Jack Zane said the renegade was hangin' round the
village, an' that couldn't be fer no good."
"Come on. Let's kill the fiend!" cried Joe, white to the lips.
"I calkilate they're about a mile down stream, makin' camp fer the
night. I know the place. There's a fine spring, an, look! D'ye see
them crows flyin' round thet big oak with the bleached top? Hear
them cawin'? You might think they was chasin' a hawk, or king-birds
were arter 'em, but thet fuss they're makin' is because they see
Injuns."
"Well?" asked Joe, impatiently.
"It'll be moonlight a while arter midnight. We'll lay low an' wait,
an' then---"
The sharp click of his teeth, like the snap of a steel trap,
completed the sentence. Joe said no more, but followed the hunter
into the woods. Stopping near a fallen tree, Wetzel raked up a
bundle of leaves and spread them on the ground. Then he cut a few
spreading branches from a beech, and leaned them against a log.
Bidding the lad crawl in before he took one last look around and
then made his way under the shelter.
It was yet daylight, which seemed a strange time to creep into this
little nook; but, Joe thought, it was not to sleep, only to wait,
wait, wait for the long hours to pass. He was amazed once more,
because, by the time twilight had given place to darkness, Wetzel
was asleep.
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