The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  Wingenund strode with thoughtful mien before his council. He had heard all his wise chiefs and his fiery warriors. Supreme was his power. Freedom or death for the captives awaited the wave of his hand. His impassive face gave not the slightest inkling of what to expect. Therefore the prisoners were forced to stand there with throbbing hearts while the chieftain waited the customary dignified interval before addressing the council.

  “Wingenund has heard the Delaware wise men and warriors. The white Indian opens not his lips; his silence broods evil for the palefaces. Pipe wants the blood of the white men; the Shawnee chief demands the stake. Wingenund says free the white father who harms no Indian. Wingenund hears no evil in the music of his voice. The white father’s brother should die. Kill the companion of Deathwind!”

  A plaintive murmur, remarkable when coming from an assembly of stern-browed chiefs, ran round the circle at the mention of the dread appellation.

  “The white father is free,” continued Wingenund. “Let one of my runners conduct him to the Village of Peace.”

  A brave entered and touched Jim on the shoulder.

  Jim shook his head and pointed to Joe. The runner touched Joe.

  “No, no. I am not the missionary,” cried Joe, staring aghast at his brother. “Jim, have you lost your senses?”

  Jim sadly shook his head, and turning to Wingenund made known in a broken Indian dialect that his brother was the missionary, and would sacrifice himself, taking this opportunity to practice the Christianity he had taught.

  “The white father is brave, but he is known,” broke in Wingenund’s deep voice, while he pointed to the door of the lodge. “Let him go back to his Christian Indians.”

  The Indian runner cut Joe’s bonds, and once more attempted to lead him from the lodge. Rage and misery shown in the lad’s face. He pushed the runner aside. He exhausted himself trying to explain, to think of Indian words enough to show he was not the missionary. He even implored Girty to speak for him. When the renegade sat there stolidly silent Joe’s rage burst out.

  “Curse you all for a lot of ignorant redskins. I am not a missionary. I am Deathwind’s friend. I killed a Delaware. I was the companion of Le Vent de la Mort!”

  Joe’s passionate vehemence, and the truth that spoke from his flashing eyes compelled the respect, if not the absolute belief of the Indians. The savages slowly shook their heads. They beheld the spectacle of two brothers, one a friend, the other an enemy of all Indians, each willing to go to the stake, to suffer an awful agony, for love of the other. Chivalrous deeds always stir an Indian’s heart. It was like a redman to die for his brother. The indifference, the contempt for death, won their admiration.

  “Let the white father stand forth,” sternly called Wingenund.

  A hundred somber eyes turned on the prisoners. Except that one wore a buckskin coat, the other a linsey one, there was no difference. The strong figures were the same, the white faces alike, the stern resolve in the gray eyes identical—they were twin brothers.

  Wingenund once more paced before his silent chiefs. To deal rightly with this situation perplexed him. To kill both palefaces did not suit him. Suddenly he thought of a way to decide.

  “Let Wingenund’s daughter come,” he ordered.

  A slight, girlish figure entered. It was Whispering Winds. Her beautiful face glowed while she listened to her father.

  “Wingenund’s daughter has her mother’s eyes, that were beautiful as a doe’s, keen as a hawk’s, far-seeing as an eagle’s. Let the Delaware maiden show her blood. Let her point out the white father.”

  Shyly but unhesitatingly Whispering Winds laid her hand Jim’s arm.

  “Missionary, begone!” came the chieftain’s command. “Thank Wingenund’s daughter for your life, not the God of your Christians!”

  He waved his hand to the runner. The brave grasped Jim’s arm.

  “Good-by, Joe,” brokenly said Jim.

  “Old fellow, good-by,” came the answer.

  They took one last, long look into each others’ eyes. Jim’s glance betrayed his fear—he would never see his brother again. The light in Joe’s eyes was the old steely flash, the indomitable spirit—while there was life there was hope.

  “Let the Shawnee chief paint his prisoner black,” commanded Wingenund.

  When the missionary left the lodge with the runner, Whispering Winds had smiled, for she had saved him whom she loved to hear speak; but the dread command that followed paled her cheek. Black paint meant hideous death. She saw this man so like the white father. Her piteous gaze tried to turn from that white face; but the cold, steely eyes fascinated her.

  She had saved one only to be the other’s doom!

