by Zane Grey
I shivered, perhaps from the cold night wind which moaned through the pines; I saw the stars glittering pale and far off, and under their wan light the still, set face of Jones, and blanketed forms of my other companions.
The last thing I remembered before dropping into dreamless slumber was hearing a bell tinkle in the forest, which I recognized as the one I had placed on Satan.
CHAPTER 17
CONCLUSION
Kitty was not the only cougar brought into camp alive. The ensuing days were fruitful of cougars and adventure. There were more wild rides to the music of the baying hounds, and more heart-breaking canyon slopes to conquer, and more swinging, tufted tails and snarling savage faces in the pinyons. Once again, I am sorry to relate, I had to glance down the sights of the little Remington, and I saw blood on the stones. Those eventful days sped by all too soon.
When the time for parting came it took no little discussion to decide on the quickest way of getting me to a railroad. I never fully appreciated the inaccessibility of the Siwash until the question arose of finding a way out. To return on our back trail would require two weeks, and to go out by the trail north to Utah meant half as much time over the same kind of desert. Lawson came to our help, however, with the information that an occasional prospector or horse hunter crossed the canyon from the Saddle, where a trail led down to the river.
“I’ve heard the trail is a bad one,” said Lawson, “an’ though I never seen it, I reckon it could be found. After we get to the Saddle we’ll build two fires on one of the high points an’ keep them burnin’ well after dark. If Mr. Bass, who lives on the other side, sees the fires he’ll come down his trail next mornin’ an’ meet us at the river. He keeps a boat there. This is takin’ a chance, but I reckon it’s worth while.”
So it was decided that Lawson and Frank would try to get me out by way of the canyon; Wallace intended to go by the Utah route, and Jones was to return at once to his range and his buffalo.
That night round the campfire we talked over the many incidents of the hunt. Jones stated he had never in his life come so near getting his “everlasting” as when the big bay horse tripped on a canyon slope and rolled over him. Notwithstanding the respect with which we regarded his statement we held different opinions. Then, with the unfailing optimism of hunters, we planned another hunt for the next year.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Jones. “Up in Utah there’s a wild region called Pink Cliffs. A few poor sheep-herders try to raise sheep in the valleys. They wouldn’t be so poor if it was not for the grizzly and black bears that live on the sheep. We’ll go up there, find a place where grass and water can be had, and camp. We’ll notify the sheep-herders we are there for business. They’ll be only too glad to hustle in with news of a bear, and we can get the hounds on the trail by sun-up. I’ll have a dozen hounds then, maybe twenty, and all trained. We’ll put every black bear we chase up a tree, and we’ll rope and tie him. As to grizzlies—well, I’m not saying so much. They can’t climb trees, and they are not afraid of a pack of hounds. If we rounded up a grizzly, got him cornered, and threw a rope on him—there’d be some fun, eh, Jim?”
“Shore there would,” Jim replied.
On the strength of this I stored up food for future thought and thus reconciled myself to bidding farewell to the purple canyons and shaggy slopes of Buckskin Mountain.
At five o’clock next morning we were all stirring. Jones yelled at the hounds and untangled Kitty’s chain. Jim was already busy with the biscuit dough. Frank shook the frost off the saddles. Wallace was packing. The merry jangle of bells came from the forest, and presently Lawson appeared driving in the horses. I caught my black and saddled him, then realizing we were soon to part I could not resist giving him a hug.
An hour later we all stood at the head of the trail leading down into the chasm. The east gleamed rosy red. Powell’s Plateau loomed up in the distance, and under it showed the dark-fringed dip in the rim called the Saddle. Blue mist floated round the mesas and domes.
Lawson led the way down the trail. Frank started Old Baldy with the pack.
“Come,” he called, “be oozin’ along.”
I spoke the last good-by and turned Satan into the narrow trail. When I looked back Jones stood on the rim with the fresh glow of dawn shining on his face. The trail was steep, and claimed my attention and care, but time and time again I gazed back. Jones waved his hand till a huge jutting cliff walled him from view. Then I cast my eyes on the rough descent and the wonderful void beneath me. In my mind lingered a pleasing consciousness of my last sight of the old plainsman. He fitted the scene; he belonged there among the silent pines and the yellow crags.
