“Two hours gone,” he muttered.  “I might overtake him.”

Then his motions became swift.  With two blows of his tomahawk he secured a long piece of grapevine.  He took a heavy stone from the bed of the brook.  He carried Joe to the spring, and, returning for Winds, placed her beside her lover.  This done, he tied one end of the grapevine around the stone, and wound the other about the dead bodies.

He pushed them off the bank into the spring.  As the lovers sank into the deep pool they turned, exposing first Winds’ sad face, and then Joe’s.  Then they sank out of sight.  Little waves splashed on the shore of the pool; the ripple disappeared, and the surface of the spring became tranquil.

Wetzel stood one moment over the watery grave of the maiden who had saved him, and the boy who had loved him.  In the gathering gloom his stalwart form assumed gigantic proportions, and when he raised his long arm and shook his clenched fist toward the west, he resembled a magnificent statue of dark menace.

With a single bound he cleared the pool, and then sped out of the glade.  He urged the dog on Girty’s trail, and followed the eager beast toward the west.  As he disappeared, a long, low sound like the sigh of the night wind swelled and moaned through the gloom.

Chapter XXIV.

When the first ruddy rays of the rising sun crimsoned the eastern sky, Wetzel slowly wound his way down a rugged hill far west of Beautiful Spring.  A white dog, weary and footsore, limped by his side.  Both man and beast showed evidence of severe exertion.

The hunter stopped in a little cave under a projecting stone, and, laying aside his rifle, began to gather twigs and sticks.  He was particular about selecting the wood, and threw aside many pieces which would have burned well; but when he did kindle a flame it blazed hotly, yet made no smoke.

He sharpened a green stick, and, taking some strips of meat from his pocket, roasted them over the hot flame.  He fed the dog first.  Mose had crouched close on the ground with his head on his paws, and his brown eyes fastened upon the hunter.

“He had too big a start fer us,” said Wetzel, speaking as if the dog were human.  It seemed that Wetzel’s words were a protest against the meaning in those large, sad eyes.

Then the hunter put out the fire, and, searching for a more secluded spot, finally found one on top of the ledge, where he commanded a good view of his surroundings.  The weary dog was asleep.  Wetzel settled himself to rest, and was soon wrapped in slumber.

About noon he awoke.  He arose, stretched his limbs, and then took an easy position on the front of the ledge, where he could look below.  Evidently the hunter was waiting for something.  The dog slept on.  It was the noonday hour, when the stillness of the forest almost matched that of midnight.  The birds were more quiet than at any other time during daylight.