“HE NOW TURNED AND RAN AS FAST AS HE WAS ABLE—LOADING AS HE WENT.”
At this the crafty trapper rose to his feet with a loud guffaw.
“These redskins have yet to learn a trick or two,” said he, chuckling. “They should remember that some trappers can load their rifles when on the run. My fine fellows—Au revoir!”
So saying, he started upon his way to the settlements, lighting a corn-cob pipe on the way, and still chuckling softly to himself.
Not long after this affair, the father of the two Wetzel boys was returning from a hunting excursion into the Ohio wilderness. With him were his sons Martin and Lewis. The latter had just shot a brown bear, and carried the skin with him in the bottom of the canoe. As they were gliding down the river, a band of Shawnees suddenly appeared upon the bank.
“Come ashore, palefaces!” said one. “It is not good for you to go down the river!”
“Paddle to the other side of the stream,” whispered the older Wetzel. “Hasten, boys, or their bullets will reach us.”
Quickly they turned towards the opposite bank, but a volley of lead pursued them. They kept on doggedly. A missile struck the old pioneer, inflicting a mortal wound.
“Lie down, Martin!” cried he. “They will get you also, if you do not do so.”