searched the open places, the shadows--even the branches. Then he turned his
eyes slowly to the right. Whatever was discernible to human vision he studied

intently. Suddenly his eye became fixed on a small object protruding from
behind a beech tree. It was pointed, and in color darker than the gray bark of

the beech. It had been a very easy matter to pass over this little thing; but
now that the lad saw it, he knew to what it belonged.

"That's a buck's ear," he replied.
Hardly had he finished speaking when Wetzel intentionally snapped a twig.

There was a crash and commotion in the thicket; branches moved and small
saplings waved; then out into the open glade bounded a large buck with a

whistle of alarm. Throwing his rifle to a level, Joe was trying to cover the
bounding deer, when the hunter struck up his piece.

"Lad, don't kill fer the sake of killin," he said, quietly. "We have plenty of
venison. We'll go arter a buffalo. I hev a hankerin' fer a good rump steak."

Half an hour later, the hunters emerged from the forest into a wide plain of
waving grass. It was a kind of oval valley, encircled by hills, and had been

at one time, perhaps, covered with water. Joe saw a herd of large animals
browsing, like cattle, in a meadow. His heart beat high, for until that moment

the only buffalo he had seen were the few which stood on the river banks as
the raft passed down the Ohio. He would surely get a shot at one of these huge

fellows.
Wetzel bade Joe do exactly as he did, whereupon he dropped on his hands and

knees and began to crawl through the long grass. This was easy for the hunter,
but very bard for the lad to accomplish. Still, he managed to keep his comrade

in sight, which was a matter for congratulation, because the man crawled as
fast as he walked. At length, after what to Joe seemed a very long time, the

hunter paused.
"Are we near enough?" whispered Joe, breathlessly.

"Nope. We're just circlin' on 'em. The wind's not right, an' I'm afeered
they'll get our scent."

Wetzel rose carefully and peeped over the top of the grass; then, dropping on
all fours, he resumed the advance.

He paused again, presently and waited for Joe to come up.
"See here, young fellar, remember, never hurry unless the bizness calls fer

speed, an' then act like lightnin'."
Thus admonishing the eager lad, Wetzel continued to crawl. It was easy for

him. Joe wondered how those wide shoulders got between the weeds and grasses
without breaking, or, at least, shaking them. But so it was.

"Flat now," whispered Wetzel, putting his broad hand on Joe's back and
pressing him down. "Now's yer time fer good practice. Trail yer rifle over yer

back--if yer careful it won't slide off--an' reach out far with one arm an'
dig yer fingers in deep. Then pull yerself forrard."

Wetzel slipped through the grass like a huge buckskin snake. His long, lithe
body wormed its way among the reeds. But for Joe, even with the advantage of

having the hunter's trail to follow, it was difficult work. The dry reeds
broke under him, and the stalks of saw-gass shook. He worked persistently at

it, learning all the while, and improving with every rod. He was surprised to
hear a swish, followed by a dull blow on the ground. Raising his head, he

looked forward. He saw the hunter wipe his tomahawk on the grass.
"Snake," whispered Wetzel.

Joe saw a huge blacksnake squirming in the grass. Its head had been severed.
He caught glimpses of other snakes gliding away, and glossy round moles

darting into their holes. A gray rabbit started off with a leap.
"We're near enough," whispered Wetzel, stopping behind a bush. He rose and

surveyed the plain; then motioned Joe to look.
Joe raised himself on his knees. As his gaze reached the level of the grassy

plain his heart leaped. Not fifty yards away was a great, shaggy, black
buffalo. He was the king of the herd; but ill at ease, for he pawed the grass

and shook his huge bead. Near him were several cows and a half-grown calf.
Beyond was the main herd, extending as far as Joe could see--a great sea of

black humps! The lad breathed hard as he took in the grand sight.
"Pick out the little fellar--the reddish-brown one--an' plug him behind the

shoulder. Shoot close now, fer if we miss, mebbe I can't hit one, because I'm
not used to shootin' at sich small marks."

