The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “And Betty is going to be maid of honor. She, too, will have her troubles,” remarked Col. Zane.

  “Think of that, Alfred,” said Isaac “A chance to kiss the two prettiest girls on the border—a chance of a lifetime.”

  “It is customary, is it not?” said Alfred coolly.

  “Yes, it’s a custom, if you can catch the girl,” answered Col. Zane.

  Betty’s face flushed at Alfred’s cool assumption. How dared he? In spite of her will she could not resist the power that compelled her to look at him. As plainly as if it were written there, she saw in his steady blue eyes the light of a memory—the memory of a kiss. And Betty dropped her head, her face burning, her heart on fire with shame, and love, and regret.

  “It’ll be a good chance for me, too,” said Wetzel. His remark instantly turned attention to himself.

  “The idea is absurd,” said Isaac. “Why, Lew Wetzel, you could not be made to kiss any girl.”

  “I would not be backward about it,” said Col. Zane.

  “You have forgotten the fuss you made when the boys were kissing me,” said Mrs. Zane with a fine scorn.

  “My dear,” said Col. Zane, in an aggrieved tone, “I did not make so much of a fuss, as you call it, until they had kissed you a great many times more than was reasonable.”

  “Isaac, tell us one thing more,” said Capt. Boggs. “How did Myeerah learn of your capture by Cornplanter? Surely she could not have trailed you?”

  “Will you tell us?” said Isaac to Myeerah.

  “A bird sang it to me,” answered Myeerah.

  “She will never tell, that is certain,” said Isaac. “And for that reason I believe Simon Girty got word to her that I was in the hands of Cornplanter. At the last moment when the Indians were lashing me to the stake Girty came to me and said he must have been too late.”

  “Yes, Girty might have done that,” said Col. Zane. “I suppose, though he dared not interfere in behalf of poor Crawford.”

  “Isaac, Can you get Myeerah to talk? I love to hear her speak,” said Betty, in an aside.

  “Myeerah, will you sing a Huron love-song?” said Isaac “Or, if you do not wish to sing, tell a story. I want them to know how well you can speak our language.”

  “What shall Myeerah say?” she said, shyly.

  “Tell them the legend of the Standing Stone.”

  “A beautiful Indian girl once dwelt in the pine forests,” began Myeerah, with her eyes cast down and her hand seeking Isaac’s. “Her voice was like rippling waters, her beauty like the rising sun. From near and from far came warriors to see the fair face of this maiden. She smiled on them all and they called her Smiling Moon. Now there lived on the Great Lake a Wyandot chief. He was young and bold. No warrior was as great as Tarhe. Smiling Moon cast a spell on his heart. He came many times to woo her and make her his wife. But Smiling Moon said: ‘Go, do great deeds, an come again.’

  “Tarhe searched the east and the west. He brought her strange gifts from strange lands. She said: ‘Go and slay my enemies.’ Tarhe went forth in his war paint and killed the braves who named her Smiling Moon. He came again to her and she said: ‘Run swifter than the deer, be more cunning than the beaver, dive deeper than the loon.’

  “Tarhe passed once more to the island where dwelt Smiling Moon. The ice was thick, the snow was deep. Smiling Moon turned not from her warm fire as she said: ‘The chief is a great warrior, but Smiling Moon is not easily won. It is cold. Change winter into summer and then Smiling Moon will love him.’

  “Tarhe cried in a loud voice to the Great Spirit: ‘Make me a master.’

  “A voice out of the forest answered: ‘Tarhe, great warrior, wise chief, waste not thy time, go back to thy wigwam.’

  “Tarhe unheeding cried ‘Tarhe wins or dies. Make him a master so that he may drive the ice northward.’

  “Stormed the wild tempest; thundered the rivers of ice; chill blew the north wind, the cold northwest wind, against the mild south wind; snow-spirits and hail-spirits fled before the warm raindrops; the white mountains melted, and lo! it was summer.

  “On the mountain top Tarhe waited for his bride. Never wearying, ever faithful he watched many years. There he turned to stone. There he stands today, the Standing Stone of ages. And Smiling Moon, changed by the Great Spirit into the Night Wind, forever wails her lament at dusk through the forest trees, and moans over the mountain tops.”

