The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail

by Zane Grey

  Joe walked downstream a few paces, and, dropping on his knees, crawled carefully to the edge of the bank. He slightly parted the grass so he could peep through, and found himself directly over a pool with a narrow shoal running out from the opposite bank. The water was so clear he could see the pebbly bottom in all parts, except a dark hole near the bend in the shore close by. He did not see a living thing in the water, not a crawfish, turtle, nor even a frog. He peered round closely, then flipped in one of the bugs he had brought along. A shiny yellow fish flared up from the depths of the deep hole and disappeared with the cricket; but it was a bass or a pike, not a trout. Wetzel had said there were a few trout living near the cool springs of these streams. The lad tried again to coax one to the surface. This time the more fortunate cricket swam and hopped across the stream to safety.

  When Joe’s eyes were thoroughly accustomed to the clear water, with its deceiving lights and shades, he saw a fish lying snug under the side of a stone. The lad thought he recognized the snub-nose, the hooked, wolfish jaw, but he could not get sufficient of a view to classify him. He crawled to a more advantageous position farther downstream, and then he peered again through the weeds. Yes, sure enough, he had espied a trout. He well knew those spotted silver sides, that broad, square tail. Such a monster! In his admiration for the fellow, and his wish for a hook and line to try conclusions with him, Joe momentarily forgot his object. Remembering, he tossed out a big, fat cricket, which alighted on the water just above the fish. The trout never moved, nor even blinked. The lad tried again, with no better success. The fish would not rise. Thereupon Joe returned to the point where he had left Wetzel.

  “I couldn’t see nothin’ over there,” said the hunter, who was waiting. “Did you see any?”

  “One, and a big fellow.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “No.”

  “Did he rise to a bug?”

  “No, he didn’t; but then maybe he wasn’t hungry,” answered Joe, who could not understand what Wetzel was driving at.

  “Tell me exactly what he did.”

  “That’s just the trouble; he didn’t do anything,” replied Joe, thoughtfully. “He just lay, stifflike, under a stone. He never batted an eye. But his side fins quivered like an aspen leaf.”

  “Them side fins tell us the story. Girty an’ his redskins hev took this branch,” said Wetzel, positively. “The other leads to the Huron towns. Girty’s got a place near the Delaware camp somewheres. I’ve tried to find it a good many times. He’s took more’n one white lass there, an’ nobody ever seen her agin.”

  “Fiend! To think of a white woman, maybe a girl like Nell Wells, at the mercy of those red devils!”

  “Young fellar, don’t go wrong. I’ll allow Injuns is bad enough; but I never hearn tell of one abusin’ a white woman, as mayhap you mean. Injuns marry white women sometimes; kill an’ scalp ’em often, but that’s all. It’s men of our own color, renegades like this Girty, as do worse’n murder.”

  Here was the amazing circumstance of Lewis Wetzel, the acknowledged unsatiable foe of all redmen, speaking a good word for his enemies. Joe was so astonished he did not attempt to answer.

  “Here’s where they got in the canoe. One more look, an’ then we’re off,” said Wetzel. He strode up and down the sandy beach; examined the willows, and scrutinized the sand. Suddenly he bent over and picked up an object from the water. His sharp eyes had caught the glint of something white, which, upon being examined, proved to be a small ivory or bone buckle with a piece broken out. He showed it to Joe.

  “By heavens! Wetzel, that’s a buckle off Nell Wells’ shoe. I’ve seen it too many times to mistake it.”

  “I was afraid Girty hed your friends, the sisters, an’ mebbe your brother, too. Jack Zane said the renegade was hangin’ round the village, an’ that couldn’t be fer no good.”

  “Come on. Let’s kill the fiend!” cried Joe, white to the lips.

  “I calkilate they’re about a mile downstream, makin’ camp fer the night. I know the place. There’s a fine spring, an’, look! D’ye see them crows flyin’ round the big oak with the bleached top? Hear them cawin’? You might think they was chasin’ a hawk, or king birds were arter ’em, but thet fuss the’re makin’ is because they see Injuns.”

  “Well?” asked Joe, impatiently.