Wetzel's rare smile lighted up his dark face. Probably he could have shot a
fly off the horn of the bull, if one of the big flies or bees, plainly visible

as they swirled around the huge head, had alighted there.
Joe slowly raised his rifle. He had covered the calf, and was about to pull

the trigger, when, with a sagacity far beyond his experience as hunter, he
whispered to Wetzel:

"If I fire they may run toward us."
"Nope; they'll run away," answered Wetzel, thinking the lad was as keen as an

Indian.
Joe quickly covered the calf again, and pulled the trigger. Bellowing loud the

big bull dashed off. The herd swung around toward the west, and soon were
galloping off with a lumbering roar. The shaggy humps bobbed up and down like

hot, angry waves on a storm-blackened sea.
Upon going forward, Wetzel and Joe found the calf lying dead in the grass.

"You might hev did better'n that," remarked the hunter, as he saw where the
bullet had struck. "You went a little too fer back, but mebbe thet was 'cause

the calf stepped as you shot."
Chapter XV.

So the days passed swiftly, dreamily, each one bringing Joe a keener delight.
In a single month he was as good a woodsman as many pioneers who had passed

years on the border, for he had the advantage of a teacher whose woodcraft was
incomparable. Besides, he was naturally quick in learning, and with all his

interest centered upon forest lore, it was no wonder he assimilated much of
Wetzel's knowledge. He was ever willing to undertake anything whereby he might

learn. Often when they were miles away in the dense forest, far from their
cave, he asked Wetzel to let him try to lead the way back to camp. And he

never failed once, though many times he got off a straight course, thereby
missing the easy travelling.

Joe did wonderfully well, but he lacked, as nearly all white men do, the
subtler, intuitive forest-instinct, which makes the Indian as much at home in

the woods as in his teepee. Wetzel had this developed to a high degree. It
was born in him. Years of training, years of passionate, unrelenting search

for Indians, had given him a knowledge of the wilds that was incomprehensible
to white men, and appalling to his red foes.

Joe saw how Wetzel used this ability, but what it really was baffled him. He
realized that words were not adequate to explain fully this great art. Its

possession required a marvelously keen vision, an eye perfectly familiar with
every creature, tree, rock, shrub and thing belonging in the forest; an eye so

quick in flight as to detectinstantly the slightest change in nature, or
anything unnatural to that environment. The hearing must be delicate, like

that of a deer, and the finer it is, the keener will be the woodsman. Lastly,
there is the feeling that prompts the old hunter to say: "No game to-day." It

is something in him that speaks when, as he sees a night-hawk circling low
near the ground, he says: "A storm to-morrow." It is what makes an Indian at

home in any wilderness. The clouds may hide the guiding star; the northing may
be lost; there may be no moss on the trees, or difference in their bark; the

ridges may be flat or lost altogether, and there may be no water-courses; yet
the Indian brave always goes for his teepee, straight as a crow flies. It was

this voice which rightly bade Wetzel, when he was baffled by an Indian's trail
fading among the rocks, to cross, or circle, or advance in the direction taken

by his wily foe.
Joe had practiced trailing deer and other hoofed game, until he was true as a

hound. Then he began to perfect himself in the art of following a human being
through the forest. Except a few old Indian trails, which the rain had half

obliterated, he had no tracks to discover save Wetzel's, and these were as
hard to find as the airy course of a grosbeak. On soft ground or marshy grass,

which Wetzel avoided where he could, he left a faint trail, but on a hard
surface, for all the traces he left, he might as well not have gone over the

ground at all.
Joe's persistence stood him in good stead; he hung on, and the more he failed,

the harder he tried. Often he would slip out of the cave after Wetzel had
gone, and try to find which way he had taken. In brief, the lad became a fine

marksman, a good hunter, and a close, persevering student of the wilderness.
He loved the woods, and all they contained. He learned the habits of the wild