by Zane Grey
Thus saying, Colonel Zane led the brothers into a small room, brought out their packs, and left them. He came back presently with a couple of soft towels.
“Now you lads fix up a bit; then come out and meet my family and tell us all about your adventure. By that time dinner will be ready.”
“Geminy! Don’t that towel remind you of home?” said Joe, when the colonel had gone. “From the looks of things, Colonel Zane means to have comfort here in the wilderness. He struck me as being a fine man.”
The boys were indeed glad to change the few articles of clothing the Indians had left them, and when they were shaved and dressed they presented an entirely different appearance. Once more they were twin brothers, in costume and feature. Joe contrived, by brushing his hair down on his forehead, to conceal the discolored bump.
“I think I saw a charming girl,” observed Joe.
“Suppose you did—what then?” asked Jim, severely.
“Why—nothing—see here, mayn’t I admire a pretty girl if I want?”
“No, you may not. Joe, will nothing ever cure you? I should think the thought of Miss Wells—”
“Look here, Jim; she don’t care—at least, it’s very little she cares. And I’m—I’m not worthy of her.”
“Turn around here and face me,” said the young minister sharply.
Joe turned and looked in his brother’s eyes.
“Have you trifled with her, as you have with so many others? Tell me. I know you don’t lie.”
“No.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“Nothing much, Jim, except I’m really not worthy of her. I’m no good, you know, and she ought to get a fellow like—like you.”
“Absurd! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Never mind me. See here; don’t you admire her?”
“Why—why, yes,” stammered Jim, flushing a dark, guilty red at the direct question. “Who could help admiring her?”
“That’s what I thought. And I know she admires you for qualities which I lack. Nell’s like a tender vine just beginning to creep around and cling to something strong. She cares for me; but her love is like the vine. It may hurt her a little to tear that love away, but it won’t kill her; and in the end it will be best for her. You need a good wife. What could I do with a woman? Go in and win her, Jim.”
“Joe, you’re sacrificing yourself again for me,” cried Jim, white to the lips. “It’s wrong to yourself and wrong to her. I tell you—”
“Enough!” Joe’s voice cut in cold and sharp. “Usually you influence me; but sometimes you can’t; I say this: Nell will drift into your arms as surely as the leaf falls. It will not hurt her—will be best for her. Remember, she is yours for the winning.”
“You do not say whether that will hurt you,” whispered Jim.
“Come—we’ll find Colonel Zane,” said Joe, opening the door.
They went out in the hallway which opened into the yard as well as the larger room through which the colonel had first conducted them. As Jim, who was in advance, passed into this apartment a trim figure entered from the yard. It was Nell, and she ran directly against him. Her face was flushed, her eyes were beaming with gladness, and she seemed the incarnation of girlish joy.
“Oh, Joe,” was all she whispered. But the happiness and welcome in that whisper could never have been better expressed in longer speech. Then slightly, ever so slightly, she tilted her sweet face up to his.
It all happened with the quickness of thought. In a single instant Jim saw the radiant face, the outstretched hands, and heard the glad whisper. He knew that she had a again mistaken him for Joe; but for his life he could not draw back his head. He had kissed her, and even as his lips thrilled with her tremulous caress he flushed with the shame of his deceit.
“You’re mistaken again—I’m Jim,” he whispered.
For a moment they stood staring into each other’s eyes, slowly awakening to what had really happened, slowly conscious of a sweet, alluring power. Then Colonel Zane’s cheery voice rang in their ears.
“Ah, here’s Nellie and your brother! Now, lads, tell me which is which?”
“That’s Jim, and I’m Joe,” answered the latter. He appeared not to notice his brother, and his greeting to Nell was natural and hearty. For the moment she drew the attention of the others from them.
Joe found himself listening to the congratulations of a number of people. Among the many names he remembered were those of Mrs. Zane, Silas Zane, and Major McColloch. Then he found himself gazing at the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life.
“My only sister, Mrs. Alfred Clarke—once Betty Zane, and the heroine of Fort Henry,” said Colonel Zane proudly, with his arm around the slender, dark-eyed girl.
