by Zane Grey
“Wetzel, Bennet, Clarke!” yelled Silas, as he laid the boy on the bench.
Almost as Silas spoke the tall form of the hunter confronted him. Clarke and the other men were almost as prompt.
“Wetzel, run to the south wall. The Indians are cutting a hole through the fence.”
Wetzel turned, grabbed his rifle and an axe and was gone like a flash.
“Sullivan, you handle the men here. Bessie, do what you can for this brave lad. Come, Bennet, Clarke, we must follow Wetzel,” commanded Silas.
Mrs. Zane hastened to the side of the fainting lad. She washed away the blood from the wound over his temple. She saw that a bullet had glanced on the bone and that the wound was not deep or dangerous. She unlaced the hunting shirt at the neck and pulled the flaps apart. There on the right breast, on a line with the apex of the lung, was a horrible gaping wound. A murderous British slug had passed through the lad. From the hole at every heart-beat poured the dark, crimson life-tide. Mrs. Zane turned her white face away for a second; then she folded a small piece of linen, pressed it tightly over the wound, and wrapped a towel round the lad’s breast.
“Don’t waste time on me. It’s all over,” he whispered. “Will you call Betty here a minute?”
Betty came, white-faced and horror-stricken. For forty hours she had been living in a maze of terror. Her movements had almost become mechanical. She had almost ceased to hear and feel. But the light in the eyes of this dying boy brought her back to the horrible reality of the present.
“Oh, Harry! Harry! Harry!” was all Betty could whisper.
“I’m goin’, Betty. And I wanted—you to say a little prayer for me—and say good-bye to me,” he panted.
Betty knelt by the bench and tried to pray.
“I hated to run, Betty, but I waited and waited and nobody came, and the Injuns was getting’ in. They’ll find dead Injuns in piles out there. I was shootin’ fer you, Betty, and every time I aimed I thought of you.”
The lad rambled on, his voice growing weaker and weaker and finally ceasing. The hand which had clasped Betty’s so closely loosened its hold. His eyes closed. Betty thought he was dead, but no! he still breathed. Suddenly his eyes opened. The shadow of pain was gone. In its place shone a beautiful radiance.
“Betty, I’ve cared a lot for you—and I’m dyin’—happy because I’ve fought fer you—and somethin’ tells me—you’ll—be saved. Good-bye.” A smile transformed his face and his gray eyes gazed steadily into hers. Then his head fell back. With a sigh his brave spirit fled.
Hugh Bennet looked once at the pale face of his son, then he ran down the stairs after Silas and Clarke. When the three men emerged from behind Capt. Boggs’ cabin, which was adjacent to the block-house, and which hid the south wall from their view, they were two hundred feet from Wetzel. They heard the heavy thump of a log being rammed against the fence; then a splitting and splintering of one of the six-inch oak planks. Another and another smashing blow and the lower half of one of the planks fell inwards, leaving an aperture large enough to admit an Indian. The men dashed forward to the assistance of Wetzel, who stood by the hole with upraised axe. At the same moment a shot rang out. Bennet stumbled and fell headlong. An Indian had shot through the hole in the fence. Silas and Alfred sheered off toward the fence, out of line. When within twenty yards of Wetzel they saw a swarthy-faced and athletic savage squeeze through the narrow crevice. He had not straightened up before the axe, wielded by the giant hunter, descended on his head, cracking his skull as if it were an eggshell. The savage sank to the earth without even a moan. Another savage naked and powerful, slipped in. He had to stoop to get through. He raised himself, and seeing Wetzel, he tried to dodge the lightning sweep of the axe. It missed his head, at which it had been aimed, but struck just over the shoulders, and buried itself in flesh and bone. The Indian uttered an agonizing yell which ended in a choking, gurgling sound as the blood spurted from his throat. Wetzel pulled the weapon from the body of his victim, and with the same motion he swung it around. This time the blunt end met the next Indian’s head with a thud like that made by the butcher when he strikes the bullock to the ground. The Indian’s rifle dropped, his tomahawk flew into the air, while his body rolled down the little embankment into the spring. Another and another Indian met the same fate. Then two Indians endeavored to get through the aperture. The awful axe swung by those steel arms, dispatched both of than in the twinkling of an eye. Their bodies stuck in the hole.
