The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail

by Zane Grey

  “It’s a beautiful river, and I’d like to sail on it from here to where it ends, and then come back to go again,” Joe replied, warmly.

  “In a hurry to be a-goin’? I’ll allow you’ll see some slim red devils, with feathers in their hair, slippin’ among the trees along the bank, and mebbe you’ll hear the ping which’s made when whistlin’ lead hits. Perhaps you’ll want to be back here by termorrer sundown.”

  “Not I,” said Joe, with his short, cool laugh.

  The old frontiersman slowly finished his task of coiling up a rope of wet cowhide, and then, producing a dirty pipe, he took a live ember from the fire and placed it on the bowl. He sucked slowly at the pipe-stem, and soon puffed out a great cloud of smoke. Sitting on a log, he deliberately surveyed the robust shoulders and long, heavy limbs of the young man, with a keen appreciation of their symmetry and strength. Agility, endurance, and courage were more to a borderman than all else; a newcomer on the frontier was always “sized-up” with reference to these “points,” and respected in proportion to the measure in which he possessed them.

  Old Jeff Lynn, riverman, hunter, frontiersman, puffed slowly at his pipe while he mused thus to himself: “Mebbe I’m wrong in takin’ a likin’ to this youngster so sudden. Mebbe it’s because I’m fond of his sunny-haired lass, an’ ag’in mebbe it’s because I’m gettin’ old an’ likes young folks better’n I onct did. Anyway, I’m kinder thinkin’, if this young feller gits worked out, say fer about twenty pounds less, he’ll lick a whole raft-load of wildcats.”

  Joe walked to and fro on the logs, ascertained how the raft was put together, and took a pull on the long, clumsy steering oar. At length he seated himself beside Lynn. He was eager to ask questions; to know about the rafts, the river, the forest, the Indians—everything in connection with this wild life; but already he had learned that questioning these frontiersmen is a sure means of closing their lips.

  “Ever handle the long rifle?” asked Lynn, after a silence.

  “Yes,” answered Joe, simply.

  “Ever shoot anythin’?” the frontiersman questioned, when he had taken four or five puffs at his pipe.

  “Squirrels.”

  “Good practice, shootin’ squirrels,” observed Jeff, after another silence, long enough to allow Joe to talk if he was so inclined. “Kin ye hit one—say, a hundred yards?”

  “Yes, but not every time in the head,” returned Joe. There was an apologetic tone in his answer.

  Another interval followed in which neither spoke. Jeff was slowly pursuing his line of thought. After Joe’s last remark he returned his pipe to his pocket and brought out a tobacco pouch. He tore off a large portion of the weed and thrust it into his mouth. Then he held out the little buckskin sack to Joe.

  “Hev a chaw,” he said.

  To offer tobacco to anyone was absolutely a borderman’s guarantee of friendliness toward that person.

  Jeff expectorated half a dozen times, each time coming a little nearer the stone he was aiming at, some five yards distant. Possibly this was the borderman’s way of oiling up his conversational machinery. At all events, he commenced to talk.

  “Yer brother’s goin’ to preach out here, ain’t he? Preachin’ is all right, I’ll allow; but I’m kinder doubtful about preachin’ to redskins. Howsumever, I’ve knowed Injuns who are good fellows, and there’s no tellin’. What are ye goin’ in fer—farmin’?”

  “No, I wouldn’t make a good farmer.”

  “Jest cum out kinder wild like, eh?” rejoined Jeff, knowingly.

  “I wanted to come West because I was tired of tame life. I love the forest; I want to fish and hunt; and I think I’d like to—to see Indians.”

  “I kinder thought so,” said the old frontiersman, nodding his head as though he perfectly understood Joe’s case. “Well, lad, where you’re goin’ seein’ Injuns ain’t a matter of choice. You has to see ’em, and fight ’em, too. We’ve had bad times for years out here on the border, and I’m thinkin’ wuss is comin’. Did ye ever hear the name Girty?”

  “Yes; he’s a renegade.”

  “He’s a traitor, and Jim and George Girty, his brother, are p’isin rattlesnake Injuns. Simon Girty’s bad enough; but Jim’s the wust. He’s now wusser’n a full-blooded Delaware. He’s all the time on the lookout to capture white wimen to take to his Injun teepee. Simon Girty and his pals, McKee and Elliott, deserted from that thar fort right afore yer eyes. They’re now livin’ among the redskins down Fort Henry way, raisin’ as much hell fer the settlers as they kin.”

  “Is Fort Henry near the Indian towns?” asked Joe.

  “There’s Delawares, Shawnees, and Hurons all along the Ohio below Fort Henry.”

