The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail

by Zane Grey

  Helen sank trembling against the borderman, who enfolded her in his long arms. Her relief and thankfulness were so great that she could not speak. Her hands clasped and unclasped round his strong fingers. Her tears flowed freely.

  The storm broke with terrific fury. A seething torrent of rain and hail came with the rushing wind. Great heaven-broad sheets of lightning played across the black dome overhead. Zigzag ropes, steel-blue in color, shot downward. Crash, and crack, and boom the thunder split and rolled the clouds above. The lightning flashes showed the fall of rain in columns like white waterfalls, borne on the irresistible wind.

  The grandeur of the storm awed, and stilled Helen’s emotion. She sat there watching the lightning, listening to the peals of thunder, and thrilling with the wonder of the situation.

  Gradually the roar abated, the flashes became less frequent, the thunder decreased, as the storm wore out its strength in passing. The wind and rain ceased on the mountaintop almost as quickly as they had begun, and the roar died slowly away in the distance. Far to the eastward flashes of light illumined scowling clouds, and brightened many a dark, wooded hill and valley.

  “Lass, how is’t I find you here?” asked Jonathan gravely.

  With many a pause and broken phrase, Helen told the story of what she had seen and heard at the spring.

  “Child, why didn’t you go to my brother?” asked Jonathan. “You don’t know what you undertook!”

  “I thought of everything; but I wanted to find you myself. Besides, I was just as safe alone on this mountain as in the village.”

  “I don’t know but you’re right,” replied Jonathan thoughtfully. “So Brandt planned to make off with you to-morrow?”

  “Yes, and when I heard it I wanted to run away from the village.”

  “You’ve done a wondrous clever thing, lass. This Brandt is a bad man, an’ hard to match. But if he hasn’t shaken Fort Henry by now, his career’ll end mighty sudden, an’ his bad trails stop short on the hillside among the graves, for Eb will always give outlaws or Injuns descent burial.”

  “What will the colonel, or anyone, think has become of me?”

  “Wetzel knows, lass, for he found your trail below.”

  “Then he’ll tell papa you came after me? Oh! poor papa! I forgot him. Shall we stay here until daylight?”

  “We’d gain nothin’ by startin’ now. The brooks are full, an’ in the dark we’d make little distance. You’re dry here, an’ comfortable. What’s more, lass, you’re safe.”

  “I feel perfectly safe, with you,” Helen said softly.

  “Aren’t you tired, lass?”

  “Tired? I’m nearly dead. My feet are cut and bruised, my wrist is sprained, and I ache all over. But, Jonathan, I don’t care. I am so happy to have my wild venture turn out successfully.”

  “You can lie here an’ sleep while I keep watch.”

  Jonathan made a move to withdraw his arm, which was still between Helen and the rock but had dropped from her waist.

  “I am very comfortable. I’ll sit here with you, watching for daybreak. My! how dark it is! I cannot see my hand before my eyes.”

  Helen settled herself back upon the stone, leaned a very little against his shoulder, and tried to think over her adventure. But her mind refused to entertain any ideas, except those of the present. Mingled with the dreamy lassitude that grew stronger every moment, was a sense of delight in her situation. She was alone on a wild mountain, in the night, with this borderman, the one she loved. By chance and her own foolhardiness this had come about, yet she was fortunate to have it tend to some good beyond her own happiness. All she would suffer from her perilous climb would be aching bones, and, perhaps, a scolding from her father. What she might gain was more than she had dared hope. The breaking up of the horse-thief gang would be a boon to the harassed settlement. How proudly Colonel Zane would smile! Her name would go on that long roll of border honor and heroism. That was not, however, one thousandth part so pleasing, as to be alone with her borderman.

  With a sigh of mingled weariness and content, Helen leaned her head on Jonathan’s shoulder and fell asleep.

