Read Chapter XV. of The Spirit of the Border, free online book, by Zane Grey, on

So the days passed swiftly, dreamily, each one bringing Joe a keener delight.  In a single month he was as good a woodsman as many pioneers who had passed years on the border, for he had the advantage of a teacher whose woodcraft was incomparable.  Besides, he was naturally quick in learning, and with all his interest centered upon forest lore, it was no wonder he assimilated much of Wetzel’s knowledge.  He was ever willing to undertake anything whereby he might learn.  Often when they were miles away in the dense forest, far from their cave, he asked Wetzel to let him try to lead the way back to camp.  And he never failed once, though many times he got off a straight course, thereby missing the easy travelling.

Joe did wonderfully well, but he lacked, as nearly all white men do, the subtler, intuitive forest-instinct, which makes the Indian as much at home in the woods as in his teepee.  Wetzel had this developed to a high degree.  It was born in him.  Years of training, years of passionate, unrelenting search for Indians, had given him a knowledge of the wilds that was incomprehensible to white men, and appalling to his red foes.

Joe saw how Wetzel used this ability, but what it really was baffled him.  He realized that words were not adequate to explain fully this great art.  Its possession required a marvelously keen vision, an eye perfectly familiar with every creature, tree, rock, shrub and thing belonging in the forest; an eye so quick in flight as to detect instantly the slightest change in nature, or anything unnatural to that environment.  The hearing must be delicate, like that of a deer, and the finer it is, the keener will be the woodsman.  Lastly, there is the feeling that prompts the old hunter to say:  “No game to-day.”  It is something in him that speaks when, as he sees a night-hawk circling low near the ground, he says:  “A storm to-morrow.”  It is what makes an Indian at home in any wilderness.  The clouds may hide the guiding star; the northing may be lost; there may be no moss on the trees, or difference in their bark; the ridges may be flat or lost altogether, and there may be no water-courses; yet the Indian brave always goes for his teepee, straight as a crow flies.  It was this voice which rightly bade Wetzel, when he was baffled by an Indian’s trail fading among the rocks, to cross, or circle, or advance in the direction taken by his wily foe.

Joe had practiced trailing deer and other hoofed game, until he was true as a hound.  Then he began to perfect himself in the art of following a human being through the forest.  Except a few old Indian trails, which the rain had half obliterated, he had no tracks to discover save Wetzel’s, and these were as hard to find as the airy course of a grosbeak.  On soft ground or marshy grass, which Wetzel avoided where he could, he left a faint trail, but on a hard surface, for all the traces he left, he might as well not have gone over the ground at all.

Joe’s persistence stood him in good stead; he hung on, and the more he failed, the harder he tried.  Often he would slip out of the cave after Wetzel had gone, and try to find which way he had taken.  In brief, the lad became a fine marksman, a good hunter, and a close, persevering student of the wilderness.  He loved the woods, and all they contained.  He learned the habits of the wild creatures.  Each deer, each squirrel, each grouse that he killed, taught him some lesson.

He was always up with the lark to watch the sun rise red and grand over the eastern hills, and chase away the white mist from the valleys.  Even if he was not hunting, or roaming the woods, if it was necessary for him to lie low in camp awaiting Wetzel’s return, he was always content.  Many hours he idled away lying on his back, with the west wind blowing softly over him, his eye on the distant hills, where the cloud shadows swept across with slow, majestic movement, like huge ships at sea.

If Wetzel and Joe were far distant from the cave, as was often the case, they made camp in the open woods, and it was here that Joe’s contentment was fullest.  Twilight shades stealing down over the camp-fire; the cheery glow of red embers; the crackling of dry stocks; the sweet smell of wood smoke, all had for the lad a subtle, potent charm.

The hunter would broil a venison steak, or a partridge, on the coals.  Then they would light their pipes and smoke while twilight deepened.  The oppressive stillness of the early evening hour always brought to the younger man a sensation of awe.  At first he attributed this to the fact that he was new to this life; however, as the days passed and the emotion remained, nay, grew stronger, he concluded it was imparted by this close communion with nature.  Deep solemn, tranquil, the gloaming hour brought him no ordinary fullness of joy and clearness of perception.

