by Zane Grey
The five men returned to the starting point, where the victor was greeted by loud whoops. The groom got the first drink from the bottle, then came the attendants, and others in order, after which the bottle was put away to be kept as a memento of the occasion.
The party now repaired to the village and marched to the home of the bride. The hour for the observance of the marriage rites was just before the midday meal. When the groom reached the bride’s home he found her in readiness. Sweet and pretty Alice looked in her gray linsey gown, perfectly plain and simple though it was, without an ornament or a ribbon. Proud indeed looked her lover as he took her hand and led her up to the waiting minister. When the whisperings had ceased the minister asked who gave this woman to be married. Alice’s father answered.
“Will you take this woman to be your wedded wife, to love, cherish and protect her all the days of her life?” asked the minister.
“I will,” answered a deep bass voice.
“Will you take this man to be your wedded husband, to love, honor and obey him all the days of your life?”
“I will,” said Alice, in a low tone.
“I pronounce you man and wife. Those whom God has joined together let no man put asunder.”
There was a brief prayer and the ceremony ended. Then followed the congratulations of relatives and friends. The felicitations were apt to be trying to the nerves of even the best tempered groom. The hand shakes, the heavy slaps on the back, and the pommeling he received at the hands of his intimate friends were as nothing compared to the anguish of mind he endured while they were kissing his wife. The young bucks would not have considered it a real wedding had they been prevented from kissing the bride, and for that matter, every girl within reach. So fast as the burly young settlers could push themselves through the densely packed rooms they kissed the bride, and then the first girl they came to.
Betty and Lydia had been Alice’s maids of honor. This being Betty’s first experience at a frontier wedding, it developed that she was much in need of Lydia’s advice, which she had previously disdained. She had rested secure in her dignity. Poor Betty! The first man to kiss Alice was George Martin, a big, strong fellow, who gathered his brother’s bride into his arms and gave her a bearish hug and a resounding kiss. Releasing her he turned toward Lydia and Betty. Lydia eluded him, but one of his great hands clasped around Betty’s wrist. She tried to look haughty, but with everyone laughing, and the young man’s face expressive of honest fun and happiness she found it impossible. She stood still and only turned her face a little to one side while George kissed her. The young men now made a rush for her. With blushing cheeks Betty, unable to stand her ground any longer, ran to her brother, the Colonel. He pushed her away with a laugh. She turned to Major McColloch, who held out his arms to her. With an exclamation she wrenched herself free from a young man, who had caught her hand, and flew to the Major. But alas for Betty! The Major was not proof against the temptation and he kissed her himself.
“Traitor!” cried Betty, breaking away from him.
Poor Betty was in despair. She had just made up her mind to submit when she caught sight of Wetzel’s familiar figure. She ran to him and the hunter put one of his long arms around her.
“I reckon I kin take care of you, Betty,” he said, a smile playing over his usually stern face. “See here, you young bucks. Betty don’t want to be kissed, and if you keep on pesterin’ her I’ll have to scalp a few of you.”
The merriment grew as the day progressed. During the wedding feast great hilarity prevailed. It culminated in the dance which followed the dinner. The long room of the block-house had been decorated with evergreens, autumn leaves and goldenrod, which were scattered profusely about, hiding the blackened walls and bare rafters. Numerous blazing pine knots, fastened on sticks which were stuck into the walls, lighted up a scene, which for color and animation could not have been surpassed.
Colonel Zane’s old slave, Sam, who furnished the music, sat on a raised platform at the upper end of the hall, and the way he sawed away on his fiddle, accompanying the movements of his arm with a swaying of his body and a stamping of his heavy foot, showed he had a hearty appreciation of his own value.
Prominent among the men and women standing and sitting near the platform could be distinguished the tall forms of Jonathan Zane, Major McColloch and Wetzel, all, as usual, dressed in their hunting costumes and carrying long rifles. The other men had made more or less effort to improve their appearance. Bright homespun shirts and scarfs had replaced the everyday buckskin garments. Major McColloch was talking to Colonel Zane. The genial faces of both reflected the pleasure they felt in the enjoyment of the younger people. Jonathan Zane stood near the door. Moody and silent he watched the dance. Wetzel leaned against the wall. The black barrel of his rifle lay in the hollow of his arm. The hunter was gravely contemplating the members of the bridal party who were dancing in front of him. When the dance ended Lydia and Betty stopped before Wetzel and Betty said: “Lew, aren’t you going to ask us to dance?”
The hunter looked down into the happy, gleaming faces, and smiling in his half sad way, answered: “Every man to his gifts.”
“But you can dance. I want you to put aside your gun long enough to dance with me. If I waited for you to ask me, I fear I should have to wait a long time. Come, Lew, here I am asking you, and I know the other men are dying to dance with me,” said Betty, coaxingly, in a roguish voice.
