The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “They ain’t agoin’ ter find out.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Back there in the woods.”

  “Mebbe it’s as well. Now, don’t git so drunk you’ll blab all you know. We’ve lots of work to do without havin’ to clean up Williamson’s bunch,” rejoined Girty. “Bill, tie up the tent flaps an’ we’ll git to council.”

  Elliott arose to carry out the order, and had pulled in the deer-hide flaps, when one of them was jerked outward to disclose the befrilled person of Jim Girty. Except for a discoloration over his eye, he appeared as usual.

  “Ugh!” grunted Pipe, who was glad to see his renegade friend.

  Half King evinced the same feeling.

  “Hullo,” was Simon Girty’s greeting.

  “’Pears I’m on time fer the picnic,” said Jim Girty, with his ghastly leer.

  Bill Elliott closed the flaps, after giving orders to the guard to prevent any Indians from loitering near the teepee.

  “Listen,” said Simon Girty, speaking low in the Delaware language. “The time is ripe. We have come here to break forever the influence of the white man’s religion. Our councils have been held; we shall drive away the missionaries, and burn the Village of Peace.”

  He paused, leaning forward in his exceeding earnestness, with his bronzed face lined by swelling veins, his whole person made rigid by the murderous thought. Then he hissed between his teeth: “What shall we do with these Christian Indians?”

  Pipe raised his war-club, struck it upon the ground; then handed it to Half King.

  Half King took the club and repeated the action.

  Both chiefs favored the death penalty.

  “Feed ’em to ther buzzards,” croaked Jim Girty.

  Simon Girty knitted his brow in thought. The question of what to do with the converted Indians had long perplexed him.

  “No,” said he; “let us drive away the missionaries, burn the village, and take the Indians back to camp. We’ll keep them there; they’ll soon forget.”

  “Pipe does not want them,” declared the Delaware.

  “Christian Indians shall never sit round Half King’s fire,” cried the Huron.

  Simon Girty knew the crisis had come; that but few moments were left him to decide as to the disposition of the Christians; and he thought seriously. Certainly he did not want the Christians murdered. However cruel his life, and great his misdeeds, he was still a man. If possible, he desired to burn the village and ruin the religious influence, but without shedding blood. Yet, with all his power, he was handicapped, and that by the very chiefs most nearly under his control. He could not subdue this growing Christian influence without the help of Pipe and Half King. To these savages a thing was either right or wrong. He had sown the seed of unrest and jealousy in the savage breasts, and the fruit was the decree of death. As far as these Indians were concerned, this decision was unalterable.

  On the other hand, if he did not spread ruin over the Village of Peace, the missionaries would soon get such a grasp on the tribes that their hold would never be broken. He could not allow that, even if he was forced to sacrifice the missionaries along with their converts, for he saw in the growth of this religion his own downfall. The border must be hostile to the whites, or it could no longer be his home. To be sure, he had aided the British in the Revolution, and could find a refuge among them; but this did not suit him.

  He became an outcast because of failure to win the military promotion which he had so much coveted. He had failed among his own people. He had won a great position in an alien race, and he loved his power. To sway men—Indians, if not others—to his will; to avenge himself for the fancied wrong done him; to be great, had been his unrelenting purpose.

  He knew he must sacrifice the Christians, or eventually lose his own power. He had no false ideas about the converted Indians. He knew they were innocent; that they were a thousand times better off than the pagan Indians; that they had never harmed him, nor would they ever do so; but if he allowed them to spread their religion there was an end of Simon Girty.

  His decision was characteristic of the man. He would sacrifice any one, or all, to retain his supremacy. He knew the fulfillment of the decree as laid down by Pipe and Half King would be known as his work. His name, infamous now, would have an additional horror, and ever be remembered by posterity in unspeakable loathing, in unsoftening wrath. He knew this, and deep down in his heart awoke a numbed chord of humanity that twinged with strange pain. What awful work he must sanction to keep his vaunted power! More bitter than all was the knowledge that to retain this hold over the indians he must commit a deed which, so far as the whites were concerned, would take away his great name, and brand him a coward.

  He briefly reviewed his stirring life. Singularly fitted for a leader, in a few years he had risen to the most powerful position on the border. He wielded more influence than any chief. He had been opposed to the invasion of the pioneers, and this alone, without his sagacity or his generalship, would have given him control of many tribes. But hatred for his own people, coupled with unerring judgment, a remarkable ability to lead expeditions, and his invariable success, had raised him higher and higher until he stood alone. He was the most powerful man west of the Alleghenies. His fame was such that the British had importuned him to help them, and had actually, in more than one instance, given him command over British subjects.

