He was surprised to find he had traveled in a circle. A
mile or so below him arose the great oak tree which he recognized as
the landmark of Beautiful Spring. He found himself standing on the
hill, under the very dead tree to which he had directed Girty's
attention a few hours previous.
With the idea that he would return to the spring to scalp the dead
Indians, he went directly toward the big oak tree. Once out of the
forest a wide plain lay between him and the wooded knoll which
marked the glade of Beautiful Spring. He crossed this stretch of
verdant meadow-land, and entered the copse.
Suddenly he halted. His keen sense of the usual harmony of the
forest, with its innumerable quiet sounds, had received a severe
shock. He sank into the tall weeds and listened. Then he crawled a
little farther. Doubt became certainty. A single note of an oriole
warned him, and it needed not the quick notes of a catbird to tell
him that near at hand, somewhere, was human life.
Once more Wetzel became a tiger. The hot blood leaped from his
heart, firing all his veins and nerves. But calmly noiseless,
certain, cold, deadly as a snake he began the familiar crawling
method of stalking his game.
On, on under the briars and thickets, across the hollows full of
yellow leaves, up over stony patches of ground to the fern-covered
cliff overhanging the glade he glided--lithe, sinuous, a tiger in
movement and in heart.
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