The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  Joe related the circumstances of that night, and at the end of his narrative Colonel Zane sat silent and thoughtful.

  “You don’t really think it was Wetzel who moaned?” he asked, at length.

  “No, I don’t,” replied Joe quickly; “but, Colonel Zane, I heard that moan as plainly as I can hear your voice. I heard it twice. Now, what was it?”

  “Jonathan said the same thing to me once. He had been out hunting with Wetzel; they separated, and during the night Jonathan heard the wind. The next day he ran across a dead Indian. He believes Wetzel makes the noise, and so do the hunters; but I think it is simply the moan of the night wind through the trees. I have heard it at times, when my very blood seemingly ran cold.”

  “I tried to think it was the wind soughing through the pines, but am afraid I didn’t succeed very well. Anyhow, I knew Wetzel instantly, just as Jeff Lynn said I would. He killed those Indians in an instant, and he must have an iron arm.”

  “Wetzel excels in strength and speed any man, red or white, on the frontier. He can run away from Jonathan, who is as swift as an Indian. He’s stronger than any of the other men. I remember one day old Hugh Bennet’s wagon wheels stuck in a bog down by the creek. Hugh tried, as several others did, to move the wheels; but they couldn’t be made to budge. Along came Wetzel, pushed away the men, and lifted the wagon unaided. It would take hours to tell you about him. In brief, among all the border scouts and hunters Wetzel stands alone. No wonder the Indians fear him. He is as swift as an eagle, strong as mountain-ash, keen as a fox, and absolutely tireless and implacable.”

  “How long have you been here, Colonel Zane?”

  “More than twelve years, and it has been one long fight.”

  “I’m afraid I’m too late for the fun,” said Joe, with his quiet laugh.

  “Not by about twelve more years,” answered Colonel Zane, studying the expression on Joe’s face. “When I came out here years ago I had the same adventurous spirit which I see in you. It has been considerably quelled, however. I have seen many a daring young fellow get the border fever, and with it his death. Let me advise you to learn the ways of the hunters; to watch someone skilled in woodcraft. Perhaps Wetzel himself will take you in hand. I don’t mind saying that he spoke of you to me in a tone I never heard Lew use before.”

  “He did?” questioned Joe, eagerly, flushing with pleasure. “Do you think he’d take me out? Dare I ask him?”

  “Don’t be impatient. Perhaps I can arrange it. Come over here now to Metzar’s place. I want to make you acquainted with him. These boys have all been cutting timber; they’ve just come in for dinner. Be easy and quiet with them; then you’ll get on.”

  Colonel Zane introduced Joe to five sturdy boys and left him in their company. Joe sat down on a log outside a cabin and leisurely surveyed the young men. They all looked about the same: strong without being heavy, light-haired and bronze-faced. In their turn they carefully judged Joe. A newcomer from the East was always regarded with some doubt. If they expected to hear Joe talk much they were mistaken. He appeared good-natured, but not too friendly.

  “Fine weather we’re havin’,” said Dick Metzar.

  “Fine,” agreed Joe, laconically.

  “Like frontier life?”

  “Sure.”

  A silence ensued after this breaking of the ice. The boys were awaiting their turn at a little wooden bench upon which stood a bucket of water and a basin.

  “Hear ye got ketched by some Shawnees?” remarked another youth, as he rolled up his shirt-sleeves. They all looked at Joe now. It was not improbably their estimate of him would be greatly influenced by the way he answered this question.

  “Yes; was captive for three days.”

  “Did ye knock any redskins over?” This question was artfully put to draw Joe out. Above all things, the bordermen detested boastfulness; tried on Joe the ruse failed signally.

  “I was scared speechless most of the time,” answered Joe, with his pleasant smile.

  “By gosh, I don’t blame ye!” burst out Will Metzar. “I hed that experience onct, an’ onct’s enough.”

  The boys laughed and looked in a more friendly manner at Joe. Though he said he had been frightened, his cool and careless manner belied his words. In Joe’s low voice and clear, gray eye there was something potent and magnetic, which subtly influenced those with whom he came in contact.

  While his new friends were at dinner Joe strolled over to where Colonel Zane sat on the doorstep of his home.

