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

by Zane Grey

  Chapter XVIII.

  The sight which Joe had seen horrified him, for several moments,into helpless inaction. He lay breathing heavily, impotent, in anawful rage. As he remained there stunned by the shock, he gazed upthrough the open space in the leaves, trying to still his fury, torealize the situation, to make no hasty move. The soft blue of thesky, the fleecy clouds drifting eastward, the fluttering leaves andthe twittering birds--all assured him he was wide awake. He hadfound Girty's den where so many white women had been hidden, to seefriends and home no more. He had seen the renegade sleeping, calmlysleeping like any other man. How could the wretch sleep! He had seenKate. It had been the sight of her that had paralyzed him. To make acertainty of his fears, he again raised himself to peep into thehole. As he did so a faint cry came from within.

  Girty lay on a buffalo robe near a barred door. Beyond him sat Kate,huddled in one corner of the cabin. A long buckskin thong wasknotted round her waist, and tied to a log. Her hair was matted andtangled, and on her face and arms were many discolored bruises.Worse still, in her plaintive moaning, in the meaningless movementof her head, in her vacant expression, was proof that her mind hadgone. She was mad. Even as an agonizing pity came over Joe, to befollowed by the surging fire of rage, blazing up in his breast, hecould not but thank God that she was mad! It was merciful that Katewas no longer conscious of her suffering.

  Like leaves in a storm wavered Joe's hands as he clenched them untilthe nails brought blood. "Be calm, be cool," whispered his monitor,Wetzel, ever with him in spirit. But God! Could he be cool? Boundingwith lion-spring he hurled his heavy frame against the door.

  Crash! The door was burst from its fastenings.

  Girty leaped up with startled yell, drawing his knife as he rose. Ithad not time to descend before Joe's second spring, more fierce eventhan the other, carried him directly on top of the renegade. As thetwo went down Joe caught the villain's wrist with a grip thatliterally cracked the bones. The knife fell and rolled away from thestruggling men. For an instant they tumbled about on the floor,clasped in a crushing embrace. The renegade was strong, supple,slippery as an eel. Twice he wriggled from his foe. Gnashing histeeth, he fought like a hyena. He was fighting for life--life, whichis never so dear as to a coward and a murderer. Doom glared fromJoe's big eyes, and scream after scream issued from the renegade'swhite lips.

  Terrible was this struggle, but brief. Joe seemingly had thestrength of ten men. Twice he pulled Girty down as a wolf drags adeer. He dashed him against the wall, throwing him nearing andnearer the knife. Once within reach of the blade Joe struck therenegade a severe blow on the temple and the villain's wrestlingbecame weaker. Planting his heavy knee on Girty's breast, Joereached for the knife, and swung it high. Exultantly he cried, madwith lust for the brute's blood.

  But the slight delay saved Girty's life.

  The knife was knocked from Joe's hand and he leaped erect to findhimself confronted by Silvertip. The chief held a tomahawk withwhich he had struck the weapon from the young man's grasp, and, tojudge from his burning eyes and malignant smile, he meant to brainthe now defenseless paleface.

  In a single fleeting instant Joe saw that Girty was helpless for themoment, that Silvertip was confident of his revenge, and that thesituation called for Wetzel's characteristic advice, "act likelightnin'."

  Swifter than the thought was the leap he made past Silvertip. Itcarried him to a wooden bar which lay on the floor. Escape was easy,for the door was before him and the Shawnee behind, but Joe did notflee! He seized the bar and rushed at the Indian. Then began a duelin which the savage's quickness and cunning matched the white man'sstrength and fury. Silvertip dodged the vicious swings Joe aimed athim; he parried many blows, any one of which would have crushed hisskull. Nimble as a cat, he avoided every rush, while his dark eyeswatched for an opening. He fought wholly on the defensive, craftilyreserving his strength until his opponent should tire.

  At last, catching the bar on his hatchet, he broke the force of theblow, and then, with agile movement, dropped to the ground andgrappled Joe's legs. Long before this he had drawn his knife, andnow he used it, plunging the blade into the young man's side.

  Cunning and successful as was the savage's ruse, it failed signally,for to get hold of the Shawnee was all Joe wanted. Feeling the sharppain as they fell together, he reached his hand behind him andcaught Silvertip's wrist. Exerting all his power, he wrenched theIndian's arm so that it was not only dislocated, but the bonescracked.

  Silvertip saw his fatal mistake, but he uttered no sound. Crippled,though he was, he yet made a supreme effort, but it was as if he hadbeen in the hands of a giant. The lad handled him with remorselessand resistless fury. Suddenly he grasped the knife, which Silvertiphad been unable to hold with his crippled hand, and thrust it deeplyinto the Indian's side.

