The Spirit of the Border: A Romance of the Early Settlers in the Ohio Valley

by Zane Grey

  Chapter XIV.

  Not many miles from the Village of Peace rose an irregular chain ofhills, the first faint indications of the grand Appalachian Mountainsystem. These ridges were thickly wooded with white oak, poplar andhickory, among which a sentinel pine reared here and there itsevergreen head. There were clefts in the hills, passes lined bygray-stoned cliffs, below which ran clear brooks, tumbling overrocks in a hurry to meet their majestic father, the Ohio.

  One of these valleys, so narrow that the sun seldom brightened themerry brook, made a deep cut in the rocks. The head of this valleytapered until the walls nearly met; it seemed to lose itself in theshade of fern-faced cliffs, shadowed as they were by fir treesleaning over the brink, as though to search for secrets of theravine. So deep and dark and cool was this sequestered nook thathere late summer had not dislodged early spring. Everywhere was asoft, fresh, bright green. The old gray cliffs were festooned withferns, lichens and moss. Under a great, shelving rock, damp andstained by the copper-colored water dripping down its side, was adewy dell into which the sunshine had never peeped. Here the swiftbrook tarried lovingly, making a wide turn under the cliff, asthough loth to leave this quiet nook, and then leaped once more toenthusiasm in its murmuring flight.

  Life abounded in this wild, beautiful, almost inaccessible spot.Little brown and yellow birds flitted among the trees; thrushes ranalong the leaf-strewn ground; orioles sang their melancholy notes;robins and flickers darted beneath the spreading branches. Squirrelsscurried over the leaves like little whirlwinds, and leaped daringlyfrom the swinging branches or barked noisily from woody perches.Rabbits hopped inquisitively here and there while nibbling at thetender shoots of sassafras and laurel.

  Along this flower-skirted stream a tall young man, carrying a riflecautiously stepped, peering into the branches overhead. A gray flashshot along a limb of a white oak; then the bushy tail of a squirrelflitted into a well-protected notch, from whence, no doubt, a keenlittle eye watched the hunter's every movement.

  The rifle was raised; then lowered. The hunter walked around thetree. Presently up in the tree top, snug under a knotty limb, hespied a little ball of gray fur. Grasping a branch of underbush, heshook it vigorously. The thrashing sound worried the gray squirrel,for he slipped from his retreat and stuck his nose over the limb.CRACK! With a scratching and tearing of bark the squirrel loosenedhis hold and then fell; alighting with a thump. As the hunter pickedup his quarry a streak of sunshine glinting through the tree topbrightened his face.

  The hunter was Joe.

  He was satisfied now, for after stowing the squirrel in the pocketof his hunting coat he shouldered his rifle and went back up theravine. Presently a dull roar sounded above the babble of the brook.It grew louder as he threaded his way carefully over the stones.Spots of white foam flecked the brook. Passing under the gray,stained cliff, Joe turned around a rocky corner, and came to anabrupt end of the ravine. A waterfall marked the spot where thebrook entered. The water was brown as it took the leap, light greenwhen it thinned out; and below, as it dashed on the stones, itbecame a beautiful, sheeny white.

  Upon a flat rock, so near the cascade that spray flew over him, satanother hunter. The roaring falls drowned all other sounds, yet theman roused from his dreamy contemplation of the waterfall when Joerounded the corner.

  "I heerd four shots," he said, as Joe came up.

  "Yes; I got a squirrel for every shot."

  Wetzel led the way along a narrow foot trail which gradually woundtoward the top of the ravine. This path emerged presently, somedistance above the falls, on the brink of a bluff. It ran along theedge of the precipice a few yards, then took a course back intodensely wooded thickets. Just before stepping out on the open cliffWetzel paused and peered keenly on all sides. There was no livingthing to be seen; the silence was the deep, unbroken calm of thewilderness.

  Wetzel stepped to the bluff and looked over. The stony wall oppositewas only thirty feet away, and somewhat lower. From Wetzel's actionit appeared as if he intended to leap the fissure. In truth, many aband of Indians pursuing the hunter into this rocky fastness hadcome out on the bluff, and, marveling at what they thought Wetzel'sprowess, believed he had made a wonderful leap, thus eluding them.But he had never attempted that leap, first, because he knew it waswell-nigh impossible, and secondly, there had never been anynecessity for such risk.

