Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Yes, Lew, please come and shoot for me.”

  It was said of Wetzel that he never wasted powder. He never entered into the races and shooting-matches of the settlers, yet it was well known that he was the fleetest runner and the most unerring shot on the frontier. Therefore, it was with surprise and pleasure that Col. Zane heard the hunter say he guessed he would like one shot anyway.

  Miller looked on with a grim smile. He knew that, Wetzel or no Wetzel, it would take a remarkably clever shot to beat his.

  “This shot’s for Betty,” said Wetzel as he stepped to the mark. He fastened his keen eyes on the stake. At that distance the head of the nail looked like a tiny black speck. Wetzel took one of the locks of hair that waved over his broad shoulders and held it up in front of his eyes a moment. He thus ascertained that there was not any perceptible breeze. The long black barrel started slowly to rise — it seemed to the interested onlookers that it would never reach a level and when, at last, it became rigid, there was a single second in which man and rifle appeared as if carved out of stone. Then followed a burst of red flame, a puff of white smoke, a clear ringing report.

  Many thought the hunter had missed altogether. It seemed that the nail had not changed its position; there was no bullet hole in the white lime wash that had been smeared round the nail. But on close inspection the nail was found to have been driven to its head in the wood.

  “A wonderful shot!” exclaimed Col. Zane. “Lewis, I don’t remember having seen the like more than once or twice in my life.”

  Wetzel made no answer. He moved away to his former position and commenced to reload his rifle. Betty came running up to him, holding in her hand the prize bullet pouch.

  “Oh, Lew, if I dared I would kiss you. It pleases me more for you to have won my prize than if any one else had won it. And it was the finest, straightest shot ever made.”

  “Betty, it’s a little fancy for redskins, but it’ll be a keepsake,” answered Lewis, his eyes reflecting the bright smile on her face.

  Friendly rivalry in feats that called for strength, speed and daring was the diversion of the youth of that period, and the pioneers conducted this good-natured but spirited sport strictly on its merits. Each contestant strove his utmost to outdo his opponent. It was hardly to be expected that Alfred would carry off any of the laurels. Used as he had been to comparative idleness he was no match for the hardy lads who had been brought up and trained to a life of action, wherein a ten mile walk behind a plow, or a cord of wood chopped in a day, were trifles. Alfred lost in the foot-race and the sackrace, but by dint of exerting himself to the limit of his strength, he did manage to take one fall out of the best wrestler. He was content to stop here, and, throwing himself on the grass, endeavored to recover his breath. He felt happier today than for some time past. Twice during the afternoon he had met Betty’s eyes and the look he encountered there made his heart stir with a strange feeling of fear and hope. While he was ruminating on what had happened between Betty and himself he allowed his eyes to wander from one person to another. When his gaze alighted on Wetzel it became riveted there. The hunter’s attitude struck him as singular. Wetzel had his face half turned toward the boys romping near him and he leaned carelessly against a white oak tree. But a close observer would have seen, as Alfred did, that there was a certain alertness in that rigid and motionless figure. Wetzel’s eyes were fixed on the western end of the island. Almost involuntarily Alfred’s eyes sought the same direction. The western end of the island ran out into a long low point covered with briars, rushes and saw-grass. As Alfred directed his gaze along the water line of this point he distinctly saw a dark form flit from one bush to another. He was positive he had not been mistaken. He got up slowly and unconcernedly, and strolled over to Wetzel.

  “Wetzel, I saw an object just now,” he said in a low tone. “It was moving behind those bushes at the head of the island. I am not sure whether it was an animal or an Indian.”

  “Injuns. Go back and be natur’l like. Don’t say nothin’ and watch Miller,” whispered Wetzel.

  Much perturbed by the developments of the last few moments, and wondering what was going to happen, Alfred turned away. He had scarcely reached the others when he heard Betty’s voice raised in indignant protest.

  “I tell you I did swim my pony across the river,” cried Betty. “It was just even with that point and the river was higher than it is now.”

  “You probably overestimated your feat,” said Miller, with his disagreeable, doubtful smile. “I have seen the river so low that it could be waded, and then it would be a very easy matter to cross. But now your pony could not swim half the distance.”

