by Zane Grey
Chapter XV.
So the days passed swiftly, dreamily, each one bringing Joe a keenerdelight. In a single month he was as good a woodsman as manypioneers who had passed years on the border, for he had theadvantage of a teacher whose woodcraft was incomparable. Besides, hewas naturally quick in learning, and with all his interest centeredupon forest lore, it was no wonder he assimilated much of Wetzel'sknowledge. He was ever willing to undertake anything whereby hemight 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 wayback to camp. And he never failed once, though many times he got offa 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 asmuch at home in the woods as in his teepee. Wetzel had thisdeveloped to a high degree. It was born in him. Years of training,years of passionate, unrelenting search for Indians, had given him aknowledge of the wilds that was incomprehensible to white men, andappalling to his red foes.
Joe saw how Wetzel used this ability, but what it really was baffledhim. He realized that words were not adequate to explain fully thisgreat art. Its possession required a marvelously keen vision, an eyeperfectly familiar with every creature, tree, rock, shrub and thingbelonging in the forest; an eye so quick in flight as to detectinstantly the slightest change in nature, or anything unnatural tothat environment. The hearing must be delicate, like that of a deer,and the finer it is, the keener will be the woodsman. Lastly, thereis 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-hawkcircling low near the ground, he says: "A storm to-morrow." It iswhat makes an Indian at home in any wilderness. The clouds may hidethe guiding star; the northing may be lost; there may be no moss onthe trees, or difference in their bark; the ridges may be flat orlost altogether, and there may be no water-courses; yet the Indianbrave always goes for his teepee, straight as a crow flies. It wasthis voice which rightly bade Wetzel, when he was baffled by anIndian's trail fading among the rocks, to cross, or circle, oradvance in the direction taken by his wily foe.
Joe had practiced trailing deer and other hoofed game, until he wastrue as a hound. Then he began to perfect himself in the art offollowing a human being through the forest. Except a few old Indiantrails, which the rain had half obliterated, he had no tracks todiscover save Wetzel's, and these were as hard to find as the airycourse of a grosbeak. On soft ground or marshy grass, which Wetzelavoided where he could, he left a faint trail, but on a hardsurface, for all the traces he left, he might as well not have goneover the ground at all.
Joe's persistence stood him in good stead; he hung on, and the morehe failed, the harder he tried. Often he would slip out of the caveafter Wetzel had gone, and try to find which way he had taken. Inbrief, the lad became a fine marksman, a good hunter, and a close,persevering student of the wilderness. He loved the woods, and allthey contained. He learned the habits of the wild creatures. Eachdeer, each squirrel, each grouse that he killed, taught him somelesson.
He was always up with the lark to watch the sun rise red and grandover the eastern hills, and chase away the white mist from thevalleys. Even if he was not hunting, or roaming the woods, if it wasnecessary for him to lie low in camp awaiting Wetzel's return, hewas always content. Many hours he idled away lying on his back, withthe 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 thecase, they made camp in the open woods, and it was here that Joe'scontentment was fullest. Twilight shades stealing down over thecamp-fire; the cheery glow of red embers; the crackling of drystocks; 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 thecoals. Then they would light their pipes and smoke while twilightdeepened. The oppressive stillness of the early evening hour alwaysbrought to the younger man a sensation of awe. At first heattributed this to the fact that he was new to this life; however,as the days passed and the emotion remained, nay, grew stronger, heconcluded it was imparted by this close communion with nature. Deepsolemn, tranquil, the gloaming hour brought him no ordinary fullnessof joy and clearness of perception.
"Do you ever feel this stillness?" he asked Wetzel one evening, asthey sat near their flickering fire.
The hunter puffed his pipe, and, like an Indian, seemed to let thequestion take deep root.
"I've scalped redskins every hour in the day, 'ceptin' twilight," hereplied.
Joe wondered no longer whether the hunter was too hardened to feelthis beautiful tranquillity. That hour which wooed Wetzel from hisimplacable pursuit was indeed a bewitching one.
