The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “No. Wetzel says that’s Bing Legget’s work. The Shawnees were members of his gang.”

  “Well, Jack, what’ll I do?”

  “Keep quiet an’ wait,” was the borderman’s answer.

  Colonel Zane, old pioneer and frontiersman though he was, shuddered as he went to his room. His brother’s dark look, and his deadly calmness, were significant.

  CHAPTER IV

  To those few who saw Jonathan Zane in the village, it seemed as if he was in his usual quiet and dreamy state. The people were accustomed to his silence, and long since learned that what little time he spent in the settlement was not given to sociability. In the morning he sometimes lay with Colonel Zane’s dog, Chief, by the side of a spring under an elm tree, and in the afternoon strolled aimlessly along the river bluff, or on the hillside. At night he sat on his brother’s porch smoking a long Indian pipe. Since that day, now a week past, when he had returned with the stolen horses, his movements and habits were precisely what would have been expected of an unsuspicious borderman.

  In reality, however, Jonathan was not what he seemed. He knew all that was going on in the settlement. Hardly a bird could have entered the clearing unobserved.

  At night, after all the villagers were in bed, he stole cautiously about the stockade, silencing with familiar word the bristling watch-hounds, and went from barn to barn, ending his stealthy tramp at the corral where Colonel Zane kept his thoroughbreds.

  But all this scouting by night availed nothing. No unusual event occurred, not even the barking of a dog, a suspicious rustling among the thickets, or whistling of a night-hawk had been heard.

  Vainly the borderman strained ears to catch some low night-signal given by waiting Indians to the white traitor within the settlement. By day there was even less to attract the sharp-eyed watcher. The clumsy river boats, half raft, half sawn lumber, drifted down the Ohio on their first and last voyage, discharged their cargoes of grain, liquor, or merchandise, and were broken up. Their crews came back on the long overland journey to Fort Pitt, there to man another craft. The garrison at the fort performed their customary duties; the pioneers tilled the fields; the blacksmith scattered sparks, the wheelwright worked industriously at his bench, and the housewives attended to their many cares. No strangers arrived at Fort Henry. The quiet life of the village was uninterrupted.

  Near sunset of a long day Jonathan strolled down the sandy, well-trodden path toward Metzar’s inn. He did not drink, and consequently seldom visited the rude, dark, ill-smelling bar-room. When occasion demanded his presence there, he was evidently not welcome. The original owner, a sturdy soldier and pioneer, came to Fort Henry when Colonel Zane founded the settlement, and had been killed during Girty’s last attack. His successor, another Metzar, was, according to Jonathan’s belief, as bad as the whiskey he dispensed. More than one murder had been committed at the inn; countless fatal knife and tomahawk fights had stained red the hard clay floor; and more than one desperate character had been harbored there. Once Colonel Zane sent Wetzel there to invite a thief and outlaw to quit the settlement, with the not unexpected result that it became necessary the robber be carried out.

  Jonathan thought of the bad name the place bore all over the frontier, and wondered if Metzar could tell anything about the horse-thieves. When the borderman bent his tall frame to enter the low-studded door he fancied he saw a dark figure disappear into a room just behind the bar. A roughly-clad, heavily-bearded man turned hastily at the same moment.

  “Hullo,” he said gruffly.

  “H’ are you, Metzar. I just dropped in to see if I could make a trade for your sorrel mare,” replied Jonathan. Being well aware that the innkeeper would not part with his horse, the borderman had made this announcement as his reason for entering the bar-room.

  “Nope, I’ll allow you can’t,” replied Metzar.

  As he turned to go, Jonathan’s eyes roamed around the bar-room. Several strangers of shiftless aspect bleared at him.

  “They wouldn’t steal a pumpkin,” muttered Jonathan to himself as he left the inn. Then he added suspiciously, “Metzar was talkin’ to someone, an’ ’peared uneasy. I never liked Metzar. He’ll bear watchin’.”

