The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail

by Zane Grey

  “I think so; this is the fourth time I’ve put up a cabin on this land,” replied the colonel.

  “How’s that?”

  “The redskins are keen to burn things.”

  Sheppard laughed at the pioneer’s reply. “It’s not difficult, Colonel Zane, to understand why Fort Henry has stood all these years, with you as its leader. Certainly the location for your cabin is the finest in the settlement. What a view!”

  High upon a bluff overhanging the majestic, slow-winding Ohio, the colonel’s cabin afforded a commanding position from which to view the picturesque valley. Sheppard’s eye first caught the outline of the huge, bold, time-blackened fort which frowned protectingly over surrounding log-cabins; then he saw the wide-sweeping river with its verdant islands, golden, sandy bars, and willow-bordered shores, while beyond, rolling pastures of wavy grass merging into green forests that swept upward with slow swell until lost in the dim purple of distant mountains.

  “Sixteen years ago I came out of the thicket upon yonder bluff, and saw this valley. I was deeply impressed by its beauty, but more by its wonderful promise.”

  “Were you alone?”

  “I and my dog. There had been a few white men before me on the river; but I was the first to see this glorious valley from the bluff. Now, George, I’ll let you have a hundred acres of well-cleared land. The soil is so rich you can raise two crops in one season. With some stock, and a few good hands, you’ll soon be a busy man.”

  “I didn’t expect so much land; I can’t well afford to pay for it.”

  “Talk to me of payment when the farm yields an income. Is this young nephew of yours strong and willing?”

  “He is, and has gold enough to buy a big farm.”

  “Let him keep his money, and make a comfortable home for some good lass. We marry our young people early out here. And your daughter, George, is she fitted for this hard border life?”

  “Never fear for Helen.”

  “The brunt of this pioneer work falls on our women. God bless them, how heroic they’ve been! The life here is rough for a man, let alone a woman. But it is a man’s game. We need girls, girls who will bear strong men. Yet I am always saddened when I see one come out on the border.”

  “I think I knew what I was bringing Helen to, and she didn’t flinch,” said Sheppard, somewhat surprised at the tone in which the colonel spoke.

  “No one knows until he has lived on the border. Well, well, all this is discouraging to you. Ah! here is Miss Helen with my sister.”

  The colonel’s fine, dark face lost its sternness, and brightened with a smile.

  “I hope you rested well after your long ride.”

  “I am seldom tired, and I have been made most comfortable. I thank you and your sister,” replied the girl, giving Colonel Zane her hand, and including both him and his sister in her grateful glance.

  The colonel’s sister was a slender, handsome young woman, whose dark beauty showed to most effective advantage by the contrast with her companion’s fair skin, golden hair, and blue eyes.

  Beautiful as was Helen Sheppard, it was her eyes that held Colonel Zane irresistibly. They were unusually large, of a dark purple-blue that changed, shaded, shadowed with her every thought.

  “Come, let us walk,” Colonel Zane said abruptly, and, with Mr. Sheppard, followed the girls down the path. He escorted them to the fort, showed a long room with little squares cut in the rough-hewn logs, many bullet holes, fire-charred timbers, and dark stains, terribly suggestive of the pain and heroism which the defense of that rude structure had cost.

  Under Helen’s eager questioning Colonel Zane yielded to his weakness for storytelling, and recited the history of the last siege of Fort Henry; how the renegade Girty swooped down upon the settlement with hundreds of Indians and British soldiers; how for three days of whistling bullets, flaming arrows, screeching demons, fire, smoke, and attack following attack, the brave defenders stood at their posts, there to die before yielding.

  “Grand!” breathed Helen, and her eyes glowed. “It was then Betty Zane ran with the powder? Oh! I’ve heard the story.”

  “Let my sister tell you of that,” said the colonel, smiling.

  “You! Was it you?” And Helen’s eyes glowed brighter with the light of youth’s glory in great deeds.

  “My sister has been wedded and widowed since then,” said Colonel Zane, reading in Helen’s earnest scrutiny of his sister’s calm, sad face a wonder if this quiet woman could be the fearless and famed Elizabeth Zane.

