The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  “Joe married to that beautiful Indian maiden! Well, of all wonderful things,” mused Jim. “What will Nell say?”

  “We’re getting warnings enough. Do you appreciate that?” asked Edwards. “‘If Pipe and Half King have been influenced by Girty.’ Evidently the writer deemed that brief sentence of sufficient meaning.”

  “Edwards, we’re preachers. We can’t understand such things. I am learning, at least something every day. Colonel Zane advised us not to come here. Wetzel said, ‘Go back to Fort Henry.’ Girty warned us, and now comes this peremptory order from Isaac Zane.”

  “Well?”

  “It means that these border men see what we will not admit. We ministers have such hope and trust in God that we can not realize the dangers of this life. I fear that our work has been in vain.”

  “Never. We have already saved many souls. Do not be discouraged.”

  All this time the runner had stood near at hand straight as an arrow. Presently Edwards suggested that the Wyandot was waiting to be questioned, and accordingly he asked the Indian if he had anything further to communicate.

  “Huron—go by—paleface.” Here he held up both hands and shut his fists several times, evidently enumerating how many white men he had seen. “Here—when—high—sun.”

  With that he bounded lightly past them, and loped off with an even, swinging stride.

  “What did he mean?” asked Jim, almost sure he had not heard the runner aright.

  “He meant that a party of white men are approaching, and will be here by noon. I never knew an Indian runner to carry unreliable information. We have joyful news, both in regard to your brother, and the Village of Peace. Let us go in to tell the others.”

  The Huron runner’s report proved to be correct. Shortly before noon signals from Indian scouts proclaimed the approach of a band of white men. Evidently Girty’s forces had knowledge beforehand of the proximity of this band, for the signals created no excitement. The Indians expressed only a lazy curiosity. Soon several Delaware scouts appeared, escorting a large party of frontiersmen.

  These men turned out to be Captain Williamson’s force, which had been out on an expedition after a marauding tribe of Chippewas. This last named tribe had recently harried the remote settlers, and committed depredations on the outskirts of the white settlements eastward. The company was composed of men who had served in the garrison at Fort Pitt, and hunters and backwoodsmen from Yellow Creek and Fort Henry. The captain himself was a typical borderman, rough and bluff, hardened by long years of border life, and, like most pioneers, having no more use for an Indian than for a snake. He had led his party after the marauders, and surprised and slaughtered nearly all of them. Returning eastward he had passed through Goshocking, where he learned of the muttering storm rising over the Village of Peace, and had come more out of curiosity than hope to avert misfortune.

  The advent of so many frontiersmen seemed a godsend to the perplexed and worried missionaries. They welcomed the newcomers most heartily. Beds were made in several of the newly erected cabins; the village was given over for the comfort of the frontiersmen. Edwards conducted Captain Williamson through the shops and schools, and the old borderman’s weather-beaten face expressed a comical surprise.

  “Wal, I’ll be durned if I ever expected to see a redskin work,” was his only comment on the industries.

  “We are greatly alarmed by the presence of Girty and his followers,” said Edwards. “We have been warned to leave, but have not been actually threatened. What do you infer from the appearance here of these hostile savages?”

  “It hardly ’pears to me they’ll bother you preachers. They’re agin the Christian redskins, that’s plain.”

  “Why have we been warned to go?”

  “That’s natural, seein’ they’re agin the preachin’.”

  “What will they do with the converted Indians?”

  “Mighty onsartin. They might let them go back to the tribes, but ’pears to me these good Injuns won’t go. Another thing, Girty is afeered of the spread of Christianity.”

  “Then you think our Christians will be made prisoners?”

  “’Pears likely.”

  “And you, also, think we’d do well to leave here.”

  “I do, sartin. We’re startin’ for Fort Henry soon. You’d better come along with us.”

  “Captain Williamson, we’re going to stick it out, Girty or no Girty.”

  “You can’t do no good stayin’ here. Pipe and Half King won’t stand for the singin’, prayin’ redskins, especially when they’ve got all these cattle and fields of grain.”

  “Wetzel said the same.”

  “Hev you seen Wetzel?”

