The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail

by Zane Grey

  “Trouble is the name of my ship, and she’s a trim, fast craft,” replied the man.

  His loud voice had put an end to the conversation. Men began to crowd in from the barroom. Metzar himself came to see what had caused the excitement.

  The little man threw up his cap, whooped, and addressed himself to Jonathan:

  “Injun-killer, bad man of the border, will you drink with a jolly old tar from England?”

  Suddenly a silence reigned, like that in the depths of the forest. To those who knew the borderman, and few did not know him, the invitation was nothing less than an insult. But it did not appear to them, as to him, like a prearranged plot to provoke a fight.

  “Will you drink, redskin-hunter?” bawled the sailor.

  “No,” said Jonathan in his quiet voice.

  “Maybe you mean that against old England?” demanded Case fiercely.

  The borderman eyed him steadily, inscrutable as to feeling or intent, and was silent.

  “Go out there and I’ll see the color of your insides quicker than I’d take a drink,” hissed the sailor, with his brickred face distorted and hideous to look upon. He pointed with a long-bladed knife that no one had seen him draw, to the green sward beyond the porch.

  The borderman neither spoke, nor relaxed a muscle.

  “Ho! ho! my brave pirate of the plains!” cried Case, and he leered with braggart sneer into the faces of Jonathan and his companions.

  It so happened that Sheppard sat nearest to him, and got the full effect of the sailor’s hot, rum-soaked breath. He arose with a pale face.

  “Colonel, I can’t stand this,” he said hastily. “Let’s get away from that drunken ruffian.”

  “Who’s a drunken ruffian?” yelled Case, more angry than ever. “I’m not drunk; but I’m going to be, and cut some of you white-livered border mates. Here, you old masthead, drink this to my health, damn you!”

  The ruffian had seized a tumbler of liquor from the table, and held it toward Sheppard while he brandished his long knife.

  White as snow, Sheppard backed against the wall; but did not take the drink.

  The sailor had the floor; no one save him spoke a word. The action had been so rapid that there had hardly been time. Colonel Zane and Silas were as quiet and tense as the borderman.

  “Drink!” hoarsely cried the sailor, advancing his knife toward Sheppard’s body.

  When the sharp point all but pressed against the old man, a bright object twinkled through the air. It struck Case’s wrist, knocked the knife from his fingers, and, bounding against the wall, fell upon the floor. It was a tomahawk.

  The borderman sprang over the table like a huge catamount, and with movement equally quick, knocked Case with a crash against the wall; closed on him before he could move a hand, and flung him like a sack of meal over the bluff.

  The tension relieved, some of the crowd laughed, others looked over the embankment to see how Case had fared, and others remarked that for some reason he had gotten off better than they expected.

  The borderman remained silent. He leaned against a post, with broad breast gently heaving, but his eyes sparkled as they watched Brandt, Williams, Mordaunt, and Metzar. The Englishman alone spoke.

  “Hardily done,” he said, cool and suave. “Sir, yours is an iron hand. I apologize for this unpleasant affair. My man is quarrelsome when under the influence of liquor.”

  “Metzar, a word with you,” cried Colonel Zane curtly.

  “Come inside, kunnel,” said the innkeeper, plainly ill at ease.

  “No; listen here. I’ll speak to the point. You’ve got to stop running this kind of a place. No words, now, you’ve got to stop. Understand? You know as well as I, perhaps better, the character of your so-called inn. You’ll get but one more chance.”

  “Wal, kunnel, this is a free country,” growled Metzar. “I can’t help these fellars comin’ here lookin’ fer blood. I runs an honest place. The men want to drink an’ gamble. What’s law here? What can you do?”

  “You know me, Metzar,” Colonel Zane said grimly. “I don’t waste words. ‘To hell with law!’ so you say. I can say that, too. Remember, the next drunken boy I see, or shady deal, or gambling spree, out you go for good.”

  Metzar lowered his shaggy head and left the porch. Brandt and his friends, with serious faces, withdrew into the barroom.

  The borderman walked around the corner of the inn, and up the lane. The colonel, with Silas and Sheppard, followed in more leisurely fashion. At a shout from some one they turned to see a dusty, bloody figure, with ragged clothes, stagger up from the bluff.

