by Zane Grey
Chapter III.
Joe lounged in the doorway of the cabin, thoughtfully contemplatingtwo quiet figures that were lying in the shade of a maple tree. Onehe recognized as the Indian with whom Jim had spent an earnest hourthat morning; the red son of the woods was wrapped in slumber. Hehad placed under his head a many-hued homespun shirt which the youngpreacher had given him; but while asleep his head had rolled offthis improvised pillow, and the bright garment lay free, attractingthe eye. Certainly it had led to the train of thought which hadfound lodgment in Joe's fertile brain.
The other sleeper was a short, stout man whom Joe had seen severaltimes before. This last fellow did not appear to be well-balanced inhis mind, and was the butt of the settlers' jokes, while thechildren called him "Loorey." He, like the Indian, was sleeping offthe effects of the previous night's dissipation.
During a few moments Joe regarded the recumbent figures with anexpression on his face which told that he thought in them were greatpossibilities for sport. With one quick glance around he disappearedwithin the cabin, and when he showed himself at the door, surveyingthe village square with mirthful eyes, he held in his hand a smallbasket of Indian design. It was made of twisted grass, and simplycontained several bits of soft, chalky stone such as the Indiansused for painting, which collection Joe had discovered among thefur-trader's wares.
He glanced around once more, and saw that all those in sight werebusy with their work. He gave the short man a push, and chuckledwhen there was no response other than a lazy grunt. Joe took theIndians' gaudy shirt, and, lifting Loorey, slipped it around him,shoved the latter's arms through the sleeves, and buttoned it infront. He streaked the round face with red and white paint, andthen, dexterously extracting the eagle plume from the Indian'shead-dress, stuck it in Loorey's thick shock of hair. It was alldone in a moment, after which Joe replaced the basket, and went downto the river.
Several times that morning he had visited the rude wharf where JeffLynn, the grizzled old frontiersman, busied himself withpreparations for the raft-journey down the Ohio. Lynn had beenemployed to guide the missionary's party to Fort Henry, and, as thebrothers had acquainted him with their intention of accompanying thetravelers, he had constructed a raft for them and their horses.
Joe laughed when he saw the dozen two-foot logs fastened together,upon which a rude shack had been erected for shelter. This slightprotection from sun and storm was all the brothers would have ontheir long journey.
Joe noted, however, that the larger raft had been prepared with somethought for the comfort of the girls. The floor of the little hutwas raised so that the waves which broke over the logs could notreach it. Taking a peep into the structure, Joe was pleased to seethat Nell and Kate would be comfortable, even during a storm. Abuffalo robe and two red blankets gave to the interior a cozy, warmlook. He observed that some of the girls' luggage was already onboard.
"When'll we be off?" he inquired.
"Sun-up," answered Lynn, briefly.
"I'm glad of that. I like to be on the go in the early morning,"said Joe, cheerfully.
"Most folks from over Eastways ain't in a hurry to tackle theriver," replied Lynn, eyeing Joe sharply.
"It's a beautiful river, and I'd like to sail on it from here towhere it ends, and then come back to go again," Joe replied, warmly.
"In a hurry to be a-goin'? I'll allow you'll see some slim reddevils, with feathers in their hair, slipping among the trees alongthe bank, and mebbe you'll hear the ping which's made when whistlin'lead hits. Perhaps you'll want to be back here by termorrersundown."
"Not I," said Joe, with his short, cool laugh.
The old frontiersman slowly finished his task of coiling up a ropeof wet cowhide, and then, producing a dirty pipe, he took a liveember from the fire and placed it on the bowl. He sucked slowly atthe pipe-stem, and soon puffed out a great cloud of smoke. Sittingon a log, he deliberately surveyed the robust shoulders and long,heavy limbs of the young man, with a keen appreciation of theirsymmetry and strength. Agility, endurance and courage were more to aborderman than all else; a new-comer on the frontier was always"sized-up" with reference to these "points," and respected inproportion to the measure in which he possessed them.
Old Jeff Lynn, riverman, hunter, frontiersman, puffed slowly at hispipe while he mused thus to himself: "Mebbe I'm wrong in takin' alikin' to this youngster so sudden. Mebbe it's because I'm fond ofhis sunny-haired lass, an' ag'in mebbe it's because I'm gettin' oldan' likes young folks better'n I onct did. Anyway, I'm kinderthinkin, if this young feller gits worked out, say fer about twentypounds less, he'll lick a whole raft-load of wild-cats."
