like a snake gliding upon its prey. He slid one
hand in front of him and pressed it down on the moss, at first
gently, then firmly, and when he had secured a good hold he slowly
dragged his body forward the length of his arm. At last his dark
form rose and stood over the unconscious Indians, like a minister of
Doom. The tomahawk flashed once, twice in the firelight, and the
Indians, without a moan, and with a convulsive quivering and
straightening of their bodies, passed from the tired sleep of nature
to the eternal sleep of death.

Foregoing his usual custom of taking the scalps, Wetzel hurriedly
left the glade. He had found that the Indians were Shawnees and he
had expected they were Delawares. He knew Miller's red comrades
belonged to the latter tribe. The presence of Shawnees so near the
settlement confirmed his belief that a concerted movement was to be
made on the whites in the near future. He would not have been
surprised to find the woods full of redskins. He spent the remainder
of that night close under the side of a log with the dog curled up
beside him.

Next morning Wetzel ran across the trail of a white man and six
Indians. He tracked them all that day and half of the night before
he again rested. By noon of the following day he came in sight of
the cliff from which Jonathan Zane had watched the sufferings of
Col. Crawford. Wetzel now made his favorite move, a wide detour, and
came up on the other side of the encampment.

From the top of the bluff he saw down into the village of the
Delawares. The valley was alive with Indians; they were working like
beavers; some with weapons, some painting themselves, and others
dancing war-dances. Packs were being strapped on the backs of
ponies. Everywhere was the hurry and bustle of the preparation for
war. The dancing and the singing were kept up half the night.

At daybreak Wetzel was at his post. A little after sunrise he heard
a long yell which he believed announced the arrival of an important
party. And so it turned out. Amid thrill yelling and whooping, the
like of which Wetzel had never before heard, Simon Girty rode into
Wingenund's camp at the head of one hundred Shawnee warriors and two
hundred British Rangers from Detroit. Wetzel recoiled when he saw
the red uniforms of the Britishers and their bayonets. Including
Pipe's and Wingenund's braves the total force which was going to
march against the Fort exceeded six hundred. An impotent frenzy
possessed