Slowly he raised himself; his eyes of cold
fire glittered; slowly he raised the black rifle.
Wingenund stood erect in his old, grand pose, with folded arms, but
his eyes, instead of being fixed on the distant hills, were lowered
to the ground.
An Indian girl, cold as marble, lay at his feet. Her garments were
wet, and clung to her slender form. Her sad face was frozen into an
eternal rigidity.
By her side was a newly dug grave.
The bead on the front sight of the rifle had hardly covered the
chief's dark face when Wetzel's eye took in these other details. He
had been so absorbed in his purpose that he did not dream of the
Delaware's reason for returning to the Beautiful Spring.
Slowly Wetzel's forefinger stiffened; slowly he lowered the black
rifle.
Wingenund had returned to bury Whispering Winds.
Wetzel's teethe clenched, an awful struggle tore his heart. Slowly
the rifle rose, wavered and fell. It rose again, wavered and fell.
Something terrible was wrong with him; something awful was awakening
in his soul.
Wingenund had not made a fool of him. The Delaware had led him a
long chase, had given him the slip in the forest, not to boast of
it, but to hurry back to give his daughter Christian burial.
Wingenund was a Christian!
Had he not been, once having cast his daughter from him, he would
never have looked upon her face again.
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