Wetzel passed up and down the ridges, through
the brown and yellow aisles of the forest, over the babbling brooks,
out upon the golden-flecked fields--always close on the trail.

At last in an open part of the forest, where a fire had once swept
away the brush and smaller timber, Wetzel came upon the spot where
the Delaware's trail ended.

There in the soft, black ground was a moccasin-print. The forest was
not dense; there was plenty of light; no logs, stones or trees were
near, and yet over all that glade no further evidence of the
Indian's trail was visible.

It faded there as the great chief had boasted it would.

Wetzel searched the burnt ground; he crawled on his hands and knees;
again and again he went over the surroundings. The fact that one
moccasin-print pointed west and the other east, showed that the
Delaware had turned in his tracks, was the most baffling thing that
had ever crossed the hunter in all his wild wanderings.

For the first time in many years he had failed. He took his defeat
hard, because he had been successful for so long he thought himself
almost infallible, and because the failure lost him the opportunity
to kill his great foe. In his passion he cursed himself for being so
weak as to let the prayer of a woman turn him from his life's
purpose.

With bowed head and slow, dragging steps he made his way westward.
The land was strange to him, but he knew he was going toward
familiar ground. For a time he walked quietly, all the time the
fierce fever in his veins slowly abating. Calm he always was, except
when that unnatural lust for Indians' blood overcame him.

On the summit of a high ridge he looked around to ascertain his
bearings. 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