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.
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