by Zane Grey
As Isaac had his share of the Zane swiftness of foot, at times his really remarkable fleetness enabled him to get control of the ball. In front of the band of yelling savages he would carry it down the field, and evading the guards at the goal, would throw it between the posts. This was a feat of which any brave could be proud.
During one of these games Red Fox, a Wyandot brave, who had long been hopelessly in love with Myeerah, and who cordially hated Isaac, used this opportunity for revenge. Red Fox, who was a swift runner, had vied with Isaac for the honors, but being defeated in the end, he had yielded to his jealous frenzy and had struck Isaac a terrible blow on the head with his bat.
It happened to be a glancing blow or Isaac’s life would have been ended then and there. As it was he had a deep gash in his head. The Indians carried him to his lodge and the medicine men of the tribe were summoned.
When Isaac recovered consciousness he asked for Myeerah and entreated her not to punish Red Fox. He knew that such a course would only increase his difficulties, and, on the other hand, if he saved the life of the Indian who had struck him in such a cowardly manner such an act would appeal favorably to the Indians. His entreaties had no effect on Myeerah, who was furious, and who said that if Red Fox, who had escaped, ever returned he would pay for his unprovoked assault with his life, even if she had to kill him herself. Isaac knew that Myeerah would keep her word. He dreaded every morning that the old squaw who prepared his meals would bring him the news that his assailant had been slain. Red Fox was a popular brave, and there were many Indians who believed the blow he had struck Isaac was not intentional. Isaac worried needlessly, however, for Red Fox never came back, and nothing could be learned as to his whereabouts.
It was during his convalescence that Isaac learned really to love the Indian maiden. She showed such distress in the first days after his injury, and such happiness when he was out of danger and on the road to recovery that Isaac wondered at her. She attended him with anxious solicitude; when she bathed and bandaged his wound her every touch was a tender caress; she sat by him for hours; her low voice made soft melody as she sang the Huron love songs. The moments were sweet to Isaac when in the gathering twilight she leaned her head on his shoulder while they listened to the evening carol of the whip-poor-will. Days passed and at length Isaac was entirely well. One day when the air was laden with the warm breath of summer Myeerah and Isaac walked by the river.
“You are sad again,” said Myeerah.
“I am homesick. I want to see my people. Myeerah, you have named me rightly. The Eagle can never be happy unless he is free.”
“The Eagle can be happy with his mate. And what life could be freer than a Huron’s? I hope always that you will grow content.”
“It has been a long time now, Myeerah, since I have spoken with you of my freedom. Will you ever free me? Or must I take again those awful chances of escape? I cannot always live here in this way. Some day I shall be killed while trying to get away, and then, if you truly love me, you will never forgive yourself.”
“Does not Myeerah truly love you?” she asked, gazing straight into his eyes, her own misty and sad.
“I do not doubt that, but I think sometimes that it is not the right kind of love. It is too savage. No man should be made a prisoner for no other reason than that he is loved by a woman. I have tried to teach you many things; the language of my people, their ways and thoughts, but I have failed to civilize you. I cannot make you understand that it is unwomanly — do not turn away. I am not indifferent. I have learned to care for you. Your beauty and tenderness have made anything else impossible.”
“Myeerah is proud of her beauty, if it pleases the Eagle. Her beauty and her love are his. Yet the Eagle’s words make Myeerah sad. She cannot tell what she feels. The pale face’s words flow swiftly and smoothly like rippling waters, but Myeerah’s heart is full and her lips are dumb.”
Myeerah and Isaac stopped under a spreading elm tree the branches of which drooped over and shaded the river. The action of the high water had worn away the earth round the roots of the old elm, leaving them bare and dry when the stream was low. As though Nature had been jealous in the interest of lovers, she had twisted and curled the roots into a curiously shaped bench just above the water, which was secluded enough to escape all eyes except those of the beaver and the muskrat. The bank above was carpeted with fresh, dewy grass; blue bells and violets hid modestly under their dark green leaves; delicate ferns, like wonderful fairy lace, lifted their dainty heads to sway in the summer breeze. In this quiet nook the lovers passed many hours.
