by Zane Grey
CHAPTER IV.
"Good morning, Harry. Where are you going so early?" called Bettyfrom the doorway.
A lad was passing down the path in front of Colonel Zane's house asBetty hailed him. He carried a rifle almost as long as himself.
"Mornin', Betty. I am goin' 'cross the crick fer that turkey I heargobblin'," he answered, stopping at the gate and smiling brightly atBetty.
"Hello, Harry Bennet. Going after that turkey? I have heard himseveral mornings and he must be a big, healthy gobbler," saidColonel Zane, stepping to the door. "You are going to have company.Here comes Wetzel."
"Good morning, Lew. Are you too off on a turkey hunt?" said Betty.
"Listen," said the hunter, as he stopped and leaned against thegate. They listened. All was quiet save for the tinkle of a cow-bellin the pasture adjoining the Colonel's barn. Presently the silencewas broken by a long, shrill, peculiar cry.
"Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug-chug."
"Well, it's a turkey, all right, and I'll bet a big gobbler,"remarked Colonel Zane, as the cry ceased.
"Has Jonathan heard it?" asked Wetzel.
"Not that I know of. Why do you ask?" said the Colonel, in a lowtone. "Look here, Lew, is that not a genuine call?"
"Goodbye, Harry, be sure and bring me a turkey," called Betty, asshe disappeared.
"I calkilate it's a real turkey," answered the hunter, and motioningthe lad to stay behind, he shouldered his rifle and passed swiftlydown the path.
Of all the Wetzel family--a family noted from one end of thefrontier to the other--Lewis was as the most famous.
The early history of West Virginia and Ohio is replete with thedaring deeds of this wilderness roamer, this lone hunter andinsatiable Nemesis, justly called the greatest Indian slayer knownto men.
When Lewis was about twenty years old, and his brothers John andMartin little older, they left their Virginia home for a protractedhunt. On their return they found the smoking ruins of the home, themangled remains of father and mother, the naked and violated bodiesof their sisters, and the scalped and bleeding corpse of a babybrother.
Lewis Wetzel swore sleepless and eternal vengeance on the wholeIndian race. Terribly did he carry out that resolution. From thattime forward he lived most of the time in the woods, and an Indianwho crossed his trail was a doomed man. The various Indian tribesgave him different names. The Shawnees called him "Long Knife;" theHurons, "Destroyer;" the Delawares, "Death Wind," and any one ofthese names would chill the heart of the stoutest warrior.
To most of the famed pioneer hunters of the border, Indian fightingwas only a side issue--generally a necessary one--but with Wetzel itwas the business of his life. He lived solely to kill Indians. Heplunged recklessly into the strife, and was never content unlessroaming the wilderness solitudes, trailing the savages to their veryhomes and ambushing the village bridlepath like a panther waitingfor his prey. Often in the gray of the morning the Indians, sleepingaround their camp fire, were awakened by a horrible, screechingyell. They started up in terror only to fall victims to the tomahawkof their merciless foe, or to hear a rifle shot and get a glimpse ofa form with flying black hair disappearing with wonderful quicknessin the forest. Wetzel always left death behind him, and he was gonebefore his demoniac yell ceased to echo throughout the woods.Although often pursued, he invariably eluded the Indians, for he wasthe fleetest runner on the border.
For many years he was considered the right hand of the defense ofthe fort. The Indians held him in superstitious dread, and the factthat he was known to be in the settlement had averted more than oneattack by the Indians.
Many regarded Wetzel as a savage, a man who was mad for the blood ofthe red men, and without one redeeming quality. But this was anunjust opinion. When that restless fever for revenge left him--itwas not always with him--he was quiet and peaceable. To those fewwho knew him well he was even amiable. But Wetzel, although known toeveryone, cared for few. He spent little time in the settlements andrarely spoke except when addressed.
Nature had singularly fitted him for his pre-eminent position amongscouts and hunters. He was tall and broad across the shoulders; hisstrength, agility and endurance were marvelous; he had an eagle eye,the sagacity of the bloodhound, and that intuitive knowledge whichplays such an important part in a hunter's life. He knew not fear.He was daring where daring was the wiser part. Crafty, tireless andimplacable, Wetzel was incomparable in his vocation.
His long raven-black hair, of which he was vain, when combed outreached to within a foot of the ground. He had a rare scalp, one forwhich the Indians would have bartered anything.
A favorite Indian decoy, and the most fatal one, was the imitationof the call of the wild turkey. It had often happened that men fromthe settlements who had gone out for a turkey which had beengobbling, had not returned.
For several mornings Wetzel had heard a turkey call, and becomingsuspicious of it, had determined to satisfy himself. On the eastside of the creek hill there was a cavern some fifty or sixty yardsabove the water. The entrance to this cavern was concealed by vinesand foliage. Wetzel knew of it, and, crossing the stream somedistance above, he made a wide circuit and came up back of the cave.Here he concealed himself in a clump of bushes and waited. He hadnot been there long when directly below him sounded the cry,"Chug-a-lug, Chug-a-lug, Chug-a-lug." At the same time the polishedhead and brawny shoulders of an Indian warrior rose out of thecavern. Peering cautiously around, the savage again gave thepeculiar cry, and then sank back out of sight. Wetzel screenedhimself safely in his position and watched the savage repeat theaction at least ten times before he made up his mind that the Indianwas alone in the cave. When he had satisfied himself of this he tooka quick aim at the twisted tuft of hair and fired. Without waitingto see the result of his shot--so well did he trust his unerringaim--he climbed down the steep bank and brushing aside the vinesentered the cave. A stalwart Indian lay in the entrance with hisface pressed down on the vines. He still clutched in his sinewyfingers the buckhorn mouthpiece with which he had made the callsthat had resulted in his death.
"Huron," muttered the hunter to himself as he ran the keen edge ofhis knife around the twisted tuft of hair and tore off thescalp-lock.
