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faint trail through the forest； while another could be readily traced； and a
third； more cunning and skillful than his fellows； have flown under the shady
trees； for all the trail he left。 But redmen followed the same methods of
woodcraft from tradition； as Wetzel had learned after long years of study and
experience。
And now； satisfied that he had divined the Delaware's intention； he slipped
down the bank of the ravine； and once more broke into a run。 He leaped
lightly； sure…footed as a goat； from stone to stone； over fallen logs； and the
brawling brook。 At every turn of the ravine； at every open place； he stopped
to listen。
Arriving on the other side of the ridge； he left the ravine and passed along
the edge of the rising ground。 He listened to the birds； and searched the
grass and leaves。 He found not the slightest indication of a trail where he
had expected to find one。 He retraced his steps patiently； carefully；
scrutinizing every inch of the ground。 But it was all in vain。 Wingenund had
begun to show his savage cunning。 In his warrior days for long years no chief
could rival him。 His boast had always been that； when Wingenund sought to
elude his pursuers； his trail faded among the moss and the ferns。
Wetzel； calm； patient； resourceful； deliberated a moment。 The Delaware had not
crossed this rocky ridge。 He had been cunning enough to make his pursuer think
such was his intention。 The hunter hurried to the eastern end of the ridge for
no other reason than apparently that course was the one the savage had the
least reason to take。 He advanced hurriedly because every moment was precious。
Not a crushed blade of grass； a brushed leaf； an overturned pebble nor a
snapped twig did he find。 He saw that he was getting near to the side of the
ridge where the Delaware's trail had abruptly ended。 Ah！ what was there？ A
twisted bit of fern； with the drops of dew brushed off。 Bending beside the
fern； Wetzel examined the grass； it was not crushed。 A small plant with
triangular leaves of dark green； lay under the fern。 Breaking off one of these
leaves； he exposed its lower side to the light。 The fine； silvery hair of fuzz
that grew upon the leaf had been crushed。 Wetzel know that an Indian could
tread so softly as not to break the springy grass blades； but the under side
of one of these leaves； if a man steps on it； always betrays his passage
through the woods。 To keen eyes this leaf showed that it had been bruised by a
soft moccasin。 Wetzel had located the trail； but was still ignorant of its
direction。 Slowly he traced the shaken ferns and bruised leaves down over the
side of the ridge； and at last； near a stone； he found a moccasin…print in the
moss。 It pointed east。 The Delaware was traveling in exactly the opposite
direction to that which he should be going。 He was； moreover； exercising
wonderful sagacity in hiding his trail。 This； however； did not trouble Wetzel；
for if it took him a long time to find the trail； certainly the Delaware had
expended as much； or more； in choosing hard ground； logs or rocks on which to
tread。
Wetzel soon realized that his own cunning was matched。 He trusted no more to
his intuitive knowledge； but stuck close to the trail； as a hungry wolf holds
to the scent of his quarry。
The Delaware trail led over logs； stones and hard…baked ground； up stony
ravines and over cliffs。 The wily chief used all of his old skill； he walked
backward over moss and sand where his footprints showed plainly； he leaped
wide fissures in stony ravines； and then jumped back again； he let himself
down over ledges by branches； he crossed creeks and gorges by swinging himself
into trees and climbing from one to another； he waded brooks where he found
hard bottom； and avoided swampy； soft ground。
With dogged persistence and tenacity of purpose Wetzel stuck to this gradually
fading trail。 Every additional rod he was forced to go more slowly； and take
more time in order to find any sign of his enemy's passage through the
forests。 One thing struck him forcibly。 Wingenund was gradually circling to
the southwest； a course that took him farther and farther from the Delaware
encampment。
Slowly it dawned upon Wetzel that the chief could hardly have any reason for
taking this circling course save that of pride and savage joy in misleading；
in fooling the foe of the Delawares； in deliberately showing Deathwind that