  Any one leaning over this cliff would have observed, perhaps tenfeet below, a narrow ledge projecting from the face of the rock. Hewould have imagined if he were to drop on that ledge there would beno way to get off and he would be in a worse predicament.

  Without a moment's hesitation Wetzel swung himself over the ledge.Joe followed suit. At one end of this lower ledge grew a hardy shrubof the ironwood species, and above it a scrub pine leanedhorizontally out over the ravine. Laying his rifle down, Wetzelgrasped a strong root and cautiously slid over the side. When all ofhis body had disappeared, with the exception of his sinewy fingers,they loosened their hold on the root, grasped the rifle, and draggedit down out of sight. Quietly, with similar caution, Joe took holdof the same root, let himself down, and when at full length swunghimself in under the ledge. His feet found a pocket in the cliff.Letting go of the root, he took his rifle, and in another second wassafe.

  Of all Wetzel's retreats--for he had many--he considered this onethe safest. The cavern under the ledge he had discovered byaccident. One day, being hotly pursued by Shawnees, he had beenheaded off on this cliff, and had let himself down on the ledge,intending to drop from it to the tops of the trees below. Takingadvantage of every little aid, he hung over by means of the shrub,and was in the act of leaping when he saw that the cliff shelvedunder the ledge, while within reach of his feet was the entrance toa cavern. He found the cave to be small with an opening at the backinto a split in the rock. Evidently the place had been entered fromthe rear by bears, who used the hole for winter sleeping quarters.By crawling on his hands and knees, Wetzel found the rear opening.Thus he had established a hiding place where it was almostimpossible to locate him. He provisioned his retreat, which healways entered by the cliff and left by the rear.

  An evidence of Wetzel's strange nature, and of his love for thiswild home, manifested itself when he bound Joe to secrecy. It wasunlikely, even if the young man ever did get safely out of thewilderness, that any stories he might relate would reveal thehunter's favorite rendezvous. But Wetzel seriously demanded thissecrecy, as earnestly as if the forest were full of Indians andwhite men, all prowling in search of his burrow.

  Joe was in the seventh heaven of delight, and took to the free lifeas a wild gosling takes to the water. No place had ever appealed tohim as did this dark, silent hole far up on the side of a steepcliff. His interest in Wetzel soon passed into a great admiration,and from that deepened to love.

  This afternoon, when they were satisfied that all was well withintheir refuge, Joe laid aside his rifle, and, whistling softly, beganto prepare supper. The back part of the cave permitted him to standerect, and was large enough for comparative comfort. There was aneat, little stone fireplace, and several cooking utensils andgourds. From time to time Wetzel had brought these things. A pile ofwood and a bundle of pine cones lay in one corner. Haunches of driedbeef, bear and buffalo meat hung from pegs; a bag of parched corn,another of dried apples lay on a rocky shelf. Nearby hung apowder-horn filled with salt and pepper. In the cleft back of thecave was a spring of clear, cold water.

  The wants of woodsmen are few and simple. Joe and Wetzel, withappetites whetted by their stirring outdoor life, relished thefrugal fare as they could never have enjoyed a feast. As the shadowsof evening entered the cave, they lighted their pipes to partake ofthe hunter's sweetest solace, a quiet smoke.

  Strange as it may appear, this lonely, stern Indian-hunter and thereckless, impulsive boy were admirably suited for companionship.Wetzel had taken a liking to the young man when he led the brothersto Fort Henry. Subsequent events strengthened his liking, and now,many days after, Joe having f
ollowed him into the forest, a strongattachment had been insensibly forged between them.

  Wetzel understood Joe's burning desire to roam the forests; but hehalf expected the lad would soon grow tired of this roving life, butexactly the opposite symptoms were displayed. The hunter hadintended to take his comrade on a hunting trip, and to return withhim, after that was over, to Fort Henry. They had now been in thewoods for weeks and every day in some way had Joe showed his mettle.Wetzel finally admitted him into the secrets of his most cherishedhiding place. He did not want to hurt the lad's feelings by takinghim back to the settlement; he could not send him back. So the dayswore on swiftly; full of heart-satisfying incident and life, withman and boy growing closer in an intimacy that was as warm as it wasunusual.

