Zane Grey (16 page)

They all gazed at her in amazement. Every vestige of color had
receded from her face, leaving it marblelike. Her eves were fixed in
startled horror. Suddenly she relaxed her grasp on the windowsill
and fell back limp and senseless.

Heckewelder ran to the door to look out, while the others bent over
the unconscious girl, endeavoring to revive her. Presently a
fluttering breath and a quivering of her dark lashes noted a return
of suspended life. Then her beautiful eyes opened wide to gaze with
wonder and fear into the grave faces bent so anxiously over her.

"Nell, dearest, you are safe. What was it? What frightened you so?"
said Kate, tenderly.

"Oh, it was fearful!" gasped Nell, sitting up. She clung to her
sister with one hand, while the other grasped Jim's sleeve.

"I was looking out into the dark, when suddenly I beheld a face, a
terrible face!" cried Nell. Those who watched her marveled at the
shrinking, awful fear in her eyes. "It was right by the window. I
could have touched it. Such a greedy, wolfish face, with a long,
hooked nose! The eyes, oh! the eyes! I'll never forget them. They
made me sick; they paralyzed me. It wasn't an Indian's face. It
belonged to that white man, that awful white man! I never saw him
before; but I knew him."

"Girty!" said Heckewelder, who had come in with his quiet step. "He
looked in at the window. Calm yourself, Nellie. The renegade has
gone."

The incident worried them all at the time, and made Nell nervous for
several days; but as Girty had disappeared, and nothing more was
heard of him, gradually they forgot. Kate's wedding day dawned with
all the little party well and happy. Early in the afternoon Jim and
Nell, accompanied by Kate and her lover, started out into the woods
just beyond the clearing for the purpose of gathering wild flowers
to decorate the cabin.

"We are both thinking of—him," Jim said, after he and Nell had
walked some little way in silence.

"Yes," answered Nell, simply.

"I hope—I pray Joe comes back, but if he doesn't—Nell—won't you
care a little for me?"

He received no answer. But Nell turned her face away.

"We both loved him. If he's gone forever our very love for him
should bring us together. I know—I know he would have wished that."

"Jim, don't speak of love to me now," she whispered. Then she turned
to the others. "Come quickly; here are great clusters of wild
clematis and goldenrod. How lovely! Let us gather a quantity."

The young men had almost buried the girls under huge masses of the
beautiful flowers, when the soft tread of moccasined feet caused
them all to turn in surprise. Six savages stood waist-deep in the
bushes, where they had lain concealed. Fierce, painted visages
scowled from behind leveled rifles.

"Don't yell!" cried a hoarse voice in English. Following the voice
came a snapping of twigs, and then two other figures came into view.
They were Girty and Silvertip.

"Don't yell, er I'll leave you layin' here fer the buzzards," said
the renegade. He stepped forward and grasped Young, at the same time
speaking in the Indian language and pointing to a nearby tree.
Strange to relate, the renegade apparently wanted no bloodshed.
While one of the savages began to tie Young to the tree, Girty
turned his gaze on the girls. His little, yellow eyes glinted; he
stroked his chin with a bony hand, and his dark, repulsive face was
wreathed in a terrible, meaning smile.

"I've been layin' fer you," he croaked, eyeing Nell. "Ye're the
purtiest lass, 'ceptin' mebbe Bet Zane, I ever seed on the border. I
got cheated outen her, but I've got you; arter I feed yer Injun
preacher to ther buzzards mebbe ye'll larn to love me."

Nell gazed one instant into the monster's face. Her terror-stricken
eyes were piteous to behold. She tried to speak; but her voice
failed. Then, like stricken bird, she fell on the grass.

Not many miles from the Village of Peace rose an irregular chain of
hills, the first faint indications of the grand Appalachian Mountain
system. These ridges were thickly wooded with white oak, poplar and
hickory, among which a sentinel pine reared here and there its
evergreen head. There were clefts in the hills, passes lined by
gray-stoned cliffs, below which ran clear brooks, tumbling over
rocks in a hurry to meet their majestic father, the Ohio.

