The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail

by Zane Grey

  The borderman was silent; but the furtive, restless shifting of his eyes over the river and island, hill and valley, spoke more plainly than words.

  “You’re to take his trail at once,” added Colonel Zane. “I had Bess put you up some bread, meat, and parched corn. No doubt you’ll have a long, hard tramp. Good luck.”

  The borderman went into the cabin, presently emerging with a buckskin knapsack strapped to his shoulder. He set off eastward with a long, swinging stride.

  The women had taken Helen within the house where, no doubt, they could discuss with greater freedom the events of the previous day.

  “Sheppard,” said Colonel Zane, turning with a sparkle in his eyes. “Brandt was after Helen sure as a bad weed grows fast. And certain as death Jonathan and Wetzel will see him cold and quiet back in the woods. That’s a border saying, and it means a good deal. I never saw Wetzel so implacable, nor Jonathan so fatally cold but once, and that was when Miller, another traitor, much like Brandt, tried to make away with Betty. It would have chilled your blood to see Wetzel go at that fool this morning. Why did he want to pull a knife on the borderman? It was a sad sight. Well, these things are justifiable. We must protect ourselves, and above all, our women. We’ve had bad men, and a bad man out here is something you cannot yet appreciate, come here and slip into the life of the settlement, because on the border you can never tell what a man is until he proves himself. There have been scores of criminals spread over the frontier, and some better men, like Simon Girty, who were driven to outlaw life. Simon must not be confounded with Jim Girty, absolutely the most fiendish desperado who ever lived. Why, even the Indians feared Jim so much that after his death his skeleton remained unmolested in the glade where he was killed. The place is believed to be haunted now, by all Indians and many white hunters, and I believe the bones stand there yet.”

  “Stand?” asked Sheppard, deeply interested.

  “Yes, it stands where Girty stood and died, upright against a tree, pinned, pinned there by a big knife.”

  “Heavens, man! Who did it?” Sheppard cried in horror.

  Again Colonel Zane’s laugh, almost metallic, broke grimly from his lips.

  “Who? Why, Wetzel, of course. Lew hunted Jim Girty five long years. When he caught him—God! I’ll tell you some other time. Jonathan saw Wetzel handle Jim and his pal, Deering, as if they were mere boys. Well, as I said, the border has had, and still has, its bad men. Simon Girty took McKee and Elliott, the Tories, from Fort Pitt, when he deserted, and ten men besides. They’re all, except those who are dead, outlaws of the worst type. The other bad men drifted out here from Lord only knows where. They’re scattered all over. Simon Girty, since his crowning black deed, the massacre of the Christian Indians, is in hiding. Bing Legget now has the field. He’s a hard nut, a cunning woodsman, and capable leader who surrounds himself with only the most desperate Indians and renegades. Brandt is an agent of Legget’s and I’ll bet we’ll hear from him again.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  Jonathan traveled toward the east straight as a crow flies. Wetzel’s trail as he pursued Brandt had been left designedly plain. Branches of young maples had been broken by the borderman; they were glaring evidences of his passage. On open ground, or through swampy meadows he had contrived to leave other means to facilitate his comrade’s progress. Bits of sumach lay strewn along the way, every red, leafy branch a bright marker of the course; crimson maple leaves served their turn, and even long-bladed ferns were scattered at intervals.

  Ten miles east of Fort Henry, at a point where two islands lay opposite each other, Wetzel had crossed the Ohio. Jonathan removed his clothing, and tying these, together with his knapsack, to the rifle, held them above the water while he swam the three narrow channels. He took up the trail again, finding here, as he expected, where Brandt had joined the waiting Shawnee chief. The borderman pressed on harder to the eastward.

  About the middle of the afternoon signs betokened that Wetzel and his quarry were not far in advance. Fresh imprints in the grass; crushed asters and moss, broken branches with unwithered leaves, and plots of grassy ground where Jonathan saw that the blades of grass were yet springing back to their original position, proved to the borderman’s practiced eye that he was close upon Wetzel.

  In time he came to a grove of yellow birch trees. The ground was nearly free from brush, beautifully carpeted with flowers and ferns, and, except where bushy windfalls obstructed the way, was singularly open to the gaze for several hundred yards ahead.

