The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail (29 page)

“I allow Joe won over Winds, got away from the Delaware town with her, tried to rescue Kate, and killed Silver in the fight. Girty probably was surprised, an' run after he had knifed the girl.”

“'Pears so to me. Joe had two knife cuts, an' one was an old wound.”

“You say it was a bad fight?”

“Must hev been. The hut was all knocked in, an' stuff scattered about. Wal, Joe could go some if he onct got started.”

“I'll bet he could. He was the likeliest lad I've seen for many a day.”

“If he'd lasted, he'd been somethin' of a hunter an' fighter.”

“Too bad. But Lord! you couldn't keep him down, no more than you can lots of these wild young chaps that drift out here.”

“I'll allow he had the fever bad.”

“Did you hev time to bury them?”

“I hedn't time fer much. I sunk them in the spring.”

“It's a pretty deep hole,” said Zane, reflectively. “Then you and the dog took Girty's trail, but couldn't catch up with him. He's now with the renegade cutthroats and hundreds of riled Indians over there in the Village of Peace.”

“I reckon you're right.”

A long silence ensued. Jonathan finished his simple repast, drank from the little spring that trickled under the stone, and, sitting down by the dog, smoothed out his long silken hair.

“Lew, we're pretty good friends, ain't we?” he asked, thoughtfully.

“Jack, you an' the colonel are all the friends I ever had, 'ceptin' thet boy lyin' quiet back there in the woods.”

“I know you pretty well, and ain't sayin' a word about your runnin' off from me on many a hunt, but I want to speak plain about this fellow Girty.”

“Wal?” said Wetzel, as Zane hesitated.

“Twice in the last few years you and I have had it in for the same men, both white-livered traitors. You remember? First it was Miller, who tried to ruin my sister Betty, and next it was Jim Girty, who murdered our old friend, as good an old man as ever wore moccasins. Wal, after Miller ran off from the fort, we trailed him down to the river, and I points across and says, ‘You or me?' and you says, ‘Me.' You was Betty's friend, and I knew she'd be avenged. Miller is lyin' quiet in the woods, and violets have blossomed twice over his grave, though you never said a word; but I know it's true because I know you.”

Zane looked earnestly into the dark face of his friend, hoping perhaps to get some verbal assurance there that his brief was true. But Wetzel did not speak, and he continued:

“Another day not so long ago we both looked down at an old friend, and saw his white hair matted with blood. He'd been murdered for nothin'. Again you and me trailed a coward and found him to be Jim Girty. I knew you'd been huntin' him for years, and so I says, ‘Lew, you or me?' and you says, ‘Me.' I give in to you, for I knew you're a better man than me, and because I wanted you to have the satisfaction. Wal, the months have gone by, and Jim Girty's still livin' and carryin' on. Now he's over there after them poor preachers. I ain't sayin', Lew, that you haven't more agin' him than me, but I do say, let me in on it with you. He always has a gang of redskins with him; he's afraid to travel alone, else you'd had him long ago. Two of us'll have more chance to git him. Let me go with you. When it comes to a finish, I'll stand aside while you give it to him. I'd enjoy seein' you cut him from shoulder to hip. After he leaves the Village of Peace we'll hit his trail, camp on it, and stick to it until it ends in his grave.”

The earnest voice of the backwoodsman ceased. Both men rose and stood facing each other. Zane's bronzed face was hard and tense, expressive of an indomitable will; Wetzel's was coldly dark, with fateful resolve, as if his decree of vengeance, once given, was as immutable as destiny. The big, horny hands gripped in a viselike clasp born of fierce passion, but no word was spoken.

Far to the west somewhere, a befrilled and bedizened renegade pursued the wild tenor of his ways; perhaps, even now steeping his soul in more crime, or staining his hands a deeper red, but sleeping or waking, he dreamed not of this deadly compact that meant his doom.

The two hunters turned their stern faces toward the west, and passed silently down the ridge into the depths of the forest. Darkness found them within rifle shot of the Village of Peace. With the dog creeping between them, they crawled to a position which would, in daylight, command a view of the clearing. Then, while one stood guard, the other slept.

