Joe was awakened by the merry chirp of a chipmunk that every morning
ran along the seamy side of the opposite wall of the gorge. Getting
up, he went to the back of the cave, where he found Wetzel combing
out his long hair. The lad thrust his hands into the cold pool, and
bathed his face. The water was icy cold, and sent an invigorating
thrill through him. Then he laughed as he took a rude comb Wetzel
handed to him.
"My scalp is nothing to make an Indian very covetous, is it?" said
he, eyeing in admiration the magnificent black hair that fell over
the hunter's shoulders.
"It'll grow," answered Wetzel.
Joe did not wonder at the care Wetzel took of his hair, nor did he
misunderstand the hunter's simple pride. Wetzel was very careful of
his rifle, he was neat and clean about his person, he brushed his
buckskin costume, he polished his knife and tomahawk; but his hair
received more attention than all else. It required much care. When
combed out it reached fully to his knees. Joe had seen him, after he
returned from a long hunt, work patiently for an hour with his
wooden comb, and not stop until every little burr was gone, or
tangle smoothed out. Then he would comb it again in the
morning--this, of course, when time permitted--and twist and tie it
up so as to offer small resistance to his slipping through the
underbush.
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