the spirit of the border- 第50部分

Ah…h！〃



He　shrieked　until　his　voice　failed；　and　then　he　gasped。



Again　the　buzzards　swooped　overhead；　this　time　brushing　the　leaves。　　One；　a

great　grizzled　bird；　settled　upon　a　limb　of　the　giant　oak；　and　stretched　its

long　neck。　Another　alighted　beside　him。　Others　sailed　round　and　round　the　dead

tree　top。



The　leader　arched　his　wings；　and　with　a　dive　swooped　into　the　glade。　He

alighted　near　Deering's　dead　body。　He　was　a　dark；　uncanny　bird；　with　long；

scraggy；　bare　neck；　a　wreath　of　white；　grizzled　feathers；　a　cruel；　hooked

beak；　and　cold　eyes。



The　carrion　bird　looked　around　the　glade；　and　put　a　great　claw　on　the　dead

man's　breast。



〃Ah…h！　Ah…h！〃　shrieked　Girty。　His　agonized　yell　of　terror　and　horror　echoed

mockingly　from　the　wooded　bluff。



The　huge　buzzard　flapped　his　wings　and　flew　away；　but　soon　returned　to　his

gruesome　feast。　His　followers；　made　bold　by　their　leader；　floated　down　into

the　glade。　Their　black　feathers　shone　in　the　sun。　They　hopped　over　the　moss；

they　stretched　their　grizzled　necks；　and　turned　their　heads　sideways。



Girty　was　sweating　blood。　It　trickled　from　his　ghastly　face。　All　the　suffering

and　horror　he　had　caused　in　all　his　long　career　was　as　nothing　to　that　which

then　rended　him。　He；　the　renegade；　the　white　Indian；　the　Deathshead　of　the

frontier；　panted　and　prayed　for　a　merciful　breath。　He　was　exquisitely　alive。

He　was　human。



Presently　the　huge　buzzard；　the　leader；　raised　his　hoary　head。　He　saw　the　man

nailed　to　the　tree。　The　bird　bent　his　head　wisely　to　one　side；　and　then

lightly　lifted　himself　into　the　air。　He　sailed　round　the　glade；　over　the

fighting　buzzards；　over　the　spring；　and　over　the　doomed　renegade。　　He　flew　out

of　the　glade；　and　in　again。　He　swooped　close　to　Girty。　His　broad　wings

scarcely　moved　as　he　sailed　along。



Girty　tried　to　strike　the　buzzard　as　he　sailed　close　by；　but　his　arm　fell

useless。　He　tried　to　scream；　but　his　voice　failed。



Slowly　the　buzzard　king　sailed　by　and　returned。　Every　time　he　swooped　a　little

nearer；　and　bent　his　long；　scraggy　neck。



Suddenly　he　swooped　down；　light　and　swift　as　a　hawk；　his　wide　wings　fanned　the

air；　he　poised　under　the　tree；　and　then　fastened　sharp　talons　in　the　doomed

man's　breast。







Chapter　XXIX。



The　fleeting　human　instinct　of　Wetzel　had　given　way　to　the　habit　of　years。　

His　merciless　quest　for　many　days　had　been　to　kill　the　frontier　fiend。　Now

that　it　had　been　accomplished；　he　turned　his　vengeance　into　its　accustomed

channel；　and　once　more　became　the　ruthless　Indian…slayer。



A　fierce；　tingling　joy　surged　through　him　as　he　struck　the　Delaware's　trail。

Wingenund　had　made　little　or　no　effort　to　conceal　his　tracks；　he　had　gone

northwest；　straight　as　a　crow　flies；　toward　the　Indian　encampment。　He　had　a

start　of　sixty　minutes；　and　it　would　require　six　hours　of　rapid　traveling　to

gain　the　Delaware　town。



〃Reckon　he'll　make　fer　home；〃　muttered　Wetzel；　following　the　trail　with　all

possible　speed。



The　hunter's　method　of　trailing　an　Indian　was　singular。　Intuition　played　as

great　a　part　as　sight。　He　seemed　always　to　divine　his　victim's　intention。　Once

on　the　trail　he　was　as　hard　to　shake　off　as　a　bloodhound。　　Yet　he　did　not；　by

any　means；　always　stick　to　the　Indian's　footsteps。　　With　Wetzel　the　direction

