by Zane Grey
“Come, Jim, I’ll take you to Mr. Wells.”
They stated across the little square, while Mose went back under the wagon; but at a word from Joe he bounded after them, trotting contentedly at their heels. Half way to the cabins a big, raw-boned teamster, singing in a drunken voice, came staggering toward them. Evidently he had just left the group of people who had gathered near the Indians.
“I didn’t expect to see drunkenness out here,” said Jim, in a low tone.
“There’s lots of it. I saw that fellow yesterday when he couldn’t walk. Wentz told me he was a bad customer.”
The teamster, his red face bathed in perspiration, and his sleeves rolled up, showing brown, knotty arms, lurched toward them. As they met he aimed a kick at the dog; but Mose leaped nimbly aside, avoiding the heavy boot. He did not growl, nor show his teeth; but the great white head sank forward a little, and the lithe body crouched for a spring.
“Don’t touch that dog; he’ll tear your leg off!” Joe cried sharply.
“Say, pard, cum an’ hev’ a drink,” replied the teamster, with a friendly leer.
“I don’t drink,” answered Joe, curtly, and moved on.
The teamster growled something of which only the word “parson” was intelligible to the brothers. Joe stopped and looked back. His gray eyes seemed to contract; they did not flash, but shaded and lost their warmth. Jim saw the change, and, knowing what it signified, took Joe’s arm as he gently urged him away. The teamster’s shrill voice could be heard until they entered the fur-trader’s cabin.
An old man with long, white hair flowing from beneath his wide-brimmed hat, sat near the door holding one of Mrs. Wentz’s children on his knee. His face was deep-lined and serious; but kindness shone from his mild blue eyes.
“Mr. Wells, this is my brother James. He is a preacher, and has come in place of the man you expected from Williamsburg.”
The old minister arose, and extended his hand, gazing earnestly at the new-comer meanwhile. Evidently he approved of what he saw in his quick scrutiny of the other’s face, for his lips were wreathed with a smile of welcome.
“Mr. Downs, I am glad to meet you, and to know you will go with me. I thank God I shall take into the wilderness one who is young enough to carry on the work when my days are done.”
“I will make it my duty to help you in whatsoever way lies in my power,” answered Jim, earnestly.
“We have a great work before us. I have heard many scoffers who claim that it is worse than folly to try to teach these fierce savages Christianity; but I know it can be done, and my heart is in the work. I have no fear; yet I would not conceal from you, young man, that the danger of going among these hostile Indians must be great.”
“I will not hesitate because of that. My sympathy is with the redman. I have had an opportunity of studying Indian nature and believe the race inherently noble. He has been driven to make war, and I want to help him into other paths.”
Joe left the two ministers talking earnestly and turned toward Mrs. Wentz. The fur-trader’s wife was glowing with pleasure. She held in her hand several rude trinkets, and was explaining to her listener, a young woman, that the toys were for the children, having been brought all the way from Williamsburg.
“Kate, where’s Nell?” Joe asked of the girl.
“She went on an errand for Mrs. Wentz.”
Kate Wells was the opposite of her sister. Her motions were slow, easy and consistent with her large, full, form. Her brown eyes and hair contrasted sharply with Nell’s. The greatest difference in the sisters lay in that Nell’s face was sparkling and full of the fire of her eager young life, while Kate’s was calm, like the unruffled surface of a deep lake.
“That’s Jim, my brother. We’re going with you,” said Joe.
“Are you? I’m glad,” answered the girl, looking at the handsome earnest face of the young minister.
“Your brother’s like you for all the world,” whispered Mrs. Wentz.
“He does look like you,” said Kate, with her slow smile.
“Which means you think, or hope, that that is all,” retorted Joe laughingly. “Well, Kate, there the resemblance ends, thank God for Jim!”
He spoke in a sad, bitter tone which caused both women to look at him wonderingly. Joe had to them ever been full of surprises; never until then had they seen evidences of sadness in his face. A moment’s silence ensued. Mrs. Wentz gazed lovingly at the children who were playing with the trinkets; while Kate mused over the young man’s remark, and began studying his, half-averted face. She felt warmly drawn to him by the strange expression in the glance he had given his brother. The tenderness in his eyes did not harmonize with much of this wild and reckless boy’s behavior. To Kate he had always seemed so bold, so cold, so different from other men, and yet here was proof that Master Joe loved his brother.
