d opportunity.

He rose again to his feet and peered out from under the shading
laurel branches. As he did so the dark face of Miller turned full
toward him. A tremor, like the intense thrill of a tiger when he is
about to spring, ran over Wetzel's frame. In his mad gladness at
being within rifle-shot of his great Indian foe, Wetzel had
forgotten the man he had trailed for two days. He had forgotten
Miller. He had only one shot--and Betty was to be avenged. He
gritted his teeth. The Delaware chief was as safe as though he were
a thousand miles away. This opportunity for which Wetzel had waited
so many years, and the successful issue of which would have gone so
far toward the fulfillment of a life's purpose, was worse than
useless. A great temptation assailed the hunter.

Wetzel's face was white when he raised the rifle; his dark eye,
gleaming vengefully, ran along the barrel. The little bead on the
front sight first covered the British officer, and then the broad
breast of Girty. It moved reluctantly and searched out the heart of
Wingenund, where it lingered for a fleeting instant. At last it
rested upon the swarthy face of Miller.

"Fer Betty," muttered the hunter, between his clenched teeth as he
pressed the trigger.

The spiteful report awoke a thousand echoes. When the shot broke the
stillness Miller was talking and gesticulating. His hand dropped
inertly; he stood upright for a second, his head slowly bowing and
his body swaying perceptibly. Then he plunged forward like a log,
his face striking the sand. He never moved again. He was dead even
before he struck the ground.

Blank silence followed this tragic denouement. Wingenund, a cruel
and relentless Indian, but never a traitor, pointed to the small
bloody hole in the middle of Miller's forehead, and then nodded his
head solemnly. The wondering Indians stood aghast. Then with loud
yells the braves ran to the cornfield; they searched the laurel
bushes. But they only discovered several moccasin prints in the
sand, and a puff of white smoke wafting away upon the summer breeze.

CHAPTER XII.

Alfred Clarke lay between life and death. Miller's knife-thrust,
although it had made a deep and dangerous wound, had not pierced any
vital part; the amount of blood lost made Alfred's condition
precarious. Indeed, he would not have lived through that first day
but for a wonderful vitality. Col. Zane's wife, to whom had been
consigned the delicate task of dressing t