  Upon entering this wood Wetzel’s plain, intentional markings became manifest, then wavered, and finally disappeared. Jonathan pondered a moment. He concluded that the way was so open and clear, with nothing but grass and moss to mark a trail, that Wetzel had simply considered it waste of time for, perhaps, the short length of this grove.

  Jonathan knew he was wrong after taking a dozen steps more. Wetzel’s trail, known so well to him, as never to be mistaken, sheered abruptly off to the left, and, after a few yards, the distance between the footsteps widened perceptibly. Then came a point where they were so far apart that they could only have been made by long leaps.

  On the instant the borderman knew that some unforeseen peril or urgent cause had put Wetzel to flight, and he now bent piercing eyes around the grove. Retracing his steps to where he had found the break in the trail, he followed up Brandt’s tracks for several rods. Not one hundred paces beyond where Wetzel had quit the pursuit, were the remains of a campfire, the embers still smoldering, and moccasin tracks of a small band of Indians. The trail of Brandt and his Shawnee guide met the others at almost right angles.

  The Indian, either by accident or design, had guided Brandt to a band of his fellows, and thus led Wetzel almost into an ambush.

  Evidence was not clear, however, that the Indians had discovered the keen tracker who had run almost into their midst.

  While studying the forest ahead Jonathan’s mind was running over the possibilities. How close was Wetzel? Was he still in flight? Had the savages an inkling of his pursuit? Or was he now working out one of his cunning tricks of woodcraft? The borderman had no other idea than that of following the trail to learn all this. Taking the desperate chances warranted under the circumstances, he walked boldly forward in his comrade’s footsteps.

  Deep and gloomy was the forest adjoining the birch grove. It was a heavy growth of hardwood trees, interspersed with slender ash and maples, which with their scanty foliage resembled a labyrinth of green and yellow network, like filmy dotted lace, hung on the taller, darker oaks. Jonathan felt safer in this deep wood. He could still see several rods in advance. Following the trail, he was relieved to see that Wetzel’s leaps had become shorter and shorter, until they once again were about the length of a long stride. The borderman was, moreover, swinging in a curve to the northeast. This was proof that the borderman had not been pursued, but was making a wide detour to get ahead of the enemy. Five hundred yards farther on the trail turning sharply toward the birch grove in the rear.

  The trail was fresh. Wetzel was possibly within signal call; surely within sound of a rifle shot. But even more stirring was the certainty that Brandt and his Indians were inside the circle Wetzel had made.

  Once again in sight of the more open woodland, Jonathan crawled on his hands and knees, keeping close to the cluster of ferns, until well within the eastern end of the grove. He lay for some minutes listening. A threatening silence, like the hush before a storm, permeated the wilderness. He peered out from his covert; but, owing to its location in a little hollow, he could not see far. Crawling to the nearest tree he rose to his feet slowly, cautiously.

  No unnatural sight or sound arrested his attention. Repeatedly, with the acute, unsatisfied gaze of the borderman who knew that every tree, every patch of ferns, every tangled brush-heap might harbor a foe, he searched the grove with his eyes; but the curly barked birches, the clumps of colored ferns, the bushy windfalls kept their secrets.

  For the borderman, how
ever, the whole aspect of the birch-grove had changed. Over the forest was a deep calm. A gentle, barely perceptible wind sighed among the leaves, like rustling silk. The far-off drowsy drum of a grouse intruded on the vast stillness. The silence of the birds betokened a message. That mysterious breathing, that beautiful life of the woods lay hushed, locked in a waiting, brooding silence. Far away among the somber trees, where the shade deepened into impenetrable gloom, lay a menace, invisible and indefinable.

  A wind, a breath, a chill, terribly potent, seemed to pass over the borderman. Long experience had given him intuition of danger.

  As he moved slightly, with lynx-eyes fixed on the grove before him, a sharp, clear, perfect bird-note broke the ominous quiet. It was like the melancholy cry of an oriole, short, deep, suggestive of lonely forest dells. By a slight variation in the short call, Jonathan recognized it as a signal from Wetzel. The borderman smiled as he realized that with all his stealth, Wetzel had heard or seen him reenter the grove. The signal was a warning to stand still or retreat.