“I would brave the Indians and the wilderness again for this pleasure,” replied Joe gallantly, as he bowed low over the little hand she cordially extended.
“Bess, is dinner ready?” inquired Colonel Zane of his comely wife. She nodded her head, and the colonel led the way into the adjoining room. “I know you boys must be hungry as bears.”
During the meal Colonel Zane questioned his guests about their journey, and as to the treatment they had received at the hands of the Indians. He smiled at the young minister’s earnestness in regard to the conversion of the redmen, and he laughed outright when Joe said “he guessed he came to the frontier because it was too slow at home.”
“I am sure your desire for excitement will soon be satisfied, if indeed it be not so already,” remarked the colonel. “But as to the realization of your brother’s hopes I am not so sanguine. Undoubtedly the Moravian missionaries have accomplished wonders with the Indians. Not long ago I visited the Village of Peace—the Indian name for the mission—and was struck by the friendliness and industry which prevailed there. Truly it was a village of peace. Yet it is almost to early to be certain of permanent success of this work. The Indian’s nature is one hard to understand. He is naturally roving and restless, which, however, may be owing to his habit of moving from place to place in search of good hunting grounds. I believe—though I must confess I haven’t seen any pioneers who share my belief—that the savage has a beautiful side to his character. I know of many noble deeds done by them, and I believe, if they are honestly dealt with, they will return good for good. There are bad ones, of course; but the French traders, and men like the Girtys, have caused most of this long war. Jonathan and Wetzel tell me the Shawnees and Chippewas have taken the warpath again. Then the fact that the Girtys are with the Delawares is reason for alarm. We have been comparatively quiet here of late. Did you boys learn to what tribe your captors belong? Did Wetzel say?”
“He did not; he spoke little, but I will say he was exceedingly active,” answered Joe, with a smile.
“To have seen Wetzel fight Indians is something you are not likely to forget,” said Colonel Zane grimly. “Now, tell me, how did those Indians wear their scalp-lock?”
“Their heads were shaved closely, with the exception of a little place on top. The remaining hair was twisted into a tuft, tied tightly, and into this had been thrust a couple of painted pins. When Wetzel scalped the Indians the pins fell out. I picked one up, and found it to be bone.”
“You will make a woodsman, that’s certain,” replied Colonel Zane. “The Indians were Shawnee on the warpath. Well, we will not borrow trouble, for when it comes in the shape of redskins it usually comes quickly. Mr. Wells seemed anxious to resume the journey down the river; but I shall try to persuade him to remain with us awhile. Indeed, I am sorry I cannot keep you all here at Fort Henry, and more especially the girls. On the border we need young people, and, while I do not want to frighten the women, I fear there will be more than Indians fighting for them.”
“I hope not; but we have come prepared for anything,” said Kate, with a quiet smile. “Our home was with uncle, and when he announced his intention of going west we decided our duty was to go with him.”
“You were right,
and I hope you will find a happy home,” rejoined Colonel Zane. “If life among the Indians, proves to be too hard, we shall welcome you here. Betty, show the girls your pets and Indian trinkets. I am going to take the boys to Silas’ cabin to see Mr. Wells, and then show them over the fort.”
As they went out Joe saw the Indian guide standing in exactly the same position as when they entered the building.
“Can’t that Indian move?” he asked curiously.
“He can cover one hundred miles in a day, when he wants to,” replied Colonel Zane. “He is resting now. An Indian will often stand or sit in one position for many hours.”
“He’s a fine-looking chap,” remarked Joe, and then to himself: “but I don’t like him. I guess I’m prejudiced.”
“You’ll learn to like Tome, as we call him.”
“Colonel Zane, I want a light for my pipe. I haven’t had a smoke since the day we were captured. That blamed redskin took my tobacco. It’s lucky I had some in my other pack. I’d like to meet him again; also Silvertip and that brute Girty.”