  Impulsively Helen’s hand closed softly over her companion’s. Out of the girlish sympathetic action a warm friendship was born.

  “I imagine things do happen here,” said Mr. Sheppard, hoping to hear more from Colonel Zane.

  The colonel smiled grimly.

  “Every summer during fifteen years has been a bloody one on the border. The sieges of Fort Henry, and Crawford’s defeat, the biggest things we ever knew out here, are matters of history; of course you are familiar with them. But the numberless Indian forays and attacks, the women who have been carried into captivity by renegades, the murdered farmers, in fact, ceaseless war never long directed at any point, but carried on the entire length of the river, are matters known only to the pioneers. Within five miles of Fort Henry I can show you where the laurel bushes grow three feet high over the ashes of two settlements, and many a clearing where some unfortunate pioneer had staked his claim and thrown up a log cabin, only to die fighting for his wife and children. Between here and Fort Pitt there is only one settlement, Yellow Creek, and most of its inhabitants are survivors of abandoned villages farther up the river. Last summer we had the Moravian Massacre, the blackest, most inhuman deed ever committed. Since then Simon Girty and his bloody redskins have lain low.”

  “You must always have had a big force,” said Sheppard.

  “We’ve managed always to be strong enough, though there never were a large number of men here. During the last siege I had only forty in the fort, counting men, women, and boys. But I had pioneers and women who could handle a rifle, and the best bordermen on the frontier.”

  “Do you make a distinction between pioneers and bordermen?” asked Sheppard.

  “Indeed, yes. I am a pioneer; a borderman is an Indian hunter, or scout. For years my cabins housed Andrew Zane, Sam and John McCollock, Bill Metzar, and John and Martin Wetzel, all of whom are dead. Not one saved his scalp. Fort Henry is growing; it has pioneers, rivermen, soldiers, but only two bordermen. Wetzel and Jonathan are the only ones we have left of those great men.”

  “They must be old?” mused Helen, with a dreamy glow still in her eyes.

  “Well, Miss Helen, not in years, as you mean. Life here is old in experience; few pioneers, and no bordermen, live to a great age. Wetzel is about forty, and my brother Jonathan still a young man; but both are old in border lore.”

  Earnestly, as a man who loves his subject, Colonel Zane told his listeners of these two most prominent characters of the border. Sixteen years previously, when but boys in years, they had cast in their lot with his, and journeyed over the Virginian Mountains, Wetzel to devote his life to the vengeful calling he had chosen, and Jonathan to give rein to an adventurous spirit and love of the wilds. By some wonderful chance, by cunning, woodcraft, or daring, both men had lived through the years of border warfare which had brought to a close the careers of all their contemporaries.

  For many years Wetzel preferred solitude to companionship; he roamed the wilderness in pursuit of Indians, his life-long foes, and seldom appeared at the settlement except to bring news of an intended raid of the savages. Jonathan also spent much time alone in the woods, or scouting along the river. But of late years of friendship had ripened between the two bordermen. Mutual interest had brought them together on the trail of a noted renegade, and when, after many long days of patient watching and persistent tracking, the outlaw paid an awful penalty for his bloody deeds, these lone and silent men were friends.

  Powerful in
build, fleet as deer, fearless and tireless, Wetzel’s peculiar bloodhound sagacity, ferocity, and implacability, balanced by Jonathan’s keen intelligence and judgment caused these bordermen to become the bane of redmen and renegades. Their fame increased with each succeeding summer, until now the people of the settlement looked upon wonderful deeds of strength and of woodcraft as a matter of course, rejoicing in the power and skill with which these men were endowed.

