by Zane Grey
The eyes Jonathan turned on Helen stilled all the angry throbbing of her blood.
“I come here to learn which of your lovers is the dastard who plotted the abduction of Mabel Lane, an’ the thief who stole our hosses. When I find the villain I reckon Wetzel an’ I’ll swing him to some tree.”
The borderman’s voice rang sharp and cold, and when he ceased speaking she sank back upon the step, shocked, speechless, to gaze up at him with staring eyes.
“Don’t look so, lass; don’t be frightened,” he said, his voice gentle and kind as it had been hard. He took her hand in his. “You nettled me into replyin’. You have a sharp tongue, lass, and when I spoke I was thinkin’ of him. I’m sorry.”
“A horse-thief and worse than murderer among my friends!” murmured Helen, shuddering, yet she never thought to doubt his word.
“I followed him here the night of your company.”
“Do you know which one?”
“No.”
He still held her hand, unconsciously, but Helen knew it well. A sense of his strength came with the warm pressure, and comforted her. She would need that powerful hand, surely, in the evil days which seemed to darken the horizon.
“What shall I do?” she whispered, shuddering again.
“Keep this secret between you an’ me.”
“How can I? How can I?”
“You must,” his voice was deep and low. “If you tell your father, or any one, I might lose the chance to find this man, for, lass, he’s desperate cunnin’. Then he’d go free to rob others, an’ mebbe help make off with other poor girls. Lass, keep my secret.”
“But he might try to carry me away,” said Helen in fearful perplexity.
“Most likely he might,” replied the borderman with the smile that came so rarely.
“Oh! Knowing all this, how can I meet any of these men again? I’d betray myself.”
“No; you’ve got too much pluck. It so happens you are the one to help me an’ Wetzel rid the border of these hell-hounds, an’ you won’t fail. I know a woman when it comes to that.”
“I — I help you and Wetzel?”
“Exactly.”
“Gracious!” cried Helen, half-laughing, half-crying. “And poor me with more trouble coming on the next boat.”
“Lass, the colonel told me about the Englishman. It’ll be bad for him to annoy you.”
Helen thrilled with the depth of meaning in the low voice. Fate surely was weaving a bond between her and this borderman. She felt it in his steady, piercing gaze; in her own tingling blood.
Then as her natural courage dispelled all girlish fears, she faced him, white, resolute, with a look in her eyes that matched his own.
“I will do what I can,” she said.
CHAPTER VII
WESTWARD FROM FORT Henry, far above the eddying river, Jonathan Zane slowly climbed a narrow, hazel-bordered, mountain trail. From time to time he stopped in an open patch among the thickets and breathed deep of the fresh, wood-scented air, while his keen gaze swept over the glades near by, along the wooded hillsides, and above at the timber-strewn woodland.
This June morning in the wild forest was significant of nature’s brightness and joy. Broad-leaved poplars, dense foliaged oaks, and vine-covered maples shaded cool, mossy banks, while between the trees the sunshine streamed in bright spots. It shone silver on the glancing silver-leaf, and gold on the colored leaves of the butternut tree. Dewdrops glistened on the ferns; ripples sparkled in the brooks; spider-webs glowed with wondrous rainbow hues, and the flower of the forest, the sweet, pale-faced daisy, rose above the green like a white star.
Yellow birds flitted among the hazel bushes caroling joyously, and cat-birds sang gaily. Robins called; bluejays screeched in the tall, white oaks; wood-peckers hammered in the dead hard-woods, and crows cawed overhead. Squirrels chattered everywhere. Ruffed grouse rose with great bustle and a whirr, flitting like brown flakes through the leaves. From far above came the shrill cry of a hawk, followed by the wilder scream of an eagle.
Wilderness music such as all this fell harmoniously on the borderman’s ear. It betokened the gladsome spirit of his wild friends, happy in the warm sunshine above, or in the cool depths beneath the fluttering leaves, and everywhere in those lonely haunts unalarmed and free.