“Do you ever feel this stillness?” he asked Wetzel one evening, as they sat near their flickering fire.

The hunter puffed his pipe, and, like an Indian, seemed to let the question take deep root.

“I’ve scalped redskins every hour in the day, ‘ceptin’ twilight,” he replied.

Joe wondered no longer whether the hunter was too hardened to feel this beautiful tranquillity.  That hour which wooed Wetzel from his implacable pursuit was indeed a bewitching one.

There was never a time, when Joe lay alone in camp waiting for Wetzel, that he did not hope the hunter would return with information of Indians.  The man never talked about the savages, and if he spoke at all it was to tell of some incident of his day’s travel.  One evening he came back with a large black fox that he had killed.

“What beautiful, glossy fur!” said Joe.  “I never saw a black fox before.”

“I’ve been layin’ fer this fellar some time,” replied Wetzel, as he began his first evening task, that of combing his hair.  “Jest back here in a clump of cottonwoods there’s a holler log full of leaves.  Happenin’ to see a blacksnake sneakin’ round, I thought mebbe he was up to somethin’, so I investigated, an’ found a nest full of young rabbits.  I killed the snake, an’ arter that took an interest in ’em.  Every time I passed I’d look in at the bunnies, an’ each time I seen signs that some tarnal varmint had been prowlin’ round.  One day I missed a bunny, an’ next day another; so on until only one was left, a peart white and gray little scamp.  Somethin’ was stealin’ of ’em, an’ it made me mad.  So yistidday an’ to-day I watched, an’ finally I plugged this black thief.  Yes, he’s got a glossy coat; but he’s a bad un fer all his fine looks.  These black foxes are bigger, stronger an’ cunniner than red ones.  In every litter you’ll find a dark one, the black sheep of the family.  Because he grows so much faster, an’ steals all the food from the others, the mother jest takes him by the nape of the neck an’ chucks him out in the world to shift fer hisself.  An’ it’s a good thing.”

The next day Wetzel told Joe they would go across country to seek new game fields.  Accordingly the two set out, and tramped industriously until evening.  They came upon a country no less beautiful than the one they had left, though the picturesque cliffs and rugged hills had given way to a rolling land, the luxuriance of which was explained by the abundant springs and streams.  Forests and fields were thickly interspersed with bubbling springs, narrow and deep streams, and here and there a small lake with a running outlet.

Wetzel had said little concerning this region, but that little was enough to rouse all Joe’s eagerness, for it was to the effect that they were now in a country much traversed by Indians, especially runners and hunting parties travelling from north to south.  The hunter explained that through the center of this tract ran a buffalo road; that the buffalo always picked out the straightest, lowest and dryest path from one range to another, and the Indians followed these first pathfinders.

Joe and Wetzel made camp on the bank of a stream that night, and as the lad watched the hunter build a hidden camp-fire, he peered furtively around half expecting to see dark forms scurrying through the forest.  Wetzel was extremely cautious.  He stripped pieces of bark from fallen trees and built a little hut over his firewood.  He rubbed some powder on a piece of punk, and then with flint and steel dropped two or three sparks on the inflammable substance.  Soon he had a blaze.  He arranged the covering so that not a ray of light escaped.  When the flames had subsided, and the wood had burned down to a glowing bed of red, he threw aside the bark, and broiled the strips of venison they had brought with them.

They rested on a bed of boughs which they had cut and arranged alongside a huge log.  For hours Joe lay awake, he could not sleep.  He listened to the breeze rustling the leaves, and shivered at the thought of the sighing wind he had once heard moan through the forest.  Presently he turned over.  The slight noise instantly awakened Wetzel who lifted his dark face while he listened intently.  He spoke one word:  “Sleep,” and lay back again on the leaves.  Joe forced himself to be quiet, relaxed all his muscles and soon slumbered.

On the morrow Wetzel went out to look over the hunting prospects.  About noon he returned.  Joe was surprised to find some slight change in the hunter.  He could not tell what it was.