  “There’s that blamed sailor now,” said Sheppard. “He’s a tough nut. My! What a knock on the head Jonathan gave him. Strikes me, too, that tomahawk came almost at the right time to save me a whole skin.”

  “I was furious, but not at all alarmed,” rejoined Colonel Zane.

  “I wondered what made you so quiet.”

  “I was waiting. Jonathan never acts until the right moment, and then—well, you saw him. The little villain deserved killing. I could have shot him with pleasure. Do you know, Sheppard, Jonathan’s aversion to shedding blood is a singular thing. He’d never kill the worst kind of a white man until driven to it.”

  “That’s commendable. How about Wetzel?”

  “Well, Lew is different,” replied Colonel Zane with a shudder. “If I told him to take an ax and clean out Metzar’s place—God! what a wreck he’d make of it. Maybe I’ll have to tell him, and if I do, you’ll see something you can never forget.”

  CHAPTER IX

  On Sunday morning under the bright, warm sun, the little hamlet of Fort Henry lay peacefully quiet, as if no storms had ever rolled and thundered overhead, no roistering ever disturbed its stillness, and no Indian’s yell ever horribly broke the quiet.

  “’Tis a fine morning,” said Colonel Zane, joining his sister on the porch. “Well, how nice you look! All in white for the first time since—well, you do look charming. You’re going to church, or course.”

  “Yes, I invited Helen and her cousin to go. I’ve persuaded her to teach my Sunday-school class, and I’ll take another of older children,” replied Betty.

  “That’s well. The youngsters don’t have much chance to learn out here. But we’ve made one great stride. A church and a preacher means very much to young people. Next shall come the village school.”

  “Helen and I might teach our classes an hour or two every afternoon.”

  “It would be a grand thing if you did! Fancy these tots growing up unable to read or write. I hate to think of it; but the Lord knows I’ve done my best. I’ve had my troubles in keeping them alive.”

  “Helen suggested the day school. She takes the greatest interest in everything and everybody. Her energy is remarkable. She simply must move, must do something. She overflows with kindness and sympathy. Yesterday she cried with happiness when Mabel told her Alex was eager to be married very soon. I tell you, Eb, Helen is a fine character.”

  “Yes, good as she is pretty, which is saying some,” mused the colonel. “I wonder who’ll be the lucky fellow to win her.”

  “It’s hard to say. Not that Englishman, surely. She hates him. Jonathan might. You should see her eyes when he is mentioned.”

  “Say, Betts, you don’t mean it?” eagerly asked her brother.

  “Yes, I do,” returned Betty, nodding her head positively. “I’m not easily deceived about those things. Helen’s completely fascinated with Jack. She might be only a sixteen-year-old girl for the way she betrays herself to me.”

  “Betty, I have a beautiful plan.”

  “No doubt; you’re full of them.”

  “We can do it, Betty, we can, you and I,” he said as he squeezed her arm.

  “My dear old matchmaking brother,” returned Betty, laughing, “it takes two to make a bargain. Jack must be considered.”

  “Bosh!” exclaimed the colonel, snapping his fingers. “You needn’t tell me any young man—any man, could r
esist that glorious girl.”

  “Perhaps not; I couldn’t if I were a man. But Jack’s not like other people. He’d never realize that she cared for him. Besides, he’s a borderman.”

  “I know, and that’s the only serious obstacle. But he could scout around the fort, even if he was married. These long, lonely, terrible journeys taken by him and Wetzel are mostly unnecessary. A sweet wife could soon make him see that. The border will be civilized in a few years, and because of that he’d better give over hunting for Indians. I’d like to see him married and settled down, like all the rest of us, even Isaac. You know Jack’s the last of the Zanes, that is, the old Zanes. The difficulty arising from his extreme modesty and bashfulness can easily be overcome.”

  “How, most wonderful brother?”

  “Easy as pie. Tell Jack that Helen is dying of love for him, and tell her that Jack loves—”

  “But, dear Eb, that latter part is not true,” interposed Betty.

  “True, of course it’s true, or would be in any man who wasn’t as blind as a bat. We’ll tell her Jack cares for her; but he is a borderman with stern ideas of duty, and so slow and backward he’d never tell his love even if he had overcome his tricks of ranging. That would settle it with any girl worth her salt, and this one will fetch Jack in ten days, or less.”

