The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail
Page 50
When they reached the stockade gate Colonel Zane was hurrying toward the river with a bag in one hand, and a rifle and a paddle in the other. Brandt limped along after him, the two disappearing over the riverbank.
Betty, Nell, and the lovers went to the edge of the bluff.
They saw Colonel Zane choose a canoe from among a number on the beach. He launched it, deposited the bag in the bottom, handed the rifle and paddle to Brandt, and wheeled about.
The outlaw stepped aboard, and, pushing off slowly, drifted down and out toward mid-stream. When about fifty yards from shore he gave a quick glance around, and ceased paddling. His face gleamed white, and his eyes glinted like bits of steel in the sun.
Suddenly he grasped the rifle, and, leveling it with the swiftness of thought, fired at Jonathan.
The borderman saw the act, even from the beginning, and must have read the outlaw’s motive, for as the weapon flashed he dropped flat on the bank. The bullet sang harmlessly over him, imbedding itself in the stockade fence with a distinct thud.
The girls were so numb with horror that they could not even scream.
Colonel Zane swore lustily. “Where’s my gun? Get me a gun. Oh! What did I tell you?”
“Look!” cried Jonathan as he rose to his feet.
Upon the sandbar opposite stood a tall, dark, familiar figure.
“By all that’s holy, Wetzel!” exclaimed Colonel Zane.
They saw the giant borderman raise a long, black rifle which wavered and fell, and rose again. A little puff of white smoke leaped out, accompanied by a clear, stinging report.
Brandt dropped the paddle he had hurriedly begun plying after his traitor’s act. His white face was turned toward the shore as it sank forward to rest at last upon the gunwale of the canoe. Then his body slowly settled, as if seeking repose. His hand trailed outside in the water, drooping inert and lifeless. The little craft drifted downstream.
“You see, Helen, it had to be,” said Colonel Zane gently. “What a dastard! A long shot, Jack! Fate itself must have glanced down the sights of Wetzel’s rifle.”
CHAPTER XXV
A year rolled round; once again Indian summer veiled the golden fields and forests in a soft, smoky haze. Once more from the opal-blue sky of autumn nights, shone the great white stars, and nature seemed wrapped in a melancholy hush.
November the third was the anniversary of a memorable event on the frontier—the marriage of the younger borderman.
Colonel Zane gave it the name of “Independence Day,” and arranged a holiday, a feast and dance where all the settlement might meet in joyful thankfulness for the first year of freedom on the border.
With the wiping out of Legget’s fierce band, the yoke of the renegades and outlaws was thrown off forever. Simon Girty migrated to Canada and lived with a few Indians who remained true to him. His confederates slowly sank into oblivion. The Shawnee tribe sullenly retreated westward, far into the interior of Ohio; the Delawares buried the war hatchet, and smoked the pipe of peace they had ever before refused. For them the dark, mysterious, fatal wind had ceased to moan along the trails, or sigh through treetops over lonely Indian campfires.
The beautiful Ohio valley had been wrestled from the savages and from those parasites who for years had hung around the necks of the red men.
This day was the happiest of Colonel Zane’s life. The task he had set himself, and which he had hardly ever hoped to see completed, was ended. The West had been won. What Boone achieved in Kentucky he had accomplished in Ohio and West Virginia.
The feast was spread on the colonel’s lawn. Every man, woman, and child in the settlement was there. Isaac Zane, with his Indian wife and child, had come from the far-off Huron town. Pioneers from Yellow Creek and eastward to Fort Pitt attended. The spirit of the occasion manifested itself in such joyousness as had never before been experienced in Fort Henry. The great feast was equal to the event. Choice cuts of beef and venison, savory viands, wonderful loaves of bread and great plump pies, sweet cider and old wine, delighted the merry party.
