When the flames had subsided, and the wood had burned down to a glowing bed of

red, he threw aside the bark, and broiled the strips of venison they had
brought with them.

They rested on a bed of boughs which they had cut and arranged alongside a
huge log. For hours Joe lay awake, he could not sleep. He listened to the

breeze rustling the leaves, and shivered at the thought of the sighing wind he
had once heard moan through the forest. Presently he turned over. The slight

noise instantly awakened Wetzel who lifted his dark face while he listened
intently. He spoke one word: "Sleep," and lay back again on the leaves. Joe

forced himself to be quiet, relaxed all his muscles and soon slumbered.
On the morrow Wetzel went out to look over the hunting prospects. About noon

he returned. Joe was surprised to find some slight change in the hunter. He
could not tell what it was.

"I seen Injun sign," said Wetzel. "There's no tellin' how soon we may run agin
the sneaks. We can't hunt here. Like as not there's Hurons and Delawares

skulkin' round. I think I'd better take you back 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 not miss this

opportunity; he must stay with the hunter. He looked closely at Wetzel.
"I won't go back to the village," he said.

The hunter stood in his favorite position, leaning on his long rifle, and made
no response.

"I won't go," continued Joe, earnestly. "Let me stay with you. If at any time
I hamper you, or can not keep the pace, then leave me to shift 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 eyes contracted

with their peculiar steely flash. Plain it was that, while he might fail to
keep pace with Wetzel, he did not fear this dangerous country, and, if it must

be, would face it alone.
Wetzel extended his broad hand and gave his comrade's a viselike squeeze. To

allow the lad to remain with him was more than he would have done for any
other person in the world. Far better to keep the lad under his protection

while it was possible, for Joe was taking that war-trail which had for every
hunter, somewhere along its bloody course, a bullet, a knife, or a tomahawk.

Wetzel knew that Joe was conscious of this inevitableconclusion, for it
showed in his white face, and in the resolve in his big, gray eyes.

So there, in the shade of a towering oak, the Indian-killer admitted the boy
into his friendship, and into a life which would no longer be play, but

eventful, stirring, hazardous.
"Wal, lad, stay," he said, with that rare smile which brightened his dark face

like a ray of stray sunshine. "We'll hang round these diggins 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 shade of willows,
and never walked across an open glade without first waiting and watching. He

listened to all sounds; but none were unfamiliar. He closely examined the sand
along the stream, and the moss and leaves under the trees. When he had been

separated from Wetzel several hours, and concluded he would slowly return to
camp, he ran across a well-beaten path winding through the forest. This was,

perhaps, one of the bridle-trails Wetzel had referred to. He bent over the
worn grass with keen scrutiny.

CRACK!
The loud report of a heavily charged rifle rang out. Joe felt the zip of a

bullet as it fanned his cheek. With an agile leap he gained the shelter of a
tree, from behind which he peeped to see who had shot at him. He was just in

time to detect the dark form of an Indian dart behind the foliage an hundred
yards down the path. Joe expected to see other Indians, and to hear more

shots, but he was mistaken. Evidently the savage was alone, for the tree Joe
had taken refuge behind was scarcely large enough to screen his body, which

disadvantage 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 the ramrod of a
rifle. The savage was reloading. Soon a rifle-barrel protruded from behind the

tree. With his heart beating like a trip-hammer, and the skin tightening on
his face, Joe screened his body as best he might. The tree was small, but it

served as a partialprotection. Rapidly he revolved in his mind plans to
outwit the enemy. The Indian was behind a large oak with a low limb over which

he could fire without exposing his own person to danger.
"Bang!" The Indian's rifle bellowed; the bullet crumbled the bark close 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 figure remained
quite motionless he stepped forward, drawing his knife as he came. He was a

young brave, quick and eager in his movements, and came nimbly up the path to
gain his coveted trophy, the paleface's scalp.

Suddenly Joe sat up, raised his rifle quickly as thought, and fired
point-blank at the Indian.

But he missed.
The redskin stopped aghast when he saw the lad thus seemingly come back to

life. Then, realizing that Joe's aim had been futile, he bounded forward,
brandishing his knife, and uttering infuriated yells.

Joe rose to his feet with rifle swung high above his head.
When the savage was within twenty feet, so near that big dark, face, swollen

with fiercepassion, could be plainly discerned, a peculiar whistling 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 a tree or stone

barring his way. Clutching at his breast, he uttered a weird cry, and sank
slowly on the grass.

Joe ran forward to bend over the prostrate figure. The Indian, a slender,
handsome young brave, had been shot through the breast. He held his hand

tightly over the wound, while bright red blood trickled between his fingers,
flowed down his side, and stained the grass.

The brave looked steadily up at Joe. Shot as he was, dying as he knew himself
to be, there was no yielding in the dark eye--only an unquenchable hatred.

Then the eyes glazed; the fingers ceased twitching.
Joe was bending over a dead Indian.

It flashed into his mind, of course, that Wetzel had come up in time to save
his life, but he did not dwell on the thought; he shrank from this violent

death of a human being. But it was from the aspect of the dead, not from
remorse for the deed. His heart beat fast, his fingers trembled, yet he felt

only a strange coldness in all his being. The savage had tried to kill him,
perhaps, even now, had it not been for the hunter's unerring aim, would have

been gloating over a bloody scalp.
Joe felt, rather than heard, the approach of some one, and he turned to see

Wetzel coming down the path.
"He's a lone Shawnee runner," said the hunter, gazing down at the dead Indian.

"He was tryin' to win his eagle plumes. I seen you both from the hillside."
"You did!" exclaimed Joe. Then he laughed. "It was lucky for me. I tried the

dodge you taught me, but in my eagerness I missed."
"Wal, you hadn't no call fer hurry. You worked the trick clever, but you

missed him when there was plenty of time. I had to shoot over your 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 open ridge on a

hillside not less than one hundred and fifty yards distant.
Joe wondered which of the two bullets, the death-seeking one fired by the

savage, or the life-saving missile from Wetzel's fatal weapon, 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 Wetzel started up the

path.
"Let him lay."

They returned to camp without further incident. While the hunter busied
himself reinforcing their temporary shelter--for the clouds looked

threatening--Joe cut up some buffalo meat, and then went down to the brook for
a gourd of water. He came hurriedly back to where Wetzel was working, and

spoke in a voice which he vainly endeavors to hold steady:
"Come quickly. I have seen something which may mean a good deal."

He led the way down to the brookside.
"Look!" Joe said, pointing at the water.