  “Where is the Moravian Mission located?”

  “Why, lad, the Village of Peace, as the Injuns call it, is right in the midst of that Injun country. I s’pect it’s a matter of a hundred miles below and cross-country a little from Fort Henry.”

  “The fort must be an important point, is it not?”

  “Wal, I guess so. It’s the last place on the river,” answered Lynn, with a grim smile. “There’s only a stockade there, an’ a handful of men. The Injuns hev swarmed down on it time and ag’in, but they hev never burned it. Only such men as Colonel Zane, his brother Jack, and Wetzel could hev kept that fort standin’ all these bloody years. Eb Zane’s got but a few men, yet he kin handle ’em some, an’ with such scouts as Jack Zane and Wetzel, he allus knows what’s goin’ on among the Injuns.”

  “I’ve heard of Colonel Zane. He was an officer under Lord Dunmore. The hunters here speak often of Jack Zane and Wetzel. What are they?”

  “Jack Zane is a hunter an’ guide. I knowed him well a few years back. He’s a quiet, mild chap; but a streak of chain-lightnin’ when he’s riled. Wetzel is an Injunkiller. Some people say as how he’s crazy over scalp-huntin’; but I reckon that’s not so. I’ve seen him a few times. He don’t hang round the settlement ’cept when the Injuns are up, an’ nobody sees him much. At home he sets round silent-like, an’ then mebbe next mornin’ he’ll be gone, an’ won’t show up fer days or weeks. But all the frontier knows of his deeds. Fer instance, I’ve hearn of settlers gettin’ up in the mornin’ an’ findin’ a couple of dead and scalped Injuns right in front of their cabins. No one knowed who killed ’em, but everybody says ‘Wetzel.’ He’s allus warnin’ the settlers when they need to flee to the fort, and sure he’s right every time, because when these men go back to their cabins they find nothin’ but ashes. There couldn’t be any farmin’ done out there but fer Wetzel.”

  “What does he look like?” questioned Joe, much interested.

  “Wetzel stands straight as the oak over thar. He’d hev to go sideways to git his shoulders in that door, but he’s as light of foot an’ fast as a deer. An’ his eyes—why, lad, ye kin hardly look into ’em. If you ever see Wetzel you’ll know him to onct.”

  “I want to see him,” Joe spoke quickly, his eyes lighting with an eager flash. “He must be a great fighter.”

  “Is he? Lew Wetzel is the heftiest of ’em all, an’ we hev some as kin fight out here. I was down the river a few years ago and joined a party to go out an’ hunt up some redskins as had been reported. Wetzel was with us. We soon struck Injun sign, and then come on to a lot of the pesky varmints. We was all fer goin’ home, because we had a small force. When we started to go we finds Wetzel sittin’ calmlike on a log. We said: ‘Ain’t ye goin’ home?’ and he replied, ‘I cum out to find redskins, an’ now as we’ve found ’em, I’m not goin’ to run away.’ An’ we left him settin’ thar. Oh, Wetzel is a fighter!”

  “I hope I shall see him,” said Joe once more, the warm light, which made him look so boyish, still glowing in his face.

  “Mebbe ye’ll git to; and sure ye’ll see redskins, an’ not tame ones, nuther.”

  At this moment the sound of excited voices near the cabins broke in upon the conversation. Joe saw several persons run toward the large cabin and disappear behind it. He s
miled as he thought perhaps the commotion had been caused by the awakening of the Indian brave.

  Rising to his feet, Joe went toward the cabin, and soon saw the cause of the excitement. A small crowd of men and women, all laughing and talking, surrounded the Indian brave and the little stout fellow. Joe heard someone groan, and then a deep, guttural voice:

  “Paleface—big steal—ugh! Injun mad—heap mad—kill paleface.”

  After elbowing his way into the group, Joe saw the Indian holding Loorey with one hand, while he poked him in the ribs with the other. The captive’s face was the picture of dismay: even the streaks of paint did not hide his look of fear and bewilderment. The poor, half-witted fellow was so badly frightened that he could only groan.

  “Silvertip scalp paleface. Ugh!” growled the savage, giving Loorey another blow. This time he bent over in pain. The bystanders were divided in feeling; the men laughed, while the women murmured sympathetically.

  “This’s not a bit funny,” muttered Joe, as he pushed his way nearly to the middle of the crowd. Then he stretched out a long arm that, bare and brawny, looked as though it might have been blacksmith’s, and grasped the Indian’s sinewy wrist with a force that made him loosen his hold on Loorey instantly.

