The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail

by Zane Grey

  “They’re holdin’ a council,” said Jonathan.

  “I see two Injuns sneakin’ off into the woods, an’ here comes thet guard. He’s a keen redskin, Jack, fer we did come light through the brush. Mebbe it’d be well to stop his scutin’.”

  “Lew, that villain Case is bullyin’ Helen!” cried Jonathan.

  “Sh-sh-h,” whispered Wetzel.

  “See! he’s pulled her to her feet. Oh! He struck her! Oh!”

  Jonathan leveled his rifle and would have fired, but for the iron grasp on his wrist.

  “Hev you lost yer senses? It’s full two hundred paces, an’ too far fer your piece,” said Wetzel in a whisper. “An’ it ain’t sense to try from here.”

  “Lend me your gun! Lend me your gun!”

  Silently Wetzel handed him the long, black rifle.

  Jonathan raised it, but trembled so violently that the barrel wavered like a leaf in the breeze.

  “Take it, I can’t cover him,” groaned Jonathan. “This is new to me. I ain’t myself. God! Lew, he struck her again! Again! He’s tryin’ to kiss her! Wetzel, if you’re my friend, kill him!”

  “Jack, it’d be better to wait, an’—”

  “I love her,” breathed Jonathan.

  The long, black barrel swept up to a level and stopped. White smoke belched from among the green leaves; the report rang throughout the forest.

  “Ah! I saw him stop an’ pause,” hissed Jonathan. “He stands, he sways, he falls! Death for yours, you sailor-beast!”

  CHAPTER XX

  The bordermen watched Legget and his band disappear into the thicket adjoining the grove. When the last dark, lithe form glided out of sight among the yellowing copse, Jonathan leaped from the low cliff, and had hardly reached the ground before Wetzel dashed down to the grassy turf.

  Again they followed the outlaw’s trail, darker-faced, fiercer-visaged than ever, with cocked, tightly gripped rifles thrust well before them, and light feet that scarcely brushed the leaves.

  Wetzel halted after a long tramp up and down the ridges, and surveyed with keen intent the lay of the land ahead.

  “Sooner or later we’ll hear from that redskin as discovered us a ways back,” whispered he. “I wish we might get a crack at him afore he hinders us bad. I ain’t seen many keener Injuns. It’s lucky we fixed ther arrow-shootin’ Shawnee. We’d never hev beat thet combination. An’ fer all of thet I’m worrin’ some about the goin’ ahead.”

  “Ambush?” Jonathan asked.

  “Like as not. Legget’ll send thet Injun back, an’ mebbe more’n him. Jack, see them little footprints? They’re Helen’s. Look how she’s draggin’ along. Almost tuckered out. Legget can’t travel many more miles to-day. He’ll make a stand somewheres, an’ lose all his redskins afore he gives up the lass.”

  “I’ll never live through to-night with her in that gang. She’ll be saved, or dead, before the stars pale in the light of the moon.”

  “I reckon we’re nigh the end for some us. It’ll be moonlight an hour after dusk, an’ now it’s only the middle of the afternoon; we’ve time enough fer anythin’. Now, Jack, let’s not tackle the trail straight. We’ll split, an’ go round to head ’em off. See thet dead white oak standin’ high over thar?”

  Jonathan looked out between the spreading branches of a beech, and saw, far over a low meadow, luxuriant with grasses and rushes and bright with sparkling ponds and streams, a dense wood out of which towered a bare, bleached treetop.

  “You slip around along the right side of this meader, an’ I’ll take the left side. Go slow, an’ hev yer eyes open. We’ll meet under thet big dead tree. I allow we can see it from anywhere around. We’ll leave the trail here, an’ take it up farther on. Legget’s goin’ straight for his camp; he ain’t losin’ an inch. He wants to get in thet rocky hole of his’n.”

  Wetzel stepped off the trail, glided into the woods, and vanished.

  Jonathan turned to the right, traversed the summit of the ridge, softly traveled down its slope, and, after crossing a slow, eddying, quiet stream, gained the edge of the forest on that side of the swamp. A fringe of briars and prickly thorns bordered this wood affording an excellent cover. On the right the land rose rather abruptly. He saw that by walking up a few paces he could command a view of the entire swamp, as well as the ridge beyond, which contained Wetzel, and, probably, the outlaw and his band.