  Jonathan’s gaze narrowed down to the particular point whence had come the signal. Some two hundred yards ahead in this direction were several large trees standing in a group. With one exception, they all had straight trunks. This deviated from the others in that it possessed an irregular, bulging trunk, or else half-shielded the form of Wetzel. So indistinct and immovable was this irregularity, that the watcher could not be certain. Out of line, somewhat, with this tree which he suspected screened his comrade, lay a huge windfall large enough to conceal in ambush a whole band of savages.

  Even as he gazed a sheet of flame flashed from this covert.

  Crack!

  A loud report followed; then the whistle and zip of a bullet as it whizzed close by his head.

  “Shawnee lead!” muttered Jonathan.

  Unfortunately the tree he had selected did not hide him sufficiently. His shoulders were so wide that either one or the other was exposed, affording a fine target for a marksman.

  A quick glance showed him a change in the knotty tree trunk; the seeming bulge was now the well-known figure of Wetzel.

  Jonathan dodged as some object glanced slantingly before his eyes.

  Twang. Whizz. Thud. Three familiar and distinct sounds caused him to press hard against the tree.

  A tufted arrow quivered in the bark not a foot from his head.

  “Close shave! Damn that arrow-shootin’ Shawnee!” muttered Jonathan. “An’ he ain’t in that windfall either.” His eyes searched to the left for the source of this new peril.

  Another sheet of flame, another report from the windfall. A bullet sang, close overhead, and, glancing on a branch, went harmlessly into the forest.

  “Injuns all around; I guess I’d better be makin’ tracks,” Jonathan said to himself, peering out to learn if Wetzel was still under cover.

  He saw the tall figure straighten up; a long, black rifle rise to a level and become rigid; a red fire belch forth, followed by a puff of white smoke.

  Spang!

  An Indian’s horrible, strangely breaking death yell rent the silence.

  Then a chorus of plaintive howls, followed by angry shouts, rang through the forest. Naked, painted savages darted out of the windfall toward the tree that had sheltered Wetzel.

  Quick as thought Jonathan covered the foremost Indian, and with the crack of his rifle saw the redskin drop his gun, stop in his mad run, stagger sideways, and fall. Then the borderman looked to see what had become of his ally. The cracking of the Indian’s rifle told him that Wetzel had been seen by his foes.

  With almost incredible fleetness a brown figure with long black hair streaming behind, darted in and out among the trees, flashed through the sunlit glade, and vanished in the dark depths of the forest.

  Jonathan turned to flee also, when he heard again the twanging of an Indian’s bow. A wind smote his cheek, a shock blinded him, an excruciating pain seized upon his breast. A feathered arrow had pinned his shoulder to the tree. He raised his hand to pull it out; but, slippery with blood, it afforded a poor hold for his fingers. Violently exerting himself, with both hands he wrenched away the weapon. The flint-head lacerating his flesh and scraping his shoulder bones caused sharpest agony. The pain gave away to a sudden sense of giddiness; he tried to run; a dark mist veiled his sight; he stumbled and fell. Then he seemed to sink into a great darkness, and knew no more.

  When consciousness returned to Jonathan it was night. He lay on his back, and knew because of his cramped limbs that he had been securely bound. He saw the glimmer of a fire, but could not raise his head. A rustling of leaves in the wind told that he was yet in the woods, and the distant rumble of a waterfall sounded familiar. He felt drowsy; his wound smarted slightly, still he did not suffer any pain. Presently he fell asleep.

  Broad daylight had come when again he opened his eyes. The blue sky was directly above, and before him he saw a ledge covered with dwarfed pine trees. He turned his head, and saw that he was in a sort of amphitheater of about two acres in extent enclosed by low cliffs. A cleft in the stony wall let out a brawling brook, and served, no doubt, as entrance to the place. Several rude log cabins stood on that side of the enclosure. Jonathan knew he had been brought to Bing Legget’s retreat.

  Voices attracted his attention, and, turning his head to the other side, he saw a big Indian pacing near him, and beyond, seven savages and three white men reclining in the shade.