One of these valleys, so narrow that the sun seldom brightened the
merry brook, made a deep cut in the rocks. The head of this valley
tapered until the walls nearly met; it seemed to lose itself in the
shade of fern-faced cliffs, shadowed as they were by fir trees
leaning over the brink, as though to search for secrets of the
ravine. So deep and dark and cool was this sequestered nook that
here late summer had not dislodged early spring. Everywhere was a
soft, fresh, bright green. The old gray cliffs were festooned with
ferns, lichens and moss. Under a great, shelving rock, damp and
stained by the copper-colored water dripping down its side, was a
dewy dell into which the sunshine had never peeped. Here the swift
brook tarried lovingly, making a wide turn under the cliff, as
though loth to leave this quiet nook, and then leaped once more to
enthusiasm in its murmuring flight.

Life abounded in this wild, beautiful, almost inaccessible spot.
Little brown and yellow birds flitted among the trees; thrushes ran
along the leaf-strewn ground; orioles sang their melancholy notes;
robins and flickers darted beneath the spreading branches. Squirrels
scurried over the leaves like little whirlwinds, and leaped daringly
from the swinging branches or barked noisily from woody perches.
Rabbits hopped inquisitively here and there while nibbling at the
tender shoots of sassafras and laurel.

Along this flower-skirted stream a tall young man, carrying a rifle
cautiously stepped, peering into the branches overhead. A gray flash
shot along a limb of a white oak; then the bushy tail of a squirrel
flitted into a well-protected notch, from whence, no doubt, a keen
little eye watched the hunter's every movement.

The rifle was raised; then lowered. The hunter walked around the
tree. Presently up in the tree top, snug under a knotty limb, he
spied a little ball of gray fur. Grasping a branch of underbush, he
shook it vigorously. The thrashing sound worried the gray squirrel,
for he slipped from his retreat and stuck his nose over the limb.
CRACK! With a scratching and tearing of bark the squirrel loosened
his hold and then fell; alighting with a thump. As the hunter picked
up his quarry a streak of sunshine glinting through the tree top
brightened his face.

The hunter was Joe.

He was satisfied now, for after stowing the squirrel in the pocket
of his hunting coat he shouldered his rifle and went back up the
ravine. Presently a dull roar sounded above the babble of the brook.
It grew louder as he threaded his way carefully over the stones.
Spots of white foam flecked the brook. Passing under the gray,
stained cliff, Joe turned around a rocky corner, and came to an
abrupt end of the ravine. A waterfall marked the spot where the
brook entered. The water was brown as it took the leap, light green
when it thinned out; and below, as it dashed on the stones, it
became a beautiful, sheeny white.

Upon a flat rock, so near the cascade that spray flew over him, sat
another hunter. The roaring falls drowned all other sounds, yet the
man roused from his dreamy contemplation of the waterfall when Joe
rounded the corner.

"I heerd four shots," he said, as Joe came up.

"Yes; I got a squirrel for every shot."

Wetzel led the way along a narrow foot trail which gradually wound
toward the top of the ravine. This path emerged presently, some
distance above the falls, on the brink of a bluff. It ran along the
edge of the precipice a few yards, then took a course back into
densely wooded thickets. Just before stepping out on the open cliff
Wetzel paused and peered keenly on all sides. There was no living
thing to be seen; the silence was the deep, unbroken calm of the
wilderness.

Wetzel stepped to the bluff and looked over. The stony wall opposite
was only thirty feet away, and somewhat lower. From Wetzel's action
it appeared as if he intended to leap the fissure. In truth, many a
band of Indians pursuing the hunter into this rocky fastness had
come out on the bluff, and, marveling at what they thought Wetzel's
prowess, believed he had made a wonderful leap, thus eluding them.
But he had never attempted that leap, first, because he knew it was
well-nigh impossible, and secondly, there had never been any
necessity for such risk.

Any one leaning over this cliff would have observed, perhaps ten
feet below, a narrow ledge projecting from the face of the rock. He
would have imagined if he were to drop on that ledge there would be
no way to get off and he would be in a worse predicament.

Without a moment's hesitation Wetzel swung himself over the ledge.
Joe followed suit. At one end of this lower ledge grew a hardy shrub
of the ironwood species, and above it a scrub pine leaned
horizontally out over the ravine. Laying his rifle down, Wetzel
grasped a strong root and cautiously slid over the side. When all of
his body had disappeared, with the exception of his sinewy fingers,
they loosened their hold on the root, grasped the rifle, and dragged
it down out of sight. Quietly, with similar caution, Joe took hold
of the same root, let himself down, and when at full length swung
himself in under the ledge. His feet found a pocket in the cliff.
Letting go of the root, he took his rifle, and in another second was
safe.

