“Let us postpone such melancholy thoughts until some future day. I have not as yet said anything that I intended. I wish to tell you how sorry I am that I acted in such a rude way the night your brother came home. I do not know what made me do so, but I know I have regretted it ever since. Will you forgive me and may we not be friends?”
“I—I do not know,” said Betty, surprised and vaguely troubled by the earnest light in his eyes.
“But why? Surely you will make some little allowance for a naturally quick temper, and you know you did not—that you were—”
“Yes, I remember I was hasty and unkind. But I made amends, or at least, I tried to do so.”
“Try to overlook my stupidity. I will not give up until you forgive me. Consider how much you can avoid by being generous.”
“Very well, then, I will forgive you,” said Betty, who had arrived at the conclusion that this young man was one of determination.
“Thank you. I promise you shall never regret it. And the sprained ankle? It must be well, as I noticed you danced beautifully.”
“I am compelled to believe what the girls say—that you are inclined to the language of compliment. My ankle is nearly well, thank you. It hurts a little now and then.”
“Speaking of your accident reminds me of the day it happened,” said Alfred, watching her closely. He desired to tease her a little, but he was not sure of his ground. “I had been all day in the woods with nothing but my thoughts—mostly unhappy ones—for company. When I met you I pretended to be surprised. As a matter of fact I was not, for I had followed your dog. He took a liking to me and I was extremely pleased, I assure you. Well, I saw your face a moment before you knew I was as near you. When you heard my footsteps you turned with a relieved and joyous cry. When you saw whom it was your glad expression changed, and if I had been a hostile Wyandot you could not have looked more unfriendly. Such a woeful, tear-stained face I never saw.”
“Mr. Clarke, please do not speak any more of that,” said Betty with dignity. “I desire that you forget it.”
“I will forget all except that it was I who had the happiness of finding you and of helping you. I cannot forget that. I am sure we should never have been friends but for that accident.”
“There is Isaac. He is looking for me,” answered Betty, rising.
“Wait a moment longer—please. He will find you,” said Alfred, detaining her. “Since you have been so kind I have grown bolder. May I come over to see you tomorrow?”
He looked straight down into the dark eyes which wavered and fell before he had completed his question.
“There is Isaac. He cannot see me here. I must go.”
“But not before telling me. What is the good of your forgiving me if I may not see you. Please say yes.”
“You may come,” answered Betty, half amused and half provoked at his persistence. “I should think you would know that such permission invariably goes with a young woman’s forgiveness.”
“Hello, here you are. What a time I have had in finding you,” said Isaac, coming up with flushed face and eyes bright with excitement. “Alfred, what do you mean by hiding the belle of the dance away like this? I want to dance with you, Betts. I am having a fine time. I have not danced anything but Indian dances for ages. Sorry to take her away, Alfred. I can see she doesn’t want to go. Ha! Ha!” and with a mischievous look at both of them he led Betty away.
Alfred kept his seat awhile lost in thought. Suddenly he remembered that it would look strange if he did not make himself agreeable, so he got up and found a partner. He danced with Alice, Lydia, and the other young ladies. After an hour he slipped away to his room. He wished to be alone. He wanted to think; to decide whether it would be best for him to stay at the fort, or ride away in the darkness and never return. With the friendly touch of Betty’s hand the madness with which he had been battling for weeks rushed over him stronger than ever. The thrill of that soft little palm remained with him, and he pressed the hand it had touched to his lips.
For a long hour he sat by his window. He could dimly see the broad winding river, with its curtain of pale gray mist, and beyond, the dark outline of the forest. A cool breeze from the water fanned his heated brow, and the quiet and solitude soothed him.
CHAPTER IV.
“Good morning, Harry. Where are you going so early?” called Betty from the doorway.
A lad was passing down the path in front of Colonel Zane’s house as Betty hailed him. He carried a rifle almost as long as himself.
“Mornin’, Betty. I am goin’ ’cross the crick fer that turkey I hear gobblin’,” he answered, stopping at the gate and smiling brightly at Betty.
“Hello, Harry Bennet. Going after that turkey? I have heard him several mornings and he must be a big, healthy gobbler,” said Colonel Zane, stepping to the door. “You are going to have company. Here comes Wetzel.”
“Good morning, Lew. Are you too off on a turkey hunt?” said Betty.
“Listen,” said the hunter, as he stopped and leaned against the gate. They listened. All was quiet save for the tinkle of a cow-bell in the pasture adjoining the Colonel’s barn. Presently the silence was broken by a long, shrill, peculiar cry.
“Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug-chug.”
“Well, it’s a turkey, all right, and I’ll bet a big gobbler,” remarked Colonel Zane, as the cry ceased.
“Has Jonathan heard it?” asked Wetzel.
“Not that I know of. Why do you ask?” said the Colonel, in a low tone. “Look here, Lew, is that not a genuine call?”
“Goodbye, Harry, be sure and bring me a turkey,” called Betty, as she disappeared.
“I calkilate it’s a real turkey,” answered the hunter, and motioning the lad to stay behind, he shouldered his rifle and passed swiftly down the path.
Of all the Wetzel family—a family noted from one end of the frontier to the other—Lewis was as the most famous.
The early history of West Virginia and Ohio is replete with the daring deeds of this wilderness roamer, this lone hunter and insatiable Nemesis, justly called the greatest Indian slayer known to men.
When Lewis was about twenty years old, and his brothers John and Martin little older, they left their Virginia home for a protracted hunt. On their return they found the smoking ruins of the home, the mangled remains of father and mother, the naked and violated bodies of their sisters, and the scalped and bleeding corpse of a baby brother.
Lewis Wetzel swore sleepless and eternal vengeance on the whole Indian race. Terribly did he carry out that resolution. From that time forward he lived most of the time in the woods, and an Indian who crossed his trail was a doomed man. The various Indian tribes gave him different names. The Shawnees called him “Long Knife;” the Hurons, “Destroyer;” the Delawares, “Death Wind,” and any one of these names would chill the heart of the stoutest warrior.
To most of the famed pioneer hunters of the border, Indian fighting was only a side issue—generally a necessary one—but with Wetzel it was the business of his life. He lived solely to kill Indians. He plunged recklessly into the strife, and was never content unless roaming the wilderness solitudes, trailing the savages to their very homes and ambushing the village bridlepath like a panther waiting for his prey. Often in the gray of the morning the Indians, sleeping around their camp fire, were awakened by a horrible, screeching