The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail

by Zane Grey

  “Well, I’m not so damned surprised! What’s to be done?”

  “Find out what men are there?”

  “That’s easy. I’ll go to see George and soon have the truth.”

  “Won’t do,” said the borderman decisively. “Go back to the barn, an’ look after the hosses.”

  When Colonel Zane had obeyed, Jonathan dropped to his hands and knees, and swiftly, with the agile movements of an Indian, gained a corner of the Sheppard yard. He crouched in the shade of a big plum tree. Then, at a favorable opportunity, vaulted the fence and disappeared under a clump of lilac bushes.

  The evening wore away no more tediously to the borderman, than to those young frontiersmen who were whispering tender or playful words to their partners. Time and patience were the same to Jonathan Zane. He lay hidden under the fragrant lilacs, his eyes, accustomed to the dark from long practice, losing no movement of the guests. Finally it became evident that the party was at an end. One couple took the initiative, and said good night to their hostess.

  “Tom Bennet, I hope it’s not you,” whispered the borderman to himself, as he recognized the young fellow.

  A general movement followed, until the merry party were assembled about Helen near the front gate.

  “Jim Morrison, I’ll bet it’s not you,” was Jonathan’s comment. “That soldier Williams is doubtful; Hart an’ Johnson being strangers, are unknown quantities around here, an’ then comes Brandt.”

  All departed except Brandt, who remained talking to Helen in low, earnest tones. Jonathan lay very quietly, trying to decide what should be his next move in the unraveling of the mystery. He paid little attention to the young couple, but could not help overhearing their conversation.

  “Indeed, Mr. Brandt, you frontiersmen are not backward,” Helen was saying in her clear voice. “I am surprised to learn that you love me upon such short acquaintance, and am sorry, too, for I hardly know whether I even so much as like you.”

  “I love you. We men of the border do things rapidly,” he replied earnestly.

  “So it seems,” she said with a soft laugh.

  “Won’t you care for me?” he pleaded.

  “Nothing is surer than that I never know what I am going to do,” Helen replied lightly.

  “All these fellows are in love with you. They can’t help it any more than I. You are the most glorious creature. Please give me hope.”

  “Mr. Brandt, let go my hand. I’m afraid I don’t like such impulsive men.”

  “Please let me hold your hand.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “But I will hold it, and if you look at me like that again I’ll do more,” he said.

  “What, bold sir frontiersman?” she returned, lightly still, but in a voice which rang with a deeper note.

  “I’ll kiss you,” he cried desperately.

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Wouldn’t I though? You don’t know us border fellows yet. You come here with your wonderful beauty, and smile at us with that light in your eyes which makes men mad. Oh, you’ll pay for it.”

  The borderman listened to all this love-making half disgusted, until he began to grow interested. Brandt’s back was turned to him, and Helen stood so that the light from the pinecones shone on her face. Her eyes were brilliant, otherwise she seemed a woman perfectly self-possessed. Brandt held her hand despite the repeated efforts she made to free it. But she did not struggle violently, or make an outcry.

  Suddenly Brandt grasped her other hand, pulling her toward him.

  “These other fellows will kiss you, and I’m going to be the first!” he declared passionately.

  Helen drew back, now thoroughly alarmed by the man’s fierce energy. She had been warned against this very boldness in frontiersmen; but had felt secure in her own pride and dignity. Her blood boiled at the thought that she must exert strength to escape insult. She struggled violently when Brandt bent his head. Almost sick with fear, she had determined to call for help, when a violent wrench almost toppled her over. At the same instant her wrists were freed; she heard a fierce cry, a resounding blow, and then the sodden thud of a heavy body falling. Recovering her balance, she saw a tall figure beside her, and a man in the act of rising from the ground.

  “You?” whispered Helen, recognizing the tall figure as Jonathan’s.

  The borderman did not answer. He stepped forward, slipping his hand inside his hunting frock. Brandt sprang nimbly to his feet, and with a face which, even in the dim light, could be seen distorted with fury, bent forward to look at the stranger. He, too, had his hand within his coat, as if grasping a weapon; but he did not draw it.

