Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Will the palefaces be kind to an Indian who has learned to love them?” Whispering Winds asked wistfully of Joe.

  “Indeed they will,” answered Joe, and he told her the story of Isaac Zane; how he took his Indian bride home; how her beauty and sweetness soon won all the white people’s love. “It will be so with you, my wife.”

  “Whispering Winds knows so little,” she murmured.

  “Why, you are learning every day, and even if such was not the case, you know enough for me.”

  “Whispering Winds will be afraid; she fears a little to go.”

  “I’ll be glad when we can be on the move,” said Joe, with his old impatient desire for action. “How soon, Winds, can we set off?”

  “As many days,” answered the Indian girl, holding up five fingers.

  “So long? I want to leave this place.”

  “Leave Beautiful Spring?”

  “Yes, even this sweet place. It has a horror for me. I’ll never forget the night I first saw that spring shining in the moonlight. It was right above the rock that I looked into the glade. The moon was reflected in the dark pool, and as I gazed into the shadowy depths of the dark water I suddenly felt an unaccountable terror; but I oughtn’t to have the same feeling now. We are safe, are we not?”

  “We are safe,” murmured Whispering Winds.

  “Yet I have the same chill of fear whenever I look at the beautiful spring, and at night as I awake to hear the soft babble of running water, I freeze until my heart feels like cold lead. Winds, I’m not a coward; but I can’t help this feeling. Perhaps, it’s only the memory of that awful night with Wetzel.”

  “An Indian feels so when he passes to his unmarked grave,” answered Winds, gazing solemnly at him. “Whispering Winds does not like this fancy of yours. Let us leave Beautiful Spring. You are almost well. Ah! if Whispering Winds should lose you! I love you!”

  “And I love you, my beautiful wild flower,” answered Joe, stroking the dark head so near his own.

  A tender smile shone on his face. He heard a slight noise without the cave, and, looking up, saw that which caused the smile to fade quickly.

  “Mose!” he called, sharply. The dog was away chasing rabbits.

  Whispering Winds glanced over her shoulder with a startled cry, which ended in a scream.

  Not two yards behind her stood Jim Girty.

  Hideous was his face in its triumphant ferocity. He held a long knife in his hand, and, snarling like a mad wolf, he made a forward lunge.

  Joe raised himself quickly; but almost before he could lift his hand in defense, the long blade was sheathed in his breast.

  Slowly he sank back, his gray eyes contracting with the old steely flash. The will to do was there, but the power was gone forever.

  “Remember, Girty, murderer! I am Wetzel’s friend,” he cried, gazing at his slayer with unutterable scorn.

  Then the gray eyes softened, and sought the blanched face of the stricken maiden.

  “Winds,” he whispered faintly.

  She was as one frozen with horror.

  The gray eyes gazed into hers with lingering tenderness; then the film of death came upon them.

  The renegade raised his bloody knife, and bent over the prostrate form.

  Whispering Winds threw herself upon Girty with the blind fury of a maddened lioness. Cursing fiercely, he stabbed her once, twice, three times. She fell across the body of her lover, and clasped it convulsively.

  Girty gave one glance at his victims; deliberately wiped the gory knife on Wind’s leggins, and, with another glance, hurried and fearful, around the glade, he plunged into the thicket.

  An hour passed. A dark stream crept from the quiet figures toward the spring. It dyed the moss and the green violet leaves. Slowly it wound its way to the clear water, dripping between the pale blue flowers. The little fall below the spring was no longer snowy white; blood had tinged it red.

  A dog came bounding into the glade. He leaped the brook, hesitated on the bank, and lowered his nose to sniff at the water. 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. The whining dog, the bloody water, the motionless figures lying in a last embrace, told the sad story.

  “Joe an’ Winds,” he muttered.

  Only a moment did he remain lost in sad reflection. A familiar moccasin-print in the sand on the bank pointed westward. He examined it carefully.

  “Two hours gone,” he muttered. “I might overtake him.”

