Joe knew the hunter's simplicity was such, that if he cut
off his hair it would seem he feared the Indians--for that streaming
black hair the Indians had long coveted and sworn to take. It would
make any brave a famous chief, and was the theme of many a savage
war tale.
After breakfast Wetzel said to Joe:
"You stay here, an' I'll look round some; mebbe I'll come back soon,
and we'll go out an' kill a buffalo. Injuns sometimes foller up a
buffalo trail, an' I want to be sure none of the varlets are chasin'
that herd we saw to-day."
Wetzel left the cave by the rear. It took him fifteen minutes to
crawl to the head of the tortuous, stony passage. Lifting the stone
which closed up the aperture, he looked out and listened. Then,
rising, he replaced the stone, and passed down the wooded hillside.
It was a beautiful morning; the dew glistened on the green leaves,
the sun shone bright and warm, the birds warbled in the trees. The
hunter's moccasins pressed so gently on the moss and leaves that
they made no more sound than the soft foot of a panther. His trained
ear was alert to catch any unfamiliar noise; his keen eyes sought
first the remoter open glades and glens, then bent their gaze on the
mossy bluff beneath his feet. Fox squirrels dashed from before him
into bushy retreats; grouse whirred away into the thickets; startled
deer whistled, and loped off with their white-flags upraised.
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