hope now to reach Niagara and deliver the final blow to that squirming den of serpents.

True, Amochol was dead; but Walter Butler lived. And there was now no hope of reaching him. Bag and baggage, horse, foot, and Indians, he had gone clear out of sight and sound into a vast and trackless wilderness which we might not hope to penetrate because, even on half rations, we had now scarcely enough flour left to take us back to the frontiers of civilization.

Of our artillery we had only a light piece or two left, and the cohorn; of cattle we had scarcely any; of wagons and horses very few, having killed and eaten the more worn-out animals at Horseheads. Only the regimental wagons contained any flour; half our officers were without mounts; ammunition was failing us; and between us and our