by Zane Grey
The feeling of comradeship which Wetzel had for Joe was something altogether new in the hunter’s life. True he had hunted with Jonathan Zane, and accompanied expeditions where he was forced to sleep with another scout; but a companion, not to say friend, he had never known. Joe was a boy, wilder than an eagle, yet he was a man. He was happy and enthusiastic, still his good spirits never jarred on the hunter; they were restrained. He never asked questions, as would seem the case in any eager lad; he waited until he was spoken to. He was apt; he never forgot anything; he had the eye of a born woodsman, and lastly, perhaps what went far with Wetzel, he was as strong and supple as a young lynx, and absolutely fearless.
On this evening Wetzel and Joe followed their usual custom; they smoked a while before lying down to sleep. Tonight the hunter was even more silent than usual, and the lad, tired out with his day’s tramp, lay down on a bed of fragrant boughs.
Wetzel sat there in the gathering gloom while he puffed slowly on his pipe. The evening was very quiet; the birds had ceased their twittering; the wind had died away; it was too early for the bay of a wolf, the wail of a panther, or hoot of an owl; there was simply perfect silence.
The lad’s deep, even breathing caught Wetzel’s ear, and he found himself meditating, as he had often of late, on this new something that had crept into his life. For Joe loved him; he could not fail to see that. The lad had preferred to roam with the lonely Indian hunter through the forests, to encounter the perils and hardships of a wild life, rather than accept the smile of fortune and of love. Wetzel knew that Colonel Zane had taken a liking to the boy, and had offered him work and a home; and, also, the hunter remembered the warm light he had seen in Nell’s hazel eyes. Musing thus, the man felt stir in his heart an emotion so long absent that it was unfamiliar. The Avenger forgot, for a moment, his brooding plans. He felt strangely softened. When he laid his head on the rude pillow it was with some sense of gladness that, although he had always desired a lonely life, and wanted to pass it in the fulfillment of his vow, his loneliness was now shared by a lad who loved him.
Joe was awakened by the merry chirp of a chipmunk that every morning ran along the seamy side of the opposite wall of the gorge. Getting up, he went to the back of the cave, where he found Wetzel combing out his long hair. The lad thrust his hands into the cold pool, and bathed his face. The water was icy cold, and sent an invigorating thrill through him. Then he laughed as he took a rude comb Wetzel handed to him.
“My scalp is nothing to make an Indian very covetous, is it?” said he, eyeing in admiration the magnificent black hair that fell over the hunter’s shoulders.
“It’ll grow,” answered Wetzel.
Joe did not wonder at the care Wetzel took of his hair, nor did he misunderstand the hunter’s simple pride. Wetzel was very careful of his rifle, he was neat and clean about his person, he brushed his buckskin costume, he polished his knife and tomahawk; but his hair received more attention than all else. It required much care. When combed out it reached fully to his knees. Joe had seen him, after he returned from a long hunt, work patiently for an hour with his wooden comb, and not stop until every little burr was gone, or tangle smoothed out. Then he would comb it again in the morning—this of course, when time permitted—and twist and tie it up so as to offer small resistance to his slipping through the underbrush. Joe knew the hunter’s simplicity was such, that if he cut off his hair it would seem he feared the Indians—for that streaming black hair the Indians had long coveted and sworn to take. It would make any brave a famous chief, and was the theme of many a savage war 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 a buffalo trail, and I want to be sure none of the varlets are chasin’ that herd we saw today.”
Wetzel left the cave by the rear. It took him fifteen minutes to crawl to the end of the tortuous, stony passage. Lifting the stone which 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. The hunter’s moccasins pressed so gently on the moss and leaves that they made no more sound than the soft foot of a panther. His trained ear was alert to catch any unfamiliar noise; his keen eyes sought first the remoter open glades and glens, then bent their gaze on the mossy bluff beneath his feet. Fox squirrels dashed from before him into bushy retreats; grouse whirred away into the thickets; startled deer whistled, and loped off with their white flags upraised. Wetzel knew from the action of these denizens of the woods that he was the only creature, not native to these haunts, who had disturbed them this morning. Otherwise the deer would not have been grazing, but lying low in some close thicket; fox squirrels seldom or never were disturbed by a hunter twice in one day, for after being frightened these little animals, wilder and shyer than gray squirrels, remained hidden for hours, and grouse that have been flushed a little while before, always get up unusually quick, and fly very far before alighting.
Wetzel circled back over the hill, took a long survey from a rock eminence, and then reconnoitered the lowland for several miles. He located the herd of buffalo, and satisfying himself there were no Indians near—for the bison were grazing quietly—he returned to the cave. A soft whistle into the back door of the rocky home told Joe that the hunter was waiting.
“Coast clear?” whispered the lad, thrusting his head out of the entrance. 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, as Wetzel had trained him, to make each step precisely in the hunter’s footprint. The lad had soon learned to step nimbly and softly as a cat. When halfway down the hill Wetzel paused.
“See anythin’?” he whispered.
