Whispering Winds asked wistfully of Joe.
"Indeed they will," answered Joe, and he told her the story of Isaac Zane; how

he took his Indian bride home; how her beauty and sweetness soon won all the
white people's love. "It will be so with you, my wife."

"Whispering Winds knows so little," she murmured.
"Why, you are learning every day, and even if such was not the case, you know

enough for me."
"Whispering Winds will be afraid; she fears a little to go."

"I'll be glad when we can be on the move," said Joe, with his old impatient
desire for action. "How soon, Winds, can we set off?"

"As many days," answered the Indian girl, holding up five fingers.
"So long? I want to leave this place."

"Leave Beautiful Spring?"
"Yes, even this sweet place. It has a horror for me. I'll never forget the

night I first saw that spring shining in the moonlight. It was right above the
rock that I looked into the glade. The moon was reflected in the dark pool,

and as I gazed into the shadowy depths of the dark water I suddenly felt an
unaccountable terror; but I oughtn't to have the same feeling now. We are

safe, are we not?"
"We are safe," murmured Whispering Winds.

"Yet I have the same chill of fear whenever I look at the beautiful spring,
and at night as I awake to hear the soft babble of running water, I freeze

until my heart feels like cold lead. Winds, I'm not a coward; but I can't help
this feeling. Perhaps, it's only the memory of that awful night with Wetzel."

"An Indian feels so when he passes to his unmarked grave," answered Winds,
gazing solemnly at him. "Whispering Winds does not like this fancy of yours.

Let us leave Beautiful Spring. You are almost well. Ah! if Whispering Winds
should lose you! I love you!"

"And I love you, my beautiful wild flower," answered Joe, stroking the dark
head so near his own.

A tender smile shone on his face. He heard a slight noise without the cave,
and, looking up, saw that which caused the smile to fade quickly.

"Mose!" he called, sharply. The dog was away chasing rabbits.
Whispering Winds glanced over her shoulder with a startled cry, which ended in

a scream.
Not two yards behind her stood Jim Girty.

Hideous was his face in its triumphantferocity. He held a long knife in his
hand, and, snarling like a mad wolf, he made a forward lunge.

Joe raised himself quickly; but almost before he could lift his hand in
defense, the long blade was sheathed in his breast.

Slowly he sank back, his gray eyes contracting with the old steely flash. The
will to do was there, but the power was gone forever.

"Remember, Girty, murderer! I am Wetzel's friend," he cried, gazing at his
slayer with unutterable scorn.

Then the gray eyes softened, and sought the blanched face of the stricken
maiden.

"Winds," he whispered faintly.
She was as one frozen with horror.

The gray eyes gazed into hers with lingering tenderness; then the film of
death came upon them.

The renegade raised his bloody knife, and bent over the prostrate form.
Whispering Winds threw herself upon Girty with the blind fury of a maddened

lioness. Cursing fiercely, he stabbed her once, twice, three times. She fell
across the body of her lover, and clasped it convulsively.

Girty gave one glance at his victims; deliberately wiped the gory knife on
Wind's leggins, and, with another glance, hurried and fearful, around the

glade, he plunged into the thicket.
An hour passed. A dark stream crept from the quiet figures toward the spring.

It dyed the moss and the green violet leaves. Slowly it wound its way to the
clear water, dripping between the pale blue flowers. The little fall below the

spring was no longer snowy white; blood had tinged it red.
A dog came bounding into the glade. He leaped the brook, hesitated on the

bank, and lowered his nose to sniff at the water. He bounded up the bank to
the cavern.

A long, mournful howl broke the wilderness's quiet.
Another hour passed. The birds were silent; the insects still. The sun sank

behind the trees, and the shades of evening gathered.
The ferns on the other side of the glade trembled. A slight rustle of dead

leaves disturbed the stillness. The dog whined, then barked. The tall form of
a hunter rose out of the thicket, and stepped into the glade with his eyes

bent upon moccasin tracks in the soft moss.
The trail he had been following led him to this bloody spring.

"I might hev knowed it," he muttered.
Wetzel, for it was he, leaned upon his long rifle while his keen eyes took in

the details of the tragedy. The whining dog, the bloody water, the motionless
figures lying in a last embrace, told the sad story.

"Joe an' Winds," he muttered.
Only a moment did he remain lost in sad reflection A familiar moccasin-print

in the sand on the bank pointedwestward. He examined it carefully.
"Two hours gone," he muttered. "I might overtake him."

Then his motions became swift. With two blows of his tomahawk he secured a
long piece of grapevine. He took a heavy stone from the bed of the brook. He

carried Joe to the spring, and, returning for Winds, placed her beside her
lover. This done, he tied one end of the grapevine around the stone, and wound

the other about the dead bodies.
He pushed them off the bank into the spring. As the lovers sank into the deep

pool they turned, exposing first Winds' sad face, and then Joe's. Then they
sank out of sight. Little waves splashed on the shore of the pool; the ripple

disappeared, and the surface of the spring became tranquil.
Wetzel stood one moment over the watery grave of the maiden who had saved him,

and the boy who had loved him. In the gathering gloom his stalwart form
assumed gigantic proportions, and when he raised his long arm and shook his

clenched fist toward the west, he resembled a magnificentstatue of dark
menace.

With a single bound he cleared the pool, and then sped out of the glade. He
urged the dog on Girty's trail, and followed the eager beast toward the west.

As he disappeared, a long, low sound like the sigh of the night wind swelled
and moaned through the gloom.

Chapter XXIV.
When the first ruddy rays of the rising sun crimsoned the eastern sky, Wetzel

slowly wound his way down a rugged hill far west of Beautiful Spring. A white
dog, weary and footsore, limped by his side. Both man and beast showed

evidence of severe exertion.
The hunter stopped in a little cave under a projecting stone, and, laying

aside his rifle, began to gather twigs and sticks. He was particular about
selecting the wood, and threw aside many pieces which would have burned well;

but when he did kindle a flame it blazed hotly, yet made no smoke.
He sharpened a green stick, and, taking some strips of meat from his pocket,

roasted them over the hot flame. He fed the dog first. Mose had crouched close
on the ground with his head on his paws, and his brown eyes fastened upon the

hunter.
"He had too big a start fer us," said Wetzel, speaking as if the dog were

human. It seemed that Wetzel's words were a protest against the meaning in
those large, sad eyes.

Then the hunter put out the fire, and, searching for a more secluded spot,
finally found one on top of the ledge, where he commanded a good view of his

surroundings. The weary dog was asleep. Wetzel settled himself to rest, and
was soon wrapped in slumber.

About noon he awoke. He arose, stretched his limbs, and then took an easy
position on the front of the ledge, where he could look below. Evidently the

hunter was waiting for something. The dog slept on. It was the noonday hour,
when the stillness of the forest almost matched that of midnight. The birds

were more quiet than at any other time during daylight.
Wetzel reclined there with his head against the stone, and his rifle resting

across his knees.
He listened now to the sounds of the forest. The soft breeze fluttering among