Familiar to Jonathan, almost as the footpath near his home, was this winding trail. On the height above was a safe rendezvous, much frequented by him and Wetzel. Every lichen-covered stone, mossy bank, noisy brook and giant oak on the way up this mountain-side, could have told, had they spoken their secrets, stories of the bordermen. The fragile ferns and slender-bladed grasses peeping from the gray and amber mosses, and the flowers that hung from craggy ledges, had wisdom to impart. A borderman lived under the green tree-tops, and, therefore, all the nodding branches of sassafras and laurel, the grassy slopes and rocky cliffs, the stately ash trees, kingly oaks and dark, mystic pines, together with the creatures that dwelt among them, save his deadly red-skinned foes, he loved. Other affection as close and true as this, he had not known. Hearkening thus with single heart to nature’s teachings, he learned her secrets. Certain it was, therefore, that the many hours he passed in the woods apart from savage pursuits, were happy and fruitful.
Slowly he pressed on up the ascent, at length coming into open light upon a small plateau marked by huge, rugged, weather-chipped stones. On the eastern side was a rocky promontory, and close to the edge of this cliff, an hundred feet in sheer descent, rose a gnarled, time and tempest-twisted chestnut tree. Here the borderman laid down his rifle and knapsack, and, half-reclining against the tree, settled himself to rest and wait.
This craggy point was the lonely watch-tower of eagles. Here on the highest headland for miles around where the bordermen were wont to meet, the outlook was far-reaching and grand.
Below the gray, splintered cliffs sheered down to meet the waving tree-tops, and then hill after hill, slope after slope, waved and rolled far, far down to the green river. Open grassy patches, bright little islands in that ocean of dark green, shone on the hillsides. The rounded ridges ran straight, curved, or zigzag, but shaped their graceful lines in the descent to make the valley. Long, purple-hued, shadowy depressions in the wide expanse of foliage marked deep clefts between ridges where dark, cool streams bounded on to meet the river. Lower, where the land was level, in open spaces could be seen a broad trail, yellow in the sunlight, winding along with the curves of the water-course. On a swampy meadow, blue in the distance, a herd of buffalo browsed. Beyond the river, high over the green island, Fort Henry lay peaceful and solitary, the only token of the works of man in all that vast panorama.
Jonathan Zane was as much alone as if one thousand miles, instead of five, intervened between him and the settlement. Loneliness was to him a passion. Other men loved home, the light of woman’s eyes, the rattle of dice or the lust of hoarding; but to him this wild, remote promontory, with its limitless view, stretching away to the dim hazy horizon, was more than all the aching joys of civilization.
Hours here, or in the shady valley, recompensed him for the loss of home comforts, the soft touch of woman’s hands, the kiss of baby lips, and also for all he suffered in his pitiless pursuits, the hard fare, the steel and blood of a borderman’s life.
Soon the sun shone straight overhead, dwarfing the shadow of the chestnut on the rock.
During such a time it was rare that any connected thought came into the borderman’s mind. His dark eyes, now strangely luminous, strayed lingeringly over those purple, undulating slopes. This intense watchfulness had no object, neither had his listening. He watched nothing; he hearkened to the silence. Undoubtedly in this state of rapt absorption his perceptions were acutely alert; but without thought, as were those of the savage in the valley below, or the eagle in the sky above.
Yet so perfectly trained were these perceptions that the least unnatural sound or sight brought him wary and watchful from his dreamy trance.
The slight snappi
ng of a twig in the thicket caused him to sit erect, and reach out toward his rifle. His eyes moved among the dark openings in the thicket. In another moment a tall figure pressed the bushes apart. Jonathan let fall his rifle, and sank back against the tree once more. Wetzel stepped over the rocks toward him.
“Come from Blue Pond?” asked Jonathan as the newcomer took a seat beside him.
Wetzel nodded as he carefully laid aside his long, black rifle.
“Any Injun sign?” continued Jonathan, pushing toward his companion the knapsack of eatables he had brought from the settlement.
“Nary Shawnee track west of this divide,” answered Wetzel, helping himself to bread and cheese.
“Lew, we must go eastward, over Bing Legget’s way, to find the trail of the stolen horses.”
“Likely, an’ it’ll be a long, hard tramp.”
“Who’s in Legget’s gang now beside Old Horse, the Chippewa, an’ his Shawnee pard, Wildfire? I don’t know Bing; but I’ve seen some of his Injuns an’ they remember me.”
