uide, Tomepomehala, rendered
valuable aid in blazing out the path through the wilderness. This
road, famous for many years as Zane's Trace, opened the beautiful
Ohio valley to the ambitious pioneer. For this service Congress
granted Col. Zane the privilege of locating military warrants upon
three sections of land, each a square mile in extent, which property
the government eventually presented to him. Col. Zane was the
founder of Wheeling, Zanesville, Martin's Ferry, and Bridgeport. He
died in 1811.

Isaac Zane received from the government a patent of ten thousand
acres of land on Mad river. He established his home in the center of
this tract, where he lived with the Wyandot until his death. A white
settlement sprang up, prospered, and grew, and today it is the
thriving city of Zanesfield.

Jonathan Zane settled down after peace was declared with the
Indians, found himself a wife, and eventually became an influential
citizen. However, he never lost his love for the wild woods. At
times he would take down the old rifle and disappear for two or
three days. He always returned cheerful and happy from these lonely
hunts.

Wetzel alone did not take kindly to the march of civilization; but
then he was a hunter, not a pioneer. He kept his word of peace with
his old enemies, the Hurons, though he never abandoned his wandering
and vengeful quests after the Delawares.

As the years passed Wetzel grew more silent and taciturn. From time
to time he visited Ft. Henry, and on these visits he spent hours
playing with Betty's children. But he was restless in the
settlement, and his sojourns grew briefer and more infrequent as
time rolled on. True to his conviction that no wife existed on earth
for him, he never married. His home was the trackless wilds, where
he was true to his calling--a foe to the redman.

Wonderful to relate his long, black hair never adorned the walls of
an Indian's lodge, where a warrior might point with grim pride and
say: "No more does the Deathwind blow over the hills and vales." We
could tell of how his keen eye once again saw Wingenund over the
sights of his fatal rifle, and how he was once again a prisoner in
the camp of that lifelong foe, but that's another story, which,
perhaps, we may tell some day.

To-day the beautiful city of Wheeling rises on the banks of the
Ohio, where the yells of the Indians once blanched the cheeks of the
pioneers. The broad, winding river rolls on as of yore; it alone
r