLEGHANY RAIDERS              115

   VIII. A QUESTION OF TERRITORY            133

     IX. GEORGE WASHINGTON SPEAKS           152

      X. STEVE AND HIS BAND OF SCOUTS       174

     XI. HELD UP!                           194

    XII. GENEROSITY TO THE FOE              215

   XIII. A TRAITOR IN THE CAMP              238

    XIV. STEVE MEETS AN OLD ENEMY           254

     XV. OFF TO QUEBEC                      275

    XVI. THE RETURN OF THE HURONS           296

   XVII. DOWN THE MIGHTY ST. LAWRENCE       315

  XVIII. THE ATTACK ON LOUISBOURG           334

    XIX. WOLFE MAKES HIS LAST ATTEMPT       359

     XX. THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM              379




Illustrations


                                                             Page

  STEVE AND MAC CAPTURING THE FRENCH GUNS      _Frontispiece_ 220

  "THE INDIAN WAS UPON HIM, HIS KEEN TOMAHAWK GLEAMING
  IN HIS HAND"                                                 36

  "'COME NEARER THAT I MAY KILL YOU EASILY,' HE SAID"          65

  "STEVE RESTED HIS BARREL IN THE FORK OF A DWARFED
  TREE"                                                       125

  STEVE AND MAC DISCOVER THE WOUNDED FRENCH OFFICER           235

  "WHEN HE CAME TO HIMSELF AGAIN, HE WAS BEING
  CARRIED ON THE SHOULDERS OF FOUR INDIANS"                   253

  "WE SEEK A PALE FACE WHO HAS BROKEN AWAY FROM
  THE CITY"                                                   312

  "IN ANOTHER SECOND HE HAD BAYONETTED THE FRENCHMAN"         349


  MAP OF CANADA AND OUR AMERICAN COLONY IN 1755               137

  MAP OF THE TRIANGULAR ROUTE BETWEEN CANADA AND
  OUR AMERICAN COLONY, 1755                                   335

  MAP OF QUEBEC IN 1759                                       365




Chapter I

The Camp on the River


"Waal? What did yer see? Clear, I reckon."

Jim Hardman looked up swiftly as a couple of tall figures came
silently into the clearing in the centre of which the camp fire
burned, and he paused for a moment in the task which occupied him.
He was squatting on his heels, after the fashion of the Indians and
of all backwoodsmen, and was engaged in cleaning the long barrel
of his musket, turning the weapon over with loving care, as if it
were a child to whom he was devoted. Indeed Jim had no more faithful
friend or servant. For this long musket had been his companion on
many and many a hunting and prospecting expedition during the past
twenty years. He scarcely ever laid it down, but carried it the day
long, usually ready in his hands, or when the times were peaceful and
quiet, slung across his slender shoulders. Jim could tell tales of
how this faithful weapon had brought down buffalo and deer and many
another animal, and had helped him to gather the stores of skins in
exchange for which he obtained those few luxuries which his simple
nature needed. In his more communicative moods he could narrate how
the bullets which he had moulded with the aid of a hot camp fire and
a supply of lead had been directed against men, against the fierce
Indian inhabitants of this Ohio valley, who for years past had waged a
ceaseless and pitiless warfare against all white invaders of their old
hunting grounds.

Indeed, "Hunting" Jim, as he was styled and known by all the
backwoodsmen in those parts, had need to care for his weapon, for
without it he would be lost, and his life would be at the mercy of the
first redskin who crossed his path.

"Waal?" he repeated, in his backwoods drawl, as he vigorously rubbed
at the shining barrel. "Reckon we're through 'em. There ain't a one in
sight. Ef there is, Steve and Silver Fox'll know all about 'em."

He looked with approval at his weapon, and getting to his feet he
slung it across his shoulders. Then he stepped softly across to the
fire, and bending over it, pushed the long ramrod suspended over
the embers a little farther on to the forked sticks which held it.
A couple of pieces of bear meat were skewered upon the rod, and had
been frizzling there for the past quarter of an hour. Now, as they
were placed right over the heat they set up a low-voiced but merry
tune, while an appetizing odour assailed the nostrils of the two
who had come to the camp. One of these two was without doubt a Red
Indian, for he was decked elaborately after the custom of his race;
his face was freely daubed with paint, which gave him a hideous and
cruel appearance that a feathered head-dress served to increase. He
was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with long, sinewy arms and legs, and
gave one the impression that he was in perfect condition and trained
to stand the utmost hardship. He nodded to Jim, and took his place
in front of the fire, squatted on his heels, and stared silently at
the embers. A minute later he opened his lips and spoke in the Indian
tongue, his gaze still fixed on the fire.

