It was yet daylight, which seemed a strange time to creep into this little nook; but, Joe thought, it was not to sleep, only to wait, wait, wait for the long hours to pass.  He was amazed once more, because, by the time twilight had given place to darkness, Wetzel was asleep.  The lad said then to himself that he would never again be surprised at the hunter.  He assumed once and for all that Wetzel was capable of anything.  Yet how could he lose himself in slumber?  Feeling, as he must, over the capture of the girls; eager to draw a bead on the black-hearted renegade; hating Indians with all his soul and strength, and lying there but a few hours before what he knew would be a bloody battle, Wetzel calmly went to sleep.  Knowing the hunter to be as bloodthirsty as a tiger, Joe had expected he would rush to a combat with his foes; but, no, this man, with his keen sagacity, knew when to creep upon his enemy; he bided that time, and, while he waited, slept.

Joe could not close his eyes in slumber.  Through the interstices in the branches he saw the stars come out one by one, the darkness deepened, and the dim outline of tall trees over the dark hill came out sharply.  The moments dragged, each one an hour.  He heard a whippoorwill call, lonely and dismal; then an owl hoot monotonously.  A stealthy footed animal ran along the log, sniffed at the boughs, and then scurried away over the dry leaves.  By and by the dead silence of night fell over all.  Still Joe lay there wide awake, listening—­his heart on fire.  He was about to rescue Nell; to kill that hawk-nosed renegade; to fight Silvertip to the death.

The hours passed, but not Joe’s passionate eagerness.  When at last he saw the crescent moon gleam silver-white over the black hilltop he knew the time was nigh, and over him ran thrill on thrill.

Chapter XVI.

When the waning moon rose high enough to shed a pale light over forest and field, two dark figures, moving silently from the shade of the trees, crossed the moonlit patches of ground, out to the open plain where low on the grass hung silver mists.

A timber wolf, gray and gaunt, came loping along with lowered nose.  A new scent brought the animal to a standstill.  His nose went up, his fiery eyes scanned the plain.  Two men had invaded his domain, and, with a short, dismal bark, he dashed away.

Like spectres, gliding swiftly with noiseless tread, the two vanished.  The long grass had swallowed them.

Deserted once again seemed the plain.  It became unutterably lonely.  No stir, no sound, no life; nothing but a wide expanse bathed in sad, gray light.

The moon shone steadily; the silver radiance mellowed; the stars paled before this brighter glory.

Slowly the night hours wore away.

On the other side of the plain, near where the adjoining forest loomed darkling, the tall grass parted to disclose a black form.  Was it only a deceiving shade cast by a leafy branch—­only a shadow?  Slowly it sank, and was lost.  Once more the gray, unwavering line of silver-crested grass tufts was unbroken.