The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail

by Zane Grey

  Jim thanked the old riverman and left him. He hardly knew which way to turn. He would make one more effort. He crossed the clearing to where the renegades’ teepee stood. McKee and Elliott were sitting on a log. Simon Girty stood beside them, his hard, keen, roving eyes on the scene. The missionary was impressed by the white leader. There was a difference in his aspect, a wilder look than the others wore, as if the man had suddenly awakened to the fury of his Indians. Nevertheless the young man went straight toward him.

  “Girty, I come—”

  “Git out! You meddlin’ preacher!” yelled the renegade, shaking his fist at Jim.

  Simon Girty was drunk.

  Jim turned from the white fiends. He knew his life to them was not worth a pinch of powder.

  “Lost! Lost! All lost!” he exclaimed in despair.

  As he went toward the church he saw hundreds of savages bounding over the grass, brandishing weapons, and whooping fiendishly. They were concentrating around Girty’s teepee, where already a great throng had congregated. Of all the Indians to be seen not one walked. They leaped by Jim, and ran over the grass nimble as deer.

  He saw the eager, venomous fire in their dusky eyes, and the cruelly clenched teeth like those of wolves when they snarl. He felt the hissing breath of many savages as they raced by him. More than one whirled a tomahawk close by Jim’s head, and uttered horrible yells in his ear. They were like tigers lusting for blood.

  Jim hurried to the church. Not an Indian was visible near the log structure. Even the savage guards had gone. He entered the open door to be instantly struck with reverence and awe.

  The Christians were singing.

  Miserable and full of sickening dread though Jim was, he could not but realize that the scene before him was one of extraordinary beauty and pathos. The doomed Indians lifted up their voices in song. Never had they sung so feelingly, so harmoniously.

  When the song ended Zeisberger, who stood upon a platform, opened his Bible and read:

  “In a little wrath I hid my face from thee for a moment, but with everlasting kindness will I have mercy on thee, saith the Lord, thy Redeemer.”

  In a voice low and tremulous the venerable missionary began his sermon.

  The shadow of death hovered over these Christian martyrs; it was reflected in their somber eyes, yet not one was sullen or sad. The children who were too young to understand, but instinctively feeling the tragedy soon to be enacted there, cowered close to their mothers.

  Zeisberger preached a touching and impressive, though short, sermon. At its conclusion the whole congregation rose and surrounded the missionary. The men shook his hands, the women kissed them, the children clung to his legs. It was a wonderful manifestation of affection.

  Suddenly Glickhican, the old Delaware chief, stepped on the platform, raised his hand, and shouted one Indian word.

  A long, low wail went up from the children and youths; the women slowly, meekly bowed their heads. The men, true to the stoicism of their nature and the Christianity they had learned, stood proudly erect awaiting the death that had been decreed.

  Glickhican pulled the bell rope.

  A deep, mellow tone pealed out.

  The sound transfixed all the Christians. No one moved.

  Glickhican had given the signal which told the murderers the Christians were ready.

  “Come, man, my God! We can’t stay here!” cried Jim to Zeisberger.

  As they went out both men turned to look their last on the martyrs. The death knell which had rung in the ears of the Christians, was to them the voice of God. Stern, dark visages of men and the sweet, submissive faces of women were uplifted with rapt attention. A light seemed to shine from these faces as if the contemplation of God had illumined them.

  As Zeisberger and Jim left the church and hurried toward the cabins, they saw the crowd of savages in a black mass round Girty’s teepee. The yelling and leaping had ceased.

  Heckewelder opened the door. Evidently he had watched for them.

  “Jim! Jim!” cried Nell, when he entered the cabin. “Oh-h! I was afraid. Oh! I am glad you’re back safe. See, this noble Indian has come to help us.”

  Wingenund stood calm and erect by the door.

  “Chief, what will you do?”

  “Wingenund will show you the way to the big river,” answered the chieftain, in his deep bass.

  “Run away? No, never! That would be cowardly. Heckewelder, you would not go? Nor you, Zeisberger? We may yet be of use; we may yet save some of the Christians.”

  “Save the yellow-hair,” sternly said Wingenund.