  The borderman trembled. The sudden nestling of her head against him, the light caress of her fragrant hair across his cheek, revived a sweet, almost-conquered, almost-forgotten emotion. He felt an inexplicable thrill vibrate through him. No untrodden, ambushed wild, no perilous trail, no dark and bloody encounter had ever made him feel fear as had the kiss of this maiden. He had sternly silenced faint, unfamiliar, yet tender, voices whispering in his heart; and now his rigorous discipline was as if it were not, for at her touch he trembled. Still he did not move away. He knew she had succumbed to weariness, and was fast asleep. He could, gently, without awakening her, have laid her head upon the pillow of leaves; indeed, he thought of doing it, but made no effort. A woman’s head softly lying against him was a thing novel, strange, wonderful. For all the power he had then, each tumbling lock of her hair might as well have been a chain linking him fast to the mountain.

  With the memory of his former yearning, unsatisfied moods, and the unrest and pain his awakening tenderness had caused him, came a determination to look things fairly in the face, to be just in thought toward this innocent, impulsive girl, and be honest with himself.

  Duty commanded that he resist all charm other than that pertaining to his life in the woods. Years ago he had accepted a borderman’s destiny, well content to be recompensed by its untamed freedom from restraint; to be always under the trees he loved so well; to lend his cunning and woodcraft in the pioneer’s cause; to haunt the savage trails; to live from day to day a menace to the foes of civilization. That was the life he had chosen; it was all he could ever have.

  In view of this, justice demanded that he allow no friendship to spring up between himself and this girl. If his sister’s belief was really true, if Helen really was interested in him, it must be a romantic infatuation which, not encouraged, would wear itself out. What was he, to win the love of any girl? An unlettered borderman, who knew only the woods, whose life was hard and cruel, whose hands were red with Indian blood, whose vengeance had not spared men even of his own race. He could not believe she really loved him. Wildly impulsive as girls were at times, she had kissed him. She had been grateful, carried away by a generous feeling for him as the protector of her father. When she did not see him for a long time, as he vowed should be the case after he had carried her safely home, she would forget.

  Then honesty demanded that he probe his own feelings. Sternly, as if judging a renegade, he searched out in his simple way the truth. This big-eyed lass with her nameless charm would bewitch even a borderman, unless he avoided her. So much he had not admitted until now. Love he had never believed could be possible for him. When she fell asleep her hand had slipped from his arm to his fingers, and now rested there lightly as a leaf. The contact was delight. The gentle night breeze blew a tress of hair across his lips. He trembled. Her rounded shoulder pressed against him until he could feel her slow, deep breathing. He almost held his own breath lest he disturb her rest.

  No, he was no longer indifferent. As surely as those pale stars blinked far above, he knew the delight of a woman’s presence. It moved him to study the emotion, as he studied all things, which was the habit of his borderman’s life. Did it come from knowledge of her beauty, matchless as that of the mountain-laurel? He recalled the dark glance of her challenging eyes, her tall, supple figure, and the bewildering excitation and magnetism of her presence. Beauty was wonderful, but not everything. Beauty belonged to her, but she would have been irresistible without it. Was it not because she was a woman? That was the secret. She was a woman with all a woman’s charm to bewitch, to twine round the strength of men as the ivy encircles the oak; with all a woman’s weakness to pity and to guard; with all a woman’s wilful burning love, and with all a woman’s mystery.

  At last so much of life was intelligible to him. The renegade committed his worst crimes because even in his outlawed
, homeless state, he could not exist without the companionship, if not the love, of a woman. The pioneer’s toil and privation were for a woman, and the joy of loving her and living for her. The Indian brave, when not on the war-path, walked hand in hand with a dusky, soft-eyed maiden, and sang to her of moonlit lakes and western winds. Even the birds and beasts mated. The robins returned to their old nest; the eagles paired once and were constant in life and death. The buck followed the doe through the forest. All nature sang that love made life worth living. Love, then, was everything.

  The borderman sat out the long vigil of the night watching the stars, and trying to decide that love was not for him. If Wetzel had locked a secret within his breast, and never in all these years spoke of it to his companion, then surely that companion could as well live without love. Stern, dark, deadly work must stain and blot all tenderness from his life, else it would be unutterably barren. The joy of living, of unharrassed freedom he had always known. If a fair face and dark, mournful eyes were to haunt him on every lonely trail, then it were better an Indian should end his existence.