  All Silvertip's muscles relaxed as if a strong tension had beenremoved. Slowly his legs straightened, his arms dropped, and fromhis side gushed a dark flood. A shadow crept over his face, not darknor white, but just a shadow. His eyes lost their hate; they nolonger saw the foe, they looked beyond with gloomy question, andthen were fixed cold in death. Silvertip died as he had lived--achief.

  Joe glared round for Girty. He was gone, having slipped away duringthe fight. The lad turned to release the poor prisoner, when hestarted back with a cry of fear. Kate lay bathed in a pool ofblood--dead. The renegade, fearing she might be rescued, hadmurdered her, and then fled from the cabin.

  Almost blinded by horror, and staggering with weakness, Joe turnedto leave the cabin. Realizing that he was seriously, perhapsdangerously, wounded he wisely thought he must not leave the placewithout weapons. He had marked the pegs where the renegade's riflehung, and had been careful to keep between that and his enemies. Hetook down the gun and horns, which were attached to it, and, withone last shuddering glance at poor Kate, left the place.

  He was conscious of a queer lightness in his head, but he sufferedno pain. His garments were dripping with blood. He did not know howmuch of it was his, or the Indian's. Instinct rather than sight washis guide. He grew weaker and weaker; his head began to whirl, yethe kept on, knowing that life and freedom were his if he foundWhispering Winds. He gained the top of the ridge; his eyes wereblurred, his strength gone. He called aloud, and then plungedforward on his face. He heard dimly, as though the sound were afaroff, the whine of a dog. He felt something soft and wet on his face.Then consciousness left him.

  When he regained his senses he was lying on a bed of ferns under aprojecting rock. He heard the gurgle of running water mingling withthe song of birds. Near him lay Mose, and beyond rose a wall ofgreen thicket. Neither Whispering Winds nor his horse was visible.

  He felt a dreamy lassitude. He was tired, but had no pain. Findinghe could move without difficulty, he concluded his weakness was morefrom loss of blood than a dangerous wound. He put his hand on theplace where he had been stabbed, and felt a soft, warm compress suchas might have been made by a bunch of wet leaves. Some one hadunlaced his hunting-shirt--for he saw the strings were not as heusually tied them--and had dressed the wound. Joe decided, aftersome deliberation, that Whispering Winds had found him, made him ascomfortable as possible, and, leaving Mose on guard, had gone out tohunt for food, or perhaps back to the Indian encampment. The rifleand horns he had taken from Girty's hut, together with Silvertip'sknife, lay beside him.

  As Joe lay there hoping for Whispering Winds' return, hisreflections were not pleasant. Fortunate, indeed, he was to bealive; but he had no hope he could continue to be favored byfortune. Odds were now against his escape. Girty would have theDelawares on his trail like a pack of hungry wolves. He could notunderstand the absence of Whispering Winds. She would have diedsooner than desert him. Girty had, perhaps, captured her, and wasnow scouring the woods for him.

  "I'll get him next time, or he'll get me," muttered Joe, in bitterwrath. He could never forgive himself for his failure to kill therenegade.

  The recollection of how nearly he had forever e
nded Girty's brutalcareer brought before Joe's mind the scene of the fight. He sawagain Buzzard Jim's face, revolting, unlike anything human. Therestretched Silvertip's dark figure, lying still and stark, and therewas Kate's white form in its winding, crimson wreath of blood.Hauntingly her face returned, sad, stern in its cold rigidity.

  "Poor girl, better for her to be dead," he murmured. "Not long willshe be unavenged!"

  His thoughts drifted to the future. He had no fear of starvation,for Mose could catch a rabbit or woodchuck at any time. When thestrips of meat he had hidden in his coat were gone, he could start afire and roast more. What concerned him most was pursuit. His trailfrom the cabin had been a bloody one, which would render it easilyfollowed. He dared not risk exertion until he had given his woundtime to heal. Then, if he did escape from Girty and the Delawares,his future was not bright. His experiences of the last few days hadnot only sobered, but brought home to him this real border life.With all his fire and daring he new he was no fool. He had eagerlyembraced a career which, at the present stage of his training, wasbeyond his scope--not that he did not know how to act in suddencrises, but because he had not had the necessary practice to quicklyand surely use his knowledge.