"My brothers can sleep and eat in peace and contentment," he said,
in tones which were dignified and not unmusical. "Silver Fox and the
pale-face youth whom you call Steve, but known to us as Hawk, for
his eyes are keen, keener even than are mine or my brother's,--have
been through the forest and have watched the river. Our enemies have
gone, vanished into the woods. We know this for certain, for we came
upon their track. They were journeying towards the head waters of the
river."

It was a long speech for Silver Fox, and having delivered it, he
felt for the buckskin bag in which he carried his precious store of
tobacco, filled his pipe and set fire to the weed by taking one of the
burning sticks in his long, thin fingers and lifting it to the bowl.

Meanwhile his companion, who had emerged with him from the thick
forest which surrounded the camp, advanced to the fire, sniffed
appreciatively, and glanced at the meat which frizzled over the
flames, in a manner which showed that the sight was a pleasant one.
Then he slipped his musket from his shoulders, and stood for a moment
to his full height, thoughtfully regarding Silver Fox and Hunting
Jim. He, too, was tall and lissom. From the top of his <DW53>-skin cap
to the bottom of his soft moccasins he measured a good six feet. He
was dressed in a leather shirt elaborately fringed, as was the habit
with all hunters, while his legs were encased in fringed leather
leggings and in soft moccasins, all of which he had manufactured from
skins he himself had obtained. Stephen Mainwaring looked a typical
backwoodsman, and as the sun struck upon his well-developed figure,
upon his open face, all tanned with long exposure to the wind and the
weather, and upon his strong brown arms and hands, even his bitterest
enemy would have been forced to admit that he was a fine young fellow,
that there was as much strength in his face, in that square, resolute
chin, and in those steady, fearless-looking eyes as could well be
found, and that his whole appearance gave promise of honesty, a
sterling good nature, and a temper which was not to be easily ruffled.
Had there been any doubt on the last point Steve's joviality on this
fine summer's morning would soon have set the matter at rest. He might
only that moment have risen from his blanket, so fresh and gay was
he, and no one would have dreamed that he and Silver Fox had been
tramping the forest since night had fallen, scouting for an enemy
whom they and their comrades had good cause to fear. He sat down
suddenly, dragged off his soaked moccasins, and his <DW53>-skin hat,
which glistened with the heavy dew that had fallen upon it, and placed
them close to the embers. Then he turned a jovial face to Jim.

"Waal, I reckon you can smoke that ere pipe of yours with ease and
comfort, Jim," he sang out, imitating exactly the drawl of the
huntsman. "Reckon Silver Fox and I can eat jest all we're able to get
our fingers on, and can then put in a bit of sleep. There ain't no
Injuns this side of forty mile away."

He laughed merrily as Jim looked severely at him, and taking the
ramrod in his hand, turned it so as to expose the farther side of the
meat to the heat.

"All's clear," he went on suddenly, in his natural tones, speaking in
a manner which showed that though he looked a typical backwoodsman he
had had an education, and as regards his conversation, was fit to mix
with the gentry of New York, or those of Boston or Charlestown, or
even with those of London itself.

"That's a lad for yer, Judge," said Jim, scowling playfully at Steve,
and then turning to one of the other figures standing or sitting about
the camp. "This Hawk gets born out in the settlements and gets took
straight away right into the backwoods. He larns to sit a scrawny pony
when he's no higher than a dozen piled-up dollars, and to shoot a gun
when he ain't got the strength to stand up to the jar one of these
muskets gives. Reckon I've seen him knocked endways with the kick many
and many a time."