Joe walked to and fro on the logs, ascertained how the raft was puttogether, and took a pull on the long, clumsy steering-oar. Atlength he seated himself beside Lynn. He was eager to ask questions;to know about the rafts, the river, the forest, theIndians--everything in connection with this wild life; but alreadyhe had learned that questioning these frontiersmen is a sure meansof closing their lips.
"Ever handle the long rifle?" asked Lynn, after a silence.
"Yes," answered Joe, simply.
"Ever shoot anythin'?" the frontiersman questioned, when he hadtaken four or five puffs at his pipe.
"Squirrels."
"Good practice, shootin' squirrels," observed Jeff, after anothersilence, long enough to allow Joe to talk if he was so inclined."Kin ye hit one--say, a hundred yards?"
"Yes, but not every time in the head," returned Joe. There was anapologetic tone in his answer.
Another interval followed in which neither spoke. Jeff was slowlypursuing his line of thought. After Joe's last remark he returnedhis pipe to his pocket and brought out a tobacco-pouch. He tore offa large portion of the weed and thrust it into his mouth. Then heheld out the little buckskin sack to Joe.
"Hev' a chaw," he said.
To offer tobacco to anyone was absolutely a borderman's guarantee offriendliness toward that person.
Jeff expectorated half a dozen times, each time coming a littlenearer the stone he was aiming at, some five yards distant. Possiblythis was the borderman's way of oiling up his conversationalmachinery. At all events, he commenced to talk.
"Yer brother's goin' to preach out here, ain't he? Preachin' is allright, I'll allow; but I'm kinder doubtful about preachin' toredskins. Howsumever, I've knowed Injuns who are good fellows, andthere's no tellin'. What are ye goin' in fer--farmin'?"
"No, I wouldn't make a good farmer."
"Jest cum out kinder wild like, eh?" rejoined Jeff, knowingly.
"I wanted to come West because I was tired of tame life. I love theforest; I want to fish and hunt; and I think I'd like to--to seeIndians."
"I kinder thought so," said the old frontiersman, nodding his headas though he perfectly understood Joe's case. "Well, lad, whereyou're goin' seein' Injuns ain't a matter of choice. You has to see'em, and fight 'em, too. We've had bad times for years out here onthe border, and I'm thinkin' wuss is comin'. Did ye ever hear thename Girty?"
"Yes; he's a renegade."
"He's a traitor, and Jim and George Girty, his brothers, are p'isinrattlesnake Injuns. Simon Girty's bad enough; but Jim's the wust.He's now wusser'n a full-blooded Delaware. He's all the time on thelookout to capture white wimen to take to his Injun teepee. SimonGirty and his pals, McKee and Elliott, deserted from that thar fortright afore yer eyes. They're now livin' among the redskins downFort Henry way, raisin' as much hell fer the settlers as they kin."
"Is Fort Henry near the Indian towns?" asked Joe.
"There's Delawares, Shawnees and Hurons all along the Ohio belowFort Henry."
"Where is the Moravian Mission located?"
"Why, lad, the Village of Peace, as the Injuns call it, is right inthe midst of that Injun country. I 'spect it's a matter of a hundredmiles below and cross-country a little from Fort Henry."
"The fort must be an important point, is it not?"
"Wal, I guess so. It's the last place on the river," answered Lynn,with a
grim smile. "There's only a stockade there, an' a handful ofmen. The Injuns hev swarmed down on it time and ag'in, but they hevnever burned it. Only such men as Colonel Zane, his brother Jack,and Wetzel could hev kept that fort standin' all these bloody years.Eb Zane's got but a few men, yet he kin handle 'em some, an' withsuch scouts as Jack Zane and Wetzel, he allus knows what's goin' onamong the Injuns."
"I've heard of Colonel Zane. He was an officer under Lord Dunmore.The hunters here speak often of Jack Zane and Wetzel. What arethey?"
"Jack Zane is a hunter an' guide. I knowed him well a few yearsback. He's a quiet, mild chap; but a streak of chain-lightnin' whenhe's riled. Wetzel is an Injun-killer. Some people say as how he'scrazy over scalp-huntin'; but I reckon that's not so. I've seen hima few times. He don't hang round the settlement 'cept when theInjuns are up, an' nobody sees him much. At home he sets roundsilent-like, an' then mebbe next mornin' he'll be gone, an' won'tshow up fer days or weeks. But all the frontier knows of his deeds.Fer instance, I've hearn of settlers gettin' up in the mornin' an'findin' a couple of dead and scalped Injuns right in front of theircabins. No one knowed who killed 'em, but everybody says 'Wetzel.'He's allus warnin' the settlers when they need to flee to the fort,and sure he's right every time, because when these men go back totheir cabins they find nothin' but ashes. There couldn't be anyfarmin' done out there but fer Wetzel."
