ake last night. I had an oppressive feeling, perhaps a
presentiment. Anyway, I couldn't sleep. I heard that wind blow
through the forest, and thought my blood would freeze. The moan is
the same as the night wind, the same soft sigh, only louder and
somehow pregnant with superhuman power. To speak of it in broad
daylight one seems superstitious, but to hear it in the darkness of
this lonely forest, it is fearful! I hope I am not a coward; I
certainly know I was deathly frightened. No wonder I was scared!
Look at these dead Indians, all killed in a moment. I heard the
moan; I saw Silvertip disappear, and the other two savages rise.
Then something huge dropped from the rock; a bright object seemed to
circle round the savages; they uttered one short yell, and sank to
rise no more. Somehow at once I suspected that this shadowy form,
with its lightninglike movements, its glittering hatchet, was
Wetzel. When he plunged into the midst of the other savages I
distinctly recognized him, and saw that he had a bundle, possibly
his coat, wrapped round his left arm, and his right hand held the
glittering tomahawk. I saw him strike that big Indian there, the one
lying with split skull. His wonderful daring and quickness seemed to
make the savages turn at random. He broke through the circle, swung
Nell under his arm, slashed at my bonds as he passed by, and then
was gone as he had come. Not until after you were struck, and
Silvertip came up to me, was I aware my bonds were cut. Wetzel's
hatchet had severed them; it even cut my side, which was bleeding. I
was free to help, to fight, and I did not know it. Fool that I am!"

"I made an awful mess of my part of the rescue," groaned Joe. "I
wonder if the savages know it was Wetzel."

"Do they? Well, I rather think so. Did you not hear them scream that
French name? As far as I am able to judge, only two Indians were
killed instantly. The others died during the night. I had to sit
here, tied and helpless, listening as they groaned and called the
name of their slayer, even in their death-throes. Deathwind! They
have named him well."

"I guess he nearly killed Girty."

"Evidently, but surely the evil one protects the renegade."

"Jim Girty's doomed," whispered Joe, earnestly. "He's as good as
dead already. I've lived with Wetzel, and know him. He told me Girty
had murdered a settler, a feeble old man, who lived near Fort Henry
with his son. The hunter has sworn to kill the renegade; but, m