  By common consent the pioneers attributed any mysterious deed, from the finding of a fat turkey on a cabin doorstep, to the discovery of a savage scalped and pulled from his ambush near a settler’s spring, to Wetzel and Jonathan. All the more did they feel sure of this conclusion because the bordermen never spoke of their deeds. Sometimes a pioneer living on the outskirts of the settlement would be awakened in the morning by a single rifle shot, and on peering out would see a dead Indian lying almost across his doorstep, while beyond, in the dim, gray mist, a tall figure stealing away. Often in the twilight on a summer evening, while fondling his children and enjoying his smoke after a hard day’s labor in the fields, this same settler would see the tall, dark figure of Jonathan Zane step noiselessly out of the thicket, and learn that he must take his family and flee at once to the fort for safety. When a settler was murdered, his children carried into captivity by Indians, and the wife given over to the power of some brutal renegade, tragedies woefully frequent on the border, Wetzel and Jonathan took the trail alone. Many a white woman was returned alive, and, sometimes, unharmed to her relatives; more than one maiden lived to be captured, rescued, and returned to her lover, while almost numberless were the bones of brutal redmen lying in the deep and gloomy woods, or bleaching on the plains, silent, ghastly reminders of the stern justice meted out by these two heroes.

  “Such are my two bordermen, Miss Sheppard. The fort there, and all these cabins, would be only black ashes, save for them, and as for us, our wives and children—God only knows.”

  “Haven’t they wives and children, too?” asked Helen.

  “No,” answered Colonel Zane, with his genial smile. “Such joys are not for bordermen.”

  “Why not? Fine men like them deserve happiness,” declared Helen.

  “It is necessary we have such,” said the colonel simply, “and they cannot be bordermen unless free as the air blows. Wetzel and Jonathan have never had sweethearts. I believe Wetzel loved a lass once; but he was an Indian-killer whose hands were red with blood. He silenced his heart, and kept to his chosen, lonely life. Jonathan does not seem to realize that women exist to charm, to please, to be loved and married. Once we twitted him about his brothers doing their duty by the border, whereupon he flashed out: ‘My life is the border’s: my sweetheart is the North Star!’”

  Helen dreamily watched the dancing, dimpling waves that broke on the stones of the river shore. All unconscious of the powerful impression the colonel’s recital had made upon her, she was feeling the greatness of the lives of these bordermen, and the glory it would now be for her to share with others the pride in their protection.

  “Say, Sheppard, look here,” said Colonel Zane, on the return to his cabin, “that girl of yours has a pair of eyes. I can’t forget the way they flashed! They’ll cause more trouble here among my garrison than would a swarm of redskins.”

  “No? You don’t mean it! Out here in this wilderness?” queried Sheppard doubtfully.

  “Well, I do.”

  “O Lord! What a time I’ve had with that girl! There was one man especially, back home, who made our lives miserable. He was rich and well born; but Helen would have none of him. He got around me, old fool that I am! Practically stole what was left of my estate, and gambled it away when Helen said she’d die before giving herself to him. It was partly on his account that I brought her away. Then there were a lot of moon-eyed beggars after her all the time, and she’s young and full of fire. I hoped I’d marry her to some farmer out here, and end my days in peace.”

  “Peace? With eyes like those? Never on this green earth.” And Colonel Zane laughed as he slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, old fellow. You can’t help her having those changing dark-blue eyes any more than you can help being proud of them. They have won me, already, susceptible old backwoodsman! I’ll help you with this spirited young lady. I’ve had experience, Sheppard, and don’t you forget it. First, my sister, a Zane all through, which is saying enough. Then as sweet and fiery a little Indian princess as ever stepped in a beaded moccasin, and since, more than one beautiful, impulsive creature. Being in authority, I suppose it’s natural that all the work, from keeping the garrison ready against an attack, to straightening out love affairs, should fall upon me. I’ll take the care off your shoulders; I’ll keep these young daredevils from killing each other over Miss Helen’s favors. I certainly—Hello! There are strangers at the gate. Something’s up.”

  Half a dozen rough-looking men had appeared from round the corner of the cabin, and halted at the gate.

  “Bill Elsing, and some of his men from Yellow Creek,” said Colonel Zane, as he went toward the group.

  “Hullo, kurnel,” was the greeting of the foremost, evidently the leader. “We’ve lost six head of hosses over our way, an’ are out lookin’ ’em up.”

  “Say, this horse-stealing business is alarming. What did you come in for?”

  “Wal, we meets Jonathan on the ridge about sun up, an’ he sent us back lickety-cut. Said he had two of the hosses coralled, an’ mebbe Wetzel could git the others.”