  “It’ll be moonlight a while arter midnight. We’ll lay low an’ wait, an’ then——”

  The sharp click of his teeth, like the snap of a steel trap, completed the sentence. Joe said no more, but followed the hunter into the woods. Stopping near a fallen tree Wetzel raked up a bundle of leaves and spread them on the ground. Then he cut a few spreading branches from a beech, and leaned them against a log. Bidding the lad crawl in before him, he took one last look around and then made his way under the shelter.

  It was yet daylight, which seemed a strange time to creep into this little nook; but, Joe thought, it was not to sleep, only to wait, wait, wait for the long hours to pass. He was amazed once more, because, by the time twilight had given place to darkness, Wetzel was asleep. The lad said then to himself that he would never again be surprised at the hunter. He assumed once and for all that Wetzel was capable of anything. Yet how could he lose himself in slumber? Feeling, as he must, over the capture of the girls; eager to draw a bead on the black-hearted renegade; hating Indians with all his soul and strength and lying there but a few hours before what he knew would be a bloody battle, Wetzel calmly went to sleep. Knowing the hunter to be as bloodthirsty as a tiger, Joe had expected he would rush to a combat with his foes, but, no, this man with his keen sagacity, knew when to creep upon his enemy; he bided that time, and, while he waited, slept.

  Joe could not close his eyes in slumber. Through the interstices in the branches he saw the stars come out one by one, the darkness deepened, and the dim outline of tall trees over the dark hill came out sharply. The moments dragged. Each one an hour. He heard a whippoorwill call, lonely and dismal; then an owl hoot monotonously. A stealthy footed animal ran along the log, sniffed at the boughs, and then scurried away over the dry leaves. By and by the dead silence of night fell over all. Still Joe lay there wide awake, listening—his heart on fire. He was about to rescue Nell; to kill the hawk-nosed renegade; to fight Silvertip to the death.

  The hours passed, but not Joe’s passionate eagerness. When at last he saw the crescent moon gleam silver-white over the black hilltop he knew the time was nigh, and over him ran thrill on thrill.

  CHAPTER XVI

  When the waning moon rose high enough to shed a pale light over forest and field, two dark figures, moving silently from the shade of the trees, crossed the moonlit patches of ground, out to the open plain where low on the grass hung silver mists.

  A timber wolf, gray and gaunt, came loping along with lowered nose. A new scent brought the animal to a standstill. His nose went up, his fiery eyes scanned the plain. Two men had invaded his domain, and with a short, dismal bark, he dashed away.

  Like spectres, gliding swiftly with noiseless tread, the two vanished. The long grass had swallowed them.

  Deserted once again seemed the plain. It became unutterably lonely. No stir, no sound, no life; nothing but a wide expanse bathed in sad, gray light.

  The moon shone steadily; the silver radiance mellowed, the stars paled before this brighter glory.

  Slowly the night hours wore away.

  On the other side of the plain, near where the adjoining forest loomed darkling, the tall grass parted to disclose a black form. Was it only a deceiving shade cast by a leafy branch—only a shadow? Slowly it sank, and was lost. Once more the gray, unwavering line of silver-crested grass tufts was unbroken.

  Only the night breeze, wandering caressingly over the grass, might have told of two dark forms gliding, gliding, gliding so softly, so surely, so surely toward the forest. Only the moon and the pale stars had eyes to see these creeping figures.

  Like avengers they moved, on a mission to slay and to save!
r />   On over the dark line where plain merged into forest they crawled. No whispering, no hesitating; but a silent, slow, certain progress showed their purpose. In single file they slipped over the moss, the leader clearing the path. Inch by inch they advanced. Tedious was this slow movement, difficult and painful this journey which must end in lightninglike speed. They rustled no leaf, nor snapped a twig, nor shook a fern, but passed onward slowly, like the approach of Death. The seconds passed as minutes; minutes as hours; an entire hour was spent in advancing twenty feet!

  At last the top of the knoll was reached. The Avenger placed his hand on his follower’s shoulder. The strong pressure was meant to remind, to warn, to reassure. Then, like a huge snake, the first glided away.

  He who was left behind raised his head to look into the open place, called the glade of the Beautiful Spring. An oval space lay before him, exceedingly lovely in the moonlight; a spring, as if a pearl, gemmed the center. An Indian guard stood statuelike against a stone. Other savages lay in a row, their polished heads shining. One slumbering form was bedecked with feathers and frills. Near him lay an Indian blanket, from the border of which peeped two faces, gleaming white and sad in the pitying moonlight.