  “I stole the shirt—fun—joke,” said Joe. “Scalp me if you want to scalp anyone.”

  The Indian looked quickly at the powerful form before him. With a twist he slipped his arm from Joe’s grasp.

  “Big paleface heap fun—all squaw play,” he said, scornfully. There was a menace in his somber eyes as he turned abruptly and left the group.

  “I’m afraid you’ve made an enemy,” said Jake Wentz to Joe. “An Indian never forgets an insult, and that’s how he regarded your joke. Silvertip has been friendly here because he sells us his pelts. He’s a Shawnee chief. There he goes through the willows!”

  By this time Jim and Mr. Wells, Mrs. Wentz and the girls had joined in the group. They all watched Silvertip get into his canoe and paddle away.

  “A bad sign,” said Wentz, and then, turning to Jeff Lynn, who joined the party at that moment, he briefly explained the circumstances.

  “Never did like Silver. He’s a crafty redskin, an’ not to be trusted,” replied Jeff.

  “He has turned round and is looking back,” Nell said quickly.

  “So he has,” observed the fur trader.

  The Indian was now several hundred yards down the swift river, and for an instant had ceased paddling. The sun shone brightly on his eagle plumes. He remained motionless for a moment, and even at such a distance the dark, changeless face could be discerned. He lifted his hand and shook it menacingly.

  “If ye don’t hear from that redskin ag’in, Jeff Lynn don’t know nothin’,” calmly said the old frontiersman.

  CHAPTER IV

  As the rafts drifted with the current the voyagers saw the settlers on the landing place diminish until they had faded from indistinct figures to mere black specks against the green background. Then came the last wave of a white scarf, faintly in the distance, and at length the dark outline of the fort was all that remained to their regretful gaze. Quickly that, too, disappeared behind the green hill, which, with its bold front, forces the river to take a wide turn.

  The Ohio, winding in its course between high, wooded bluffs, rolled on and on into the wilderness.

  Beautiful as was the ever-changing scenery, rugged, gray-faced cliffs on one side contrasting with green-clad hills on the other, there hovered over land and water something more striking than beauty. Above all hung a still atmosphere of calmness—of loneliness.

  And this penetrating solitude marred somewhat the pleasure which might have been found in the picturesque scenery, and caused the voyagers, to whom this country was new, to take less interest in the gaily feathered birds and stealthy animals that were to be seen on the way. By the forms of wild life along the banks of the river, this strange intruder on their peace was regarded with attention. The birds and beasts evinced little fear of the floating rafts. The sandhill crane, stalking along the shore, lifted his long neck as the unfamiliar thing came floating by, and then stood still and silent as a statue until the rafts disappeared from view. Blue herons feeding along the bars, saw the unusual spectacle, and, uttering surprised “booms,” they spread wide wings and lumbered away along the shore. The crows circled above the voyagers, cawing in not unfriendly excitement. Smaller birds alighted on the raised poles, and several—a robin, a catbird, and a little brown wren—ventured with hesitating boldness to peck at the crumbs the girls threw to them. Deer waded knee-deep in the shallow water, and, lifting their heads, instantly became motionless and absorbed. Occasionally a buffalo appeared on a level stretch of bank, and, tossing his huge head, seemed inclined to resent the coming of this stranger into his domain.

  All day the rafts drifted steadily and swiftly down the river, presenting to the little party ever-varying pictures of densely wooded hills, of jutting, broken cliffs with scant evergreen growth; of long reaches of sandy bar that glistened golden in the sunlight, and over the all flight and call of wildfowl, the flitting of woodland songsters, and now and then the whistle and bellow of the horned watchers in the forest.

  The intense blue of the vault above began to pale, and low down in the west a few fleecy clouds, gorgeously golden for a fleeting instant, then crimson-crowned for another, shaded and darkened as the setting sun sank behind the hills. Presently the red rays disappeared, a pink glow suffused the heavens, and at last, as gray twilight stole down over the hilltops, the crescent moon peeped above the wooded fringe of the western bluffs.

  “Hard an’ fast she is,” sang out Jeff Lynn, as he fastened the rope to a tree at the head of a small island. “All off now, an’ we’ll hev supper. Thar’s a fine spring under yon curly birch, an’ I fetched along a leg of deer meat. Hungry, little ’un?”

  He had worked hard all day steering the rafts, yet Nell had seen him smiling at her many times during the journey, and he had found time before the early start to arrange for her a comfortable seat. There was now a solicitude in the frontiersman’s voice that touched her.

  “I am famished,” she replied, with her bright smile. “I am afraid I could eat a whole deer.”