The cave showed evidence of having been inhabited for some time.There was a cunningly contrived fireplace made of stones, againstwhich pieces of birch bark were placed in such a position that not aray of light could get out of the cavern. The bed of black coalsbetween the stones still smoked; a quantity of parched corn lay on alittle rocky shelf which jutted out from the wall; a piece of jerkedmeat and a buckskin pouch hung from a peg.
Suddenly Wetzel dropped on his knees and began examining thefootprints in the sandy floor of the cavern. He measured the lengthand width of the dead warrior's foot. He closely scrutinized everymoccasin print. He crawled to the opening of the cavern andcarefully surveyed the moss.
Then he rose to his feet. A remarkable transformation had come overhim during the last few moments. His face had changed; the calmexpression was replaced by one sullen and fierce: his lips were setin a thin, cruel line, and a strange light glittered in his eyes.
He slowly pursued a course lending gradually down to the creek. Atintervals he would stop and listen. The strange voices of the woodswere not mysteries to him. They were more familiar to him than thevoices of men.
He recalled that, while on his circuit over the ridge to get behindthe cavern, he had heard the report of a rifle far off in thedirection of the chestnut grove, but, as that was a favorite placeof the settlers for shooting squirrels, he had not thought anythingof it at the time. Now it had a peculiar significance. He turnedabruptly from the trail he had been following and plunged down thesteep hill. Crossing the creek he took to the cover of the willows,which grew profusely along the banks, and striking a sort of bridlepath he started on a run. He ran easily, as though accustomed tothat mode of travel, and his long strides covered a couple of milesin short order. Coming to the rugged bluff, which marke
d the end ofthe ridge, he stopped and walked slowly along the edge of the water.He struck the trail of the Indians where it crossed the creek, justwhere he expected. There were several moccasin tracks in the wetsand and, in some of the depressions made by the heels the roundededges of the imprints were still smooth and intact. The little poolsof muddy water, which still lay in these hollows, were otherindications to his keen eyes that the Indians had passed this pointearly that morning.
The trail led up the hill and far into the woods. Never in doubt thehunter kept on his course; like a shadow he passed from tree to treeand from bush to bush; silently, cautiously, but rapidly he followedthe tracks of the Indians. When he had penetrated the dark backwoodsof the Black Forest tangled underbrush, windfalls and gulliescrossed his path and rendered fast trailing impossible. Before thesealmost impassible barriers he stopped and peered on all sides,studying the lay of the land, the deadfalls, the gorges, and all thetime keeping in mind the probable route of the redskins. Then heturned aside to avoid the roughest travelling. Sometimes thesedetours were only a few hundred feet long; often they were miles;but nearly always he struck the trail again. This almost superhumanknowledge of the Indian's ways of traversing the forest, whichprobably no man could have possessed without giving his life to thehunting of Indians, was the one feature of Wetzel's woodcraft whichplaced him so far above other hunters, and made him so dreaded bythe savages.
Descending a knoll he entered a glade where the trees grew fartherapart and the underbrush was only knee high. The black soil showedthat the tract of land had been burned over. On the banks of ababbling brook which wound its way through this open space, thehunter found tracks which brought an exclamation from him. Clearlydefined in the soft earth was the impress of a white man's moccasin.The footprints of an Indian toe inward. Those of a white man arejust the opposite. A little farther on Wetzel came to a slightcrushing of the moss, where he concluded some heavy body had fallen.As he had seen the tracks of a buck and doe all the way down thebrook he thought it probable one of them had been shot by the whitehunter. He found a pool of blood surrounded by moccasin prints; andfrom that spot the trail led straight toward the west, showing thatfor some reason the Indians had changed their direction.
This new move puzzled the hunter, and he leaned against the trunk ofa tree, while he revolved in his mind the reasons for this abruptdeparture--for such he believed it. The trail he had followed formiles was the devious trail of hunting Indians, stealing slowly andstealthily along watching for their prey, whether it be man orbeast. The trail toward the west was straight as the crow flies; themoccasin prints that indented the soil were wide apart, and to aninexperienced eye looked like the track of one Indian. To Wetzelthis indicated that the Indians had all stepped in the tracks of aleader.
As was usually his way, Wetzel decided quickly. He had calculatedthat there were eight Indians in all, not counting the chief whom hehad shot. This party of Indians had either killed or captured thewhite man who had been hunting. Wetzel believed that a part of theIndians would push on with all possible speed, leaving some of theirnumber to ambush the trail or double back on it to see if they werepursued.
An hour of patient waiting, in which he never moved from hisposition, proved the wisdom of his judgment. Suddenly, away at theother end of the grove, he caught a flash of brown, of a living,moving something, like the flitting of a bird behind a tree. Was ita bird or a squirrel? Then again he saw it, almost lost in the shadeof the forest. Several minutes passed, in which Wetzel never movedand hardly breathed. The shadow had disappeared behind a tree. Hefixed his keen eyes on that tree and presently a dark object glidedfrom it and darted stealthily forward to another tree. One, two,three dark forms followed the first one. They were Indian warriors,and they moved so quickly that only the eyes of a woodsman likeWetzel could have discerned their movements at that distance.
Probably most hunters would have taken to their heels while therewas yet time. The thought did not occur to Wetzel. He slowly raisedthe hammer of his rifle. As the Indians came into plain view he sawthey did not suspect his presence, but were returning on the trailin their customary cautious manner.
When the first warrior reached a big oak tree some two hundred yardsdistant, the long, black barrel of the hunter's rifle began slowly,almost imperceptibly, to rise, and as it reached a level the savagestepped forward from the tree. With the sharp report of the weaponhe staggered and fell.
Wetzel sprang up and knowing that his only escape was in rapidflight, with his well known yell, he bounded off at the top of hisspeed. The remaining Indians discharged their guns at the fleeing,dodging figure, but without effect. So rapidly did he dart in andout among the trees that an effectual aim was impossible. Then, withloud yells, the Indians, drawing their tomahawks, started inpursuit, expecting soon to overtake their victim.
