The Zane Grey Megapack

by Zane Grey

  Then Zane looked from the statuelike form of Wingenund to the motionless figure of Wetzel. The chief stood erect with his eyes on the distant hills. Wetzel remained with folded arms, his cold eyes fixed upon the writhing, moaning renegade.

  “Lew, look here,” said Zane, unhesitatingly, and pointed toward the chief.

  Wetzel quivered as if sharply stung; the cold glitter in his eyes changed to lurid fire. With upraised tomahawk he bounded across the brook.

  “Lew, wait a minute!” yelled Zane.

  “Wetzel! wait, wait!” cried Jim, grasping the hunter’s arm; but the latter flung him off, as the wind tosses a straw.

  “Wetzel, wait, for God’s sake, wait!” screamed Nell. She had risen at Zane’s call, and now saw the deadly resolve in the hunter’s eyes. Fearlessly she flung herself in front of him; bravely she risked her life before his mad rush; frantically she threw her arms around him and clung to his hands desperately.

  Wetzel halted; frenzied as he was at the sight of his foe, he could not hurt a woman.

  “Girl, let go!” he panted, and his broad breast heaved.

  “No, no, no! Listen, Wetzel, you must not kill the chief. He is a friend.”

  “He is my great foe!”

  “Listen, oh! please listen!” pleaded Nell. “He warned me to flee from Girty; he offered to guide us to Fort Henry. He has saved my life. For my sake, Wetzel, do not kill him! Don’t let me be the cause of his murder! Wetzel, Wetzel, lower your arm, drop your hatchet. For pity’s sake do not spill more blood. Wingenund is a Christian!”

  Wetzel stepped back breathing heavily. His white face resembled chiseled marble. With those little hands at his breast he hesitated in front of the chief he had hunted for so many long years.

  “Would you kill a Christian?” pleaded Nell, her voice sweet and earnest.

  “I reckon not, but this Injun ain’t one,” replied Wetzel slowly.

  “Put away your hatchet. Let me have it. Listen, and I will tell you, after thanking you for this rescue. Do you know of my marriage? Come, please listen! Forget for a moment your enmity. Oh! you must be merciful! Brave men are always merciful!”

  “Injun, are you a Christian?” hissed Wetzel.

  “Oh! I know he is! I know he is!” cried Nell, still standing between Wetzel and the chief.

  Wingenund spoke no word. He did not move. His falcon eyes gazed tranquilly at his white foe. Christian or pagan, he would not speak one word to save his life.

  “Oh! tell him you are a Christian,” cried Nell, running to the chief.

  “Yellow-hair, the Delaware is true to his race.”

  As he spoke gently to Nell a noble dignity shone upon his dark face.

  “Injun, my back bears the scars of your braves’ whips,” hissed Wetzel, once more advancing.

  “Deathwind, your scars are deep, but the Delaware’s are deeper,” came the calm reply. “Wingenund’s heart bears two scars. His son lies under the moss and ferns; Deathwind killed him; Deathwind alone knows his grave. Wingenund’s daughter, the delight of his waning years, freed the Delaware’s great foe, and betrayed her father. Can the Christian God tell Wingenund of his child?”

  Wetzel shook like a tree in a storm. Justice cried out in the Indian’s deep voice. Wetzel fought for mastery of himself.

  “Delaware, your daughter lays there, with her lover,” said Wetzel firmly, and pointed into the spring.

  “Ugh!” exclaimed the Indian, bending over the dark pool. He looked long into its murky depths. Then he thrust his arm down into the brown water.

  “Deathwind tells no lie,” said the chief, calmly, and pointed toward Girty. The renegade had ceased struggling, his head was bowed upon his breast. “The white serpent has stung the Delaware.”

  “What does it mean?” cried Jim.

  “Your brother Joe and Whispering Winds lie in the spring,” answered Jonathan Zane. “Girty murdered them, and Wetzel buried the two there.”

  “Oh, is it true?” cried Nell.

  “True, lass,” whispered Jim, brokenly, holding out his arms to her. Indeed, he needed her strength as much as she needed his. The girl gave one shuddering glance at the spring, and then hid her face on her husband’s shoulder.

  “Delaware, we are sworn foes,” cried Wetzel.