THE LAST TRAIL (1909) [Part 1]
CHAPTER I
Twilight of a certain summer day, many years ago, shaded softly down over the wild Ohio valley bringing keen anxiety to a traveler on the lonely river trail. He had expected to reach Fort Henry with his party on this night, thus putting a welcome end to the long, rough, hazardous journey through the wilderness; but the swift, on-coming dusk made it imperative to halt. The narrow, forest-skirted trail, difficult to follow in broad daylight, apparently led into gloomy aisles in the woods. His guide had abandoned him that morning, making excuse that his services were no longer needed; his teamster was new to the frontier, and, altogether, the situation caused him much uneasiness.
“I wouldn’t so much mind another night in camp, if the guide had not left us,” he said in a low tone to the teamster.
That worthy shook his shaggy head, and growled while he began unhitching the horses.
“Uncle,” said a young man, who had clambered out from the wagon, “we must be within a few miles of Fort Henry.”
“How d’ye know we’re near the fort?” interrupted the teamster, “or safe, either, fer thet matter? I don’t know this country.”
“The guide assured me we could easily make Fort Henry by sundown.”
“Thet guide! I tell ye, Mr. Sheppard—”
“Not so loud. Do not alarm my daughter,” cautioned the man who had been called Sheppard.
“Did ye notice anythin’ queer about thet guide?” asked the teamster, lowering his voice. “Did ye see how oneasy he was last night? Did it strike ye he left us in a hurry, kind of excited like, in spite of his offhand manner?”
“Yes, he acted odd, or so it seemed to me,” replied Sheppard. “How about you, Will?”
“Now that I think of it, I believe he was queer. He behaved like a man who expected somebody, or feared something might happen. I fancied, however, that it was simply the manner of a woodsman.”
“Wal, I hev my opinion,” said the teamster, in a gruff whisper. “Ye was in a hurry to be a-goin’, an’ wouldn’t take no advice. The fur-trader at Fort Pitt didn’t give this guide Jenks no good send off. Said he wasn’t well-known round Pitt, ’cept he could handle a knife some.”
“What is your opinion?” asked Sheppard, as the teamster paused.
“Wal, the valley below Pitt is full of renegades, outlaws an’ hoss-thieves. The redskins ain’t so bad as they used to be, but these white fellers are wusser’n ever. This guide Jenks might be in with them, that’s all. Mebbe I’m wrong. I hope so. The way he left us looks bad.”
“We won’t borrow trouble. If we have come all this way without seeing either Indian or outlaw—in fact, without incident—I feel certain we can perform the remainder of the journey in safety.” Then Mr. Sheppard raised his voice. “Here, Helen, you lazy girl, come out of that wagon. We want some supper. Will, you gather some firewood, and we’ll soon give this gloomy little glen a more cheerful aspect.”
As Mr. Sheppard turned toward the canvas-covered wagon a girl leaped lightly down beside him. She was nearly as tall as he.
“Is this Fort Henry?” she asked, cheerily, beginning to dance around him. “Where’s the inn? I’m so hungry. How glad I am to get out of that wagon! I’d like to run. Isn’t this a lonesome, lovely spot?”
A camp-fire soon cr
ackled with hiss and sputter, and fragrant wood-smoke filled the air. Steaming kettle, and savory steaks of venison cheered the hungry travelers, making them forget for the time the desertion of their guide and the fact that they might be lost. The last glow faded entirely out of the western sky. Night enveloped the forest, and the little glade was a bright spot in the gloom.
The flickering light showed Mr. Sheppard to be a well-preserved old man with gray hair and ruddy, kindly face. The nephew had a boyish, frank expression. The girl was a splendid specimen of womanhood. Her large, laughing eyes were as dark as the shadows beneath the trees.
Suddenly a quick start on Helen’s part interrupted the merry flow of conversation. She sat bolt upright with half-averted face.
“Cousin, what is the matter?” asked Will, quickly.
Helen remained motionless.
“My dear,” said Mr. Sheppard sharply.