In the early years of his Indian hunting, Wetzel had perfectedhimself in a practice which had saved his life many tunes, and hadadded much to his fame. He could reload his rifle while running attopmost speed. His extraordinary fleetness enabled him to keep aheadof his pursuers until his rifle was reloaded. This trick he nowemployed. Keeping up his uneven pace until his gun was ready, heturned quickly and shot the nearest Indian dead in his tracks. Thenext Indian had by this time nearly come up with him and closeenough to throw his tomahawk, which whizzed dangerously nearWetzel's head. But he leaped forward again and soon his rifle wasreloaded. Every time he looked around the Indians treed, afraid toface his unerring weapon. After running a mile or more in thismanner, he reached an open space in the woods where he wheeledsuddenly on his pursuers. The foremost Indian jumped behind a tree,but, as it did not entirely screen his body, he, too, fell a victimto the hunter's aim. The Indian must have been desperately wounded,for his companion now abandoned the chase and went to hisassistance. Together they disappeared in the forest.
Wetzel, seeing that he was no longer pursued, slackened his pace andproceeded thoughtfully toward the settlement.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
That same day, several hours after Wetzel's departure in quest ofthe turkey, Alfred Clarke strolled over from the fort and foundColonel Zane in the yard. The Colonel was industriously stirring thecontents of a huge copper kettle which swung over a brisk wood fire.The honeyed fragrance of apple-butter mingled with the pungent odorof burning hickory.
"Morning, Alfred, you see they have me at it," was the Colonel'ssalute.
"So I observe," answered Alfred, as he seated himself on thewood-pile. "What is it you are churning so vigorously?"
"Apple-butter, my boy, apple-butter. I don't allow even Bessie tohelp when I am making apple-butter."
"Colonel Zane, I have come over to ask a favor. Ever since younotified us that you intended sending an expedition up the river Ihave been worried about my horse Roger. He is too light for a packhorse, and I cannot take two horses."
"I'll let you have the bay. He is big and strong enough. That blackhorse of yours is a beauty. You leave Roger with me and if you nevercome back I'll be in a fine horse. Ha, Ha! But, seriously, Clarke,this proposed trip is a hazardous undertaking, and if you wouldrather stay--"
"You misunderstand me," quickly replied Alfred, who had flushed. "Ido not care about myself. I'll go and take my medicine. But I domind about my horse."
"That's right. Always think of your horses. I'll have Sam take thebest of care of Roger."
"What is the nature of this excursion, and how long shall we begone?"
"Jonathan will guide the party. He says it will take six weeks ifyou have pleasant weather. You are to go by way of Short Creek,where you will help put up a blockhouse. Then you go to Fort Pitt.There you will embark on a raft with the supplies I need and makethe return journey by water. You will probably smell gunpowderbefore you get back."
"What shall we do with the horses?"
"Bring them along with you on the raft, of course."
"That is a new way to travel with horses," said Alfred, lookingdubiousl
y at the swift river. "Will there be any way to get newsfrom Fort Henry while we are away?"
"Yes, there will be several runners."
"Mr. Clarke, I am going to feed my pets. Would you like to seethem?" asked a voice which brought Alfred to his feet. He turned andsaw Betty. Her dog followed her, carrying a basket.
"I shall be delighted," answered Alfred. "Have you more pets thanTige and Madcap?"
"Oh, yes, indeed. I have a bear, six squirrels, one of them white,and some pigeons."
Betty led the way to an enclosure adjoining Colonel Zane's barn. Itwas about twenty feet square, made of pine saplings which had beensplit and driven firmly into the ground. As Betty took down a barand opened the small gate a number of white pigeons fluttered downfrom the roof of the barn, several of them alighting on hershoulders. A half-grown black bear came out of a kennel and shuffledtoward her. He was unmistakably glad to see her, but he avoidedgoing near Tige, and looked doubtfully at the young man. But afterAlfred had stroked his head and had spoken to him he seemed disposedto be friendly, for he sniffed around Alfred's knees and then stoodup and put his paws against the young man's shoulders.
"Here, Caesar, get down," said Betty. "He always wants to wrestle,especially with anyone of whom he is not suspicious. He is very tameand will do almost anything. Indeed, you would marvel at hisintelligence. He never forgets an injury. If anyone plays a trick onhim you may be sure that person will not get a second opportunity.The night we caught him Tige chased him up a tree and Jonathanclimbed the tree and lassoed him. Ever since he has evinced a hatredof Jonathan, and if I should leave Tige alone with him there wouldbe a terrible fight. But for that I could allow Caesar to run freeabout the yard."
"He looks bright and sagacious," remarked Alfred.
"He is, but sometimes he gets into mischief. I nearly died laughingone day. Bessie, my brother's wife, you know, had the big kettle onthe fire, just as you saw it a moment ago, only this time she wasboiling down maple syrup. Tige was out with some of the men and Ilet Caesar loose awhile. If there is anything he loves it is maplesugar, so when he smelled the syrup he pulled down the kettle andthe hot syrup went all over his nose. Oh, his howls were dreadful tohear. The funniest part about it was he seemed to think it wasintentional, for he remained sulky and cross with me for two weeks."
"I can understand your love for animals," said Alfred. "I thinkthere are many interesting things about wild creatures. There arecomparatively few animals down in Virginia where I used to live, andmy opportunities to study them have been limited."
"Here are my squirrels," said Betty, unfastening the door of a cage.A number of squirrels ran out. Several jumped to the ground. Oneperched on top of the box. Another sprang on Betty's shoulder. "Ifasten them up every night, for I'm afraid the weasels and foxeswill get them. The white squirrel is the only albino we have seenaround here. It took Jonathan weeks to trap him, but once capturedhe soon grew tame. Is he not pretty?"
"He certainly is. I never saw one before; in fact, I did not knowsuch a beautiful little animal existed," answered Alfred, looking inadmiration at the graceful creature, as he leaped from the shelf toBetty's arm and ate from her hand, his great, bushy white tailarching over his back and his small pink eyes shining.