  “That’s strange,” replied Colonel Zane, thoughtfully.

  “’Pears to me Jack and Wetzel hev some redskins treed, an’ didn’t want us to spile the fun. Mebbe there wasn’t scalps enough to go round. Anyway, we come in, an’ we’ll hang up here to-day.”

  “Bill, who’s doing this horse-stealing?”

  “Damn if I know. It’s a mighty pert piece of work. I’ve a mind it’s some slick white fellar, with Injuns backin’ him.”

  Helen noted, when she was once more indoors, that Colonel Zane’s wife appeared worried. Her usual placid expression was gone. She put off the playful overtures of her two bright boys with unusual indifference, and turned to her husband with anxious questioning as to whether the strangers brought news of Indians. Upon being assured that such was not the case, she looked relieved, and explained to Helen that she had seen armed men come so often to consult the colonel regarding dangerous missions and expeditions, that the sight of a stranger caused her unspeakable dread.

  “I am accustomed to danger, yet I can never control my fears for my husband and children,” said Mrs. Zane. “The older I grow the more of a coward I am. Oh! this border life is sad for women. Only a little while ago my brother Samuel McColloch was shot and scalped right here on the riverbank. He was going to the spring for a bucket of water. I lost another brother in almost the same way. Every day during the summer a husband and a father falls victim to some murderous Indian. My husband will go in the same way some day. The border claims them all.”

  “Bessie, you must not show your fears to our new friend. And, Miss Helen, don’t believe she’s the coward she would make out,” said the colonel’s sister smilingly.

  “Betty is right, Bess, don’t frighten her,” said Colonel Zane. “I’m afraid I talked too much to-day. But, Miss Helen, you were so interested, and are such a good listener, that I couldn’t refrain. Once for all let me say that you will no doubt see stirring life here; but there is little danger of its affecting you. To be sure I think you’ll have troubles; but not with Indians or outlaws.”

  He winked at his wife and sister. At first Helen did not understand his sally, but then she blushed red all over her fair face.

  Some time after that, while unpacking her belongings, she heard the clatter of horses’ hoffs on the rocky road, accompanied by loud voices. Running to the window, she saw a group of men at the gate.

  “Miss Sheppard, will you come out?” called Colonel Zane’s sister from the door. “My brother Jona
than has returned.”

  Helen joined Betty at the door, and looked over her shoulder.

  “Wal, Jack, ye got two on ’em, anyways,” drawled a voice which she recognized as that of Elsing’s.

  A man, lithe and supple, slipped from the back of one of the horses, and, giving the halter to Elsing with a single word, turned, and entered the gate. Colonel Zane met him there.

  “Well, Jonathan, what’s up?”

  “There’s hell to pay,” was the reply, and the speaker’s voice rang clear and sharp.

  Colonel Zane laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder, and thus they stood for a moment, singularly alike, and yet the sturdy pioneer was, somehow, far different from the dark-haired borderman.

  “I thought we’d trouble in store from the look on your face,” said the colonel calmly. “I hope you haven’t very bad news on the first day, for our old friends from Virginia.”

  “Jonathan,” cried Betty when he did not answer the colonel. At her call he half turned, and his dark eyes, steady, strained like those of a watching deer, sought his sister’s face.

  “Betty, old Jake Lane was murdered by horse thieves yesterday, and Mabel Lane is gone.”

  “Oh!” gasped Betty; but she said nothing more.

  Colonel Zane cursed inaudibly.

  “You know, Eb, I tried to keep Lane in the settlement for Mabel’s sake. But he wanted to work that farm. I believe horse-stealing wasn’t as much of an object as the girl. Pretty women are bad for the border, or any other place, I guess. Wetzel has taken the trail, and I came in because I’ve serious suspicions—I’ll explain to you alone.”

  The borderman bowed gravely to Helen, with a natural grace, and yet a manner that sat awkwardly upon him. The girl, slightly flushed, and somewhat confused by this meeting with the man around whom her romantic imagination had already woven a story, stood in the doorway after giving him a fleeting glance, the fairest, sweetest picture of girlish beauty ever seen.