  Two reasons might account for this: First, there is no sane humanbeing who is not better off for companionship. An exile would findsomething of happiness in one who shared his misery. And, secondly,Joe was a most acceptable comrade, even for a slayer of Indians.Wedded as Wetzel was to the forest trails, to his lonely life, tothe Nemesis-pursuit he had followed for eighteen long years, he wasstill a white man, kind and gentle in his quiet hours, and becauseof this, though he knew it not, still capable of affection. He hadnever known youth; his manhood had been one pitiless warfare againsthis sworn foes; but once in all those years had his sore, cold heartwarmed; and that was toward a woman who was not for him. His lifehad held only one purpose--a bloody one. Yet the man had a heart,and he could not prevent it from responding to another. In hissimple ignorance he rebelled against this affection for anythingother than his forest homes. Man is weak against hate; what can heavail against love? The dark caverns of Wetzel's great heart opened,admitting to their gloomy depths this stranger. So now a new lovewas born in that cheerless heart, where for so long a lonely inmate,the ghost of old love, had dwelt in chill seclusion.

  The feeling of comradeship which Wetzel had for Joe was somethingaltogether new in the hunter's life. True he had hunted withJonathan Zane, and accompanied expeditions where he was forced tosleep with another scout; but a companion, not to say friend, he hadnever known. Joe was a boy, wilder than an eagle, yet he was a man.He was happy and enthusiastic, still his good spirits never jarredon the hunter; they were restrained. He never asked questions, aswould seem the case in any eager lad; he waited until he was spokento. He was apt; he never forgot anything; he had the eye of a bornwoodsman, and lastly, perhaps what went far with Wetzel, he was asstrong and supple as a young lynx, and absolutely fearless.

  On this evening Wetzel and Joe followed their usual custom; theysmoked a while before lying down to sleep. Tonight the hunter waseven more silent than usual, and the lad, tired out with his day'stramp, lay down on a bed of fragrant boughs.

  Wetzel sat there in the gathering gloom while he pulled slowly onhis pipe. The evening was very quiet; the birds had ceased theirtwittering; the wind had died away; it was too early for the bay ofa wolf, the wail of a panther, or hoot of an owl; there was simplyperfect silence.

  The lad's deep, even breathing caught Wetzel's ear, and he foundhimself meditating, as he had often of late, on this new somethingthat had crept into his life. For Joe loved him; he could not failto see that. The lad had preferred to roam with the lonelyIndian-hunter through the forests, to encounter the perils andhardships of a wild life, rather than accept the smile of fortuneand of love. Wetzel knew that Colonel Zane had taken a liking to theboy, and had offered him work and a home; and, also, the hunterremembered the warm light he had seen in Nell's hazel eyes. Musingthus, the man felt stir in his heart an emotion so long absent thatit was unfamiliar. The Avenger forgot, for a moment his broodingplans. He felt strangely softened. When he laid his head on the rudepillow it was with some sense of gladness that, although he hadalways desired a lonely life, and wanted to pass it in thefulfillment of his vow, his loneliness was now shared by a lad wholoved him.

  Joe was awakened by the merry chirp of a chipmunk that every morningran along the seamy side of the opposite wall of the gorge. Gettingup, he went to the back of the cave, where he found Wetzel combingout his long hair. The lad thrust his hands into the cold pool, andbathed his face. The water was icy cold, and sent an invigoratingthrill through him. Then he laughed as he took a rude comb Wetzelhanded to him.

  "My scalp is nothing to make an Indian very covetous, is it?" saidhe, eyeing in admiration the magnificent black hair that fell overthe hunter's shoulders.

  "It'll grow," answered Wetzel.

  Joe did not wonder at the care Wetzel took of his hair, nor did hemisunderstand the hunter's simple pride. Wetzel was very careful ofhis rifle, he was neat and clean about his person, he brushed hisbuckskin costume, he polished his knife and tomahawk; but his hairreceived more attention than all else. It required much care. Whencombed out it reached fully to his knees. Joe had seen him, after hereturned from a long hunt, work patiently for an hour with hiswooden comb, and not stop until every little burr was gone, ortangle smoothed out. Then he would comb it again in themorning--this, of course, when time permitted--and twist and tie itup so as to offer small resistance to his slipping through theunderbush. Joe knew the hunter's simplicity was such, that if he cutoff his hair it would seem he feared the Indians--for that streamingblack hair the Indians had long coveted and sworn to take. It wouldmake any brave a famous chief, and was the theme of many a savagewar tale.