  Myeerah’s story elicited cheers and praises from all. She was entreated to tell another, but smilingly shook her head. Now that her shyness had worn off to some extent she took great interest in the jest and the general conversation.

  Col. Zane’s fine old wine flowed like water. The custom was to fill a guest’s cup as soon as it was empty. Drinking much was rather encouraged than otherwise. But Col. Zane never allowed this custom to go too far in his house.

  “Friends, the hour grows late,” he said. “Tomorrow, after the great event, we shall have games, shooting matches, running races, and contests of all kinds. Capt. Boggs and I have arranged to give prizes, and I expect the girls can give something to lend a zest to the competition.”

  “Will the girls have a chance in these races?” asked Isaac. “If so, I should like to see Betty and Myeerah run.”

  “Betty can outrun any woman, red or white, on the border,” said Wetzel. “And she could make some of the men run their level best.”

  “Well, perhaps we shall give her one opportunity tomorrow,” observed the Colonel. “She used to be good at running but it seems to me that of late she has taken to books and—”

  “Oh, Eb! that is untrue,” interrupted Betty.

  Col. Zane laughed and patted his sister’s cheek. “Never mind, Betty,” and then, rising, he continued, “Now let us drink to the bride and groom-to-be. Capt. Boggs, I call on you.”

  “We drink to the bride’s fair beauty; we drink to the groom’s good luck,” said Capt. Boggs, raising his cup.

  “Do not forget the maid-of-honor,” said Isaac.

  “Yes, and the maid-of-honor. Mr. Clarke, will you say something appropriate?” asked Col. Zane.

  Rising, Clarke said: “I would be glad to speak fittingly on this occasion, but I do not think I can do it justice. I believe as Col. Zane does, that this Indian Princess is the first link in that chain of peace which will some day unite the red men and the white men. Instead of the White Crane she should be called the White Dove. Gentlemen, rise and drink to her long life and happiness.”

  The toast was drunk. Then Clarke refilled his cup and holding it high over his head he looked at Betty.

  “Gentlemen, to the maid-of-honor. Miss Zane, your health, your happiness, in this good old wine.”

  “I thank you,” murmured Betty with downcast eyes. “I bid you all good-night. Come, Myeerah.”

  Once more alone with Betty, the Indian girl turned to her with eyes like twin stars.

  “My sister has made me very happy,” whispered Myeerah in her soft, low voice. “Myeerah’s heart is full.”

  “I believe you are happy, for I know you love Isaac dearly.”

  “Myeerah has always loved him. She will love his sister.”

  “And I will love you,” said Betty. “I will love you because you have saved him. Ah! Myeerah, yours has been wonderful, wonderful love.”

  “My sister is loved,” whispered Myeerah. “Myeerah saw the look in the eyes of the great hunter. It was the sad light of the moon on the water. He loves you. And the other looked at my sister with eyes like the blue of northern skies. He, too, loves you.”

  “Hush!” whispered Betty, trembling and hiding her face. “Hush! Myeerah, do not speak of him.”

  CHAPTER XI.

  He following afternoon the sun shone fair and warm; the sweet smell of the tan-bark pervaded the air and the birds sang their gladsome songs. The scene before the grim battle-scarred old fort was not without its picturesqueness. The low vine-covered cabins on the hill side looked more like picture houses than like real habitat
ions of men; the mill with its burned-out roof—a reminder of the Indians—and its great wheel, now silent and still, might have been from its lonely and dilapidated appearance a hundred years old.

  On a little knoll carpeted with velvety grass sat Isaac and his Indian bride. He had selected this vantage point because it afforded a fine view of the green square where the races and the matches were to take place. Admiring women stood around him and gazed at his wife. They gossiped in whispers about her white skin, her little hands, her beauty. The girls stared with wide open and wondering eyes. The youngsters ran round and round the little group; they pushed each other over, and rolled in the long grass, and screamed with delight.