Joe glanced on all sides. Many mistakes had taught him to be cautious. He had learned from experience that for every woodland creature he saw, there were ten watching his every move. Just now he could not see even a little red squirrel. Everywhere were sturdy hickory and oak trees, thickets and hazelnuts, slender ash saplings, and, in the open glades, patches of sumach. Rotting trees lay on the ground, while ferns nodded long, slender heads over the fallen monarchs. Joe could make out nothing but the colors of the woods, the gray of the tree trunks, and, in the openings through the forest 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 feet ahead. He searched the open places, the shadows—even the branches. Then he turned his eyes slowly to the right. Whatever was discernible to human vision he studied intently. Suddenly his eye became 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; but now 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 a twig. There was a crash and commotion in the thicket; branches moved and small saplings waved; then out into the open glade bounded a large buck with a whistle of alarm. Throwing his rifle to a level, Joe was trying to cover the bounding deer, when the hunter struck up his piece.
“Lad, don’t kill fer the sake of killin’,” he said, quietly. “We have plenty of venison. We’ll go arter a buffalo. I hev a hankerin’ fer a good rump steak.”
Half an hour later, the hunters emerged from the forest into a wide plain of waving grass. It was a kind of oval valley, encircled by hills, and had been at one time, perhaps, covered with water. Joe saw a herd of large animals browsing, like cattle, in a meadow. His heart
beat high, for until that moment the only buffalo he had seen were the few which stood on the riverbanks as the raft passed down the 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 his hands and knees and began to crawl through the long grass. This was easy for the hunter, but very hard for the lad to accomplish. Still, he managed to keep his comrade in sight, which was a matter for congratulation, because the man crawled as fast as he walked. At length, after what to Joe seemed a very long time, the hunter paused.
“Are we near enough?” whispered Joe, breathlessly.
“Nope. We’re just circlin’ on ’em. The wind’s not right, an’ I’m afeered 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 bizness calls fer speed, an’ then act like lightnin’.”
Thus admonishing the eager lad, Wetzel continued to crawl. It was easy for him. Joe wondered how those wide shoulders got between the weeds and grasses without breaking, or, at least, shaking them. But so it was.
“Flat now,” whispered Wetzel, putting his broad hand on Joe’s back and pressing him down. “Now’s yer time fer good practice. Trail yer rifle over yer back—if yer careful it won’t slide off—an’ reach out far with one arm an’ dig yer fingers in deep. Then pull yerself forrard.”
Wetzel slipped through the grass like a huge buckskin snake. His long, lithe body wormed its way among the reeds. But for Joe, even with the advantage of having the hunter’s trail to follow, it was difficult work. The dry reeds broke under him, and the stalks of saw grass shook. He worked persistently at it, learning all the while, and improving with every rod. He was surprised to hear a swish, followed by a dull blow on the ground. Raising his head, he looked 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 been severed. He caught glimpses of other snakes gliding away, and glossy round moles darting into their holes. A gray rabbit started off with a leap.
“We’re near enough,” whispered Wetzel, stopping behind a bush. He rose and surveyed the plain; then motioned Joe to look.
Joe raised himself on his knees. As his gaze reached the level of the 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 were several cows and a half-grown calf. Beyond was the main herd, extending as far as Joe could see—a great sea of black humps! The lad breathed hard as he took in the grand sight.
“Pick out the little fellar—the reddish brown one—an’ plug him behind the shoulder. Shoot close now, fer if ye miss, mebbe I can’t hit one, because I’m not used to shootin’ at sich small marks.”
Wetzel’s rare smile lighted up his dark face. Probably he could have shot a fly off the horn of the bull, if one of the big flies or bees, plainly visible as they swirled around the huge head, had alighted there.
Joe slowly raised his rifle. He had covered the calf, and was about to pull the trigger, when, with a sagacity far beyond his experience as hunter, he whispered to Wetzel:
“If I fire, they may run toward us.”
“Nope; they’ll run away,” answered Wetzel, thinking the lad was as keen as an Indian.
Joe quickly covered the calf again, and pulled the trigger. Bellowing loud the big bull dashed off. The herd swung around toward the west, and soon were galloping off with a lumbering roar. The shaggy humps bobbed up and down like short, angry waves on a storm-blackened sea.
Upon going forward, Wetzel and Joe found the calf lying dead in the grass.
“You might hev did better’n that,” remarked the hunter, as he saw where the bullet had struck. “You went a little too fer back, but mebbe that was ’cause the calf stepped as you shot.”
CHAPTER XV
So the days passed swiftly, dreamily, each one bringing Joe a keener delight. In a single month he was as good a woodsman as many pioneers who had passed years on the border, for he had the advantage of a teacher whose woodcraft was incomparable. Besides, he was naturally quick in learning, and with all his interest centered upon forest lore, it was no wonder he assimilated much of Wetzel’s knowledge. He was ever willing to undertake anything whereby he might learn. Often when they were miles away in the dense forest, far from their cave, he asked Wetzel to let him try to lead the way back to camp. And he never failed once, though many times he got off a straight course, thereby missing the easy traveling.