  Remembering his comrade’s admonition, Jonathan curbed his unusual impatience and moved slowly. The wind swayed the treetops, and rustled the fallen leaves. Birds sang as if thinking the warm, soft weather was summer come again. Squirrels dropped heavy nuts that cracked on the limbs, or fell with a thud to the ground, and they scampered over the dry earth, scratching up the leaves as they barked and scolded. Crows cawed clamorously after a hawk that had darted under the treetops to escape them; deer loped swiftly up the hill, and a lordly elk rose from a wallow in the grassy swamp, crashing into the thicket.

  When two-thirds around this oval plain, which was a mile long and perhaps one-fourth as wide, Jonathan ascended the hill to make a survey. The grass waved bright brown and golden in the sunshine, swished in the wind, and swept like a choppy sea to the opposite ridge. The hill was not densely wooded. In many places the red-brown foliage opened upon irregular patches, some black, as if having been burned over, others showing the yellow and purple colors of the low thickets and the gray, barren stones.

  Suddenly Jonathan saw something darken one of these sunlit plots. It might have been a deer. He studied the rolling, rounded treetops, the narrow strips between the black trunks, and the open places that were clear in the sunshine. He had nearly come to believe he had seen a small animal or bird flit across the white of the sky far in the background, when he distinctly saw dark figures stealing along past a green-gray rock, only to disappear under colored banks of foliage. Presently, lower down, they reappeared and crossed an open patch of yellow fern. Jonathan counted them. Two were rather yellow in color, the hue of buckskin; another, slight of stature as compared with the first, and light gray by contrast. Then six black, slender, gliding forms crossed the space. Jonathan then lost sight of them, and did not get another glimpse. He knew them to be Legget and his band. The slight figure was Helen.

  Jonathan broke into a run, completed the circle around the swamp, and slowed into a walk when approaching the big dead tree where he was to wait for Wetzel.

  Several rods beyond the lowland he came to a wood of white oaks, all giants rugged and old, with scarcely a sapling intermingled with them. Although he could not see the objective point, he knew from his accurate sense of distance that he was near it. As he entered the wood he swept its whole length and width with his eyes, he darted forward twenty paces to halt suddenly behind a tree. He knew full well that a sharply moving object was more difficult to see in the woods, than one stationary. Again he ran, fleet and light, a few paces ahead to take up a position as before behind a tree. Thus he traversed the forest. On the other side he found the dead oak of which Wetzel had spoken.

  Its trunk was hollow. Jonathan squeezed himself into the blackened space, with his head in a favorable position behind a projecting knot, where he could see what might occur near at hand.

  He waited for what seemed to him a long while, during which he neither saw nor heard anything, and then suddenly, the report of a rifle rang out. A single, piercing scream followed. Hardly had the echo ceased when three hollow reports, distinctly different in tone from the first, could be heard from the same direction. In quick succession short, fierce yells attended rather than succeeded, the reports.

  Jonathan stepped out of the hiding place, cocked his rifle, and fixed a sharp eye on the ridge before him whence those startling cries had come. The first rifleshot, unlike any other in its short, spiteful, stinging quality, was unmistakably Wetzel’s. Zane had heard it, followed many times, as now, by the wild-death-cry of a savage. The other reports were of Indian guns, and the yells were the clamoring, exultant cries of Indians in purs
uit.

  Far down where the open forest met the gloom of the thickets, a brown figure flashed across the yellow ground. Darting among the trees, across the glades, it moved so swiftly that Jonathan knew it was Wetzel. In another instant a chorus of yelps resounded from the foliage, and three savages burst through the thicket almost at right angles with the fleeing borderman, running to intercept him. The borderman did not swerve from his course; but came on straight toward the dead tree, with the wonderful fleetness that so often had served him well.

  Even in that moment Jonathan thought of what desperate chances his comrade had taken. The trick was plain. Wetzel had, most likely, shot the dangerous scout, and, taking to his heels, raced past the others, trusting to his speed and their poor marksmanship to escape with a whole skin.