“Then, if my White Chief has learned to care for me, he must not try to escape,” whispered Myeerah, tenderly, as she crept into Isaac’s arms and laid her head on his breast. “I love you. I love you. What will become of Myeerah if you leave her? Could she ever be happy? Could she ever forget? No, no, I will keep my captive.”
“I cannot persuade you to let me go?”
“If I free you I will come and lie here,” cried Myeerah, pointing to the dark pool.
“Then come with me to my home and live there.”
“Go with you to the village of the pale faces, where Myeerah would be scorned, pointed at as your captors laughed at and pitied? No! No!”
“But you would not be,” said Isaac, eagerly. “You would be my wife. My sister and people will love you. Come, Myeerah save me from this bondage; come home with me and I will make you happy.”
“It can never be,” she said, sadly, after a long pause. “How would we ever reach the fort by the big river? Tarhe loves his daughter and will not give her up. If we tried to get away the braves would overtake us and then even Myeerah could not save your life. You would be killed. I dare not try. No, no, Myeerah loves too well for that.”
“You might make the attempt,” said Isaac, turning away in bitter disappointment. “If you loved me you could not see me suffer.”
“Never say that again,” cried Myeerah, pain and scorn in her dark eyes. “Can an Indian Princess who has the blood of great chiefs in her veins prove her love in any way that she has not? Some day you will know that you wrong me. I am Tarhe’s daughter. A Huron does not lie.”
They slowly wended their way back to the camp, both miserable at heart; Isaac longing to see his home and friends, and yet with tenderness in his heart for the Indian maiden who would not free him; Myeerah with pity and love for him and a fear that her long cherished dream could never be realized.
One dark, stormy night, when the rain beat down in torrents and the swollen river raged almost to its banks, Isaac slipped out of his lodge unobserved and under cover of the pitchy darkness he got safely between the lines of tepees to the river. He had just the opportunity for which he had been praying. He plunged into the water and floating down with the swift current he soon got out of sight of the flickering camp fires. Half a mile below he left the water and ran along the bank until he came to a large tree, a landmark he remembered, when he turned abruptly to the east and struck out through the dense woods. He travelled due east all that night and the next day without resting, and with nothing to eat except a small piece of jerked buffalo meat which he had taken the precaution to hide in his hunting shirt. He rested part of the second night and next morning pushed on toward the east. He had expected to reach the Ohio that day, but he did not and he noticed that the ground seemed to be gradually rising. He did not come across any swampy lands or saw grass or vegetation characteristic of the lowlands. He stopped and tried to get his bearings. The country was unknown to him, but he believed he knew the general lay of the ridges and the water-courses.
The fourth day found Isaac hopelessly lost in the woods. He was famished, having eaten but a few herbs and berries in the last two days; his buckskin garments were torn in tatters; his moccasins were worn out and his feet lacerated by the sharp thorns.
Darkness was fast approaching when he first realized that he was lost. He waited hopefully for the appearance of the north star — that most faithful
of hunter’s guides — but the sky clouded over and no stars appeared. Tired out and hopeless he dragged his weary body into a dense laurel thicket end lay down to wait for dawn. The dismal hoot of an owl nearby, the stealthy steps of some soft-footed animal prowling round the thicket, and the mournful sough of the wind in the treetops kept him awake for hours, but at last he fell asleep.
CHAPTER VII.
THE CHILLING RAINS of November and December’s flurry of snow had passed and mid-winter with its icy blasts had set in. The Black Forest had changed autumn’s gay crimson and yellow to the somber hue of winter and now looked indescribably dreary. An ice gorge had formed in the bend of the river at the head of the island and from bank to bank logs, driftwood, broken ice and giant floes were packed and jammed so tightly as to resist the action of the mighty current. This natural bridge would remain solid until spring had loosened the frozen grip of old winter. The hills surrounding Fort Henry were white with snow. The huge drifts were on a level with Col. Zane’s fence and in some places the top rail had disappeared. The pine trees in the yard were weighted down and drooped helplessly with their white burden.