  “How did you get on with the boys?” inquired the colonel.

  “All right, I hope. Say, Colonel Zane, I’d like to talk to your Indian guide.”

  Colonel Zane spoke a few words in the Indian language to the guide, who left his post and came over to them. The colonel then had a short conversation with him, at the conclusion of which he pointed toward Joe.

  “How do—shake,” said Tome, extending his hand.

  Joe smiled, and returned the friendly hand-pressure.

  “Shawnee—ketch’um?” asked the Indian, in his fairly intelligible English.

  Joe nodded his head, while Colonel Zane spoke once more in Shawnee, explaining the cause of Silvertip’s emnity.

  “Shawnee—chief—one—bad—Injun,” replied Tome, seriously. “Silvertip—mad—thunder-mad. Ketch’um paleface—scalp’um sure.”

  After giving this warning the chief returned to his former position near the corner of the cabin.

  “He can talk in English fairly well, much better than the Shawnee brave who talked with me the other day,” observed Joe.

  “Some of the Indians speak the language almost fluently,” said Colonel Zane. “You could hardly have distinguished Logan’s speech from a white man’s. Corn-planter uses good English, as also does my brother’s wife, a Wyandot girl.”

  “Did your brother marry an Indian?” and Joe plainly showed his surprise.

  “Indeed he did, and a most beautiful girl she is. I’ll tell you Isaac’s story some time. He was a captive among the Wyandots for ten years. The chief’s daughter, Myeerah, loved him, kept him from being tortured, and finally saved him from the stake.”

  “Well, that floors me,” said Joe; “yet I don’t see why it should. I’m just surprised. Where is your brother now?”

  “He lives with the tribe. He and Myeerah are working hard for peace. We are now on more friendly terms with the great Wyandots, or Hurons, as we call them, than ever before.”

  “Who is this big man coming from the the fort?” asked Joe, suddenly observing a stalwart frontiersman approaching.

  “Major Sam McColloch. You have met him. He’s the man who jumped his horse from yonder bluff.”

  “Jonathan and he have the same look, the same swing,” observed Joe, as he ran his eye over the major. His faded buckskin costume, beaded, fringed, and laced, was similar to that of the colonel’s brother. Powder-flask and bullet-pouch were made from cow-horns and slung around his neck on deerhide strings. The hunting coat was unlaced, exposing, under the long, fringed borders, a tunic of the same well-tanned, but finer and softer, material. As he walked, the flaps of his coat fell back, showing a belt containing two knives, sheathed in heavy buckskin, and a bright tomahawk. He carried a long rifle in the hollow of his arm.

  “These hunters have the same kind of buckskin suits,” continued Joe; “still, it doesn’t seem to me the clothes make the resemblance to each other. The way these men stand, walk and act is what strikes me particularly, as in the case of Wetzel.”

  “I know what you mean. The flashing eye, the erect poise of expectation, and the springy step—those, my lad, come from a life spent in the woods. Well, it’s a grand way to live.”

  “Colonel, my horse is laid up,” said Major McColloch, coming to the steps. He bowed pleasantly to Joe.

  “So you are going to Short Creek? You can have one of my horses; but first come inside and we’ll talk over you expedition.”

  The afternoon passed uneventfully for Joe. His brot
her and Mr. Wells were absorbed in plans for their future work, and Nell and Kate were resting; therefore he was forced to find such amusement or occupation as was possible in or near the stockade.

  CHAPTER IX.

  Joe went to bed that night with a promise to himself to rise early next morning, for he had been invited to take part in a “raising,” which term meant that a new cabin was to be erected, and such task was ever an event in the lives of the settlers.

  The following morning Joe rose early, dressing himself in a complete buckskin suit, for which he had exchanged his good garments of cloth. Never before had he felt so comfortable. He wanted to hop, skip and jump. The soft, undressed buckskin was as warm and smooth as silk-plush; the weight so light, the moccasins so well-fitting and springy, that he had to put himself under considerable restraint to keep from capering about like a frolicsome colt.