Silas and Alfred stood riveted to the spot. Just then Wetzel in all his horrible glory was a sight to freeze the marrow of any man. He had cast aside his hunting shirt in that run to the fence and was now stripped to the waist. He was covered with blood. The muscles of his broad back and his brawny arms swelled and rippled under the brown skin. At every swing of the gory axe he let out a yell the like of which had never before been heard by the white men. It was the hunter’s mad yell of revenge. In his thirst for vengeance he had forgotten that he was defending the Fort with its women and its children; he was fighting because he loved to kill.
Silas Zane heard the increasing clamor outside and knew that hundreds of Indians were being drawn to the spot. Something must be done at once. He looked around and his eyes fell on a pile of white-oak logs that had been hauled inside the Fort. They had been placed there by Col. Zane, with wise forethought. Silas grabbed Clarke and pulled him toward the pile of logs, at the same time communicating his plan. Together they carried a log to the fence and dropped it in front of the hole. Wetzel immediately stepped on it and took a vicious swing at an Indian who was trying to poke his rifle sideways through the hole. This Indian had discharged his weapon twice. While Wetzel held the Indians at bay, Silas and Clarke piled the logs one upon another, until the hole was closed. This effectually fortified and barricaded the weak place in the stockade fence. The settlers in the bastions were now pouring such a hot fire into the ranks of the savage that they were compelled to retreat out of range.
While Wetzel washed the blood from his arms and his shoulders Silas and Alfred hurried back to where Bennet had fallen. They expected to find him dead, and were overjoyed to see the big settler calmly sitting by the brook binding up a wound in his shoulder.
“It’s nothin’ much. Jest a scratch, but it tumbled me over,” he said. “I was comin’ to help you. That was the wust Injun scrap I ever saw. Why didn’t you keep on lettin’ ’em come in? The red varmints would’a kept on comin’ and Wetzel was good fer the whole tribe. All you’d had to do was to drag the dead Injuns aside and give him elbow room.”
Wetzel joined them at this moment, and they hurried back to the block-house. The firing had ceased on the bluff. They met Sullivan at the steps of the Fort. He was evidently coming in search of them.
“Zane, the Indians and the Britishers are getting ready for more determined and persistent effort than any that has yet been made,” said Sullivan.
“How so?” asked Silas.
“They have got hammers from the blacksmith’s shop, and they boarded my boat and found a keg of nails. Now they are making a number of ladders. If they make a rush all at once and place ladders against the fence we’ll have the Fort full of Indians in ten minutes. They can’t stand in the face of a cannon charge. We must use the cannon.”
“Clarke, go into Capt. Boggs’ cabin and fetch out two kegs of powder,” said Silas.
The young man turned in the direction of the cabin, while Silas and the others ascended the stairs.
“The firing seems to be all on the south side,” said Silas, “and is not so heavy as it was.”
“Yes, as I said, the Indians on the river front are busy with their new plans,” answered Sullivan.
“Why does not Clarke return?” said Silas, after waiting a few moments at the door of the long room. “We have no time to lose. I want to divide one keg of that powder among the men.”
Clarke appeared at the moment. He was breathing heavily as though he had run up the stairs, or was laboring under a powe
rful emotion. His face was gray.
“I could not find any powder!” he exclaimed. “I searched every nook and corner in Capt. Boggs’ house. There is no powder there.”
A brief silence ensued. Everyone in the block-house heard the young man’s voice. No one moved. They all seemed waiting for someone to speak. Finally Silas Zane burst out:
“Not find it? You surely could not have looked well. Capt. Boggs himself told me there were three kegs of powder in the storeroom. I will go and find it myself.”
Alfred did not answer, but sat down on a bench with an odd numb feeling round his heart. He knew what was coming. He had been in the Captain’s house and had seen those kegs of powder. He knew exactly where they had been. Now they were not on the accustomed shelf, nor at any other place in the storeroom. While he sat there waiting for the awful truth to dawn on the garrison, his eyes roved from one end of the room to the other. At last they found what they were seeking. A young woman knelt before a charcoal fire which she was blowing with a bellows. It was Betty. Her face was pale and weary, her hair dishevelled, her shapely arms blackened with charcoal, but notwithstanding she looked calm, resolute, self-contained. Lydia was kneeling by her side holding a bullet-mould on a block of wood. Betty lifted the ladle from the red coals and poured the hot metal with a steady hand and an admirable precision. Too much or too little lead would make an imperfect ball. The little missile had to be just so for those soft-metal, smooth-bore rifles. Then Lydia dipped the mould in a bucket of water, removed it and knocked it on the floor. A small, shiny lead bullet rolled out. She rubbed it with a greasy rag and then dropped it in a jar. For nearly forty hours, without sleep or rest, almost without food, those brave girls had been at their post.
