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.