  Then his motions became swift. With two blows of his tomahawk he secured a long piece of grapevine. He took a heavy stone from the bed of the brook. He carried Joe to the spring, and, returning for Winds, placed her beside her lover. This done, he tied one end of the grapevine around the stone, and wound the other about the dead bodies.

  He pushed them off the bank into the spring. As the lovers sank into the deep pool they turned, exposing first Winds’ sad face, and then Joe’s. Then they sank out of sight. Little waves splashed on the shore of the pool; the ripple disappeared, and the surface of the spring became tranquil.

  Wetzel stood one moment over the watery grave of the maiden who had saved him, and the boy who had loved him. In the gathering gloom his stalwart form assumed gigantic proportions, and when he raised his long arm and shook his clenched fist toward the west, he resembled a magnificent statue of dark menace.

  With a single bound he cleared the pool, and then sped out of the glade. He urged the dog on Girty’s trail, and followed the eager beast toward the west. As he disappeared, a long, low sound like the sigh of the night wind swelled and moaned through the gloom.

  Chapter XXIV.

  WHEN THE FIRST ruddy rays of the rising sun crimsoned the eastern sky, Wetzel slowly wound his way down a rugged hill far west of Beautiful Spring. A white dog, weary and footsore, limped by his side. Both man and beast showed evidence of severe exertion.

  The hunter stopped in a little cave under a projecting stone, and, laying aside his rifle, began to gather twigs and sticks. He was particular about selecting the wood, and threw aside many pieces which would have burned well; but when he did kindle a flame it blazed hotly, yet made no smoke.

  He sharpened a green stick, and, taking some strips of meat from his pocket, roasted them over the hot flame. He fed the dog first. Mose had crouched close on the ground with his head on his paws, and his brown eyes fastened upon the hunter.

  “He had too big a start fer us,” said Wetzel, speaking as if the dog were human. It seemed that Wetzel’s words were a protest against the meaning in those large, sad eyes.

  Then the hunter put out the fire, and, searching for a more secluded spot, finally found one on top of the ledge, where he commanded a good view of his surroundings. The weary dog was asleep. Wetzel settled himself to rest, and was soon wrapped in slumber.

  About noon he awoke. He arose, stretched his limbs, and then took an easy position on the front of the ledge, where he could look below. Evidently the hunter was waiting for something. The dog slept on. It was the noonday hour, when the stillness of the forest almost matched that of midnight. The birds were more quiet than at any other time during daylight.

  Wetzel reclined there with his head against the stone, and his rifle resting across his knees.

  He listened now to the sounds of the forest. The soft breeze fluttering amon
g the leaves, the rain-call of the tree frog, the caw of crows from distant hilltops, the sweet songs of the thrush and oriole, were blended together naturally, harmoniously.

  But suddenly the hunter raised his head. A note, deeper than the others, a little too strong, came from far down the shaded hollow. To Wetzel’s trained ear it was a discord. He manifested no more than this attention, for the birdcall was the signal he had been awaiting. He whistled a note in answer that was as deep and clear as the one which had roused him.

  Moments passed. There was no repetition of the sound. The songs of the other birds had ceased. Besides Wetzel there was another intruder in the woods.

  Mose lifted his shaggy head and growled. The hunter patted the dog. In a few minutes the figure of a tall man appeared among the laurels down the slope. He stopped while gazing up at the ledge. Then, with noiseless step, he ascended the ridge, climbed the rocky ledge, and turned the corner of the stone to face Wetzel. The newcomer was Jonathan Zane.

  “Jack, I expected you afore this,” was Wetzel’s greeting.

  “I couldn’t make it sooner,” answered Zane. “After we left Williamson and separated, I got turned around by a band of several hundred redskins makin’ for the Village of Peace. I went back again, but couldn’t find any sign of the trail we’re huntin’. Then I makes for this meetin’ place. I’ve been goin’ for some ten hours, and am hungry.”

  “I’ve got some bar ready cooked,” said Wetzel, handing Zane several strips of meat.