Silas Zane came running into the room. His face was ghastly, even his lips were white and drawn.
“Sullivan, in God’s name, what can we do? The powder is gone!” he cried in a strident voice.
“Gone?” repeated several voices.
“Gone?” echoed Sullivan. “Where?”
“God knows. I found where the kegs stood a few days ago. There were marks in the dust. They have been moved.”
“Perhaps Boggs put them here somewhere,” said Sullivan. “We will look.”
“No use. No use. We were always careful to keep the powder out of here on account of fire. The kegs are gone, gone.”
“Miller stole them,” said Wetzel in his calm voice.
“What difference does that make now?” burst out Silas, turning passionately on the hunter, whose quiet voice in that moment seemed so unfeeling. “They’re gone!”
In the silence which ensued after these words the men looked at each other with slowly whitening faces. There was no need of words. Their eyes told one another what was coming. The fate which had overtaken so many border forts was to be theirs. They were lost! And every man thought not of himself, cared not for himself, but for those innocent children, those brave young girls and heroic women.
A man can die. He is glorious when he calmly accepts death; but when he fights like a tiger, when he stands at bay his back to the wall, a broken weapon in his hand, bloody, defiant, game to the end, then he is sublime. Then he wrings respect from the souls of even his bitterest foes. Then he is avenged even in his death.
But what can women do in times of war? They help, they cheer, they inspire, and if their cause is lost they must accept death or worse. Few women have the courage for self-destruction. “To the victor belong the spoils,” and women have ever been the spoils of war.
No wonder Silas Zane and his men weakened in that moment. With only a few charges for their rifles and none for the cannon how could they hope to hold out against the savages? Alone they could have drawn their tomahawks and have made a dash through the lines of Indians, but with the women and the children that was impossible.
“Wetzel, what can we do? For God’s sake, advise us!” said Silas hoarsely. “We cannot hold the Fort without powder. We cannot leave the women here. We had better tomahawk every woman in the block-house than let her fall into the hands of Girty.”
“Send someone fer powder,” answered Wetzel.
“Do you think it possible,” said Silas quickly, a ray of hope lighting up his haggard features. “There’s plenty of powder in Eb’s cabin. Whom shall we send? Who will volunteer?”
Three men stepped forward, and others made a movement.
“They’d plug a man full of lead afore he’d get ten foot from the gate,” said Wetzel. “I’d go myself, but it wouldn’t do no good. Send a boy, and one as can run like a streak.”
“There are no lads big enough to carry a keg of powder. Harry Bennett might go,” said Silas. “How is he, Bessie?”
“He is dead,” answered Mrs. Zane.
Wetzel made a motion with his hands and turned away. A short, intense silence followed this indication of hopelessness from him. The women understood, for some of them covered their faces, while others sobbed.
“I will go.”
It was Betty’s voice, and it rang clear and vibrant throughout the room. The miserable women raised their drooping heads, thrilled by that fresh young voice. The men looked stupefied. Clarke seemed turned to stone. Wetzel came quickly toward her.
“Impossible!” said Sullivan.
Silas Zane shook his head as if the idea were absurd.
“Let me go, brother, let me go?” pleaded Betty as she placed her little hands softly, caressingly on her brother’s bare arm. “I know it is only a forlorn chance, but still it is a chance. Let me take it. I would rather die that way than remain here and wait for death.”
“Silas, it ain’t a bad plan,” broke in Wetzel. “Betty can run like a deer. And bein’ a woman they may let her get to the cabin without shootin’.”
Silas stood with arms folded across his broad chest. As he gazed at his sister great tears coursed down his dark cheeks and splashed on the hands which so tenderly clasped his own. Betty stood before him transformed; all signs of weariness had vanished; her eyes shone with a fateful resolve; her white and eager face was surpassingly beautiful with its light of hope, of prayer, of heroism.
“Let me go, brother. You know I can run, and oh! I will fly today. Every moment is precious. Who knows? Perhaps Capt. Boggs is already near at hand with help. You cannot spare a man. Let me go.”
“Betty, Heaven bless and save you, you shall go,” said Silas.
“No! No! Do not let her go!” cried Clarke, throwing himself before them. He was trembling, his eyes were wild, and he had the appearance of a man suddenly gone mad.