“I seen Injun sign,” said Wetzel.  “There’s no tellin’ how soon we may run agin the sneaks.  We can’t hunt here.  Like as not there’s Hurons and Delawares skulkin’ round.  I think I’d better take you back to the village.”

“It’s all on my account you say that,” said Joe.

“Sure,” Wetzel replied.

“If you were alone what would you do?”

“I calkilate I’d hunt fer some red-skinned game.”

The supreme moment had come.  Joe’s heart beat hard.  He could not miss this opportunity; he must stay with the hunter.  He looked closely at Wetzel.

“I won’t go back to the village,” he said.

The hunter stood in his favorite position, leaning on his long rifle, and made no response.

“I won’t go,” continued Joe, earnestly.  “Let me stay with you.  If at any time I hamper you, or can not keep the pace, then leave me to shift for myself; but don’t make me go until I weaken.  Let me stay.”

Fire and fearlessness spoke in Joe’s every word, and his gray eyes contracted with their peculiar steely flash.  Plain it was that, while he might fail to keep pace with Wetzel, he did not fear this dangerous country, and, if it must be, would face it alone.

Wetzel extended his broad hand and gave his comrade’s a viselike squeeze.  To allow the lad to remain with him was more than he would have done for any other person in the world.  Far better to keep the lad under his protection while it was possible, for Joe was taking that war-trail which had for every hunter, somewhere along its bloody course, a bullet, a knife, or a tomahawk.  Wetzel knew that Joe was conscious of this inevitable conclusion, for it showed in his white face, and in the resolve in his big, gray eyes.

So there, in the shade of a towering oak, the Indian-killer admitted the boy into his friendship, and into a life which would no longer be play, but eventful, stirring, hazardous.

“Wal, lad, stay,” he said, with that rare smile which brightened his dark face like a ray of stray sunshine.  “We’ll hang round these diggins a few days.  First off, we’ll take in the lay of the land.  You go down stream a ways an’ scout round some, while I go up, an’ then circle down.  Move slow, now, an’ don’t miss nothin’.”

Joe followed the stream a mile or more.  He kept close in the shade of willows, and never walked across an open glade without first waiting and watching.  He listened to all sounds; but none were unfamiliar.  He closely examined the sand along the stream, and the moss and leaves under the trees.  When he had been separated from Wetzel several hours, and concluded he would slowly return to camp, he ran across a well-beaten path winding through the forest.  This was, perhaps, one of the bridle-trails Wetzel had referred to.  He bent over the worn grass with keen scrutiny.


The loud report of a heavily charged rifle rang out.  Joe felt the zip of a bullet as it fanned his cheek.  With an agile leap he gained the shelter of a tree, from behind which he peeped to see who had shot at him.  He was just in time to detect the dark form of an Indian dart behind the foliage an hundred yards down the path.  Joe expected to see other Indians, and to hear more shots, but he was mistaken.  Evidently the savage was alone, for the tree Joe had taken refuge behind was scarcely large enough to screen his body, which disadvantage the other Indians would have been quick to note.

Joe closely watched the place where his assailant had disappeared, and presently saw a dark hand, then a naked elbow, and finally the ramrod of a rifle.  The savage was reloading.  Soon a rifle-barrel protruded from behind the tree.  With his heart beating like a trip-hammer, and the skin tightening on his face, Joe screened his body as best he might.  The tree was small, but it served as a partial protection.  Rapidly he revolved in his mind plans to outwit the enemy.  The Indian was behind a large oak with a low limb over which he could fire without exposing his own person to danger.

“Bang!” The Indian’s rifle bellowed; the bullet crumbled the bark close to Joe’s face.  The lad yelled loudly, staggered to his knees, and then fell into the path, where he lay quiet.

The redskin gave an exultant shout.  Seeing that the fallen figure remained quite motionless he stepped forward, drawing his knife as he came.  He was a young brave, quick and eager in his movements, and came nimbly up the path to gain his coveted trophy, the paleface’s scalp.

Suddenly Joe sat up, raised his rifle quickly as thought, and fired point-blank at the Indian.