“My lad, don’t make such wishes,” said Colonel Zane, earnestly. “You were indeed fortunate to escape, and I can well understand your feelings. There is nothing I should like better than to see Girty over the sights of my rifle; but I never hunt after danger, and to look for Girty is to court death.”
“But Wetzel—”
“Ah, my lad, I know Wetzel goes alone in the woods; but then, he is different from other men. Before you leave I will tell you all about him.”
Colonel Zane went around the corner of the cabin and returned with a live coal on a chip of wood, which Joe placed in the bowl of his pipe, and because of the strong breeze stepped close to the cabin wall. Being a keen observer, he noticed many small, round holes in the logs. They were so near together that the timbers had an odd, speckled appearance, and there was hardly a place where he could have put his thumb without covering a hole. At first he thought they were made by a worm or bird peculiar to that region; but finally lie concluded that they were bullet-holes. He thrust his knife blade into one, and out rolled a leaden ball.
“I’d like to have been here when these were made,” he said.
“Well, at the time I wished I was back on the Potomac,” replied Colonel Zane.
They found the old missionary on the doorstep of the adjacent cabin. He appeared discouraged when Colonel Zane interrogated him, and said that he was impatient because of the delay.
“Mr. Wells, is it not possible that you underrate the danger of your enterprise?”
“I fear naught but the Lord,” answered the old man.
“Do you not fear for those with you?” went on the colonel earnestly. “I am heart and soul with you in your work, but want to impress upon you that the time is not propitious. It is a long journey to the village, and the way is beset with dangers of which you have no idea. Will you not remain here with me for a few weeks, or, at least, until my scouts report?”
“I thank you; but go I will.”
“Then let me entreat you to remain here a few days, so that I may send my brother Jonathan and Wetzel with you. If any can guide you safely to the Village of Peace it will be they.”
At this moment Joe saw two men approaching from the fort, and recognized one of them as Wetzel. He doubted not that the other was Lord Dunmore’s famous guide and hunter, Jonathan Zane. In features he resembled the colonel, and was as tall as Wetzel, although not so muscular or wide of chest.
Joe felt the same thrill he had experienced while watching the frontiersmen at Fort Pitt. Wetzel and Jonathan spoke a word to Colonel Zane and then stepped aside. The hunters stood lithe and erect, with the easy, graceful poise of Indians.
“We’ll take two canoes, day after tomorrow,” said Jonathan, decisively, to Colonel Zane. “Have you a rifle for Wetzel? The Delawares got his.”
Colonel Zane pondered over the question; rifles were not scarce at the fort, but a weapon that Wetzel would use was hard to find.
“The hunter may have my rifle,” said the old missionary. “I have no use for a weapon with which to destroy God’s creatures. My brother was a frontiersman; he left this rifle to me. I remember hearing him say once that if a man knew exactly the weight of lead and powder needed, it would shoot absolutely true.”
He went into the cabin, and presently came out with a long object wrapped in linsey cloths. Unwinding the coverings, he brought to view a rifle, the proportions of which caused Jonathan’s eyes to glisten, and brought an exclamation from Colonel Zane. Wetzel balanced the gun in his hands. It was fully six feet long; the barrel was large, and the dark steel finely polished; the stock was black walnut, ornamented with silver trimmings. Using Jonathan’s powder-flask and bullet-pouch, Wetzel proceeded to load the weapon. He poured out a quantity of powder into the palm of his hand, performing the action quickly and dexterously, but was so slow while measuring it that Joe wondered if he were counting the grains. Next he selected a bullet out of a dozen which Jonathan held toward him. He examined it carefully and tried it in the muzzle of the rifle. Evidently it did not please him, for he took another. Finally he scraped a bullet with his knife, and placing it in the center of a small linsey rag, deftly forced it down. He adjusted the flint, dropped a few grains of powder in the pan, and then looked around for a mark at which to shoot.
Joe observed that the hunters and Colonel Zane were as serious regarding the work as if at that moment some important issue depended upon the accuracy of the rifle.