  “What luck did you have?”

  “I found Girty’s trail, an old one, over here some eighteen or twenty miles, an’ follered it until I went almost into the Delaware town. It led to a hut in a deep ravine. I ain’t often surprised, but I wus then. I found the dead body of that girl, Kate Wells, we fetched over from Fort Henry. Thet’s sad, but it ain’t the surprisin’ part. I also found Silvertip, the Shawnee I’ve been lookin’ fer. He was all knocked an’ cut up, deader’n a stone. There’d been somethin’ of a scrap in the hut. I calkilate Girty murdered Kate, but I couldn’t think then who did fer Silver, though I allowed the renegade might hev done thet, too. I watched round an’ seen Girty come back to the hut. He had ten Injuns with him, an’ presently they all made fer the west. I trailed them, but didn’t calkilate it’d be wise to tackle the bunch single-handed, so laid back. A mile or so from the hut I came across hoss tracks minglin’ with the moccasin-prints. About fifteen mile or from the Delaware town, Girty left his buckskins, an’ they went west, while he stuck to the hoss tracks. I was onto his game in a minute. I cut across country fer Beautiful Spring, but I got there too late. I found the warm bodies of Joe and thet Injun girl, Winds. The snake hed murdered them.”

  “I allow Joe won over Winds, got away from the Delaware town with her, tried to rescue Kate, and killed Silver in the fight. Girty probably was surprised, an’ run after he had knifed the girl.”

  “‘Pears so to me. Joe had two knife cuts, an’ one was an old wound.”

  “You say it was a bad fight?”

  “Must hev been. The hut was all knocked in, an’ stuff scattered about. Wal, Joe could go some if he onct got started.”

  “I’ll bet he could. He was the likeliest lad I’ve seen for many a day.”

  “If he’d lasted, he’d been somethin’ of a hunter an’ fighter.”

  “Too bad. But Lord! you couldn’t keep him down, no more than you can lots of these wild young chaps that drift out here.”

  “I’ll allow he had the fever bad.”

  “Did you hev time to bury them?”

  “I hedn’t time fer much. I sunk them in the spring.”

  “It’s a pretty deep hole,” said Zane, reflectively. “Then, you and the dog took Girty’s trail, but couldn’t catch up with him. He’s now with the renegade cutthroats and hundreds of riled Indians over there in the Village of Peace.”

  “I reckon you’re right.”

  A long silence ensued. Jonathan finished his simple repast, drank from the little spring that trickled under the stone, and, sitting down by the dog, smoothed out his long silken hair.

  “Lew, we’re pretty good friends, ain’t we?” he asked, thoughtfully.

  “Jack, you an’ the colonel are all the friends I ever hed, ‘ceptin’ that boy lyin’ quiet back there in the woods.”

  “I know you pretty well, and ain’t sayin’ a word about your runnin’ off from me on many a hunt, but I want to speak plain about this fellow Girty.”

  “Wal?” said Wetzel, as Zane hesitated.

  “Twice in the last few years you and I have had it in for the same men, both white-livered traitors. You remember? First it was Miller, who tried to ruin my sister Betty, and next it was Jim Girty, who murdered our old friend, as good an old man as ever wore moccasins. Wal, after Miller ran off from the fort, we trailed him down to the river, and I points across and says, ‘You or me?’ and you says, ‘Me.’ You was Betty’s friend, and I knew she’d be avenged. Miller is lyin’ quiet in the woods, and violets have blossomed twice over his grave, though you never said a word; but I know it’s true because I know you.”

