by Zane Grey
CHAPTER III.
Many weeks of quiet followed the events of the last chapter. Thesettlers planted their corn, harvested their wheat and labored inthe fields during the whole of one spring and summer without hearingthe dreaded war cry of the Indians. Colonel Zane, who had been adisbursing officer in the army of Lord Dunmore, where he hadattained the rank of Colonel, visited Fort Pitt during the summer inthe hope of increasing the number of soldiers in his garrison. Hisefforts proved fruitless. He returned to Fort Henry by way of theriver with several pioneers, who with their families were bound forFort Henry. One of these pioneers was a minister who worked in thefields every week day and on Sundays preached the Gospel to thosewho gathered in the meeting house.
Alfred Clarke had taken up his permanent abode at the fort, where hehad been installed as one of the regular garrison. His duties, aswell as those of the nine other members of the garrison, were light.For two hours out of the twenty-four he was on guard. Thus he hadample time to acquaint himself with the settlers and their families.
Alfred and Isaac had now become firm friends. They spent many hoursfishing in the river, and roaming the woods in the vicinity, asColonel Zane would not allow Isaac to stray far from the fort.Alfred became a regular visitor at Colonel Zane's house. He sawBetty every day, but as yet, nothing had mended the breach betweenthem. They were civil to each other when chance threw them together,but Betty usually left the room on some pretext soon after heentered. Alfred regretted his hasty exhibition of resentment andwould have been glad to establish friendly relations with her. Butshe would not give him an opportunity. She avoided him on allpossible occasions. Though Alfred was fast succumbing to the charmof Betty's beautiful face, though his desire to be near her hadgrown well nigh resistless, his pride had not yet broken down. Manyof the summer evenings found him on the Colonel's doorstep, smokinga pipe, or playing with the children. He was that rare and bestcompany--a good listener. Although he laughed at Colonel Zane'sstories, and never tired of hearing of Isaac's experiences among theIndians, it is probable he would not have partaken of the Colonel'shospitality nearly so often had it not been that he usually sawBetty, and if he got only a glimpse of her he went away satisfied.On Sundays he attended the services at the little church andlistened to Betty's sweet voice as she led the singing.
There were a number of girls at the fort near Betty's age. With allof these Alfred was popular. He appeared so entirely different fromthe usual young man on the frontier that he was more than welcomeeverywhere. Girls in the backwoods are much the same as girls inthickly populated and civilized districts. They liked his manlyways; his frank and pleasant manners; and when to these virtues headded a certain deferential regard, a courtliness to which they wereunaccustomed, they were all the better pleased. He paid the youngwomen little attentions, such as calling on them, taking them toparties and out driving, but there was not one of them who couldthink that she, in particular, interested him.
The girls noticed, however, that he never approached Betty afterservice, or on any occasion, and while it caused some wonder andgossip among them, for Betty enjoyed the distinction of being thebelle of the border, they were secretly pleased. Little hints andknowing smiles, with which girls are so skillful, made known toBetty all of this, and, although she was apparently indifferent, ithurt her sensitive feelings. It had the effect of making her believeshe hated the cause of it more than ever.
What would have happened had things gone on in this way, I am notprepared to say; probably had not a meddling Fate decided to take ahand in the game, Betty would have continued to think she hatedAlfred, and I would never have had occasion to write his story; butFate did interfere, and, one day in the early fall, brought about anincident which changed the whole world for the two young people.
It was the afternoon of an Indian summer day--in that most beautifultime of all the year--and Betty, accompanied by her dog, hadwandered up the hillside into the woods. From the hilltop the broadriver could be seen winding away in the distance, and a soft,bluish, smoky haze hung over the water. The forest seemed to be onfire. The yellow leaves of the poplars, the brown of the white andblack oaks, the red and purple of the maples, and the green of thepines and hemlocks flamed in a glorious blaze of color. A stillness,which was only broken now and then by the twittering of birdsuttering the plaintive notes peculiar to them in the autumn as theyband together before their pilgrimage to the far south, pervaded theforest.
Betty loved the woods, and she knew all the trees. She could telltheir names by the bark or the shape of the leaves. The giant blackoak, with its smooth shiny bark and sturdy limbs, the chestnut withits rugged, seamed sides and bristling burrs, the hickory with itslofty height and curled shelling bark, were all well known and wellloved by Betty. Many times had she wondered at the trembling,quivering leaves of the aspen, and the foliage of the silver-leaf asit glinted in the sun. To-day, especially, as she walked through thewoods, did their beauty appeal to her. In the little sunny patchesof clearing which were scattered here and there in the grove, greatclusters of goldenrod grew profusely. The golden heads swayedgracefully on the long stems Betty gathered a few sprigs and addedto them a bunch of warmly tinted maple leaves.