Wetzel never refused a request of Betty’s, and so, laying aside his weapons, he danced with her, to the wonder and admiration of all. Colonel Zane clapped his hands, and everyone stared in amazement at the unprecedented sight Wetzel danced not ungracefully. He was wonderfully light on his feet. His striking figure, the long black hair, and the fancifully embroidered costume he wore contrasted strangely with Betty’s slender, graceful form and pretty gray dress.
“Well, well, Lewis, I would not have believed anything but the evidence of my own eyes,” said Colonel Zane, with a laugh, as Betty and Wetzel approached him.
“If all the men could dance as well as Lew, the girls would be thankful, I can assure you,” said Betty.
“Betty, I declare you grow prettier every day,” said old John Bennet, who was standing with the Colonel and the Major. “If I were only a young man once more I should try my chances with you, and I wouldn’t give up very easily.”
“I do not know, Uncle John, but I am inclined to think that if you were a young man and should come a-wooing you would not get a rebuff from me,” answered Betty, smiling on the old man, of whom she was very fond.
“Miss Zane, will you dance with me?”
The voice sounded close by Betty’s side. She recognized it, and an unaccountable sensation of shyness suddenly came over her. She had firmly made up her mind, should Mr. Clarke ask her to dance, that she would tell him she was tired, or engaged for that number—anything so that she could avoid dancing with him. But, now that the moment had come she either forgot her resolution or lacked the courage to keep it, for as the music commenced, she turned and without saying a word or looking at him, she placed her hand on his arm. He whirled her away. She gave a start of surprise and delight at the familiar step and then gave herself up to the charm of the dance. Supported by his strong arm she floated around the room in a sort of dream. Dancing as they did was new to the young people at the Fort—it was a style then in vogue in the east—and everyone looked on with great interest and curiosity. But all too soon the dance ended and before Betty had recovered her composure she found that her partner had led her to a secluded seat in the lower end of the hall. The bench was partly obscured from the dancers by masses of autumn leaves. “That was a very pleasant dance,” said Alfred. “Miss Boggs told me you danced the round dance.”
“I was much surprised and pleased,” said Betty, who had indeed enjoyed it.
“It has been a delightful day,” went on Alfred, seeing that Betty was still confused. “I almost killed myself in that race for the bottle this morn
ing. I never saw such logs and brush heaps and ditches in my life. I am sure that if the fever of recklessness which seemed in the air had not suddenly seized me I would never have put my horse at such leaps.”
“I heard my brother say your horse was one of the best he had ever seen, and that you rode superbly,” murmured Betty.
“Well, to be honest, I would not care to take that ride again. It certainly was not fair to the horse.”
“How do you like the fort by this time?”
“Miss Zane, I am learning to love this free, wild life. I really think I was made for the frontier. The odd customs and manners which seemed strange at first have become very acceptable to me now. I find everyone so honest and simple and brave. Here one must work to live, which is right. Do you know, I never worked in my life until I came to Fort Henry. My life was all uselessness, idleness.”
“I can hardly believe that,” answered Betty. “You have learned to dance and ride and—”
“What?” asked Alfred, as Betty hesitated.
“Never mind. It was an accomplishment with which the girls credited you,” said Betty, with a little laugh.
“I suppose I did not deserve it. I heard I had a singular aptitude for discovering young ladies in distress.”
“Have you become well acquainted with the boys?” asked Betty, hastening to change the subject.
“Oh, yes, particularly with your Indianized brother, Isaac. He is the finest fellow, as well as the most interesting, I ever knew. I like Colonel Zane immensely too. The dark, quiet fellow, Jack, or John, they call him, is not like your other brothers. The hunter, Wetzel, inspires me with awe. Everyone has been most kind to me and I have almost forgotten that I was a wanderer.”
“I am glad to hear that,” said Betty.
“Miss Zane,” continued Alfred, “doubtless you have heard that I came West because I was compelled to leave my home. Please do not believe everything you hear of me. Some day I may tell you my story if you care to hear it. Suffice it to say now that I left my home of my own free will and I could go back tomorrow.”
“I did not mean to imply—” began Betty, coloring.
“Of course not. But tell me about yourself. Is it not rather dull and lonesome here for you?”
“It was last winter. But I have been contented and happy this summer. Of course, it is not Philadelphia life, and I miss the excitement and gayety of my uncle’s house. I knew my place was with my brothers. My aunt pleaded with me to live with her and not go to the wilderness. I had everything I wanted there—luxury, society, parties, balls, dances, friends—all that the heart of a girl could desire, but I preferred to come to this little frontier settlement. Strange choice for a girl, was it not?”
“Unusual, yes,” answered Alfred, gravely. “And I cannot but wonder what motives actuated our coming to Fort Henry. I came to seek my fortune. You came to bring sunshine into the home of your brother, and left your fortune behind you. Well, your motive has the element of nobility. Mine has nothing but that of recklessness. I would like to read the future.”