  The darkest hour before dawn, as well as the darkest of doubt and longing in Jonathan’s life, passed away. A gray gloom obscured the pale, winking stars; the east slowly whitened, then brightened, and at length day broke misty and fresh.

  The borderman rose to stretch his cramped limbs. When he turned to the little cavern the girl’s eyes were wide open. All the darkness, the shadow, the beauty, and the thought of the past night, lay in their blue depths. He looked away across the valley where the sky was reddening and a pale rim of gold appeared above the hilltops.

  “Well, if I haven’t been asleep!” exclaimed Helen, with a low, soft laugh.

  “You’re rested, I hope,” said Jonathan, with averted eyes. He dared not look at her.

  “Oh, yes, indeed. I am ready to start at once. How gray, how beautiful the morning is! Shall we be long? I hope Papa knows.”

  In silence the borderman led the way across the rocky plateau, and into the winding, narrow trail. His pale, slightly drawn and stern, face did not invite conversation, therefore Helen followed silently in his footsteps. The way was steep, and at times he was forced to lend her aid. She put her hand in his and jumped lightly as a fawn. Presently a brawling brook, overcrowding its banks, impeded further progress.

  “I’ll have to carry you across,” said Jonathan.

  “I’m very heavy,” replied Helen, with a smile in her eyes.

  She flushed as the borderman put his right arm around her waist. Then a clasp as of steel enclosed her; she felt herself swinging easily into the air, and over the muddy brook.

  Farther down the mountain this troublesome brook again crossed the trail, this time much wider and more formidable. Helen looked with some vexation and embarrassment into the borderman’s face. It was always the same, stern, almost cold.

  “Perhaps I’d better wade,” she said hesitatingly.

  “Why? The water’s deep an’ cold. You’d better not get wet.”

  Helen flushed, but did not answer. With downcast eyes she let herself be carried on his powerful arm.

  The wading was difficult this time. The water foamed furiously around his knees. Once he slipped on a stone, and nearly lost his balance. Uttering a little scream Helen grasped at him wildly, and her arm encircled his neck. What was still more trying, when he put her on her feet again, it was found that her hair had become entangled in the porcupine quills on his hunting-coat.

  She stood before him while with clumsy fingers he endeavored to untangle the shimmering strands; but in vain. Helen unwound the snarl of wavy hair. Most alluring she was then, with a certain softness on her face, and light and laughter, and something warm in her eyes.

  The borderman felt that he breathed a subtle exhilaration which emanated from her glowing, gracious beauty. She radiated with the gladness of life, with an uncontainable sweetness and joy. But, giving no token of his feeling, he turned to march on down through the woods.

  From this point the trail broadened, descending at an easier angle. Jonathan’s stride lengthened until Helen was forced to walk rapidly, and sometimes run, in order to keep close behind him. A quick journey home was expedient, and in order to accomplish this she would gladly have exerted herself to a greater extent. When they reached the end of the trail where the forest opened clear of brush, finally to merge into the broad, verdant plain, the sun had chased the mist-clouds from the eastern hilltops, and was gloriously brightening the valley.

  With the touch of sentiment natural to her, Helen gazed backward for one more view of the mountaintop. The wall of rugged rock she had so often admired from her window at home, which henceforth would ever hold a tender place of remembrance in her heart, rose out of a gray-blue bank of mist. The long swelling slope lay clear to the sunshine. With the rays of the sun gleaming and glistening upon the variegated foliage, and upon the shiny rolling haze above, a beautiful picture of autumn splendor was before her. Tall pines, here and there towered high and lonely over the surrounding trees. Their dark, green, graceful heads stood in bold relief above the gold and yellow crests beneath. Maples, tinged from faintest pink to deepest rose, added warm color to the scene, and chestnuts with their brown-white burrs lent fresher beauty to the undulating slope.

  The remaining distance to the settlement was short. Jonathan spoke only once to Helen, then questioning her as to where she had left her canoe. They traversed the meadow, found the boat in the thicket of willows, and were soon under the frowning bluff of Fort Henry. Ascending the steep path, they followed the road leading to Colonel Zane’s cabin.