  The borderman passed on down the path thinking of what he had heard against Metzar. The colonel had said that the man was prosperous for an innkeeper who took pelts, grain or meat in exchange for rum. The village gossips disliked him because he was unmarried, taciturn, and did not care for their company. Jonathan reflected also on the fact that Indians were frequently coming to the inn, and this made him distrustful of the proprietor. It was true that Colonel Zane had red-skinned visitors, but there was always good reason for their coming. Jonathan had seen, during the Revolution, more than one trusted man proven to be a traitor, and the conviction settled upon him that some quiet scouting would show up the innkeeper as aiding the horse-thieves if not actually in league with them.

  “Good evening, Jonathan Zane.”

  This greeting in a woman’s clear voice brought Jonathan out from his reveries. He glanced up to see Helen Sheppard standing in the doorway of her father’s cabin.

  “Evenin’, miss,” he said with a bow, and would have passed on.

  “Wait,” she cried, and stepped out of the door.

  He waited by the gate with a manner which showed that such a summons was novel to him.

  Helen, piqued at his curt greeting, had asked him to wait without any idea of what she would say. Coming slowly down the path she felt again a subtle awe of this borderman. Regretting her impulsiveness, she lost confidence.

  Gaining the gate she looked up intending to speak; but was unable to do so as she saw how cold and grave was his face, and how piercing were his eyes. She flushed slightly, and then, conscious of an embarrassment new and strange to her, blushed rosy red, making, as it seemed to her, a stupid remark about the sunset. When he took her words literally, and said the sunset was fine, she felt guilty of deceitfulness. Whatever Helen’s faults, and they were many, she was honest, and because of not having looked at the sunset, but only wanting him to see her as did other men, the innocent ruse suddenly appeared mean and trifling.

  Then, with a woman’s quick intuition, she understood that coquetries were lost on this borderman, and, with a smile, got the better of her embarrassment and humiliation by telling the truth.

  “I wanted to ask a favor of you, and I’m a little afraid.”

  She spoke with girlish shyness, which increased as he stared at her.

  “Why—why do you look at me so?”

  “There’s a lake over yonder which the Shawnees say is haunted by a woman they killed,” he replied quietly. “You’d do for her spirit, so white an’ beautiful in the silver moonlight.”

  “So my white dress makes me look ghostly,” she answered lightly, though deeply conscious of surprise and pleasure at such an unexpected reply from him. This borderman might be full of surprises. “Such a time as I had bringing my dresses out here! I don’t know when I can wear them. This is the simplest one.”

  “An’ it’s mighty new an’ bewilderin’ for the border,” he replied with a smile in his eyes.

  “When these are gone I’ll get no more except linsey ones,” she said brightly, yet her eyes shone with a wistful uncertainty of the future.

  “Will you be happy here?”

  “I am happy. I have always wanted to be of some use in the world. I assure you, Master Zane, I am not the butterfly I seem. I have worked hard all day, that is, until your sister Betty came over. All the girls have helped me fix up the cabin until it’s more comfortable than I ever dreamed one could be on the frontier. Father is well content here, and that makes me happy. I haven’t had time for forebodings. The young men of Fort Henry have been—well, attentive; in fact, they’ve been here all the time.”

  She laughed a little at this last remark, and looked demurely at him.

  “It’s a frontier custom,” he said.

  “Oh, indeed? Do all the young men cal
l often and stay late?”

  “They do.”

  “You didn’t,” she retorted. “You’re the only one who hasn’t been to see me.”

  “I do not wait on the girls,” he replied with a grave smile.

  “Oh, you don’t? Do you expect them to wait on you?” she asked, feeling, now she had made this silent man talk, once more at her ease.

  “I am a borderman,” replied Jonathan. There was a certain dignity or sadness in his answer which reminded Helen of Colonel Zane’s portrayal of a borderman’s life. It struck her keenly. Here was this young giant standing erect and handsome before her, as rugged as one of the ash trees of his beloved forest. Who could tell when his strong life might be ended by an Indian’s hatchet?

  “For you, then, is there no such thing as friendship?” she asked.

  “On the border men are serious.”

  This recalled his sister’s conversation regarding the attentions of the young men, that they would follow her, fight for her, and give her absolutely no peace until one of them had carried her to his cabin a bride.

