go. Ha! Ha!" and with a mischievous look at both of them he led Betty away.
Alfred kept his seat awhile lost in thought. Suddenly he remembered that it

would look strange if he did not make himself agreeable, so he got up and
found a partner. He danced with Alice, Lydia, and the other young ladies.

After an hour he slipped away to his room. He wished to be alone. He wanted to
think; to decide whether it would be best for him to stay at the fort, or ride

away in the darkness and never return. With the friendly touch of Betty's hand
the madness with which he had been battling for weeks rushed over him stronger

than ever. The thrill of that soft little palm remained with him, and he
pressed the hand it had touched to his lips.

For a long hour he sat by his window. He could dimly see the broad winding
river, with its curtain of pale gray mist, and beyond, the dark outline of the

forest. A cool breeze from the water fanned his heated brow, and the quiet and
solitude soothed him.

CHAPTER IV.
"Good morning, Harry. Where are you going so early?" called Betty from the

doorway.
A lad was passing down the path in front of Colonel Zane's house as Betty

hailed him. He carried a rifle almost as long as himself.
"Mornin', Betty. I am goin' 'cross the crick fer that turkey I hear gobblin',"

he answered, stopping at the gate and smiling brightly at Betty.
"Hello, Harry Bennet. Going after that turkey? I have heard him several

mornings and he must be a big, healthy gobbler," said Colonel Zane, stepping
to the door. "You are going to have company. Here comes Wetzel."

"Good morning, Lew. Are you too off on a turkey hunt?" said Betty.
"Listen," said the hunter, as he stopped and leaned against the gate. They

listened. All was quiet save for the tinkle of a cow-bell in the pasture
adjoining the Colonel's barn. Presently the silence was broken by a long,

shrill, peculiar cry.
"Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug-chug."

"Well, it's a turkey, all right, and I'll bet a big gobbler," remarked Colonel
Zane, as the cry ceased.

"Has Jonathan heard it?" asked Wetzel.
"Not that I know of. Why do you ask?" said the Colonel, in a low tone. "Look

here, Lew, is that not a genuine call?"
"Goodbye, Harry, be sure and bring me a turkey," called Betty, as she

disappeared.
"I calkilate it's a real turkey," answered the hunter, and motioning the lad

to stay behind, he shouldered his rifle and passed swiftly down the path.
Of all the Wetzel family--a family noted from one end of the frontier to the

other--Lewis was as the most famous.
The early history of West Virginia and Ohio is replete with the daring deeds

of this wilderness roamer, this lone hunter and insatiable Nemesis, justly
called the greatest Indian slayer known to men.

When Lewis was about twenty years old, and his brothers John and Martin little
older, they left their Virginia home for a protracted hunt. On their return

they found the smoking ruins of the home, the mangled remains of father and
mother, the naked and violated bodies of their sisters, and the scalped and

bleeding corpse of a baby brother.
Lewis Wetzel swore sleepless and eternalvengeance on the whole Indian race.

Terribly did he carry out that resolution. From that time forward he lived
most of the time in the woods, and an Indian who crossed his trail was a

doomed man. The various Indian tribes gave him different names. The Shawnees
called him "Long Knife;" the Hurons, "Destroyer;" the Delawares, "Death Wind,"

and any one of these names would chill the heart of the stoutest warrior.
To most of the famed pioneerhunters of the border, Indian fighting was only a

side issue--generally a necessary one--but with Wetzel it was the business of
his life. He lived solely to kill Indians. He plunged recklessly into the

strife, and was never content unless roaming the wilderness solitudes,
trailing the savages to their very homes and ambushing the village bridlepath

like a pantherwaiting for his prey. Often in the gray of the morning the
Indians, sleeping around their camp fire, were awakened by a horrible,

screeching yell. They started up in terror only to fall victims to the
tomahawk of their merciless foe, or to hear a rifle shot and get a glimpse of

a form with flying black hair disappearing with wonderful quickness in the
forest. Wetzel always left death behind him, and he was gone before his

demoniac yell ceased to echo throughout the woods. Although often pursued, he
invariably eluded the Indians, for he was the fleetest runner on the border.

