rough the woods. To keen eyes this leaf showed
that it had been bruised by a soft moccasin. Wetzel had located the
trail, but was still ignorant of its direction. Slowly he traced the
shaken ferns and bruised leaves down over the side of the ridge, and
at last, near a stone, he found a moccasin-print in the moss. It
pointed east. The Delaware was traveling in exactly the opposite
direction to that which he should be going. He was, moreover,
exercising wonderful sagacity in hiding his trail. This, however,
did not trouble Wetzel, for if it took him a long time to find the
trail, certainly the Delaware had expended as much, or more, in
choosing hard ground, logs or rocks on which to tread.

Wetzel soon realized that his own cunning was matched. He trusted no
more to his intuitive knowledge, but stuck close to the trail, as a
hungry wolf holds to the scent of his quarry.

The Delaware trail led over logs, stones and hard-baked ground, up
stony ravines and over cliffs. The wily chief used all of his old
skill; he walked backward over moss and sand where his footprints
showed plainly; he leaped wide fissures in stony ravines, and then
jumped back again; he let himself down over ledges by branches; he
crossed creeks and gorges by swinging himself into trees and
climbing from one to another; he waded brooks where he found hard
bottom, and avoided swampy, soft ground.

With dogged persistence and tenacity of purpose Wetzel stuck to this
gradually fading trail. Every additional rod he was forced to go
more slowly, and take more time in order to find any sign of his
enemy's passage through the forests. One thing struck him forcibly.
Wingenund was gradually circling to the southwest, a course that
took him farther and farther from the Delaware encampment.

Slowly it dawned upon Wetzel that the chief could hardly have any
reason for taking this circling course save that of pride and savage
joy in misleading, in fooling the foe of the Delawares, in
deliberately showing Deathwind that there was one Indian who could
laugh at and loose him in the forests. To Wetzel this was bitter as
gall. To be led a wild goose chase! His fierce heart boiled with
fury. His dark, keen eyes sought the grass and moss with terrible
earnestness. Yet in spite of the anger that increased to the white
heat of passion, he became aware of some strange sensation creeping
upon him. He remembered that the Delawares had offered his life.
Slowly, like a shadow,