there was one Indian who could laugh at and loose him in the forests。 To
Wetzel this was bitter as gall。 To be led a wild goose chase！ His fierce heart
boiled with fury。 His dark； keen eyes sought the grass and moss with terrible
earnestness。 Yet in spite of the anger that increased to the white heat of
passion； he became aware of some strange sensation creeping upon him。 He
remembered that the Delawares had offered his life。 Slowly； like a shadow；
Wetzel passed up and down the ridges； through the brown and yellow aisles of
the forest； over the babbling brooks； out upon the golden…flecked
fieldsalways close on the trail。
At last in an open part of the forest； where a fire had once swept away the
brush and smaller timber； Wetzel came upon the spot where the Delaware's trail
ended。
There in the soft； black ground was a moccasin…print。 The forest was not
dense； there was plenty of light； no logs； stones or trees were near； and yet
over all that glade no further evidence of the Indian's trail was visible。
It faded there as the great chief had boasted it would。
Wetzel searched the burnt ground； he crawled on his hands and knees； again and
again he went over the surroundings。 The fact that one moccasin…print pointed
west and the other east； showed that the Delaware had turned in his tracks；
was the most baffling thing that had ever crossed the hunter in all his wild
wanderings。
For the first time in many years he had failed。 He took his defeat hard；
because he had been successful for so long he thought himself almost
infallible； and because the failure lost him the opportunity to kill his great
foe。 In his passion he cursed himself for being so weak as to let the prayer
of a woman turn him from his life's purpose。
With bowed head and slow； dragging steps he made his way westward。 The land
was strange to him； but he knew he was going toward familiar ground。 For a
time he walked quietly； all the time the fierce fever in his veins slowly
abating。 Calm he always was； except when that unnatural lust for Indians'
blood overcame him。
On the summit of a high ridge he looked around to ascertain his bearings。 He
was surprised to find he had traveled in a circle。 A mile or so below him
arose the great oak tree which he recognized as the landmark of Beautiful
Spring。 He found himself standing on the hill； under the very dead tree to
which he had directed Girty's attention a few hours previous。
With the idea that he would return to the spring to scalp the dead Indians； he
went directly toward the big oak tree。 Once out of the forest a wide plain lay
between him and the wooded knoll which marked the glade of Beautiful Spring。
He crossed this stretch of verdant meadow…land； and entered the copse。
Suddenly he halted。 His keen sense of the usual harmony of the forest； with
its innumerable quiet sounds； had received a severe shock。 He sank into the
tall weeds and listened。 Then he crawled a little farther。 Doubt became
certainty。 A single note of an oriole warned him； and it needed not the quick
notes of a catbird to tell him that near at hand； somewhere； was human life。
Once more Wetzel became a tiger。 The hot blood leaped from his heart； firing
all his veins and nerves。 But calmly noiseless； certain； cold； deadly as a
snake he began the familiar crawling method of stalking his game。
On； on under the briars and thickets； across the hollows full of yellow
leaves； up over stony patches of ground to the fern…covered cliff overhanging
the glade he glidedlithe； sinuous； a tiger in movement and in heart。
He parted the long； graceful ferns and gazed with glittering eyes down into
the beautiful glade。
He saw not the shining spring nor the purple moss； nor the ghastly white
bonesall that the buzzards had left of the deadnor anything； save a
solitary Indian standing erect in the glade。
There； within range of his rifle； was his great Indian foe； Wingenund。
Wetzel sank back into the ferns to still the furious exultations which almost
consumed him during the moment when he marked his victim。 He lay there
breathing hard； gripping tightly his rifle； slowly mastering the passion that
alone of all things might render his aim futile。
For him it was the third great moment of his life； the last of three moments
in which the Indian's life had belonged to him。 Once before he had seen that
dark； powerful face over the sights of his rifle； and he could not shoot
because his one shot must be for another。 Again had that lofty； h