was　of　the　greatest　importance。



For　half　a　mile　he　closely　followed　the　Delaware's　plainly　marked　trail。　　Then

he　stopped　to　take　a　quick　survey　of　the　forest　before　him。　He　abruptly　left

the　trail；　and；　breaking　into　a　run；　went　through　the　woods　as　fleetly　and

noiselessly　as　a　deer；　running　for　a　quarter　of　a　mile；　when　he　stopped　to

listen。　All　seemed　well；　for　he　lowered　his　head；　and　walked　slowly　along；

examining　the　moss　and　leaves。　Presently　he　came　upon　a　little　open　space

where　the　soil　was　a　sandy　loam。　He　bent　over；　then　rose　quickly。　He　had　come

upon　the　Indian's　trail。　Cautiously　he　moved　forward；　stopping　every　moment　to

listen。　In　all　the　close　pursuits　of　his　maturer　years　he　had　never　been　a

victim　of　that　most　cunning　of　Indian　tricks；　an　ambush。　He　relied　solely　on

his　ear　to　learn　if　foes　were　close　by。　The　wild　creatures　of　the　forest　were

his　informants。　As　soon　as　he　heard　any　change　in　their　twittering；　humming　or

playingwhichever　way　they　manifested　their　joy　or　fear　of　lifehe　became　as

hard　to　see；　as　difficult　to　hear　as　a　creeping　snake。



The　Delaware's　trail　led　to　a　rocky　ridge　and　there　disappeared。　Wetzel　made

no　effort　to　find　the　chief's　footprints　on　the　flinty　ground；　but　halted　a

moment　and　studied　the　ridge；　the　lay　of　the　land　around；　a　ravine　on　one

side；　and　a　dark　impenetrable　forest　on　the　other。　He　was　calculating　his

chances　of　finding　the　Delaware's　trail　far　on　the　other　side。　Indian

woodcraft；　subtle；　wonderful　as　it　may　be；　is　limited　to　each　Indian's

ability。　Savages；　as　well　as　other　men；　were　born　unequal。　One　might　leave　a

faint　trail　through　the　forest；　while　another　could　be　readily　traced；　and　a

third；　more　cunning　and　skillful　than　his　fellows；　have　flown　under　the　shady

trees；　for　all　the　trail　he　left。　But　redmen　followed　the　same　methods　of

woodcraft　from　tradition；　as　Wetzel　had　learned　after　long　years　of　study　and

experience。



And　now；　satisfied　that　he　had　divined　the　Delaware's　intention；　he　slipped

down　the　bank　of　the　ravine；　and　once　more　broke　into　a　run。　He　leaped

lightly；　sure…footed　as　a　goat；　from　stone　to　stone；　over　fallen　logs；　and　the

brawling　brook。　At　every　turn　of　the　ravine；　at　every　open　place；　he　stopped

to　listen。



Arriving　on　the　other　side　of　the　ridge；　he　left　the　ravine　and　passed　along

the　edge　of　the　rising　ground。　He　listened　to　the　birds；　and　searched　the

grass　and　leaves。　He　found　not　the　slightest　indication　of　a　trail　where　he

had　expected　to　find　one。　He　retraced　his　steps　patiently；　carefully；

scrutinizing　every　inch　of　the　ground。　But　it　was　all　in　vain。　Wingenund　had

begun　to　show　his　savage　cunning。　In　his　warrior　days　for　long　years　no　chief

could　rival　him。　His　boast　had　always　been　that；　when　Wingenund　sought　to

elude　his　pursuers；　his　trail　faded　among　the　moss　and　the　ferns。



Wetzel；　calm；　patient；　resourceful；　deliberated　a　moment。　The　Delaware　had　not

crossed　this　rocky　ridge。　He　had　been　cunning　enough　to　make　his　pursuer　think

such　was　his　intention。　The　hunter　hurried　to　the　eastern　end　of　the　ridge　for

no　other　reason　than　apparently　that　course　was　the　one　the　savage　had　the

least　reason　to　take。　He　advanced　hurriedly　because　every　moment　was　precious。

Not　a　crushed　blade　of　grass；　a　brushed　leaf；　an　overturned　pebble　nor　a

