a Wyandot squaw, had spent much of his time in the Wyandot village and on

warring expeditions which the two friendly nations made on other tribes. Isaac
had hunted with him, slept under the same blanket with him, and had grown to

like him.
As Isaac moved slightly in his position the chief saw him. He straightened up,

threw back the hunting shirt and pointed to a small hole in his broad breast.
A slenderstream of blood issued from the wound and flowed down his chest

"Wind-of-Death is a great white chief. His gun is always loaded," he said
calmly, and a look of pride gleamed across his dark face, as though he gloried

in the wound made by such a warrior.
"Deathwind" was one of the many names given to Wetzel by the savages, and a

thrill of hope shot through Isaac's heart when he saw the Indians feared
Wetzel was on their track. This hope was short lived, however, for when he

considered the probabilities of the thing he knew that pursuit would only
result in his death before the settlers could come up with the Indians, and he

concluded that Wetzel, familiar with every trick of the redmen, would be the
first to think of the hopelessness of rescuing him and so would not attempt

it.
The four Indians now returned to the fire and stood beside the chief. It was

evident to them that his end was imminent. He sang in a low, not unmusical
tone the death-chant of the Hurons. His companions silently bowed their heads.

When he had finished singing he slowly rose to his great height, showing a
commanding figure. Slowly his features lost their stern pride, his face

softened, and his dark eyes, gazing straight into the gloom of the forest,
bespoke a superhuman vision.

"Wingenund has been a great chief. He has crossed his last trail. The deeds of
Wingenund will be told in the wigwams of the Lenape," said the chief in a loud

voice, and then sank back into the arms of his comrades. They laid him gently
down.

A convulsive shudder shook the stricken warrior's frame. Then, starting up he
straightened out his long arm and clutched wildly at the air with his sinewy

fingers as if to grasp and hold the life that was escaping him.
Isaac could see the fixed, sombre light in the eyes, and the pallor of death

stealing over the face of the chief. He turned his eyes away from the sad
spectacle, and when he looked again the majestic figure lay still.

The moon sailed out from behind a cloud and shed its mellow light down on the
little glade. It showed the four Indians digging a grave beneath the oak tree.

No word was spoken. They worked with their tomahawks on the soft duff and soon
their task was completed. A bed of moss and ferns lined the last resting place

of the chief. His weapons were placed beside him, to go with him to the Happy
Hunting Ground, the eternal home of the redmen, where the redmen believe the

sun will always shine, and where they will be free from their cruel white
foes.

When the grave had been filled and the log rolled on it the Indians stood by
it a moment, each speaking a few words in a low tone, while the night wind

moaned the dead chief's requiem through the tree tops.
Accustomed as Isaac was to the bloody conflicts common to the Indians, and to

the tragedy that surrounded the life of a borderman, the ghastly sight had
unnerved him. The last glimpse of that stern, dark face, of that powerful

form, as the moon brightened up the spot in seeming pity, he felt he could
never forget. His thoughts were interrupted by the harsh voice of Crow bidding

him get up. He was told that the slightest inclination on his part to lag
behind on the march before them, or in any way to make their trail plainer,

would be the signal for his death. With that Crow cut the thongs which bound
Isaac's legs and placing him between two of the Indians, led the way into the

forest.
Moving like spectres in the moonlight they marched on and on for hours. Crow

was well named. He led them up the stony ridges where their footsteps left no
mark, and where even a dog could not find their trail; down into the valleys

and into the shallowstreams where the running water would soon wash away all
trace of their tracks; then out on the open plain, where the soft, springy

grass retained little impress of their moccasins.
Single file they marched in the leader's tracks as he led them onward through

the dark forests, out under the shining moon, never slacking his rapid pace,
ever in a straight line, and yet avoiding the roughest going with that

unerring instinct. which was this Indian's gift. Toward dawn the moon went
down, leaving them in darkness, but this made no difference, for, guided by

the stars, Crow kept straight on his course. Not till break of day did he come
to a halt.