“There, Lew; there’s a good shot. It’s pretty far, even for you, when you don’t know the gun,” said Colonel Zane, pointing toward the river.
Joe saw the end of a log, about the size of a man’s head, sticking out of the water, perhaps an hundred and fifty yards distant. He thought to hit it would be a fine shot; but was amazed when he heard Colonel Zane say to several men who had joined the group that Wetzel intended to shoot at a turtle on the log. By straining his eyes Joe succeeded in distinguishing a small lump, which he concluded was the turtle.
Wetzel took a step forward; the long, black rifle was raised with a stately sweep. The instant it reached a level a thread of flame burst forth, followed by a peculiarly clear, ringing report.
“Did he hit?” asked Colonel Zane, eagerly as a boy.
“I allow he did,” answered Jonathan.
“I’ll go and see,” said Joe. He ran down the bank, along the beach, and stepped on the log. He saw a turtle about the size of an ordinary saucer. Picking it up, he saw a bullet-hole in the shell near the middle. The bullet had gone through the turtle, and it was quite dead. Joe carried it to the waiting group.
“I allowed so,” declared Jonathan.
Wetzel examined the turtle, and turning to the old missionary, said:
“Your brother spoke the truth, an’ I thank you fer the rifle.”
CHAPTER VIII.
“So you want to know all about Wetzel?” inquired Colonel Zane of Joe, when, having left Jim and Mr. Wells, they returned to the cabin.
“I am immensely interested in him,” replied Joe.
“Well, I don’t think there’s anything singular in that. I know Wetzel better, perhaps, than any man living; but have seldom talked about him. He doesn’t like it. He is by birth a Virginian; I should say, forty years old. We were boys together, and and I am a little beyond that age. He was like any of the lads, except that he excelled us all in strength and agility. When he was nearly eighteen years old a band if Indians—Delawares, I think—crossed the border on a marauding expedition far into Virginia. They burned the old Wetzel homestead and murdered the father, mother, two sisters, and a baby brother. The terrible shock nearly killed Lewis, who for a time was very ill. When he recovered he went in search of his brothers, Martin and John Wetzel, who were hunting, and brought them back to their desolated home. Over the ashes of the home and the graves of the loved ones the brothers swore sleepless and eternal vengeance. The elder brothers have been devoted all these twenty years and more
to the killing of Indians; but Lewis has been the great foe of the redman. You have already seen an example of his deeds, and will hear of more. His name is a household word on the border. Scores of times he has saved, actually saved, this fort and settlement. His knowledge of savage ways surpasses by far Boone’s, Major McColloch’s, Jonathan’s, or any of the hunters’.”
“Then hunting Indians is his sole occupation?”
“He lives for that purpose alone. He is very seldom in the settlement. Sometimes he stays here a few days, especially if he is needed; but usually he roams the forests.”
“What did Jeff Lynn mean when he said that some people think Wetzel is crazy?”
“There are many who think the man mad; but I do not. When the passion for Indian hunting comes upon him he is fierce, almost frenzied, yet perfectly sane. While here he is quiet, seldom speaks except when spoken to, and is taciturn with strangers. He often comes to my cabin and sits beside the fire for hours. I think he finds pleasure in the conversation and laughter of friends. He is fond of the children, and would do anything for my sister Betty.”
“His life must be lonely and sad,” remarked Joe.
“The life of any borderman is that; but Wetzel’s is particularly so.”
“What is he called by the Indians?”
“They call him Atelang, or, in English, Deathwind.”
“By George! That’s what Silvertip said in French—‘Le Vent de la Mort.’”
“Yes; you have it right. A French fur trader gave Wetzel that name years ago, and it has clung to him. The Indians say the Deathwind blows through the forest whenever Wetzel stalks on their trail.”
“Colonel Zane, don’t you think me superstitious,” whispered Joe, leaning toward the colonel, “but I heard that wind blow through the forest.”
“What!” ejaculated Colonel Zane. He saw that Joe was in earnest, for the remembrance of the moan had more than once paled his cheek and caused beads of perspiration to collect on his brow.