  The possession of this buckskin outfit, and the rifle and accouterments which went with the bargain, marked the last stage in Joe’s surrender to the border fever. The silent, shaded glens, the mystery of the woods, the breath of this wild, free life claimed him from this moment entirely and forever.

  He met the others, however, with a serene face, showing no trace of the emotion which welled up strongly from his heart. Nell glanced shyly at him; Kate playfully voiced her admiration; Jim met him with a brotherly ridicule which bespoke his affection as well as his amusement; but Colonel Zane, having once yielded to the same burning, riotous craving for freedom which now stirred in the boy’s heart, understood, and felt warmly drawn toward the lad. He said nothing, though as he watched Joe his eyes were grave and kind. In his long frontier life, where many a day measured the life and fire of ordinary years, he had seen lad after lad go down before this forest fever. It was well, he thought, because the freedom of the soil depended on these wild, light-footed boys; yet it always made him sad. How many youths, his brother among them, lay under the fragrant pine-needle carpet of the forest, in their last earthly sleep!

  The “raising” brought out all the settlement—the women to look on and gossip, while the children played; the men to bend their backs in the moving of the heavy timbers. They celebrated the erection of a new cabin as a noteworthy event. As a social function it had a prominent place in the settlers’ short list of pleasures.

  Joe watched the proceeding with the same pleasure and surprise he had felt in everything pertaining to border life.

  To him this log-raising appeared the hardest kind of labor. Yet it was plain these hardy men, these low-voiced women, and merry children regarded the work as something far more significant than the mere building of a cabin. After a while he understood the meaning of the scene. A kindred spirit, the spirit of the pioneer, drew them all into one large family. This was another cabin; another home; another advance toward the conquering of the wilderness, for which these brave men and women were giving their lives. In the bright-eyed children’s glee, when they clapped their little hands at the mounting logs, Joe saw the progress, the march of civilization.

  “Well, I’m sorry you’re to leave us tonight,” remarked Colonel Zane to Joe, as the young man came over to where he, his wife, and sister watched the work. “Jonathan said all was ready for your departure at sundown.”

  “Do we travel by night?”

  “Indeed, yes, my lad. There are Indians everywhere on the river. I think, however, with Jack and Lew handling the paddles, you will slip by safely. The plan is to keep along the south shore all night; then cross over at a place called Girty’s Point, where you are to remain in hiding during daylight. From there you paddle up Yellow Creek; then portage across country to the head of the Tuscarwawas. Another night’s journey will then bring you to the Village of Peace.”

  Jim and Mr. Wells, with his nieces, joined the party now, and all stood watching as the last logs were put in place.

  “Colonel Zane, my first log-raising is an education to me,” said the young minister, in his earnest manner. “This scene is so full of life. I never saw such goodwill among laboring men. Look at that brawny-armed giant standing on the topmost log. How he whistles as he swings his ax! Mr. Wells, does it not impress you?”

  “The pioneers must be brothers because of their isolation and peril; to be brothers means to love one another; to love one another is to love God. What you see in this fraternity is God. And I want to see this same beautiful feeling among the Indians.”

  “I have seen it,” said Colonel Zane, to the old missionary. “When I came out here alone twelve years ago the Indians were peaceable. If the pioneers had paid for land, as I paid Cornplanter, there would never have been a border war. But no; the settlers must grasp every acre they could. Then the Indians rebelled; then the Girtys and their allies spread discontent, and now the border is a bloody warpath.”

  “Have the Jesuit missionaries accomplished anything with these war tribes?” inquired Jim.

  “No; their work has been chiefly among the Indians near Detroit and northward. The Hurons, Delawares, Shawnees and other western tribes have been demoralized by the French traders’ rum, and incited to fierce hatred by Girty and his renegades. Your work at Gnaddenhutten must be among these hostile tribes, and it is surely a hazardous undertaking.”

  “My life is God’s,” murmured the old minister. No fear could assail his steadfast faith.

  “Jim, it strikes me you’d be more likely to impress these Indians Colonel Zane spoke of if you’d get a suit like mine and wear a knife and tomahawk,” interposed Joe, cheerfully. “Then, if you couldn’t convert, you could scalp them.”

