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

the result of his shot--so well did he trust his unerring aim--he climbed down
the steep bank and brushing aside the vines entered the cave. A stalwart
Indian lay in the entrance with his face pressed down on the vines. He still
clutched in his sinewy fingers the buckhorn mouthpiece with which he had made
the calls that had resulted in his death.

"Huron," muttered the hunter to himself as he ran the keen edge of his knife
around the twisted tuft of hair and tore off the scalp-lock.

The cave showed evidence of having been inhabited for some time. There was a
cunningly contrived fireplace made of stones, against which pieces of birch
bark were placed in such a position that not a ray of light could get out of
the cavern. The bed of black coals between the stones still smoked; a quantity
of parched corn lay on a little rocky shelf which jutted out from the wall; a
piece of jerked meat and a buckskin pouch hung from a peg.

Suddenly Wetzel dropped on his knees and began examining the footprints in the
sandy floor of the cavern. He measured the length and width of the dead
warrior's foot. He closely scrutinized every moccasin print. He crawled to the
opening of the cavern and carefully surveyed the moss.

Then he rose to his feet. A remarkable transformation had come over him during
the last few moments. His face had changed; the calm expression was replaced
by one sullen and fierce: his lips were set in a thin, cruel line, and a
strange light glittered in his eyes.

He slowly pursued a course lending gradually down to the creek. At intervals
he would stop and listen. The strange voices of the woods were not mysteries
to him. They were more familiar to him than the voices of men.

He recalled that, while on his circuit over the ridge to get behind the
cavern, he had heard the report of a rifle far off in the direction of the
chestnut grove, but, as that was a favorite place of the settlers for shooting
squirrels, he had not thought anything of it at the time. Now it had a
peculiar significance. He turned abruptly from the trail he had been following
and plunged down the steep hill. Crossing the creek he took to the cover of
the willows, which grew profusely along the banks, and striking a sort of
bridle path he started on a run. He ran easily, as though accustomed to that
mode of travel, and his long strides covered a couple of miles in short order.
Coming to the rugged bluff, which marked the end of the ridge, he stopped and
walked slowly along the edge of the water. He struck the trail of the Indians
where it crossed the creek, just where he expected. There were several
moccasin tracks in the wet sand and, in some of the depressions made by the
heels the rounded edges of the imprints were still smooth and intact. The
little pools of muddy water, which still lay in these hollows, were other
indications to his keen eyes that the Indians had passed this point early that
morning.

The trail led up the hill and far into the woods. Never in doubt the hunter
kept on his course; like a shadow he passed from tree to tree and from bush to