  “Oh, Jim, you don’t understand. The chief has come to warn me of Girty. He intends to take me as he has others, as he did poor Kate. Did you not see the meaning in his eyes today? How they scorched me! Oh! Jim, take me away! Save me! Do not leave me here to that horrible fate! Oh! Jim, take me away!”

  “Nell, I will take you,” cried Jim, grasping her hands.

  “Hurry! There’s a blanket full of things I packed for you,” said Heckewelder. “Lose no time. Ah! hear that! My heavens! what a yell!” Heckewelder rushed to the door and looked out. “There they go, a black mob of imps; a pack of hungry wolves! Jim Girty is in the lead. How he leaps! How he waves his sledge! He leads the savages toward the church. Oh, it’s the end!”

  “Benny, where’s Benny?” cried Jim hurriedly, lacing the hunting coat he had flung about him.

  “Benny’s safe. I’ve hidden him. I’ll get him away from here,” answered young Christy. “Go! Now’s your time. Godspeed you!”

  “I’m ready,” declared Mr. Wells. “I—have—finished!”

  “There goes Wingenund! He’s running. Follow him, quick! Good-bye! Good-bye! God be with you!” cried Heckewelder.

  “Good-bye! Good-bye!”

  Jim hurried Nell toward the bushes where Wingenund’s tall form could dimly be seen. Mr. Wells followed them. On the edge of the clearing Jim and Nell turned to look back.

  They saw a black mass of yelling, struggling, fighting savages crowding around the church.

  “Oh Jim, look back! Look back!” cried Nell, holding hard to his hand. “Look back! See if Girty is coming!”

  CHAPTER XXVII

  At last the fugitives breathed free under the gold and red cover of the woods. Never speaking, never looking back, the guide hurried eastward with long strides. His followers were almost forced to run in order to keep him in sight. He had waited at the edge of the clearing for them, and, relieving Jim of the heavy pack, which he swung lightly over his shoulder, he set a pace that was most difficult to maintain. The young missionary half led, half carried Nell over the stones and rough places. Mr. Wells labored in the rear.

  “Oh! Jim! Look back! Look back! See if we are pursued!” cried Nell frequently, with many a fearful glance into the dense thickets.

  The Indian took a straight course through the woods. He leaped the brooks, climbed the rough ridges, and swiftly trod the glades that were free of windfalls. His hurry and utter disregard for the plain trail left behind, proved his belief in the necessity of placing many miles between the fugitives and the Village of Peace. Evidently they would be followed, and it would be a waste of valuable time to try to conceal their trail. Gradually the ground began to rise, the way became more difficult, but Wingenund never slackened his pace. Nell was strong, supple, and light of foot. She held her own with Jim, but time and time again they were obliged to wait for her uncle. Once he was far behind. Wingenund halted for them at the height of a ridge where the forest was open.

  “Ugh!” exclaimed the chieftain, as they finished the ascent. He stretched a long arm toward the sun; his falcon eye gleamed.

  Far in the west a great black and yellow cloud of smoke rolled heavenward. It seemed to rise out of the forest, and to hang low over the trees; then it soared aloft and grew thinner until it lost its distinct line far in the clouds. The setting sun stood yet an hour high over a distant hill, and burned dark red through the great pall of smoke.


  “Fire, of course, but——” Jim did not voice his fear; he looked closely at Wingenund.

  The chieftain stood silent a moment as was his wont when addressed. The dull glow of the sun was reflected in the dark eyes that gazed far away over the forest and field.

  “Fire,” said Wingenund, and it seemed that as he spoke a sterner shadow flitted across his bronzed face. “The sun sets tonight over the ashes of the Village of Peace.”

  He resumed his rapid march eastward. With never a backward glance the saddened party followed. Nell kept close beside Jim, and the old man tramped after them with bowed head. The sun set, but Wingenund never slackened his stride. Twilight deepened, yet he kept on.

  “Indian, we can go no further tonight, we must rest,” cried Jim, as Nell stumbled against him, and Mr. Wells panted wearily in the rear.

  “Rest soon,” replied the chief, and kept on.

  Darkness had settled down when Wingenund at last halted. The fugitives could see little in the gloom, but they heard the music of running water, and felt soft moss beneath their feet.