  “Wingenund asks no mercy.”

  “Are you a Christian?”

  “Wingenund is true to his race.”

  “Delaware, begone! Take these weapons an’ go. When your shadow falls shortest on the ground, Deathwind starts on your trail.”

  “Deathwind is the great white chief; he is the great Indian foe; he is as sure as the panther in his leap; as swift as the wild goose in his northern flight. Wingenund never felt fear.” The chieftain’s sonorous reply rolled through the quiet glade. “If Deathwind thirsts for Wingenund’s blood, let him spill it now, for when the Delaware goes into the forest his trail will fade.”

  “Begone!” roared Wetzel. The fever for blood was once more rising within him.

  The chief picked up some weapons of the dead Indians, and with haughty stride stalked from the glade.

  “Oh, Wetzel, thank you, I knew—” Nell’s voice broke as she faced the hunter. She recoiled from this changed man.

  “Come, we’ll go,” said Jonathan Zane. “I’ll guide you to Fort Henry.” He lifted the pack, and led Nell and Jim out of the glade.

  They looked back once to picture forever in their minds the lovely spot with its ghastly quiet bodies, the dark, haunting spring, the renegade nailed to the tree, and the tall figure of Wetzel as he watched his shadow on the ground.

  * * * *

  When Wetzel also had gone, only two living creatures remained in the glade—the doomed renegade, and the white dog. The gaunt beast watched the man with hungry, mad eyes.

  A long moan wailed through the forest. It swelled mournfully on the air, and died away. The doomed man heard it. He raised his ghastly face; his dulled senses seemed to revive. He gazed at the stiffening bodies of the Indians, at the gory corpse of Deering, at the savage eyes of the dog.

  Suddenly life seemed to surge strong within him.

  “Hell’s fire! I’m not done fer yet,” he gasped. “This damned knife can’t kill me; I’ll pull it out.”

  He worked at the heavy knife hilt. Awful curses passed his lips, but the blade did not move. Retribution had spoken his doom.

  Suddenly he saw a dark shadow moving along the sunlit ground. It swept past him. He looked up to see a great bird with wide wings sailing far above. He saw another still higher, and then a third. He looked at the hilltop. The quiet, black birds had taken wing. They were floating slowly, majestically upward. He watched their graceful flight. How easily they swooped in wide circles. He remembered that they had fascinated him when a boy, long, long ago, when he had a home. Where was that home? He had one once. Ah! the long, cruel years have rolled back. A youth blotted out by evil returned. He saw a little cottage, he saw the old Virginia homestead, he saw his brothers and his mother.

  “Ah-h!” A cruel agony tore his heart. He leaned hard against the knife. With the pain the present returned, but the past remained. All his youth, all his manhood flashed before him. The long, bloody, merciless years faced him, and his crimes crushed upon him with awful might.

  Suddenly a rushing sound startled him. He saw a great bird swoop down and graze the tree tops. Another followed, and another, and then a flock of them. He saw their gray, spotted breasts and hooked beaks.

  “Buzzards,” he muttered, darkly eyeing the dead savages. The carrion birds were swooping to their feast.

  “By God! He’s nailed me fast for buzzards!” he screamed in sudden, awful frenzy. “Nailed fast! Ah-h! Ah-h! Ah-h! Eaten alive by buzzards! Ah-h! Ah-h! Ah-h!”

  He shrieked until his voice failed, and then he gasped.

  Again the buzzards swooped overhead, this time brushing the leaves. One, a great grizzled bird, settled upon a limb of the giant oak, and stretched its long neck. Another alighted beside
him. Others sailed round and round the dead tree top.

  The leader arched his wings, and with a dive swooped into the glade. He alighted near Deering’s dead body. He was a dark, uncanny bird, with long, scraggy, bare neck, a wreath of white, grizzled feathers, a cruel, hooked beak, and cold eyes.

  The carrion bird looked around the glade, and put a great claw on the dead man’s breast.

  “Ah-h! Ah-h!” shrieked Girty. His agonized yell of terror and horror echoed mockingly from the wooded bluff.

  The huge buzzard flapped his wings and flew away, but soon returned to his gruesome feast. His followers, made bold by their leader, floated down into the glade. Their black feathers shone in the sun. They hopped over the moss; they stretched their grizzled necks, and turned their heads sideways.