The chestnuts burrs were opening. As Betty mounted a little rockyeminence and reached out for a limb of a chestnut tree, she lost herfooting and fell. Her right foot had twisted under her as she wentdown, and when a sharp pain shot through it she was unable torepress a cry. She got up, tenderly placed the foot on the groundand tried her weight on it, which caused acute pain. She unlaced andremoved her moccasin to find that her ankle had commenced to swell.Assured that she had sprained it, and aware of the seriousconsequences of an injury of that nature, she felt greatlydistressed. Another effort to place her foot on the ground and bearher weight on it caused such severe pain that she was compelled togive up the attempt. Sinking down by the trunk of the tree andleaning her head against it she tried to think of a way out of herdifficulty.
The fort, which she could plainly see, seemed a long distance off,although it was only a little way down the grassy slope. She lookedand looked, but not a person was to be seen. She called to Tige. Sheremembered that he had been chasing a squirrel a short while ago,but now there was no sign of him. He did not come at her call. Howannoying! If Tige were only there she could have sent him for help.She shouted several times, but the distance was too great for hervoice to carry to the fort. The mocking echo of her call came backfrom the bluff that rose to her left. Betty now began to be alarmedin earnest, and the tears started to roll down her cheeks. Thethrobbing pain in her ankle, the dread of having to remain out inthat lonesome forest after dark, and the fear that she might not befound for hours, caused Betty's usually brave spirit to falter; shewas weeping unreservedly.
In reality she had been there only a few minutes--although theyseemed hours to her--when she heard the light tread of moccasinedfeet on the moss behind her. Starting up with a cry of joy sheturned and looked up into the astonished face of Alfred Clarke.
Returning from a hunt back in the woods he had walked up to herbefore being aware of her presence. In a single glance he saw thewildflowers scattered beside her, the little moccasin turned insideout, the woebegone, tearstained face, and he knew Betty had come togrief.
Confused and vexed, Betty sank back at the foot of the tree. It isprobable she would have encountered Girty or a member of his band ofredmen, rather than have this young man find her in thispredicament. It provoked her to think that of all the people at thefort it should be the only one she could not welcome who should findher in such a sad plight.
"Why, Miss Zane!" he exclaimed, after a moment of hesitation. "Whatin the world has happened? Have you been hurt? May I help you?"
"It is nothing," said Betty, bravely, as she gathered up her flowersand the moccasin and rose slowly to her feet. "Thank you, but youneed not wait."
The cold words nettled Alfred and he was in the act of turning awayfrom her when he caught, for the fleetest part of a seco
nd, the fullgaze of her eyes. He stopped short. A closer scrutiny of her faceconvinced him that she was suffering and endeavoring with all herstrength to conceal it.
"But I will wait. I think you have hurt yourself. Lean upon my arm,"he said, quietly.
"Please let me help you," he continued, going nearer to her.
But Betty refused his assistance. She would not even allow him totake the goldenrod from her arms. After a few hesitating steps shepaused and lifted her foot from the ground.
"Here, you must not try to walk a step farther," he said,resolutely, noting how white she had suddenly become. "You havesprained your ankle and are needlessly torturing yourself. Pleaselet me carry you?"
"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Betty, in evident distress. "I will manage.It is not so--very--far."
She resumed the slow and painful walking, but she had taken only afew steps when she stopped again and this time a low moan issuedfrom her lips. She swayed slightly backward and if Alfred had notdropped his rifle and caught her she would have fallen.
"Will you--please--for some one?" she whispered faintly, at the sametime pushing him away.
"How absurd!" burst out Alfred, indignantly. "Am I then, sodistasteful to you that you would rather wait here and suffer a halfhour longer while I go for assistance? It is only common courtesy onmy part. I do not want to carry you. I think you would be quiteheavy."
He said this in a hard, bitter tone, deeply hurt that she would notaccept even a little kindness from him. He looked away from her andwaited. Presently a soft, half-smothered sob came from Betty and itexpressed such utter wretchedness that his heart melted. After allshe was only a child. He turned to see the tears running down hercheeks, and with a suppressed imprecation upon the wilfulness ofyoung women in general, and this one in particular, he steppedforward and before she could offer any resistance, he had taken herup in his arms, goldenrod and all, and had started off at a rapidwalk toward the fort.
