Zane Grey (16 page)

No, he was no longer indifferent. As surely as those pale stars
blinked far above, he knew the delight of a woman's presence. It
moved him to study the emotion, as he studied all things, which was
the habit of his borderman's life. Did it come from knowledge of her
beauty, matchless as that of the mountain-laurel? He recalled the dark
glance of her challenging eyes, her tall, supple figure, and the
bewildering excitation and magnetism of her presence. Beauty was
wonderful, but not everything. Beauty belonged to her, but she would
have been irresistible without it. Was it not because she was a woman?
That was the secret. She was a woman with all a woman's charm to
bewitch, to twine round the strength of men as the ivy encircles the
oak; with all a woman's weakness to pity and to guard; with all a
woman's wilful burning love, and with all a woman's mystery.

At last so much of life was intelligible to him. The renegade
committed his worst crimes because even in his outlawed, homeless
state, he could not exist without the companionship, if not the love,
of a woman. The pioneer's toil and privation were for a woman, and the
joy of loving her and living for her. The Indian brave, when not on
the war-path, walked hand in hand with a dusky, soft-eyed maiden, and
sang to her of moonlit lakes and western winds. Even the birds and
beasts mated. The robins returned to their old nest; the eagles paired
once and were constant in life and death. The buck followed the doe
through the forest. All nature sang that love made life worth living.
Love, then, was everything.

The borderman sat out the long vigil of the night watching the stars,
and trying to decide that love was not for him. If Wetzel had locked a
secret within his breast, and never in all these years spoke of it to
his companion, then surely that companion could as well live without
love. Stern, dark, deadly work must stain and blot all tenderness from
his life, else it would be unutterably barren. The joy of living, of
unharassed freedom he had always known. If a fair face and dark,
mournful eyes were to haunt him on every lonely trail, then it were
better an Indian should end his existence.

The darkest hour before dawn, as well as the darkest of doubt and
longing in Jonathan's life, passed away. A gray gloom obscured the
pale, winking stars; the east slowly whitened, then brightened, and at
length day broke misty and fresh.

The borderman rose to stretch his cramped limbs. When he turned to the
little cavern the girl's eyes were wide open. All the darkness, the
shadow, the beauty, and the thought of the past night, lay in their
blue depths. He looked away across the valley where the sky was
reddening and a pale rim of gold appeared above the hill-tops.

"Well, if I haven't been asleep!" exclaimed Helen, with a low, soft
laugh.

"You're rested, I hope," said Jonathan, with averted eyes. He dared
not look at her.

"Oh, yes, indeed. I am ready to start at once. How gray, how beautiful
the morning is! Shall we be long? I hope papa knows."

In silence the borderman led the way across the rocky plateau, and
into the winding, narrow trail. His pale, slightly drawn and stern,
face did not invite conversation, therefore Helen followed silently in
his footsteps. The way was steep, and at times he was forced to lend
her aid. She put her hand in his and jumped lightly as a fawn.
Presently a brawling brook, over-crowding its banks, impeded
further progress.

"I'll have to carry you across," said Jonathan.

"I'm very heavy," replied Helen, with a smile in her eyes.

She flushed as the borderman put his right arm around her waist. Then
a clasp as of steel enclosed her; she felt herself swinging easily
into the air, and over the muddy brook.

Farther down the mountain this troublesome brook again crossed the
trail, this time much wider and more formidable. Helen looked with
some vexation and embarrassment into the borderman's face. It was
always the same, stern, almost cold.

"Perhaps I'd better wade," she said hesitatingly.

"Why? The water's deep an' cold. You'd better not get wet."

Helen flushed, but did not answer. With downcast eyes she let herself
be carried on his powerful arm.

The wading was difficult this time. The water foamed furiously around
his knees. Once he slipped on a stone, and nearly lost his balance.
Uttering a little scream Helen grasped at him wildly, and her arm
encircled his neck. What was still more trying, when he put her on her
feet again, it was found that her hair had become entangled in the
porcupine quills on his hunting-coat.

She stood before him while with clumsy fingers he endeavored to
untangle the shimmering strands; but in vain. Helen unwound the snarl
of wavy hair. Most alluring she was then, with a certain softness on
her face, and light and laughter, and something warm in her eyes.