But he missed.

The redskin stopped aghast when he saw the lad thus seemingly come back to life.  Then, realizing that Joe’s aim had been futile, he bounded forward, brandishing his knife, and uttering infuriated yells.

Joe rose to his feet with rifle swung high above his head.

When the savage was within twenty feet, so near that his dark face, swollen with fierce passion, could be plainly discerned, a peculiar whistling noise sounded over Joe’s shoulder.  It was accompanied, rather than followed, by a clear, ringing rifleshot.

The Indian stopped as if he had encountered a heavy shock from a tree or stone barring his way.  Clutching at his breast, he uttered a weird cry, and sank slowly on the grass.

Joe ran forward to bend over the prostrate figure.  The Indian, a slender, handsome young brave, had been shot through the breast.  He held his hand tightly over the wound, while bright red blood trickled between his fingers, flowed down his side, and stained the grass.

The brave looked steadily up at Joe.  Shot as he was, dying as he knew himself to be, there was no yielding in the dark eye ­only an unquenchable hatred.  Then the eyes glazed; the fingers ceased twitching.

Joe was bending over a dead Indian.

It flashed into his mind, of course, that Wetzel had come up in time to save his life, but he did not dwell on the thought; he shrank from this violent death of a human being.  But it was from the aspect of the dead, not from remorse for the deed.  His heart beat fast, his fingers trembled, yet he felt only a strange coldness in all his being.  The savage had tried to kill him, perhaps, even now, had it not been for the hunter’s unerring aim, would have been gloating over a bloody scalp.

Joe felt, rather than heard, the approach of some one, and he turned to see Wetzel coming down the path.

“He’s a lone Shawnee runner,” said the hunter, gazing down at the dead Indian.  “He was tryin’ to win his eagle plumes.  I seen you both from the hillside.”

“You did!” exclaimed Joe.  Then he laughed.  “It was lucky for me.  I tried the dodge you taught me, but in my eagerness I missed.”

“Wal, you hadn’t no call fer hurry.  You worked the trick clever, but you missed him when there was plenty of time.  I had to shoot over your shoulder, or I’d hev plugged him sooner.”

“Where were you?” asked Joe.

“Up there by that bit of sumach!” and Wetzel pointed to an open ridge on a hillside not less than one hundred and fifty yards distant.

Joe wondered which of the two bullets, the death-seeking one fired by the savage, or the life-saving missile from Wetzel’s fatal weapon, had passed nearest to him.

“Come,” said the hunter, after he had scalped the Indian.

“What’s to be done with this savage?” inquired Joe, as Wetzel started up the path.

“Let him lay.”

They returned to camp without further incident.  While the hunter busied himself reinforcing their temporary shelter ­for the clouds looked threatening ­Joe cut up some buffalo meat, and then went down to the brook for a gourd of water.  He came hurriedly back to where Wetzel was working, and spoke in a voice which he vainly endeavors to hold steady: 

“Come quickly.  I have seen something which may mean a good deal.”

He led the way down to the brookside.

“Look!” Joe said, pointing at the water.

Here the steam was about two feet deep, perhaps twenty wide, and had just a noticeable current.  Shortly before, it had been as clear as a bright summer sky; it was now tinged with yellow clouds that slowly floated downstream, each one enlarging and becoming fainter as the clear water permeated and stained.  Grains of sand glided along with the current, little pieces of bark floated on the surface, and minnows darted to and fro nibbling at these drifting particles.

“Deer wouldn’t roil the water like that.  What does it mean?” asked Joe.

“Injuns, an’ not fer away.”

Wetzel returned to the shelter and tore it down.  Then he bent the branch of a beech tree low over the place.  He pulled down another branch over the remains of the camp-fire.  These precautions made the spot less striking.  Wetzel knew that an Indian scout never glances casually; his roving eyes survey the forest, perhaps quickly, but thoroughly.  An unnatural position of bush or log always leads to an examination.

This done, the hunter grasped Joe’s hand and led him up the knoll.  Making his way behind a well-screened tree, which had been uprooted, he selected a position where, hidden themselves, they could see the creek.