There was never a time, when Joe lay alone in camp waiting forWetzel, that he did not hope the hunter would return withinformation of Indians. The man never talked about the savages, andif he spoke at all it was to tell of some incident of his day'stravel. One evening he came back with a large black fox that he hadkilled.
"What beautiful, glossy fur!" said Joe. "I never saw a black foxbefore."
"I've been layin' fer this fellar some time," replied Wetzel, as hebegan his first evening task, that of combing his hair. "Jest backhere in a clump of cottonwoods there's a holler log full of leaves.Happenin' to see a blacksnake sneakin' round, I thought mebbe he wasup to somethin', so I investigated, an' found a nest full of youngrabbits. 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 seensigns that some tarnal varmint had been prowlin' round. One day Imissed 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 Iplugged this black thief. Yes, he's got a glossy coat; but he's abad un fer all his fine looks. These black foxes are bigger,stronger an' cunniner than red ones. In every litter you'll find adark one, the black sheep of the family. Because he grows so muchfaster, an' steals all the food from the others, the mother jesttakes him by the nape of the neck an' chucks him out in the world toshift fer hisself. An' it's a good thing."
The next day Wetzel told Joe they would go across country to seeknew game fields. Accordingly the two set out, and trampedindustriously until evening. They came upon a country no lessbeautiful than the one they had left, though the picturesque cliffsand rugged hills had given way to a rolling land, the luxuriance ofwhich was explained by the abundant springs and streams. Forests andfields were thickly interspersed with bubbling springs, narrow anddeep streams, and here and there a small lake with a running outlet.
Wetzel had said little concerning this region, but that little wasenough to rouse all Joe's eagerness, for it was to the effect thatthey were now in a country much traversed by Indians, especiallyrunners and hunting parties travelling from north to south. Thehunter explained that through the center of this tract ran a buffaloroad; that the buffalo always picked out the straightest, lowest anddryest path from one range to another, and the Indians followedthese first pathfinders.
Joe and Wetzel made camp on the bank of a stream that night, and asthe lad watched the hunter build a hidden camp-fire, he peeredfurtively around half expecting to see dark forms scurrying throughthe forest. Wetzel was extremely cautious. He stripped pieces ofbark from fallen trees and built a little hut over his firewood. Herubbed some powder on a piece of punk, and then with flint and steeldropped two or three sparks on the inflammable substance. Soon hehad a blaze. He arranged the covering so that not a ray of lightescaped. When the flames had subsided, and the wood had burned downto a glowing bed of red, he threw aside the bark, and broiled thestrips of venison they had brought with them.
They rested on a bed of boughs which they had cut and arrangedalongside a huge log. For hours Joe lay awake, he could not sleep.He
listened to the breeze rustling the leaves, and shivered at thethought of the sighing wind he had once heard moan through theforest. Presently he turned over. The slight noise instantlyawakened Wetzel who lifted his dark face while he listened intently.He spoke one word: "Sleep," and lay back again on the leaves. Joeforced himself to be quiet, relaxed all his muscles and soonslumbered.
On the morrow Wetzel went out to look over the hunting prospects.About noon he returned. Joe was surprised to find some slight changein the hunter. He could not tell what it was.
"I seen Injun sign," said Wetzel. "There's no tellin' how soon wemay run agin the sneaks. We can't hunt here. Like as not there'sHurons and Delawares skulkin' round. I think I'd better take youback 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 notmiss this opportunity; he must stay with the hunter. He lookedclosely at Wetzel.
"I won't go back to the village," he said.
The hunter stood in his favorite position, leaning on his longrifle, and made no response.
"I won't go," continued Joe, earnestly. "Let me stay with you. If atany time I hamper you, or can not keep the pace, then leave me toshift 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 eyescontracted with their peculiar steely flash. Plain it was that,while he might fail to keep pace with Wetzel, he did not fear thisdangerous country, and, if it must be, would face it alone.