"There! Listen," said Betty. "Look at the fox squirrel, the bigbrownish red one. I call him the Captain, because he always wants toboss the others. I had another fox squirrel, older than this fellow,and he ran things to suit himself, until one day the grays unitedtheir forces and routed him. I think they would have killed him hadI not freed him. Well, this one is commencing the same way. Do youhear that odd clicking noise? That comes from the Captain's teeth,and he is angry and jealous because I show so much attention to thisone. He always does that, and he would fight too if I were notcareful. It is a singular fact, though, that the white squirrel hasnot even a little pugnacity. He either cannot fight, or he is toowell behaved. Here, Mr. Clarke, show Snowball this nut, and thenhide it in your pocket, and see him find it."
Alfred did as he was told, except that while he pretended to put thenut in his pocket he really kept it concealed in his hand.
The pet squirrel leaped lightly on Alfred's shoulder, ran over hisbreast, peeped in all his pockets, and even pushed his cap to oneside of his head. Then he ran down Alfred's arm, sniffed in his coatsleeve, and finally wedged a cold little nose between his closedfingers.
"There, he has found it, even though you did not play fair," saidBetty, laughing gaily.
Alfred never forgot the picture Betty made standing there with thered cap on her dusky hair, and the loving smile upon her face as shetalked to her pets. A white fan-tail pigeon had alighted on hershoulder and was picking daintily at the piece of cracker she heldbetween her lips. The squirrels were all sitting up, each with a nutin his little paws, and each with an alert and cunning look in thecorner of his eye, to prevent, no doubt, being surprised out of aportion of his nut. Caesar was lying on all fours, growling andtearing at his breakfast, while the dog looked on with a superiorair, as if he knew they would not have had any breakfast but forhim.
"Are you fond of canoeing and fishing?" asked Betty, as theyreturned to the house.
"Indeed I am. Isaac has taken me out on the river often. Canoeingmay be pleasant for a girl, but I never knew one who cared forfishing."
"Now you behold one. I love dear old Izaak Walton. Of course, youhave read his books?"
"I am ashamed to say I have not."
"And you say you are a fisherman? Well, you haste a great pleasurein store, as well as an opportunity to learn something of the'contemplative man's recreation.' I shall lend you the books."
"I have not seen a book since I came to Fort Henry."
"I have a fine little library, and you are welcome to any of mybooks. But to return to fishing. I love it, and yet I nearly alwaysallow the fish to go free. Sometimes I bring home a pretty sunfish,place him in a tub of water, watch him and try to tame him. But Imust admit failure. It is the association which makes fishing sodelightful. The canoe gliding down a swift stream, the open air, theblue sky, the birds and trees and flowers--these are what I love.Come and see my canoe."
Thus Betty rattled on as she led the way through the sitting-roomand kitchen to Colonel Zane's magazine and store-house which openedinto the kitchen. This little low-roofed hut contained a variety ofthings. Boxes, barrels and farming implements filled one corner;packs of dried skins were piled against the wall; some otter and foxpelts were stretched on the wall, and a number of powder kegs lineda shelf. A slender canoe swung from ropes thrown over the rafters.Alfred slipped it out of the loops and carried it outside.
The canoe was a superb specimen of Indian handiwork. It had a lengthof fourteen feet and was made of birch bark, stretched over a lightframework of basswood. The bow curved gracefully upward, ending in acarved image representing a warrior's head. The sides werebeautifully ornamented and decorated in fanciful Indian designs.
"My brother's Indian guide, Tomepomehala, a Shawnee chief, made itfor me. You see this design on the bow. The arrow and the arm meanin Indian language, 'The race is to the swift and the strong.' Thecanoe is very light. See, I can easily carry it," said Betty,lifting it from the grass.
She ran into the house and presently came out with two rods, a bookand a basket.
"These are Jack's rods. He cut them out of the heart of ten-year-oldbasswood trees, so he says. We must be careful of them."
Alfred examined the rods with the eye of a connoisseur andpronounced them perfect.
"These rods have been made by a lover of the art. Anyone with halfan eye could see that. What shall we use for bait?" he said.
"Sam got me some this morning."
"Did you expect to go?" asked Alfred, looking up in surprise.
"Yes, I intended going, and as you said you were coming over, Imeant to ask you to accompany me."
"That was kind of you."
"Where are you young people going?" called Colonel Zane, stopping inhis task.
"Very well. But be certain and stay on this side of the creek and donot go out on the river," said the Colonel.
"Why, Eb, what do you mean? One might think Mr. Clarke and I werechildren," exclaimed Betty.
"You certainly aren't much more. But that is not my reason. Nevermind the reason. Do as I say or do not go," said Colonel Zane.
"All right, brother. I shall not forget," said Betty, soberly,looking at the Colonel. He had not spoken in his usual teasing way,and she was at a loss to understand him. "Come, Mr. Clarke, youcarry the canoe and follow me down this path and look sharp forroots and stones or you may trip."
"Where is Isaac?" asked Alfred, as he lightly swung the canoe overhis shoulder.
"He took his rifle and went up to the chestnut grove an hour or moreago."
A few minutes' walk down the willow skirted path and they reachedthe creek. Here it was a narrow stream, hardly fifty feet wide,shallow, and full of stones over which the clear brown water rushednoisily.
"Is it not rather risky going down there?" asked Alfred as henoticed the swift current and the numerous boulders pokingtreacherous heads just above the water.
"Of course. That is the great pleasure in canoeing," said Betty,calmly. "If you would rather walk--"
"No, I'll go if I drown. I was thinking of you."
"It is safe enough if you can handle a paddle," said Betty, with asmile at his hesitation. "And, of course, if your partner in thecanoe sits trim."
"Perhaps you had better allow me to use the paddle. Where did youlearn to steer a canoe?"
"I believe you are actually afraid. Why, I was born on the Potomac,and have used a paddle since I was old enough to lift one. Come,place the canoe in here and we will keep to the near shore until wereach the bend. There is a little fall just below this and I love toshoot it."