He looked for an answer, and waited while the broad-shouldered
backwoodsman whom he addressed sat up and stared thoughtfully back at
him and then at Steve, who squatted by the fire. "Judge" Mainwaring,
as he was usually styled, was a big-boned, burly man, bearded and as
rugged as the oaks which grew in the wood. His eyes were deep-set and
thoughtful, and he had the air of a man who reflects, who says little,
and that only after due consideration. Indeed Judge Mainwaring had a
reputation for wisdom in the backwoods. No man was more respected in
the neighbourhood of the Mohawk country, and there was no more skilful
hunter, no more courageous Indian tracker than this big man. He spoke
seldom, and then always to the point, and in a manner which proved
that he had at one time been very different from these rough, honest
fellows of the backwoods with whom he now spent his days. Jim and his
comrades had had a talk about Tom Mainwaring or the Judge, many and
many a time, and had even endeavoured to worm some of his history from
him. But always without success.

"Reckon we'd better shut up," said Jim, after one of these many
conversations, when he and Judge and some five others had been
gathered at Tom Mainwaring's log hut in the backwoods. "He don't mean
to tell whar he's from, nor what he was, and small blame to him. He's
here, stout and plucky, a good shot, and jest the fiercest hater I
knows of them varmint of redskins. Reckon that's enough."

"And need he's had to hate them too," another had added. "Reckon Judge
don't care for much after the boy, than to get even with them varmint."

That was indeed the case. No one knew Tom Mainwaring's history, or
could even conjecture where he came from, what calling he had followed
or what his fortunes had been. To the many questions with which he had
at first been bombarded he had replied shortly and with perfect good
temper, but in such a manner that none of those who were so curious
were any the wiser. Yes, he knew Boston, and New York, and London.
He had lived in all three, and he knew France. That was as far as he
could or would go, and the settlers who had picked their holdings in
the Ohio valley, to the south of the giant lakes of Erie and Ontario,
had to be content. He had come to them one fine spring time, a silent
man, bringing a wife and a young son on the back of the one horse
which he led. He had set up his log hut like the rest, and had fished
and shot, and exchanged his pelts for the few necessaries required by
these pioneers of the American forests beyond the Alleghany Mountains.
His wife was French, that they knew for a fact; while Judge, and in
due course Steve also, could speak the language fluently. But where
he came from, why this educated man, who lacked nothing, not even
dollars, for it was an open secret that he had abundant means,--should
come to the backwoods and there bury himself and his wife and boy none
could imagine. But it was apparent that, whatever the reason was, Tom
Mainwaring had no need to be ashamed of it. His honest dealings with
others, his high principles, and the manner in which he had devoted
himself to the education of his boy had proved over and over again
that whatever the mystery, there was nothing about it that could call
a blush of shame to his cheeks.

As to his undying hate of the Indians, that was easily explained.
After all, he did not differ very much in that from the few neighbours
who surrounded him. But he had undoubtedly more cause for hatred.
That same mystery which was for ever a source of wondering curiosity
to these rough pioneers of the forest, took Tom Mainwaring over the
Alleghany mountains once in a while in the direction of the American
coast. Perhaps he went to New York, perhaps to Boston, and it was
even possible, seeing that on occasion he had been absent for six
months, that he had been to England--wherever he went, one of these
journeys had caused him to leave his wife and child in the care of
friendly neighbours, and during his absence these unhappy people had
been raided by the relentless Indians, the women of the party had been
killed, while Steve and one other who happened to be picking berries
in the forest, had alone escaped.

"Reckon that air enough to set any man who is a man agin the varmint,"
Jim had said long ago. "Judge ain't been the same sence he come back
to find the boy alone, and the wife killed and scalped. He's got
kinder hard and fierce, and don't them Injuns know it! And now that
Steve's got big and grown, and able to look for hisself, the log hut
ain't no more use to Judge. Reckon he's happier on the trail."

"There's a lad for yer, Judge," repeated Jim. "Listen to his sauce.
He ain't no respect for his betters now that he's got the knack of
shootin'."

"It's his spirit, Jim," replied Tom Mainwaring, looking with kindling
eye at Steve, and relaxing so far as to smile. "He can use his tongue
as well as he can shoot. So all is clear, Steve?"

"Yes, all clear, father. Silver Fox and I trailed round the camp far
out, and never came upon a track till early. That hunting tribe that
got on to our trace yesterday has given the matter up, and there's
no one to harm us anywhere near. We struck a party of Mohawks up the
river. They're watching the borders."

