be gone, an’ won’t show up fer days or weeks.  But all the frontier knows of his deeds.  Fer instance, I’ve hearn of settlers gettin’ up in the mornin’ an’ findin’ a couple of dead and scalped Injuns right in front of their cabins.  No one knowed who killed ’em, but everybody says ‘Wetzel.’  He’s allus warnin’ the settlers when they need to flee to the fort, and sure he’s right every time, because when these men go back to their cabins they find nothin’ but ashes.  There couldn’t be any farmin’ done out there but fer Wetzel.”

“What does he look like?” questioned Joe, much interested.

“Wetzel stands straight as the oak over thar.  He’d hev’ to go sideways to git his shoulders in that door, but he’s as light of foot an’ fast as a deer.  An’ his eyes—­why, lad, ye kin hardly look into ’em.  If you ever see Wetzel you’ll know him to onct.”

“I want to see him,” Joe spoke quickly, his eyes lighting with an eager flash.  “He must be a great fighter.”

“Is he?  Lew Wetzel is the heftiest of ’em all, an’ we hev some as kin fight out here.  I was down the river a few years ago and joined a party to go out an’ hunt up some redskins as had been reported.  Wetzel was with us.  We soon struck Injun sign, and then come on to a lot of the pesky varmints.  We was all fer goin’ home, because we had a small force.  When we started to go we finds Wetzel sittin’ calm-like on a log.  We said:  ‘Ain’t ye goin’ home?’ and he replied, ‘I cum out to find redskins, an’ now as we’ve found ’em, I’m not goin’ to run away.’  An’ we left him settin’ thar.  Oh, Wetzel is a fighter!”

“I hope I shall see him,” said Joe once more, the warm light, which made him look so boyish, still glowing in his face.

“Mebbe ye’ll git to; and sure ye’ll see redskins, an’ not tame ones, nuther.”

At this moment the sound of excited voices near the cabins broke in on the conversation.  Joe saw several persons run toward the large cabin and disappear behind it.  He smiled as he thought perhaps the commotion had been caused by the awakening of the Indian brave.

Rising to his feet, Joe went toward the cabin, and soon saw the cause of the excitement.  A small crowd of men and women, all laughing and talking, surrounded the Indian brave and the little stout fellow.  Joe heard some one groan, and then a deep, guttural voice: 

“Paleface—­big steal—­ugh!  Injun mad—­heap mad—­kill paleface.”

After elbowing his way into the group, Joe saw the Indian holding Loorey with one hand, while he poked him on the ribs with the other.  The captive’s face was the picture of dismay; even the streaks of paint did not hide his look of fear and bewilderment.  The poor half-witted fellow was so badly frightened that he could only groan.

“Silvertip scalp paleface.  Ugh!” growled the savage, giving Loorey another blow on the side.  This time he bent over in pain.  The bystanders were divided in feeling; the men laughed, while the women murmured sympathetically.