“No one is here,” said Madison. “Let us take some of this jerked venison and also a pailful of this coffee. I do not believe that the camp will be again visited, and we may as well have the food, as to let the wood-mice eat it.”
“All right,” answered the trapper, and, without more ado, they appropriated what they wished, and continued upon their journey.
Early the next day, as they were crossing a small valley, many shots rang out, and wild war-whoops sounded from every side. Cries of “You give back our venison!” were heard above the din, and Madison reeled in his saddle, falling head-long to the ground. Wetzel did not wait to see what had happened to him, but, digging his heels into his horse’s flanks, dashed off into the brush.
Now was a furious chase. Although well mounted, the scout soon saw that the red men also had good ponies, and he feared that they would catch him. Over the mountain paths they flew, for hour after hour. At last they neared a broad river, and leaping his horse into it, the scout swam to the other side. The red men had not the courage to follow where he had led, and thus he made good his escape.
The pioneer had a generous heart in spite of his vindictiveness to all savages, and not long afterwards had an opportunity to display his good feeling towards the weak and distressed. Going with a friend one day to pay a visit to a frontier house belonging to the Bryans, they found indications that the Indians had just been there, for the home was burned to the ground. Tracks in the moist earth led into the forest, and besides those of the redskins were the print of a woman’s feet.
“Miss Betsy Bryan has been carried off, I fear,” said Wetzel sorrowfully, pointing to the footprints. “We must rescue her even if it costs us our lives. Comrade, let us hasten to the chase.”
His companion nodded, and, without more ado, the two men of the frontier followed the well-marked trail of the savages. Towards evening they crossed the Ohio River. Not far from the bank was a camp-fire, and, going towards it with great caution, they saw the girl seated near the flames. A white renegade and three Indians were her companions.
“Lie down, comrade,” whispered Wetzel to his friend. “I will tell you when to rouse yourself, for we cannot attack until these redskins are asleep.”
His companion obeyed, and waking him about two o’clock in the early morning, the scout told him to fire at one of the red men and then to rush into the camp in order to protect the captive. “I, myself, will attend to the renegade,” said he.
Both frontiersmen fired at about the same time. The renegade was done for, as was one Indian, also. The two remaining savages took to their heels. Wetzel was after them in a jiffy, but, as they soon hid in the brush, he fired his rifle off, thinking that they might pursue him if they believed that his weapon were empty. He was not mistaken. The savages rushed from their hiding-places, gave close chase, and gained rapidly upon the running plainsman. They began to yelp wildly, as they thought that they had him cornered, but they did not know that this was the famous trapper who could load while on the run.