Betty cried out in angry surprise, struggled violently for a moment,and then, as suddenly, lay quietly in his arms. His anger changed toself-reproach as he realized what a light burden she made. He lookeddown at the dark head lying on his shoulder. Her face was hidden bythe dusky rippling hair, which tumbled over his breast, brushedagainst his cheek, and blew across his lips. The touch of thosefragrant tresses was a soft caress. Almost unconsciously he pressedher closer to his heart. And as a sweet mad longing grew upon him hewas blind to all save that he held her in his arms, that uncertaintywas gone forever, and that he loved her. With these thoughts runningriot in his brain he carried her down the hill to Colonel Zane'shouse.
The negro, Sam, who came out of the kitchen, dropped the bucket hehad in his hand and ran into the house when he saw them. When Alfredreached the gate Colonel Zane and Isaac were hurrying out to meethim.
"For Heaven's sake! What has happened? Is she badly hurt? I havealways looked for this," said the Colonel, excitedly.
"You need not look so alarmed," answered Alfred. "She has onlysprained her ankle, and trying to walk afterward hurt her so badlythat she became faint and I had to carry her."
"Dear me, is that all?" said Mrs. Zane, who had also come out. "Wewere terribly frightened. Sam came running into the house with somekind of a wild story. Said he knew you would be the death of Betty."
"How ridiculous! Colonel Zane, that servant of yours never fails tosay something against me," said Alfred, as he carried Betty into thehouse.
"He doesn't like you. But you need not mind Sam. He is getting oldand we humor him, perhaps too much. We are certainly indebted toyou," returned the Colonel.
Betty was laid on the couch and consigned to the skillful hands ofMrs. Zane, who pronounced the injury a bad sprain.
"Well, Betty, this will keep you quiet for a few days," said she,with a touch of humor, as she gently felt the swollen ankle.
"Alfred, you have been our good angel so often that I don't see howwe shall ever reward you," said Isaac to Alfred.
"Oh, that time will come. Don't worry about that," said Alfred,jestingly, and then, turning to the others he continued, earnestly."I will apologize for the manner in which I disregarded Miss Zane'swish not to help her. I am sure I could do no less. I believe myrudeness has spared her considerable suffering."
"What did he mean, Betts?" asked Isaac, going back to his sisterafter he had closed the door. "Didn't you want him to help you?"
Betty did not answer. She sat on the couch while Mrs. Zane held thelittle bare foot and slowly poured the hot water over the swollenand discolored ankle. Betty's lips were pale. She winced every timeMrs. Zane touched her foot, but as yet she had not uttered even asigh.
"Betty, does it hurt much?" asked Isaac.
"Hurt? Do you think I am made of wood? Of course it hurts," retortedBetty. "That water is so hot. Bessie, will not cold water do aswell?"
"I am sorry. I won't tease any more," said Isaac, taking hissister's hand. "I'll tell you what, Betty, we owe Alfred Clarke agreat deal, you and I. I am going to tell you something so you willknow how much more you owe him. Do you remember last month when thatred heifer of yours got away. Well, Clarke chased her away andfinally caught her in the woods. He asked me to say I had caughther. Somehow or other he seems to be afraid of you. I wish you andhe would be good friends. He is a mighty fine fellow."
In spite of the pain Betty was suffering a bright blush suffused herface at the words of her brother, who, blind as brothers are inregard to their own sisters, went on praising his friend.
Betty was confined to the house a week or more and during thisenforced idleness she had ample time for reflection and opportunityto inquire into the perplexed state of her mind.
The small room, which Betty called her own, faced the river andfort. Most of the day she lay by the window trying to read herfavorite books, but often she gazed out on the quiet scene, therolling river, the everchanging trees and the pastures in which thered and white cows grazed peacefully; or she would watch with idle,dreamy eyes the flight of the crows over the hills, and the gracefulmotion of the hawk as he sailed around and around in the azure sky,looking like a white sail far out on a summer sea.
But Betty's mind was at variance with this peaceful scene. Theconsciousness of a change, which she could not readily define, inher feelings toward Alfred Clarke, vexed and irritated her. Why didshe think of him so often? True, he had saved her brother's life.Still she was compelled to admit to herself that this was not thereason. Try as she would, she could not banish the thought of him.Over and over again, a thousand times, came the recollection of thatmoment when he had taken her up in his arms as though she were achild. Some vague feeling stirred in her heart as she remembered thestrong yet gentle clasp of his arms.