Hardly had Wetzel, admonished Joe to lie perfectly still, when from a short distance up the stream came the sound of splashing water; but nothing could be seen above the open glade, as in that direction willows lined the creek in dense thickets.  The noise grew more audible.

Suddenly Joe felt a muscular contraction pass over the powerful frame lying close beside him.  It was a convulsive thrill such as passes through a tiger when he is about to spring upon his quarry.  So subtle and strong was its meaning, so clearly did it convey to the lad what was coming, that he felt it himself; save that in his case it was a cold, chill shudder.

Breathless suspense followed.  Then into the open space along the creek glided a tall Indian warrior.  He was knee-deep in the water, where he waded with low, cautious steps.  His garish, befrilled costume seemed familiar to Joe.  He carried a rifle at a low trail, and passed slowly ahead with evident distrust.  The lad believed he recognized that head, with its tangled black hair, and when he saw the swarthy, villainous countenance turned full toward him, he exclaimed: 

“Girty! by –­”

Wetzel’s powerful arm forced him so hard against the log that he could not complete the exclamation; but he could still see.  Girty had not heard that stifled cry, for he continued his slow wading, and presently his tall, gaudily decorated form passed out of sight.

Another savage appeared in the open space, and then another.  Close between them walked a white man, with hands bound behind him.  The prisoner and guards disappeared down stream among the willows.

The splashing continued ­grew even louder than before.  A warrior came into view, then another, and another.  They walked close together.  Two more followed.  They were wading by the side of a raft made of several logs, upon which were two prostrate figures that closely resembled human beings.

Joe was so intent upon the lithe forms of the Indians that he barely got a glimpse of their floating prize, whatever it might have been.  Bringing up the rear was an athletic warrior, whose broad shoulders, sinewy arms, and shaved, polished head Joe remembered well.  It was the Shawnee chief, Silvertip.

When he, too, passed out of sight in the curve of willows, Joe found himself trembling.  He turned eagerly to Wetzel; but instantly recoiled.

Terrible, indeed, had been the hunter’s transformation.  All calmness of facial expression was gone; he was now stern, somber.  An intense emotion was visible in his white face; his eyes seemed reduced to two dark shining points, and they emitted so fierce, so piercing a flash, so deadly a light, that Joe could not bear their glittering gaze.

“Three white captives, two of ’em women,” uttered the hunter, as if weighing in his mind the importance of this fact.

“Were those women on the raft?” questioned Joe, and as Wetzel only nodded, he continued, “A white man and two women, six warriors, Silvertip, and that renegade, Jim Girty!”

Wetzel deigned not to answer Joe’s passionate outburst, but maintained silence and his rigid posture.  Joe glanced once more at the stern face.

“Considering we’d go after Girty and his redskins if they were alone, we’re pretty likely to go quicker now that they’ve got white women prisoners, eh?” and Joe laughed fiercely between his teeth.

The lad’s heart expanded, while along every nerve tingled an exquisite thrill of excitement.  He had yearned for wild, border life.  Here he was in it, with the hunter whose name alone was to the savages a symbol for all that was terrible.

Wetzel evidently decided quickly on what was to be done, for in few words he directed Joe to cut up so much of the buffalo meat as they could stow in their pockets.  Then, bidding the lad to follow, he turned into the woods, walking rapidly, and stopping now and then for a brief instant.  Soon they emerged from the forest into more open country.  They faced a wide plain skirted on the right by a long, winding strip of bright green willows which marked the course of the stream.  On the edge of this plain Wetzel broke into a run.  He kept this pace for a distance of an hundred yards, then stopped to listen intently as he glanced sharply on all sides, after which he was off again.

Half way across this plain Joe’s wind began to fail, and his breathing became labored; but he kept close to the hunter’s heels.  Once he looked back to see a great wide expanse of waving grass.  They had covered perhaps four miles at a rapid pace, and were nearing the other side of the plain.  The lad felt as if his head was about to burst; a sharp pain seized upon his side; a blood-red film obscured his sight.  He kept doggedly on, and when utterly exhausted fell to the ground.

