The lad said then to himself that he would never again
be surprised at the hunter. He assumed once and for all that Wetzel
was capable of anything. Yet how could he lose himself in slumber?
Feeling, as he must, over the capture of the girls; eager to draw a
bead on the black-hearted renegade; hating Indians with all his soul
and strength, and lying there but a few hours before what he knew
would be a bloody battle, Wetzel calmly went to sleep. Knowing the
hunter to be as bloodthirsty as a tiger, Joe had expected he would
rush to a combat with his foes; but, no, this man, with his keen
sagacity, knew when to creep upon his enemy; he bided that time,
and, while he waited, slept.
Joe could not close his eyes in slumber. Through the interstices in
the branches he saw the stars come out one by one, the darkness
deepened, and the dim outline of tall trees over the dark hill came
out sharply. The moments dragged, each one an hour. He heard a
whippoorwill call, lonely and dismal; then an owl hoot monotonously.
A stealthy footed animal ran along the log, sniffed at the boughs,
and then scurried away over the dry leaves. By and by the dead
silence of night fell over all. Still Joe lay there wide awake,
listening--his heart on fire. He was about to rescue Nell; to kill
that hawk-nosed renegade; to fight Silvertip to the death.
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