When morning dawned they shifted their position to the top of a low, fern-covered cliff, from which they could see every movement in the village. All the morning they watched with that wonderful patience of men who knew how to wait. The visiting savages were quiet, the missionaries moved about in and out of the shops and cabins; the Christian Indians worked industriously in the fields, while the renegades lolled before a prominent teepee.

“This quiet looks bad,” whispered Jonathan to Wetzel. No shouts were heared; not a hostile Indian was seen to move.

“They've come to a decision,” whispered Jonathan, and Wetzel answered him:

“If they hev, the Christians don't know it.”

An hour later the deep pealing of the church bells broke the silence. The entire band of Christian Indians gathered near the large log structure, and then marched in orderly form toward the maple grove where the service was always held in pleasant weather. This movement brought the Indians within several hundred yards of the cliff where Zane and Wetzel lay concealed.

“There's Heckewelder walking with old man Wells,” whispered Jonathan. “There's Young and Edwards, and yes, there's the young missionary, brother of Joe. 'Pears to me they're foolish to hold service in the face of all those riled Injuns.”

“Wuss'n foolish,” answered Wetzel.

“Look! By gum! As I'm a livin' sinner there comes the whole crowd of hostile redskins. They've got their guns, and—by gum! they're painted. Looks bad, bad! Not much friendliness about that bunch!”

“They ain't intendin' to be peaceable.”

“By gum! You're right. There ain't one of them settin' down. 'Pears to me I know some of them redskins. There's Pipe, sure enough, and Kotoxen. By gum! If there ain't Shingiss; he was friendly once.”

“None of them's friendly.”

“Look! Lew, look! Right behind Pipe. See that long war bonnet. As I'm a born sinner, that's your old friend, Wingenund. 'Pears to me we've rounded up all our acquaintances.”

The two bordermen lay close under the tall ferns and watched the proceedings with sharp eyes. They saw the converted Indians seat themselves before the platform. The crowd of hostile Indians surrounded the glade on all sides, except one, which, singularly enough, was next to the woods.

“Look thar!” exclaimed Wetzel, under his breath. He pointed off to the right of the maple glade. Jonathan gazed in the direction indicated, and saw two savages stealthily slipping through the bushes, and behind trees. Presently these suspicious-acting spies, or scouts, stopped on a little knoll perhaps a hundred yards from the glade.

Wetzel groaned.

“This ain't comfortable,” growled Zane, in a low whisper. “Them red devils are up to somethin' bad. They'd better not move round over here.”

The hunters, satisfied that the two isolated savages meant mischief, turned their gaze once more toward the maple grove.

“Ah! Simon, you white traitor! See him, Lew, comin' with his precious gang,” said Jonathan. “He's got the whole thing fixed, you can plainly see that. Bill Elliott, McKee; and who's that renegade with Jim Girty? I'll allow he must be the fellar we heard was with the Chippewas. Tough lookin' customer; a good mate fer Jim Girty! A fine lot of border hawks!”

“Somethin' comin' off,” whispered Wetzel, as Zane's low growl grew unintelligible.

Jonathan felt, rather than saw, Wetzel tremble.

“The missionaries are consultin'. Ah, there comes one! Which? I guess it's Edwards. By gum! who's that Injun stalkin' over from the hostile bunch. Big chief, whoever he is. Blest if it ain't Half King!”

The watchers saw the chief wave his arm and speak with evident arrogance to Edwards, who, however, advanced to the platform and raised his hand to address the Christians.

“Crack!”

A shot rang out from the thicket. Clutching wildly at his breast, the missionary reeled back, staggered, and fell.

“One of those skulkin' redskins has killed Edwards,” said Zane. “But, no; he's not dead! He's getting up. Mebbe he ain't hurt bad. By gum! there's Young comin' forward. Of all the fools!”

It was indeed true that Young had faced the Indians. Half King addressed him as he had the other; but Young raised his hand and began speaking.

“Crack!”

Another shot rang out. Young threw up his hands and fell heavily. The missionaries rushed toward him. Mr. Wells ran round the group, wringing his hands as if distracted.

“He's hard hit,” hissed Zane, between his teeth. “You can tell that by the way he fell.”

Wetzel did not answer. He lay silent and motionless, his long body rigid, and his face like marble.