Joe did wonderfully well, but he lacked, as nearly all white men do, the subtler, intuitive forest instinct, which makes the Indian as much at home in the woods as in his teepee. Wetzel had this developed to a high degree. It was born in him. Years of training, years of passionate, unrelenting search for Indians, had given him a knowledge of the wilds that was incomprehensible to white men, and appalling to his red foes.
Joe saw how Wetzel used this ability, but what it really was baffled him. He realized that words were not adequate to explain fully this great art. Its possession required a marvelously keen vision, an eye perfectly familiar with every creature, tree, rock, shrub, and thing belonging in the forest; an eye so quick in sight as to detect instantly the slightest change in nature, or anything unnatural to that environment. The hearing must be delicate, like that of a deer, and the finer it is, the keener will be the woodsman. Lastly, there is the feeling that prompts the old hunter to say: “No game today.” It is something in him that speaks when, as he sees a nighthawk circling low near the ground, he says: “A storm tomorrow.” It is what makes an Indian at home in any wilderness. The clouds may hide the guiding star; the northing may be lost; there may be no moss on the trees, or difference in their bark; the ridges may be flat or lost altogether, and there may be no watercourses; yet the Indian brave always goes for his teepee, straight as a crow flies. It was this voice which rightly bade Wetzel, when he was baffled by an Indian’s trail fading among the rocks, to cross, or circle, or advance in the direction taken by his wily foe.
Joe had practiced trailing deer and other hoofed game, until he was true as a hound. Then he began to perfect himself in the art of following a human being through the forest. Except a few old Indian trails, which the rain had half obliterated, he had no tracks to discover save Wetzel’s, and these were as hard to find as the airy course of a grosbeak. On soft ground or marshy grass, which Wetzel avoided where he could, he left a faint trail, but on a hard surface, for all the traces he left, he might as well not have gone over the ground at all.
Joe’s persistence stood him in good stead; he hung on, and the more he failed, the harder he tried. Often he would slip out of the cave after Wetzel had gone, and try to find which way he had taken. In brief, the lad became a fine marksman, a good hunter, and a close, persevering student of the wilderness. He loved the woods, and all they contained. He learned the habits of the wild creatures. Each deer, each squirrel, each grouse that he killed, taught him some lesson.
He was always up with the lark to watch the sun rise red and grand over the eastern hills, and chase away the white mist from the valleys. Even if he was not hunting, or roaming the woods, if it was necessary for him to lie low in camp awaiting Wetzel’s return, he was always content. Many hours he idled away lying on his back, with the west wind blowing softly over him, his eye on the distant hills, where the cloud shadows swept across with slow, majestic movement, like huge ships at sea.
If Wetzel and Joe were far distant from the cave, as was often the case, they made camp in the open woods, and it was here that Joe’s contentment was fullest. Twilight shades stealing down over the campfire; the cheery glow of red embers; the crackling of dry stocks; the sweet smell of wood smoke, all had for t
he lad a subtle, potent charm.
The hunter would broil a venison steak, or a partridge, on the coals. Then they would light their pipes and smoke while twilight deepened. The oppressive stillness of the early evening hour always brought to the younger man a sensation of awe. At first he attributed this to the fact that he was new to this life; however, as the days passed and the emotion remained, nay, grew stronger, he concluded it was imparted by this close communion with nature. Deep, solemn, tranquil, the gloaming hour brought him no ordinary fullness of joy and clearness of perception.
“Do you ever feel this stillness?” he asked Wetzel one evening, as they sat near their flickering fire.
The hunter puffed his pipe and like an Indian seemed to let the question take deep root.
“I’ve scalped redskins every hour of the day, ’ceptin’ twilight,” he replied.
Joe wondered no longer whether the hunter was too hardened to feel this beautiful tranquility. That hour which wooed Wetzel from his implacable pursuit was indeed a bewitching one.
There was never a time, when Joe lay alone in camp waiting for Wetzel, that he did not hope the hunter would return with information of Indians. The man never talked about the savages, and if he spoke at all it was to tell of some incident of his day’s travel. One evening he came back with a large, black fox that he had killed.
“What beautiful, glossy fur!” said Joe. “I never saw a black fox before.”
“I’ve been layin’ fer this fellar some time,” replied Wetzel, as he began his first evening task, that of combing his hair. “Jest back here in a clump of cottonweeds there’s a holler log full of leaves. Happen’ to see a blacksnake sneakin’ round, I thought mebbe he was up to somethin’, so I investigated, an’ found a nest full of young rabbits. I killed the snake, an’ arter that took an interest in ’em. Every time I passed I’d look in at the bunnies, an’ each time I seen signs that some tarnal varmint had been prowlin’ round. One day I missed a bunny, an’ next day another; so on until only one was left, a peart white and gray little scamp. Somethin’ was stealin’ of ’em, and it made me mad. So yistidday an’ today I watched, an’ finally I plugged this black thief. Yes, he’s got a glossy coat; but he’s a bad un for all his fine looks. These black foxes are bigger, stronger an’ cunniner than red ones. In every litter you’ll find a dark one, the black sheep of the family. Because he grows so much faster, an’ steals all the food from the others, the mother jest takes him by the nape of the neck an’ chucks him out in the world to shift fer hisself. An’ it’s a good thing.”