The murmured conversation of the two ministers was interrupted by a low cry from outside the cabin. A loud, coarse laugh followed, and then a husky voice:
“Hol’ on, my purty lass.”
Joe took two long strides, and was on the door-step. He saw Nell struggling violently in the grasp of the half-drunken teamster.
“I’ll jes’ hev’ to kiss this lassie fer luck,” he said in a tone of good humor.
At the same instant Joe saw three loungers laughing, and a fourth, the grizzled frontiersman, starting forward with a yell.
“Let me go!” cried Nell.
Just when the teamster had pulled her close to him, and was bending his red, moist face to hers, two brown, sinewy hands grasped his neck with an angry clutch. Deprived thus of breath, his mouth opened, his tongue protruded; his eyes seemed starting from their sockets, and his arms beat the air. Then he was lifted and flung with a crash against the cabin wall. Falling, he lay in a heap on the grass, while the blood flowed from a cut on his temple.
“What’s this?” cried a man, authoritatively. He had come swiftly up, and arrived at the scene where stood the grizzled frontiersman.
“It was purty handy, Wentz. I couldn’t hev’ did better myself, and I was comin’ for that purpose,” said the frontiersman. “Leffler was tryin’ to kiss the lass. He’s been drunk fer two days. That little girl’s sweetheart kin handle himself some, now you take my word on it.”
“I’ll agree Leff’s bad when he’s drinkin’,” answered the fur-trader, and to Joe he added, “He’s liable to look you up when he comes around.”
“Tell him if I am here when he gets sober, I’ll kill him,” Joe cried in a sharp voice. His gaze rested once more on the fallen teamster, and again an odd contraction of his eyes was noticeable. The glance was cutting, as if with the flash of cold gray steel. “Nell, I’m sorry I wasn’t round sooner,” he said, apologetically, as if it was owing to his neglect the affair had happened.
As they entered the cabin Nell stole a glance at him. This was the third time he had injured a man because of her. She had on several occasions seen that cold, steely glare in his eyes, and it had always frightened her. It was gone, however, before they were inside the building. He said something which she did not hear distinctly, and his calm voice allayed her excitement. She had been angry with him; but now she realized that her resentment had disappeared. He had spoken so kindly after the outburst. Had he not shown that he considered himself her protector and lover? A strange emotion, sweet and subtle as the taste of wine, thrilled her, while a sense of fear because of his strength was mingled with her pride in it. Any other girl would have been only too glad to have such a champion; she would, too, hereafter, for he was a man of whom to be proud.
“Look here, Nell, you haven’t spoken to me,” Joe cried suddenly, seeming to understand that she had not even heard what he said, so engrossed had she been with her reflections. “Are you mad with me yet?” he continued. “Why, Nell, I’m in—I love you!”
Evidently Joe thought such fact a sufficient reason for any act on his part. His tender tone conquered Nell, and she turned to him with flushed cheeks an
d glad eyes.
“I wasn’t angry at all,” she whispered, and then, eluding the arm he extended, she ran into the other room.
CHAPTER III.
Joe lounged in the doorway of the cabin, thoughtfully contemplating two quiet figures that were lying in the shade of a maple tree. One he recognized as the Indian with whom Jim had spent an earnest hour that morning; the red son of the woods was wrapped in slumber. He had placed under his head a many-hued homespun shirt which the young preacher had given him; but while asleep his head had rolled off this improvised pillow, and the bright garment lay free, attracting the eye. Certainly it had led to the train of thought which had found lodgment in Joe’s fertile brain.
The other sleeper was a short, stout man whom Joe had seen several times before. This last fellow did not appear to be well-balanced in his mind, and was the butt of the settlers’ jokes, while the children called him “Loorey.” He, like the Indian, was sleeping off the effects of the previous night’s dissipation.
During a few moments Joe regarded the recumbent figures with an expression on his face which told that he thought in them were great possibilities for sport. With one quick glance around he disappeared within the cabin, and when he showed himself at the door, surveying the village square with mirthful eyes, he held in his hand a small basket of Indian design. It was made of twisted grass, and simply contained several bits of soft, chalky stone such as the Indians used for painting, which collection Joe had discovered among the fur-trader’s wares.
