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streak of chain-lightnin' when
he's riled. Wetzel is an Injun-killer. Some people say as how he's
crazy over scalp-huntin'; but I reckon that's not so. I've seen him
a few times. He don't hang round the settlement 'cept when the
Injuns are up, an' nobody sees him much. At home he sets round
silent-like, an' then mebbe next mornin' he'll be gone, an' won't
show up fer days or weeks. But all the frontier knows of his deeds.
Fer instance, I've hearn of settlers gettin' up in the mornin' an'
findin' a couple of dead and scalped Injuns right in front of their
cabins. No one knowed who killed 'em, but everybody says 'Wetzel.'
He's allus warnin' the settlers when they need to flee to the fort,
and sure he's right every time, because when these men go back to
their cabins they find nothin' but ashes. There couldn't be any
farmin' done out there but fer Wetzel."
    "What does he look like?" questioned Joe, much interested.
    "Wetzel stands straight as the oak over thar. He'd hev' to go
sideways to git his shoulders in that door, but he's as light of
foot an' fast as a deer. An' his eyes—why, lad, ye kin hardly look
into 'em. If you ever see Wetzel you'll know him to onct."
    "I want to see him," Joe spoke quickly, his eyes lighting with an
eager flash. "He must be a great fighter."
    "Is he? Lew Wetzel is the heftiest of 'em all, an' we hev some as
kin fight out here. I was down the river a few years ago and joined
a party to go out an' hunt up some redskins as had been reported.
Wetzel was with us. We soon struck Injun sign, and then come on to a
lot of the pesky varmints. We was all fer goin' home, because we had
a small force. When we started to go we finds Wetzel sittin'
calm-like on a log. We said: 'Ain't ye goin' home?' and he replied,
'I cum out to find redskins, an' now as we've found 'em, I'm not
goin' to run away.' An' we left him settin' thar. Oh, Wetzel is a
fighter!"
    "I hope I shall see him," said Joe once more, the warm light, which
made him look so boyish, still glowing in his face.
    "Mebbe ye'll git to; and sure ye'll see redskins, an' not tame ones,
nuther."
    At this moment the sound of excited voices near the cabins broke in
on the conversation. Joe saw several persons run toward the large
cabin and disappear behind it. He smiled as he thought perhaps the
commotion had been caused by the awakening of the Indian brave.
    Rising to his feet, Joe went toward the cabin, and soon saw the
cause of the excitement. A small crowd of men and women, all
laughing and talking, surrounded the Indian brave and the little
stout fellow. Joe heard some one groan, and then a deep, guttural
voice:
    "Paleface—big steal—ugh! Injun mad—heap mad—kill paleface."
    After elbowing his way into the group, Joe saw the Indian holding
Loorey with one hand, while he poked him on the ribs with the other.
The captive's face was the picture of dismay; even the streaks of
paint did not hide his look of fear and bewilderment. The poor
half-witted fellow was so badly frightened that he could only groan.
    "Silvertip scalp paleface. Ugh!" growled the savage, giving Loorey
another blow on the side. This time he bent over in pain. The
bystanders were divided in feeling; the men laughed, while the women
murmured sympathetically.
    "This's not a bit funny," muttered Joe, as he pushed his way nearly
to the middle of the crowd. Then he stretched out a long arm that,
bare and brawny, looked as though it might have been a blacksmith's,
and grasped the Indian's sinewy wrist with a force that made him
loosen his hold on Loorey instantly.
    "I stole the shirt—fun—joke," said Joe. "Scalp me if you want to
scalp anyone."
    The Indian looked quickly at the powerful form before him. With a
twist he slipped his arm from Joe's grasp.
    "Big paleface heap fun—all squaw play," he said, scornfully. There
was a menace in his somber eyes as he turned abruptly and left the
group.
    "I'm afraid you've made an enemy," said Jake Wentz to Joe. "An
Indian never forgets an insult,