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〃Your brother Joe and Whispering Winds lie in the spring；〃 answered Jonathan
Zane。 〃Girty murdered them； and Wetzel buried the two there。〃
〃Oh； is it true？〃 cried Nell。
〃True； lass；〃 whispered Jim； brokenly； holding out his arms to her。 Indeed；
he needed her strength as much as she needed his。 The girl gave one shuddering
glance at the spring； and then hid her face on her husband's shoulder。
〃Delaware； we are sworn foes；〃 cried Wetzel。
〃Wingenund asks no mercy。〃
〃Are you a Christian？〃
〃Wingenund is true to his race。〃
〃Delaware； begone！ Take these weapons an' go。 When your shadow falls shortest
on the ground； Deathwind starts on your trail。〃
〃Deathwind is the great white chief； he is the great Indian foe； he is as sure
as the panther in his leap； as swift as the wild goose in his northern flight。
Wingenund never felt fear。〃 The chieftain's sonorous reply rolled through the
quiet glade。 〃If Deathwind thirsts for Wingenund's blood； let him spill it
now； for when the Delaware goes into the forest his trail will fade。〃
〃Begone！〃 roared Wetzel。 The fever for blood was once more rising within him。
The chief picked up some weapons of the dead Indians； and with haughty stride
stalked from the glade。
〃Oh； Wetzel； thank you； I knew…〃 Nell's voice broke as she faced the hunter。
She recoiled from this changed man。
〃Come； we'll go；〃 said Jonathan Zane。 〃I'll guide you to Fort Henry。〃 He
lifted the pack； and led Nell and Jim out of the glade。
They looked back once to picture forever in their minds the lovely spot with
its ghastly quiet bodies； the dark； haunting spring； the renegade nailed to
the tree； and the tall figure of Wetzel as he watched his shadow on the
ground。
When Wetzel also had gone； only two living creatures remained in the
gladethe doomed renegade； and the white dog。 The gaunt beast watched the man
with hungry； mad eyes。
A long moan wailed through the forest。 It swelled mournfully on the air； and
died away。 The doomed man heard it。 He raised his ghastly face； his dulled
senses seemed to revive。 He gazed at the stiffening bodies of the Indians； at
the gory corpse of Deering； at the savage eyes of the dog。
Suddenly life seemed to surge strong within him。
〃Hell's fire！ I'm not done fer yet；〃 he gasped。 〃This damned knife can't kill
me； I'll pull it out。〃
He worked at the heavy knife hilt。 Awful curses passed his lips； but the blade
did not move。 Retribution had spoken his doom。
Suddenly he saw a dark shadow moving along the sunlit ground。 It swept past
him。 He looked up to see a great bird with wide wings sailing far above。 He
saw another still higher； and then a third。 He looked at the hilltop。 The
quiet； black birds had taken wing。 They were floating slowly； majestically
upward。 He watched their graceful flight。 How easily they swooped in wide
circles。 he remembered that they had fascinated him when a boy； long； long
ago； when he had a home。 Where was that home？ He had one once。 Ah！ the long；
cruel years have rolled back。 A youth blotted out by evil returned。 He saw a
little cottage； he saw the old Virginia homestead； he saw his brothers and his
mother。
〃Ah…h！〃 A cruel agony tore his heart。 He leaned hard against the knife。 With
the pain the present returned； but the past remained。 All his youth； all his
manhood flashed before him。 The long； bloody； merciless years faced him； and
his crimes crushed upon him with awful might。
Suddenly a rushing sound startled him。 He saw a great bird swoop down and
graze the tree tops。 Another followed； and another； and then a flock of them。
He saw their gray； spotted breasts and hooked beaks。
〃Buzzards；〃 he muttered； darkly eyeing the dead savages。 The carrion birds
were swooping to their feast。
〃By God！ He's nailed me fast for buzzards！〃 he screamed in sudden； awful
frenzy。 〃Nailed fast！ Ah…h！ Ah…h！ Ah…h！ Eaten alive by buzzards！ Ah…h！ Ah…h！
Ah…h！〃
He shrieked until his voice failed； and then he gasped。
Again the buzzards swooped overhead； this time brushing the leaves。 One； a
great grizzled bird； settled upon a limb of the giant oak； and stretched its
long neck。 Another alighted beside him。 Others sailed round and round the dead
tree top。
The leader arched his wings； and with a dive swooped into the glade。 He
alighted near Deering's dead body。 He was a dark； uncanny bird； with long；
scraggy； bare neck； a wreath of white； grizzled feathers； a cruel； hooked