Several times from her window she had seen him coming across thesquare between the fort and her brother's house, and womanlike,unseen herself, she had watched him. How erect was his carriage. Howpleasant his deep voice sounded as she heard him talking to herbrother. Day by day, as her ankle grew stronger and she knew shecould not remain much longer in her room, she dreaded more and morethe thought of meeting him. She could not understand herself; shehad strange dreams; she cried seemingly without the slightest causeand she was restless and unhappy. Finally she grew angry and scoldedherself. She said she was silly and sentimental. This had the effectof making her bolder, but it did not quiet her unrest. Betty did notknow that the little blind God, who steals unawares on his victim,had marked her for his own, and that all this sweet perplexity wasthe unconscious awakening of the heart.
One afternoon, near the end of Betty's siege indoors, two of herfriends, Lydia Boggs and Alice Reynolds, called to see her.
Alice had bright blue eyes, and her nut brown hair hung inrebellious curls around her demure and pretty face. An adorabledimple lay hidden in her rosy cheek and flashed into light with hersmiles.
"Betty, you are a lazy thing!" exclaimed Lydia. "Lying here all daylong doing nothing but gaze out of the window."
"Girls, I am glad you c
ame over," said Betty. "I am blue. Perhapsyou will cheer me up."
"Betty needs some one of the sterner sex to cheer her," said Alice,mischievously, her eyes twinkling. "Don't you think so, Lydia?"
"Of course," answered Lydia. "When I get blue--"
"Please spare me," interrupted Betty, holding up her hands inprotest. "I have not a single doubt that your masculine remedies aresufficient for all your ills. Girls who have lost their interest inthe old pleasures, who spend their spare time in making linen andquilts, and who have sunk their very personalities in a great bigtyrant of a man, are not liable to get blue. They are afraid he maysee a tear or a frown. But thank goodness, I have not yet reachedthat stage."
"Oh, Betty Zane! Just you wait! Wait!" exclaimed Lydia, shaking herfinger at Betty. "Your turn is coming. When it does do not expectany mercy from us, for you shalt never get it."
"Unfortunately, you and Alice have monopolized the attentions of theonly two eligible young men at the fort," said Betty, with a laugh.
"Nonsense there plenty of young men all eager for our favor, youlittle coquette," answered Lydia. "Harry Martin, Will Metzer,Captain Swearengen, of Short Creek, and others too numerous tocount. Look at Lew Wetzel and Billy Bennet."
"Lew cares for nothing except hunting Indians and Billy's only aboy," said Betty.
"Well, have it your own way," said Lydia. "Only this, I know Billyadores you, for he told me so, and a better lad never lived."
"Lyde, you forget to include one other among those prostrate beforeBetty's charms," said Alice.
"Oh, yes, you mean Mr. Clarke. To be sure, I had forgotten him,"answered Lydia. "How odd that he should be the one to find you theday you hurt your foot. Was it an accident?"
"Of course. I slipped off the bank," said Betty.
"No, no. I don't mean that. Was his finding you an accident?"
"Do you imagine I waylaid Mr. Clarke, and then sprained my ankle onpurpose?" said Betty, who began to look dangerous.
"Certainly not that; only it seems so odd that he should be the oneto rescue all the damsels in distress. Day before yesterday hestopped a runaway horse, and saved Nell Metzer who was in the wagon,a severe shaking up, if not something more serious. She isdesperately in love with him. She told me Mr. Clarke--"
"I really do not care to hear about it," interrupted Betty.
"But, Betty, tell us. Wasn't it dreadful, his carrying you?" askedAlice, with a sly glance at Betty. "You know you are so--so prudish,one may say. Did he take you in his arms? It must have been veryembarrassing for you, considering your dislike of Mr. Clarke, andhe so much in love with--"
"You hateful girls," cried Betty, throwing a pillow at Alice, whojust managed to dodge it. "I wish you would go home."
"Never mind, Betty. We will not tease anymore," said Lydia, puttingher arm around Betty. "Come, Alice, we will tell Betty you havenamed the day for your wedding. See! She is all eyes now."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The young people of the frontier settlements were usually marriedbefore they were twenty. This was owing to the fact that there waslittle distinction of rank and family pride. The object of thepioneers in moving West was, of course, to better their condition;but, the realization of their dependence on one another, the commoncause of their labors, and the terrible dangers to which they werecontinually exposed, brought them together as one large family.
Therefore, early love affairs were encouraged--not frowned upon asthey are to-day--and they usually resulted in early marriages.