"And good need they'll have, too," said Tom with emphasis. "I think
there was never such a time as this for raids and murders. We have to
thank the French and their Indians for that."

There was silence for a while in the camp, Steve nodding to Silver Fox
and chatting in low tones as soon as the meat was cooked, while Jim
and Tom stared at the embers, both engrossed with their own thoughts.
And while the two at the fire discuss their breakfast of bear's
meat, and the two sturdy backwoodsmen stare at the embers and think,
let us take a closer look at the camp to which we have already been
introduced, and at its surroundings.

It was pitched in a small natural clearing on the Mohawk river, a
little before its junction with the Hudson, at the mouth of which New
York is situated. Not the New York of to-day, with its regular streets
and avenues, its towering buildings, well-named "sky-scrapers,"
its gigantic hotels, its tenement dwellings and its mansions where
millionaires hide from the inquisitive eyes of the people; but the
New York of the year 1756, with many Dutch among the inhabitants, who
still clung to the city which had once been theirs, but at that time
belonged to the English. New York with its smaller and, compared with
modern days, unpretentious dwellings above which the only thing that
towered was the steeple of the church. South and west of the camp
where Steve and his comrades rested was Albany, an up-country Dutch
settlement, which boasted many wealthy and aristocratic Dutch, and
offered always a means whereby the hunters and trappers of English
descent could barter the pelts which they had collected during the
previous winter. It was whispered, too, that here, in this quiet
Albany, tenanted by Puritan Dutch, French _voyageurs_, and _coureurs
de bois_, the backwoodsmen and trappers of that portion of Northern
America then owned by France, and now known as Canada, were able to
sell the loot obtained from the numerous English settlements which
they and their Indian helpers had attacked and captured.

For there was war between the colonial French and the colonial
English, and for some little time now the two nations had been engaged
in a cruel frontier struggle. In Europe, however, France and England
were outwardly at peace, so far as those in America knew, though
the spring of the year above mentioned saw England's patience at
last destroyed, and a formal declaration of war made. Still, these
backwoodsmen had no notion of that, nor had the numerous French
_voyageurs_ and soldiers who had come across Lake Erie and had marched
down into the valley of the Ohio. That was the disputed ground, where
the bold English pioneers had settled their log huts and taken up
holdings, believing themselves to be on British soil. And now hordes
of French, accompanied by their priests and by thousands of Indians,
were pushing south and west, were expelling the British colonists, and
too often were exterminating them.

No wonder Hunting Jim and Judge Mainwaring and their comrades took
precautions against surprise. They were in a country which was overrun
by enemies, and since they had set out from their settlement ten days
before, they had observed the greatest caution. The huge birch bark
canoe in which they had paddled down the Mohawk had never left the
centre of that stream, save when night had fallen, and always two of
the party had had their eyes glued on the tree-covered banks. In rear
of them, piled high in a second canoe, which was attached to the one
they paddled, were their pelts, a big store of valuable skins, for
which they hoped to obtain a good exchange. It was guarded by one of
the two Mohawk Indians who accompanied them, and who sat at the stern,
musket in hand.

And so for ten days they had travelled, their camp settled in some
clearing at night, sometimes without a fire, for the smoke or the
glare would have brought a host about them, and always with two of
their number out in the woods keeping careful guard. But now they were
safe. It was seldom that French _voyageurs_ had penetrated into the
English settlements as far as this, while their Indian allies stood
in fear of the six united tribes of redskins situated hereabouts, and
known as the Iroquois.

About the camp trees clustered thickly, pines and oaks, maple and
birch, while scattered here and there amongst the trunks were
whortleberry and cranberry bushes, honeysuckle, wild rose trees and
bracken. In many and many a spot the scarlet tupelo and the sumac
grew bright against the green, with purple asters and balm, and the
delicate blue flower of the gentian to keep them company.