He steadied the canoe with one hand while he held out the other tohelp her, but she stepped nimbly aboard without his assistance.
"Wait a moment while I catch some crickets and grasshoppers."
"Gracious! What a fisherman. Don't you know we have had frost?"
"That's so," said Alfred, abashed by her simple remark.
"But you might find some crickets under those logs," said Betty. Shelaughed merrily at the awkward spectacle made by Alfred crawlingover the ground, improvising a sort of trap out of his hat, andpouncing down on a poor little insect.
"Now, get in carefully, and give the canoe a push. There, we areoff," she said, taking up the paddle.
The little bark glided slowly down stream at first hugging the bankas though reluctant to trust itself to the deeper water, and thengathering headway as a few gentle strokes of the paddle swerved itinto the current. Betty knelt on one knee and skillfully plied thepaddle, using the Indian stroke in which the paddle was not removedfrom the water.
"This is great!" exclaimed Alfred, as he leaned back in the bowfacing her. "There is nothing more to be desired. This beautifulclear stream, the air so fresh, the gold lined banks, the autumnleaves, a guide who--"
"Look," said Betty. "There is the fall over which we must pass."
He looked ahead and saw that they were swiftly approaching two hugestones that reared themselves high out of the water. They were onlya few yards apart and surrounded by smaller rocks, about high thewater rushed white with foam.
"Please do not move!" cried Betty, her eyes shining bright withexcitement.
Indeed, the situation was too novel for Alfred to do anything butfeel a keen enjoyment. He had made up his mind that he was sure toget a ducking, but, as he watched Betty's easy, yet vigorous sweepswith the paddle, and her smiling, yet resolute lips, he feltreassured. He could see that the fall was not a great one, only afew feet, but one of those glancing sheets of water like a millrace, and he well knew that if they struck a stone disaster would betheirs. Twenty feet above the white-capped wave which marked thefall, Betty gave a strong forward pull on the paddle, a deep strokewhich momentarily retarded their progress even in that swiftcurrent, and then, a short backward stroke, far under the stern ofthe canoe, and the little vessel turned straight, almost in themiddle of the course between the two rocks. As she raised her paddleinto the canoe and smiled at the fascinated young man, the bowdipped, and with that peculiar downward movement, that swift,exhilarating rush so dearly loved by canoeists, they shot down thesmooth incline of water, were lost for a moment in a white cloud ofmist, and in another they coated into a placid pool.
"Was not that delightful?" she asked, with just a little consciouspride glowing in her dark eyes.
"Miss Zane, it was more than that. I apologize for my suspicions.You have admirable skill. I only wish that on my voyage down theRiver of Life I could have such a sure eye and hand to guide methrough the dangerous reefs and rapids."
"You are poetical," said Betty, who laughed, and at the same timeblushed slightly. "But you are right about the guide. Jonathan says'always get a good guide,' and as guiding is his work he ought toknow. But this has nothing in common with fishing, and here is myfavorite place under the old sycamore."
With a long sweep of the paddle she ran the canoe alongside a stonebeneath a great tree which spread its long branches over the creekand shaded the pool. It was a grand old tree and must have guardedthat sylvan spot for centuries. The gnarled and knotted trunk wasscarred and seamed with the ravages of time. The upper part wasdead. Long limbs extended skyward, gaunt and bare, like the masts ofa storm beaten vessel. The lower branches were white and shining,relieved here and there by brown patches of bark which curled uplike old parchment as they shelled away from the inner bark. Theground beneath the tree was carpeted with a velvety moss with littleplots of grass and clusters of maiden-hair fern growing on it. Fromunder an overhanging rock on the bank a spring of crystal waterbubbled forth.
Alfred rigged up the rods, and baiting a hook directed Betty tothrow her line well out into the current and let it float down intothe eddy. She complied, and hardly had the line reached the circleof the eddy, where bits of white foam floated round and round, whenthere was a slight splash, a scream from Betty and she was standingup in the canoe holding tightly to her rod.
"Be careful!" exclaimed Alfred. "Sit down. You will have the canoeupset in a moment. Hold your rod steady and keep the line taut.That's right. Now lead him round toward me. There," and grasping theline he lifted a fine rock bass over the side of the canoe.
"Oh! I always get so intensely excited," breathlessly cried Betty."I can't help it. Jonathan always declares he will never take mefishing again. Let me see the fish. It's a goggle-eye. Isn't hepretty? Look how funny he bats his eyes," and she laughed gleefullyas she gingerly picked up the fish by the tail and dropped him intothe water. "Now, Mr. Goggle-eye, if you are wise, in future you willbeware of tempting looking bugs."
For an hour they had splendid sport. The pool teemed with sunfish.The bait would scarcely touch the water when the little orangecolored fellows would rush for it. Now and then a black bass dartedwickedly through the school of sunfish and stole the morsel fromthem. Or a sharp-nosed fiery-eyed pickerel--vulture of thewater--rising to the surface, and, supreme in his indifference toman or fish, would swim lazily round until he had discovered thecause of all this commotion among the smaller fishes, and then,opening wide his jaws would take the bait with one voracious snap.
Presently something took hold of Betty's line and moved out towardthe middle of the pool. She struck and the next instant her rod wasbent double and the tip under water.
"Pull your rod up!" shouted Alfred. "Here, hand it to me."
But it was too late. A surge right and left, a vicious tug, andBetty's line floated on the surface of the water.
"Now, isn't that too bad? He has broken my line. Goodness, I neverbefore felt such a strong fish. What shall I do?"
"You should be thankful you were not pulled in. I have been in astate of fear ever since we commenced fishing. You move round inthis canoe as though it
were a raft. Let me paddle out to thatlittle ripple and try once there; then we will stop. I know you aretired."