  When within a hundred yards of the oak Wetzel’s strength apparently gave out. His speed deserted him; he ran awkwardly, and limped. The savages burst out into full cry like a pack of hungry wolves. They had already emptied their rifles at him, and now, supposing one of the shots had taken effect, redoubled their efforts, making the forest ring with their short, savage yells. One gaunt, dark-bodied Indian with a long, powerful, springy stride easily distanced his companions, and evidently sure of gaining the coveted scalp of the borderman, rapidly closed the gap between them as he swung aloft his tomahawk, yelling the war-cry.

  The sight on Jonathan’s rifle had several times covered this savage’s dark face; but when he was about to press the trigger Wetzel’s fleeting form, also in line with the savage, made it extremely hazardous to take a shot.

  Jonathan stepped from his place of concealment, and let out a yell that pealed high over the cries of the savages.

  Wetzel suddenly dropped flat on the ground.

  With a whipping crack of Jonathan’s rifle, the big Indian plunged forward on his face.

  The other Indians, not fifty yards away, stopped aghast at the fate of their comrade, and were about to seek the shelter of trees when, with his terrible yell, Wetzel sprang up and charged upon them. He had left his rifle where he fell, but his tomahawk glittered as he ran. The lameness had been a trick, for now he covered ground with a swiftness which caused his former progress to seem slow.

  The Indians, matured and seasoned warriors though they were, gave but one glance at this huge, brown figure bearing down upon them like a fiend, and uttering the Indian name of Deathwind, wavered, broke, and ran.

  One, not so fleet as his companion, Wetzel overtook and cut down with a single stroke. The other gained an hundred-yard start in the slight interval of Wetzel’s attack, and, spurred on by a pealing, awful cry in the rear, sped swiftly in and out among the trees until he was lost to view.

  Wetzel scalped the two dead savages, and, after returning to regain his rifle, joined Jonathan at the dead oak.

  “Jack, you can never tell how things is comin’ out. Thet redskin I allowed might worry us a bit, fooled me as slick as you ever saw, an I hed to shoot him. Knowin’ it was a case of runnin’, I just cut fer this oak, drew the redskins’ fire, an’ hed ’em arter me quicker ’n you’d say Jack Robinson. I was hopin’ you’d be here; but wasn’t sure till I’d seen your rifle. Then I kinder got a kink in my leg jest to coax the brutes on.”

  “Three more quiet,” said Jonathan Zane. “What now?”

  “We’ve headed Legget, an’ we’ll keep nosin’ him off his course. Already he’s lookin’ fer a safe campin’ place for the night.”

  “There is none in these woods, fer him.”

  “We didn’t plan this gettin’ between him an’ his camp, but couldn’t be better fixed. A mile farther along the ridge, is a campin’ place, with a spring in a little dell close under a big stone, an’ well wooded. Legget’s headin’ straight fer it. With a couple of Injuns guardin’ thet spot, he’ll think he’s safe. But I know the place, an’ can crawl to thet rock the darkest night thet ever was an’ never crack a stick.”

  * * *

  In the gray of the deepening twilight Jonathan Zane sat alone. An howl hooted dismally in the dark woods beyond the thicket where the borderman crouched waiting for Wetzel. His listening ear detected a soft, rustling sound like the play of a mole under the leaves. A branch trembled and swung back; a soft footstep followed and Wetzel came into the retreat.

  “Well?” asked Jonathan impatiently, as Wetzel deliberately sat down and laid his rifle across his knees.

  “Easy, Jack, easy. We’ve an hour to wait.”

  “The time I’ve already waited has been long for me.”

  “They’re thar,” said Wetzel grimly.

  “How far from here?”

  “A half-hour’s slow crawl.”

  “Close by?” hissed Jonathan.

  “Too near fer you to get excited.”

  “Let us go; it’s as light now as in the gray of mornin’.”

  “Mornin’ would be best. Injuns get sleepy along towards day. I’ve ever found thet time the best. But we’ll be lucky if we ketch these redskins asleep.”

  “Lew, I can’t wait here all night. I won’t leave her longer with that renegade. I’ve got to free or kill her.”

  “Most likely it’ll be the last,” said Wetzel simply.

  “Well, so be it then,” and the borderman hung his head.