snapped　twig　did　he　find。　He　saw　that　he　was　getting　near　to　the　side　of　the

ridge　where　the　Delaware's　trail　had　abruptly　ended。　Ah！　what　was　there？　A

twisted　bit　of　fern；　with　the　drops　of　dew　brushed　off。　Bending　beside　the

fern；　Wetzel　examined　the　grass；　it　was　not　crushed。　A　small　plant　with

triangular　leaves　of　dark　green；　lay　under　the　fern。　Breaking　off　one　of　these

leaves；　he　exposed　its　lower　side　to　the　light。　The　fine；　silvery　hair　of　fuzz

that　grew　upon　the　leaf　had　been　crushed。　　Wetzel　know　that　an　Indian　could

tread　so　softly　as　not　to　break　the　springy　grass　blades；　but　the　under　side

of　one　of　these　leaves；　if　a　man　steps　on　it；　always　betrays　his　passage

through　the　woods。　To　keen　eyes　this　leaf　showed　that　it　had　been　bruised　by　a

soft　moccasin。　Wetzel　had　located　the　trail；　but　was　still　ignorant　of　its

direction。　Slowly　he　traced　the　shaken　ferns　and　bruised　leaves　down　over　the

side　of　the　ridge；　and　at　last；　near　a　stone；　he　found　a　moccasin…print　in　the

moss。　It　pointed　east。　The　Delaware　was　traveling　in　exactly　the　opposite

direction　to　that　which　he　should　be　going。　He　was；　moreover；　exercising

wonderful　sagacity　in　hiding　his　trail。　This；　however；　did　not　trouble　Wetzel；

for　if　it　took　him　a　long　time　to　find　the　trail；　certainly　the　Delaware　had

expended　as　much；　or　more；　in　choosing　hard　ground；　logs　or　rocks　on　which　to

tread。



Wetzel　soon　realized　that　his　own　cunning　was　matched。　He　trusted　no　more　to

his　intuitive　knowledge；　but　stuck　close　to　the　trail；　as　a　hungry　wolf　holds

to　the　scent　of　his　quarry。



The　Delaware　trail　led　over　logs；　stones　and　hard…baked　ground；　up　stony

ravines　and　over　cliffs。　The　wily　chief　used　all　of　his　old　skill；　he　walked

backward　over　moss　and　sand　where　his　footprints　showed　plainly；　he　leaped

wide　fissures　in　stony　ravines；　and　then　jumped　back　again；　he　let　himself

down　over　ledges　by　branches；　he　crossed　creeks　and　gorges　by　swinging　himself

into　trees　and　climbing　from　one　to　another；　he　waded　brooks　where　he　found

hard　bottom；　and　avoided　swampy；　soft　ground。



With　dogged　persistence　and　tenacity　of　purpose　Wetzel　stuck　to　this　gradually

fading　trail。　Every　additional　rod　he　was　forced　to　go　more　slowly；　and　take

more　time　in　order　to　find　any　sign　of　his　enemy's　passage　through　the

forests。　One　thing　struck　him　forcibly。　Wingenund　was　gradually　circling　to

the　southwest；　a　course　that　took　him　farther　and　farther　from　the　Delaware

encampment。



Slowly　it　dawned　upon　Wetzel　that　the　chief　could　hardly　have　any　reason　for

taking　this　circling　course　save　that　of　pride　and　savage　joy　in　misleading；

in　fooling　the　foe　of　the　Delawares；　in　deliberately　showing　Deathwind　that

there　was　one　Indian　who　could　laugh　at　and　loose　him　in　the　forests。　To

Wetzel　this　was　bitter　as　gall。　To　be　led　a　wild　goose　chase！　His　fierce　heart

boiled　with　fury。　His　dark；　keen　eyes　sought　the　grass　and　moss　with　terrible

earnestness。　Yet　in　spite　of　the　anger　that　increased　to　the　white　heat　of

passion；　he　became　aware　of　some　strange　sensation　creeping　upon　him。　He

remembered　that　the　Delawares　had　offered　his　life。　Slowly；　like　a　shadow；

Wetzel　passed　up　and　down　the　ridges；　through　the　brown　and　yellow　aisles　of

the　forest；　over　the　babbling　brooks；　out　upon　the　golden…flecked

fieldsal