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Wetzel's teethe clenched, an awful struggle tore his heart. Slowly the rifle rose, wavered and fell. It rose again, wavered and fell. Something terrible was wrong with him; something awful was awakening in his soul. Wingenund had not made a fool of him.
No one, he said, would now dare to speak a word for him; the king of England, if he came with all his treasure, could not save him from the vengeance which the Indians were going to take upon him for the slaughter of their innocent brethren. "Then my fate is fixed," said Crawford. Wingenund turned away weeping, and could never afterwards speak of the scene without deep feeling.
They knew each other, and more than once Crawford had been good to Wingenund. The captive now sent for the chief, and Wingenund came unwillingly to speak with him, for he was already tied to the stake, and his friend knew that he could not save him. The chief acknowledged the kindness that they had once felt for each other, but he said that Crawford had put it out of his power to give him help.
Wingenund thunders to his people, to his friends, to the chiefs of other tribes: 'Do not bury the hatchet! The young White Father's tongue runs smooth like the gliding brook; it sings as the thrush calls its mate. Listen; but wait, wait! Let time prove his beautiful tale; let the moons go by over the Village of Peace. "Wingenund does not flaunt his wisdom.
Wingenund had begun to show his savage cunning. In his warrior days for long years no chief could rival him. His boast had always been that, when Wingenund sought to elude his pursuers, his trail faded among the moss and the ferns. Wetzel, calm, patient, resourceful, deliberated a moment. The Delaware had not crossed this rocky ridge.
"I ain't sayin' much, but I don't calkilate on goin' on any long hunts this summer," answered the hunter. "And do you think Tarhe, Wingenund, Pipe, Cornplanter, and all those chiefs will unite their forces and attack us?" asked Betty of Wetzel. "Cornplanter won't. He has been paid for most of his land and he ain't so bitter. Tarhe is not likely to bother us.
"True, lass," whispered Jim, brokenly, holding out his arms to her. Indeed, he needed her strength as much as she needed his. The girl gave one shuddering glance at the spring, and then hid her face on her husband's shoulder. "Delaware, we are sworn foes," cried Wetzel. "Wingenund asks no mercy." "Are you a Christian?" "Wingenund is true to his race." "Delaware, begone! Take these weapons an' go.
And his hair, darker than the wing of a crow, fell far below his shoulders; matted and tangled as it was, still it hung to his waist, and had it been combed out, must have reached his knees. One long moment Wingenund stood facing his foe, and then over the multitude and through the valley rolled his sonorous voice: "Deathwind dies at dawn!"
Jim ran to where Nell was lying on the ground, and tenderly raised her head, calling to her that they were saved. Zane bathed the girl's pale face. Presently she sighed and opened her eyes. Then Zane looked from the statuelike form of Wingenund to the motionless figure of Wetzel. The chief stood erect with his eyes on the distant hills.
If any questions arose, she could say he had left her. Then she would find a way to get back to him, bringing healing herbs for his wound and a soothing drink. As it turned out Girty had returned to the camp. He was battered and bruised, and in a white heat of passion. Going at once to Wingenund, the renegade openly accused Whispering Winds of aiding her paleface lover to escape.
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