If Wetzel and Joe were far distant from the cave, as was often the case, they made camp in the open woods, and it was here that Joe’s contentment was fullest.  Twilight shades stealing down over the camp-fire; the cheery glow of red embers; the crackling of dry stocks; the sweet smell of wood smoke, all had for the lad a subtle, potent charm.

The hunter would broil a venison steak, or a partridge, on the coals.  Then they would light their pipes and smoke while twilight deepened.  The oppressive stillness of the early evening hour always brought to the younger man a sensation of awe.  At first he attributed this to the fact that he was new to this life; however, as the days passed and the emotion remained, nay, grew stronger, he concluded it was imparted by this close communion with nature.  Deep solemn, tranquil, the gloaming hour brought him no ordinary fullness of joy and clearness of perception.

“Do you ever feel this stillness?” he asked Wetzel one evening, as they sat near their flickering fire.

The hunter puffed his pipe, and, like an Indian, seemed to let the question take deep root.

“I’ve scalped redskins every hour in the day, ‘ceptin’ twilight,” he replied.

Joe wondered no longer whether the hunter was too hardened to feel this beautiful tranquillity.  That hour which wooed Wetzel from his implacable pursuit was indeed a bewitching one.

There was never a time, when Joe lay alone in camp waiting for Wetzel, that he did not hope the hunter would return with information of Indians.  The man never talked about the savages, and if he spoke at all it was to tell of some incident of his day’s travel.  One evening he came back with a large black fox that he had killed.

“What beautiful, glossy fur!” said Joe.  “I never saw a black fox before.”

“I’ve been layin’ fer this fellar some time,” replied Wetzel, as he began his first evening task, that of combing his hair.  “Jest back here in a clump of cottonwoods there’s a holler log full of leaves.  Happenin’ to see a blacksnake sneakin’ round, I thought mebbe he was up to somethin’, so I investigated, an’ found a nest full of young rabbits.  I killed the snake, an’ arter that took an interest in ’em.  Every time I passed I’d look in at the bunnies, an’ each time I seen signs that some tarnal varmint had been prowlin’ round.  One day I missed a bunny, an’ next day another; so on until only one was left, a peart white and gray little scamp.  Somethin’ was stealin’ of ’em, an’ it made me mad.  So yistidday an’ to-day I watched, an’ finally I plugged this black thief.  Yes, he’s got a glossy coat; but he’s a bad un fer all his fine looks.  These black foxes are bigger, stronger an’ cunniner than red ones.  In every litter you’ll find a dark one, the black sheep of the family.  Because he grows so much faster, an’ steals all the food from the others, the mother jest takes him by the nape of the neck an’ chucks him out in the world to shift fer hisself.  An’ it’s a good thing.”