  “Zane, a lighter blow would have been easier to forget,” he cried, his voice clear and cutting. Then he turned to the girl. “Miss Helen, I got what I deserved. I crave your forgiveness, and ask you to understand a man who was once a gentleman. If I am one no longer, the frontier is to blame. I was mad to treat you as I did.”

  Thus speaking, he bowed low with the grace of a man sometimes used to the society of ladies, and then went out of the gate.

  “Where did you come from?” asked Helen, looking up at Jonathan.

  He pointed under the lilac bushes.

  “Were you there?” she asked wonderingly. “Did you hear all?”

  “I couldn’t help hearin’.”

  “It was fortunate for me; but why—why were you there?”

  Helen came a step nearer, and regarded him curiously with her great eyes now black with excitement.

  The borderman was silent.

  Helen’s softened mood changed instantly. There was nothing in his cold face which might have betrayed in him a sentiment similar to that of her admirers.

  “Did you spy on me?” she asked quickly, after a moment’s thought.

  “No,” replied Jonathan calmly.

  Helen gazed in perplexity at this strange man. She did not know how to explain it; she was irritated, but did her best to conceal it. He had no interest in her, yet had hidden under the lilacs in her yard. She was grateful because he had saved her from annoyance, yet could not fathom his reason for being so near.

  “Did you come here to see me?” she asked, forgetting her vexation.

  “No.”

  “What for, then?”

  “I reckon I won’t say,” was the quiet, deliberate refusal.

  Helen stamped her foot in exasperation.

  “Be careful that I do not put a wrong construction on your strange action,” said she coldly. “If you have reasons, you might trust me. If you are only——”

  “Sh-s-sh!” he breathed, grasping her wrist, and holding it firmly in his powerful hand. The whole attitude of the man had altered swiftly, subtly. The listlessness was gone. His lithe body became rigid as he leaned forward, his head toward the ground, and turned slightly in a manner that betokened intent listening.

  Helen trembled as she felt his powerful frame quiver. Whatever had thus changed him, gave her another glimpse of his complex personality. It seemed to her incredible that with one whispered exclamation this man could change from cold indifference to a fire and force so strong as to dominate her.

  Statue-like she remained listening; but hearing no sound, and thrillingly conscious of the hand on her arm.

  Far up on the hillside an owl hooted dismally, and an instant later, faint and far away, came an answer so low as to be almost indistinct.

  The borderman raised himself erect as he released her.

  “It’s only an owl,” she said in relief.

  His eyes gleamed like stars.

  “It’s Wetzel, an’ it means Injuns!”

  Then he was gone into the darkness.

  CHAPTER V

  In the misty morning twilight Colonel Zane, fully armed, paced to and fro before his cabin, on guard. All night he had maintained a watch. He had not considered it necessary to send his family into the fort, to which they had often been compelled to flee. On the previous night Jonathan had come swiftly back to the ca
bin, and, speaking but two words, seized his weapons, and vanished into the black night. The word were “Injuns! Wetzel!” and there were none others with more power to affect hearers on the border. The colonel believed that Wetzel had signaled to Jonathan.

  On the west a deep gully with precipitous sides separated the settlement from a high, wooded bluff. Wetzel often returned from his journeying by this difficult route. He had no doubt seen Indian signs, and had communicated the intelligence to Jonathan by their system of night-bird calls. The nearness of the mighty hunter reassured Colonel Zane.

  When the colonel returned from his chase of the previous night, he went directly to the stable, there to find that the Indians had made off with a thoroughbred, and Betty’s pony. Colonel Zane was furious, not on account of the value of the horses, but because Bess was his favorite bay, and Betty loved nothing more than her pony Madcap. To have such a march stolen on him after he had heard and seen the thieves was indeed hard. High time it was that these horse thieves be run to earth. No Indian had planned these marauding expeditions. A white man was at the bottom of the thieving, and he should pay for his treachery.

  The colonel’s temper, however, soon cooled. He realized after thinking over the matter, that he was fortunate it passed off without bloodshed. Very likely the intent had been to get all his horses, perhaps his neighbor’s as well, and it had been partly frustrated by Jonathan’s keen sagacity. These Shawnees, white leader or not, would never again run such risks.