The borderman felt that he breathed a subtle exhilaration which
emanated from her glowing, gracious beauty. She radiated with the
gladness of life, with an uncontainable sweetness and joy. But, giving
no token of his feeling, he turned to march on down through the woods.

From this point the trail broadened, descending at an easier angle.
Jonathan's stride lengthened until Helen was forced to walk rapidly,
and sometimes run, in order to keep close behind him. A quick journey
home was expedient, and in order to accomplish this she would gladly
have exerted herself to a greater extent. When they reached the end
of the trail where the forest opened clear of brush, finally to merge
into the broad, verdant plain, the sun had chased the mist-clouds from
the eastern hill-tops, and was gloriously brightening the valley.

With the touch of sentiment natural to her, Helen gazed backward for
one more view of the mountain-top. The wall of rugged rock she had so
often admired from her window at home, which henceforth would ever
hold a tender place of remembrance in her heart, rose out of a
gray-blue bank of mist. The long, swelling slope lay clear to the
sunshine. With the rays of the sun gleaming and glistening upon the
variegated foliage, and upon the shiny rolling haze above, a beautiful
picture of autumn splendor was before her. Tall pines, here and there
towered high and lonely over the surrounding trees. Their dark, green,
graceful heads stood in bold relief above the gold and yellow crests
beneath. Maples, tinged from faintest pink to deepest rose, added warm
color to the scene, and chestnuts with their brown-white burrs lent
fresher beauty to the undulating slope.

The remaining distance to the settlement was short. Jonathan spoke
only once to Helen, then questioning her as to where she had left her
canoe. They traversed the meadow, found the boat in the thicket of
willows, and were soon under the frowning bluff of Fort Henry.
Ascending the steep path, they followed the road leading to Colonel
Zane's cabin.

A crowd of boys, men and women loitering near the bluff arrested
Helen's attention. Struck by this unusual occurrence, she wondered
what was the cause of such idleness among the busy pioneer people.
They were standing in little groups. Some made vehement gestures,
others conversed earnestly, and yet more were silent. On seeing
Jonathan, a number shouted and pointed toward the inn. The borderman
hurried Helen along the path, giving no heed to the throng.

But Helen had seen the cause of all this excitement. At first glance
she thought Metzar's inn had been burned; but a second later it could
be seen that the smoke came from a smoldering heap of rubbish in the
road. The inn, nevertheless, had been wrecked. Windows stared with
that vacantness peculiar to deserted houses. The doors were broken
from their hinges. A pile of furniture, rude tables, chairs, beds, and
other articles, were heaped beside the smoking rubbish. Scattered
around lay barrels and kegs all with gaping sides and broken heads.
Liquor had stained the road, where it had been soaked up by the
thirsty dust.

Upon a shattered cellar-door lay a figure covered with a piece of rag
carpet. When Helen's quick eyes took in this last, she turned away in
horror. That motionless form might be Brandt's. Remorse and womanly
sympathy surged over her, for bad as the man had shown himself, he had
loved her.

She followed the borderman, trying to compose herself. As they neared
Colonel Zane's cabin she saw her father, Will, the colonel, Betty,
Nell, Mrs. Zane, Silas Zane, and others whom she did not recognize.
They were all looking at her. Helen's throat swelled, and her eyes
filled when she got near enough to see her father's haggard, eager
face. The others were grave. She wondered guiltily if she had done
much wrong.

In another moment she was among them. Tears fell as her father
extended his trembling hands to clasp her, and as she hid her burning
face on his breast, he cried: "My dear, dear child!" Then Betty gave
her a great hug, and Nell flew about them like a happy bird. Colonel
Zane's face was pale, and wore a clouded, stern expression. She smiled
timidly at him through her tears. "Well! well! well!" he mused, while
his gaze softened. That was all he said; but he took her hand and held
it while he turned to Jonathan.

The borderman leaned on his long rifle, regarding him with expectant
eyes.

"Well, Jack, you missed a little scrimmage this morning. Wetzel got in
at daybreak. The storm and horses held him up on the other side of the
river until daylight. He told me of your suspicions, with the
additional news that he'd found a fresh Indian trail on the island
just across from the inn. We went down not expecting to find any one
awake; but Metzar was hurriedly packing some of his traps. Half a
dozen men were there, having probably stayed all night. That little
English cuss was one of them, and another, an ugly fellow, a stranger
to us, but evidently a woodsman. Things looked bad. Metzar told a
decidedly conflicting story. Wetzel and I went outside to talk over
the situation, with the result that I ordered him to clean out
the place."

