birth a Virginian; I should
say, forty years old. We were boys together, and and I am a little
beyond that age. He was like any of the lads, except that he
excelled us all in strength and agility. When he was nearly eighteen
years old a band if Indians--Delawares, I think--crossed the border
on a marauding expedition far into Virginia. They burned the old
Wetzel homestead and murdered the father, mother, two sisters, and a
baby brother. The terrible shock nearly killed Lewis, who for a time
was very ill. When he recovered he went in search of his brothers,
Martin and John Wetzel, who were hunting, and brought them back to
their desolated home. Over the ashes of the home and the graves of
the loved ones the brothers swore sleepless and eternal vengeance.
The elder brothers have been devoted all these twenty years and more
to the killing of Indians; but Lewis has been the great foe of the
redman. You have already seen an example of his deeds, and will hear
of more. His name is a household word on the border. Scores of times
he has saved, actually saved, this fort and settlement. His
knowledge of savage ways surpasses by far Boone's, Major
McColloch's, Jonathan's, or any of the hunters'."

"Then hunting Indians is his sole occupation?"

"He lives for that purpose alone. He is very seldom in the
settlement. Sometimes he stays here a few days, especially if he is
needed; but usually he roams the forests."

"What did Jeff Lynn mean when he said that some people think Wetzel
is crazy?"

"There are many who think the man mad; but I do not. When the
passion for Indian hunting comes upon him he is fierce, almost
frenzied, yet perfectly sane. While here he is quiet, seldom speaks
except when spoken to, and is taciturn with strangers. He often
comes to my cabin and sits beside the fire for hours. I think he
finds pleasure in the conversation and laughter of friends. He is
fond of the children, and would do anything for my sister Betty."

"His life must be lonely and sad," remarked Joe.

"The life of any borderman is that; but Wetzel's is particularly
so."

"What is he called by the Indians?"

"They call him Atelang, or, in English, Deathwind."

"By George! That's what Silvertip said in French--'Le Vent de la
Mort.'"

"Yes; you have it right. A French fur trader gave Wetzel that name
years ago, and it has clung to him. The Indians say the Deathwind
blows through the forest whenever Wetzel stalks on their trail."

"Co