  “It’s like a skulking Shawnee,” muttered Colonel Zane, “to slip down here under cover of early dusk, when no one but an Indian hunter could detect him. I didn’t look for trouble, especially so soon after the lesson we gave Girty and his damned English and redskins. It’s lucky Jonathan was here. I’ll go back to the old plan of stationing scouts at the outposts until snow flies.”

  While Colonel Zane talked to himself and paced the path he had selected to patrol, the white mists cleared, and a rosy hue followed the brightening in the east. The birds ceased twittering to break into gay songs, and the cock in the barnyard gave one final clarion-voiced salute to the dawn. The rose in the east deepened into rich red, and then the sun peeped over the eastern hilltops to drench the valley with glad golden light.

  A blue smoke curling lazily from the stone chimney of his cabin, showed that Sam had made the kitchen fire, and a little later a rich, savory odor gave pleasing evidence that his wife was cooking breakfast.

  “Any sign of Jack?” a voice called from the open door, and Betty appeared.

  “Nary sign.”

  “Of the Indians, then?”

  “Well, Betts, they left you a token of their regard,” and Colonel Zane smiled as he took a broken halter from the fence.

  “Madcap?” cried Betty.

  “Yes, they’ve taken Madcap and Bess.”

  “Oh, the villains! Poor pony,” exclaimed Betty indignantly. “Eb, I’ll coax Wetzel to fetch the pony home if he has to kill every Shawnee in the valley.”

  “Now you’re talking, Betts,” Colonel Zane replied. “If you could get Lew to do that much, you’d be blessed from one end of the border to the other.”

  He walked up the road; then back, keeping a sharp lookout on all sides, and bestowing a particularly keen glance at the hillside across the ravine, but could see no sign of the bordermen. As it was now broad daylight he felt convinced that further watch was unnecessary, and went in to breakfast. When he came out again the villagers were astir. The sharp strokes of axes rang out on the clear morning air, and a mellow anvil-clang pealed up from the blacksmith shop. Colonel Zane found his brother Silas and Jim Downs near the gate.

  “Morning, boys,” he cried cheerily.

  “Any glimpse of Jack or Lew?” asked Silas.

  “No; but I’m expecting one of ’em any moment.”

  “How about the Indians?” asked Downs. “Silas roused me out last night; but didn’t stay long enough to say more than ‘Indians.’”

  “I don’t know much more than Silas. I saw several of the red devils who stole the horses; but how many, where they’ve gone, or what we’re to expect, I can’t say. We’ve got to wait for Jack or Lew. Silas, keep the garrison in readiness at the fort, and don’t allow a man, soldier, or farmer, to leave the clearing until further orders. Perhaps there were only three of those Shawnees, and then again the woods might have been full of them. I take it something’s amiss, or Jack and Lew would be in by now.”

  “Here come Sheppard and his girl,” said Silas, pointing down the lane. “’Pears George is some excited.”

  Colonel Zane had much the same idea as he saw Sheppard and his daughter. The old man appeared in a hurry, which was sufficient reason to believe him anxious or alarmed, and Helen looked pale.

  “Ebenezer, what’s this I hear about Indians?” Sheppard asked excitedly. “What with Helen’s story about the fort being besieged, and this brother of yours routing honest people from their beds, I haven’t had a wink of sleep. What’s up? Where are the redskins?”

  “Now, George, be easy,” said Colonel Zane calmly. “And you, Helen, mustn’t be frightened. There’s no danger. We did have a visit from Indians last night; but they hurt no one, and got only two horses.”

  “Oh, I’m so relieved that it’s not worse,” said Helen.

  “It’s bad enough, Helen,” Betty cried, her black eyes flashing, “my pony Madcap is gone.”

  “Colonel Zane, come here quick!” cried Downs, who stood near the gate.

  With one leap Colonel Zane was at the gate, and, following with his eyes the direction indicated by Downs’ trembling finger, he saw two tall, brown figures striding down the lane. One carried two rifles, and the other a long bundle wrapped in a blanket.

