The frontiersman scowled.
“I set out to hunt Indians and thought that this had also been your purpose,” said he. “My object in hunting Indians is to kill them, and now that we have treed our game I do not intend to run off without a shot. As for you, I consider you to be a band of cowards.”
“It is too bad about you,” said they. “As for ourselves, we intend to return home.”
Wetzel gazed after them with an amused smile, then stooped and examined his arms, for he was a man of caution.
“I will get a scalp of my own,” said he. “Perhaps more. These fellows will see that I mean what I say.”
There were plenty of Indian signs, but he could find no large bands of the red men; instead, he stumbled upon a camp with only two braves in it.
“There must be more in the encampment,” thought he. “I will creep away; will come back this evening; and will then have an opportunity to get what I am after.”
Turning again into the forest, he was soon out of hearing, and, by great good fortune, came across a red deer, which he killed. He had a fine feast. As night fell he hastened towards the Indian camp, crept close to it, and found only one red man, instead of a dozen or more, as he had expected. He waited until the redskin was fast asleep and then made good his boast. As he started upon the back trail for the settlement, a fresh scalp hung at his girdle.
Owing to his great strength and agility, he reached Wheeling just one day behind his companions, instead of three. They were delighted to see him.
“My boy,” cried they, “you have certainly made good and are entitled to the greatest possible credit. Bully for you!”