e were only four Indians left, three on the ground and
one against the tree.

He saw something shining near him. He looked more closely, and made
out the object to be an eagle plume Silvertip had worn, in his
head-dress. It lay on the ground near the tree. Joe made some slight
noise which awakened the guard. The Indian never moved a muscle; but
his eyes roved everywhere. He, too, noticed the absence of the
chief.

At this moment from out of the depths of the woods came a swelling
sigh, like the moan of the night wind. It rose and died away,
leaving the silence apparently all the deeper.

A shudder ran over Joe's frame. Fascinated, he watched the guard.
The Indian uttered a low gasp; his eyes started and glared wildly;
he rose very slowly to his full height and stood waiting, listening.
The dark hand which held the tomahawk trembled so that little glints
of moonlight glanced from the bright steel.

From far back in the forest-deeps came that same low moaning:

"Um-m-mm-woo-o-o-o!"

It rose from a faint murmur and swelled to a deep moan, soft but
clear, and ended in a wail like that of a lost soul.

The break it made in that dead silence was awful. Joe's blood seemed
to have curdled and frozen; a cold sweat oozed from his skin, and it
was as if a clammy hand clutched at his heart. He tried to persuade
himself that the fear displayed by the savage was only superstition,
and that that moan was but the sigh of the night wind.

The Indian sentinel stood as if paralyzed an instant after that
weird cry, and then, swift as a flash, and as noiseless, he was gone
into the gloomy forest. He had fled without awakening his
companions.

Once more the moaning cry arose and swelled mournfully on the still
night air. It was close at hand!

"The Wind of Death," whispered Joe.

He was shaken and unnerved by the events of the past two days, and
dazed from his wound. His strength deserted him, and he lost
consciousness.

Chapter VI.

One evening, several day previous to the capture of the brothers, a
solitary hunter stopped before a deserted log cabin which stood on
the bank of a stream fifty miles or more inland from the Ohio River.
It was rapidly growing dark; a fine, drizzling rain had set in, and
a rising wind gave promise of a stormy night.

Although the hunter seemed familiar with his surroundings, he moved
cautiously, and hesitated as if debating whether he should seek the
protection of this lonely hut, or rema