“Huron,” muttered the hunter to himself as he ran the keen edge of his knife around the twisted tuft of hair and tore off the scalp-lock.

The cave showed evidence of having been inhabited for some time.  There was a cunningly contrived fireplace made of stones, against which pieces of birch bark were placed in such a position that not a ray of light could get out of the cavern.  The bed of black coals between the stones still smoked; a quantity of parched corn lay on a little rocky shelf which jutted out from the wall; a piece of jerked meat and a buckskin pouch hung from a peg.

Suddenly Wetzel dropped on his knees and began examining the footprints in the sandy floor of the cavern.  He measured the length and width of the dead warrior’s foot.  He closely scrutinized every moccasin print.  He crawled to the opening of the cavern and carefully surveyed the moss.

Then he rose to his feet.  A remarkable transformation had come over him during the last few moments.  His face had changed; the calm expression was replaced by one sullen and fierce:  his lips were set in a thin, cruel line, and a strange light glittered in his eyes.

He slowly pursued a course lending gradually down to the creek.  At intervals he would stop and listen.  The strange voices of the woods were not mysteries to him.  They were more familiar to him than the voices of men.

He recalled that, while on his circuit over the ridge to get behind the cavern, he had heard the report of a rifle far off in the direction of the chestnut grove, but, as that was a favorite place of the settlers for shooting squirrels, he had not thought anything of it at the time.  Now it had a peculiar significance.  He turned abruptly from the trail he had been following and plunged down the steep hill.  Crossing the creek he took to the cover of the willows, which grew profusely along the banks, and striking a sort of bridle path he started on a run.  He ran easily, as though accustomed to that mode of travel, and his long strides covered a couple of miles in short order.  Coming to the rugged bluff, which marked the end of the ridge, he stopped and walked slowly along the edge of the water.  He struck the trail of the Indians where it crossed the creek, just where he expected.  There were several moccasin tracks in the wet sand and, in some of the depressions made by the heels the rounded edges of the imprints were still smooth and intact.  The little pools of muddy water, which still lay in these hollows, were other indications to his keen eyes that the Indians had passed this point early that morning.