  After breakfast Wetzel said to Joe:

  "You stay here, an' I'll look round some; mebbe I'll come back soon,and we'll go out an' kill a buffalo. Injuns sometimes foller up abuffalo trail, an' I want to be sure none of the varlets are chasin'that herd we saw to-day."

  Wetzel left the cave by the rear. It took him fifteen minutes tocrawl to the head of the tortuous, stony passage. Lifting the stonewhich closed up the aperture, he looked out and listened. Then,rising, he replaced the stone, and passed down the wooded hillside.

  It was a beautiful morning; the dew glistened on the green leaves,the sun shone bright and warm, the birds warbled in the trees. Thehunter's moccasins pressed so gently on the moss and leaves thatthey made no more sound than the soft foot of a panther. His trainedear was alert to catch any unfamiliar noise; his keen eyes soughtfirst the remoter open glades and glens, then bent their gaze on themossy bluff beneath his feet. Fox squirrels dashed from before himinto bushy retreats; grouse whirred away into the thickets; startleddeer whistled, and loped off with their white-flags upraised. Wetzelknew from the action of these denizens of the woods that he was theonly creature, not native to these haunts, who had disturbed themthis morning. Otherwise the deer would not have been grazing, butlying low in some close thicket; fox squirrels seldom or never weredisturbed by a hunter twice in one day, for after being frightenedthese little animals, wilder and shyer than gray squirrels, remainedhidden for hours, and grouse that have been flushed a little whilebefore, always get up unusually quick, and fly very far beforealighting.

  Wetzel circled back over the hill, took a long survey from a rockyeminence, and then reconnoitered the lowland for several miles. Helocated the herd of buffalo, and satisfying himself there were noIndians near--for the bison were grazing quietly--he returned to thecave. A soft whistle into the back door of the rocky home told Joethat the hunter was waiting.

  "Coast clear?" whispered the lad, thrusting his head out of theentrance. His gray eyes gleamed brightly, showing his eager spirit.

  The hunter nodded, and, throwing his rifle in the hollow of his arm,proceeded down the hill. Joe followed closely, endeavoring, asWetzel had trained him, to make each step precisely in the hunter'sfootprints. The lad had soon learned to step nimbly and softly as acat. When half way down the bill Wetzel paused.

  "See anythin'?" he whispered.

  Joe glanced on all sides. Many mistakes had taught him to becautious. He had learned from experience that for every woodlandcreature he saw, there were ten watching his every move. Just now hecould not see even a little red squirrel. Everywhere were sturdyhickory and oak trees, thickets and
hazelnuts, slender ash saplings,and, in the open glades, patches of sumach. Rotting trees lay on theground, while ferns nodded long, slender heads over the fallenmonarchs. Joe could make out nothing but the colors of the woods,the gray of the tree trunks, and, in the openings through theforest-green, the dead purple haze of forests farther on. He smiled,and, shaking his head at the hunter, by his action admitted failure.

  "Try again. Dead ahead," whispered Wetzel.

  Joe bent a direct gaze on the clump of sassafras one hundred feetahead. He searched the open places, the shadows--even the branches.Then he turned his eyes slowly to the right. Whatever wasdiscernible to human vision he studied intently. Suddenly his eyebecame fixed on a small object protruding from behind a beech tree.It was pointed, and in color darker than the gray bark of the beech.It had been a very easy matter to pass over this little thing; butnow that the lad saw it, he knew to what it belonged.

  "That's a buck's ear," he replied.

  Hardly had he finished speaking when Wetzel intentionally snapped atwig. There was a crash and commotion in the thicket; branches movedand small saplings waved; then out into the open glade bounded alarge buck with a whistle of alarm. Throwing his rifle to a level,Joe was trying to cover the bounding deer, when the hunter struck uphis piece.