A narrow exit led to the Mohawk river, glistening in the sun, and
reflecting the deep green of its forest boundaries in deep pools,
where the stream ran sluggishly, and where the surface was broken
every now and again by the sudden rising of a fish. Wild rice grew
in banks at the water's edge, while clusters of the resin plant and
of wild lilies could be seen by those who cared to look for them. No
wonder that Steve Mainwaring looked fresh and jolly, for these were
the surroundings in which he had passed his seventeen years, without
a care, save the loss of his mother, which he was too young at the
time to realize, and with that spice of danger about him which has
drawn men of every race and creed to such parts. Steve knew the forest
by heart, could tell the difference between the sharp call of the
chickadee and the blue bird, and the howl of fox or wolf. No Indian
was more conversant with the secrets of nature than he, and none
was more at home in the heart of these forest wildernesses. It was,
indeed, his home, and he was never happier than when on the trail.

"Reckon ef we get away within an hour we'll fetch up at Albany before
the dark comes," said Jim at length, as he watched Steve and Silver
Fox eating. "We'll give yer that time for a smoke, young feller, and
then strike camp. Jest raise Mac and that 'ere Talkin' Baar."

He nodded across the camp to the far corner where two figures lay
beneath blankets, sleeping lightly. That they were easily roused was
clear, for as Steve and his companion had come into the clearing
they sat up, only to snuggle under their blankets again. But as Jim
called out the name of Talking Bear, one of the figures started into a
sitting position, followed by the second.

"We'll be on the road in an hour," explained Jim. "Reckon you two have
had a sleep, and ken help me and Judge to get the canoes afloat and
the pelts packed into 'em. Rouse yerself, Mac. Never did see such a
man for sleep."

"And, faith, niver did Oi set eyes on a man what spoke so much. Sleep
did ye say? Sure it's these last two hours Oi've been lyin' alongside
of Talking Bear, wid me eyes tight shut, thrying to get off and drame.
But ye talk so much, Huntin' Jim. Ye'd kape a regimint awhake, so ye
would."

The Irishman roused himself with a growl, and throwing off his
blanket, strode over to Jim and shook his fist in his face, a broad
grin setting his lips wide asunder, and showing a set of strong teeth
which were somewhat blackened with constant use of his pipe. He was
short and sturdy, and in spite of the severeness of his hunting dress,
which was identical with those worn by his comrades, he presented a
comical appearance. His skin cap had fallen off, and showed a shock
head of very brilliant red hair, continuing down his cheeks to his
chin, where it ended in a straggling beard of the same vivid colour.
Indeed, Mac was not good-looking, but he had a pair of genial,
kindly eyes, and was a merry fellow, whose jests and laughter kept
the spirits of his fellows from falling. Once upon a time he had
worn a uniform, and had fought for his country. Then he had come to
America, and by degrees had drifted to the Alleghany settlements, from
which his fondness for danger and adventure had attracted him to the
backwoods. And here he was, boon companion to Jim and the Judge, a
staunch man in the fight, as merry and as light-hearted as a child.

"Will ye niver larn to keep yer tongue in betwixt yer teeth, Huntin'
Jim?" he asked, severely, shaking his fist within an inch of the black
bowl which Jim held between his teeth. "Begorra! Take a lisson from
the Judge. Reckon he's that silent folks can sleep and take their
rest. Git up wid yerself and lind a hand."

He made a sudden dive at Jim's shoulder, and swung him to his feet,
for Mac was very powerful. Then, still shaking his fist at the
grinning backwoodsman, he hustled him down to the banks of the river.
And from there their laughter and their shouts came back to the camp,
while Steve watched their antics. Then Silver Fox handed him his
tobacco, and soon they were smoking and staring at the embers, now and
again exchanging words in the Mohawk language. Presently a shout from
Mac told that the canoes were laden, and at the summons Silver Fox
and his brother, a painted and bedecked Indian like himself, gathered
their blankets about their shoulders, took up their muskets, and
trailed off down to the bank, leaving Steve and his father to stamp
out the fire, to look round for any forgotten trifle, and then to
follow.

"Talkin' Baar's turn for the canoe with the pelts," said Jim, taking
the lead. "Me and you'll paddle, Judge, while this 'ere critter of
yours and Silver Fox keeps an eye on the banks. Hop in easy thar. Mac,
I quite forgot you war there. Slip in in front of me. Now, off we go."