  Bitter, indeed, was his self-scorn when he recalled that of theseveral critical positions he had been in since his acquaintancewith Wetzel, he had failed in all but one. The exception was thekilling of Silvertip. Here his fury had made him fight as Wetzelfought with only his every day incentive. He realized that theborder was no place for any save the boldest and most experiencedhunters--men who had become inured to hardship, callous as to death,keen as Indians. Fear was not in Joe nor lack of confidence; but hehad good sense, and realized he would have done a wiser thing had hestayed at Fort Henry. Colonel Zane was right. The Indians weretigers, the renegades vultures, the vast untrammeled forests andplains their covert. Ten years of war had rendered this wilderness aplace where those few white men who had survived were hardened tothe spilling of blood, stern even in those few quiet hours whichperil allowed them, strong in their sacrifice of all for futuregenerations.

  A low growl from Mose broke into Joe's reflections. The dog hadraised his nose from his paws and sniffed suspiciously at the air.The lad heard a slight rustling outside, and in another moment wasoverjoyed at seeing Whispering Winds. She came swiftly, with alithe, graceful motion, and flying to him like a rush of wind, kneltbeside him. She kissed him and murmured words of endearment.

  "Winds, where have you been?" he asked her, in the mixed English andIndian dialect in which they conversed.

  She told him the dog had led her to him two evenings before. He wasinsensible. She had bathed and bandaged his wound, and remained withhim all that night. The next day, finding he was ill and delirious,she decided to risk returning to the village. If any questionsarose, she could say he had left her. Then she would find a way toget back to him, bringing healing herbs for his wound and a soothingdrink. As it turned out Girty had returned to the camp. He wasbattered and bruised, and in a white heat of passion. Going at onceto Wingenund, the renegade openly accused Whispering Winds of aidingher paleface lover to escape. Wingenund called his daughter beforehim, and questioned her. She confessed all to her father.

  "Why is the daughter of Wingenund a traitor to her race?" demandedthe chief.

  "Whispering Winds is a Christian."

  Wingenund received this intelligence as a blow. He dismissed Girtyand sent his braves from his lodge, facing his daughter alone.Gloomy and stern, he paced before her.

  "Wingenund's blood might change, but would never betray. Wingenundis the Delaware chief," he said. "Go. Darken no more the door ofWingenund's wigwam. Let the flower of the Delawares fade in alienpastures. Go. Whispering Winds is free!"

  Tears shone brightly in the Indian girl's eyes while she told Joeher story. She loved her father, and she would see him no more.

  "Winds is free," she whispered. "When strength returns to her mastershe can follow him to the white villages. Winds will live her lifefor him."

  "Then we have no one to fear?" asked Joe.

  "No redman, now that the Shawnee chief is dead."

  "Will Girty follow us? He is a coward; he will fear to come alone."

  "The white savage is a snake in the grass."

  Two long days followed, during which the lovers lay quietly inhiding. On the morning of the third day Joe felt that he might riskthe start for the Village of Peace. Whispering Winds led the horsebelow a stone upon which the invalid stood, thus enabling him tomount. Then she got on behind him.

  The sun was just gilding the horizon when they rode out of the woodsinto a wide plain. No living thing could be seen. Along the edge ofthe forest the ground was level, and the horse traveled easily.Several times during the morning Joe dismounted beside a pile ofstones or a fallen tree. The miles were traversed without seriousinconvenience to the invalid, except that he grew tired. Toward themiddle of the afternoon, when they had ridden perhaps twenty-fivemiles, they crossed a swift, narrow brook. The water was a beautifulclear brown. Joe made note of this, as it was an unusualcircumstance. Nearly all the streams, when not flooded, were greenin color. He remembered that during his wanderings with Wetzel theyhad found one stream of this brown, copper-colored water. The ladknew he must take a roundabout way to the village so that he mightavoid Indian runners or scouts, and he hoped this stream would proveto be the one he had once camped upon.

  As they were riding toward a gentle swell or knoll covered withtrees and shrubbery, Whispering Winds felt something warm on herhand, and, looking, was horrified to find it covered with blood.Joe's wound had opened. She told him they must dismount here, andremain until he was stronger. The invalid himself thought thisconclusion was wise. They would be practically safe now, since theymust be out of the Indian path, and many miles from the encampment.Accordingly he got off the horse, and sat down on a log, whileWhispering Winds searched for a suitable place in which to erect atemporary shelter.

  Joe's wandering gaze was arrested by a tree with a huge knottyformation near the ground. It was like many trees, but thispeculiarity was not what struck Joe. He had seen it before. He neverforgot anything in the woods that once attracted his attention. Helooked around on all sides. Just behind him was an opening in theclump of trees. Within this was a perpendicular stone covered withmoss and lichens; above it a beech tree spread long, gracefulbranches. He thrilled with the remembrance these familiar marksbrought. This was Beautiful Spring, the place where Wetzel rescuedNell, where he had killed the Indians in that night attack he wouldnever forget.