  All of which meant that he had a great, even though an infamous name. No matter what he was blamed for; no matter how many dastardly deeds had been committed by his depraved brothers and laid to his door, he knew he had never done a cowardly act. That which he had committed while he was drunk he considered as having been done by the liquor, and not by the man. He loved his power, and he loved his name.

  In all Girty’s eventful, ignoble life, neither the alienation from his people, the horror they ascribed to his power, nor the sacrifice of his life to stand high among the savage races, nor any of the cruel deeds committed while at war, hurt him a tithe as much as did this sanctioning the massacre of the Christians.

  Although he was a vengeful, unscrupulous, evil man, he had never acted the coward.

  Half King waited long for Girty to speak; since he remained silent, the wily Huron suggested they take a vote on the question.

  “Let us burn the Village of Peace, drive away the missionaries, and take the Christians back to the Delaware towns—all without spilling blood,” said Girty, determined to carry his point, if possible.

  “I say the same,” added Elliott, refusing the war-club held out to him by Half King.

  “Me, too,” voted McKee, not so drunk but that he understood the lightninglike glance Girty shot at him.

  “Kill ’em all; kill everybody,” cried Deering in drunken glee. He took the club and pounded with it on the ground.

  Pipe repeated his former performance, as also did Half King, after which he handed the black, knotted symbol of death to Jim Girty.

  Three had declared for saving the Christians, and three for the death penalty.

  Six pairs of burning eyes were fastened on the Deaths-head.

  Pipe and Half King were coldly relentless; Deering awoke to a brutal earnestness; McKee and Elliott watched with bated breath. These men had formed themselves into a tribunal to decide on the life or death of many, and the situation, if not the greatest in their lives, certainly was one of vital importance.

  Simon Girty cursed all the fates. He dared not openly oppose the voting, and he could not, before those cruel but just chiefs, try to influence his brother’s vote.

  As Jim Girty took the war-club, Simon read in his brother’s face the doom of the converted Indians and he muttered to himself:

  “Now tremble an’ shrink, all you Christians!”

  Jim was not in a hurry. Slowly he poised the war-club. He was playing as a cat plays with a mouse; he was glorying in his power. The silence was that of death. It signified the silence of death. The war-club descended with violence.

 
; “Feed the Christians to ther buzzards!”

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  “I have been here before,” said Joe to Whispering Winds. “I remember that vine-covered stone. We crawled over it to get at Girty and Silvertip. There’s the little knoll; here’s the very spot where I was hit by a flying tomahawk. Yes, and there’s the spring. Let me see, what did Wetzel call this spot?”

  “Beautiful Spring,” answered the Indian girl.

  “That’s it, and it’s well named. What a lovely place!”

  Nature had been lavish in the beautifying of this inclosed dell. It was about fifty yards wide, and nestled among little, wooded knolls and walls of gray, lichen-covered stone. Though the sun shone brightly into the opening, and the rain had free access to the mossy ground, no stormy winds ever entered this well protected glade.

  Joe reveled in the beauty of the scene, even while he was too weak to stand erect. He suffered no pain from his wound, although he had gradually grown dizzy, and felt as if the ground was rising before him. He was glad to lie upon the mossy ground in the little cavern under the cliff.

  Upon examination his wound was found to have opened, and was bleeding. His hunting coat was saturated with blood. Whispering Winds washed the cut, and dressed it with cooling leaves. Then she rebandaged it tightly with Joe’s linsey handkerchiefs, and while he rested comfortable she gathered bundles of ferns, carrying them to the little cavern. When she had a large quantity of these she sat down near Joe, and began to weave the long stems into a kind of screen. The fern stalks were four feet long and half a foot wide; these she deftly laced together, making broad screens which would serve to ward off the night dews. This done, she next built a fireplace with flat stones. She found wild apples, plums and turnips on the knoll above the glade. Then she cooked strips of meat which had been brought with them. Lance grazed on the long grass just without the glade, and Mose caught two rabbits. When darkness settled down Whispering Winds called the dog within the cavern, and hung the screens before the opening.

  Several days passed. Joe rested quietly, and began to recover strength. Besides the work of preparing their meals, Whispering Winds had nothing to do save sit near the invalid and amuse or interest him so that he would not fret or grow impatient, while his wound was healing.

  They talked about their future prospects. After visiting the Village of Peace, they would go to Fort Henry, where Joe could find employment. They dwelt upon the cabin they would build, and passed many happy moments planning a new home. Joe’s love of the wilderness had in no wise diminished; but a blow on his head from a heavy tomahawk, and a vicious stab in the back, had lessened his zeal so far that he understood it was not wise to sacrifice life for the pleasures of the pathless woods. He could have the last without the danger of being shot at from behind every tree. He reasoned that it would be best for him to take his wife to Fort Henry, there find employment, and devote his leisure time to roaming in the forest.

  “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.
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  “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.