When, a few minutes later, having recovered his breath, he got up, they had crossed the plain and were in a grove of beeches.  Directly in front of him ran a swift stream, which was divided at the rocky head of what appeared to be a wooded island.  There was only a slight ripple and fall of the water, and, after a second glance, it was evident that the point of land was not an island, but a portion of the mainland which divided the stream.  The branches took almost opposite courses.

Joe wondered if they had headed off the Indians.  Certainly they had run fast enough.  He was wet with perspiration.  He glanced at Wetzel, who was standing near.  The man’s broad breast rose and fell a little faster; that was the only evidence of exertion.  The lad had a painful feeling that he could never keep pace with the hunter, if this five-mile run was a sample of the speed he would be forced to maintain.

“They’ve got ahead of us, but which crick did they take?” queried Wetzel, as though debating the question with himself.

“How do you know they’ve passed?”

“We circled,” answered Wetzel, as he shook his head and pointed into the bushes.  Joe stepped over and looked into the thicket.  He found a quantity of dead leaves, sticks, and litter thrown aside, exposing to light a long, hollowed place on the ground.  It was what would be seen after rolling over a log that had lain for a long time.  Little furrows in the ground, holes, mounds, and curious winding passages showed where grubs and crickets had made their homes.  The frightened insects were now running round wildly.

“What was here?  A log?”

“A twenty-foot canoe was hid under thet stuff.  The Injuns has taken one of these streams.”

“How can we tell which one?”

“Mebbe we can’t; but we’ll try.  Grab up a few of them bugs, go below thet rocky point, an’ crawl close to the bank so you can jest peep over.  Be keerful not to show the tip of your head, an’ don’t knock nothin’ off’en the bank into the water.  Watch fer trout.  Look everywheres, an’ drop in a bug now and then.  I’ll do the same fer the other stream.  Then we’ll come back here an’ talk over what the fish has to say about the Injuns.”

Joe walked down stream a few paces, and, dropping on his knees, crawled carefully to the edge of the bank.  He slightly parted the grass so he could peep through, and found himself directly over a pool with a narrow shoal running out from the opposite bank.  The water was so clear he could see the pebbly bottom in all parts, except a dark hole near a bend in the shore close by.  He did not see a living thing in the water, not a crawfish, turtle, nor even a frog.  He peered round closely, then flipped in one of the bugs he had brought along.  A shiny yellow fish flared up from the depths of the deep hole and disappeared with the cricket; but it was a bass or a pike, not a trout.  Wetzel had said there were a few trout living near the cool springs of these streams.  The lad tried again to coax one to the surface.  This time the more fortunate cricket swam and hopped across the stream to safety.

When Joe’s eyes were thoroughly accustomed to the clear water, with its deceiving lights and shades, he saw a fish lying snug under the side of a stone.  The lad thought he recognized the snub-nose, the hooked, wolfish jaw, but he could not get sufficient of a view to classify him.  He crawled to a more advantageous position farther down stream, and then he peered again through the woods.  Yes, sure enough, he had espied a trout.  He well knew those spotted silver sides, that broad, square tail.  Such a monster!  In his admiration for the fellow, and his wish for a hook and line to try conclusions with him, Joe momentarily forgot his object.  Remembering, he tossed out a big, fat cricket, which alighted on the water just above the fish.  The trout never moved, nor even blinked.  The lad tried again, with no better success.  The fish would not rise.  Thereupon Joe returned to the point where he had left Wetzel.

“I couldn’t see nothin’ over there,” said the hunter, who was waiting.  “Did you see any?’

“One, and a big fellow.”

“Did he see you?”


“Did he rise to a bug?”

“No, he didn’t; but then maybe he wasn’t hungry” answered Joe, who could not understand what Wetzel was driving at.

“Tell me exactly what he did.”

“That’s just the trouble; he didn’t do anything,” replied Joe, thoughtfully.  “He just lay low, stifflike, under a stone.  He never batted an eye.  But his side-fins quivered like an aspen leaf.”