However, do not let it be imagined that the path of the youthfulswain was strewn with flowers. Courting or "sparking" his sweethearthad a painful as well as a joyous side. Many and varied were thetricks played on the fortunate lover by the gallants who had viedwith him for the favor of the maid. Brave, indeed, he who won her.If he marched up to her home in the early evening he was made theobject of innumerable jests, even the young lady's family indulgingin and enjoying the banter. Later, when he come out of the door, itwas more than likely that, if it were winter, he would be met by avolley of water soaked snowballs, or big buckets of icewater, or amountain of snow shoved off the roof by some trickster, who hadwaited patiently for such an opportunity. On summer nights his horsewould be stolen, led far into the woods and tied, or the wheels ofhis wagon would be taken off and hidden, leaving him to walk home.Usually the successful lover, and especially if he lived at adistance, would make his way only once a week and then late at nightto the home of his betrothed. Silently, like a thief in the dark, hewould crawl through the grass and shrubs until beneath her window.At a low signal, prearranged between them, she would slip to thedoor and let him in without disturbing the parents. Fearing to makea light, and perhaps welcoming that excuse to enjoy the darknessbeloved by sweethearts, they would sit quietly, whispering low,until the brightening in the east betokened the break of day, andthen he was off, happy and lighthearted, to his labors.
A wedding was looked forward to with much pleasure by old and young.Practically, it meant the only gathering of the settlers which wasnot accompanied by the work of reaping the harvest, building acabin, planning an expedition to relieve some distant settlement, ora defense for themselves. For all, it meant a rollicking good time;to the old people a feast, and the looking on at the merriment oftheir children--to the young folk, a pleasing break in the monotonyof their busy lives, a day given up to fun and gossip, a day ofromance, a wedding, and best of all, a dance. Therefore AliceReynold's wedding proved a great event to the inhabitants of FortHenry.
The day dawned bright and clear. The sun, rising like a ball of redgold, cast its yellow beams over the bare, brown hills, shining onthe cabin roofs white with frost, and making the delicate weblikecoat of ice on the river sparkle as if it had been sprinkled withpowdered diamonds. William Martin, the groom, and his attendants,met at an appointed time to celebrate an old time-honored customwhich always took place before the party started for the house ofthe bride. This performance was called "the race for the bottle."
A number of young men, selected by the groom, were asked to takepart in this race, which was to be run over as rough and dangerous atrack as could be found. The worse the road, the more ditches, bogs,trees, stumps, brush, in fact, the more obstacles of every kind, thebetter, as all these afforded opportunity for daring and experthorsemanship. The English fox race, now famous on three continents,while it involves risk and is sometimes dangerous, cannot, in thesense of hazard to life and limb, be compared to this race for thebottle.
On this day the run was not less exciting than usual. The horseswere placed as nearly abreast as possible and the starter gave anIndian yell. Then followed the cracking of whips, the furiouspounding of heavy hoofs, the commands of the contestants, and theyells of the onlookers. Away they went at a mad pace down the road.The course extended a mile straight away down the creek bottom. Thefirst hundred yards the horses were bunched. At the ditch beyond thecreek bridge a beautiful, clean limbed animal darted from among thefuriously galloping horses and sailed over the deep furrow like abird. All recognized the rider as Alfred Clarke on his blackthoroughbred. Close behind was George Martin mounted on a large roanof powerful frame and long stride. Through the willows they dashed,over logs and brush heaps, up the little ridges of rising ground,and down the shallow gullies, unheeding the stinging branches andthe splashing water. Half the distance covered and Alfred turned, tofind the roan close behind. On a level road he would have laughed atthe attempt of that horse to keep up with his racer, but he wasbeginning to fear that the strong limbed stallion deserved hisreputation. Directly before them rose a pile of logs and mattedbrush, placed there by the daredevil settlers who had mapped out theroute. It was too high for any horse to be put at. With pale cheekand clinched teeth Alfred touched the spurs to Roger and then threwhimself forward. The gallant beast responded nobly. Up, up, up herose, clearing all but the topmost branches. Alfred turned again andsaw the giant roan make the leap without touching a twig. The nextinstant Roger w
ent splash into a swamp. He sank to his knees in thesoft black soil. He could move but one foot at a time, and Alfredsaw at a glance he had won the race. The great weight of the roanhandicapped him here. When Alfred reached the other side of the bog,where the bottle was swinging from a branch of a tree, his rival'shorse was floundering hopelessly in the middle of the treacherousmire. The remaining three horsemen, who had come up by this time,seeing that it would be useless to attempt further efforts, haddrawn up on the bank. With friendly shouts to Clarke, theyacknowledged themselves beaten. There were no judges required forthis race, because the man who reached the bottle first won it.
The five men returned to the starting point, where the victor wasgreeted by loud whoops. The groom got the first drink from thebottle, then came the attendants, and others in order, after whichthe bottle was put away to be kept as a memento of the occasion.