  “I’ll show you,” answered Betty, her black eyes flashing. She put her foot in the stirrup and leaped on Madcap.

  “Now, Betty, don’t try that foolish ride again,” implored Mrs. Zane. “What do you care whether strangers believe or not? Eb, make her come back.”

  Col. Bane only laughed and made no attempt to detain Betty. He rather indulged her caprices.

  “Stop her!” cried Clarke.

  “Betty, where are you goin’?” said Wetzel, grabbing at Madcap’s bridle. But Betty was too quick for him. She avoided the hunter, and with a saucy laugh she wheeled the fiery little pony and urged her over the bank. Almost before any one could divine her purpose she had Madcap in the water up to her knees.

  “Betty, stop!” cried Wetzel.

  She paid no attention to his call. In another moment the pony would be off the shoal and swimming.

  “Stop! Turn back, Betty, or I’ll shoot the pony,” shouted Wetzel, and this time there was a ring of deadly earnestness in his voice. With the words he had cocked and thrown forward the long rifle.

  Betty heard, and in alarm she turned her pony. She looked up with great surprise and concern, for she knew Wetzel was not one to trifle.

  “For God’s sake!” exclaimed Colonel Zane, looking in amazement at the hunter’s face, which was now white and stern.

  “Why, Lew, you do not mean you would shoot Madcap?” said Betty, reproachfully, as she reached the shore.

  All present in that watching crowd were silent, awaiting the hunter’s answer. They felt that mysterious power which portends the revelation of strange events. Col. Zane and Jonathan knew the instant they saw Wetzel that something extraordinary was coming. His face had grown cold and gray; his lips were tightly compressed; his eyes dilated and shone with a peculiar lustre.

  “Where were you headin’ your pony?” asked Wetzel.

  “I wanted to reach that point where the water is shallow,” answered Betty.

  “That’s what I thought. Well, Betty, hostile Injuns are hidin’ and waitin’ fer you in them high rushes right where you were makin’ fer,” said Wetzel. Then he shouldered his rifle and walked rapidly away.

  “Oh, he cannot be serious!” cried Betty. “Oh, how foolish am I.”

  “Get back up from the river, everybody,” commanded Col. Zane.

  “Col. Zane,” said Clarke, walking beside the Colonel up the bank, “I saw Wetzel watching the island in a manner that I thought odd, under the circumstances, and I watched too. Presently I saw a dark form dart behind a bush. I went over and told Wetzel, and he said there were Indians on the island.”

  “This is most d — n strange,” said Col. Zane, frowning heavily. “Wetzel’s suspicions, Miller turns up, teases Betty attempting that foolhardy trick, and then — Indians! It may be a coincidence, but it looks bad.”

  “Col. Zane, don’t you think Wetzel may be mistaken?” said Miller, coming up. “I came over from the other side this morning and I did not see any Indian sign. Probably Wetzel has caused needless excitement.”

  “It does not follow that because you came from over the river there are no Indians there,” answered Col. Zane, sharply. “Do you presume to criticise Wetzel’s judgment?”

  “I saw an Indian!” cried Clarke, facing Miller with blazing eyes. “And if you say I did not, you lie! What is more, I b
elieve you know more than any one else about it. I watched you. I saw you were uneasy and that you looked across the river from time to time. Perhaps you had better explain to Col. Zane the reason you taunted his sister into attempting that ride.”

  With a snarl more like that of a tiger than of a human being, Miller sprang at Clarke. His face was dark with malignant hatred, as he reached for and drew an ugly knife. There were cries of fright from the children and screams from the women. Alfred stepped aside with the wonderful quickness of the trained boxer and shot out his right arm. His fist caught Miller a hard blow on the head, knocking him down and sending the knife flying in the air.

  It had all happened so quickly that everyone was as if paralyzed. The settlers stood still and watched Miller rise slowly to his feet.

  “Give me my knife!” he cried hoarsely. The knife had fallen at the feet of Major McColloch, who had concealed it with his foot.