“Them side-fins tell us the story.  Girty, an’ his redskins hev took this branch,” said Wetzel, positively.  “The other leads to the Huron towns.  Girty’s got a place near the Delaware camp somewheres.  I’ve tried to find it a good many times.  He’s took more’n one white lass there, an’ nobody ever seen her agin.”

“Fiend!  To think of a white woman, maybe a girl like Nell Wells, at the mercy of those red devils!”

“Young fellar, don’t go wrong.  I’ll allow Injuns is bad enough; but I never hearn tell of one abusin’ a white woman, as mayhap you mean.  Injuns marry white women sometimes; kill an’ scalp ’em often, but that’s all.  It’s men of our own color, renegades like this Girty, as do worse’n murder.”

Here was the amazing circumstance of Lewis Wetzel, the acknowledged unsatiable foe of all redmen, speaking a good word for his enemies.  Joe was so astonished he did not attempt to answer.

“Here’s where they got in the canoe.  One more look, an’ then we’re off,” said Wetzel.  He strode up and down the sandy beach; examined the willows, and scrutinized the sand.  Suddenly he bent over and picked up an object from the water.  His sharp eyes had caught the glint of something white, which, upon being examined, proved to be a small ivory or bone buckle with a piece broken out.  He showed it to Joe.

“By heavens!  Wetzel, that’s a buckle off Nell Well’s shoe.  I’ve seen it too many times to mistake it.”

“I was afeared Girty hed your friends, the sisters, an’ mebbe your brother, too.  Jack Zane said the renegade was hangin’ round the village, an’ that couldn’t be fer no good.”

“Come on.  Let’s kill the fiend!” cried Joe, white to the lips.

“I calkilate they’re about a mile down stream, makin’ camp fer the night.  I know the place.  There’s a fine spring, an, look!  D’ye see them crows flyin’ round thet big oak with the bleached top?  Hear them cawin’?  You might think they was chasin’ a hawk, or king-birds were arter ’em, but thet fuss they’re makin’ is because they see Injuns.”

“Well?” asked Joe, impatiently.

“It’ll be moonlight a while arter midnight.  We’ll lay low an’ wait, an’ then –­”

The sharp click of his teeth, like the snap of a steel trap, completed the sentence.  Joe said no more, but followed the hunter into the woods.  Stopping near a fallen tree, Wetzel raked up a bundle of leaves and spread them on the ground.  Then he cut a few spreading branches from a beech, and leaned them against a log.  Bidding the lad crawl in before he took one last look around and then made his way under the shelter.

It was yet daylight, which seemed a strange time to creep into this little nook; but, Joe thought, it was not to sleep, only to wait, wait, wait for the long hours to pass.  He was amazed once more, because, by the time twilight had given place to darkness, Wetzel was asleep.  The lad said then to himself that he would never again be surprised at the hunter.  He assumed once and for all that Wetzel was capable of anything.  Yet how could he lose himself in slumber?  Feeling, as he must, over the capture of the girls; eager to draw a bead on the black-hearted renegade; hating Indians with all his soul and strength, and lying there but a few hours before what he knew would be a bloody battle, Wetzel calmly went to sleep.  Knowing the hunter to be as bloodthirsty as a tiger, Joe had expected he would rush to a combat with his foes; but, no, this man, with his keen sagacity, knew when to creep upon his enemy; he bided that time, and, while he waited, slept.

Joe could not close his eyes in slumber.  Through the interstices in the branches he saw the stars come out one by one, the darkness deepened, and the dim outline of tall trees over the dark hill came out sharply.  The moments dragged, each one an hour.  He heard a whippoorwill call, lonely and dismal; then an owl hoot monotonously.  A stealthy footed animal ran along the log, sniffed at the boughs, and then scurried away over the dry leaves.  By and by the dead silence of night fell over all.  Still Joe lay there wide awake, listening ­his heart on fire.  He was about to rescue Nell; to kill that hawk-nosed renegade; to fight Silvertip to the death.

The hours passed, but not Joe’s passionate eagerness.  When at last he saw the crescent moon gleam silver-white over the black hilltop he knew the time was nigh, and over him ran thrill on thrill.