by Zane Grey
Chapter VIII.
"So you want to know all about Wetzel?" inquired Colonel Zane ofJoe, when, having left Jim and Mr. Wells, they returned to thecabin.
"I am immensely interested in him," replied Joe.
"Well, I don't think there's anything singular in that. I knowWetzel better, perhaps, than any man living; but have seldom talkedabout him. He doesn't like it. He is by birth a Virginian; I shouldsay, forty years old. We were boys together, and and I am a littlebeyond that age. He was like any of the lads, except that heexcelled us all in strength and agility. When he was nearly eighteenyears old a band if Indians--Delawares, I think--crossed the borderon a marauding expedition far into Virginia. They burned the oldWetzel homestead and murdered the father, mother, two sisters, and ababy brother. The terrible shock nearly killed Lewis, who for a timewas very ill. When he recovered he went in search of his brothers,Martin and John Wetzel, who were hunting, and brought them back totheir desolated home. Over the ashes of the home and the graves ofthe loved ones the brothers swore sleepless and eternal vengeance.The elder brothers have been devoted all these twenty years and moreto the killing of Indians; but Lewis has been the great foe of theredman. You have already seen an example of his deeds, and will hearof more. His name is a household word on the border. Scores of timeshe has saved, actually saved, this fort and settlement. Hisknowledge of savage ways surpasses by far Boone's, MajorMcColloch's, Jonathan's, or any of the hunters'."
"Then hunting Indians is his sole occupation?"
"He lives for that purpose alone. He is very seldom in thesettlement. Sometimes he stays here a few days, especially if he isneeded; but usually he roams the forests."
"What did Jeff Lynn mean when he said that some people think Wetzelis crazy?"
"There are many who think the man mad; but I do not. When thepassion for Indian hunting comes upon him he is fierce, almostfrenzied, yet perfectly sane. While here he is quiet, seldom speaksexcept when spoken to, and is taciturn with strangers. He oftencomes to my cabin and sits beside the fire for hours. I think hefinds pleasure in the conversation and laughter of friends. He isfond of the children, and would do anything for my sister Betty."
"His life must be lonely and sad," remarked Joe.
"The life of any borderman is that; but Wetzel's is particularlyso."
"What is he called by the Indians?"
"They call him Atelang, or, in English, Deathwind."
"By George! That's what Silvertip said in French--'Le Vent de laMort.'"
"Yes; you have it right. A French fur trader gave Wetzel that nameyears ago, and it has clung to him. The Indians say the Deathwindblows through the forest whenever Wetzel stalks on their trail."
"Colonel Zane, don't you think me superstitious," whispered Joe,leaning toward the colonel, "but I heard that wind blow through theforest."
"What!" ejaculated Colonel Zane. He saw that Joe was in earnest, forthe remembrance of the moan had more than once paled his cheek andcaused beads of perspiration to collect on his brow.
Joe related the circumstances of that night, and at the end of hisnarrative Colonel Zane sat silent and thoughtful.
"You don't really think it was Wetzel who moaned?" he asked, atlength.
"No, I don't," replied Joe quickly; "but, Colonel Zane, I heard thatmoan as plainly as I can hear your voice. I heard it twice. Now,what was it?"
"Jonathan said the same thing to me once. He had been out huntingwith Wetzel; they separated, and during the night Jonathan heard thewind. The next day he ran across a dead Indian. He believes Wetzelmakes the noise, and so do the hunters; but I think it is simply themoan of the night wind through the trees. I have heard it at times,when my very blood seemingly ran cold."
"I tried to think it was the wind soughing through the pines, but amafraid I didn't succeed very well. Anyhow, I knew Wetzel instantly,just as Jeff Lynn said I would. He killed those Indians in aninstant, and he must have an iron arm."
"Wetzel excels in strength and speed any man, red or white, on thefrontier. He can run away from Jonathan, who is as swift as anIndian. He's stronger than any of the other men. I remember one dayold Hugh Bennet's wagon wheels stuck in a bog down by the creek.Hugh tried, as several others did, to move the wheels; but theycouldn't be made to budge. Along came Wetzel, pushed away the men,and lifted the wagon unaided. It would take hours to tell you abouthim. In brief, among all the border scouts and hunters Wetzel standsalone. No wonder the Indians fear him. He is as swift as an eagle,strong as mountain-ash, keen as a fox, and absolutely tireless andimplacable."
"How long have you been here, Colonel Zane?"
"More than twelve years, and it has been one long fight."
"I'm afraid I'm too late for the fun," said Joe, with his quietlaugh.
"Not by about twelve more years," answered Colonel Zane, studyingthe expression on Joe's face. "When I came out here years ago I hadthe same adventurous spirit which I see in you. It has beenconsiderably quelled, however. I have seen many a daring youngfellow get the border fever, and with it his death. Let me adviseyou to learn the ways of the hunters; to watch some one skilled inwoodcraft. Perhaps Wetzel himself will take you in hand. I don'tmind saying that he spoke of you to me in a tone I never heard Lewuse before."
"He did?" questioned Joe, eagerly, flushing with pleasure. "Do youthink he'd take me out? Dare I ask him?"