“Never seen Legget but onct,” replied Wetzel, “an’ that time I shot half his face off. I’ve been told by them as have seen him since, that he’s got a nasty scar on his temple an’ cheek. He’s a big man an’ knows the woods. I don’t know who all’s in his gang, nor does anybody. He works in the dark, an’ for cunnin’ he’s got some on Jim Girty, Deerin’, an’ several more renegades we know of lyin’ quiet back here in the woods. We never tackled as bad a gang as his’n; they’re all experienced woodsmen, old fighters, an’ desperate, outlawed as they be by Injuns an’ whites. It wouldn’t surprise me to find that it’s him an’ his gang who are runnin’ this hoss-thievin’; but bad or no, we’re goin’ after ‘em.”
Jonathan told of his movements since he had last seen his companion.
“An’ the lass Helen is goin’ to help us,” said Wetzel, much interested. “It’s a good move. Women are keen. Betty put Miller’s schemin’ in my eye long ‘afore I noticed it. But girls have chances we men’d never get.”
“Yes, an’ she’s like Betts, quicker’n lightnin’. She’ll find out this hoss-thief in Fort Henry; but Lew, when we do get him we won’t be much better off. Where do them hosses go? Who’s disposin’ of ’em for this fellar?”
“Where’s Brandt from?” asked Wetzel.
“Detroit; he’s a French-Canadian.”
Wetzel swung sharply around, his eyes glowing like wakening furnaces.
“Bing Legget’s a French-Canadian, an’ from Detroit. Metzar was once thick with him down Fort Pitt way ‘afore he murdered a man an’ became an outlaw. We’re on the trail, Jack.”
“Brandt an’ Metzar, with Legget backin’ them, an’ the horses go overland to Detroit?”
“I calkilate you’ve hit the mark.”
“What’ll we do?” asked Jonathan.
“Wait; that’s best. We’ve no call to hurry. We must know the truth before makin’ a move, an’ as yet we’re only suspicious. This lass’ll find out more in a week than we could in a year. But Jack, have a care she don’t fall into any snare. Brandt ain’t any too honest a lookin’ chap, an’ them renegades is hell for women. The scars you wear prove that well enough. She’s a rare, sweet, bloomin’ lass, too. I never seen her equal. I remember how her eyes flashed when she said she knew I’d avenged Mabel. Jack, they’re wonderful eyes; an’ that girl, however sweet an’ good as she must be, is chain-lightnin’ wrapped up in a beautiful form. Aren’t the boys at the fort runnin’ arter her?”
“Like mad; it’d make you laugh to see ‘em,” replied Jonathan calmly.
“There’ll be some fights before she’s settled for, an’ mebbe arter thet. Have a care for her, Jack, an’ see that she don’t ketch you.”
“No more danger than for you.”
“I was ketched onct,” replied Wetzel.
Jonathan Zane looked up at his companion. Wetzel’s head was bowed; but there was no merriment in the serious face exposed to the borderman’s scrutiny.
“Lew, you’re jokin’.”
“Not me. Some day, when you’re ketched good, an’ I have to go back to the lonely trail, as I did afore you an’ me become friends, mebbe then, when I’m the last borderman, I’ll tell you.”
“Lew, ‘cordin’ to the way settlers are comin’, in a few more years there won’t be any need for a borderman. When the Injuns are all gone where’ll be our work?”
“‘Tain’t likely either of us’ll ever see them times,” said Wetzel, “an’ I don’t want to. Wal, Jack, I’m off now, an’ I’ll meet you here every other day.”
Wetzel shouldered his long rifle, and soon passed out of sight down the mountain-side.
Jonathan arose, shook himself as a big dog might have done, and went down into the valley. Only once did he pause in his descent, and that was when a crackling twig warned him some heavy body was moving near. Silently he sank into the bushes bordering the trail. He listened with his ear close to the ground. Presently he heard a noise as of two hard substances striking together. He resumed his walk, having recognized the grating noise of a deer-hoof striking a rock. Farther down he espied a pair grazing. The buck ran into the thicket; but the doe eyed him curiously.
Less than an hour’s rapid walking brought him to the river. Here he plunged into a thicket of willows, and emerged on a sandy strip of shore. He carefully surveyed the river bank, and then pulled a small birch-bark canoe from among the foliage. He launched the frail craft, paddled across the river and beached it under a reedy, over-hanging bank.
