"Grey, Zane - Betty Zane" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grey Zane)

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 yell. They started up in terror only to fall victims to the
tomahawk of their merciless foe, or to hear a rifle shot and get a glimpse of
a form with flying black hair disappearing with wonderful quickness in the
forest. Wetzel always left death behind him, and he was gone before his
demoniac yell ceased to echo throughout the woods. Although often pursued, he
invariably eluded the Indians, for he was the fleetest runner on the border.

For many years he was considered the right hand of the defense of the fort.
The Indians held him in superstitious dread, and the fact that he was known to
be in the settlement had averted more than one attack by the Indians.

Many regarded Wetzel as a savage, a man who was mad for the blood of the red
men, and without one redeeming quality. But this was an unjust opinion. When
that restless fever for revenge left him--it was not always with him--he was
quiet and peaceable. To those few who knew him well he was even amiable. But
Wetzel, although known to everyone, cared for few. He spent little time in the
settlements and rarely spoke except when addressed.

Nature had singularly fitted him for his pre-eminent position among scouts and
hunters. He was tall and broad across the shoulders; his strength, agility and
endurance were marvelous; he had an eagle eye, the sagacity of the bloodhound,
and that intuitive knowledge which plays such an important part in a hunter's
life. He knew not fear. He was daring where daring was the wiser part. Crafty,
tireless and implacable, Wetzel was incomparable in his vocation.

His long raven-black hair, of which he was vain, when combed out reached to
within a foot of the ground. He had a rare scalp, one for which the Indians
would have bartered anything.

A favorite Indian decoy, and the most fatal one, was the imitation of the call
of the wild turkey. It had often happened that men from the settlements who
had gone out for a turkey which had been gobbling, had not returned.

For several mornings Wetzel had heard a turkey call, and becoming suspicious
of it, had determined to satisfy himself. On the east side of the creek hill
there was a cavern some fifty or sixty yards above the water. The entrance to
this cavern was concealed by vines and foliage. Wetzel knew of it, and,
crossing the stream some distance above, he made a wide circuit and came up
back of the cave. Here he concealed himself in a clump of bushes and waited.
He had not been there long when directly below him sounded the cry,
"Chug-a-lug, Chug-a-lug, Chug-a-lug." At the same time the polished head and
brawny shoulders of an Indian warrior rose out of the cavern. Peering
cautiously around, the savage again gave the peculiar cry, and then sank back
out of sight. Wetzel screened himself safely in his position and watched the
savage repeat the action at least ten times before he made up his mind that
the Indian was alone in the cave. When he had satisfied himself of this he
took a quick aim at the twisted tuft of hair and fired. Without waiting to see