  The watcher quivered at the sight of those pale faces; but he must wait while long moments passed. He must wait for the Avenger to creep up, silently kill the guard, and release the prisoners without awakening the savages. If that plan failed, he was to rush into the glade, and in the excitement make off with one of the captives.

  He lay there waiting, listening, wrought up to the intensest pitch of fierce passion. Every nerve was alert, every tendon strung, and every muscle strained ready for the leap.

  Only the faint rustling of leaves, the low swish of swaying branches, the soft murmur of falling water, and over all the sigh of the night wind, proved to him that this picture was not an evil dream. His gaze sought the quiet figures, lingered hopefully on the captives, menacingly on the sleeping savages, and glowered over the gaudily arrayed form. His glance sought the upright guard, as he stood a dark blot against the gray stone. He saw the Indian’s plume, a single feather waving silver-white. Then it became riveted on the bubbling, refulgent spring. The pool was round, perhaps five feet across, and shone like a burnished shield. It mirrored the moon, the twinkling stars, the spectre trees.

  An unaccountable horror suddenly swept over the watching man. His hair stood straight up; a sensation as of cold stole chilling over him. Whether it was the climax of this long night’s excitement, or anticipation of the bloody struggle soon to come, he knew not. Did this boiling spring, shimmering in the silver moon rays, hold in its murky depths a secret? Did these lonesome, shadowing trees, with their sad, drooping branches, harbor a mystery? If a future tragedy was to be enacted here in this quiet glade, could the murmuring water or leaves whisper its portent? No; they were only silent, only unintelligible with nature’s mystery.

  The waiting man cursed himself for a craven coward; he fought back the benumbing sense; he steeled his heart. Was this his vaunted willingness to share the Avenger’s danger? His strong spirit rose up in arms; once more he was brave and fierce.

  He fastened a piercing gaze on the plumed guard. The Indian’s lounging posture against the rock was the same as it had been before, yet now it seemed to have a kind of strained attention. The savage’s head was poised, like that of a listening deer. The wary Indian scented danger.

  A faint moan breathed low above the sound of gently splashing water somewhere beyond the glade.

  “Woo-o-oo.”

  The guard’s figure stiffened, and became rigidly erect; his blanket slowly slid to his feet.

  “Ah-oo-o,” sighed the soft breeze in the treetops.

  Louder then, with a deep wail, a moan arose out of the dark gray shadows, swelled thrilling on the still air, and died away mournfully.

  “Um-m-mmwoo-o-o-o!”

  The sentinel’s form melted into the shade. He was gone like a phantom.

  Another Indian rose quietly, and glanced furtively around the glade. He bent over a comrade and shook him. Instantly the second Indian was on his feet. Scarcely had he gained a standing posture when an object, bounding like a dark ball, shot out of the thicket and hurled both warriors to the earth. A moonbeam glinted upon something bright. It flashed again on a swift, sweeping circle. A short, choking yell aroused the other savages. Up they sprang, alarmed, confused.

  The shadow form darted among them. It moved with inconceivable rapidity; it became a monster. Terrible was the convulsive conflict. Dull blows, the click of steel, angry shouts, agonized yells, and thrashing, wrestling sounds mingled together and half drowned by an awful roar like that of a mad bull. The strife ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Warriors lay still on the grass; others writhed in agony. For an instant a fleeting shadow crossed the open lane leading out of the glade; then it vanished.

  Three savages had sprung toward their rifles. A blinding flash, a loud report burst from the thicket overhead. The foremost savage sank lifelessly. The others were intercepted by a giant shadow with brandished rifle. The watcher on the knoll had entered the glade. He stood before the stacked rifles and swung his heavy gun. Crash! An Indian went down before that sweep, but rose again. The savages backed away from this threatening figure, and circled around it.

  The noise of the other conflict ceased. More savages joined the three who glided to and fro before their desperate foe. They closed in upon him, only to be beaten back. One savage threw a glittering knife, another hurled a stone, a third flung his tomahawk, which struck fire from the swinging rifle.

  He held them at bay. While they had no firearms he was master of the situation. With every sweep of his arms he brought the long rifle down and knocked a flint from the firelock of an enemy’s weapon. Soon the Indians’ guns were useless. Slowly then he began to edge away from the stone, toward the opening where he had seen the fleeing form vanish.

