d forward, drawing his knife as
he came. He was a young brave, quick and eager in his movements, and
came nimbly up the path to gain his coveted trophy, the paleface's
scalp.

Suddenly Joe sat up, raised his rifle quickly as thought, and fired
point-blank at the Indian.

But he missed.

The redskin stopped aghast when he saw the lad thus seemingly come
back to life. Then, realizing that Joe's aim had been futile, he
bounded forward, brandishing his knife, and uttering infuriated
yells.

Joe rose to his feet with rifle swung high above his head.

When the savage was within twenty feet, so near that his dark face,
swollen with fierce passion, could be plainly discerned, a peculiar
whistling noise sounded over Joe's shoulder. It was accompanied,
rather than followed, by a clear, ringing rifleshot.

The Indian stopped as if he had encountered a heavy shock from a
tree or stone barring his way. Clutching at his breast, he uttered a
weird cry, and sank slowly on the grass.

Joe ran forward to bend over the prostrate figure. The Indian, a
slender, handsome young brave, had been shot through the breast. He
held his hand tightly over the wound, while bright red blood
trickled between his fingers, flowed down his side, and stained the
grass.

The brave looked steadily up at Joe. Shot as he was, dying as he
knew himself to be, there was no yielding in the dark eye--only an
unquenchable hatred. Then the eyes glazed; the fingers ceased
twitching.

Joe was bending over a dead Indian.

It flashed into his mind, of course, that Wetzel had come up in time
to save his life, but he did not dwell on the thought; he shrank
from this violent death of a human being. But it was from the aspect
of the dead, not from remorse for the deed. His heart beat fast, his
fingers trembled, yet he felt only a strange coldness in all his
being. The savage had tried to kill him, perhaps, even now, had it
not been for the hunter's unerring aim, would have been gloating
over a bloody scalp.

Joe felt, rather than heard, the approach of some one, and he turned
to see Wetzel coming down the path.

"He's a lone Shawnee runner," said the hunter, gazing down at the
dead Indian. "He was tryin' to win his eagle plumes. I seen you both
from the hillside."

"You did!" exclaimed Joe. Then he laughed. "It was lucky for me. I
tried the dodge you taught me, but in my eagerness I missed."

"Wal, you hadn't no call fer hurry. You worked the trick clever