  Girty was sweating blood. It trickled from his ghastly face. All the suffering and horror he had caused in all his long career was as nothing to that which then rended him. He, the renegade, the white Indian, the Deathshead of the frontier, panted and prayed for a merciful breath. He was exquisitely alive. He was human.

  Presently the huge buzzard, the leader, raised his hoary head. He saw the man nailed to the tree. The bird bent his head wisely to one side, and then lightly lifted himself into the air. He sailed round the glade, over the fighting buzzards, over the spring, and over the doomed renegade. He flew out of the glade, and in again. He swooped close to Girty. His broad wings scarcely moved as he sailed along.

  Girty tried to strike the buzzard as he sailed close by, but his arm fell useless. He tried to scream, but his voice failed.

  Slowly the buzzard king sailed by and returned. Every time he swooped a little nearer, and bent his long, scraggy neck.

  Suddenly he swooped down, light and swift as a hawk; his wide wings fanned the air; he poised under the tree, and then fastened sharp talons in the doomed man’s breast.

  CHAPTER XXIX.

  The fleeting human instinct of Wetzel had given way to the habit of years. His merciless quest for many days had been to kill the frontier fiend. Now that it had been accomplished, he turned his vengeance into its accustomed channel, and once more became the ruthless Indian-slayer.

  A fierce, tingling joy surged through him as he struck the Delaware’s trail. Wingenund had made little or no effort to conceal his tracks; he had gone northwest, straight as a crow flies, toward the Indian encampment. He had a start of sixty minutes, and it would require six hours of rapid traveling to gain the Delaware town.

  “Reckon he’ll make fer home,” muttered Wetzel, following the trail with all possible speed.

  The hunter’s method of trailing an Indian was singular. Intuition played as great a part as sight. He seemed always to divine his victim’s intention. Once on the trail he was as hard to shake off as a bloodhound. Yet he did not, by any means, always stick to the Indian’s footsteps. With Wetzel the direction was of the greatest importance.

  For half a mile he closely followed the Delaware’s plainly marked trail. Then he stopped to take a quick survey of the forest before him. He abruptly left the trail, and, breaking into a run, went through the woods as fleetly and noiselessly as a deer, running for a quarter of a mile, when he stopped to listen. All seemed well, for he lowered his head, and walked slowly along, examining the moss and leaves. Presently he came upon a little open space where the soil was a sandy loam. He bent over, then rose quickly. He had come upon the Indian’s trail. Cautiously he moved forward, stopping every moment to listen. In all the close pursuits of his maturer years he had never been a victim of that most cunning of Indian tricks, an ambush. He relied solely on his ear to learn if foes were close by. The wild creatures of the forest were his informants. As soon as he heard any change in their twittering, humming or playing—whichever way they manifested their joy or fear of life—he became as hard to see, as difficult to hear as a creeping snake.

  The Delaware’s trail led to a rocky ridge and there disappeared. Wetzel made no effort to find the chief’s footprints on the flinty ground, but halted a moment and studied the ridge, the lay of the land around, a ravine on one side, and a dark impenetrable forest on the other. He was calculating his chances of finding the Delaware’s trail far on the other side. Indian woodcraft, subtle, wonderful as it may be, is limited to each Indian’s ability. Savages, as well as other men, were born unequal. One might leave a faint trail through the forest, while another could be readily traced, and a third, more cunning and skillful than his fellows, have flown under the shady trees, for all the trail he left. But redmen followed the same methods of woodcraft from tradition, as Wetzel had learned after long years of study and experience.

  And now, satisfied that he had divined the Delaware’s intention, he slipped down the bank of the ravine, and once more broke into a run. He leaped lightly, sure-footed as a goat, from stone to stone, over fallen logs, and the brawling brook. At every turn of the ravine, at every open place, he stopped to listen.

  Arriving on the other side of the ridge, he left the ravine and passed along the edge of the rising ground. He listened to the birds, and searched the grass and leaves. He found not the slightest indication of a trail where he had expected to find one. He retraced his steps patiently, carefully, scrutinizing every inch of the ground. But it was all in vain. Wingenund had begun to show his savage cunning. In his warrior days for long years no chief could rival him. His boast had always been that, when Wingenund sought to elude his pursuers, his trail faded among the moss and the ferns.