  “You needn’t worry none, ’bout Helen. I jest had a good look at her, not half an hour back. She’s tired-out; but full of spunk yet. I seen thet when Brandt went near her. Legget’s got his hands full jest now with the redskins. He’s hevin’ trouble keepin’ them on this slow trail. I ain’t sayin’ they’re skeered; but they’re mighty restless.”

  “Will you take the chance now?”

  “I reckon you needn’t hev asked thet.”

  “Tell me the lay of the land.”

  “Wal, if we get to this rock I spoke ’bout, we’ll be right over ’em. It’s ten feet high, an’ we can jump straight amongst ’em. Most likely two or three’ll be guardin’ the openin’ which is a little ways to the right. Ther’s a big tree, the only one, low down by the spring. Helen’s under it, half-sittin’, half-leanin’ against the roots. When I first looked, her hands were free; but I saw Brandt bind her feet. An’ he had to get an Injun to help him, fer she kicked like a spirited little filly. There’s moss under the tree an’ there’s where the redskins’ll lay down to rest.”

  “I’ve got that; now out with your plan.”

  “Wal, I calkilate it’s this. The moon’ll be up in about an hour. We’ll crawl as we’ve never crawled afore, because Helen’s life depends as much on our not makin’ a noise, as it does on fightin’ when the time comes. If they hear us afore we’re ready to shoot, the lass’ll be tomahawked quicker ’n lightnin’. If they don’t suspicion us, when the right moment comes you shoot Brandt, yell louder’n you ever did afore, leap amongst ’em, an’ cut down the first Injun thet’s near you on your way to Helen. Swing her over your arm, an’ dig int the woods.”

  “Well?” asked Jonathan when Wetzel finished.

  “That’s all,” the borderman replied grimly.

  “An’ leave you all alone to fight Legget an’ the rest of ’em?”

  “I reckon.”

  “Not to be thought of.”

  “Ther’s no other way.”

  “There must be! Let me think; I can’t, I’m not myself.”

  “No other way,” repeated Wetzel curtly.

  Jonathan’s broad hand fastened on Wetzel’s shoulder and wheeled him around.

  “Have I ever left you alone?”

  “This’s different,” and Wetzel turned away again. His voice was cold and hard.

  “How is it different? We’ve had the same thing to do, almost, more than once.”

  “We’ve never had as bad a bunch to handle as Legget’s. They’re lookin’ fer us, an’ will be hard to beat.”

  “That’s no reason.”

  “We never had to save a girl one of us loved.”

  Jonathan was silent.

  “I said this’d be my
last trail,” continued Wetzel. “I felt it, an’ I know it’ll be yours.”

  “Why?”

  “If you get away with the girl she’ll keep you at home, an’ it’ll be well. If you don’t succeed, you’ll die tryin’, so it’s sure your last trail.”

  Wetzel’s deep, cold voice rang with truth.

  “Lew, I can’t run away an’ leave you to fight those devils alone, after all these years we’ve been together, I can’t.”

  “No other chance to save the lass.”

  Jonathan quivered with the force of his emotion. His black eyes glittered; his hands grasped at nothing. Once more he was between love and duty. Again he fought over the old battle, but this time it left him weak.

  “You love the big-eyed lass, don’t you?” asked Wetzel, turning with softened face and voice.

  “I have gone mad!” cried Jonathan, tortured by the simple question of his friend. Those big, dear, wonderful eyes he loved so well, looked at him now from the gloom of the thicket. The old, beautiful, soft glow, the tender light, was there, and more, a beseeching prayer to save her.

  Jonathan bowed his head, ashamed to let his friend see the tears that dimmed his eyes.

  “Jack, we’ve follered the trail fer years together. Always you’ve been true an’ staunch. This is our last, but whatever bides we’ll break up Legget’s band to-night; an’ the border’ll be cleared, mebbe, for always. At least his race is run. Let thet content you. Our time’d have to come, sooner or later, so why not now? I know how it is, that you want to stick by me; but the lass draws you to her. I understand, an’ want you to save her. Mebbe you never dreamed it; but I can tell jest how you feel. All the tremblin’, an’ softness, an’ sweetness, an’ delight you’ve got for thet girl, is no mystery to Lew Wetzel.”