  She could not carry on the usual conventional conversation with this borderman, but remained silent for a time. She realized more keenly than ever before how different he was from other men, and watched closely as he stood gazing out over the river. Perhaps something she had said caused him to think of the many pleasures and joys he missed. But she could not be certain what was in his mind. She was not accustomed to impassive faces and cold eyes with unlit fires in their dark depths. More likely he was thinking of matters nearer to his wild, free life; of his companion Wetzel somewhere out beyond those frowning hills. Then she remembered that the colonel had told her of his brother’s love for nature in all its forms; how he watched the shades of evening fall; lost himself in contemplation of the last copper glow flushing the western sky, or became absorbed in the bright stars. Possibly he had forgotten her presence. Darkness was rapidly stealing down upon them. The evening, tranquil and gray, crept over them with all its mystery. He was a part of it. She could not hope to understand him; but saw clearly that his was no common personality. She wanted to speak, to voice a sympathy strong within her; but she did not know what to say to this borderman.

  “If what your sister tells me of the border is true, I may soon need a friend,” she said, after weighing well her words. She faced him modestly yet bravely, and looked him straight in the eyes. Because he did not reply she spoke again.

  “I mean such a friend as you or Wetzel.”

  “You may count on both,” he replied.

  “Thank you,” she said softly, giving him her hand. “I shall not forget. One more thing. Will you break a borderman’s custom, for my sake?”

  “How?”

  “Come to see me when you are in the settlement?”

  Helen said this in a low voice with just a sob in her breath; but she met his gaze fairly. Her big eyes were all aglow, alight with girlish appeal, and yet proud with a woman’s honest demand for fair exchange. Promise was there, too, could he but read it, of wonderful possibilities.

  “No,” he answered gently.

  Helen was not prepared for such a rebuff. She was interested in him, and not ashamed to show it. She feared only that he might misunderstand her; but to refuse her proffered friendship, that was indeed unexpected. Rude she thought it was, while from brow to curving throat her fair skin crimsoned. Then her face grew pale as the moonlight. Hard on her resentment had surged the swell of some new emotion strong and sweet. He refused her friendship because he did not dare accept it; because his life was not his own; because he was a borderman.

  While they stood thus, Jonathan looking perplexed and troubled, feeling he had hurt her, but knowing not what to say, and Helen with a warm softness in her eyes, the stalwart figure of a man loomed out of the gathering darkness.

  “Ah, Miss Helen! Good evening,” he said.

  “Is it you, Mr. Brandt?” asked Helen. “Of course you know Mr. Zane.”

  Brandt acknowledged Jonathan’s bow with an awkwardness which had certainly been absent in his greeting to Helen. He started slightly when she spoke the borderman’s name.

  A brief pause ensued.

  “Good night,” said Jonathan, and left them.

  He had noticed Brandt’s gesture of surprise, slight though it was, and was thinking about it as he walked away. Brandt may have been astonished at finding a borderman talking to a girl, and certainly, as far as Jonathan was concerned, the incident was without precedent. But, on the other hand, Brandt may have had another reason, and Jonathan tried to study out what it might be.

  He gave but little thought to Helen. That she might like him exceedingly well, did not come into his mind. He remembered his sister Betty’s gossip regarding Helen and her admirers, and particularly Roger Brandt; but felt no great concern; he had no curiosity to know more of her. He admired Helen because she was beautiful, yet the feeling was much the same he might have experienced for a graceful deer, a full-foliaged tree, or a dark mossy-stoned bend in a murmuring brook. The girl’s face and figure, perfect and alluring as they were, had not awakened him from his indifference.

  On arriving at his brother’s home, he found the colonel and Betty sitting on the porch.

  “Eb, who is this Brandt?” he asked.

  “Roger Brandt? He’s a French-Canadian; came here from Detroit a year ago. Why do you ask?”

  “I want to know more about him.”

  Colonel Zane reflected a moment, first as to this unusual request from Jonathan, and secondly in regard to what little he really did know of Roger Brandt.