Near the center of the pool a half submerged rock checked thecurrent and caused a little ripple of the water. Several timesAlfred had seen the dark shadow of a large fish followed by a swirlof the water, and the frantic leaping of little bright-sided minnowsin all directions. As his hook, baited with a lively shiner, floatedover the spot, a long, yellow object shot from out that shaded lair.There was a splash, not unlike that made by the sharp edge of apaddle impelled by a short, powerful stroke, the minnow disappeared,and the broad tail of the fish flapped on the water. The instantAlfred struck, the water boiled and the big fish leaped clear intothe air, shaking himself convulsively to get rid of the hook. Hemade mad rushes up and down the pool, under the canoe, into theswift current and against the rocks, but all to no avail. SteadilyAlfred increased the strain on the line and gradually it began totell, for the plunges of the fish became shorter and less frequent.Once again, in a last magnificent effort, he leaped straight intothe air, and failing to get loose, gave up the struggle and wasdrawn gasping and exhausted to the side of the canoe.
"Are you afraid to touch him?" asked Alfred.
"Indeed I am not," answered Betty.
"Then run your hand gently down the line, slip your fingers in underhis gills and lift him over the side carefully."
"Five pounds," exclaimed Alfred, when the fish lay at his feet."This is the largest black bass I ever caught. It is pity to takesuch a beautiful fish out of his element."
"Let him go, then. May I?" said Betty.
"No, you have allowed them all to go, even the pickerel which Ithink ought to be killed. We will keep this fellow alive, and placehim in that nice clear pool over in the fort-yard."
"I like to watch you play a fish," said Betty. "Jonathan alwayshauls them right out. You are so skillful. You let this fish run sofar and then you checked him. Then you gave him a line to go theother way, and no doubt he felt free once more when you stopped himagain."
"You are expressing a sentiment which has been, is, and always willbe particularly pleasing to the fair sex, I believe," observedAlfred, smiling rather grimly as he wound up his line.
"Would you mind being explicit?" she questioned.
Alfred had laughed and was about to answer when the whip-like crackof a rifle came from the hillside. The echoes of the shotreverberated from hill to hill and were finally lost far down thevalley.
"What can that be?" exclaimed Alfred anxiously, recalling ColonelZane's odd manner when they were about to leave the house.
"I am not sure, but I think that is my turkey, unless Lew Wetzelhappened to miss his aim," said Betty, laughing. "And that is suchan unprecedented thing that it can hardly be considered. Turkeys arescarce this season. Jonathan says the foxes and wolves ate up thebroods. Lew heard this turkey calling and he made little HarryBennet, who had started out with his gun, stay at home and wentafter Mr. Gobbler himself."
"Is that all? Well, that is nothing to get alarmed about, is it? Iactually had a feeling of fear, or a presentiment, we might say."
They beached the canoe and spread out the lunch in the shade nearthe spring. Alfred threw himself at length upon the grass and Bettysat leaning against the tree. She took a biscuit in one hand, apickle in the other, and began to chat volubly to Alfred of herschool life, and of Philadelphia, and the friends she had madethere. At length, remarking his abstraction, she said: "You are notlistening to me."
"I beg your pardon. My thoughts did wander. I was thinking of mymother. Something about you reminds me of her. I do not know what,unless it is that little mannerism you have of pursing up your lipswhen you hesitate or stop to think."
"Tell me of her," said Betty, seeing his softened mood.
"My mother was very beautiful, and as good as she was lovely. Inever had a care until my father died. Then she married again, andas I did not get on with my step-father I ran away from home. I havenot been in Virginia for four years."
"Do you get homesick?"
"Indeed I do. While at Fort Pitt I used to have spells of the blueswhich lasted for days. For a time I felt more contented here. But Ifear the old fever of restlessness will come over me again. I canspeak freely to you because I know you will understand, and I feelsure of your sympathy. My father wanted me to be a minister. He sentme to the theological seminary at Princeton, where for two years Itried to study. Then my father died. I went home and looked afterthings until my mother married again. That changed everything forme. I ran away and have since been a wanderer. I feel that I am notlazy, that I am not afraid of work, but four years have drifted byand I have nothing to show for it. I am discouraged. Perhaps that iswrong, but tell me how I can help it. I have not the stoicism of thehunter, Wetzel, nor have I the philosophy of your brother. I couldnot be content to sit on my doorstep and smoke my pipe and watch thewheat and corn grow. And then, this life of the borderman, environedas it is by untold dangers, leads me, fascinates me, and yet appallsme with the fear that here I shall fall a victim to an Indian'sbullet or spear, and find a nameless grave."
A long silence ensued. Alfred had spoken quietly, but with anundercurrent of bitterness that saddened Betty. For the first timeshe saw a shadow of pain in his eyes. She looked away down thevalley, not seeing the brown and gold hills boldly defined againstthe blue sky, nor the beauty of the river as the setting sun cast aruddy glow on the water. Her companion's words had touched anunknown chord in her heart. When finally she turned to answer him abeautiful light shone in her eyes, a light that shines not on landor sea--the light of woman's hope.
"Mr. Clarke," she said, and her voice was soft and low, "I am only agirl, but I can understand. You are unhappy. Try to rise above it.Who knows what will befall this little settlement? It may be sweptaway by the savages, and it may grow to be a mighty city. It musttake that chance. So must you, so must we all take chances. You arehere. Find your work and do it cheerfully, honestly, and let thefuture take care of itself. And let me say--do not beoffended--beware of idleness and drink. They are as great adanger--nay, greater than the Indians."
"Miss Zane, if you were to ask me not to drink I would never touch adrop again," said Alfred, earnestly.
"I did not ask that," answered Betty, flushing slightly. "But Ishall remember it as a promise and some day I may ask it of you."
He looked wonderingly at the girl beside him. He had spent most ofhis life among educated and cultured people. He had passed severalyears in the backwoods. But with all his experience with people hehad to confess that this young woman was as a revelation to him. Shecould ride like an Indian and shoot like a hunter. He had heard thatshe could run almost as swiftly as her brothers. Evidently shefeared nothing, for he had just seen an example of her courage in adeed that had tried even his own nerve, and, withal, she was abright, happy girl, earnest and true, possessing all the softergraces of his sisters, and that exquisite touch of feminine delicacyand refinement which appeals more to men than any other virtue.