“There comes the other young fellar—Joe's brother. He'll get plugged, too,” continued Zane, whispering rather to himself than to his companion. “Oh, I hoped they'd show some sense! It's noble for them to die for Christianity, but it won't do no good. By gum! Heckewelder has pulled him back. Now, that's good judgment!”

Half King stepped before the Christians and addressed them. He held in his hand a black war club, which he wielded as he spoke.

Jonathan's attention was now directed from the maple grove to the hunter beside him. He had heard a slight metallic click, as Wetzel cocked his rifle. Then he saw the black barrel slowly rise.

“Listen, Lew. Mebbe it ain't good sense. We're after Girty, you remember; and it's a long shot from here—full three hundred yards.”

“You're right, Jack, you're right,” answered Wetzel, breathing hard.

“Let's wait, and see what comes off.”

“Jack, I can't do it. It'll make our job harder; but I can't help it. I can put a bullet just over the Huron's left eye, an' I'm goin' to do it.”

“You can't do it, Lew; you can't! It's too far for any gun. Wait! Wait!” whispered Jonathan, laying his hand on Wetzel's shoulder.

“Wait? Man, can't you see what the unnamable villain is doin'?”

“What?” asked Zane, turning his eyes again to the glade.

The converted Indians sat with bowed heads. Half King raised his war club, and threw it on the ground in front of them.

“He's announcin' the death decree!”
hissed Wetzel.

“Well! if he ain't!”

Jonathan looked at Wetzel's face. Then he rose to his knees, as had Wetzel, and tightened his belt. He knew that in another instant they would be speeding away through the forest.

“Lew, my rifle's no good fer that distance. But mebbe yours is. You ought to know. It's not sense, because there's Simon Girty, and there's Jim, the men we're after. If you can hit one, you can another. But go ahead, Lew. Plug that cowardly redskin!”

Wetzel knelt on one knee, and thrust the black rifle forward through the fern leaves. Slowly the fatal barrel rose to a level, and became as motionless as the immovable stones.

Jonathan fixed his keen gaze on the haughty countenance of Half King as he stood with folded arms and scornful mien in front of the Christians he had just condemned.

Even as the short, stinging crack of Wetzel's rifle broke the silence, Jonathan saw the fierce expression of Half King's dark face change to one of vacant wildness. His arms never relaxed from their folded position. He fell, as falls a monarch of the forest trees, a dead weight.

 

CHAPTER XXV

 

“Please do not preach today,” said Nell, raising her eyes imploringly to Jim's face.

“Nellie, I must conduct the services as usual. I can not shirk my duty, nor let these renegades see I fear to face them.”

“I have such a terrible feeling. I am afraid. I don't want to be left alone. Please do not leave me.”

Jim strode nervously up and down the length of the room. Nell's worn face, her beseeching eyes and trembling hands touched his heart. Rather than almost anything else, he desired to please her, to strengthen her; yet how could he shirk his duty?

“Nellie, what is it you fear?” he asked, holding her hands tightly.

“Oh, I don't know what—everything. Uncle is growing weaker every day. Look at Mr. Young; he is only a shadow of his former self, and his anxiety is wearing Mr. Heckewelder out. He is more concerned than he dares admit. You needn't shake your head, for I know it. Then those Indians who are waiting, waiting—for God only knows what? Worse than all to me, I saw that renegade, that fearful beast who made away with poor dear Kate!”

Nell burst into tears, and leaned sobbing on Jim's shoulder.

“Nell, I've kept my courage only because of you,” replied Jim, his voice trembling slightly.

She looked up quickly. Something in the pale face which was bent over her told her that now, if ever, was the time for a woman to forget herself, and to cheer, to inspire those around her.

“I am a silly baby, and selfish!” she cried, freeing herself from his hold. “Always thinking of myself.” She turned away and wiped the tears from her eyes. “Go, Jim, do your duty; I'll stand by and help you all a woman can.”

*   *   *

The missionaries were consulting in Heckewelder's cabin. Zeisberger had returned that morning, and his aggressive, dominating spirit was just what they needed in an hour like this. He raised the downcast spirits of the ministers.

“Hold the service? I should say we will,” he declared, waving his hands. “What have we to be afraid of?”