Then, on the banks of a narrow stream, the Indians kindled a fire and broiled
some of the venison. Crow told Isaac he could rest, so he made haste to avail

himself of the permission, and almost instantly was wrapped in the deep
slumber of exhaustion. Three of the Indians followed suit, and Crow stood

guard. Sleepless, tireless, he paced to and fro on the bank his keen eyes
vigilant for signs of pursuers.

The sun was high when the party resumed their flight toward the west. Crow
plunged into the brook and waded several miles before he took to the woods on

the other shore. Isaac suffered severely from the sharp and slippery stones,
which in no wise bothered the Indians. His feet were cut and bruised; still he

struggled on without complaining. They rested part of the night, and the next
day the Indians, now deeming themselves practically safe from pursuit, did not

exercise unusual care to conceal their trail.
That evening about dusk they came to a rapidly flowing stream which ran

northwest. Crow and one of the other Indians parted the willows on the bank at
this point and dragged forth a long birch-bark canoe which they ran into the

stream. Isaac recognized the spot. It was near the head of Mad River, the
river which ran through the Wyandot settlements.

Two of the Indians took the bow, the third Indian and Isaac sat in the middle,
back to back, and Crow knelt in the stern. Once launched on that wild ride

Isaac forgot his uneasiness and his bruises. The night was beautiful; he loved
the water, and was not lacking in sentiment. He gave himself up to the charm

of the silver moonlight, of the changing scenery, and the musicalgurgle of
the water. Had it not been for the cruel face of Crow, he could have imagined

himself on one of those enchanted canoes in fairyland, of which he had read
when a boy. Ever varying pictures presented themselves at the range, impelled

by vigorous arms, flew over the shining bosom of the stream. Here, in a sharp
bend, was a narrow place where the trees on each bank interlaced their

branches and hid the moon, making a dark and dim retreat. Then came a short
series of ripples, with merry, bouncing waves and foamy currents; below lay a

long, smooth reach of water, deep and placid, mirroring the moon and the
countless stars. Noiseless as a shadow the canoe glided down this stretch, the

paddle dipping regularly, flashing brightly, and scattering diamond drops in
the clear moonlight.

Another turn in the stream and a sound like the roar of an approaching storm
as it is borne on a rising wind, broke the silence. It was the roar of rapids

or falls. The stream narrowed; the water ran swifter; rocky ledges rose on
both sides, gradually getting higher and higher. Crow rose to his feet and

looked ahead. Then he dropped to his knees and turned the head of the canoe
into the middle of the stream. The roar became deafening. Looking forward

Isaac saw that they were entering a dark gorge. In another moment the canoe
pitched over a fall and shot between two high, rocky bluffs. These walls ran

up almost perpendicularly two hundred feet; the space between was scarcely
twenty feet wide, and the water fairly screamed as it rushed madly through its

narrow passage. In the center it was like a glancing sheet of glass, weird and
dark, and was bordered on the sides by white, seething foam-capped waves which

tore and dashed and leaped at their stony confines.
Though the danger was great, though Death lurked in those jagged stones and in

those black waits Isaac felt no fear, he knew the strength of that arm, now
rigid and again moving with lightningswiftness; he knew the power of the eye

which guided them.
Once more out under the starry sky; rifts, shallows, narrows, and lake-like

basins were passed swiftly. At length as the sky was becoming gray in the
east, they passed into the shadow of what was called the Standing Stone. This

was a peculiarly shaped stone-faced bluff, standing high over the river, and
taking its name from Tarhe, or Standing Stone, chief of all the Hurons.

At the first sight of that well known landmark, which stood by the Wyandot
village, there mingled with Isaac's despondency and resentment some other

feeling that was akin to pleasure; with a quickening of the pulse came a
confusion of expectancy and bitter memories as he thought of the dark eyed

maiden from whom he had fled a year ago.
"Co-wee-Co-woe," called out one of the Indians in the bow of the canoe. The