  “Eb, you’re a devil,” said Betty gayly, and then she added in a more sober vein, “I understand, Eb. Your idea is prompted by love of Jack, and it’s all right. I never see him go out of the clearing but I think it may be for the last time, even as on that day so long ago when brother Andrew waved his cap to us, and never came back. Jack is the best man in the world, and I, too, want to see him happy, with a wife, and babies, and a settled occupation in life. I think we might weave a pretty little romance. Shall we try?”

  “Try? We’ll do it! Now, Betts, you explain it to both. You can do it smoother than I, and telling them is really the finest point of our little plot. I’ll help the good work along afterwards. He’ll be out presently. Nail him at once.”

  Jonathan, all unconscious of the deep-laid scheme to make him happy, soon came out on the porch, and stretched his long arms as he breathed freely of the morning air.

  “Hello, Jack, where are you bound?” asked Betty, clasping one of his powerful, buckskin-clad knees with her arm.

  “I reckon I’ll go over to the spring,” he replied, patting her dark, glossy head.

  “Do you know I want to tell you something, Jack, and it’s quite serious,” she said, blushing a little at her guilt; but resolute to carry out her part of the plot.

  “Well, dear?” he asked as she hesitated.

  “Do you like Helen?”

  “That is a question,” Jonathan replied after a moment.

  “Never mind; tell me,” she persisted.

  He made no answer.

  “Well, Jack, she’s—she’s wildly in love with you.”

  The borderman stood very still for several moments. Then, with one step he gained the lawn, and turned to confront her.

  “What’s that you say?”

  Betty trembled a little. He spoke so sharply, his eyes were bent on her so keenly, and he looked so strong, so forceful that she was almost afraid. But remembering that she had said only what, to her mind, was absolutely true, she raised her eyes and repeated the words:

  “Helen is wildly in love with you.”

  “Betty, you wouldn’t joke about such a thing; you wouldn’t lie to me, I know you wouldn’t.”

  “No, Jack dear.”

  She saw his powerful frame tremble, even as she had seen more than one man tremble, during the siege, under the impact of a bullet.

  Without speaking, he walked rapidly down the path toward the spring.

  Colonel Zane came out of his hiding-place behind the porch, and, with a face positively electrifying in its glowing pleasure, beamed upon his sister.

  “Gee! Didn’t he stalk off like an Indian chief!” he said, chuckling with satisfaction. “By George! Betts, you must have got in a great piece of work. I never in my life saw Jack look like that.”

  Colonel Zane sat down at Betty’s side and laughed softly but heartily.

  “We’ll fix him all right, the lonely hill-climber! Why, he hasn’t a ghost of a chance. Wait until she sees him after hearing your story! I tell you, Betty—why—damme! you’re crying!”

  He had turned to find her head lowered, while she shaded her face with her hand.

  “Now, Betty, just a little innocent deceit like that—what harm?” he said, taking her hand. He was as tender as a woman.

  “Oh, Eb, it wasn’t that. I didn’t mind telling him. Only the flash in his eyes reminded me of—of Alfred.”

  “Surely it did. Why not? Almost everything brings up a tender memory for some one we’ve loved and lost. But don’t cry, Betty.”

  She laughed a little, and raised a face with its dark cheeks flushed and tearstained.

  “I’m silly, I suppose; but I can’t help it. I cry at least once every day.”

  “Brace up. Here come Helen and Will. Don’t let them see you grieved. My! Helen in pure white, too! This is a conspiracy to ruin the peace of the masculine portion of Fort Henry.”

  Betty went forward to meet her friends while Colonel Zane continued talking, but now to himself. “What a fatal beauty she has!” His eyes swept over Helen with the pleasure of an artist. The fair richness of her skin, the perfect lips, the wavy, shiny hair, the wondrous dark-blue, changing eyes, the tall figure, slender, but strong and swelling with gracious womanhood, made a picture he delighted in and loved to have near him. The girl did not possess for him any of that magnetism, so commonly felt by most of her admirers; but he did feel how subtly full she was of something, which for want of a better term he described in Wetzel’s characteristic expression, as “chain-lightning.”