On this frosty January morning the only signs of life round the settlement were a man and a dog walking up Wheeling hill. The man carried a rifle, an axe, and several steel traps. His snow-shoes sank into the drifts as he labored up the steep hill. All at once he stopped. The big black dog had put his nose high in the air and had sniffed at the cold wind.
“Well, Tige, old fellow, what is it?” said Jonathan Zane, for this was he.
The dog answered with a low whine. Jonathan looked up and down the creek valley and along the hillside, but he saw no living thing. Snow, snow everywhere, its white monotony relieved here and there by a black tree trunk. Tige sniffed again and then growled. Turning his ear to the breeze Jonathan heard faint yelps from far over the hilltop. He dropped his axe and the traps and ran the remaining short distance up the hill. When he reached the summit the clear baying of hunting wolves was borne to his ears.
The hill sloped gradually on the other side, ending in a white, unbroken plain which extended to the edge of the laurel thicket a quarter of a mile distant. Jonathan could not see the wolves, but he heard distinctly their peculiar, broken howls. They were in pursuit of something, whether quadruped or man he could not decide. Another moment and he was no longer in doubt, for a deer dashed out of the thicket. Jonathan saw that it was a buck and that he was well nigh exhausted; his head swung low from side to side; he sank slowly to his knees, and showed every indication of distress.
The next instant the baying of the wolves, which had ceased for a moment, sounded close at hand. The buck staggered to his feet; he turned this way and that. When he saw the man and the dog he started toward them without a moment’s hesitation.
At a warning word from Jonathan the dog sank on the snow. Jonathan stepped behind a tree, which, however, was not large enough to screen his body. He thought the buck would pass close by him and he determined to shoot at the most favorable moment.
The buck, however, showed no intention of passing by; in his abject terror he saw in the man and the dog foes less terrible than those which were yelping on his trail. He came on in a lame uneven trot, making straight for the tree. When he reached the tree he crouched, or rather fell, on the ground within a yard of Jonathan and his dog. He quivered and twitched; his nostrils flared; at every pant drops of blood flecked the snow; his great dark eyes had a strained and awful look, almost human in its agony.
Another yelp from the thicket and Jonathan looked up in time to see five timber wolves, gaunt, hungry looking beasts, burst from the bushes. With their noses close to the snow they followed the trail. When they came to the spot where the deer had fallen a chorus of angry, thirsty howls filled the air.
“Well, if this doesn’t beat me! I thought I knew a little about deer,” said Jonathan. “Tige, we will save this buck from those gray devils if it costs a leg. Steady now, old fellow, wait.”
When the wolves were within fifty yards of the tree and coming swiftly Jonathan threw his rifle forward and yelled with all the power of his strong lungs:
“Hi! Hi! Hi! Take ‘em, Tige!”
In trying to stop quickly on the slippery snowcrust the wolves fell all over themselves. One dropped dead and another fell wounded at the report of Jonathan’s rifle. The others turned tail and loped swiftly off into the thicket. Tige made short work of the wounded one.
“Old White Tail, if you were the last buck in the valley, I would not harm you,” said Jonathan, looking at the panting deer. “You need have no farther fear of that pack of cowards.”
So saying Jonathan called to Tige and wended his way down the hill toward the settlement.
An hour afterward he was sitting in Col. Zane’s comfortable cabin, where all was warmth and cheerfulness. Blazing hickory logs roared and crackled in the stone fireplace.
“Hello, Jack, where did you come from?” said Col. Zane, who had just come in. “Haven’t seen you since we were snowed up. Come over to see about the horses? If I were you I would not undertake that trip to Fort Pitt until the weather breaks. You could go in the sled, of course, but if you care anything for my advice you will stay home. This weather will hold on for some time. Let Lord Dunmore wait.”