Wetzel extended his broad hand and gave his comrade's a viselikesqueeze. To allow the lad to remain with him was more than he wouldhave done for any other person in the world. Far better to keep thelad under his protection while it was possible, for Joe was takingthat war-trail which had for every hunter, somewhere along itsbloody course, a bullet, a knife, or a tomahawk. Wetzel knew thatJoe was conscious of this inevitable conclusion, for it showed inhis white face, and in the resolve in his big, gray eyes.
So there, in the shade of a towering oak, the Indian-killer admittedthe boy into his friendship, and into a life which would no longerbe play, but eventful, stirring, hazardous.
"Wal, lad, stay," he said, with that rare smile which brightened hisdark face like a ray of stray sunshine. "We'll hang round thesediggins 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 shadeof willows, and never walked across an open glade without firstwaiting and watching. He listened to all sounds; but none wereunfamiliar. He closely examined the sand along the stream, and themoss and leaves under the trees. When he had been separated fromWetzel several hours, and concluded he would slowly return to camp,he ran across a well-beaten path winding through the forest. Thiswas, perhaps, one of the bridle-trails Wetzel had referred to. Hebent over the worn grass with keen scrutiny.
CRACK!
The loud report of a heavily charged rifle rang out. Joe felt thezip of a bullet as it fanned his cheek. With an agile leap he gainedthe shelter of a tree, from behind which he peeped to see who hadshot at him. He was just in time to detect the dark form of anIndian dart behind the foliage an hundred yards down the path. Joeexpected to see other Indians, and to hear more shots, but he wasmistaken. Evidently the savage was alone, for the tree Joe had takenrefuge behind was scarcely large enough to screen his body, whichdisadvantage 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 theramrod of a rifle. The savage was reloading. Soon a rifle-barrelprotruded from behind the tree. With his heart beating like atrip-hammer, and the skin tightening on his face, Joe screened hisbody as best he might. The tree was small, but it served as apartial protection. Rapidly he revolved in his mind plans to outwitthe enemy. The Indian was behind a large oak with a low limb overwhich he could fire without exposing his own person to danger.
"Bang!" The Indian's rifle bellowed; the bullet crumbled the barkclose 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 figureremained quite motionless he stepped forward, drawing his knife ashe came. He was a young brave, quick and eager in his movements, andcame nimbly up the path to gain his coveted trophy, the paleface'sscalp.
Suddenly Joe sat up, raised his rifle quickly as thought, and firedpoint-blank at the Indian.
But he missed.
The redskin stopped aghast when he saw the lad thus seemingly comeback to life. Then, realizing that Joe's aim had been futile, hebounded forward, brandishing his knife, and uttering infuriatedyells.
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 peculiarwhistling 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 atree or stone barring his way. Clutching at his breast, he uttered aweird cry, and sank slowly on the grass.
Joe ran forward to bend over the prostrate figure. The Indian, aslender, handsome young brave, had been shot through the breast. Heheld his hand tightly over the wound, while bright red bloodtrickled between his fingers, flowed down his side, and stained thegrass.
The brave looked steadily up at Joe. Shot as he was, dying as heknew himself to be, there was no yielding in the dark eye--only anunquenchable hatred. Then the eyes glazed; the fingers ceasedtwitching.
Joe was bending over a dead Indian.
It flashed into his mind, of course, that Wetzel had come up in timeto save his life, but he did not dwell on the thought; he shrankfrom this violent death of a human being. But it was from the aspectof the dead, not from remorse for the deed. His heart beat fast, hisfingers trembled, yet he felt only a strange coldness in all hisbeing. The savage had tried to kill him, perhaps, even now, had itnot been for the hunter's unerring aim, would have been gloatingover a bloody scalp.
Joe felt, rather than heard, the approach of some one, and he turnedto see Wetzel coming down the path.
