At midnight he whispered to the dog, and crawling from his hiding place glided

stealthily up the stream. Far ahead from the dark depths of the forest peeped
the flickering light of a camp-fire. Wetzel consumed a half hour in

approaching within one hundred feet of this light. Then he got down on his
hands and knees and crawled behind a tree on top of the little ridge which had

obstructed a view of the camp scene.
From this vantage point Wetzel saw a clear space surrounded by pines and

hemlocks. In the center of this glade a fire burned briskly. Two Indians lay
wrapped in their blankets, sound asleep. Wetzel pressed the dog close to the

ground, laid aside his rifle, drew his tomahawk, and lying flat on his breast
commenced to work his way, inch by inch, toward the sleeping savages. The tall

ferns trembled as the hunter wormed his way among them, but there was no
sound, not a snapping of a twig nor a rustling of a leaf. The nightwind sighed

softly through the pines; it blew the bright sparks from the burning logs, and
fanned the embers into a red glow; it swept caressingly over the sleeping

savages, but it could not warn them that another wind, the Wind-of-Death, as
near at hand.

A quarter of an hour elapsed. Nearer and nearer; slowly but surely drew the
hunter. With what wonderful patience and self-control did this cold-blooded

Nemesis approach his victims! Probably any other Indian slayer would have
fired his rifle and then rushed to combat with a knife or a tomahawk. Not so

Wetzel. He scorned to use powder. He crept forward like a snake gliding upon
its prey. He slid one hand in front of him and pressed it down on the moss, at

first gently, then firmly, and when he had secured a good hold he slowly
dragged his body forward the length of his arm. At last his dark form rose and

stood over the unconscious Indians, like a minister of Doom. The tomahawk
flashed once, twice in the firelight, and the Indians, without a moan, and

with a convulsive quivering and straightening of their bodies, passed from the
tired sleep of nature to the eternal sleep of death.

Foregoing his usual custom of taking the scalps, Wetzel hurriedly" target="_blank" title="ad.仓促地，忙乱地">hurriedly left the
glade. He had found that the Indians were Shawnees and he had expected they

were Delawares. He knew Miller's red comrades belonged to the latter tribe.
The presence of Shawnees so near the settlement confirmed his belief that a

concerted movement was to be made on the whites in the near future. He would
not have been surprised to find the woods full of redskins. He spent the

remainder of that night close under the side of a log with the dog curled up
beside him.

Next morning Wetzel ran across the trail of a white man and six Indians. He
tracked them all that day and half of the night before he again rested. By

noon of the following day he came in sight of the cliff from which Jonathan
Zane had watched the sufferings of Col. Crawford. Wetzel now made his favorite

move, a wide detour, and came up on the other side of the encampment.
From the top of the bluff he saw down into the village of the Delawares. The

valley was alive with Indians; they were working like beavers; some with
weapons, some painting themselves, and others dancing war-dances. Packs were

being strapped on the backs of ponies. Everywhere was the hurry and bustle of
the preparation for war. The dancing and the singing were kept up half the

night.
At daybreak Wetzel was at his post. A little after sunrise he heard a long

yell which he believed announced the arrival of an important party. And so it
turned out. Amid thrill yelling and whooping, the like of which Wetzel had

never before heard, Simon Girty rode into Wingenund's camp at the head of one
hundred Shawnee warriors and two hundred British Rangers from Detroit. Wetzel

recoiled when he saw the red uniforms of the Britishers and their bayonets.
Including Fipe's and Wingenund's braves the total force which was going to

march against the Fort exceeded six hundred. An impotent frenzy possessed
Wetzel as he watched the orderly marching of the Rangers and the proud bearing

of the Indian warriors. Miller had spoken the truth. Ft. Henry vas doomed.
"Tige, there's one of them struttin' turkey cocks as won't see the Ohio," said

Wetzel to the dog.
Hurriedly slipping from round his neck the bullet-pouch that Betty had given

him, he shook out a bullet and with the point of his knife he scratched deep
in the soft lead the letter W. Then he cut the bullet half through. This done

he detached the pouch from the cord and running the cord through the cut in
the bullet he bit the lead. He tied the string round the neck of the dog and

pointing eastward he said: "Home."
The intelligent animal understood perfectly. His duty was to get that warning

home. His clear brown eyes as much as said: "I will not fail." He wagged his
tail, licked the hunter's hand, bounded away and disappeared in the forest.