"Have you not met Mr. Miller before he came here from Fort Pitt?"asked Betty.
"Why do you ask?"
"I think he mentioned something of the kind."
"What else did he say?"
"Why--Mr. Clarke, I hardly remember."
"I see," said Alfred, his face darkening. "He has talked about me. Ido not care what he said. I knew him at Fort Pitt, and we hadtrouble there. I venture to say he has told no one about it. Hecertainly would not shine in the story. But I am not a tattler."
"It is not very difficult to see that you do not like him. Jonathandoes not, either. He says Mr. Miller was friendly with McKee, andthe notorious Simon Girty, the soldiers who deserted from Fort Pittand went to the Indians. The girls like him however."
"Usually if a man is good looking and pleasant that is enough forthe girls. I noticed that he paid you a great deal of attention atthe dance. He danced three times with you."
"Did he? How observing you are," said Betty, gi
ving him a littlesidelong glance. "Well, he is very agreeable, and he dances betterthan many of the young men."
"I wonder if Wetzel got the turkey. I have heard no more shots,"said Alfred, showing plainly that he wished to change the subject.
"Oh, look there! Quick!" exclaimed Betty, pointing toward thehillside.
He looked in the direction indicated and saw a doe and a spottedfawn wading into the shallow water. The mother stood motionless amoment, with head erect and long ears extended. Then she drooped hergraceful head and drank thirstily of the cool water. The fawnsplashed playfully round while its mother was drinking. It woulddash a few paces into the stream and then look back to see if itsmother approved. Evidently she did not, for she would stop herdrinking and call the fawn back to her side with a soft, crooningnoise. Suddenly she raised her head, the long ears shot up, and sheseemed to sniff the air. She waded through the deeper water to getround a rocky bluff which ran out into the creek. Then she turnedand called the little one. The fawn waded until the water reachedits knees, then stopped and uttered piteous little bleats.Encouraged by the soft crooning it plunged into the deep water andwith great splashing and floundering managed to swim the shortdistance. Its slender legs shook as it staggered up the bank.Exhausted or frightened, it shrank close to its mother. Togetherthey disappeared in the willows which fringed the side of the hill.
"Was not that little fellow cute? I have had several fawns, but havenever had the heart to keep them," said Betty. Then, as Alfred madeno motion to speak, she continued:
"You do not seem very talkative."
"I have nothing to say. You will think me dull. The fact is when Ifeel deepest I am least able to express myself."
"I will read to you." said Betty taking up the book. He lay backagainst the grassy bank and gazed dreamily at the many hued trees onthe little hillside; at the bare rugged sides of McColloch's Rockwhich frowned down upon them. A silver-breasted eagle sailed slowlyround and round in the blue sky, far above the bluff. Alfredwondered what mysterious power sustained that solitary bird as hefloated high in the air without perceptible movement of his broadwings. He envied the king of birds his reign over that illimitablespace, his far-reaching vision, and his freedom. Round and round theeagle soared, higher and higher, with each perfect circle, and atlast, for an instant poising as lightly as if he were about to perchon his lonely crag, he arched his wings and swooped down through theair with the swiftness of a falling arrow.
Betty's low voice, the water rushing so musically over the falls,the great yellow leaves falling into the pool, the gentle breezestirring the clusters of goldenrod--all came softly to Alfred as helay there with half closed eyes.
The time slipped swiftly by as only such time can.
"I fear the melancholy spirit of the day has prevailed upon you,"said Betty, half wistfully. "You did not know I had stopped reading,and I do not believe you heard my favorite poem. I have tried togive you a pleasant afternoon and have failed."
"No, no," said Alfred, looking at her with a blue flame in his eyes."The afternoon has been perfect. I have forgotten my role, and haveallowed you to see my real self, something I have tried to hide fromall."
"And are you always sad when you are sincere?"
"Not always. But I am often sad. Is it any wonder? Is not all naturesad? Listen! There is the song of the oriole. Breaking in on thestillness it is mournful. The breeze is sad, the brook is sad, thisdying Indian summer day is sad. Life itself is sad."
"Oh, no. Life is beautiful."
"You are a child," said he, with a thrill in his deep voice "I hopeyou may always be as you are to-day, in heart, at least."
"It grows late. See, the shadows are falling. We must go."
"You know I am going away to-morrow. I don't want to go. Perhapsthat is why I have been such poor company today. I have apresentiment of evil I am afraid I may never come back."
"I am sorry you must go."
"Do you really mean that?" asked Alfred, earnestly, bending towardher "You know it is a very dangerous undertaking. Would you care ifI never returned?"
She looked up and their eyes met. She had raised her head haughtily,as if questioning his right to speak to her in that manner, but asshe saw the unspoken appeal in his eyes her own wavered and fellwhile a warm color crept into her cheek.
"Yes, I would be sorry," she said, gravely. Then, after a moment:"You must portage the canoe round the falls, and from there we canpaddle back to the path."
The return trip made, they approached the house. As they turned thecorner they saw Colonel Zane standing at the door talking to Wetzel.
They saw that the Colonel looked pale and distressed, and the faceof the hunter was dark and gloomy.
"Lew, did you get my turkey?" said Betty, after a moment ofhesitation. A nameless fear filled her breast.
For answer Wetzel threw back the flaps of his coat and there at hisbelt hung a small tuft of black hair. Betty knew at once it was thescalp-lock of an Indian. Her face turned white and she placed a handon the hunter's arm.
"What do you mean? That is an Indian's scalp. Lew, you look sostrange. Tell me, is it because we went off in the canoe and havebeen in danger?"
"Betty, Isaac has been captured again," said the Colonel.
"Oh, no, no, no," cried Betty in agonized tones, and wringing herhands. Then, excitedly, "Something can be done; you must pursuethem. Oh, Lew, Mr. Clarke, cannot you rescue him? They have not hadtime to go far."