  “It’s Jack and Wetzel,” whispered Colonel Zane to Jim. “They’ve got the girl, and by God! from the way the bundle hangs, I think she’s dead. Here,” he added, speaking loudly, “you women get into the house.”

  Mrs. Zane, Betty, and Helen stared.

  “Go into the house!” he cried authoritatively.

  Without a protest the three women obeyed.

  At that moment Nellie Downs came across the lane; Sam shuffled out from the backyard, and Sheppard arose from his seat on the steps. They joined Colonel Zane, Silas, and Jim at the gate.

  “I wondered what kept you so late,” Colonel Zane said to Jonathan, as he and his companion came up. “You’ve fetched Mabel, and she’s—” The good man could say no more. If he should live an hundred years on the border amid savage murderers, he would still be tender-hearted. Just now he believed the giant borderman by the side of Jonathan held a dead girl, one whom he had danced, when a child, upon his knee.

  “Mabel, an’ jest alive,” replied Jonathan.

  “By God! I’m glad!” exclaimed Colonel Zane. “Here, Lew, given her to me.”

  Wetzel relinquished his burden to the colonel.

  “Lew, any bad Indian sign?” asked Colonel Zane as he turned to go into the house.

  The borderman shook his head.

  “Wait for me,” added the colonel.

  He carried the girl to that apartment in the cabin which served the purpose of a sitting-room, and laid her on a couch. He gently removed the folds of the blanket, disclosing to view a fragile, white-faced girl.

  “Bess, hurry, hurry!” he screamed to his wife, and as she came running in, followed no less hurriedly by Betty, Helen, and Nellie, he continued, “Here’s Mabel Lane, alive, poor child; but in sore need of help. First see whether she has any bodily injury. If a bullet must be cut out, or a knife-wound sewed up, it’s better she remained unconscious. Betty, run for Bess’s instruments, and bring brandy and water. Lively now!” Then he gave vent to an oath and left the room.

  Helen, her heart throbbing wildly, went to the side of Mrs. Zane, who was kneeling by the couch. She saw a delicate girl, not over eighteen years old, with a face that would have been beautiful but for the set lips, the closed eyelids, and an expression of intense pain.<
br />
  “Oh! Oh!” breathed Helen.

  “Nell, hand me the scissors,” said Mrs. Zane, “and help me take off this dress. Why, it’s wet, but, thank goodness! ’tis not with blood. I know that slippery touch too well. There, that’s right. Betty, give me a spoonful of brandy. Now heat a blanket, and get one of your linsey gowns for this poor child.”

  Helen watched Mrs. Zane as if fascinated. The colonel’s wife continued to talk while with deft fingers she forced a few drops of brandy between the girl’s closed teeth. Then with the adroitness of a skilled surgeon, she made the examination. Helen had heard of this pioneer woman’s skill in setting broken bones and treating injuries, and when she looked from the calm face to the steady fingers, she had no doubt as to the truth of what had been told.

  “Neither bullet wound, cut, bruise, nor broken bone,” said Mrs. Zane. “It’s fear, starvation, and the terrible shock.”

  She rubbed Mabel’s hands while gazing at her pale face. Then she forced more brandy between the tightly closed lips. She was rewarded by ever so faint a color tinging the wan cheeks, to be followed by a fluttering of the eyelids. Then the eyes opened wide. They were large, soft, dark, and humid with agony.

  Helen could not bear their gaze. She saw the shadow of death, and of worse than death. She looked away, while in her heart rose a storm of passionate fury at the brutes who had made of this tender girl a wreck.

  The room was full of women now, sober-faced matrons and grave-eyed girls, yet all wore the same expression, not alone of anger, nor fear, nor pity, but of all combined.

  Helen instinctively felt that this was one of the trials of border endurance, and she knew from the sterner faces of the maturer women that such a trial was familiar. Despite all she had been told, the shock and pain were too great, and she went out of the room sobbing.

  She almost fell over the broad back of Jonathan Zane who was sitting on the steps. Near him stood Colonel Zane talking with a tall man clad in faded buckskin.

  “Lass, you shouldn’t have stayed,” said Colonel Zane kindly.

  “It’s—hurt—me—here,” said Helen, placing her hand over her heart.