for hours. I think he finds pleasure in the conversation and laughter of

friends. He is fond of the children, and would do anything for my sister
Betty."

"His life must be lonely and sad," remarked Joe.
"The life of any borderman is that; but Wetzel's is particularly so."

"What is he called by the Indians?"
"They call him Atelang, or, in English, Deathwind."

"By George! That's what Silvertip said in French--'Le Vent de la Mort.'"
"Yes; you have it right. A French fur trader gave Wetzel that name years ago,

and it has clung to him. The Indians say the Deathwind blows through the
forest whenever Wetzel stalks on their trail."

"Colonel Zane, don't you think me superstitious," whispered Joe, leaning
toward the colonel, "but I heard that wind blow through the forest."

"What!" ejaculated Colonel Zane. He saw that Joe was in earnest, for the
remembrance of the moan had more than once paled his cheek and caused beads of

perspiration to collect on his brow.
Joe related the circumstances of that night, and at the end of his narrative

Colonel Zane sat silent and thoughtful.
"You don't really think it was Wetzel who moaned?" he asked, at length.

"No, I don't," replied Joe quickly; "but, Colonel Zane, I heard that moan as
plainly as I can hear your voice. I heard it twice. Now, what was it?"

"Jonathan said the same thing to me once. He had been out hunting with Wetzel;
they separated, and during the night Jonathan heard the wind. The next day he

ran across a dead Indian. He believes Wetzel makes the noise, and so do the
hunters; but I think it is simply the moan of the night wind through the

trees. I have heard it at times, when my very blood seemingly ran cold."
"I tried to think it was the wind soughing through the pines, but am afraid I

didn't succeed very well. Anyhow, I knew Wetzel instantly" target="_blank" title="ad.立即，立刻">instantly, just as Jeff Lynn
said I would. He killed those Indians in an instant, and he must have an iron

arm."
"Wetzel excels in strength and speed any man, red or white, on the frontier.

He can run away from Jonathan, who is as swift as an Indian. He's stronger
than any of the other men. I remember one day old Hugh Bennet's wagon wheels

stuck in a bog down by the creek. Hugh tried, as several others did, to move
the wheels; but they couldn't be made to budge. Along came Wetzel, pushed

away the men, and lifted the wagon unaided. It would take hours to tell you
about him. In brief, among all the border scouts and hunters Wetzel stands

alone. No wonder the Indians fear him. He is as swift as an eagle, strong as
mountain-ash, keen as a fox, and absolutelytireless and implacable."

"How long have you been here, Colonel Zane?"
"More than twelve years, and it has been one long fight."

"I'm afraid I'm too late for the fun," said Joe, with his quiet laugh.
"Not by about twelve more years," answered Colonel Zane, studying the

expression on Joe's face. "When I came out here years ago I had the same
adventurous spirit which I see in you. It has been considerably quelled,

however. I have seen many a daring young fellow get the border fever, and with
it his death. Let me advise you to learn the ways of the hunters; to watch

some one skilled in woodcraft. Perhaps Wetzel himself will take you in hand. I
don't mind saying that he spoke of you to me in a tone I never heard Lew use

before."
"He did?" questioned Joe, eagerly, flushing with pleasure. "Do you think he'd

take me out? Dare I ask him?"
"Don't be impatient. Perhaps I can arrange it. Come over here now to Metzar's

place. I want to make you acquainted with him. These boys have all been
cutting timber; they've just come in for dinner. Be easy and quiet with them;

then you'll get on."
Colonel Zane introduced Joe to five sturdy boys and left him in their company.

Joe sat down on a log outside a cabin and leisurely surveyed the young men.
They all looked about the same: strong without being heavy, light-haired and

bronze-faced. In their turn they carefully judged Joe. A newcomer from the
East was always regarded with some doubt. If they expected to hear Joe talk

much they were mistaken. He appeared good-natured, but not too friendly.
"Fine weather we're havin'," said Dick Metzar.

"Fine," agreed Joe, laconically.
"Like frontier life?"

"Sure."
A silence ensued after this breaking of the ice. The boys were awaiting their

turn at a little wooden bench upon which stood a bucket of water and a basin.
"Hear ye got ketched by some Shawnees?" remarked another youth, as he rolled

up his shirt-sleeves. They all looked at Joe now. It was not improbably their
estimate of him would be greatly influenced by the way he answered this

question.
"Yes; was captive for three days."

"Did ye knock any redskins over?" This question was artfully put to draw Joe
out. Above all things, the bordermen detested boastfulness; tried on Joe the

ruse failed signally.
"I was scared speechless most of the time," answered Joe, with his pleasant

smile.
"By gosh, I don't blame ye!" burst out Will Metzar. "I hed that experience

onct, an' onct's enough."
The boys laughed and looked in a more friendly manner at Joe. Though he said

he had been frightened, his cool and careless manner belied his words. In
Joe's low voice and clear, gray eye there was something potent and magnetic,

which subtly influence those with whom he came in contact.
While his new friends were at dinner Joe strolled over to where Colonel Zane

sat on the doorstep of his home.
"How did you get on with the boys?" inquired the colonel.

"All right, I hope. Say, Colonel Zane, I'd like to talk to your Indian guide."
Colonel Zane spoke a few words in the Indian language to the guide, who left

his post and came over to them. The colonel then had a short conversation with
him, at the conclusion of which he pointed toward Joe.

"How do--shake," said Tome, extending his hand.
Joe smiled, and returned the friendly hand-pressure.

"Shawnee--ketch'um?" asked the Indian, in his fairly intelligible English.
Joe nodded his head, while Colonel Zane spoke once more in Shawnee, explaining

the cause of Silvertip's emnity.
"Shawnee--chief--one--bad--Injun," replied Tome, seriously.

"Silvertip--mad--thunder-mad. Ketch'um paleface--scalp'um sure."
After giving this warning the chief returned to his former position near the

corner of the cabin.
"He can talk in English fairly well, much better than the Shawnee brave who

talked with me the other day," observed Joe.
"Some of the Indians speak the language almost fluently," said Colonel Zane.

"You could hardly have distinguished Logan's speech from a white man's.
Corn-planter uses good English, as also does my brother's wife, a Wyandot

girl."
"Did your brother marry an Indian?" and Joe plainly showed his surprise.

"Indeed he did, and a most beautiful girl she is. I'll tell you Isaac's story
some time. He was a captive among the Wyandots for ten years. The chief's

daughter, Myeerah, loved him, kept him from being tortured, and finally saved
him from the stake."

"Well, that floors me," said Joe; "yet I don't see why it should. I'm just
surprised. Where is your brother now?"

"He lives with the tribe. He and Myeerah are working hard for peace. We are
now on more friendly terms with the great Wyandots, or Hurons, as we call

them, than ever before."
"Who is this big man coming from the the fort?" asked Joe, suddenly observing

a stalwart frontiersman approaching.
"Major Sam McColloch. You have met him. He's the man who jumped his horse from

yonder bluff."
"Jonathan and he have the same look, the same swing," observed Joe, as he ran

his eye over the major. His faded buckskin costume, beaded, fringed, and
laced, was similar to that of the colonel's brother. Powder-flask and

bullet-pouch were made from cow-horns and slung around his neck on deerhide
strings. The hunting coat was unlaced, exposing, under the long, fringed

borders, a tunic of the same well-tanned, but finer and softer, material. As
he walked, the flaps of his coat fell back, showing a belt containing two