  She had always been drawn toward white men. Many prisoners had she rescued. She had even befriended her nation’s bitter foe, Deathwind. She had listened to the young missionary with rapture; she had been his savior. And now when she looked into the eyes of this young giant, whose fate had rested on her all unwitting words, she resolved to save him.

  She had been a shy, shrinking creature, fearing to lift her eyes to a paleface’s, but now they were raised clear and steadfast.

  As she stepped toward the captive and took his hand, her whole person radiated with conscious pride in her power. It was the knowledge that she could save. When she kissed his hand, and knelt before him, she expressed a tender humility.

  She had claimed questionable right of an Indian maiden; she asked what no Indian dared refuse a chief’s daughter; she took the paleface for her husband.

  Her action was followed by an impressive silence. She remained kneeling. Wingenund resumed his slow march to and fro. Silvertip retired to his corner with gloomy face. The others bowed their heads as if the maiden’s decree was irrevocable.

  Once more the chieftain’s sonorous command rang out. An old Indian, wrinkled and worn, weird of aspect, fanciful of attire, entered the lodge and waved his wampum wand. He mumbled strange words, and departed chanting a long song.

  Whispering Winds arose, a soft, radiant smile playing over her face, and, still holding Joe’s hand, she led him out of the lodge, through long rows of silent Indians, down a land bordered by teepees, he following like one in a dream.

  He expected to awaken at any minute to see the stars shining through the leaves. Yet he felt the warm, soft pressure of a little hand. Surely this slender, graceful figure was real.

  She bade him enter a lodge of imposing proportions. Still silent, in amazement and gratitude, he obeyed.

  The maiden turned to Joe. Though traces of pride still lingered, all her fire had vanished. Her bosom rose with each quick-panting breath; her lips quivered, she trembled like a trapped doe.

  But at last the fluttering lashes rose. Joe saw two velvety eyes dark with timid fear, yet veiling in their lustrous depths an unuttered hope and love.

  “Whispering Winds—save—paleface,” she said, in a voice low and tremulous. “Fear—father. Fear—tell—Wingenund—she—Christian.”

  * * * *

  Indian summer, that enchanted time, unfolded its golden, dreamy haze over the Delaware village. The forests blazed with autumn fire, the meadows boomed in rich luxuriance. All day low down in the valleys hung a purple smoke which changed, as the cool evening shades crept out of the woodland, into a cloud of white mist. All day the asters along the brooks lifted golden-brown faces to the sun as if to catch the warning warmth of his smile. All day the plains and forests lay in melancholy repose. The sad swish of the west wind over the tall grass told that he was slowly dying away before his enemy, the north wind. The sound of dropping nuts was heard under the motionless trees.

  For Joe the days were days of enchantment. His wild heart had found its mate. A willing captive he was now. All his fancy for other women, all his memories faded into love for his Indian bride.

  Whispering Winds charmed the eye, mind, and heart. Every day her beauty seemed renewed. She was as apt to learn as she was quick to turn her black-crowned head, but her supr
eme beauty was her loving, innocent soul. Untainted as the clearest spring, it mirrored the purity and simplicity of her life. Indian she might be, one of a race whose morals and manners were alien to the man she loved, yet she would have added honor to the proudest name.

  When Whispering Winds raised her dark eyes they showed radiant as a lone star; when she spoke low her voice made music.

  “Beloved,” she whispered one day to him, “teach the Indian maiden more love for you, and truth, and God. Whispering Winds yearns to go to the Christians, but she fears her stern father. Wingenund would burn the Village of Peace. The Indian tribes tremble before the thunder of his wrath. Be patient, my chief. Time changes the leaves, so it will the anger of the warriors. Whispering Winds will set you free, and be free herself to go far with you toward the rising sun, where dwell your people. She will love, and be constant, as the northern star. Her love will be an eternal spring where blossoms bloom ever anew, and fresh, and sweet. She will love your people, and raise Christian children, and sit ever in the door of your home praying for the west wind to blow. Or, if my chief wills, we shall live the Indian life, free as two eagles on their lonely crag.”

