Next he selected a bullet out of a dozen which Jonathan held toward him.  He examined it carefully and tried it in the muzzle of the rifle.  Evidently it did not please him, for he took another.  Finally he scraped a bullet with his knife, and placing it in the center of a small linsey rag, deftly forced it down.  He adjusted the flint, dropped a few grains of powder in the pan, and then looked around for a mark at which to shoot.

Joe observed that the hunters and Colonel Zane were as serious regarding the work as if at that moment some important issue depended upon the accuracy of the rifle.

“There, Lew; there’s a good shot.  It’s pretty far, even for you, when you don’t know the gun,” said Colonel Zane, pointing toward the river.

Joe saw the end of a log, about the size of a man’s head, sticking out of the water, perhaps an hundred and fifty yards distant.  He thought to hit it would be a fine shot; but was amazed when he heard Colonel Zane say to several men who had joined the group that Wetzel intended to shoot at a turtle on the log.  By straining his eyes Joe succeeded in distinguishing a small lump, which he concluded was the turtle.

Wetzel took a step forward; the long, black rifle was raised with a stately sweep.  The instant it reached a level a thread of flame burst forth, followed by a peculiarly clear, ringing report.

“Did he hit?” asked Colonel Zane, eagerly as a boy.

“I allow he did,” answered Jonathan.

“I’ll go and see,” said Joe.  He ran down the bank, along the beach, and stepped on the log.  He saw a turtle about the size of an ordinary saucer.  Picking it up, he saw a bullet-hole in the shell near the middle.  The bullet had gone through the turtle, and it was quite dead.  Joe carried it to the waiting group.

“I allowed so,” declared Jonathan.

Wetzel examined the turtle, and turning to the old missionary, said: 

“Your brother spoke the truth, an’ I thank you fer the rifle.”

Chapter VIII.

“So you want to know all about Wetzel?” inquired Colonel Zane of Joe, when, having left Jim and Mr. Wells, they returned to the cabin.

“I am immensely interested in him,” replied Joe.

“Well, I don’t think there’s anything singular in that.  I know Wetzel better, perhaps, than any man living; but have seldom talked about him.  He doesn’t like it.  He is by birth a Virginian; I should say, forty years old.  We were boys together, and and I am a little beyond that age.  He was like any of the lads, except that he excelled us all in strength and agility.  When he was nearly eighteen years old a band if Indians—­Delawares, I think—­crossed the border on a marauding expedition far into Virginia.  They burned the old Wetzel homestead and murdered the father, mother, two sisters, and a baby brother.  The terrible shock nearly killed Lewis, who for a time was very