Zane Grey (17 page)

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 camp fire, 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 turned
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, however, 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
re-enter 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 git 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 Delawares
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."