the spirit of the border-第56节

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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