“I heard a footstep,” she whispered, pointing with trembling finger toward the impenetrable blackness beyond the camp-fire.
All could hear a soft patter on the leaves. Then distinct footfalls broke the silence.
The tired teamster raised his shaggy head and glanced fearfully around the glade. Mr. Sheppard and Will gazed doubtfully toward the foliage; but Helen did not change her position. The travelers appeared stricken by the silence and solitude of the place. The faint hum of insects, and the low moan of the night wind, seemed accentuated by the almost painful stillness.
“A panther, most likely,” suggested Sheppard, in a voice which he intended should be reassuring. “I saw one today slinking along the trail.”
“I’d better get my gun from the wagon,” said Will.
“How dark and wild it is here!” exclaimed Helen nervously. “I believe I was frightened. Perhaps I fancied it—there! Again—listen. Ah!”
Two tall figures emerged from the darkness into the circle of light, and with swift, supple steps gained the camp-fire before any of the travelers had time to move. They were Indians, and the brandishing of their tomahawks proclaimed that they were hostile.
“Ugh!” grunted the taller savage, as he looked down upon the defenseless, frightened group.
As the menacing figures stood in the glare of the fire gazing at the party with shifty eyes, they presented a frightful appearance. Fierce lineaments, all the more so because of bars of paint, the hideous, shaven heads adorned with tufts of hair holding a single feather, sinewy, copper-colored limbs suggestive of action and endurance, the general aspect of untamed ferocity, appalled the travelers and chilled their blood.
Grunts and chuckles manifested the satisfaction with which the Indians fell upon the half-finished supper. They caused it to vanish with astonishing celerity, and resembled wolves rather than human beings in their greediness.
Helen looked timidly around as if hoping to see those who would aid, and the savages regarded her with ill humor. A movement on the part of any member of the group caused muscular hands to steal toward the tomahawks.
Suddenly the larger savage clutched his companion’s knee. Then lifting his hatchet, shook it with a significant gesture in Sheppard’s face, at the same time putting a finger on his lips to enjoin silence. Both Indians became statuesque in their immobility. They crouched in an attitude of listening, with heads bent on one side, nostrils dilated, and mouths open.
One, two, three moments passed. The silence of the forest appeared to be unbroken; but ears as keen as those of a deer had detected some sound. The larger savage dropped noiselessly to the ground, where he lay stretched out with his ear to the ground. The other remained immovable; only his beady eyes gave signs of life, and these covered every point.
Finally the big savage rose silently, pointed down the dark trail, and strode out of the circle of light. His companion followed close at his heels. The two disappeared in the black shadows like specters, as silently as they had come.
“Well!” breathed Helen.
“I am immensely relieved!” exclaimed Will.
“What do you make of such strange behavior?” Sheppard asked of the teamster.
“I’spect they got wind of somebody; most likely thet guide, an’ll be back again. If they ain’t, it’s because they got switched off by some signs or tokens, skeered, perhaps, by the scent of the wind.”
Hardly had he ceased speaking when again the circle of light was invaded by stalking forms.
“I thought so! Here comes the skulkin’ varmints,” whispered the teamster.
But he was wrong. A deep, calm voice spoke the single word: “Friends.”
Two men in the brown garb of woodsmen approached. One approached the travelers; the other remained in the background, leaning upon a long, black rifle.
Thus exposed to the glare of the flames, the foremost woodsman presented a singularly picturesque figure. His costume was the fringed buckskins of the border. Fully six feet tall, this lithe-limbed young giant had something of the wild, free grace of the Indian in his posture.
He surveyed the wondering travelers with dark, grave eyes.
“Did the reddys do any mischief?” he asked.
“No, they didn’t harm us,” replied Sheppard. “They ate our supper, and slipped off into the woods without so much as touching one of us. But, indeed, sir, we are mighty glad to see you.”
Will echoed this sentiment, and Helen’s big eyes were fastened upon the stranger in welcome and wonder.
“We saw your fire blazin’ through the twilight, an’ came up just in time to see the Injuns make off.”