  They sank wearily down upon a projecting stone. The moss was restful to their tired limbs. Opening the pack they found food with which to satisfy the demands of hunger. Then, close under the stone, the fugitives sank into slumber while the watchful Indian stood silent and motionless.

  Jim thought he had just closed his eyes when he felt a gentle pressure on his arm.

  “Day is here,” said the Indian.

  Jim opened his eyes to see the bright red sun crimsoning the eastern hills, and streaming gloriously over the colored forests. He raised himself on his elbow to look around. Nell was still asleep. The blanket was tucked close to her chin. Her chestnut hair was tumbled like a schoolgirl’s; she looked as fresh and sweet as the morning.

  “Nell, Nell, wake up,” said Jim, thinking the while how he would love to kiss those white eyelids.

  Nell’s eyes opened wide; a smile lay deep in their hazel shadows.

  “Where am I? Oh, I remember,” she cried, sitting up. “Oh, Jim, I had such a sweet dream. I was at home with Mother and Kate. Oh, to wake to find it all a dream, I am fleeing for life. But, Jim we are safe, are we not?”

  “Another day, and we’ll be safe.”

  “Let us fly,” she cried, leaping up and shaking out her crumpled skirt. “Uncle, come!”

  Mr. Wells lay quietly with his mild blue eyes smiling up at her. He neither moved nor spoke.

  “Eat, drink,” said the chief, opening the pack.

  “What a beautiful place!” exclaimed Nell, taking the bread and meat handed to her. “This is a lovely little glade. Look at those golden flowers, the red and purple leaves, the brown shining moss, and those lichen-covered stones. Why! someone had camped here. See the little cave, the screens of plaited ferns, and the stone fireplace.”

  “It seems to me this dark spring and those gracefully spreading branches are familiar,” said Jim.

  “Beautiful Spring,” interposed Wingenund.

  “Yes, I know this place,” cried Nell excitedly. “I remember this glade though it was moonlight when I saw it. Here Wetzel rescued me from Girty.”

  “Nell, you’re right,” replied Jim. “How strange we should run across this place again.”

  Strange fate, indeed, which had brought them again to Beautiful Spring! It was destined that the great scenes of their lives were to be enacted in this mossy glade.

  “Come, Uncle, you are lazy,” cried Nell, a touch of her old roguishness making playful her voice.

  Mr. Wells lay still, and smiled up at them.

  “You are not ill?” cried Nell, seeing for the first time how pallid was his face.

  “Dear Nellie, I am not ill. I do not suffer, but I am dying,” he answered, again with that strange, sweet smile.

  “Oh-h-h!” breathed Nell, falling on her knees.

  “No, no, Mr. Wells, you are only weak; you will be all right again soon,” cried Jim.

  “Jim, Nellie, I have known all night. I have lain here wakeful. My heart never was strong. It gave out yesterday, and now it is slowly growing weaker. Put your hand on my breast. Feel. Ah! you see! My life is flickering. God’s will be done. I am content. My work is finished. My only regret is that I brought you out to this terrible borderland. But I did not know. If only I could see you safe from the peril of this wilderness, at home, happy, married.”

  Nell bent over him blinded by her tears, unable to see or speak, crushed by his last overwhelming blow. Jim sat on the other side of the old missionary, holding his hand. For many moments neither spoke. They glanced at the pale face, watching with eager, wistful eyes for a smile, or listening for a word.

  “Come,” said the Indian.

  Nell silently pointed toward her uncle.

  “He is dying,” whispered Jim to the Indian.

  “Go, leave me,” murmured Mr. Wells. “You are still in danger.”

  “We’ll not leave you,” cried Jim.

  “No, no, no,” sobbed Nell, bending over to kiss him.

  “Nellie, may I marry you to Jim?” whispered Mr. Wells into her ear. “He has told me how it is with him. He loves you, Nellie. I’d die happier knowing I’d left you with him.”

  Even at that moment, with her heart almost breaking, Nell’s fair face flushed.

  “Nell, will you marry me?” asked Jim, softly. Low though it was, he had heard Mr. Wells’ whisper.