  They all climbed the sandy slope, and found themselves on the summit of an oval island, with a pretty glade in the middle surrounded by birches. Bill, the second raftsman, a stolid, silent man, at once swung his axe upon a log of driftwood. Mr. Wells and Jim walked to and fro under the birches, and Kate and Nell sat on the grass watching with great interest the old helmsman as he came up from the river, his brown hands and face shining from the scrubbing he had given them. Soon he had a fire cheerfully blazing, and after laying out the few utensils, he addressed himself to Joe:

  “I’ll tell ye right here, lad, good venison kin be spoiled by bad cuttin’ and cookin’. You’re slicin’ it too thick. See—thar! Now salt good, an’ keep outen the flame; on the red coals is best.”

  With a sharpened stick Jeff held the thin slices over the fire for a few moments. Then he laid them aside on some clean white oak chips Bill’s axe had provided. The simple meal of meat, bread, and afterward a drink of the cold spring water, was keenly relished by the hungry voyagers. When it had been eaten, Jeff threw a log on his fire and remarked:

  “Seein’ as how we won’t be in redskin territory fer awhile yit, we kin hev a fire. I’ll allow ye’ll all be chilly and damp from river mist afore long, so toast yerselves good.”

  “How far have we come today?” inquired Mr. Wells, his mind always intent on reaching the scene of his cherished undertaking.

  “’Bout thirty-odd miles, I reckon. Not much on a trip, thet’s sartin, but we’ll pick up termorrer. We’ve some quicker water, an’ the rafts hev to go separate.”

  “How quiet!” exclaimed Kate, suddenly breaking the silence that followed the frontiersman’s answer.

  “Beautiful!” impetuously said Nell, looking up at Joe. A quick flash from his gray ey
es answered her; he did not speak; indeed he had said little to her since the start, but his glance showed her how glad he was that she felt the sweetness and content of this wild land.

  “I was never in a wilderness before,” broke in the earnest voice of the young minister. “I feel an almost overpowering sense of loneliness. I want to get near you all, I feel lost. Yet it is grand, sublime!”

  “Here is the promised land—the fruitful life—Nature as it was created by God,” replied the old minister, impressively.

  “Tell us a story,” said Nell to the old frontiersman, as he once more joined the circle round the fire.

  “So, little ’un, ye want a story?” queried Jeff, taking up a live coal and placing it in the bowl of his pipe. He took off his coonskin cap and carefully laid it aside. His weatherbeaten face beamed in answer to the girl’s request. He drew a long and audible pull at his black pipe, and sent forth slowly a cloud of white smoke. Deliberately poking the fire with a stick, as if stirring into life dead embers of the past, he sucked again at his pipe, and emitted a great puff of smoke that completely enveloped the grizzled head. From out that white cloud came his drawling voice.

  “Ye’ve seen thet big curly birch over thar—thet ’un as bends kind of sorrowful like. Wal, it used to stand straight an’ proud. I’ve knowed thet tree all the years I’ve navigated this river, an’ it seems natural like to me thet it now droops dyin’, fer it shades the grave of as young, an’ sweet, an’ purty a lass as yerself, Miss Nell. Rivermen called this island George’s Island, ’cause Washington onct camped here; but of late years the name’s got changed, an’ the men say suthin’ like this: ‘We’ll try an’ make Milly’s birch afore sundown,’ jest as Bill and me hev done today. Some years agone I was comin’ up from Fort Henry an’ had on board my slow old scow a lass named Milly—we never learned her other name. She come to me at the fort, an’ tells as how her folks had been killed by Injuns, an’ she wanted to git back to Pitt to meet her sweetheart. I was ag’in her comin’ all along, an’ fust off I said ‘No.’ But when I seen tears in her blue eyes, an’ she puts her little hand on mine, I jest wilted, an’ says to Jim Blair, ‘She goes.’ Wal, jest as might hev been expected—an’ fact is I looked fer it—we wus tackled by redskins. Somehow, Jim Girty got wind of us hevin’ a lass aboard, an’ he ketched up with us jest below here. It’s a bad place, called Shawnee Rock, an’ I’ll show it to ye termorrer. The renegade, with his red devils, attacked us thar, an’ we had a fierce fight. Jim Blair, he was killed, an’ we had a time gittin’ away. Milly wus shot. She lived fer awhile, a couple of days, an’ all the time was so patient, an’ sweet, an’ brave with thet renegade’s bullet in her—fer he shot her, when he seen he couldn’t capture her—thet thar wusn’t a blame man of us who wouldn’t hev died to grant her prayer, which wus that she could live to onct more see her lover.”