  Although Joe gave himself up completely to his love for his bride, he did not forget that Kate was in the power of the renegade, and that he must rescue her. Knowing Girty had the unfortunate girls somewhere near the Delaware encampment, he resolved to find the place. Plans of all kinds he resolved in his mind. The best one he believed lay through Whispering Winds. First to find the whereabouts of Girty; kill him if possible, or at least free Kate, and then get away with her and his Indian bride. Sanguine as he invariably was, he could not but realize the peril of this undertaking. If Whispering Winds betrayed her people, it meant death to her as well as to him. He would far rather spend the remaining days of his life in the Indian village, than doom the maiden whose love had saved him. Yet he thought he might succeed in getting away with her, and planned to that end. His natural spirit, daring, reckless, had gained while he was associated with Wetzel.

  Meanwhile he mingled freely with the Indians, and here, as elsewhere, his winning personality, combined with his athletic prowess, soon made him well liked. He was even on friendly terms with Pipe. The swarthy war chief liked Joe because, despite the animosity he had aroused in some former lovers of Whispering Winds, he actually played jokes on them. In fact, Joe’s pranks raised many a storm; but the young braves who had been suitors for Wingenund’s lovely daughter, feared the muscular paleface, and the tribe’s ridicule more; so he continued his trickery unmolested. Joe’s idea was to lead the savages to believe he was thoroughly happy in his new life, and so he was, but it suited him better to be free. He succeeded in misleading the savages. At first he was closely watched, the the vigilance relaxed, and finally ceased.

  This last circumstance was owing, no doubt, to a ferment of excitement that had suddenly possessed the Delawares. Council after council was held in the big lodge. The encampment was visited by runner after runner. Some important crisis was pending.

  Joe could not learn what it all meant, and the fact that Whispering Winds suddenly lost her gladsome spirit and became sad caused him further anxiety. When he asked her the reason for her unhappiness, she was silent. Moreover, he was surprised to learn, when he questioned her upon the subject of their fleeing together, that she was eager to go immediately. While all this mystery puzzled Joe, it did not make any difference to him or in his plans. It rather favored the latter. He understood that the presence of Simon Girty and Elliott, with several other renegades unknown to him, was significant of unrest among the Indians. These presagers of evil were accustomed to go from village to village, exciting the savages to acts of war. Peace meant the downfall and death of these men. They were busy all day and far into the night. Often Joe heard Girty’s hoarse voice lifted in the council lodge. Pipe thundered incessantly for war. But Joe could not learn against whom. Elliott’s suave, oily oratory exhorted the Indians to vengeance. But Joe could not guess upon whom. He was, however, destined to learn.

  The third day of the councils a horseman stopped before Whispering Winds’ lodge, and called out. Stepping to the door, Joe saw a white man, whose dark, keen, handsome face seemed familiar. Yet Joe knew he had never seen this stalwart man.

  “A word with you,” said the stranger. His tone was curt, authoritative, as that of a man used to power.

  “As many as you like. Who are you?”

  “I am Isaac Zane. Are you Wetzel’s companion, or the renegade Deering?”

  “I am not a renegade any more than you are. I was rescued by the Indian girl, who took me as her husband,” said Joe coldly. He was surprised, and did not know what to make of Zane’s manner.

  “Good! I’m glad to meet you,” instantly replied Zane, his tone and expression changing. He extended his hand to Joe. “I wanted to be sure. I never saw the renegade Deering. He is here now. I am on my way to the Wyandot town. I have been to Fort Henry, where my brother told me of you and the missionaries. When I arrived here I heard your story from Simon Girty. If you can, you must get away from here. If I dared I’d take you to the Huron village, but it’s impossible. Go, while you have a chance.”

  “Zane, I thank you. I’ve suspected something was wrong. What is it?”

  “Couldn’t be worse,” whispered Zane, glancing round to see if they were overheard. “Girty and Elliott, backed by this Deering, are growing jealous of the influence of Christianity on the Indians. They are plotting against the Village of Peace. Tarhe, the Huron chief, has been approached, and asked to join in a concerted movement against religion. Seemingly it is not so much the missionaries as the converted Indians, that the renegades are fuming over. They know if the Christian savages are killed, the strength of the missionaries’ hold will be forever broken. Pipe is wild for blood. These renegades are slowly poisoning the minds of the few chiefs who are favorably disposed. The outlook is bad! bad!”

  “What can I do?”

  “Cut out for yourself. Get away, if you can, with a gun. Take the creek below, follow the current down to the Ohio, and then make east for Fort Henry.