Wetzel rested easier in mind. He knew the dog would stop for nothing, and that
he stood a far better chance of reaching the Fort in safety than did he

himself.
With a lurid light in his eyes Wetzel now turned to the Indians. He would

never leave that spot without sending a leaden messenger into the heart of
someone in that camp. Glancing on all sides he at length selected a place

where it was possible he might approach near enough to the camp to get a shot.
He carefully studied the lay of the ground, the trees, rocks, bushes,

grass,--everything that could help screen him from the keen eye of savage
scouts. When he had marked his course he commenced his perilousdescent. In an

hour he had reached the bottom of the cliff. Dropping flat on the ground, he
once more started his snail-like crawl. A stretch of swampy ground, luxuriant

with rushes and saw-grass, made a part of the way easy for him, though it led
through mud, and slime, and stagnant water. Frogs and turtles warming their

backs in the sunshine scampered in alarm from their logs. Lizards blinked at
him. Moccasin snakes darted wicked forked tongues at him and then glided out

of reach of his tomahawk. The frogs had stopped their deep bass notes. A
swamp-blackbird rose in fright from her nest in the saw-grass, and twittering

plaintively fluttered round and round over the pond. The flight of the bird
worried Wetzel. Such little things as these might attract the attention of

some Indian scout. But he hoped that in the excitement of the war preparations
these unusual disturbances would escape notice. At last he gained the other

side of the swamp. At the end of the cornfield before him was the clump of
laurel which he had marked from the cliff as his objective point. The Indian

corn was now about five feet high. Wetzel passed through this field unseen. He
reached the laurel bushes, where he dropped to the ground and lay quiet a few

minutes. In the dash which he would soon make to the forest he needed all his
breath and all his fleetness. He looked to the right to see how far the woods

was from where he lay. Not more than one hundred feet. He was safe. Once in
the dark shade of those trees, and with his foes behind him, he could defy the

whole race of Delawares. He looked to his rifle, freshened the powder in the
pan, carefully adjusted the flint, and then rose quietly to his feet.

Wetzel's keen gaze, as he swept it from left to right, took in every detail of
the camp. He was almost in the village. A tepee stood not twenty feet from his

hiding-place. He could have tossed a stone in the midst of squaws, and braves,
and chiefs. The main body of Indians was in the center of the camp. The

British were lined up further on. Both Indians and soldiers were resting on
their arms and waiting. Suddenly Wetzel started and his heart leaped. Under a

maple tree not one hundred and fifty yards distant stood four men in earnest
consultation. One was an Indian. Wetzel recognized the fierce, stern face, the

haughty, erect figure. He knew that long, trailing war-bonnet. It could have
adorned the head of but one chief--Wingenund, the sachem of the Delawares. A

British officer, girdled and epauletted, stood next to Wingenund. Simon Girty,
the renegade, and Miller, the traitor, completed the group.

Wetzel sank to his knees. The perspiration poured from his face. The mighty
hunter trembled, but it was from eagerness. Was not Girty, the white savage,

the bane of the poor settlers, within range of a weapon that never failed? Was
not the murderouschieftain, who had once whipped and tortured him, who had

burned Crawford alive, there in plain sight? Wetzel revelled a moment in
fiendish glee. He passed his hands tenderly over the long barrel of his rifle.

In that moment as never before he gloried in his power--a power which enabled
him to put a bullet in the eye of a squirrel at the distance these men were

from him. But only for an instant did the hunter yield to this feeling. He
knew too well the value of time and opportunity.

He rose again to his feet and peered out from under the shading laurel
branches. As he did so the dark face of Miller turned full toward him. A

tremor, like the intensethrill of a tiger when he is about to spring, ran
over Wetzel's frame. In his mad gladness at being within rifle-shot of his

great Indian foe, Wetzel had forgotten the man he had trailed for two days. He
had forgotten Miller. He had only one shot--and Betty was to be avenged. He

gritted his teeth. The Delaware chief was as safe as though he were a thousand
miles away. This opportunity for which Wetzel had waited so many years, and

the successful issue of which would have gone so far toward the fulfillment of
a life's purpose, was worse than useless. A great temptation assailed the

hunter.
Wetzel's face was white when he raised the rifle; his dark eye, gleaming

vengefully, ran along the barrel. The little bead on the front sight first
covered the British officer, and then the broad breast of Girty. It moved