For many years he was considered the right hand of the defense of the fort.
The Indians held him in superstitious dread, and the fact that he was known to

be in the settlement had averted more than one attack by the Indians.
Many regarded Wetzel as a savage, a man who was mad for the blood of the red

men, and without one redeeming quality. But this was an unjust opinion. When
that restless fever for revenge left him--it was not always with him--he was

quiet and peaceable. To those few who knew him well he was even amiable. But
Wetzel, although known to everyone, cared for few. He spent little time in the

settlements and rarely spoke except when addressed.
Nature had singularly fitted him for his pre-eminent position among scouts and

hunters. He was tall and broad across the shoulders; his strength, agility and
endurance were marvelous; he had an eagle eye, the sagacity of the bloodhound,

and that intuitive knowledge which plays such an important part in a hunter's
life. He knew not fear. He was daring where daring was the wiser part. Crafty,

tireless and implacable, Wetzel was incomparable in his vocation.
His long raven-black hair, of which he was vain, when combed out reached to

within a foot of the ground. He had a rare scalp, one for which the Indians
would have bartered anything.

A favorite Indian decoy, and the most fatal one, was the imitation of the call
of the wild turkey. It had often happened that men from the settlements who

had gone out for a turkey which had been gobbling, had not returned.
For several mornings Wetzel had heard a turkey call, and becoming suspicious

of it, had determined to satisfy himself. On the east side of the creek hill
there was a cavern some fifty or sixty yards above the water. The entrance to

this cavern was concealed by vines and foliage. Wetzel knew of it, and,
crossing the stream some distance above, he made a wide circuit and came up

back of the cave. Here he concealed himself in a clump of bushes and waited.
He had not been there long when directly below him sounded the cry,

"Chug-a-lug, Chug-a-lug, Chug-a-lug." At the same time the polished head and
brawny shoulders of an Indian warrior rose out of the cavern. Peering

cautiously" target="_blank" title="ad.小心地；谨慎地">cautiously around, the savage again gave the peculiar cry, and then sank back
out of sight. Wetzel screened himself safely in his position and watched the

savage repeat the action at least ten times before he made up his mind that
the Indian was alone in the cave. When he had satisfied himself of this he

took a quick aim at the twisted tuft of hair and fired. Without waiting to see
the result of his shot--so well did he trust his unerring aim--he climbed down

the steep bank and brushing aside the vines entered the cave. A stalwart
Indian lay in the entrance with his face pressed down on the vines. He still

clutched in his sinewy fingers the buckhorn mouthpiece with which he had made
the calls that had resulted in his death.

"Huron," muttered the hunter to himself as he ran the keen edge of his knife
around the twisted tuft of hair and tore off the scalp-lock.

The cave showed evidence of having been inhabited for some time. There was a
cunningly contrived fireplace made of stones, against which pieces of birch

bark were placed in such a position that not a ray of light could get out of
the cavern. The bed of black coals between the stones still smoked; a quantity

of parched corn lay on a little rocky shelf which jutted out from the wall; a
piece of jerked meat and a buckskin pouch hung from a peg.

Suddenly Wetzel dropped on his knees and began examining the footprints in the
sandy floor of the cavern. He measured the length and width of the dead

warrior's foot. He closely scrutinized every moccasin print. He crawled to the
opening of the cavern and carefully surveyed the moss.

Then he rose to his feet. A remarkabletransformation had come over him during
the last few moments. His face had changed; the calm expression was replaced

by one sullen and fierce: his lips were set in a thin, cruel line, and a
strange light glittered in his eyes.

He slowly pursued a course lending gradually down to the creek. At intervals
he would stop and listen. The strange voices of the woods were not mysteries

to him. They were more familiar to him than the voices of men.
He recalled that, while on his circuit over the ridge to get behind the

cavern, he had heard the report of a rifle far off in the direction of the
chestnut grove, but, as that was a favorite place of the settlers for shooting