  It was to be a gala occasion and every man, woman and child in the settlement had assembled on the green. Col. Zane and Sam were planting a post in the center of the square. It was to be used in the shooting matches. Capt. Boggs and Major McColloch were arranging the contestants in order. Jonathan Zane, Will Martin, Alfred Clarke—all the young men were carefully charging and priming their rifles. Betty was sitting on the black stallion which Col. Zane had generously offered as first prize. She was in the gayest of moods and had just coaxed Isaac to lift her on the tall horse, from which height she purposed watching the sports. Wetzel alone did not seem infected by the spirit of gladsomeness which pervaded. He stood apart leaning on his long rifle and taking no interest in the proceedings behind him. He was absorbed in contemplating the forest on the opposite shore of the river.

  “Well, boys, I guess we are ready for the fun,” called Col. Zane, cheerily. “Only one shot apiece, mind you, except in case of a tie. Now, everybody shoot his best.”

  The first contest was a shooting match known as “driving the nail.” It was as the name indicated, nothing less than shooting at the head of a nail. In the absence of a nail—for nails were scarce—one was usually fashioned from a knife blade, or an old file, or even a piece of silver. The nail was driven lightly into the stake, the contestants shot at it from a distance as great as the eyesight permitted. To drive the nail hard and fast into the wood at one hundred yards was a feat seldom accomplished. By many hunters it was deemed more difficult than “snuffing the candle,” another border pastime, which consisted of placing in the dark at any distance a lighted candle, and then putting out the flame with a single rifle ball. Many settlers, particularly those who handled the plow more than the rifle, sighted from a rest, and placed a piece of moss under the rife-barrel to prevent its spring at the discharge.

  The match began. Of the first six shooters Jonathan Zane and Alfred Clarke scored the best shots. Each placed a bullet in the half-inch circle round the nail.

  “Alfred, very good, indeed,” said Col. Zane. “You have made a decided improvement since the last shooting-match.”

  Six other settlers took their turns. All were unsuccessful in getting a shot inside the little circle. Thus a tie between Alfred and Jonathan had to be decided.

  “Shoot close, Alfred,” yelled Isaac. “I hope you beat him. He always won from me and then crowed over it.”

  Alfred’s second shot went wide of the mark, and as Jonathan placed another bullet in the circle, this time nearer the center, Alfred had to acknowledge defeat.

  “Here comes Miller,” said Silas Zane. “Perhaps he will want a try.”

  Col. Zane looked round. Miller had joined the party. He carried his rifle and accoutrements, and evidently had just returned to the settlement. He nodded pleasantly to all.

  “Miller, will you take a shot for the first prize, which I was about to award to Jonathan?” said Col. Zane.

  “No. I am a little late, and not entitled to a shot. I will take a try for the others,” answered Miller.

  At the arrival of Miller on the scene Wetzel had changed his position to one nearer the crowd. The dog, Tige, trotted closely at his heels. No one heard Tige’s low growl or Wetzel’s stern word to silence him. Throwing his arm over Betty’s pony, Wetzel apparently watched the shooters. In reality he studied intently Miller’s every movement.

  “I expect some good shooting for this prize,” said Col. Zane, waving a beautifully embroidered buckskin bullet pouch, which was one of Betty’s donations.

  Jonathan having won his prize was out of the lists and could compete no more. This entitled Alfred to the first shot for second prize. He felt he would give anything he possessed to win the dainty trifle which the Colonel had waved aloft. Twice he raised his rifle in his exceeding earnestness to score a good shot and each time lowered the barrel. When finally he did shoot the bullet embedded itself in the second circle. It was a good shot, but he knew it would never win that prize.

  “A little nervous, eh?” remarked Miller, with a half sneer on his swarthy face.

  Several young settlers followed in succession, but their aims were poor. Then little Harry Bennet took his stand. Harry had won many prizes in former matches, and many of the pioneers considered him one of the best shots in the country.

  “Only a few more after you, Harry,” said Col. Zane. “You have a good chance.”

  “All right, Colonel. That’s Betty’s prize and somebody’ll have to do some mighty tall shootin’ to beat me,” said the lad, his blue eyes flashing as he toed the mark.

  Shouts and cheers of approval greeted his attempt. The bullet had passed into the wood so close to the nail that a knife blade could not have been inserted between.