  His intention was to make a dash for life, for he had heard a noise behind the rock, and remembered the guard.

  He saw the savages glance behind him, and anticipated danger from that direction, but he must not turn. A second there might be fatal. He backed defiantly along the rock until he gained its outer edge. But too late! The Indians glided before him, now behind him; he was surrounded. He turned around and around, with the ever-circling rifle whirling in the faces of the baffled foe.

  Once opposite the lane leading from the glade he changed his tactics, and plunged with fierce impetuosity into the midst of the painted throng. Then began a fearful conflict. The Indians fell before the sweep of his powerful arms; but grappled with him from the ground. He literally plowed his way through the struggling mass, warding off a hundred vicious blows. Savage after savage he flung off, until at last he had a clear path before him. Freedom lay beyond that shiny path. Into it he bounded.

  As he left the glade the plumed guard stepped from behind a tree near the entrance of the path, and cast his tomahawk.

  A white, glittering flash, it flew after the fleeing runner; its aim was true.

  Suddenly the moonlight path darkened in the runner’s sight; he saw a million flashing stars; a terrible pain assailed him; he sank slowly, slowly down; then all was darkness.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Joe awoke as from a fearsome nightmare. Returning consciousness brought a vague idea that he had been dreaming of clashing weapons, of yelling savages, of a conflict in which he had been clutched by sinewy fingers. An acute pain pulsed through his temples; a bloody mist glazed his eyes; a sore pressure cramped his arms and legs. Surely he dreamed this distress, as well as the fight. The red film cleared from his eyes. His wandering gaze showed the stern reality.

  The bright sun, making the dewdrops glisten on the leaves, lighted up a tragedy. Near him lay an Indian whose vacant, sightless eyes were fixed in death. Beyond lay four more savages, the peculiar, inert position of whose limbs, the formlessness, as it were, as if they had been thrown from a great height and n
ever moved again, attested that here, too, life had been extinguished. Joe took only one detail—the cloven skull of the nearest—when he turned away sickened. He remembered it all now. The advance, the rush, the fight—all returned. He saw again Wetzel’s shadowy form darting like a demon into the whirl of conflict; he heard again that hoarse, booming roar with which the Avenger accompanied his blows. Joe’s gaze swept the glade, but found no trace of the hunter.

  He saw Silvertip and another Indian bathing a wound on Girty’s head. The renegade groaned and writhed in pain. Near him lay Kate, with white face and closed eyes. She was unconscious or dead. Jim sat crouched under a tree to which he was tied.

  “Joe, are you badly hurt?” asked the latter, in deep solicitude.

  “No, I guess not; I don’t know,” answered Joe.” Is poor Kate dead?”

  “No, she has fainted.”

  “Where is Nell?”

  “Gone,” replied Jim, lowering his voice, and glancing at the Indians. They were too busy trying to bandage Girty’s head to pay any attention to their prisoners. “That whirlwind was Wetzel, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes; how’d you know?”

  “I was awake last night. I had an oppressive feeling, perhaps a presentiment. Anyway, I couldn’t sleep. I heard that wind blow through the forest, and thought my blood would freeze. The moan is the same as the night wind, the same soft sigh, only louder and somehow pregnant with superhuman power. To speak of it in broad daylight one seems superstitious, but to hear it in the darkness of this lonely forest, it is fearful! I hope I am not a coward; I certainly know I was deathly frightened. No wonder I was scared! Look at these dead Indians, all killed in a moment. I heard the moan; I saw Silvertip disappear, and the other two savages rise. Then something huge dropped from the rock; a bright object seemed to circle round the savages; they uttered one short yell, and sank to rise no more. Somehow at once I suspected that this shadowy form, with its lightninglike movements, its glittering hatchet, was Wetzel. When he plunged into the midst of the other savages I distinctly recognized him, and saw that he had a bundle, possibly his coat, wrapped round his left arm, and his right hand held the glittering tomahawk. I saw him strike that big Indian there, the one lying with split skull. His wonderful daring and quickness seemed to make the savages turn at random. He broke through the circle, swung Nell under his arm, slashed at my bonds as he passed by, and then was gone as he had come. Not until after you were struck, and Silvertip came up to me, was I aware my bonds were cut. Wetzel’s hatchet had severed them; it even cut my side, which was bleeding. I was free to help, to fight, and I did not know it. Fool that I am!”