"Don't be impatient. Perhaps I can arrange it. Come over here now toMetzar's place. I want to make you acquainted with him. These boyshave all been cutting timber; they've just come in for dinner. Beeasy and quiet with them; then you'll get on."
Colonel Zane introduced Joe to five sturdy boys and left him intheir company. Joe sat down on a log outside a cabin and leisurelysurveyed the young men. They all looked about the same: strongwithout being heavy, light-haired and bronze-faced. In their turnthey carefully judged Joe. A newcomer from the East was alwaysregarded with some doubt. If they expected to hear Joe talk muchthey were mistaken. He appeared good-natured, but not too friendly.
"Fine weather we're havin'," said Dick Metzar.
"Fine," agreed Joe, laconically.
"Like frontier life?"
"Sure."
A silence ensued after this breaking of the ice. The boys wereawaiting their turn at a little wooden bench upon which stood abucket of water and a basin.
"Hear ye got ketched by some Shawnees?" remarked another youth, ashe rolled up his shirt-sleeves. They all looked at Joe now. It wasnot improbably their estimate of him would be greatly influenced bythe way he answered this question.
"Yes; was captive for three days."
"Did ye knock any redskins over?" This question was artfully put todraw Joe out. Above all things, the bordermen detested boastfulness;tried on Joe the ruse failed signally.
"I was scared speechless most of the time," answered Joe, with hispleasant smile.
"By gosh, I don't blame ye!" burst out Will Metzar. "I hed thatexperience onct, an' onct's enough."
The boys laughed and looked in a more friendly manner at Joe. Thoughhe said he had been frightened, his cool and careless manner beliedhis words. In Joe's low voice and clear, gray eye there wassomething potent and magnetic, which subtly influenced those withwhom he came in contact.
While his new friends were at dinner Joe strolled over to whereColonel Zane sat on the doorstep of his home.
"How did you get on with the boys?" inquired the colonel.
"All right, I hope. Say, Colonel Zane, I'd like to talk to yourIndian guide."
Colonel Zane spoke a few words in the Indian language to the guide,who left his post and came over to them. The colonel then had ashort conversation with him, at the conclusion of which he pointedtoward Joe.
"How do--shake," said Tome, extending his hand.
Joe smiled, and returned the friendly hand-pressure.
"Shawnee--ketch'um?" asked the Indian, in his fairly intelligibleEnglish.
Joe nodded his head, while Colonel Zane spoke once more in Shawnee,explaining
the cause of Silvertip's emnity.
"Shawnee--chief--one--bad--Injun," replied Tome, seriously."Silvertip--mad--thunder-mad. Ketch'um paleface--scalp'um sure."
After giving this warning the chief returned to his former positionnear the corner of the cabin.
"He can talk in English fairly well, much better than the Shawneebrave who talked with me the other day," observed Joe.
"Some of the Indians speak the language almost fluently," saidColonel Zane. "You could hardly have distinguished Logan's speechfrom a white man's. Corn-planter uses good English, as also does mybrother's wife, a Wyandot girl."
"Did your brother marry an Indian?" and Joe plainly showed hissurprise.
"Indeed he did, and a most beautiful girl she is. I'll tell youIsaac's story some time. He was a captive among the Wyandots for tenyears. The chief's daughter, Myeerah, loved him, kept him from beingtortured, and finally saved him from the stake."
"Well, that floors me," said Joe; "yet I don't see why it should.I'm just surprised. Where is your brother now?"
"He lives with the tribe. He and Myeerah are working hard for peace.We are now on more friendly terms with the great Wyandots, orHurons, as we call them, than ever before."
"Who is this big man coming from the the fort?" asked Joe, suddenlyobserving a stalwart frontiersman approaching.
"Major Sam McColloch. You have met him. He's the man who jumped hishorse from yonder bluff."
"Jonathan and he have the same look, the same swing," observed Joe,as he ran his eye over the major. His faded buckskin costume,beaded, fringed, and laced, was similar to that of the colonel'sbrother. Powder-flask and bullet-pouch were made from cow-horns andslung around his neck on deerhide strings. The hunting coat wasunlaced, exposing, under the long, fringed borders, a tunic of thesame well-tanned, but finer and softer, material. As he walked, theflaps of his coat fell back, showing a belt containing two knives,sheathed in heavy buckskin, and a bright tomahawk. He carried a longrifle in the hollow of his arm.
"These hunters have the same kind of buckskin suits," continued Joe;"still, it doesn't seem to me the clothes make the resemblance toeach other. The way these men stand, walk and act is what strikes meparticularly, as in the case of Wetzel."
"I know what you mean. The flashing eye, the erect poise ofexpectation, and the springy step--those, my lad, come from a lifespent in the woods. Well, it's a grand way to live."
"Colonel, my horse is laid up," said Major McColloch, coming to thesteps. He bowed pleasantly to Joe.
"So you are going to Short Creek? You can have one of my horses; butfirst come inside and we'll talk over you expedition."
The afternoon passed uneventfully for Joe. His brother and Mr. Wellswere absorbed in plans for their future work, and Nell and Kate wereresting; therefore he was forced to find such amusement oroccupation as was possible in or near the stockade.