  Zane looked eagerly into the dark face of his friend, hoping perhaps to get some verbal assurance there that his belief was true. But Wetzel did not speak, and he continued:

  “Another day not so long ago we both looked down at an old friend, and saw his white hair matted with blood. He’d been murdered for nothin’. Again you and me trailed a coward and found him to be Jim Girty. I knew you’d been huntin’ him for years, and so I says, ‘Lew, you or me?’ and you says, ‘Me.’ I give in to you, for I knew you’re a better man than me, and because I wanted you to have the satisfaction. Wal, the months have gone by, and Jim Girty’s still livin’ and carryin’ on. Now he’s over there after them poor preachers. I ain’t sayin’, Lew, that you haven’t more agin him than me, but I do say, let me in on it with you. He always has a gang of redskins with him; he’s afraid to travel alone, else you’d had him long ago. Two of us’ll have more chance to get him. Let me go with you. When it comes to a finish, I’ll stand aside while you give it to him. I’d enjoy seein’ you cut him from shoulder to hip. After he leaves the Village of Peace we’ll hit his trail, camp on it, and stick to it until it ends in his grave.”

  The earnest voice of the backwoodsman ceased. Both men rose and stood facing each other. Zane’s bronzed face was hard and tense, expressive of an indomitable will; Wetzel’s was coldly dark, with fateful resolve, as if his decree of vengeance, once given, was as immutable as destiny. The big, horny hands gripped in a viselike clasp born of fierce passion, but no word was spoken.

  Far to the west somewhere, a befrilled and bedizened renegade pursued the wild tenor of his ways; perhaps, even now steeping his soul in more crime, or staining his hands a deeper red, but sleeping or waking, he dreamed not of this deadly compact that meant his doom.

  The two hunters turned their stern faces toward the west, and passed silently down the ridge into the depths of the forest. Darkness found them within rifle-shot of the Village of Peace. With the dog creeping between them, they crawled to a position which would, in daylight, command a view of the clearing. Then, while one stood guard, the other slept.

  When morning dawned they shifted their position to the top of a low, fern-covered cliff, from which they could see every movement in the village. All the morning they watched with that wonderful patience of men who knew how to wait. The visiting savages were quiet, the missionaries moved about in and out of the shops and cabins; the Christian indians worked industriously in the fields, while the renegades lolled before a prominent teepee.

  “This quiet looks bad,” whispered Jonathan to Wetzel. No shouts were heard; not a hostile Indian was seen to move.

  “They’ve come to a decision,” whispered Jonathan, and Wetzel answered him:

  “If they hev, the Christians don’t know it.”

  An hour later the deep pealing of the church bell broke the silence. The entire band of Christian Indians gathere
d near the large log structure, and then marched in orderly form toward the maple grove where the service was always held in pleasant weather. This movement brought the Indians within several hundred yards of the cliff where Zane and Wetzel lay concealed.

  “There’s Heckewelder walking with old man Wells,” whispered Jonathan. “There’s Young and Edwards, and, yes, there’s the young missionary, brother of Joe. ‘Pears to me they’re foolish to hold service in the face of all those riled Injuns.”

  “Wuss’n foolish,” answered Wetzel.

  “Look! By gum! As I’m a livin’ sinner there comes the whole crowd of hostile redskins. They’ve got their guns, and — by Gum! they’re painted. Looks bad, bad! Not much friendliness about that bunch!”

  “They ain’t intendin’ to be peaceable.”

  “By gum! You’re right. There ain’t one of them settin’ down. ‘Pears to me I know some of them redskins. There’s Pipe, sure enough, and Kotoxen. By gum! If there ain’t Shingiss; he was friendly once.”

  “None of them’s friendly.”

  “Look! Lew, look! Right behind Pipe. See that long war-bonnet. As I’m a born sinner, that’s your old friend, Wingenund. ‘Pears to me we’ve rounded up all our acquaintances.”

  The two bordermen lay close under the tall ferns and watched the proceedings with sharp eyes. They saw the converted Indians seat themselves before the platform. The crowd of hostile Indians surrounded the glade on all sides, except on, which, singularly enough, was next to the woods.

  “Look thar!” exclaimed Wetzel, under his breath. He pointed off to the right of the maple glade. Jonathan gazed in the direction indicated, and saw two savages stealthily slipping through the bushes, and behind trees. Presently these suspicious acting spies, or scouts, stopped on a little knoll perhaps an hundred yards from the glade.