“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.  But Pipe and Wingenund and Red Fox—­they all want blood.”

“Have you seen these chiefs?” said Betty.

“Yes, I know ’em all and they all know me,” answered the hunter.  “I’ve watched over many a trail waitin’ for one of ’em.  If I can ever get a shot at any of ’em I’ll give up Injuns and go farmin’.  Good night, Betty.”

“What a strange man is Wetzel,” mused Betty, after the visitors had gone.  “Do you know, Eb, he is not at all like any one else.  I have seen the girls shudder at the mention of his name and I have heard them say they could not look in his eyes.  He does not affect me that way.  It is not often I can get him to talk, but sometimes he tells me beautiful thing about the woods; how he lives in the wilderness, his home under the great trees; how every leaf on the trees and every blade of grass has its joy for him as well as its knowledge; how he curls up in his little bark shack and is lulled to sleep by the sighing of the wind through the pine tops.  He told me he has often watched the stars for hours at a time.  I know there is a waterfall back in the Black Forest somewhere that Lewis goes to, simply to sit and watch the water tumble over the precipice.”

“Wetzel is a wonderful character, even to those who know him only as an Indian slayer and a man who wants no other occupation.  Some day he will go off on one of these long jaunts and will never return.  That is certain.  The day is fast approaching when a man like Wetzel will be of no use in life.  Now, he is a necessity.  Like Tige he can smell Indians.  Betty, I believe Lewis tells you so much and is so kind and gentle toward you because he cares for you.”

“Of course Lew likes me.  I know he does and I want him to,” said Betty.  “But he does not care as you seem to think.  Grandmother Watkins said the same.  I am sure both of you are wrong.”

“Did Dan’s mother tell you that?  Well, she’s pretty shrewd.  It’s quite likely, Betty, quite likely.  It seems to me you are not so quick witted as you used to be.”

“Why so?” asked Betty, quickly.

“Well, you used to be different somehow,” said her brother, as he patted her hand.

“Do you mean I am more thoughtful?”

“Yes, and sometimes you seem sad.”

“I have tried to be brave and—­and happy,” said Betty, her voice trembling slightly.

“Yes, yes, I know you have, Betty.  You have done wonderfully well here in this dead place.  But tell me, don’t be angry, don’t you think too much of some one?”

“You have no right to ask me that,” said Betty, flushing and turning away toward the stairway.