They pushed out into the river, and took to their paddles. That
evening, just before darkness fell, they pulled into the shore where
the township of Albany was situated, and having found a suitable spot,
made for the land. A fire was soon blazing, and within a little while
they were eating. When the moon got up that night and rode high in the
heavens above them, it looked down upon a silent camp, upon the dying
embers of a fire, and upon five silent figures stretched on the ground
and hidden beneath their blankets. Within a few feet of their heads
stood one solitary figure, erect and motionless, swathed in a blanket.
The long barrel of a musket stood up stark against the moon, while
the brilliant light showed up the features of Talking Bear, alert and
watchful, as careful here of the safety of his pale-face brothers as
he would have been in the heart of a hostile country.




Chapter II

French Outlaws and Robbers


"We won't waste no time in gettin' rid of them pelts," said Hunting
Jim, early on the following morning, as the little party sat about
their fire, which was close to the bank of the Hudson river and within
a few yards of the nearest house. "I don't reckon Albany's much of a
place fer us jest now. There's the French up by Lake George, and a
Dutchman I struck at sunrise, a chap as round as a barrel; guessed
that they or their Injuns might hop in here any time. What do yer say,
Judge?"

"We need not fear them," was the calm answer, given after more than a
minute's silence. "They will hardly dare to raid this place, for at
the present time they are doing their utmost to conciliate the Dutch
and win them over to their own side. The same may be said of the
Indians. You see, boys, we colonists are far more numerous than the
French, though they are far better led and organised. Our people seem
to devote all their time to squabbling amongst themselves."

"While the poor white critters out in the woods gets scalped by
fifties and hundreds. Reckon that's a shame," growled Jim. "But about
these pelts."

"Lave it to Steve," burst in Mac, putting his strong fingers through
his shock head of tousled hair. "He's our shopman, so he is, and faith
he'll get as big a price as any. Bigger, me bhoy, so lave it to him."

"You're right, Mac. Steve's the boy," Jim agreed, with a nod, while
Tom Mainwaring smiled approvingly as his son's name was mentioned.
"Yer see, that thar feller Schiller's as hard as a stone I reckon,
and when it comes to a deal with me, or you, Mac, he jest twists us
kinder round his finger. He knows we ain't got no other market, and so
he jest offers what'd be a fair price for a dozen of the skins. Then,
if we looks disgusted, as like as not he'll put a little extry to his
price as a kind of bait. Reckon he's 'cute. He knows we've got to take
his stuff or well nigh starve before we reach another settlement. I've
felt often that I was being robbed by the skunk, but what air a man to
do? Refuse did yer say, Mac?"

"That's so, me bhoy. Indade ye wouldn't be giving the pelts away, so
ye wouldn't."

"Then jest you try that 'ere game," exclaimed Jim, somewhat hotly.
"That chap Schiller's got the broadest back and the coolest temper
I ever saw. It's what he offers or nothing. If you ain't pleased,
he jest gets up from his chair and starts to walk into his house.
Reckon a fellow can't stand that. He's got to soften and give way. But
Steve's the boy. Steve, will yer trade with this 'ere Schiller?"

"Ready and willing, Jim," was the tall lad's eager answer. "I did it
last time, and I'll try again on this occasion. But mind you, you must
back me up."

"We'll do that," sang out Jim. "Then bring them pelts along."

They went to the pile of skins, and each taking a load, marched into
the town of Albany, leaving Tom Mainwaring and the Indians to guard
the camp. And a strange procession they made as they came along the
wide street, past the prosperous Dutch houses and the well-dressed and
comfortable-looking owners. Not that they attracted much attention,
for hunters and trappers were a common sight in the streets of Albany
in those days, and pelts often exchanged hands there.

To the trapper, the tough and hardy woodsman who had been scouring
the forest during the winter and late summer before, hunting game
and caring for the skins, this visit to Albany was one of no small
importance. This expedition and the stores he would obtain were a
source of interest and expectation during the long cold months, and
the trade he could do was of no small importance. For each skin meant
so much in the way of powder, so much lead, or perhaps a new musket.
With the goods he obtained he went back to his log hut, and by dint of
great care managed to eke them out over the winter. As for the trader
who took the pelts, he found an eager market for them in New York, and
made a huge profit over the transaction.

Bearing their pelts on their shoulders, with their muskets in full
evidence, and the blades of their keen tomahawks glittering beneath
their belts, the three trappers marched down the