  Wetzel, calm, patient, resourceful, deliberated a moment. The Delaware had not crossed this rocky ridge. He had been cunning enough to make his pursuer think such was his intention. The hunter hurried to the eastern end of the ridge for no other reason than apparently that course was the one the savage had the least reason to take. He advanced hurriedly because every moment was precious. Not a crushed blade of grass, a brushed leaf, an overturned pebble nor a snapped twig did he find. He saw that he was getting near to the side of the ridge where the Delaware’s trail had abruptly ended. Ah! what was there? A twisted bit of fern, with the drops of dew brushed off. Bending beside the fern, Wetzel examined the grass; it was not crushed. A small plant with triangular leaves of dark green, lay under the fern. Breaking off one of these leaves, he exposed its lower side to the light. The fine, silvery hair of fuzz that grew upon the leaf had been crushed. Wetzel knew that an Indian could tread so softly as not to break the springy grass blades, but the under side of one of these leaves, if a man steps on it, always betrays his passage through the woods. To keen eyes this leaf showed that it had been bruised by a soft moccasin. Wetzel had located the trail, but was still ignorant of its direction. Slowly he traced the shaken ferns and bruised leaves down over the side of the ridge, and at last, near a stone, he found a moccasin-print in the moss. It pointed east. The Delaware was traveling in exactly the opposite direction to that which he should be going. He was, moreover, exercising wonderful sagacity in hiding his trail. This, however, did not trouble Wetzel, for if it took him a long time to find the trail, certainly the Delaware had expended as much, or more, in choosing hard ground, logs or rocks on which to tread.

  Wetzel soon realized that his own cunning was matched. He trusted no more to his intuitive knowledge, but stuck close to the trail, as a hungry wolf holds to the scent of his quarry.

  The Delaware trail led over logs, stones and hard-baked ground, up stony ravines and over cliffs. The wily chief used all of his old skill; he walked backward over moss and sand where his footprints showed plainly; he leaped wide fissures in stony ravines, and then jumped back again; he let himself down over ledges by branches; he crossed creeks and gorges by swinging himself into trees and climbing from one to another; he waded brooks where he found hard bottom, and avoided swampy, soft ground.

  With dogged persistence and tenacity of purpose Wetzel stuck to this gradually fading trail. Every additional rod he was forced to go more slowly, and take more time in order to find any sign of his enemy’s passage th
rough the forests. One thing struck him forcibly. Wingenund was gradually circling to the southwest, a course that took him farther and farther from the Delaware encampment.

  Slowly it dawned upon Wetzel that the chief could hardly have any reason for taking this circling course save that of pride and savage joy in misleading, in fooling the foe of the Delawares, in deliberately showing Deathwind that there was one Indian who could laugh at and loose him in the forests. To Wetzel this was bitter as gall. To be led a wild goose chase! His fierce heart boiled with fury. His dark, keen eyes sought the grass and moss with terrible earnestness. Yet in spite of the anger that increased to the white heat of passion, he became aware of some strange sensation creeping upon him. He remembered that the Delawares had offered his life. Slowly, like a shadow, Wetzel passed up and down the ridges, through the brown and yellow aisles of the forest, over the babbling brooks, out upon the golden-flecked fields—always close on the trail.

  At last in an open part of the forest, where a fire had once swept away the brush and smaller timber, Wetzel came upon the spot where the Delaware’s trail ended.

  There in the soft, black ground was a moccasin-print. The forest was not dense; there was plenty of light; no logs, stones or trees were near, and yet over all that glade no further evidence of the Indian’s trail was visible.

  It faded there as the great chief had boasted it would.

  Wetzel searched the burnt ground; he crawled on his hands and knees; again and again he went over the surroundings. The fact that one moccasin-print pointed west and the other east, showed that the Delaware had turned in his tracks, was the most baffling thing that had ever crossed the hunter in all his wild wanderings.

  For the first time in many years he had failed. He took his defeat hard, because he had been successful for so long he thought himself almost infallible, and because the failure lost him the opportunity to kill his great foe. In his passion he cursed himself for being so weak as to let the prayer of a woman turn him from his life’s purpose.