Here Colonel Zane paused to indulge in a grim, meaning laugh.

"Well, he cleaned out the place all right. The ugly stranger got
rattlesnake-mad, and yanked out a big knife. Sam is hitching up the
team now to haul what's left of him up on the hillside. Metzar
resisted arrest, and got badly hurt. He's in the guardhouse. Case, who
has been drunk for a week, got in Wetzel's way and was kicked into the
middle of next week. He's been spitting blood for the last hour, but I
guess he's not much hurt. Brandt flew the coop last night. Wetzel
found this hid in his room."

Colonel Zane took a long, feathered arrow from where it lay on a
bench, and held it out to Jonathan.

"The Shawnee signal! Wetzel had it right," muttered the borderman.

"Exactly. Lew found where the arrow struck in the wall of Brandt's
room. It was shot from the island at the exact spot where Lew came to
an end of the Indian's trail in the water."

"That Shawnee got away from us."

"So Lew said. Well, he's gone now. So is Brandt. We're well rid of the
gang, if only we never hear of them again."

The borderman shook his head. During the colonel's recital his face
changed. The dark eyes had become deadly; the square jaw was shut, the
lines of the cheek had grown tense, and over his usually expressive
countenance had settled a chill, lowering shade.

"Lew thinks Brandt's in with Bing Legget. Well, d— his black
traitor heart! He's a good man for the worst and strongest gang that
ever tracked the border."

The borderman was silent; but the furtive, restless shifting of his
eyes over the river and island, hill and valley, spoke more plainly
than words.

"You're to take his trail at once," added Colonel Zane. "I had Bess
put you up some bread, meat and parched corn. No doubt you'll have a
long, hard tramp. Good luck."

The borderman went into the cabin, presently emerging with a buckskin
knapsack strapped to his shoulder. He set off eastward with a long,
swinging stride.

The women had taken Helen within the house where, no doubt, they could
discuss with greater freedom the events of the previous day.

"Sheppard," said Colonel Zane, turning with a sparkle in his eyes.
"Brandt was after Helen sure as a bad weed grows fast. And certain as
death Jonathan and Wetzel will see him cold and quiet back in the
woods. That's a border saying, and it means a good deal. I never saw
Wetzel so implacable, nor Jonathan so fatally cold but once, and that
was when Miller, another traitor, much like Brandt, tried to make away
with Betty. It would have chilled your blood to see Wetzel go at that
fool this morning. Why did he want to pull a knife on the borderman?
It was a sad sight. Well, these things are justifiable. We must
protect ourselves, and above all our women. We've had bad men, and a
bad man out here is something you cannot yet appreciate, come here and
slip into the life of the settlement, because on the border you can
never tell what a man is until he proves himself. There have been
scores of criminals spread over the frontier, and some better men,
like Simon Girty, who were driven to outlaw life. Simon must not be
confounded with Jim Girty, absolutely the most fiendish desperado who
ever lived. Why, even the Indians feared Jim so much that after his
death his skeleton remained unmolested in the glade where he was
killed. The place is believed to be haunted now, by all Indians and
many white hunters, and I believe the bones stand there yet."

"Stand?" asked Sheppard, deeply interested.

"Yes, it stands where Girty stood and died, upright against a tree,
pinned, pinned there by a big knife."

"Heavens, man! Who did it?" Sheppard cried in horror.

Again Colonel Zane's laugh, almost metallic, broke grimly from his
lips.

"Who? Why, Wetzel, of course. Lew hunted Jim Girty five long years.
When he caught him—God! I'll tell you some other time. Jonathan saw
Wetzel handle Jim and his pal, Deering, as if they were mere boys.
Well, as I said, the border has had, and still has, its bad men. Simon
Girty took McKee and Elliott, the Tories, from Fort Pitt, when he
deserted, and ten men besides. They're all, except those who are dead,
outlaws of the worst type. The other bad men drifted out here from
Lord only knows where. They're scattered all over. Simon Girty, since
his crowning black deed, the massacre of the Christian Indians, is in
hiding. Bing Legget now has the field. He's a hard nut, a cunning
woodsman, and capable leader who surrounds himself with only the most
desperate Indians and renegades. Brandt is an agent of Legget's and
I'll bet we'll hear from him again."