“Wetzel!” cried Joe.

“I reckon so,” said the deliverer, his deep, calm voice contrasting strangely with what might have been expected from his aspect.  Then, seeing Joe’s head covered with blood, he continued:  “Able to get up?”

“I’m not hurt,” answered Joe, rising when his bonds had been cut.

“Brothers, I reckon?” Wetzel said, bending over Jim.

“Yes, we’re brothers.  Wake up, Jim, wake up!  We’re saved!”

“What?  Who’s that?” cried Jim, sitting up and staring at Wetzel.

“This man has saved our lives!  See, Jim, the Indians are dead!  And, Jim, it’s Wetzel, the hunter.  You remember, Jeff Lynn said I’d know him if I ever saw him and—–­”

“What happened to Jeff?” inquired Wetzel, interrupting.  He had turned from Jim’s grateful face.

“Jeff was on the first raft, and for all we know he is now safe at Fort Henry.  Our steersman was shot, and we were captured.”

“Has the Shawnee anythin’ ag’inst you boys?”

“Why, yes, I guess so.  I played a joke on him—­took his shirt and put it on another fellow.”

“Might jes’ as well kick an’ Injun.  What has he ag’in you?”

“I don’t know.  Perhaps he did not like my talk to him,” answered Jim.  “I am a preacher, and have come west to teach the gospel to the Indians.”

“They’re good Injuns now,” said Wetzel, pointing to the prostrate figures.

“How did you find us?” eagerly asked Joe.

“Run acrost yer trail two days back.”

“And you’ve been following us?”

The hunter nodded.

“Did you see anything of another band of Indians?  A tall chief and Jim Girty were among them.”

“They’ve been arter me fer two days.  I was followin’ you when Silvertip got wind of Girty an’ his Delawares.  The big chief was Wingenund.  I seen you pull Girty’s nose.  Arter the Delawares went I turned loose yer dog an’ horse an’ lit out on yer trail.’’

“Where are the Delawares now?”

“I reckon there nosin’ my back trail.  We must be gittin’.  Silvertip’ll soon hev a lot of Injuns here.”

Joe intended to ask the hunter about what had frightened the Indians, but despite his eager desire for information, he refrained from doing so.

“Girty nigh did fer you,” remarked Wetzel, examining Joe’s wound.  “He’s in a bad humor.  He got kicked a few days back, and then hed the skin pulled offen his nose.  Somebody’ll hev to suffer.  Wal, you fellers grab yer rifles, an’ we’ll be startin’ fer the fort.”

Joe shuddered as he leaned over one of the dusky forms to detach powder and bullet horn.  He had never seen a dead Indian, and the tense face, the sightless, vacant eyes made him shrink.  He shuddered again when he saw the hunter scalp his victims.  He shuddered the third time when he saw Wetzel pick up Silvertip’s beautiful white eagle plume, dabble it in a pool of blood, and stick it in the bark of a tree.  Bereft of its graceful beauty, drooping with its gory burden, the long leather was a deadly message.  It had been Silvertip’s pride; it was now a challenge, a menace to the Shawnee chief.