“Friends, neighbors, dear ones,” said Colonel Zane, “my heart is almost too full for speech. This occasion, commemorating the day of our freedom on the border, is the beginning of the reward for stern labor, hardship, silenced hearths of long, relentless years. I did not think I’d live to see it. The seed we have sown has taken root; in years to come, perhaps, a great people will grow up on these farms we call our homes. And as we hope those coming afterward will remember us, we should stop a moment to think of the heroes who have gone before. Many there are whose names will never be written on the roll of fame, whose graves will be unmarked in history. But we who worked, fought, bled beside them, who saw them die for those they left behind, will render them all justice, honor, and love. To them we give the victory. They were true; then let us, who begin to enjoy the freedom, happiness, and prosperity they won with their lives, likewise be true in memory of them, in deed to ourselves, and in grace to God.”
By no means the least of the pleasant features of this pleasant day was the fact that three couples blushingly presented themselves before the colonel, and confided to him their sudden conclusions in regard to the felicitousness of the moment. The happy colonel raced around until he discovered Jim Downs, the minister, and there amid the merry throng he gave the brides away, being the first to kiss them.
It was late in the afternoon when the villagers dispersed to their homes and left the colonel to his own circle. With his strong, dark face beaming, he mounted the old porch step.
“Where are my Zane babies?” he asked. “Ah! here you are! Did anybody ever see anything to beat that? Four wonderful babies! Mother, here’s your Daniel—if you’d only named him Eb! Silas, come for Silas junior, bad boy that he is. Isaac, take your Indian princess; ah! little Myeerah with the dusky face. Woe be to him who looks into those eyes when you come to age. Jack, here’s little Jonathan, the last of the bordermen, he, too, has beautiful eyes, big like his mother’s. Ah! well, I don’t believe I have left a wish, unless—”
“Unless?” suggested Betty with her sweet smile.
“It might be—” he said and looked at her.
Betty’s warm cheek was close to his as she whispered: “Dear Eb!” The rest only the colonel heard.
“Well! By all that’s glorious!” he exclaimed, and attempted to seize her; but with burning face Betty fled.
* * *
“Jack, dear, how the leaves are falling!” exclaimed Helen. “See them floating and whirling. It reminds me of the day I lay a prisoner in the forest glade praying, waiting for you.”
The borderman was silent.
They passed down the sandy lane under the colored maple trees, to a new cottage on the hillside.
“I am perfectly happy to-day,” continued Helen. “Everybody seems to be content, except you. For the first time in weeks I see that shade on your face, that look in your eyes. Jack, you do not regret the new life?”
“My love, no, a thousand times no,” he answered, smiling down into her eyes. They were changing, shadowing with thought, bright as in other days, and with an added beauty. The wilful spirit had been softened by love.
“Ah, I know, you miss the old friend.”
The yellow thicket on the slope opened to let out a tall, dark man who came down with lithe and springy stride.
“Jack, it’s Wetzel!” said Helen softly.
No words were spoken as the comrades gripped hands.
“Let me see the boy?” asked Wetzel, turning to Helen.
Little Jonathan blinked up at the grave borderman with great round eyes, and pulled with friendly, chubby fingers at the fringed buckskin coat.
“When you’re a man the forest trails will be corn fields,” muttered Wetzel.
The bordermen strolled together up the brown hillside, and wandered along the river bluff. The air was cool; in the west the ruddy light darkened behind bold hills; a blue mist streaming in the valley shaded into gray as twilight fell.
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br /> FORGE BOOKS BY ZANE GREY
Betty Zane
Desert Gold
The Desert of Wheat
George Washington, Frontiersman
The Heritage of the Desert
Ken Ward in the Jungle
Last of the Great Scouts
The Last of the Plainsmen
The Last Trail
The Lone Star Ranger
The Man of the Forest
The Mysterious Rider
Outlaws of Palouse
The Rainbow Trail
The Redheaded Outfield
Riders of the Purple Sage
Roping Lions in the Grand Canyon
The Short-Stop
The Spirit of the Border
To the Last Man
Western Colors (omnibus)
Western Legends (omnibus)
Wildfire
The Zane Grey Frontier Trilogy (omnibus)
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in these novels are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER AND THE LAST TRAIL
The Spirit of the Border was originally published in 1906. The Last Trail was originally published in 1909.
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