The distance from this point in a straight line to his destination was only a mile; but a rocky bluff and a ravine necessitated his making a wide detour. While lightly leaping over a brook his keen eye fell on an imprint in the sandy loam. Instantly he was on his knees. The footprint was small, evidently a woman’s, and, what was more unusual, instead of the flat, round moccasin-track, it was pointed, with a sharp, square heel. Such shoes were not worn by border girls. True Betty and Nell had them; but they never went into the woods without moccasins.
Jonathan’s experienced eye saw that this imprint was not an hour old. He gazed up at the light. The day was growing short. Already shadows lay in the glens. He would not long have light enough to follow the trail; but he hurried on hoping to find the person who made it before darkness came. He had not traveled many paces before learning that the one who made it was lost. The uncertainty in those hasty steps was as plain to the borderman’s eyes, as if it had been written in words on the sand. The course led along the brook, avoiding the rough places; and leading into the open glades and glens; but it drew no nearer to the settlement. A quarter of an hour of rapid trailing enabled Jonathan to discern a dark figure moving among the trees. Abandoning the trail, he cut across a ridge to head off the lost woman. Stepping out of a sassafras thicket, he came face to face with Helen Sheppard.
“Oh!” she cried in alarm, and then the expression of terror gave place to one of extreme relief and gladness. “Oh! Thank goodness! You’ve found me. I’m lost!”
“I reckon,” answered Jonathan grimly. “The settlement’s only five hundred yards over that hill.”
“I was going the wrong way. Oh! suppose you hadn’t come!” exclaimed Helen, sinking on a log and looking up at him with warm, glad eyes.
“How did you lose your way?” Jonathan asked. He saw neither the warmth in her eyes nor the gladness.
“I went up the hillside, only a little way, after flowers, keeping the fort in sight all the time. Then I saw some lovely violets down a little hill, and thought I might venture. I found such loads of them I forgot everything else, and I must have walked on a little way. On turning to go back I couldn’t find the little hill. I have hunted in vain for the clearing. It seems as if I have been wandering about for hours. I’m so glad you’ve found me!”
“Weren’t you told to stay in the settlement, inside the clearing?” demanded Jonathan.
“Yes,” replied Helen, with her head up.
“Why di
dn’t you?”
“Because I didn’t choose.”
“You ought to have better sense.”
“It seems I hadn’t,” Helen said quietly, but her eyes belied that calm voice.
“You’re a headstrong child,” Jonathan added curtly.
“Mr. Zane!” cried Helen with pale face.
“I suppose you’ve always had your own sweet will; but out here on the border you ought to think a little of others, if not of yourself.”
Helen maintained a proud silence.
“You might have run right into prowlin’ Shawnees.”
“That dreadful disaster would not have caused you any sorrow,” she flashed out.
“Of course it would. I might have lost my scalp tryin’ to get you back home,” said Jonathan, beginning to hesitate. Plainly he did not know what to make of this remarkable young woman.
“Such a pity to have lost all your fine hair,” she answered with a touch of scorn.
Jonathan flushed, perhaps for the first time in his life. If there was anything he was proud of, it was his long, glossy hair.
“Miss Helen, I’m a poor hand at words,” he said, with a pale, grave face. “I was only speakin’ for your own good.”
“You are exceedingly kind; but need not trouble yourself.”
“Say,” Jonathan hesitated, looking half-vexed at the lovely, angry face. Then an idea occurred to him. “Well, I won’t trouble. Find your way home yourself.”
Abruptly he turned and walked slowly away. He had no idea of allowing her to go home alone; but believed it might be well for her to think so. If she did not call him back he would remain near at hand, and when she showed signs of anxiety or fear he could go to her.
Helen determined she would die in the woods, or be captured by Shawnees, before calling him back. But she watched him. Slowly the tall, strong figure, with its graceful, springy stride, went down the glade. He would be lost to view in a moment, and then she would be alone. How dark it had suddenly become! The gray cloak of twilight was spread over the forest, and in the hollows night already had settled down. A breathless silence pervaded the woods. How lonely! thought Helen, with a shiver. Surely it would be dark before she could find the settlement. What hill hid the settlement from view? She did not know, could not remember which he had pointed out. Suddenly she began to tremble. She had been so frightened before he had found her, and so relieved afterward; and now he was going away.
