Was not Girty, the white savage, the bane of the poor settlers, within range of a weapon that never failed?
Was not the murderous chieftain, who had once whipped and tortured him, who had burned Crawford alive, there in plain sight?
Wetzel revelled a moment in fiendish glee.

He passed his hands tenderly over the long barrel of his rifle.

In that moment as never before he gloried in his power--a power which enabled him to put a bullet in the eye of a squirrel at the distance these men were from him.

But only for an instant did the hunter yield to this feeling.

He knew too well the value of time and opportunity.
He rose again to his feet and peered out from under the shading laurel branches.