The party now repaired to the village and marched to the home of thebride. The hour for the observance of the marriage rites was justbefore the midday meal. When the groom reached the bride's home hefound her in readiness. Sweet and pretty Alice looked in her graylinsey gown, perfectly plain and simple though it was, without anornament or a ribbon. Proud indeed looked her lover as he took herhand and led her up to the waiting minister. When the whisperingshad ceased the minister asked who gave this woman to be married.Alice's father answered.
"Will you take this woman to be your wedded wife, to love, cherishand protect her all the days of her life?" asked the minister.
"I will," answered a deep bass voice.
"Will you take this man to be your wedded husband, to love, honorand obey him all the days of your life?"
"I will," said Alice, in a low tone.
"I pronounce you man and wife. Those whom God has joined togetherlet no man put asunder."
There was a brief prayer and the ceremony ended. Then followed thecongratulations of relatives and friends. The felicitations were aptto be trying to the nerves of even the best tempered groom. The handshakes, the heavy slaps on the back, and the pommeling he receivedat the hands of his intimate friends were as nothing compared to theanguish of mind he endured while they were kissing his wife. Theyoung bucks would not have considered it a real wedding had theybeen prevented from kissing the bride, and for that matter, everygirl within reach. So fast as the burly young settlers could pushthemselves through the densely packed rooms they kissed the bride,and then the first girl they came to.
Betty and Lydia had been Alice's maids of honor. This being Betty'sfirst experience at a frontier wedding, it developed that she wasmuch in need of Lydia's advice, which she had previously disdained.She had rested secure in her dignity. Poor Betty! The first man tokiss Alice was George Martin, a big, strong fellow, who gathered hisbrother's bride into his arms and gave her a bearish hug and aresounding kiss. Releasing her he turned toward Lydia and Betty.Lydia eluded him, but one of his great hands clasped around Betty'swrist. She tried to look haughty, but with everyone laughing, andthe young man's face expressive of honest fun and happiness shefound it impossible. She stood still and only turned her face alittle to one side while George kissed her. The young men now made arush for her. With blushing cheeks Betty, unable to stand her groundany longer, ran to her brother, the Colonel. He pushed her away witha laugh. She turned to Major McColloch, who held out his arms toher. With an exclamation she wrenched herself free from a young man,who had caught her hand, and flew to the Major. But alas for Betty!The Major was not proof against the temptation and he kissed herhimself.
"Traitor!" cried Betty, breaking away from him.
Poor Betty was in despair. She had just made up her mind to submitwhen she caught sight of Wetzel's familiar figure. She ran to himand the hunter put one of his long arms around her.
"I reckon I kin take care of you, Betty," he said, a smile playingover his usually stern face. "See here, you young bucks. Betty don'twant to be kissed, and if you keep on pesterin' her I'll have toscalp a few of you."
The merriment grew as the day progressed. During the wedding feastgreat hilarity prevailed. It culminated in the dance which followedthe dinner. The long room of the block-house had been decorated withevergreens, autumn leaves and goldenrod, which were scatteredprofusely about, hiding the blackened walls and bare rafters.Numerous blazing pine knots, fastened on sticks which were stuckinto the walls, lighted up a scene, which for color and animationcould not have been surpassed.
Colonel Zane's old slave, Sam, who furnished the music, sat on araised platform at the upper end of the hall, and the way he sawedaway on his fiddle, accompanying the movements of his arm with aswaying of his body and a stamping of his heavy foot, showed he hada hearty appreciation of his own value.
Prominent among the men and women standing and sitting near theplatform could be distinguished the tall forms of Jonathan Zane,Major McColloch and Wetzel, all, as usual, dressed in their huntingcostumes and carrying long rifles. The other men had made more orless effort to improve their appearance. Bright homespun shirts andscarfs had replaced the everyday buckskin garments. Major McCollochwas talking to Colonel Zane. The genial faces of both reflected thepleasure they felt in the enjoyment of the younger people. JonathanZane stood near the door. Moody and silent he watched the dance.Wetzel leaned against the wall. The black barrel of his rifle lay inthe hollow of his arm. The hunter was gravely contemplating themembers of the bridal party who were dancing in front of him. Whenthe dance ended Lydia and Betty stopped before Wetzel and Bettysaid: "Lew, aren't you going to ask us to dance?"
The hunter looked down into the happy, gleaming faces, and smilingin his half sad way, answered: "Every man to his gifts."
"But you can dance. I want you to put aside your gun long enough todance with me. If I waited for you to ask me, I fear I should haveto wait a long time. Come, Lew, here I am asking you, and I know theother men are dying to dance with me," said Betty, coaxingly, in aroguish voice.