"He's a lone Shawnee runner," said the hunter, gazing down at thedead Indian. "He was tryin' to win his eagle plumes. I seen you bothfrom the hillside."
"You did!" exclaimed Joe. Then he laughed. "It was lucky for me. Itried the dodge you taught me, but in my eagerness I missed."
"Wal, you hadn't no call fer hurry. You worked the trick clever, butyou missed him when there was plenty of time. I had to shoot overyour 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 openridge on a hillside not less than one hundred and fifty yardsdistant.
Joe wondered which of the two bullets, the death-seeking one firedby the savage, or the life-saving missile from Wetzel's fatalweapon, 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 Wetzelstarted up the path.
"Let him lay."
They returned to camp without further incident. While the hunterbusied himself reinforcing their temporary shelter--for the cloudslooked threatening--Joe cut up some buffalo meat, and then went downto the brook for a gourd of water. He came hurriedly back to whereWetzel was working, and spoke in a voice which he vainly endeavorsto hold steady:
"Come quickly. I have seen something which may mean a good deal."
He led the way down to the brookside.
"Look!" J
oe said, pointing at the water.
Here the steam was about two feet deep, perhaps twenty wide, and hadjust a noticeable current. Shortly before, it had been as clear as abright summer sky; it was now tinged with yellow clouds that slowlyfloated downstream, each one enlarging and becoming fainter as theclear water permeated and stained. Grains of sand glided along withthe current, little pieces of bark floated on the surface, andminnows darted to and fro nibbling at these drifting particles.
"Deer wouldn't roil the water like that. What does it mean?" askedJoe.
"Injuns, an' not fer away."
Wetzel returned to the shelter and tore it down. Then he bent thebranch of a beech tree low over the place. He pulled down anotherbranch over the remains of the camp-fire. These precautions made thespot less striking. Wetzel knew that an Indian scout never glancescasually; his roving eyes survey the forest, perhaps quickly, butthoroughly. An unnatural position of bush or log always leads to anexamination.
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 thecreek.
Hardly had Wetzel, admonished Joe to lie perfectly still, when froma short distance up the stream came the sound of splashing water;but nothing could be seen above the open glade, as in that directionwillows lined the creek in dense thickets. The noise grew moreaudible.
Suddenly Joe felt a muscular contraction pass over the powerfulframe lying close beside him. It was a convulsive thrill such aspasses through a tiger when he is about to spring upon his quarry.So subtle and strong was its meaning, so clearly did it convey tothe lad what was coming, that he felt it himself; save that in hiscase it was a cold, chill shudder.
Breathless suspense followed. Then into the open space along thecreek glided a tall Indian warrior. He was knee-deep in the water,where he waded with low, cautious steps. His garish, befrilledcostume seemed familiar to Joe. He carried a rifle at a low trail,and passed slowly ahead with evident distrust. The lad believed herecognized that head, with its tangled black hair, and when he sawthe swarthy, villainous countenance turned full toward him, heexclaimed:
"Girty! by---"
Wetzel's powerful arm forced him so hard against the log that hecould not complete the exclamation; but he could still see. Girtyhad 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. Closebetween them walked a white man, with hands bound behind him. Theprisoner and guards disappeared down stream among the willows.
The splashing continued--grew even louder than before. A warriorcame into view, then another, and another. They walked closetogether. Two more followed. They were wading by the side of a raftmade of several logs, upon which were two prostrate figures thatclosely resembled human beings.
Joe was so intent upon the lithe forms of the Indians that he barelygot 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 wasthe Shawnee chief, Silvertip.
When he, too, passed out of sight in the curve of willows, Joe foundhimself trembling. He turned eagerly to Wetzel; but instantlyrecoiled.
Terrible, indeed, had been the hunter's transformation. All calmnessof facial expression was gone; he was now stern, somber. An intenseemotion was visible in his white face; his eyes seemed reduced totwo dark shining points, and they emitted so fierce, so piercing aflash, so deadly a light, that Joe could not bear their glitteringgaze.