  A crowd of boys, men, and women loitering near the bluff arrested Helen’s attention. Struck by this unusual occurrence, she wondered what was the cause of such idleness among the busy pioneer people. They were standing in little groups. Some made vehement gestures, others conversed earnestly, and yet more were silent. On seeing Jonathan, a number shouted and pointed toward the inn. The borderman hurried Helen along the path, giving no heed to the throng.

  But Helen had seen the cause of all this excitement. At first glance she thought Metzar’s inn had been burned; but a second later it could be seen that the smoke came from a smoldering heap of rubbish in the road. The inn, nevertheless, had been wrecked. Windows stared with that vacantness peculiar to deserted houses. The doors were broken from their hinges. A pile of furniture, rude tables, chairs, beds, and other articles, were heaped inside the smoking rubbish. Scattered around lay barrels and kegs all with gaping sides and broken heads. Liquor had stained the road, where it had been soaked up by the thirsty dust.

  Upon a shattered cellar door lay a figure covered with a piece of rag carpet. When Helen’s quick eyes took in this last, she turned away in horror. That motionless form might be Brandt’s. Remorse and womanly sympathy surged over her, for bad as the man had shown himself, he had loved her.

  She followed the borderman, trying to compose herself. As they neared Colonel Zane’s cabin she saw her father, Will, the colonel, Betty, Nell, Mrs. Zane, Silas Zane, and others whom she did not recognize. They were all looking at her. Helen’s throat swelled, and her eyes filled when she got near enough to see her father’s haggard, eager face. The others were grave. She wondered guiltily if she had done much wrong.

  In another moment she was among them. Tears fell as her father extended his trembling hands to clasp her, and as she hid her burning face on his breast, he cried: “My dear, dear child!” Then Betty gave her a great hug, and Nell flew about them like a happy bird. Colonel Zane’s face was pale, and wore a clouded, stern expression. She smiled timidly at him through her tears. “Well! well! well!” he mused, while his gaze softened. That was all he said; but he took her hand and held it while he turned to Jonathan.

  The borderman leaned on his long rifle, regarding him with expectant eyes.

  “Well, Jack, you missed a little scrimmage this morning. Wetzel got in at daybreak. The storm and horses held him up on the other side of the rive
r until daylight. He told me of your suspicions, with the additional news that he’d found a fresh Indian trail on the island just across from the inn. We went down not expecting to find any one awake; but Metzar was hurriedly packing some of his traps. Half a dozen men were there, having probably stayed all night. That little English cuss was one of them, and another, an ugly fellow, a stranger to us, but evidently a woodsman. Things looked bad. Metzar told a decidedly conflicting story. Wetzel and I went outside to talk over the situation, with the result that I ordered him to clean out the place.”

  Here Colonel Zane paused to indulge in a grim, meaning laugh.

  “Well, he cleaned out the place all right. The ugly stranger got rattlesnake-mad, and yanked out a big knife. Sam is hitching up the team now to haul what’s left of him up on the hillside. Metzar resisted arrest, and got badly hurt. He’s in the guardhouse. Case, who has been drunk for a week, got in Wetzel’s way and was kicked into the middle of next week. He’s been spitting blood for the last hour, but I guess he’s not much hurt. Brandt flew the coop last night. Wetzel found this hid in his room.”

  Colonel Zane took a long, feathered arrow from where it lay on a bench, and held it out to Jonathan.

  “The Shawnee signal! Wetzel had it right,” muttered the borderman.

  “Exactly. Lew found where the arrow struck in the wall of Brandt’s room. It was shot from the island at the exact spot where Lew came to an end of the Indian’s trail in the water.”

  “That Shawnee got away from us.”

  “So Lew said. Well, he’s gone now. So is Brandt. We’re well rid of the gang, if only we never hear of them again.”

  The borderman shook his head. During the colonel’s recital his face changed. The dark eyes had become deadly; the square jaw was shut, the lines of the cheek had grown tense, and over his usually expressive countenance had settled a chill, lowering shade.

  “Lew thinks Brandt’s in with Bing Legget. Well, damn his black traitor heart! He’s a good man for the worst and strongest gang that ever tracked the border.”