Wetzel never refused a request of Betty's, and so, laying aside hisweapons, he danced with her, to the wonder and admiration of all.Colonel Zane clapped his hands, and everyone stared in amazement atthe unprecedented sight Wetzel danced not ungracefully. He waswonderfully light on his feet. His striking figure, the long blackhair, and the fancifully embroidered costume he wore contrastedstrangely with Betty's slender, graceful form and pretty gray dress.
"Well, well, Lewis, I would not have believed anything but theevidence of my own eyes," said Colonel Zane, with a laugh, as Bettyand Wetzel approached him.
"If all the men could dance as well as Lew, the girls would bethankful, I can assure you," said Betty.
"Betty, I declare you grow prettier every day," said old JohnBennet, who was standing with the Colonel and the Major. "If I wereonly a young man once more I should try my chances with you, and Iwouldn't give up very easily."
"I do not know, Uncle John, but I am inclined to think that if youwere a young man and should come a-wooing you would not get a rebufffrom me," answered Betty, smiling on the old man, of whom she wasvery fond.
"Miss Zane, will you dance with me?"
The voice sounded close by Betty's side. She recognized it, and anunaccountable sensation of shyness suddenly came over her. She hadfirmly made up her mind, should Mr. Clarke ask her to dance, thatshe would tell him she was tired, or engaged for thatnumber--anything so that she could avoid dancing with him. But, nowthat the moment had come she either forgot her resolution or lackedthe courage to keep it, for as the music commenced, she turned andwithout saying a word or looking at him, she placed her hand on hisarm. He whirled her away. She gave a start of surprise and delightat the familiar step and then gave herself up to the charm of thedance. Supported by his strong arm she floated around the room in asort of dream. Dancing as they did was new to the young people atthe Fort--it was a style then in vogue in the east--and everyonelooked on with great interest and curiosity. But all too soon thedance ended and before Betty had recovered her composure she foundthat her partner had led her to a secluded se
at in the lower end ofthe hall. The bench was partly obscured from the dancers by massesof autumn leaves. "That was a very pleasant dance," said Alfred."Miss Boggs told me you danced the round dance."
"I was much surprised and pleased," said Betty, who had indeedenjoyed it.
"It has been a delightful day," went on Alfred, seeing that Bettywas still confused. "I almost killed myself in that race for thebottle this morning. I never saw such logs and brush heaps andditches in my life. I am sure that if the fever of recklessnesswhich seemed in the air had not suddenly seized me I would neverhave put my horse at such leaps."
"I heard my brother say your horse was one of the best he had everseen, and that you rode superbly," murmured Betty.
"Well, to be honest, I would not care to take that ride again. Itcertainly was not fair to the horse."
"How do you like the fort by this time?"
"Miss Zane, I am learning to love this free, wild life. I reallythink I was made for the frontier. The odd customs and manners whichseemed strange at first have become very acceptable to me now. Ifind everyone so honest and simple and brave. Here one must work tolive, which is right. Do you know, I never worked in my life until Icame to Fort Henry. My life was all uselessness, idleness."
"I can hardly believe that," answered Betty. "You have learned todance and ride and--"
"What?" asked Alfred, as Betty hesitated.
"Never mind. It was an accomplishment with which the girls creditedyou," said Betty, with a little laugh.
"I suppose I did not deserve it. I heard I had a singular aptitudefor discovering young ladies in distress."
"Have you become well acquainted with the boys?" asked Betty,hastening to change the subject.
"Oh, yes, particularly with your Indianized brother, Isaac. He isthe finest fellow, as well as the most interesting, I ever knew. Ilike Colonel Zane immensely too. The dark, quiet fellow, Jack, orJohn, they call him, is not like your other brothers. The hunter,Wetzel, inspires me with awe. Everyone has been most kind to me andI have almost forgotten that I was a wanderer."
"I am glad to hear that," said Betty.
"Miss Zane," continued Alfred, "doubtless you have heard that I cameWest because I was compelled to leave my home. Please do not believeeverything you hear of me. Some day I may tell you my story if youcare to hear it. Suffice it to say now that I left my home of my ownfree will and I could go back to-morrow."
"I did not mean to imply--" began Betty, coloring.
"Of course not. But tell me about yourself. Is it not rather dulland lonesome here for you?"
"It was last winter. But I have been contented and happy thissummer. Of course, it is not Philadelphia life, and I miss theexcitement and gayety of my uncle's house. I knew my place was withmy brothers. My aunt pleaded with me to live with her and not go tothe wilderness. I had everything I wanted there--luxury, society,parties, balls, dances, friends--all that the heart of a girl coulddesire, but I preferred to come to this little frontier settlement.Strange choice for a girl, was it not?"