“Might they not hide in the bushes and shoot us?” asked Will, who had listened to many a border story at Fort Pitt. “It seems as if we’d make good targets in this light.”
The gravity of the woodsman’s face relaxed.
“You will pursue them?” asked Helen.
“They’ve melted into the night-shadows long ago,” he replied. “Who was your guide?”
“I hired him at Fort Pitt. He left us suddenly this morning. A big man, with black beard and bushy eyebrows. A bit of his ear had been shot or cut out,” Sheppard replied.
“Jenks, one of Bing Legget’s border-hawks.”
“You have his name right. And who may Bing Legget be?”
“He’s an outlaw. Jenks has been tryin’ to lead you into a trap. Likely he expected those Injuns to show up a day or two ago. Somethin’ went wrong with the plan, I reckon. Mebbe he was waitin’ for five Shawnees, an’ mebbe he’ll never see three of ’em again.”
Something suggestive, cold, and grim, in the last words did not escape the listeners.
“How far are we from Fort Henry?” asked Sheppard.
“Eighteen miles as a crow flies; longer by trail.”
“Treachery!” exclaimed the old man. “We were no more than that this morning. It is indeed fortunate that you found us. I take it you are from Fort Henry, and will guide us there? I am an old friend of Colonel Zane’s. He will appreciate any kindness you may show us. Of course you know him?”
“I am Jonathan Zane.”
Sheppard suddenly realized that he was facing the most celebrated scout on the border. In Revolutionary times Zane’s fame had extended even to the far Atlantic Colonies.
“And your companion?” asked Sheppard with keen interest. He guessed what might be told. Border lore coupled Jonathan Zane with a strange and terrible character, a border Nemesis, a mysterious, shadowy, elusive man, whom few pioneers ever saw, but of whom all knew.
“Wetzel,” answered Zane.
With one accord the travelers gazed curiously at Zane’s silent companion. In the dim background of the glow cast by the fire, he stood a gigantic figure, dark, quiet, and yet with something intangible in his shadowy outline.
Suddenly he appeared to merge into the gloom as if he really were a phantom. A warning, “Hist!” came from the bushes.
With one swift kick Zane scattered the camp-fire.
The travelers waited with bated breaths. They could hear nothing save the beating of their own
hearts; they could not even see each other.
“Better go to sleep,” came in Zane’s calm voice. What a relief it was! “We’ll keep watch, an’ at daybreak guide you to Fort Henry.”
CHAPTER II
Colonel Zane, a rugged, stalwart pioneer, with a strong, dark face, sat listening to his old friend’s dramatic story. At its close a genial smile twinkled in his fine dark eyes.
“Well, well, Sheppard, no doubt it was a thrilling adventure to you,” he said. “It might have been a little more interesting, and doubtless would, had I not sent Wetzel and Jonathan to look you up.”
“You did? How on earth did you know I was on the border? I counted much on the surprise I should give you.”
“My Indian runners leave Fort Pitt ahead of any travelers, and acquaint me with particulars.”
“I remembered a fleet-looking Indian who seemed to be asking for information about us, when we arrived at Fort Pitt. I am sorry I did not take the fur-trader’s advice in regard to the guide. But I was in such a hurry to come, and didn’t feel able to bear the expense of a raft or boat that we might come by river. My nephew brought considerable gold, and I all my earthly possessions.”
“All’s well that ends well,” replied Colonel Zane cheerily. “But we must thank Providence that Wetzel and Jonathan came up in the nick of time.”
“Indeed, yes. I’m not likely to forget those fierce savages. How they slipped off into the darkness! I wonder if Wetzel pursued them? He disappeared last night, and we did not see him again. In fact we hardly had a fair look at him. I question if I should recognize him now, unless by his great stature.”
“He was ahead of Jonathan on the trail. That is Wetzel’s way. In times of danger he is seldom seen, yet is always near. But come, let us go out and look around. I am running up a log cabin which will come in handy for you.”
They passed out into the shade of pine and maples. A winding path led down a gentle slope. On the hillside under a spreading tree a throng of bearded pioneers, clad in faded buckskins and wearing white-ringed coonskin caps, were erecting a log cabin.
