Onward the frail barks glided into black space, side by side, close under the overhanging willows.
Long moments passed into long hours, as the guides paddled tirelessly as if their sinews were cords of steel.
With gray dawn came the careful landing of the canoes, a cold breakfast eaten under cover of a willow thicket, and the beginning of a long day while they were lying hidden from the keen eyes of Indian scouts, waiting for the friendly mantle of night.
The hours dragged until once more the canoes were launched, this time not on the broad Ohio, but on a stream that mirrored no shining stars as it flowed still and somber under the dense foliage.
The voyagers spoke not, nor whispered, nor scarcely moved, so menacing had become the slow, listening caution of Wetzel and Zane.
Snapping of twigs somewhere in the inscrutable darkness delayed them for long moments.

Any movement the air might resound with the horrible Indian war-whoop.

Every second was heavy with fear.

How marvelous that these scouts, penetrating the wilderness of gloom, glided on surely, silently, safely! Instinct, or the eyes of the lynx, guide their course.

But another dark night wore on to the tardy dawn, and each of its fearful hours numbered miles past and gone.
The sun was rising in ruddy glory when Wetzel ran his canoe into the bank just ahead of a sharp bend in the stream.
"Do we get out here ?" asked Jim, seeing Jonathan turn his canoe toward Wetzel's.
"The village lies yonder, around the bend," answered the guide.
"Wetzel cannot go there, so I'll take you all in my canoe." "There's no room; I'll wait," replied Joe, quietly.