He glanced around once more, and saw that all those in sight were busy with their work. He gave the short man a push, and chuckled when there was no response other than a lazy grunt. Joe took the Indians’ gaudy shirt, and, lifting Loorey, slipped it around him, shoved the latter’s arms through the sleeves, and buttoned it in front. He streaked the round face with red and white paint, and then, dexterously extracting the eagle plume from the Indian’s head-dress, stuck it in Loorey’s thick shock of hair. It was all done in a moment, after which Joe replaced the basket, and went down to the river.
Several times that morning he had visited the rude wharf where Jeff Lynn, the grizzled old frontiersman, busied himself with preparations for the raft-journey down the Ohio. Lynn had been employed to guide the missionary’s party to Fort Henry, and, as the brothers had acquainted him with their intention of accompanying the travelers, he had constructed a raft for them and their horses.
Joe laughed when he saw the dozen two-foot logs fastened together, upon which a rude shack had been erected for shelter. This slight protection from sun and storm was all the brothers would have on their long journey.
Joe noted, however, that the larger raft had been prepared with some thought for the comfort of the girls. The floor of the little hut was raised so that the waves which broke over the logs could not reach it. Taking a peep into the structure, Joe was pleased to see that Nell and Kate would be comfortable, even during a storm. A buffalo robe and two red blankets gave to the interior a cozy, warm look. He observed that some of the girls’ luggage was already on board.
“When’ll we be off?” he inquired.
“Sun-up,” answered Lynn, briefly.
“I’m glad of that. I like to be on the go in the early morning,” said Joe, cheerfully.
“Most folks from over Eastways ain’t in a hurry to tackle the river,” replied Lynn, eyeing Joe sharply.
“It’s a beautiful river, and I’d like to sail on it from here to where it ends, and then come back to go again,” Joe replied, warmly.
“In a hurry to be a-goin’? I’ll allow you’ll see some slim red devils, with feathers in their hair, slipping among the trees along the bank, and mebbe you’ll hear the ping which’s made when whistlin’ lead hits. Perhaps you’ll want to be back here by termorrer sundown.”
“Not I,” said Joe, with his short, cool laugh.
The old frontiersman slowly finished his task of coiling up a rope of wet cowhide, and then, producing a dirty pipe, he took a live ember from the fire and placed it on the bowl. He sucked slowly at the pipe-stem, and soon puffed out a great cloud of smoke. Sitting on a log, he deliberately surveyed the robust shoulders and long, heavy limbs of the young man, with a keen appreciation of their symmetry and strength. Agility, endurance and courage were more to a borderman than all else; a new-comer on the frontier was always “sized-up” with reference to these “points,” and respected in proportion to the measure in which he possessed them.
Old Jeff Lynn, riverman, hunter, frontiersman, puffed slowly at his pipe while he mused thus to himself: “Mebbe I’m wrong in takin’ a likin’ to this youngster so sudden. Mebbe it’s because I’m fond of his sunny-haired lass, an’ ag’in mebbe it’s because I’m gettin’ old an’ likes young folks better’n I onct did. Anyway, I’m kinder thinkin, if this young feller gits worked out, say fer about twenty pounds less, he’ll lick a whole raft-load of wild-cats.”
Joe walked to and fro on the logs, ascertained how the raft was put together, and took a pull on the long, clumsy steering-oar. At length he seated himself beside Lynn. He was eager to ask questions; to know about the rafts, the river, the forest, the Indians—everything in connection with this wild life; but already he had learned that questioning these frontiersmen is a sure means of closing their lips.
“Ever handle the long rifle?” asked Lynn, after a silence.
“Yes,” answered Joe, simply.
“Ever shoot anythin’?” the frontiersman questioned, when he had taken four or five puffs at his pipe.
“Squirrels.”
“Good practice, shootin’ squirrels,” observed Jeff, after another silence, long enough to allow Joe to talk if he was so inclined. “Kin ye hit one—say, a hundred yards?”
“Yes, but not every time in the head,” returned Joe. There was an apologetic tone in his answer.