  “Yes; he rescued a girl from Jim Girty, and returned her to us.”

  “That so? I met Wetzel and Jack Zane back a few miles in the woods. They’re layin’ for somebody, because when I asked them to come along they refused, sayin’ they had work as must be done. They looked like it, too. I never hern tell of Wetzel advisin’ any one before; but I’ll say if he told me to do a thing, by Gosh! I’d do it.”

  “As men, we might very well take the advice given us, but as preachers we must stay here to do all we can for these Christian Indians. One thing more: will you help us?”

  “I reckon I’ll stay here to see the thing out,” answered Williamson Edwards made a mental note of the frontiersman’s evasive answer.

  Jim had, meanwhile, made the acquaintance of a young minister, John Christy by name, who had lost his sweetheart in one of the Chippewa raids, and had accompanied the Williamson expedition in the hope he might rescue her.

  “How long have you been out?” asked Jim.

  “About four weeks now,” answered Christy. “My betrothed was captured five weeks ago yesterday. I joined Williamson’s band, which made up at Short Creek to take the trail of the flying Chippewas, in the hope I might find her. But not a trace! The expedition fell upon a band of redskins over on the Walhonding, and killed nearly all of them. I learned from a wounded Indian that a renegade had made off with a white girl about a week previous. Perhaps it was poor Lucy.”

  Jim related the circumstances of his own capture by Jim Girty, the rescue of Nell, and Kate’s sad fate.

  “Could Jim Girty have gotten your girl?” inquired Jim, in conclusion.

  “It’s fairly probable. The description doesn’t tally with Girty’s. This renegade was short and heavy, and noted especially for his strength. Of course, an Indian would first speak of some such distinguishing feature. There are, however, ten or twelve renegades on the border, and, excepting Jim Girty, one’s as bad as another.”

  “Then it’s a common occurrence, this abducting girls from the settlements?”

  “Yes, and the strange thing is that one never hears of such doings until he gets out on the frontier.”

  “For that matter, you don’t hear much of anything, except of the wonderful richness and promise of the western country.”

  “You’re right. Rumors of fat, fertile lands induce the colonist to become a pioneer. He comes west with his family; two out of every ten lose their scalps, and in some places the average is much greater. The wives, daughters and children are carried off into captivity. I have been on the border two years, and know that the rescue of any captive, as Wetzel rescued your friend, is a remarkable exception.”

  “If you have so little hope of recovering your sweetheart, what then is your motive for accompanying this band of hunters?”

  “Revenge!”

  “And you are a preacher?” Jim’s voice did not disguise his astonishment.

  “I was a preacher, and now I am thirsting for vengeance,” answered Christy, his face clouding darkly. “Wait until you learn what frontier life means. You are young here yet; you are flushed with the success of your teaching; you have lived a short time in this quiet village, where, until the last few days, all has been serene. You know nothing of the strife, of the necessity of fighting, of the cruelty which makes up this bo
rder existence. Only two years have hardened me so that I actually pant for the blood of the renegade who has robbed me. A frontiersman must take his choice of succumbing or cutting his way through flesh and bone. Blood will be spilled; if not yours, then your foe’s. The pioneers run from the plow to the fight; they halt in the cutting of corn to defend themselves, and in winter must battle against cold and hardship, which would be less cruel if there was time in summer to prepare for winter, for the savages leave them hardly an opportunity to plant crops. How many pioneers have given up, and gone back east? Find me any who would not return home tomorrow, if they could. All that brings them out here is the chance for a home, and all that keeps them out here is the poor hope of finally attaining their object. Always there is a possibility of future prosperity. But this generation, if it survives, will never see prosperity and happiness. What does this border life engender in a pioneer who holds his own in it? Of all things, not Christianity. He becomes a fighter, keen as the redskin who steals through the coverts.”

  * * * *

  The serene days of the Village of Peace had passed into history. Soon that depraved vagabond, the French trader, with cheap trinkets and vile whisky, made his appearance. This was all that was needed to inflame the visitors. Where they had been only bold and impudent, they became insulting and abusive. They execrated the Christian indians for their neutrality; scorned them for worshiping this unknown God, and denounced a religion which made women of strong men.