"Three white captives, two of 'em women," uttered the hunter, as ifweighing in his mind the importance of this fact.
"Were those women on the raft?" questioned Joe, and as Wetzel onlynodded, 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, butmaintained silence and his rigid posture. Joe glanced once more atthe stern face.
"Considering we'd go after Girty and his redskins if they werealone, we're pretty likely to go quicker now that they've got whitewomen prisoners, eh?" and Joe laughed fiercely between his teeth.
The lad's heart expanded, while along every nerve tingled anexquisite thrill of excitement. He had yearned for wild, borderlife. Here he was in it, with the hunter whose name alone was to thesavages a symbol for all that was terrible.
Wetzel evidently decided quickly on what was to be done, for in fewwords he directed Joe to cut up so much of the buffalo meat as theycould stow in their pockets. Then, bidding the lad to follow, heturned into the woods, walking rapidly, and stopping now and thenfor a brief instant. Soon they emerged from the forest into moreopen country. They faced a wide plain skirted on the right by along, winding strip of bright green willows which marked the courseof the stream. On the edge of this plain Wetzel broke into a run. Hekept this pace for a distance of an hundred yards, then stopped tolisten intently as he glanced sharply on all sides, after which hewas off again.
Half way across this plain Joe's wind began to fail, and hisbreathing 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 werenearing the other side of the plain. The lad felt as if his head wasabout to burst; a sharp pain seized upon his side; a blood-red filmobscured his sight. He kept doggedly on, and when utterly exhaustedfell 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. Directlyin front of him ran a swift stream, which was divided at the rockyhead of what appeared to be a wooded island. There was only a slightripple and fall of the water, and, after a second glance, it wasevident that the point of land was not an island, but a portion ofthe mainland which divided the stream. The branches took almostopposite courses.
Joe wondered if they had headed off the Indians. Certainly they hadrun fast enough. He was wet with perspiration. He glanced at Wetzel,who was standing near. The man's broad breast rose and fell a littlefaster; that was the only evidence of exertion. The lad had apainful feeling that he could never keep pace with the hunter, ifthis five-mile run was a sample of the speed he would be forced tomaintain.
"They've got ahead of us, but which crick did they take?" queriedWetzel, 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 intothe bushes. Joe stepped over and looked into the thicket. He found aquantity of dead leaves, sticks, and litter thrown aside, exposingto light a long, hollowed place on the ground. It was what would beseen after rolling over a log that had lain for a long time. Littlefurrows in the ground, holes, mounds, and curious winding passagesshowed where grubs and crickets had made their homes. The frightenedinsects were now running round wildly.
"What was here? A log?"
"A twenty-foot canoe was hid under thet stuff. The Injuns has takenone 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 belowthet rocky point, an' crawl close to the bank so you can jest peepover. Be keerful not to show the tip of your head, an' don't knocknothin' off'en the bank into the water. Watch fer trout. Lookeverywheres, an' drop in a bug now and then. I'll do the same ferthe other stream. Then we'll come back here an' talk over what thefish 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 thegrass so he could peep through, and found himself directly over apool with a narrow shoal running out from the opposite bank. Thewater 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 seea living thing in the water, not a crawfish, tur
tle, nor even afrog. He peered round closely, then flipped in one of the bugs hehad brought along. A shiny yellow fish flared up from the depths ofthe deep hole and disappeared with the cricket; but it was a bass ora pike, not a trout. Wetzel had said there were a few trout livingnear the cool springs of these streams. The lad tried again to coaxone to the surface. This time the more fortunate cricket swam andhopped across the stream to safety.