  “But I want to rescue the white girl Jim Girty has concealed here somewhere.”

  “Impossible! Don’t attempt it unless you want to throw your life away. Buzzard Jim, as we call Girty, is a butcher; he has probably murdered the girl.”

  “I won’t leave without trying. And there’s my wife, the Indian girl who saved me. Zane, she’s a Christian. She wants to go with me. I can’t leave her.”

  “I am warning you, that’s all. If I were you I’d never leave without a try to find the white girl, and I’d never forsake my Indian bride. I’ve been through the same thing. You must be a good woodsman, or Wetzel wouldn’t have let you stay with him. Pick out a favorable time and make the attempt. I suggest you make your Indian girl show you where Girty is. She knows, but is afraid to tell you, for she fears Girty. Get your dog and horse from the Shawnee. That’s a fine horse. He can carry you both to safety. Take him away from Silvertip.”

  “How?”

  “Go right up and demand your horse and dog. Most of these Delawares are honest, for all their blood-shedding and cruelty. With them might is right. The Delawares won’t try to get your horse for you; but they’ll stick to you when you assert your rights. They don’t like the Shawnee, anyhow. If Silvertip refuses to give you the horse, grab him before he can draw a weapon, and beat him good. You’re big enough to do it. The Delawares will be tickled to see you pound him. He’s thick with Girty; that’s why he lays round here. Take my word, it’s the best way. Do it openly, and no one will interfere.”

  “By Heavens, Zane, I’ll give him a drubbing. I owe him one, and am itching to get hold of him.”

  “I must go now. I shall send a Wyandot runner to your brother at the village. They shall be warned. Good-by. Good luck. May we meet again.”

  Joe watched Zane ride swiftly down the land and disappear in the shrubbery. Whispering Winds came to the
door of the lodge. She looked anxiously at him. He went within, drawing her along with him, and quickly informed her that he had learned the cause of the council, that he had resolved to get away, and she must find out Girty’s hiding place. Whispering Winds threw herself into his arms, declaring with an energy and passion unusual to her, that she would risk anything for him. She informed Joe that she knew the direction from which Girty always returned to the village. No doubt she could find his retreat. With a cunning that showed her Indian nature, she suggested a plan which Joe at once saw was excellent. After Joe got his horse, she would ride around the village, then off into the woods, where she could leave the horse and return to say he had run away from her. As was their custom during afternoons, they would walk leisurely along the brook, and, trusting to the excitement created by the councils, get away unobserved. Find the horse, if possible rescue the prisoner, and then travel east with all speed.

  Joe left the lodge at once to begin the working out of the plan. Luck favored him at the outset, for he met Silvertip before the council lodge. The Shawnee was leading Lance, and the dog followed at his heels. The spirit of Mose had been broken. Poor dog, Joe thought, he had been beaten until he was afraid to wag his tail at his old master. Joe’s resentment blazed into fury, but he kept cool outwardly.

  Right before a crowd of Indians waiting for the council to begin, Joe planted himself in front of the Shawnee, barring his way.

  “Silvertip has the paleface’s horse and dog,” said Joe, in a loud voice.

  The chief stared haughtily while the other Indians sauntered nearer. They all knew how the Shawnee had got the animals, and now awaited the outcome of the white man’s challenge.

  “Paleface—heap—liar,” growled the Indian. His dark eyes glowed craftily, while his hand dropped, apparently in careless habit, to the haft of his tomahawk.

  Joe swung his long arm; his big fist caught the Shawnee on the jaw, sending him to the ground. Uttering a frightful yell, Silvertip drew his weapon and attempted to rise, but the moment’s delay in seizing the hatchet, was fatal to his design. Joe was upon him with tigerlike suddenness. One kick sent the tomahawk spinning, another landed the Shawnee again on the ground. Blind with rage, Silvertip leaped up, and without a weapon rushed at his antagonist; but the Indian was not a boxer, and he failed to get his hands on Joe. Shifty and elusive, the lad dodged around the struggling savage. One, two, three hard blows staggered Silvertip, and a fourth, delivered with the force of Joe’s powerful arm, caught the Indian when he was off his balance, and felled him, battered and bloody, on the grass. The surrounding Indians looked down at the vanquished Shawnee, expressing their approval in characteristic grunts.