“I do not think it is right to have such a wish. With the veil rolled away could you work as hard, accomplish as much? I do not want to know the future. Perhaps some of it will be unhappy. I have made my choice and will cheerfully abide by it. I rather envy your being a man. You have the world to conquer. A woman—what can she do? She can knead the dough, ply the distaff, and sit by the lattice and watch and wait.”
“Let us postpone such melancholy thoughts until some future day. I have not as yet said anything that I intended. I wish to tell you how sorry I am that I acted in such a rude way the night your brother came home. I do not know what made me do so, but I know I have regretted it ever since. Will you forgive me and may we not be friends?”
“I—I do not know,” said Betty, surprised and vaguely troubled by the earnest light in his eyes.
“But why? Surely you will make some little allowance for a naturally quick temper, and you know you did not—that you were—”
“Yes, I remember I was hasty and unkind. But I made amends, or at least, I tried to do so.”
“Try to overlook my stupidity. I will not give up until you forgive me. Consider how much you can avoid by being generous.”
“Very well, then, I will forgive you,” said Betty, who had arrived at the conclusion that this young man was one of determination.
“Thank you. I promise you shall never regret it. And the sprained ankle? It must be well, as I noticed you danced beautifully.”
“I am compelled to believe what the girls say—that you are inclined to the language of compliment. My ankle is nearly well, thank you. It hurts a little now and then.”
“Speaking of your accident reminds me of the day it happened,” said Alfred, watching her closely. He desired to tease her a little, but he was not sure of his ground. “I had been all day in the woods with nothing but my thoughts—mostly unhappy ones—for company. When I met you I pretended to be surprised. As a matter of fact I was not, for I had followed your dog. He took a liking to me and I was extremely pleased, I assure you. Well, I saw your face a moment before you knew I was as near you. When you heard my footsteps you turned with a relieved and joyous cry. When you saw whom it was your glad expression changed, and if I had been a hostile Wyandot you could not have looked more unfriendly. Such a woeful, tear-stained face I never saw.”
“Mr. Clarke, please do not speak any more of that,” said Betty with dignity. “I desire that you forget it.”
“I will forget all except that it was I who had the happiness of finding you and of helping you. I cannot forget that. I am sure we should never have been friends but for that accident.”
“There is Isaac. He is looking for me,” answered Betty, rising.
“Wait a moment longer—please. He will find you,” said Alfred, detaining her. “Since you have been so kind I have grown bolder. May I come over to see you tomorrow?”
He looked straight down into the dark eyes which wavered and fell before he had completed his question.
“There is Isaac. He cannot see me here. I must go.”
“But not before telling me. What is the good of your forgiving me if I may not see you. Please say yes.”
“You may come,” answered Betty, half amused and half provoked at his persistence. “I should think you would know that such permission invariably goes with a young woman’s forgiveness.”
“Hello, here you are. What a time I have had in finding you,” said Isaac, coming up with flushed face and eyes bright with excitement. “Alfred, what do you mean by hiding the belle of the dance away like this? I want to dance with you, Betts. I am having a fine time. I have not danced anything but Indian dances for ages. Sorry to take her away, Alfred. I can see she doesn’t want to go. Ha! Ha!” and with a mischievous look at both of them he led Betty away.
Alfred kept his seat awhile lost in thought. Suddenly he remembered that it would look strange if he did not make himself agreeable, so he got up and found a partner. He danced with Alice, Lydia, and the other young ladies. After an hour he slipped away to his room. He wished to be alone. He wanted to think; to decide whether it would be best for him to stay at the fort, or ride away in the darkness and never return. With the friendly touch of Betty’s hand the madness with which he had been battling for weeks rushed over him stronger than ever. The thrill of that soft little palm remained with him, and he pressed the hand it had touched to his lips.
For a long hour he sat by his window. He could dimly see the broad winding river, with its curtain of pale gray mist, and beyond, the dark outline of the forest. A cool breeze from the water fanned his heated brow, and the quiet and solitude soothed him.
CHAPTER IV.
“Good morning, Harry. Where are you going so early?” called Betty from the doorway.
A lad was passing down the path in front of Colonel Zane’s house as Betty hailed him. He carried a rifle almost as long as himself.
“Mornin’, Betty. I a
m goin’ ’cross the crick fer that turkey I hear gobblin’,” he answered, stopping at the gate and smiling brightly at Betty.
“Hello, Harry Bennet. Going after that turkey? I have heard him several mornings and he must be a big, healthy gobbler,” said Colonel Zane, stepping to the door. “You are going to have company. Here comes Wetzel.”
“Good morning, Lew. Are you too off on a turkey hunt?” said Betty.
“Listen,” said the hunter, as he stopped and leaned against the gate. They listened. All was quiet save for the tinkle of a cow-bell in the pasture adjoining the Colonel’s barn. Presently the silence was broken by a long, shrill, peculiar cry.
“Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug-chug.”