  “Well, Jack, I can’t tell you much; nothing of him before he showed up here. He says he has been a pioneer, hunter, scout, soldier, trader—everything. When he came to the fort we needed men. It was just after Girty’s siege, and all the cabins had been burned. Brandt seemed honest, and was a good fellow. Besides, he had gold. He started the river barges, which came from Fort Pitt. He has surely done the settlement good service, and has prospered. I never talked a dozen times to him, and even then, not for long. He appears to like the young people, which is only natural. That’s all I know; Betty might tell you more, for he tried to be attentive to her.”

  “Did he, Betty?” Jonathan asked.

  “He followed me until I showed him I didn’t care for company,” answered Betty.

  “What kind of a man is he?”

  “Jack, I know nothing against him, although I never fancied him. He’s better educated than the majority of frontiersmen; he’s good-natured and agreeable, and the people like him.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  Betty looked surprised at his blunt question, and then said with a laugh: “I never tried to reason why; but since you have spoken I believe my dislike was instinctive.”

  After Betty had retired to her room the brothers remained on the porch smoking.

  “Betty’s pretty keen, Jack. I never knew her to misjudge a man. Why this sudden interest in Roger Brandt?”

  The borderman puffed his pipe in silence.

  “Say, Jack,” Colonel Zane said suddenly, “do you connect Brandt in any way with this horse-stealing?”

  “No more than some, an’ less than others,” replied Jonathan curtly.

  Nothing more was said for a time. To the brothers this hour of early dusk brought the same fullness of peace. From gray twilight to gloomy dusk quiet reigned. The insects of night chirped and chorused with low, incessant hum. From out the darkness came the peeping of frogs.

  Suddenly the borderman straightened up, and, removing the pipe from his mouth, turned his ear to the faint breeze, while at the same time one hand closed on the colonel’s knee with a warning clutch.

  Colonel Zane knew what that clutch signified. Some faint noise, too low for ordinary ears, had roused the borderman. The colonel listened, but heard nothing save the familiar evening sounds.

  “Jack, what’d you hear?” he whispered.

  “Somethin’ back of the barn,” r
eplied Jonathan, slipping noiselessly off the steps, lying at full length with his ear close to the ground. “Where’s the dog?” he asked.

  “Chief must have gone with Sam. The old nigger sometimes goes at this hour to see his daughter.”

  Jonathan lay on the grass several moments; then suddenly he arose much as a bent sapling springs to place.

  “I hear footsteps. Get the rifles,” he said in a fierce whisper.

  “Damn! There is someone in the barn.”

  “No; they’re outside. Hurry, but softly.”

  Colonel Zane had but just risen to his feet, when Mrs. Zane came to the door and called him by name.

  Instantly from somewhere in the darkness overhanging the road, came a low, warning whistle.

  “A signal!” exclaimed Colonel Zane.

  “Quick, Eb! Look toward Metzar’s light. One, two, three, shadows—Injuns!”

  “By the Lord Harry! Now they’re gone; but I couldn’t mistake those round heads and bristling feathers.”

  “Shawnees!” said the borderman, and his teeth shut hard like steel on flint.

  “Jack, they were after the horses, and someone was on the lookout! By God! right under our noses!”

  “Hurry,” cried Jonathan, pulling his brother off the porch.

  Colonel Zane followed the borderman out of the yard, into the road, and across the grassy square.

  “We might find the one who gave the signal,” said the colonel. “He was near at hand, and couldn’t have passed the house.”

  Colonel Zane was correct, for whoever had whistled would be forced to take one of two ways of escape; either down the straight road ahead, or over the high stockade fence of the fort.

  “There he goes,” whispered Jonathan.

  “Where? I can’t see a blamed thing.”

  “Go across the square, run around the fort, an’ head him off on the road. Don’t try to stop him for he’ll have weapons, just find out who he is.”

  “I see him now,” replied Colonel Zane, as he hurried off into the darkness.

  During a few moments Jonathan kept in view the shadow he had seen first come out of the gloom by the stockade, and thence pass swiftly down the road. He followed swiftly, silently. Presently a light beyond threw a glare across the road. He thought he was approaching a yard where there was a fire, and the flames proved to be from pine cones burning in the yard of Helen Sheppard. He remembered then that she was entertaining some of the young people.