Without waiting to see the result of his shot--so well did he trust his unerring aim--he climbed down the steep bank and brushing aside the vines entered the cave.

A stalwart Indian lay in the entrance with his face pressed down on the vines.

He still clutched in his sinewy fingers the buckhorn mouthpiece with which he had made the calls that had resulted in his death.
"Huron," muttered the hunter to himself as he ran the keen edge of his knife around the twisted tuft of hair and tore off the scalp-lock.
The cave showed evidence of having been inhabited for some time.
There was a cunningly contrived fireplace made of stones, against which pieces of birch bark were placed in such a position that not a ray of light could get out of the cavern.

The bed of black coals between the stones still smoked; a quantity of parched corn lay on a little rocky shelf which jutted out from the wall; a piece of jerked meat and a buckskin pouch hung from a peg.
Suddenly Wetzel dropped on his knees and began examining the footprints in the sandy floor of the cavern.

He measured the length and width of the dead warrior's foot.