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The Spirit of the Border

Chapter 7.
Joe felt the heavy lethargy rise from him like the removal of a blanket; his eyes became
clear, and he saw the trees and the forest gloom; slowly he realized his actual position.
He was a prisoner, lying helpless among his sleeping captors. Silvertip and the guard had
fled into the woods, frightened by the appalling moan which they believed sounded their
death-knell. And Joe believed he might have fled himself had he been free. What could
have caused that sound? He fought off the numbing chill that once again began to creep
over him. He was wide-awake now; his head was clear, and he resolved to retain his
senses. He told himself there could be nothing supernatural in that wind, or wail, or
whatever it was, which had risen murmuring from out the forest-depths.
Yet, despite his reasoning, Joe could not allay his fears. That thrilling cry haunted him.
The frantic flight of an Indian brave--nay, of a cunning, experienced chief--was not to be
lightly considered. The savages were at home in these untracked wilds. Trained from
infancy to scent danger and to fight when they had an equal chance they surely would not
run without good cause.
Joe knew that something moved under those dark trees. He had no idea what. It might be
the fretting night wind, or a stealthy, prowling, soft-footed beast, or a savage alien to
these wild Indians, and wilder than they by far. The chirp of a bird awoke the stillness.
Night had given way to morning. Welcoming the light that was chasing away the gloom,
Joe raised his head with a deep sigh of relief. As he did so he saw a bush move; then a
shadow seemed to sink into the ground. He had seen an object lighter than the trees,
darker than the gray background. Again, that strange sense of the nearness of something
thrilled him.
Moments, passed--to him long as hours. He saw a tall fern waver and tremble. A rabbit,
or perhaps a snake, had brushed it. Other ferns moved, their tops agitated, perhaps, by a
faint breeze. No; that wavering line came straight toward him; it could not be the wind; it
marked the course of a creeping, noiseless thing. It must be a panther crawling nearer and
nearer.
Joe opened his lips to awaken his captors, but could not speak; it was as if his heart had
stopped beating. Twenty feet away the ferns were parted to disclose a white, gleaming
face, with eyes that seemingly glittered. Brawny shoulders were upraised, and then a tall,
powerful man stood revealed. Lightly he stepped over the leaves into the little glade. He
bent over the sleeping Indians. Once, twice, three times a long blade swung high. One
brave shuddered another gave a sobbing gasp, and the third moved two fingers--thus they
passed from life to death.
"Wetzel!" cried Joe.
 
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