  “Well, well, let us hope for the best,” said Colonel Zane, when the laughter had subsided. “We’ll go over to dinner now. Come, all of you. Jonathan, bring Wetzel. Betty, make him come, if you can.”

  As the party slowly wended its way toward the colonel’s cabin Jim and Nell found themselves side by side. They had not exchanged a word since the evening previous, when Jim had kissed her. Unable to look at each other now, and finding speech difficult, they walked in embarrassed silence.

  “Doesn’t Joe look splendid in his hunting suit?” asked Jim, presently.

  “I hadn’t noticed. Yes; he looks well,” replied Nell, carelessly. She was too indifferent to be natural.

  “Are you angry with him?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Jim was always simple and frank in his relations with women. He had none of his brother’s fluency of speech, with neither confidence, boldness nor understanding of the intricate mazes of a woman’s moods.

  “But—you are angry with—me?” he whispered.

  Nell flushed to her temples, yet she did not raise her eyes nor reply.

  “It was a terrible thing for me to do,” went on Jim, hesitatingly. “I don’t know why I took advantage—of—of your mistaking me for Joe. If you only hadn’t held up your mouth. No—I don’t mean that—of course you didn’t. But—well, I couldn’t help it. I’m guilty. I have thought of little else. Some wonderful feeling has possessed me ever since—since—”

  “What has Joe been saying about me?” demanded Nell, her eyes burning like opals.

  “Why, hardly anything,” answered Jim, haltingly. “I took him to task about—about what I considered might be wrong to you. Joe has never been very careful of young ladies’ feelings, and I thought—well, it was none of my business. He said he honestly cared for you, that you had taught him how unworthy he was of a good woman. But he’s wrong there. Joe is wild and reckless, yet his heart is a well of gold. He is a diamond in the rough. Just now he is possessed by wild notions of hunting Indians and roaming through the forests; but he’ll come round all right. I wish I could tell you how much he has done for me, how much I love him, how I know him! He can be made worthy of any woman. He will outgrow this fiery, daring spirit, and then—won’t you help him?”

  “I will, if he will let me,” softly whispered Nell, irresistibly drawn by the strong, earnest love thrilling in his voice.

  SPIRIT OF THE BORDER [P
art 2]

  CHAPTER X.

  Once more out under the blue-black vault of heaven, with its myriads of twinkling stars, the voyagers resumed their westward journey. Whispered farewells of new but sincere friends lingered in their ears. Now the great looming bulk of the fort above them faded into the obscure darkness, leaving a feeling as if a protector had gone—perhaps forever. Admonished to absolute silence by the stern guides, who seemed indeed to have embarked upon a dark and deadly mission, the voyagers lay back in the canoes and thought and listened. The water eddied with soft gurgles in the wake of the racing canoes; but that musical sound was all they heard. The paddles might have been shadows, for all the splash they made; they cut the water swiftly and noiselessly. Onward the frail barks glided into black space, side by side, close under the overhanging willows. Long moments passed into long hours, as the guides paddled tirelessly as if their sinews were cords of steel.

  With gray dawn came the careful landing of the canoes, a cold breakfast eaten under cover of a willow thicket, and the beginning of a long day while they were lying hidden from the keen eyes of Indian scouts, waiting for the friendly mantle of night.

  The hours dragged until once more the canoes were launched, this time not on the broad Ohio, but on a stream that mirrored no shining stars as it flowed still and somber under the dense foliage.

  The voyagers spoke not, nor whispered, nor scarcely moved, so menacing had become the slow, listening caution of Wetzel and Zane. Snapping of twigs somewhere in the inscrutable darkness delayed them for long moments. Any movement the air might resound with the horrible Indian war-whoop. Every second was heavy with fear. How marvelous that these scouts, penetrating the wilderness of gloom, glided on surely, silently, safely! Instinct, or the eyes of the lynx, guide their course. But another dark night wore on to the tardy dawn, and each of its fearful hours numbered miles past and gone.

  The sun was rising in ruddy glory when Wetzel ran his canoe into the bank just ahead of a sharp bend in the stream.

  “Do we get out here?” asked Jim, seeing Jonathan turn his canoe toward Wetzel’s.