they had ridden perhaps twenty-five
miles, they crossed a swift, narrow brook. The water was a beautiful
clear brown. Joe made note of this, as it was an unusual
circumstance. Nearly all the streams, when not flooded, were green
in color. He remembered that during his wanderings with Wetzel they
had found one stream of this brown, copper-colored water. The lad
knew he must take a roundabout way to the village so that he might
avoid Indian runners or scouts, and he hoped this stream would prove
to be the one he had once camped upon.

As they were riding toward a gentle swell or knoll covered with
trees and shrubbery, Whispering Winds felt something warm on her
hand, and, looking, was horrified to find it covered with blood.
Joe's wound had opened. She told him they must dismount here, and
remain until he was stronger. The invalid himself thought this
conclusion was wise. They would be practically safe now, since they
must be out of the Indian path, and many miles from the encampment.
Accordingly he got off the horse, and sat down on a log, while
Whispering Winds searched for a suitable place in which to erect a
temporary shelter.

Joe's wandering gaze was arrested by a tree with a huge knotty
formation near the ground. It was like many trees, but this
peculiarity was not what struck Joe. He had seen it before. He never
forgot anything in the woods that once attracted his attention. He
looked around on all sides. Just behind him was an opening in the
clump of trees. Within this was a perpendicular stone covered with
moss and lichens; above it a beech tree spread long, graceful
branches. He thrilled with the remembrance these familiar marks
brought. This was Beautiful Spring, the place where Wetzel rescued
Nell, where he had killed the Indians in that night attack he would
never forget.

Chapter XIX.

One evening a week or more after the disappearance of Jim and the
girls, George Young and David Edwards, the missionaries, sat on the
cabin steps, gazing disconsolately upon the forest scenery. Hard as
had been the ten years of their labor among the Indians, nothing had
shaken them as the loss of their young friends.

"Dave, I tell you your theory about seeing them again is absurd,"
asserted George. "I'll never forget that wretch, Girty, as he spoke
to Nell. Why, she just wilted like a flower blasted by fire. I can't
understand why he let me go, and kept Jim, unless the Shawnee had
something to do with it. I never