Another interval followed in which neither spoke. Jeff was slowly pursuing his line of thought. After Joe’s last remark he returned his pipe to his pocket and brought out a tobacco-pouch. He tore off a large portion of the weed and thrust it into his mouth. Then he held out the little buckskin sack to Joe.
“Hev’ a chaw,” he said.
To offer tobacco to anyone was absolutely a borderman’s guarantee of friendliness toward that person.
Jeff expectorated half a dozen times, each time coming a little nearer the stone he was aiming at, some five yards distant. Possibly this was the borderman’s way of oiling up his conversational machinery. At all events, he commenced to talk.
“Yer brother’s goin’ to preach out here, ain’t he? Preachin’ is all right, I’ll allow; but I’m kinder doubtful about preachin’ to redskins. Howsumever, I’ve knowed Injuns who are good fellows, and there’s no tellin’. What are ye goin’ in fer—farmin’?”
“No, I wouldn’t make a good farmer.”
“Jest cum out kinder wild like, eh?” rejoined Jeff, knowingly.
“I wanted to come West because I was tired of tame life. I love the forest; I want to fish and hunt; and I think I’d like to—to see Indians.”
“I kinder thought so,” said the old frontiersman, nodding his head as though he perfectly understood Joe’s case. “Well, lad, where you’re goin’ seein’ Injuns ain’t a matter of choice. You has to see ’em, and fight ’em, too. We’ve had bad times for years out here on the border, and I’m thinkin’ wuss is comin’. Did ye ever hear the name Girty?”
“Yes; he’s a renegade.”
“He’s a traitor, and Jim and George Girty, his brothers, are p’isin rattlesnake Injuns. Simon Girty’s bad enough; but Jim’s the wust. He’s now wusser’n a full-blooded Delaware. He’s all the time on the lookout to capture white wimen to take to his Injun teepee. Simon Girty and his pals, McKee and Elliott, deserted from that thar fort right afore yer eyes. They’re now livin’ among the redskins down Fort Henry way, raisin’ as much hell fer the settlers as they kin.”
“Is Fort Henry near the Indian towns?” asked Joe.
“There’s Delawares, Shawnees and Hurons all along the Ohio below Fort Henry.”
“Where is the Moravian Mission located?”
“Why, lad, the Village of Peace, as the Injuns call it, is right in the midst of that Injun country. I ’spect it’s a matter of a hundred miles below and cross-country a little from Fort Henry.”
“The fort must be an important point, is it not?”
“Wal, I guess so. It’s the last place on the river,” answered Lynn, with a grim smile. “There’s only a stockade there, an’ a handful of men. The Injuns hev swarmed down on it time and ag’in, but they hev never burned it. Only such men as Colonel Zane, his brother Jack, and Wetzel could hev kept that fort standin’ all these bloody years. Eb Zane’s got but a few men, yet he kin handle ’em some, an’ with such scouts as Jack Zane and Wetzel, he allus knows what’s goin’ on among the Injuns.”
“I’ve heard of Colonel Zane. He was an officer under Lord Dunmore. The hunters here speak often of Jack Zane and Wetzel. What are they?”
“Jack Zane is a hunter an’ guide. I knowed him well a few years back. He’s a quiet, mild chap; but a streak of chain-lightnin’ when he’s riled. Wetzel is an Injun-killer. Some people say as how he’s crazy over scalp-huntin’; but I reckon that’s not so. I’ve seen him a few times. He don’t hang round the settlement ’cept when the Injuns are up, an’ nobody sees him much. At home he sets round silent-like, an’ then mebbe next mornin’ he’ll be gone, an’ won’t show up fer days or weeks. But all the frontier knows of his deeds. Fer instance, I’ve hearn of settlers gettin’ up in the mornin’ an’ findin’ a couple of dead and scalped Injuns right in front of their cabins. No one knowed who killed ’em, but everybody says ‘Wetzel.’ He’s allus warnin’ the settlers when they need to flee to the fort, and sure he’s right every time, because when these men go back to their cabins they find nothin’ but ashes. There couldn’t be any farmin’ done out there but fer Wetzel.”
“What does he look like?” questioned Joe, much interested.