  The slaughtering of cattle commenced; the despoiling of maize fields, and robbing of corn-cribs began with the drunkenness.

  All this time it was seen that Girty and Elliott consulted often with Pipe and Half King. The latter was the only Huron chief opposed to neutrality toward the Village of Peace, and he was, if possible, more fierce in his hatred than Pipe. The future of the Christian settlement rested with these two chiefs. Girty and Elliott, evidently, were the designing schemers, and they worked diligently on the passions of these simple-minded, but fierce, warlike chiefs.

  Greatly to the relief of the distracted missionaries, Heckewelder returned to the village. Jaded and haggard, he presented a travel-worn appearance. He made the astonishing assertions that he had been thrice waylaid and assaulted on his way to Goshocking; then detained by a roving band of Chippewas, and soon after his arrival at their camping ground a renegade had run off with a white woman captive, while the Indians west of the village were in an uproar. Zeisberger, however, was safe in the Moravian town of Salem, some miles west of Goshocking. Heckewelder had expected to find the same condition of affairs as existed in the Village of Peace; but he was bewildered by the great array of hostile Indians. Chiefs who had once extended friendly hands to him, now drew back coldly, as they said:

  “Washington is dead. The American armies are cut to pieces. The few thousands who had escaped the British are collecting at Fort Pitt to steal the Indian’s land.”

  Heckewelder vigorously denied all these assertions, knowing they had been invented by Girty and Elliott. He exhausted all his skill and patience in the vain endeavor to show Pipe where he was wrong. Half King had been so well coached by the renegades that he refused to listen. The other chiefs maintained a cold reserve that was baffling and exasperating. Wingenund took no active part in the councils; but his presence apparently denoted that he had sided with the others. The outlook was altogether discouraging.

  “I’m completely fagged out,” declared Heckewelder, that night when he returned to Edwards’ cabin. He dropped into a chair as one whose strength is entirely spent, whose indomitable spirit has at last been broken.

  “Lie down to rest,” said Edwards.

  “Oh, I can’t. Matters look so black.”

  “You’re tired out and discouraged. You’ll feel better tomorrow. The situation is not, perhaps, so hopeless. The presence of these frontiersmen should encourage us.”

  “What will they do? What can they do?” cried Heckewelder, bitterly. “I tell you never before have I encountered such gloomy, stony Indians. It seems to me that they are in no vacillating state. They act like men whose course is already decided upon, and who are only waiting.”

  “For what?” asked Jim, after a long silence.

  “God only knows! Perhaps for a time; possibly for a final decision, and, it may be, for a reason, the very thought of which makes me faint.”

  “Tell us,” said Edwards, speaking quietly, for he had ever been the calmest of the missionaries.

  “Never mind. Perhaps it’s only my nerves. I’m all unstrung, and could suspect anything tonight.”

  “Heckewelder, tell us?” Jim asked, earnestly.

  “My friends, I pray I am wrong. God help us if my fears are correct. I believe the Indians are waiting for Jim Girty.”

  CHAPTER XXII.

  Simon Girty lolled on a blanket in Half King’s teepee. He was alone, awaiting his allies. Rings of white smoke curled lazily from his lips as he puffed on a long Indian pipe, and gazed out over the clearing that contained the Village of Peace.

  Still water has something in its placid surface significant of deep channels, of hidden depths; the dim outline of the forest is dark with meaning, suggestive of its wild internal character. So Simon Girty’s hard, bronzed face betrayed the man. His degenerate brother’s features were revolting; but his own were striking, and fell short of being handsome only because of their craggy hardness. Years of revolt, of bitterness, of consciousness of wasted life, had graven their stern lines on that copper, masklike face. Yet despite the cruelty there, the forbidding shade on it, as if a reflection from a dark soul, it was not wholly a bad countenance. Traces still lingered, faintly, of a man in whom kindlier feelings had once predominated.