  “Let this end right here,” ordered Col. Zane. “Clarke, you have made a very strong statement. Have you anything to substantiate your words?”

  “I think I have,” said Clarke. He was standing erect, his face white and his eyes like blue steel. “I knew him at Ft. Pitt. He was a liar and a drunkard there. He was a friend of the Indians and of the British. What he was there he must be here. It was Wetzel who told me to watch him. Wetzel and I both think he knew the Indians were on the island.”

  “Col. Zane, it is false,” said Miller, huskily. “He is trying to put you against me. He hates me because your sister—”

  “You cur!” cried Clarke, striking at Miller. Col. Zane struck up the infuriated young man’s arm.

  “Give us knives, or anything,” panted Clarke.

  “Yes, let us fight it out now,” said Miller.

  “Capt. Boggs, take Clarke to the block-house. Make him stay there if you have to lock him up,” commanded Col. Zane. “Miller, as for you, I cannot condemn you without proof. If I knew positively that there were Indians on the island and that you were aware of it, you would be a dead man in less time than it takes to say it. I will give you the benefit of the doubt and twenty-four hours to leave the Fort.”

  The villagers dispersed and went to their homes. They were inclined to take Clarke’s side. Miller had become disliked. His drinking habits and his arrogant and bold manner had slowly undermined the friendships he had made during the early part of his stay at Ft. Henry; while Clarke’s good humor and willingness to help any one, his gentleness with the children, and his several acts of heroism had strengthened their regard.

  “Jonathan, this looks like some of Girty’s work. I wish I knew the truth,” said Col. Zane, as he, his brothers and Betty and Myeerah entered the house. “Confound it! We can’t have even one afternoon of enjoyment. I must see Lewis. I cannot be sure of Clarke. He is evidently bitter against Miller. That would have been a terrible fight. Those fellows have had trouble before, and I am afraid we have not seen the last of their quarrel.”

  “If they meet again — but how can you keep them apart?” said Silas. “If Miller leaves the Fort without killing Clarke he’ll hide around in the woods and wait for a chance to shoot him.”

  “Not with Wetzel here,” answered Col. Zane. “Betty, do you see what your—” he began, turning to his sister, but when he saw her white and miserable face he said no more.

  “Don’t mind, Betts. It wasn’t any fault of yours,” said Isaac, putting his arm tenderly round the trembling girl. “I for another believe Clarke was right when he said Miller knew there were Indians over the river. It looks like a plot to abduct you. Have no fear for Alfred. He can take care of himself. He showed that pretty well.”

  An hour later Clarke had finished his supper and was sitting by his window smoking his pipe. His anger had cooled somewhat and his reflections were not of the pleasantest kind. He regretted that he lowered himself so far as to fight with a man little better than an outlaw. Still there was a grim satisfaction in the thought of the blow he had given Miller. He remembered he had asked for a knife and that his enemy and he be permitted to fight to the death. After all to have ended, then and there, the feud between them would have been the better course; for he well knew Miller’s desperate character, that he had killed more than one white man, and that now a fair fight might not be possible. Well, he thought, what did it matter? He was not going to worry himself. He did not care much, one way or another. He had no home; he could not make one without the woman he loved. He was a Soldier of Fortune; he was at the mercy of Fate, and he would drift along and let what came be welcome. A soft footfall on the stairs and a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

  “Come in,” he said.

  The door opened and Wetzel strode into the room.

  “I come over to say somethin’ to you,” said the hunter taking the chair by the window and placing his rifle over his knee.

  “I will be pleased to listen or talk, as you desire,” said Alfred.

  “I don’t mind tellin’ you that the punch you give Miller was what he deserved. If he and Girty didn’t hatch up that trick to ketch Betty, I don’t know nothin’. But we can’t prove nothin’ on him yet. Mebbe he knew about the redskins; mebbe he didn’t. Personally, I think he did. But I can’t kill a white man because I think somethin’. I’d have to know fer sure. What I want to say is to put you on your guard against the baddest man on the river.”

  “I am aware of that,” answered Alfred. “I knew his record at Ft. Pitt. What would you have me do?”

  “Keep close till he’s gone.”

