igure on the
log, and in the background Crow, holding a whispered consultation
with the other Indians. Isaac heard enough of the colloquy to guess
the facts. The chief had been desperately rounded; the palefaces
were on their trail, and a march must be commenced at once.

Isaac knew the wounded chief. He was the Delaware Son-of-Wingenund.
He married a Wyandot squaw, had spent much of his time in the
Wyandot village and on warring expeditions which the two friendly
nations made on other tribes. Isaac had hunted with him, slept under
the same blanket with him, and had grown to like him.

As Isaac moved slightly in his position the chief saw him. He
straightened up, threw back the hunting shirt and pointed to a small
hole in his broad breast. A slender stream of blood issued from the
wound and flowed down his chest.

"Wind-of-Death is a great white chief. His gun is always loaded," he
said calmly, and a look of pride gleamed across his dark face, as
though he gloried in the wound made by such a warrior.

"Deathwind" was one of the many names given to Wetzel by the
savages, and a thrill of hope shot through Isaac's heart when he saw
the Indians feared Wetzel was on their track. This hope was short
lived, however, for when he considered the probabilities of the
thing he knew that pursuit would only result in his death before the
settlers could come up with the Indians, and he concluded that
Wetzel, familiar with every trick of the redmen, would be the first
to think of the hopelessness of rescuing him and so would not
attempt it.

The four Indians now returned to the fire and stood beside the
chief. It was evident to them that his end was imminent. He sang in
a low, not unmusical tone the death-chant of the Hurons. His
companions silently bowed their heads. When he had finished singing
he slowly rose to his great height, showing a commanding figure.
Slowly his features lost their stern pride, his face softened, and
his dark eyes, gazing straight into the gloom of the forest, bespoke
a superhuman vision.

"Wingenund has been a great chief. He has crossed his last trail.
The deeds of Wingenund will be told in the wigwams of the Lenape,"
said the chief in a loud voice, and then sank back into the arms of
his comrades. They laid him gently down.

A convulsive shudder shook the stricken warrior's frame. Then,
starting up he straightened out his long arm and clutched wildly at
the air with his sinewy fingers as if to gra