Suddenly Joe felt a muscular contraction pass over the powerful frame lying close beside him.  It was a convulsive thrill such as passes through a tiger when he is about to spring upon his quarry.  So subtle and strong was its meaning, so clearly did it convey to the lad what was coming, that he felt it himself; save that in his case it was a cold, chill shudder.

Breathless suspense followed.  Then into the open space along the creek glided a tall Indian warrior.  He was knee-deep in the water, where he waded with low, cautious steps.  His garish, befrilled costume seemed familiar to Joe.  He carried a rifle at a low trail, and passed slowly ahead with evident distrust.  The lad believed he recognized that head, with its tangled black hair, and when he saw the swarthy, villainous countenance turned full toward him, he exclaimed: 

“Girty! by—–­”

Wetzel’s powerful arm forced him so hard against the log that he could not complete the exclamation; but he could still see.  Girty had not heard that stifled cry, for he continued his slow wading, and presently his tall, gaudily decorated form passed out of sight.

Another savage appeared in the open space, and then another.  Close between them walked a white man, with hands bound behind him.  The prisoner and guards disappeared down stream among the willows.

The splashing continued—­grew even louder than before.  A warrior came into view, then another, and another.  They walked close together.  Two more followed.  They were wading by the side of a raft made of several logs, upon which were two prostrate figures that closely resembled human beings.

Joe was so intent upon the lithe forms of the Indians that he barely got a glimpse of their floating prize, whatever it might have been.  Bringing up the rear was an athletic warrior, whose broad shoulders, sinewy arms, and shaved, polished head Joe remembered well.  It was the Shawnee chief, Silvertip.

When he, too, passed out of sight in the curve of willows, Joe found himself trembling.  He turned eagerly to Wetzel; but instantly recoiled.

Terrible, indeed, had been the hunter’s transformation.  All calmness of facial expression was gone; he was now stern, somber.  An intense emotion was visible in his white face; his eyes seemed reduced to two dark shining points, and they emitted so fierce, so piercing a flash, so deadly a light, that Joe could not bear their glittering gaze.

“Three white captives, two of ’em women,” uttered the hunter, as if weighing in his mind the importance of this fact.

“Were those women on the raft?” questioned Joe, and as Wetzel only nodded, he continued, “A white man and two women, six warriors, Silvertip, and that renegade, Jim Girty!”

Wetzel deigned not to answer Joe’s passionate outburst, but maintained silence and his rigid posture.  Joe glanced once more at the stern face.

“Considering we’d go after Girty and his redskins if they were alone, we’re pretty likely to go quicker now that they’ve got white women prisoners, eh?” and Joe laughed fiercely between his teeth.