  “That would be cowardly.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. He’d shoot you from behind some tree or cabin.”

  “Well, I’m much obliged to you for your kind advice, but for all that I won’t stay in the house,” said Alfred, beginning to wonder at the hunter’s earnest manner.

  “You’re in love with Betty, ain’t you?”

  The question came with Wetzel’s usual bluntness and it staggered Alfred. He could not be angry, and he did not know what to say. The hunter went on:

  “You needn’t say so, because I know it. And I know she loves you and that’s why I want you to look out fer Miller.”

  “My God! man, you’re crazy,” said Alfred, laughing scornfully. “She cares nothing for me.”

  “That’s your great failin’, young feller. You fly off’en the handle too easy. And so does Betty. You both care fer each other and are unhappy about it. Now, you don’t know Betty, and she keeps misunderstandin’ you.”

  “For Heaven’s sake! Wetzel, if you know anything tell me. Love her? Why, the words are weak! I love her so well that an hour ago I would have welcomed death at Miller’s hands only to fall and die at her feet defending her. Your words set me on fire. What right have you to say that? How do you know?”

  The hunter leaned forward and put his hand on Alfred’s shoulder. On his pale face was that sublime light which comes to great souls when they give up a life long secret, or when they sacrifice what is best beloved. His broad chest heaved: his deep voice trembled.

  “Listen. I’m not a man fer words, and it’s hard to tell. Betty loves you. I’ve carried her in my arms when she was a baby. I’ve made her toys and played with her when she was a little girl. I know all her moods. I can read her like I do the moss, and the leaves, and the bark of the forest. I’ve loved her all my life. That’s why I know she loves you. I can feel it. Her happiness is the only dear thing left on earth fer me. And that’s why I’m your friend.”

  In the silence that followed his words the door opened and closed and he was gone.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Betty awoke with a start. She was wide awake in a second. The moonbeams came through the leaves of the maple tree near her window and cast fantastic shadows on the wall of her room. Betty lay quiet, watching the fairy-like figures on the wall and listening intently. What had awakened her? The night was still; the crow of a cock in the distance proclaimed that the hour of dawn was near at hand. She waited for T
ige’s bark under her window, or Sam’s voice, or the kicking and trampling of horses in the barn — sounds that usually broke her slumbers in the morning. But no such noises were forthcoming. Suddenly she heard a light, quick tap, tap, and then a rattling in the corner. It was like no sound but that made by a pebble striking the floor, bounding and rolling across the room. There it was again. Some one was tossing stones in at her window. She slipped out of bed, ran, and leaned on the window-sill and looked out. The moon was going down behind the hill, but there was light enough for her to distinguish objects. She saw a dark figure crouching by the fence.

  “Who is it?” said Betty, a little frightened, but more curious.

  “Sh-h-h, it’s Miller,” came the answer, spoken in low voice.

  The bent form straightened and stood erect. It stepped forward under Betty’s window. The light was dim, but Betty recognized the dark face of Miller. He carried a rifle in his hand and a pack on his shoulder.

  “Go away, or I’ll call my brother. I will not listen to you,” said Betty, making a move to leave the window.

  “Sh-h-h, not so loud,” said Miller, in a quick, hoarse whisper. “You’d better listen. I am going across the border to join Girty. He is going to bring the Indians and the British here to burn the settlement. If you will go away with me I’ll save the lives of your brothers and their families. I have aided Girty and I have influence with him. If you won’t go you’ll be taken captive and you’ll see all your friends and relatives scalped and burned. Quick, your answer.”

  “Never, traitor! Monster! I’d be burned at the stake before I’d go a step with you!” cried Betty.

  “Then remember that you’ve crossed a desperate man. If you escape the massacre you will beg on your knees to me. This settlement is doomed. Now, go to your white-faced lover. You’ll find him cold. Ha! Ha! Ha!” and with a taunting laugh he leaped the fence and disappeared in the gloom.

  Betty sank to the floor stunned, horrified. She shuddered at the malignity expressed in Miller’s words. How had she ever been deceived in him? He was in league with Girty. At heart he was a savage, a renegade. Betty went over his words, one by one.