“I guess we are in for some stiff weather.”
“Haven’t a doubt of it. I told Bessie last fall we might expect a hard winter. Everything indicated it. Look at the thick corn-husks. The hulls of the nuts from the shell-bark here in the yard were larger and tougher than I ever saw them. Last October Tige killed a raccoon that had the wooliest kind of a fur. I could have given you a dozen signs of a hard winter. We shall still have a month or six weeks of it. In a week will be ground-hog day and you had better wait and decide after that.”
“I tell you, Eb, I get tired chopping wood and hanging round the house.”
“Aha! another moody spell,” said Col. Zane, glancing kindly at his brother. “Jack, if you were married you would outgrow those ‘blue-devils.’ I used to have them. It runs in the family to be moody. I have known our father to take his gun and go into the woods and stay there until he had fought out the spell. I have done that myself, but once I married Bessie I have had no return of the old feeling. Get married, Jack, and then you will settle down and work. You will not have time to roam around alone in the woods.”
“I prefer the spells, as you call them, any day,” answered Jonathan, with a short laugh. “A man with my disposition has no right to get married. This weather is trying, for it keeps me indoors. I cannot hunt because we do not need the meat. And even if I did want to hunt I should not have to go out of sight of the fort. There were three deer in front of the barn this morning. They were nearly starved. They ran off a little at sight of me, but in a few moments came back for the hay I pitched out of the loft. This afternoon Tige and I saved a big buck from a pack of wolves. The buck came right up to me. I could have touched him. This storm is sending the deer down from the hills.”
“You are right. It is too bad. Severe weather like this will kill more deer than an army could. Have you been doing anything with your traps?”
“Yes, I have thirty traps out.”
“If you are going, tell Sam to fetch down another load of fodder before he unhitches.”
“Eb, I have no patience with your brothers,” said Col. Zane’s wife to him after he had closed the door. “They are all alike; forever wanting to be on the go. If it isn’t Indians it is something else. The very idea of going up the river in this weather. If Jonathan doesn’t care for himself he should think of the horses.”
“My dear, I was just as wild and discontented as Jack before I met you,” remarked Col. Zane. “You may not think so, but a home and pretty little woman will do wonders for any man. My brothers have nothing to keep them steady.”
“Perhaps. I do not believe that Jonathan ever will get married. Silas may; he certainly has been keeping company long enough with Mary Bennet. You a
re the only Zane who has conquered that adventurous spirit and the desire to be always roaming the woods in search of something to kill. Your old boy, Noah, is growing up like all the Zanes. He fights with all the children in the settlement. I cannot break him of it. He is not a bully, for I have never known him to do anything mean or cruel. It is just sheer love of fighting.”
“Ha! Ha! I fear you will not break him of that,” answered Col. Zane. “It is a good joke to say he gets it all from the Zanes. How about the McCollochs? What have you to say of your father and the Major and John McColloch? They are not anything if not the fighting kind. It’s the best trait the youngster could have, out here on the border. He’ll need it all. Don’t worry about him. Where is Betty?”
“I told her to take the children out for a sled ride. Betty needs exercise. She stays indoors too much, and of late she looks pale.”
“What! Betty not looking well! She was never ill in her life. I have noticed no change in her.”
“No, I daresay you have not. You men can’t see anything. But I can, and I tell you, Betty is very different from the girl she used to be. Most of the time she sits and gazes out of her window. She used to be so bright, and when she was not romping with the children she busied herself with her needle. Yesterday as I entered her room she hurriedly picked up a book, and, I think, intentionally hid her face behind it. I saw she had been crying.”
“Come to think of it, I believe I have missed Betty,” said Col. Zane, gravely. “She seems more quiet. Is she unhappy? When did you first see this change?”
“I think it a little while after Mr. Clarke left here last fall.”
“Clarke! What has he to do with Betty? What are you driving at?” exclaimed the Colonel, stopping in front of his wife. His faced had paled slightly. “I had forgotten Clarke. Bess, you can’t mean—”