  He reflected that as he was so much older, that she, although always winsome and earnest, showed nothing of the tormenting, bewildering coquetry of her nature. Colonel Zane prided himself on his discernment, and he had already observed that Helen had different sides of character for different persons. To Betty, Mabel, Nell, and the children, she was frank, girlish, full of fun, and always lovable; to her elders quiet and earnestly solicitous to please; to the young men cold; but with a penetrating, mocking promise haunting that coldness, and sometimes sweetly agreeable, often wilful, and changeable as April winds. At last the colonel concluded that she needed, as did all other spirited young women, the taming influence of a man whom she loved, a home to care for, and children to soften and temper her spirit.

  “Well, young friends, I see you count on keeping the Sabbath,” he said cheerily. “For my part, Will, I don’t see how Jim Downs can preach this morning, before this laurel blossom and that damask rose.”

  “How poetical! Which is which?” asked Betty.

  “Flatterer!” laughed Helen, shaking her finger.

  “And a married man, too!” continued Betty.

  “Well, being married has not affected my poetical sentiment, nor impaired my eyesight.”

  “But it has seriously inconvenienced your old propensity of making love to the girls. Not that you wouldn’t if you dared,” replied Betty with mischief in her eye.

  “Now, Will, what do you think of that? Isn’t it real sisterly regard? Come, we’ll go and look at my thoroughbreds,” said Colonel Zane.

  “Where is Jonathan?” Helen asked presently. “Something happened at Metzar’s yesterday. Papa wouldn’t tell me, and I want to ask Jonathan.”

  “Jack is down by the spring. He spends a great deal of his time there. It’s shady and cool, and the water babbles over the stones.”

  “How much alone he is,” said Helen.

  Betty took her former position on the steps, but did not raise her eyes while she continued speaking. “Yes, he’s more alone than ever lately, and quieter, too. He hardly ever speaks now. There must be something on his mind more serious than horse-thieves.”

  “Wh
at!” Helen asked quickly.

  “I’d better not tell—you.”

  A long moment passed before Helen spoke.

  “Please tell me!”

  “Well, Helen, we think, Eb and I, that Jack is in love for the first time in his life, and with you, you adorable creature. But Jack’s a borderman; he is stern in his principles, thinks he is wedded to his border life, and he knows that he has both red and white blood on his hands. He’d die before he’d speak of his love, because he cannot understand that would do any good, even if you loved him, which is, of course, preposterous.”

  “Loves me!” breathed Helen softly.

  She sat down rather beside Betty, and turned her face away. She still held the young woman’s hand which she squeezed so tightly as to make its owner wince. Betty stole a look at her, and saw the rich red blood mantling her cheeks, and her full bosom heave.

  Helen turned presently, with no trace of emotion except a singular brilliance of the eyes. She was so slow to speak again that Colonel Zane and Will returned from the corral before she found her voice.

  “Colonel Zane, please tell me about last night. When Papa came home to supper he was pale and very nervous. I knew something had happened. But he would not explain, which made me all the more anxious. Won’t you please tell me?”

  Colonel Zane glanced again at her, and knew what had happened. Despite her self-possession those telltale eyes told her secret. Ever-changing and shadowing with a bounding, rapturous light, they were indeed the windows of her soul. All the emotion of a woman’s heart shone there, fear, beauty, wondering appeal, trembling joy, and timid hope.

  “Tell you? Indeed I will,” replied Colonel Zane, softened and a little remorseful under those wonderful eyes.

  No one liked to tell a story better than Colonel Zane. Briefly and graphically he related the circumstances of the affair leading to the attack on Helen’s father, and, as the tale progressed, he became quite excited, speaking with animated face and forceful gestures.

  “Just as the knife-point touched your father, a swiftly-flying object knocked the weapon to the floor. It was Jonathan’s tomahawk. What followed was so sudden I hardly saw it. Like lightning, and flexible as steel, Jonathan jumped over the table, smashed Case against the wall, pulled him up, and threw him over the bank. I tell you, Helen, it was a beautiful piece of action; but not, of course, for a woman’s eyes. Now that’s all. Your father was not even hurt.”