  Nell stretched a little trembling hand over her uncle to Jim, who enclosed it in his own. Her eyes met his. Through her tears shone faintly a light, which, but for the agony that made it dim, would have beamed radiant.

  “Find the place,” said Mr. Wells, handing Jim a Bible. It was the one he always carried in his pocket.

  With trembling hand Jim turned the leaves. At last he found the lines, and handed the book back to the old man.

  Simple, sweet, and sad was that marriage service. Nell and Jim knelt with hands clasped over Mr. Wells. The old missionary’s voice was faint; Nell’s responses were low, and Jim answered with deep and tender feeling. Beside them stood Wingenund, a dark, magnificent figure.

  “There! May God bless you!” murmured Mr. Wells, with a happy smile, closing the Bible.

  “Nell, my wife!” whispered Jim, kissing her hand.

  “Come!” broke in Wingenund’s voice, deep, strong, like that of a bell.

  Not one of them had observed the chief as he stood erect, motionless, poised like a stag scenting the air. His dark eyes seemed to pierce the purple-golden forest, his keen ear seemed to drink in the singing of the birds and the gentle rustling of leaves. Native to these haunts as were the wild creatures, they were no quicker than the Indian to feel the approach of foes. The breeze had borne faint, suspicious sounds.

  “Keep—the Bible,” said Mr. Wells, “remember—its—words.” His hand closely clasped Nell’s, and then suddenly loosened. His pallid face was lighted by a meaning, tender smile which slowly faded—faded, and was gone. The venerable head fell back. The old missionary was dead.

  Nell kissed the pale, cold brow, and then rose, half dazed and shuddering. Jim was vainly trying to close the dead man’s eyes. She could no longer look. On rising she found herself near the Indian chief. He took her fingers in his great hand, and held them with a strong, warm pressure. Strangely thrilled, she looked up at Wingenund. His somber eyes, fixed piercingly on the forest, and his dark stern face, were, as always, inscrutable. No compassion shone there; no emotion unbefitting a chieftain would ever find expression in that cold face, but Nell felt a certain tenderness in this Indian, a response in his great heart. Felt it so surely, so powerfully that she leaned her head against him. She knew he was her friend.

  “Come,” said the chief once more. He gently put Nell aside before Jim arose from his sad task.

  “We cannot leave him unburied,” expostulated Jim.

  Wingenund dragged aside a large stone which formed one wall of the cavern. Then he grasped a log which was half covered by dirt, and,
exerting his great strength, pulled it from its place. There was a crash, a rumble, the jar of a heavy weight striking the earth, then the rattling of gravel, and, before Nell and Jim realized what had happened, the great rock forming the roof of the cavern slipped down the bank followed by a small avalanche. The cavern was completely covered. Mr. Wells was buried. A mossy stone marked the old missionary’s grave.

  Nell and Jim were lost in wonder and awe.

  “Ugh!” cried the chief, looking toward the opening in the glade.

  Fearfully Nell and Jim turned, to be appalled by four naked, painted savages standing with levelled rifles. Behind them stood Deering and Jim Girty.

  “Oh, God! We are lost! Lost! Lost!” exclaimed Jim, unable to command himself. Hope died in his heart.

  No cry issued from Nell’s white lips. She was dazed by this final blow. Having endured so much, this last misfortune, apparently the ruin of her life, brought no added suffering, only a strange, numb feeling.

  “Ah-huh! Thought you’d give me the slip, eh?” croaked Girty, striding forward, and as he looked at Wingenund his little, yellow eyes flared like flint. “Does a wolf befriend Girty’s captives? Chief you hev led me a hard chase.”

  Wingenund deigned no reply. He stood as he did so often, still and silent, with folded arms, and a look that was haughty, unresponsive.

  The Indians came forward into the glade, and one of them quickly bound Jim’s hands behind his back. The savages wore a wild, brutish look. A feverish ferocity, very near akin to insanity, possessed them. They were not quiet a moment, but ran here and there, for no apparent reason, except, possibly, to keep in action with the raging fire in their hearts. The cleanliness which characterized the normal Indian was absent in them; their scant buckskin dress was bedragged and stained. They were still drunk with rum and the lust for blood. Murder gleamed from the glance of their eyes.