"Indeed, yes. I am a pioneer; a borderman is an Indian hunter, or
scout. For years my cabins housed Andrew Zane, Sam and John McCollock,
Bill Metzar, and John and Martin Wetzel, all of whom are dead. Not one
saved his scalp. Fort Henry is growing; it has pioneers, rivermen,
soldiers, but only two bordermen. Wetzel and Jonathan are the only
ones we have left of those great men."

"They must be old," mused Helen, with a dreamy glow still in her eyes.

"Well, Miss Helen, not in years, as you mean. Life here is old in
experience; few pioneers, and no bordermen, live to a great age.
Wetzel is about forty, and my brother Jonathan still a young man; but
both are old in border lore."

Earnestly, as a man who loves his subject, Colonel Zane told his
listeners of these two most prominent characters of the border.
Sixteen years previously, when but boys in years, they had cast in
their lot with his, and journeyed over the Virginian Mountains, Wetzel
to devote his life to the vengeful calling he had chosen, and Jonathan
to give rein to an adventurous spirit and love of the wilds. By some
wonderful chance, by cunning, woodcraft, or daring, both men had lived
through the years of border warfare which had brought to a close the
careers of all their contemporaries.

For many years Wetzel preferred solitude to companionship; he roamed
the wilderness in pursuit of Indians, his life-long foes, and seldom
appeared at the settlement except to bring news of an intended raid of
the savages. Jonathan also spent much time alone in the woods, or
scouting along the river. But of late years a friendship had ripened
between the two bordermen. Mutual interest had brought them together