"Isaac went to the chestnut grove this morning. If he had stayedthere he would not have been captured. But he went far into theBlack Forest. The turkey call we heard across the creek was made bya Wyandot concealed in the cave. Lewis tells me that a number ofIndians have camped there for days. He shot the one who was callingand followed the others until he found where they had taken Isaac'strail."
Betty turned to the younger man with tearful eyes, and withbeseeching voice implored them to save her brother.
"I am ready to follow you," said Clarke to Wetzel.
The hunter shook his head, but did not answer.
"It is that hateful White Crane," passionately burst out Betty, asthe Colonel's wife led her weeping into the house.
"Did you get more than one shot at them?" asked Clarke.
The hunter nodded, and the slight, inscrutable smile flitted acrosshis stern features. He never spoke of his deeds. For this reasonmany of the thrilling adventures which he must have had will foreverremain unrevealed. That evening there was sadness at Colonel Zane'ssupper table. They felt the absence of the Colonel's usual spirits,his teasing of Betty, and his cheerful conversation. He had nothingto say. Betty sat at the table a little while, and then got up andleft the room saying she could not eat. Jonathan, on hearing of hisbrother's recapture, did not speak, but retired in gloomy silence.Silas was the only one of the family who was not utterly depressed.He said it could have been a great deal worse; that they must makethe best of it, and that the sooner Isaac married his IndianPrincess the better for his scalp and for the happiness of allconcerned.
"I remember Myeerah very well," he said. "It was eight years ago,and she was only a child. Even then she was very proud and willful,and the loveliest girl I ever laid eyes on."
Alfred Clarke staid late at Colonel Zane's that night. Before goingaway for so many weeks he wished to have a few more moments alonewith Betty. But a favorable opportunity did not present itselfduring the evening, so when he had bade them all goodbye andgoodnight, except Betty, who opened the door for him, he said softlyto her:
"It is bright moonlight outside. Come, please, and walk to the gatewith me."
A full moon shone serenely down on hill and dale, flooding thevalley with its pure white light and bathing the pastures in itsglory; at the foot of the bluff the waves of the river gleamed likemyriads of stars all twinkling and dancing on a bed of snowy clouds.Thus illumined the river wound down the valley, its brilliancegrowing fainter and fainter until at last, resembling the shimmeringof a silver thread which joined the ea
rth to heaven, it disappearedin the horizon.
"I must say goodbye," said Alfred, as they reached the gate.
"Friends must part. I am sorry you must go, Mr. Clarke, and I trustyou may return safe. It seems only yesterday that you saved mybrother's life, and I was so grateful and happy. Now he is gone."
"You should not think about it so much nor brood over it," answeredthe young man. "Grieving will not bring him back nor do you anygood. It is not nearly so bad as if he had been captured by someother tribe. Wetzel assures us that Isaac was taken alive. Please donot grieve."
"I have cried until I cannot cry any more. I am so unhappy. We werechildren together, and I have always loved him better than any onesince my mother died. To have him back again and then to lose him!Oh! I cannot bear it."
She covered her face with her hands and a low sob escaped her.
"Don't, don't grieve," he said in an unsteady voice, as he took thelittle hands in his and pulled them away from her face.
Betty trembled. Something in his voice, a tone she had never heardbefore startled her. She looked up at him half unconscious that hestill held her hands in his. Never had she appeared so lovely.
"You cannot understand my feelings."
"I loved my mother."
"But you have not lost her. That makes all the difference."
"I want to comfort you and I am powerless. I am unable to saywhat--I--"
He stopped short. As he stood gazing down into her sweet face,burning, passionate words came to his lips; but he was dumb; hecould not speak. All day long he had been living in a dream. Now herealized that but a moment remained for him to be near the girl heloved so well. He was leaving her, perhaps never to see her again,or to return to find her another's. A fierce pain tore his heart.
"You--you are holding my hands," faltered Betty, in a doubtful,troubled voice. She looked up into his face and saw that it was palewith suppressed emotion.
Alfred was mad indeed. He forgot everything. In that moment theworld held nothing for him save that fair face. Her eyes, upliftedto his in the moonlight, beamed with a soft radiance. They werehonest eyes, just now filled with innocent sadness and regret, butthey drew him with irresistible power. Without realizing in theleast what he was doing he yielded to the impulse. Bending his headhe kissed the tremulous lips.
"Oh," whispered Betty, standing still as a statue and looking at himwith wonderful eyes. Then, as reason returned, a hot flush dyed herface, and wrenching her hands free she struck him across the cheek.
"For God's sake, Betty, I did not mean to do that! Wait. I havesomething to tell you. For pity's sake, let me explain," he cried,as the full enormity of his offence dawned upon him.
Betty was deaf to the imploring voice, for she ran into the houseand slammed the door.
He called to her, but received no answer. He knocked on the door,but it remained closed. He stood still awhile, trying to collect histhoughts, and to find a way to undo the mischief he had wrought.When the real significance of his act came to him he groaned inspirit. What a fool he had been! Only a few short hours and he muststart on a perilous journey, leaving the girl he loved in ignoranceof his real intentions. Who was to tell her that he loved her? Whowas to tell her that it was because his whole heart and soul hadgone to her that he had kissed her?
With bowed head he slowly walked away toward the fort, totallyoblivious of the fact that a young girl, with hands pressed tightlyover her breast to try to still a madly beating heart, watched himfrom her window until he disappeared into the shadow of theblock-house.
Alfred paced up and down his room the four remaining hours of thateventful day. When the light was breaking in at the east and dawnnear at hand he heard the rough voices of men and the tramping ofiron-shod hoofs. The hour of his departure was at hand.
He sat down at his table and by the aid of the dim light from a pineknot he wrote a hurried letter to Betty. A little hope revived inhis heart as he thought that perhaps all might yet be well. Surelysome one would be up to whom he could intrust the letter, and if noone he would run over and slip it under the door of Colonel Zane'shouse.
In the gray of the early morning Alfred rode out with the daringband of heavily armed men, all grim and stern, each silent with thethought of the man who knows he may never return. Soon thesettlement was left far behind.