“She shall not go,” he cried.
“What authority have you here?” demanded Silas Zane, sternly. “What right have you to speak?”
“None, unless it is that I love her and I will go for her,” answered Alfred desperately.
“Stand back!” cried Wetzel, placing his powerful hard on Clarke’s breast and pushing him backward. “If you love her you don’t want to have her wait here for them red devils,” and he waved his hand toward the river. “If she gets back she’ll save the Fort. If she fails she’ll at least escape Girty.”
Betty gazed into the hunter’s eyes and then into Alfred’s. She understood both men. One was sending her out to her death because he knew it would be a thousand times more merciful than the fate which awaited her at the hands of the Indians. The other had not the strength to watch her go to her death. He had offered himself rather than see her take such fearful chances.
“I know. If it were possible you would both save me,” said Betty, simply. “Now you can do nothing but pray that God may spare my life long enough to reach the gate. Silas, I am ready.”
Downstairs a little group of white-faced men were standing before the gateway. Silas Zane had withdrawn the iron bar. Sullivan stood ready to swing in the ponderous gate. Wetzel was speaking with a clearness and a rapidity which were wonderful under the circumstances.
“When we let you out you’ll have a clear path. Run, but not very f
ast. Save your speed. Tell the Colonel to empty a keg of powder in a table cloth. Throw it over your shoulder and start back. Run like you was racin’ with me, and keep on comin’ if you do get hit. Now go!”
The huge gate creaked and swung in. Betty ran out, looking straight before her. She had covered half the distance between the Fort and the Colonel’s house when long taunting yells filled the air.
“Squaw! Waugh! Squaw! Waugh!” yelled the Indians in contempt.
Not a shot did they fire. The yells ran all along the river front, showing that hundreds of Indians had seen the slight figure running up the gentle slope toward the cabin.
Betty obeyed Wetzel’s instructions to the letter. She ran easily and not at all hurriedly, and was as cool as if there had not been an Indian within miles.
Col. Zane had seen the gate open and Betty come forth. When she bounded up the steps he flung open that door and she ran into his arms.
“Betts, for God’s sake! What’s this?” he cried.
“We are out of powder. Empty a keg of powder into a table cloth. Quick! I’ve not a second to lose,” she answered, at the same time slipping off her outer skirt. She wanted nothing to hinder that run for the block-house.
Jonathan Zane heard Betty’s first words and disappeared into the magazine-room. He came out with a keg in his arms. With one blow of an axe he smashed in the top of the keg. In a twinkling a long black stream of the precious stuff was piling up in a little hill in the center of the table. Then the corners of the table cloth were caught up, turned and twisted, and the bag of powder was thrown over Betty’s shoulder.
“Brave girl, so help me God, you are going to do it!” cried Col. Zane, throwing open the door. “I know you can. Run as you never ran in all your life.”
Like an arrow sprung from a bow Betty flashed past the Colonel and out on the green. Scarcely ten of the long hundred yards had been covered by her flying feet when a roar of angry shouts and yells warned Betty that the keen-eyed savages saw the bag of powder and now knew they had been deceived by a girl. The cracking of rifles began at a point on the bluff nearest Col. Zane’s house, and extended in a half circle to the eastern end of the clearing. The leaden messengers of Death whistled past Betty. They sped before her and behind her, scattering pebbles in her path, striking up the dust, and ploughing little furrows in the ground. A quarter of the distance covered! Betty had passed the top of the knoll now and she was going down the gentle slope like the wind. None but a fine marksman could have hit that small, flitting figure. The yelling and screeching had become deafening. The reports of the rifles blended in a roar. Yet above it all Betty heard Wetzel’s stentorian yell. It lent wings to her feet. Half the distance covered! A hot, stinging pain shot through Betty’s arm, but she heeded it not. The bullets were raining about her. They sang over her head; hissed close to her ears, and cut the grass in front of her; they pattered like hail on the stockade-fence, but still untouched, unharmed, the slender brown figure sped toward the gate. Three-fourths of the distance covered! A tug at the flying hair, and a long, black tress cut off by a bullet, floated away on the breeze. Betty saw the big gate swing; she saw the tall figure of the hunter; she saw her brother. Only a few more yards! On! On! On! A blinding red mist obscured her sight. She lost the opening in the fence, but unheeding she rushed on. Another second and she stumbled; she felt herself grasped by eager arms; she heard the gate slam and the iron bar shoot into place; then she felt and heard no more.