Of all Wetzel's retreats—for he had many—he considered this one
the safest. The cavern under the ledge he had discovered by
accident. One day, being hotly pursued by Shawnees, he had been
headed off on this cliff, and had let himself down on the ledge,
intending to drop from it to the tops of the trees below. Taking
advantage of every little aid, he hung over by means of the shrub,
and was in the act of leaping when he saw that the cliff shelved
under the ledge, while within reach of his feet was the entrance to
a cavern. He found the cave to be small with an opening at the back
into a split in the rock. Evidently the place had been entered from
the rear by bears, who used the hole for winter sleeping quarters.
By crawling on his hands and knees, Wetzel found the rear opening.
Thus he had established a hiding place where it was almost
impossible to locate him. He provisioned his retreat, which he
always entered by the cliff and left by the rear.

An evidence of Wetzel's strange nature, and of his love for this
wild home, manifested itself when he bound Joe to secrecy. It was
unlikely, even if the young man ever did get safely out of the
wilderness, that any stories he might relate would reveal the
hunter's favorite rendezvous. But Wetzel seriously demanded this
secrecy, as earnestly as if the forest were full of Indians and
white men, all prowling in search of his burrow.

Joe was in the seventh heaven of delight, and took to the free life
as a wild gosling takes to the water. No place had ever appealed to
him as did this dark, silent hole far up on the side of a steep
cliff. His interest in Wetzel soon passed into a great admiration,
and from that deepened to love.

This afternoon, when they were satisfied that all was well within
their refuge, Joe laid aside his rifle, and, whistling softly, began
to prepare supper. The back part of the cave permitted him to stand
erect, and was large enough for comparative comfort. There was a
neat, little stone fireplace, and several cooking utensils and
gourds. From time to time Wetzel had brought these things. A pile of
wood and a bundle of pine cones lay in one corner. Haunches of dried
beef, bear and buffalo meat hung from pegs; a bag of parched corn,
another of dried apples lay on a rocky shelf. Nearby hung a
powder-horn filled with salt and pepper. In the cleft back of the
cave was a spring of clear, cold water.

The wants of woodsmen are few and simple. Joe and Wetzel, with
appetites whetted by their stirring outdoor life, relished the
frugal fare as they could never have enjoyed a feast. As the shadows
of evening entered the cave, they lighted their pipes to partake of
the hunter's sweetest solace, a quiet smoke.

Strange as it may appear, this lonely, stern Indian-hunter and the
reckless, impulsive boy were admirably suited for companionship.
Wetzel had taken a liking to the young man when he led the brothers
to Fort Henry. Subsequent events strengthened his liking, and now,
many days after, Joe having followed him into the forest, a strong
attachment had been insensibly forged between them.

Wetzel understood Joe's burning desire to roam the forests; but he
half expected the lad would soon grow tired of this roving life, but
exactly the opposite symptoms were displayed. The hunter had
intended to take his comrade on a hunting trip, and to return with
him, after that was over, to Fort Henry. They had now been in the
woods for weeks and every day in some way had Joe showed his mettle.
Wetzel finally admitted him into the secrets of his most cherished
hiding place. He did not want to hurt the lad's feelings by taking
him back to the settlement; he could not send him back. So the days
wore on swiftly; full of heart-satisfying incident and life, with
man and boy growing closer in an intimacy that was as warm as it was
unusual.

Two reasons might account for this: First, there is no sane human
being who is not better off for companionship. An exile would find
something of happiness in one who shared his misery. And, secondly,
Joe was a most acceptable comrade, even for a slayer of Indians.
Wedded as Wetzel was to the forest trails, to his lonely life, to
the Nemesis-pursuit he had followed for eighteen long years, he was
still a white man, kind and gentle in his quiet hours, and because
of this, though he knew it not, still capable of affection. He had
never known youth; his manhood had been one pitiless warfare against
his sworn foes; but once in all those years had his sore, cold heart
warmed; and that was toward a woman who was not for him. His life
had held only one purpose—a bloody one. Yet the man had a heart,
and he could not prevent it from responding to another. In his
simple ignorance he rebelled against this affection for anything
other than his forest homes. Man is weak against hate; what can he
avail against love? The dark caverns of Wetzel's great heart opened,
admitting to their gloomy depths this stranger. So now a new love
was born in that cheerless heart, where for so long a lonely inmate,
the ghost of old love, had dwelt in chill seclusion.