"What does he look like?" questioned Joe, much interested.
"Wetzel stands straight as the oak over thar. He'd hev' to gosideways to git his shoulders in that door, but he's as light offoot an' fast as a deer. An' his eyes--why, lad, ye kin hardly lookinto 'em. If you ever see Wetzel you'll know him to onct."
"I want to see him," Joe spoke quickly, his eyes lighting with aneager flash. "He must be a great fighter."
"Is he? Lew Wetzel is the heftiest of 'em all, an' we hev some askin fight out here. I was down the river a few years ago and joineda party to go out an' hunt up some redskins as had been reported.Wetzel was with us. We soon struck Injun sign, and then come on to alot of the pesky varmints. We was all fer goin' home, because we hada small force. When we started to go we finds Wetzel sittin'calm-like on a log. We said: 'Ain't ye goin' home?' and he replied,'I cum out to find redskins, an' now as we've found 'em, I'm notgoin' to run away.' An' we left him settin' thar. Oh, Wetzel is afighter!"
"I hope I shall see him," said Joe once more, the warm light, whichmade him look so boyish, still glowing in his face.
"Mebbe ye'll git to; and sure ye'll see redskins, an' not tame ones,nuther."
At this moment the sound of excited voices near the cabins broke inon the conversation. Joe saw several persons run toward the largecabin and disappear behind it. He smiled as he thought perhaps thecommotion had been caused by the awakening of the Indian brave.
Rising to his feet, Joe went toward the cabin, and soon saw thecause of the excitement. A small crowd of men and women, alllaughing and talking, surrounded the Indian brave and the littlestout fellow. Joe heard some one groan, and then a deep, gutturalvoice:
"Paleface--big steal--ugh! Injun mad--heap mad--kill paleface."
After elbowing his way into the group, Joe saw the Indian holdingLoorey with one hand, while he poked him on the ribs with the other.The captive's face was the picture of dismay; even the streaks ofpaint did not hide his look of fear and bewilderment. The poorhalf-witted fellow was so badly frightened that he could only groan.
"Silvertip scalp paleface. Ugh!" growled the savage, giving Looreyanother blow on the side. This time he bent over in pain. Thebystanders were divided in feeling; the men laughed, while the womenmurmured sympathetically.
"This's not a bit funny," muttered Joe, as he pushed his way nearlyto the middle of the crowd. Then he stretched out a long arm that,bare and brawny, looked as though it might have been a blacksmith's,and grasped the Indian's sinewy wrist with a force that made himloosen his hold on Loorey instantly.
"I stole the shirt--fun--joke," said Joe. "Scalp me if you want toscalp anyone."
The Indian looked quickly at the powerful form before him. With atwist he slipped his arm from Joe's grasp.
"Big paleface heap fun--all squaw play," he said, scornfully. Therewas a menace in his somber eyes as he turned abruptly and left thegroup.
"I'm afraid you've made an enemy," said Jake Wentz to Joe. "AnIndian never forgets an insult, and that's how he regarded yourjoke. Silvertip has been friendly here because he sells us hispelts. He's a Shawnee chief. There he goes through the willows!"
By this time Jim and Mr. Wells, Mrs. Wentz and the girls had joinedthe group. They all watched Silvertip get into his canoe and paddleaway.
"A bad sign," said Wentz, and then, turning to Jeff Lynn, who joinedthe party at that moment, he briefly explained the circumstances.
"Never did like Silver. He's a crafty redskin, an' not to betrusted," replied Jeff.
"He has turned round and is looking back," Nell said quickly.
"So he has," observed the fur-trader.
The Indian was now several hundred yards down the swift river, andfor an instant had ceased paddling. The sun shone brightly on hiseagle plumes. He remained motionless for a moment, and even at sucha distance the dark, changeless face could be discerned. He liftedhis hand and shook it menacingly.
"If ye don't hear from that redskin ag'in Jeff Lynn don't knownothin'," calmly said the old frontiersman.