  "Lad, don't kill fer the sake of killin," he said, quietly. "We haveplenty of venison. We'll go arter a buffalo. I hev a hankerin' fer agood rump steak."

  Half an hour later, the hunters emerged from the forest into a wideplain of waving grass. It was a kind of oval valley, encircled byhills, and had been at one time, perhaps, covered with water. Joesaw a herd of large animals browsing, like cattle, in a meadow. Hisheart beat high, for until that moment the only buffalo he had seenwere the few which stood on the river banks as the raft passed downthe Ohio. He would surely get a shot at one of these huge fellows.

  Wetzel bade Joe do exactly as he did, whereupon he dropped on hishands and knees and began to crawl through the long grass. This waseasy for the hunter, but very bard for the lad to accomplish. Still,he managed to keep his comrade in sight, which was a matter forcongratulation, because the man crawled as fast as he walked. Atlength, after what to Joe seemed a very long time, the hunterpaused.

  "Are we near enough?" whispered Joe, breathlessly.

  "Nope. We're just circlin' on 'em. The wind's not right, an' I'mafeered they'll get our scent."

  Wetzel rose carefully and peeped over the top of the grass; then,dropping on all fours, he resumed the advance.

  He paused again, presently and waited for Joe to come up.

  "See here, young fellar, remember, never hurry unless the biznesscalls fer speed, an' then act like lightnin'."

  Thus admonishing the eager lad, Wetzel continued to crawl. It waseasy for him. Joe wondered how those wide shoulders got between theweeds and grasses without breaking, or, at least, shaking them. Butso it was.

  "Flat now," whispered Wetzel, putting his broad hand on Joe's backand pressing him down. "Now's yer time fer good practice. Trail yerrifle over yer back--if yer careful it won't slide off--an' reachout far with one arm an' dig yer fingers in deep. Then pull yerselfforrard."

  Wetzel slipped through the grass like a huge buckskin snake. Hislong, lithe body wormed its way among the reeds. But for Joe, evenwith the advantage of having the hunter's trail to follow, it wasdifficult work. The dry reeds broke under him, and the stalks ofsaw-grass shook. He worked persistently at it, learning all thewhile, and improving with every rod. He was surprised to hear aswish, followed by a dull blow on the ground. Raising his head, helooked forward. He saw the hunter wipe his tomahawk on the grass.

  "Snake," whispered Wetzel.

  Joe saw a huge blacksnake squirming in the grass. Its head had beensevered. He caught glimpses of other snakes gliding away, and glossyround moles darting into their holes. A gray rabbit started off witha leap.

  "We're near enough," whispered Wetzel, stopping behind a bush. Herose and surveyed the plain; then motioned Joe to look.

  Joe raised himself on his knees. As his gaze reached the level ofthe grassy plain his heart leaped. Not fifty yards away was a great,shaggy, black buffalo. He was the king of the herd; but ill at ease,for he pawed the grass and shook his huge head. Near him wereseveral cows and a half-grown calf. Beyond was the main herd,extending as far as Joe could see--a great sea of black humps! Thelad breathed hard as he took in the grand sight.

  "Pick out the little fellar--the reddish-brown one--an' plug himbehind the shoulder. Shoot close now, fer if we miss, mebbe I can'thit one, because I'm not used to shootin' at sich small marks."

  Wetzel's rare smile lighted up his dark face. Probably he could haveshot a fly off the horn of the bull, if one of the big flies orbees, plainly visible as they swirled around the huge head, hadalighted there.

  Joe slowly raised his rifle. He had covered the calf, and was aboutto pull the trigger, when, with a sagacity far beyond his experienceas hunter, he whispered to Wetzel:

  "If I fire they may run toward us."

  "Nope; they'll run away," answered Wetzel, thinking the lad was askeen as an Indian.

  Joe quickly covered the calf again, and pulled the trigger.Bellowing loud the big bull dashed off. The herd swung around towardthe west, and soon were galloping off with a lumbering roar. Theshaggy humps bobbed up and down like hot, angry waves on astorm-blackened sea.

  Upon going forward, Wetzel and Joe found the calf lying dead in thegrass.

  "You might hev did better'n that," remarked the hunter, as he sawwhere the bullet had struck. "You went a little too fer back, butmebbe thet was 'cause the calf stepped as you shot."