  In a moment of pique Girty had deserted his military post at Fort Pitt, and become an outlaw of his own volition. Previous to that time he had been an able soldier, and a good fellow. When he realized that his step was irrevocable, that even his best friends condemned him, he plunged, with anger and despair in his heart, into a war upon his own race. Both of his brothers had long been border ruffians, whose only protection from the outraged pioneers lay in the faraway camps of hostile tribes. George Girty had so sunk his individuality into the savage’s that he was no longer a white man. Jim Girty stalked over the borderland with a bloody tomahawk, his long arm outstretched to clutch some unfortunate white woman, and with his hideous smile of death. Both of these men were far lower than the worst savages, and it was almost wholly to their deeds of darkness that Simon Girty owed his infamous name.

  Today White Chief, as Girty was called, awaited his men. A slight tremor of the ground caused him to turn his gaze. The Huron chief, Half King, resplendent in his magnificent array, had entered the teepee. He squatted in a corner, rested the bowl of his great pipe on his knee, and smoked in silence. The habitual frown of his black brow, like a shaded, overhanging cliff; the fire flashing from his eyes, as a shining light is reflected from a dark pool; his closely-shut, bulging jaw, all bespoke a nature, lofty in its Indian pride and arrogance, but more cruel than death.

  Another chief stalked into the teepee and seated himself. It was Pipe. His countenance denoted none of the intelligence that made Wingenund’s face so noble; it was even coarser than Half King’s, and his eyes, resembling live coals in the dark; the long, cruel lines of his jaw; the thin, tightly-closed lips, which looked as if they could relax only to utter a savage command, expressed fierce cunning and brutality.

  “White Chief is idle today,” said Half King, speaking in the Indian tongue.

  “King, I am waiting. Girty is slow, but sure,” answered the renegade.

  “The eagle sails slowly round and round, up and up,” replied Half King, with majestic gestures, “until his eye sees all, until he knows his time; then he folds his wings and swoops down from the blue sky like the forked fire. So does White Chief. But Half King is impatient.”

  “Today decides the fate of the Village of Peace,” answered Girty, imperturbably.

&nb
sp; “Ugh!” grunted Pipe.

  Half King vented his approval in the same meaning exclamation.

  An hour passed; the renegade smoked in silence; the chiefs did likewise.

  A horseman rode up to the door of the teepee, dismounted, and came in. It was Elliott. He had been absent twenty hours. His buckskin suit showed the effect of hard riding through the thickets.

  “Hullo, Bill, any sign of Jim?” was Girty’s greeting to his lieutenant.

  “Nary. He’s not been seen near the Delaware camp. He’s after that chap who married Winds.”

  “I thought so. Jim’s roundin’ up a tenderfoot who will be a bad man to handle if he has half a chance. I saw as much the day he took his horse away from Silver. He finally did fer the Shawnee, an’ almost put Jim out. My brother oughtn’t to give rein to personal revenge at a time like this.” Girty’s face did not change, but his tone was one of annoyance.

  “Jim said he’d be here today, didn’t he?”

  “Today is as long as we allowed to wait.”

  “He’ll come. Where’s Jake and Mac?”

  “They’re here somewhere, drinkin’ like fish, an’ raisin’ hell.”

  Two more renegades appeared at the door, and, entering the teepee, squatted down in Indian fashion. The little wiry man with the wizened face was McKee; the other was the latest acquisition to the renegade force, Jake Deering, deserter, thief, murderer—everything that is bad. In appearance he was of medium height, but very heavily, compactly built, and evidently as strong as an ox. He had a tangled shock of red hair, a broad, bloated face; big, dull eyes, like the openings of empty furnaces, and an expression of beastliness.

  Deering and McKee were intoxicated.

  “Bad time fer drinkin’,” said Girty, with disapproval in his glance.

  “What’s that ter you?” growled Deering. “I’m here ter do your work, an’ I reckon it’ll be done better if I’m drunk.”

  “Don’t git careless,” replied Girty, with that cool tone and dark look such as dangerous men use. “I’m only sayin’ it’s a bad time fer you, because if this bunch of frontiersmen happen to git onto you bein’ the renegade that was with the Chippewas an’ got thet young feller’s girl, there’s liable to be trouble.”