beak； and cold eyes。
The carrion bird looked around the glade； and put a great claw on the dead
man's breast。
〃Ah…h！ Ah…h！〃 shrieked Girty。 His agonized yell of terror and horror echoed
mockingly from the wooded bluff。
The huge buzzard flapped his wings and flew away； but soon returned to his
gruesome feast。 His followers； made bold by their leader； floated down into
the glade。 Their black feathers shone in the sun。 They hopped over the moss；
they stretched their grizzled necks； and turned their heads sideways。
Girty was sweating blood。 It trickled from his ghastly face。 All the suffering
and horror he had caused in all his long career was as nothing to that which
then rended him。 He； the renegade； the white Indian； the Deathshead of the
frontier； panted and prayed for a merciful breath。 He was exquisitely alive。
He was human。
Presently the huge buzzard； the leader； raised his hoary head。 He saw the man
nailed to the tree。 The bird bent his head wisely to one side； and then
lightly lifted himself into the air。 He sailed round the glade； over the
fighting buzzards； over the spring； and over the doomed renegade。 He flew out
of the glade； and in again。 He swooped close to Girty。 His broad wings
scarcely moved as he sailed along。
Girty tried to strike the buzzard as he sailed close by； but his arm fell
useless。 He tried to scream； but his voice failed。
Slowly the buzzard king sailed by and returned。 Every time he swooped a little
nearer； and bent his long； scraggy neck。
Suddenly he swooped down； light and swift as a hawk； his wide wings fanned the
air； he poised under the tree； and then fastened sharp talons in the doomed
man's breast。
Chapter XXIX。
The fleeting human instinct of Wetzel had given way to the habit of years。
His merciless quest for many days had been to kill the frontier fiend。 Now
that it had been accomplished； he turned his vengeance into its accustomed
channel； and once more became the ruthless Indian…slayer。
A fierce； tingling joy surged through him as he struck the Delaware's trail。
Wingenund had made little or no effort to conceal his tracks； he had gone
northwest； straight as a crow flies； toward the Indian encampment。 He had a
start of sixty minutes； and it would require six hours of rapid traveling to
gain the Delaware town。
〃Reckon he'll make fer home；〃 muttered Wetzel； following the trail with all
possible speed。
The hunter's method of trailing an Indian was singular。 Intuition played as
great a part as sight。 He seemed always to divine his victim's intention。 Once
on the trail he was as hard to shake off as a bloodhound。 Yet he did not； by
any means； always stick to the Indian's footsteps。 With Wetzel the direction
was of the greatest importance。
For half a mile he closely followed the Delaware's plainly marked trail。 Then
he stopped to take a quick survey of the forest before him。 He abruptly left
the trail； and； breaking into a run； went through the woods as fleetly and
noiselessly as a deer； running for a quarter of a mile； when he stopped to
listen。 All seemed well； for he lowered his head； and walked slowly along；
examining the moss and leaves。 Presently he came upon a little open space
where the soil was a sandy loam。 He bent over； then rose quickly。 He had come
upon the Indian's trail。 Cautiously he moved forward； stopping every moment to
listen。 In all the close pursuits of his maturer years he had never been a
victim of that most cunning of Indian tricks； an ambush。 He relied solely on
his ear to learn if foes were close by。 The wild creatures of the forest were
his informants。 As soon as he heard any change in their twittering； humming or
playingwhichever way they manifested their joy or fear of lifehe became as
hard to see； as difficult to hear as a creeping snake。
The Delaware's trail led to a rocky ridge and there disappeared。 Wetzel made
no effort to find the chief's footprints on the flinty ground； but halted a
moment and studied the ridge； the lay of the land around； a ravine on one
side； and a dark impenetrable forest on the other。 He was calculating his
chances of finding the Delaware's trail far on the other side。 Indian
woodcraft； subtle； wonderful as it may be； is limited to each Indian's
ability。 Savages； as well as other men； were born unequal。 One might leave a
faint trail through the forest； while another could be readily trac