  The powerful, dark-visaged savage near him he at once recognized as Ashbow, the Shawnee chief, and noted emissary of Bing Legget. Of the other Indians, three were Delawares, and four Shawnees, all veterans, with swarthy, somber faces and glistening heads on which the scalp-locks were trimmed and tufted. Their naked, muscular bodies were painted for the war-path with their strange emblems of death. A trio of white men, nearly as bronzed as their savage comrades, completed the group. One, a desperate-looking outlaw, Jonathan did not know. The blond-bearded giant in the center was Legget. Steel-blue, inhuman eyes, with the expression of a free but hunted animal; a set, mastiff-like jaw, brutal and coarse, individualized him. The last man was the haggard-faced Brandt.

  “I tell ye, Brandt, I ain’t agoin’ against this Injun,” Legget was saying positively. “He’s the best reddy on the border, an’ has saved me scores of times. This fellar Zane belongs to him, an’ while I’d much rather see the scout knifed right here an’ now, I won’t do nothin’ to interfere with the Shawnee’s plans.”

  “Why does the redskin want to take him away to his village?” Brandt growled. “All Injun vanity and pride.”

  “It’s Injun ways, an’ we can’t do nothin’ to change ’em.”

  “But you’re boss here. You could make him put this borderman out of the way.”

  “Wal, I ain’t agoin’ ter interfere. Anyways, Brandt, the Shawnee’ll make short work of the scout when he gits him among the tribe. Injuns is Injuns. It’s a great honor fer him to get Zane, an’ he wants his own people to figger in the finish. Quite nat’r’l, I reckon.”

  “I understand all that; but it’s not safe for us, and it’s courting death for Ashbow. Why don’t he keep Zane here until you can spare more than three Indians to go with him? These bordermen can’t be stopped. You don’t know them, because you’re new in this part of the country.”

  “I’ve been here as long as you, an’ agoin’ some, too, I reckon,” replied Legget complacently.

  “But you’ve not been hunted until lately by these bordermen, and you’ve had little opportunity to hear of them except from Indians. What can you learn from these silent redskins? I tell you, letting this fellow get out of here alive, even for an hour is a fatal mistake. It’s two full days’ tramp to the Shawnee village. You don’t suppose Wetzel will be afraid of four savages? Why, he sneaked right into eight of us, when we were ambushed, waiting for him. He killed one and then was gone like a streak. It was only a piece of pure luck we got Zane.”

  “I’ve reason to know this Wetzel, this Deathwind, as the Del
awares call him. I never seen him though, an’ anyways, I reckon I can handle him if ever I get the chance.”

  “Man, you’re crazy!” cried Brandt. “He’d cut you to pieces before you’d have time to draw. He could give you a tomahawk, then take it away and split your head. I tell you I know! You remember Jake Deering? He came from up your way. Wetzel fought Deering and Jim Girty together, and killed them. You know how he left Girty.”

  “I’ll allow he must be a fighter; but I ain’t afraid of him.”

  “That’s not the question. I am talking sense. You’ve got a chance now to put one of these bordermen out of the way. Do it quick! That’s my advice.”

  Brandt spoke so vehemently that Legget seemed impressed. He stroked his yellow beard, and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. Presently he addressed the Shawnee chief in the native tongue.

  “Will Ashbow take five horses for his prisoner?”

  The Indian shook his head.

  “How many will he take?”

  The chief strode with dignity to and fro before his captive. His dark, impassive face gave no clue to his thoughts; but his lofty bearing, his measured, stately walk were indicative of great pride. Then he spoke in his deep bass:

  “The Shawnee knows the woods from the Great Lakes where the sun sets, to the Blue Hills where it rises. He has met the great paleface hunters. Only for Deathwind will Ashbow trade his captive.”

  “See? It ain’t no use,” said Legget, spreading out his hands. “Let him go. He’ll outwit the bordermen if any redskin’s able to. The sooner he goes the quicker he’ll git back, an’ we can go to work. You ought’er be satisfied to git the girl—”

  “Shut up!” interrupted Brandt sharply.

  “‘Pears to me, Brandt, bein’ in love hes kinder worked on your nerves. You used to be game. Now you’re afeerd of a bound an’ tied man who ain’t got long to live.”

  “I fear no man,” answered Brandt, scowling darkly. “But I know what you don’t seem to have sense enough to see. If this Zane gets away, which is probable, he and Wetzel will clean up your gang.”