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Ah…h！〃
He shrieked until his voice failed； and then he gasped。
Again the buzzards swooped overhead； this time brushing the leaves。 One； a
great grizzled bird； settled upon a limb of the giant oak； and stretched its
long neck。 Another alighted beside him。 Others sailed round and round the dead
tree top。
The leader arched his wings； and with a dive swooped into the glade。 He
alighted near Deering's dead body。 He was a dark； uncanny bird； with long；
scraggy； bare neck； a wreath of white； grizzled feathers； a cruel； hooked
beak； and cold eyes。
The carrion bird looked around the glade； and put a great claw on the dead
man's breast。
〃Ah…h！ Ah…h！〃 shrieked Girty。 His agonized yell of terror and horror echoed
mockingly from the wooded bluff。
The huge buzzard flapped his wings and flew away； but soon returned to his
gruesome feast。 His followers； made bold by their leader； floated down into
the glade。 Their black feathers shone in the sun。 They hopped over the moss；
they stretched their grizzled necks； and turned their heads sideways。
Girty was sweating blood。 It trickled from his ghastly face。 All the suffering
and horror he had caused in all his long career was as nothing to that which
then rended him。 He； the renegade； the white Indian； the Deathshead of the
frontier； panted and prayed for a merciful breath。 He was exquisitely alive。
He was human。
Presently the huge buzzard； the leader； raised his hoary head。 He saw the man
nailed to the tree。 The bird bent his head wisely to one side； and then
lightly lifted himself into the air。 He sailed round the glade； over the
fighting buzzards； over the spring； and over the doomed renegade。 He flew out
of the glade； and in again。 He swooped close to Girty。 His broad wings
scarcely moved as he sailed along。
Girty tried to strike the buzzard as he sailed close by； but his arm fell
useless。 He tried to scream； but his voice failed。
Slowly the buzzard king sailed by and returned。 Every time he swooped a little
nearer； and bent his long； scraggy neck。
Suddenly he swooped down； light and swift as a hawk； his wide wings fanned the
air； he poised under the tree； and then fastened sharp talons in the doomed
man's breast。
Chapter XXIX。
The fleeting human instinct of Wetzel had given way to the habit of years。
His merciless quest for many days had been to kill the frontier fiend。 Now
that it had been accomplished； he turned his vengeance into its accustomed
channel； and once more became the ruthless Indian…slayer。
A fierce； tingling joy surged through him as he struck the Delaware's trail。
Wingenund had made little or no effort to conceal his tracks； he had gone
northwest； straight as a crow flies； toward the Indian encampment。 He had a
start of sixty minutes； and it would require six hours of rapid traveling to
gain the Delaware town。
〃Reckon he'll make fer home；〃 muttered Wetzel； following the trail with all
possible speed。
The hunter's method of trailing an Indian was singular。 Intuition played as
great a part as sight。 He seemed always to divine his victim's intention。 Once
on the trail he was as hard to shake off as a bloodhound。 Yet he did not； by
any means； always stick to the Indian's footsteps。 With Wetzel the direction
was of the greatest importance。
For half a mile he closely followed the Delaware's plainly marked trail。 Then
he stopped to take a quick survey of the forest before him。 He abruptly left
the trail； and； breaking into a run； went through the woods as fleetly and
noiselessly as a deer； running for a quarter of a mile； when he stopped to
listen。 All seemed well； for he lowered his head； and walked slowly along；
examining the moss and leaves。 Presently he came upon a little open space
where the soil was a sandy loam。 He bent over； then rose quickly。 He had come
upon the Indian's trail。 Cautiously he moved forward； stopping every moment to
listen。 In all the close pursuits of his maturer years he had never been a
victim of that most cunning of Indian tricks； an ambush。 He relied solely on
his ear to learn if foes were close by。 The wild creatures of the forest were
his informants。 As soon as he heard any change in their twittering； humming or
playingwhichever way they manifested their joy or fear of lifehe became as
hard to see； as difficult to hear as a creeping snake。
The Delaware's trail led to a rocky ridge and there disappeared。 Wetzel made
no effort to find the chief's footprints on the flinty ground； but halted a
moment and studied the ridge； the lay of the land around； a ravine on one
side； and a dark impenetrable forest on the other。 He was calculating his
chances of finding the Delaware's trail far on the other side。 Indian
woodcraft； subtle； wonderful as it may be； is limited to each Indian's
ability。 Savages； as well as other men； were born unequal。 One might leave a
faint trail through the forest； while another could be readily traced； and a
third； more cunning and skillful than his fellows； have flown under the shady
trees； for all the trail he left。 But redmen followed the same methods of
woodcraft from tradition； as Wetzel had learned after long years of study and
experience。
And now； satisfied that he had divined the Delaware's intention； he slipped
down the bank of the ravine； and once more broke into a run。 He leaped
lightly； sure…footed as a goat； from stone to stone； over fallen logs； and the
brawling brook。 At every turn of the ravine； at every open place； he stopped
to listen。
Arriving on the other side of the ridge； he left the ravine and passed along
the edge of the rising ground。 He listened to the birds； and searched the
grass and leaves。 He found not the slightest indication of a trail where he
had expected to find one。 He retraced his steps patiently； carefully；
scrutinizing every inch of the ground。 But it was all in vain。 Wingenund had
begun to show his savage cunning。 In his warrior days for long years no chief
could rival him。 His boast had always been that； when Wingenund sought to
elude his pursuers； his trail faded among the moss and the ferns。
Wetzel； calm； patient； resourceful； deliberated a moment。 The Delaware had not
crossed this rocky ridge。 He had been cunning enough to make his pursuer think
such was his intention。 The hunter hurried to the eastern end of the ridge for
no other reason than apparently that course was the one the savage had the
least reason to take。 He advanced hurriedly because every moment was precious。
Not a crushed blade of grass； a brushed leaf； an overturned pebble nor a
snapped twig did he find。 He saw that he was getting near to the side of the
ridge where the Delaware's trail had abruptly ended。 Ah！ what was there？ A
twisted bit of fern； with the drops of dew brushed off。 Bending beside the
fern； Wetzel examined the grass； it was not crushed。 A small plant with
triangular leaves of dark green； lay under the fern。 Breaking