When Joe's eyes were thoroughly accustomed to the clear water, withits deceiving lights and shades, he saw a fish lying snug under theside of a stone. The lad thought he recognized the snub-nose, thehooked, wolfish jaw, but he could not get sufficient of a view toclassify him. He crawled to a more advantageous position fartherdown stream, and then he peered again through the woods. Yes, sureenough, he had espied a trout. He well knew those spotted silversides, that broad, square tail. Such a monster! In his admirationfor the fellow, and his wish for a hook and line to try conclusionswith him, Joe momentarily forgot his object. Remembering, he tossedout a big, fat cricket, which alighted on the water just above thefish. The trout never moved, nor even blinked. The lad tried again,with no better success. The fish would not rise. Thereupon Joereturned to the point where he had left Wetzel.
"I couldn't see nothin' over there," said the hunter, who waswaiting. "Did you see any?'
"One, and a big fellow."
"Did he see you?"
"No."
"Did he rise to a bug?"
"No, he didn't; but then maybe he wasn't hungry" answered Joe, whocould 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 neverbatted an eye. But his side-fins quivered like an aspen leaf."
"Them side-fins tell us the story. Girty, an' his redskins hev tookthis branch," said Wetzel, positively. "The other leads to the Hurontowns. Girty's got a place near the Delaware camp somewheres. I'vetried to find it a good many times. He's took more'n one white lassthere, an' nobody ever seen her agin."
"Fiend! To think of a white woman, maybe a girl like Nell Wells, atthe mercy of those red devils!"
"Young fellar, don't go wrong. I'll allow Injuns is bad enough; butI never hearn tell of one abusin' a white woman, as mayhap you mean.Injuns marry white women sometimes; kill an' scalp 'em often, butthat's all. It's men of our own color, renegades like this Girty, asdo worse'n murder."
Here was the amazing circumstance of Lewis Wetzel, the acknowledgedunsatiable 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'reoff," said Wetzel. He strode up and down the sandy beach; examinedthe willows, and scrutinized the sand. Suddenly he bent over andpicked up an object from the water. His sharp eyes had caught theglint of something white, which, upon being examined, proved to be asmall ivory or bone buckle with a piece broken out. He showed it toJoe.
"By heavens! Wetzel, that's a buckle off Nell Well's shoe. I've seenit too many times to mistake it."
"I was afeared Girty hed your friends, the sisters, an' mebbe yourbrother, too. Jack Zane said the renegade was hangin' round thevillage, 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 thenight. I know the place. There's a fine spring, an, look! D'ye seethem crows flyin' round thet big oak with the bleached top? Hearthem cawin'? You might think they was chasin' a hawk, or king-birdswere arter 'em, but thet fuss they're makin' is because they seeInjuns."
"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 hunterinto the woods. Stopping near a fallen tree, Wetzel raked up abundle of leaves and spread them on the ground. Then he cut a fewspreading branches from a beech, and leaned them against a log.Bidding the lad crawl in before he took one last look around andthen made his way under the shelter.
It was yet daylight, which seemed a strange time to creep into thislittle 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, Wetzelwas asleep. The lad said then to himself that he would never againbe surprised at the hunter. He assumed once and for all that Wetzelwas capable of anything. Yet how could he lose himself in slumber?Feeling, as he must, over the capture of the girls; eager to draw abead on the black-hearted renegade; hating Indians with all his souland strength, and lying there but a few hours before what he knewwould be a bloody battle, Wetzel calmly went to sleep. Knowing thehunter to be as bloodthirsty as a tiger, Joe had expected he wouldrush to a combat with his foes; but, no, this man, with his keensagacity, 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 inthe branches he saw the stars come out one by one, the darknessdeepened, and the dim outline of tall trees over the dark hill cameout sharply. The moments dragged, each one an hour. He heard awhippoorwill 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 deadsilence of night fell over all. Still Joe lay there wide awake,listening--his heart on fire. He was about to rescue Nell; to killthat hawk-nosed renegade; to fight Silvertip to the death.
The hours passed, but not Joe's passionate eagerness. When at lasthe saw the crescent moon gleam silver-white over the black hilltophe knew the time was nigh, and over him ran thrill on thrill.