  Miller’s turn came next. He was a fine marksman and he knew it. With the confidence born of long experience and knowledge of his weapon, he took a careful though quick aim and fired. He turned away satisfied that he would carry off the coveted prize. He had nicked the nail.

  But Miller reckoned without his host. Betty had seen the result of his shot and the self-satisfied smile on his face. She watched several of the settlers make poor attempts at the nail, and then, convinced that not one of the other contestants could do so well as Miller, she slipped off the horse and ran around to where Wetzel was standing by her pony.

  “Lew, I believe Miller will win my prize,” she whispered, placing her hand on the hunter’s arm. “He has scratched the nail, and I am sure no one except you can do better. I do not want Miller to have anything of mine.”

  “And, little girl, you want me to shoot fer you,” said Lewis.

  “Yes, Lew, please come and shoot for me.”

  It was said of Wetzel that he never wasted powder. He never entered into the races and shooting-matches of the settlers, yet it was well known that he was the fleetest runner and the most unerring shot on the frontier. Therefore, it was with surprise and pleasure that Col. Zane heard the hunter say he guessed he would like one shot anyway.

  Miller looked on with a grim smile. He knew that, Wetzel or no Wetzel, it would take a remarkably clever shot to beat his.

  “This shot’s for Betty,” said Wetzel as he stepped to the mark. He fastened his keen eyes on the stake. At that distance the head of the nail looked like a tiny black speck. Wetzel took one of the locks of hair that waved over his broad shoulders and held it up in front of his eyes a moment. He thus ascertained that there was not any perceptible breeze. The long black barrel started slowly to rise—it seemed to the interested onlookers that it would never reach a level and when, at last, it became rigid, there was a single second in which man and rifle appeared as if carved out of stone. Then followed a burst of red flame, a puff of white smoke, a clear ringing report.

  Many thought the hunter had missed altogether. It seemed that the nail had not changed its position; there was no bullet hole in the white lime wash that had been smeared round the nail. But on close inspection the nail was found to have been driven to its head in the wood.

  “A wonderful shot!” exclaimed Col. Zane. “Lewis, I don’t remember having seen the like more than once or twice in my life.”

  Wetzel made no answer. He moved away to his former position and commenced to reload his rifle. Betty came running up to him, holding in her hand the prize bullet pouch.

 
; “Oh, Lew, if I dared I would kiss you. It pleases me more for you to have won my prize than if any one else had won it. And it was the finest, straightest shot ever made.”

  “Betty, it’s a little fancy for redskins, but it’ll be a keepsake,” answered Lewis, his eyes reflecting the bright smile on her face.

  Friendly rivalry in feats that called for strength, speed and daring was the diversion of the youth of that period, and the pioneers conducted this good-natured but spirited sport strictly on its merits. Each contestant strove his utmost to outdo his opponent. It was hardly to be expected that Alfred would carry off any of the laurels. Used as he had been to comparative idleness he was no match for the hardy lads who had been brought up and trained to a life of action, wherein a ten mile walk behind a plow, or a cord of wood chopped in a day, were trifles. Alfred lost in the foot-race and the sackrace, but by dint of exerting himself to the limit of his strength, he did manage to take one fall out of the best wrestler. He was content to stop here, and, throwing himself on the grass, endeavored to recover his breath. He felt happier today than for some time past. Twice during the afternoon he had met Betty’s eyes and the look he encountered there made his heart stir with a strange feeling of fear and hope. While he was ruminating on what had happened between Betty and himself he allowed his eyes to wander from one person to another. When his gaze alighted on Wetzel it became riveted there. The hunter’s attitude struck him as singular. Wetzel had his face half turned toward the boys romping near him and he leaned carelessly against a white oak tree. But a close observer would have seen, as Alfred did, that there was a certain alertness in that rigid and motionless figure. Wetzel’s eyes were fixed on the western end of the island. Almost involuntarily Alfred’s eyes sought the same direction. The western end of the island ran out into a long low point covered with briars, rushes and saw-grass. As Alfred directed his gaze along the water line of this point he distinctly saw a dark form flit from one bush to another. He was positive he had not been mistaken. He got up slowly and unconcernedly, and strolled over to Wetzel.