"Unusual, yes," answered Alfred, gravely. "And I cannot but wonderwhat motives actuated our coming to Fort Henry. I came to seek myfortune. You came to bring sunshine into the home of your brother,and left your fortune behind you. Well, your motive has the elementof nobility. Mine has nothing but that of recklessness. I would liketo read the future."
"I do not think it is right to have such a wish. With the veilrolled away could you work as hard, accomplish as much? I do notwant to know the future. Perhaps some of it will be unhappy. I havemade my choice and will cheerfully abide by it. I rather envy yourbeing a man. You have the world to conquer. A woman--what can shedo? She can knead the dough, ply the distaff, and sit by the latticeand watch and wait."
"Let us postpone such melancholy thoughts until some future day. Ihave not as yet said anything that I intended. I wish to tell youhow sorry I am that I acted in such a rude way the night yourbrother came home. I do not know what made me do so, but I know Ihave regretted it ever since. Will you forgive me and may we not befriends?"
"I--I do not know," said Betty, surprised and vaguely troubled bythe earnest light in his eyes.
"But why? Surely you will make some little allowance for a naturallyquick temper, and you know you did not--that you were--"
"Yes, I remember I was hasty and unkind. But I made amends, or atleast, I tried to do so."
"Try to overlook my stupidity. I will not give up until you forgiveme. Consider how much you can avoid by being generous."
"Very well, then, I will forgive you," said Betty, who had arrivedat the conclusion that this young man was one of determination.
"Thank you. I promise you shall never regret it. And the sprainedankle? It must be well, as I noticed you danced beautifully."
"I am compelled to believe what the girls say--that you are inclinedto the language of compliment. My ankle is nearly well, thank you.It hurts a little now and then."
"Speaking of your accident reminds me of the day it happened," saidAlfred, watching her closely. He desired to tease her a little, buthe was not sure of his ground. "I had been all day in the woods withnothing but my thoughts--mostly unhappy ones--for company. When Imet you I pretended to be surprised. As a matter of fact I was not,for I had followed your dog. He took a liking to me and I wasextremely pleased, I assure you. Well, I saw your face a momentbefore you knew I was as near you. When you heard my footsteps youturned with a relieved and joyous cry. When you saw whom it was yourglad expression changed, and if I had been a hostile Wyandot youcould not have looked more unfriendly. Such a woeful, tear-stainedface I never saw."
"Mr. Clarke, please do not speak any more of that," said Betty withdignity. "I desire that you forget it."
"I will forget all except that it was I who had the happiness offinding you and of helping you. I cannot forget that. I am sure weshould never have been friends but for that accident."
"There is Isaac. He is looking for me," answered Betty, rising.
"Wait a moment longer--please. He will find you," said Alfred,detaining her. "Since you have been so kind I have grown bolder. MayI come over to see you to-morrow?"
He looked straight down into the dark eyes which wavered and fellbefore he had completed his question.
"There is Isaac. He cannot see me here. I must go."
"But not before telling me. What is the good of your forgiving me ifI may not see you. Please say yes."
"You may come," answered Betty, half amused and half provoked at hispersistence. "I should think you would know that such permissioninvariably goes with a young woman's forgiveness."
"Hello, here you are. What a time I have had in finding you," saidIsaac, coming up with flushed face and eyes bright with excitement."Alfred, what do you mean by hiding the belle of the dance away likethis? I want to dance with you, Betts. I am having a fine time. Ihave not danced anything but Indian dances for ages. Sorry to takeher away, Alfred. I can see she doesn't want to go. Ha! Ha!" andwith a mischievous look at both of them he led Betty away.
Alfred kept his seat awhile lost in thought. Suddenly he rememberedthat it would look strange if he did not make himself agreeable, sohe got up and found a partner. He danced with Alice, Lydia, and theother young ladies. After an hour he slipped away to his room. Hewished to be alone. He wanted to think; to decide whether it wouldbe best for him to stay at the fort, or ride away in the darknessand never return. With the friendly touch of Betty's hand themadness with which he had been battling for weeks rushed over himstronger than ever. The thrill of that soft little palm remainedwith him, and he pressed the hand it had touched to his lips.
For a long hour he sat by his window. He could dimly see the broadwinding river, with its curtain of pale gray mist, and beyond, thedark outline of the forest. A cool breeze from the water fanned hisheated brow, and the quiet and solitude soothed him.
