The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail (64 page)

She fought against a shuddering weakness which threatened to overcome her.

“Whose prisoner is Brandt?” she asked of Colonel Zane.

“He gave himself up to me, naturally, as I am in authority here,” replied the colonel. “But that signifies little. I can do no less than abide by Jonathan's decree, which, after all, is the decree of the border.”

“And that is?”

“Death to outlaws and renegades.”

“But cannot you spare him?” implored Helen. “I know he is a bad man; but he might become a better one. It seems like murder to me. To kill him in cold blood, wounded, suffering as he is, when he claimed your mercy. Oh! it is dreadful!”

The usually kind-hearted colonel, soft as wax in the hands of a girl, was now colder and harder than flint.

“It is useless,” he replied curtly. “I am sorry for you. We all understand your feelings, that yours are not the principles of the border. If you had lived long here you could appreciate what these outlaws and renegades have done to us. This man is a hardened criminal; he is a thief, a murderer.”

“He did not kill Mordaunt,” replied Helen quickly. “I saw him draw first and attack Brandt.”

“No matter. Come, Helen, cease. No more of this,” Colonel Zane cried with impatience.

“But I will not!” exclaimed Helen, with ringing voice and flashing eye. She turned to her girl friends and besought them to intercede for the outlaw. But Nell only looked sorrowfully on, while Betty met her appealing glance with a fire in her eyes that was no dim reflection of her brother's.

“Then I must make my appeal to you,” said Helen, facing the borderman. There could be no mistaking how she regarded him. Respect, honor, and love breathed from every line of her beautiful face.

“Why do you want him to go free?” demanded Jonathan. “You told me to kill him.”

“Oh, I know. But I was not in my right mind. Listen to me, please. He must have been very different once; perhaps had sisters. For their sake give him another chance. I know he has a better nature. I feared him, hated him, scorned him, as if he were a snake, yet he saved me from that monster Legget!”

“For himself!”

“Well, yes, I can't deny that. But he could have ruined me, wrecked me, yet he did not. At least, he meant marriage by me. He said if I would marry him he would flee over the border and be an honest man.”

“Have you no other reason?”

“Yes.” Helen's bosom swelled and a glory shone in her splendid eyes. “The other reason is, my own happiness!”

Plain to all, if not through her words, from the light in her eyes, that she could not love a man who was a part to what she considered injustice.

The borderman's white face became flaming red.

It was difficult to refuse this glorious girl any sacrifice she demanded for the sake of the love so openly avowed.

Sweetly and pityingly she turned to Brandt: “Will not you help me?”

“Lass, if it were for me you were asking my life I'd swear it yours for always, and I'd be a man,” he replied with bitterness; “but not to save my soul would I ask anything of him.”

The giant passions, hate and jealousy, flamed in his gray eyes.

“If I persuade them to release you, will you go away, leave this country, and never come back?”

“I'll promise that, lass, and honestly,” he replied.

She wheeled toward Jonathan, and now the rosy color chased the pallor from her cheeks.

“Jack, do you remember when we parted at my home; when you left on this terrible trail, now ended, thank God! Do you remember what an ordeal that was for me? Must I go through it again?”

Bewitchingly sweet she was then, with the girlish charm of coquetry almost lost in the deeper, stranger power of the woman.

The borderman drew his breath sharply; then he wrapped his long arms closely round her. She, understanding that victory was hers, sank weeping upon his breast. For a moment he bowed his face over her, and when he lifted it the dark and terrible gloom had gone.

“Eb, let him go, an' at once,” ordered Jonathan. “Give him a rifle, some meat, an' a canoe, for he can't travel, an' turn him loose. Only be quick about it, because if Wetzel comes in, God himself couldn't save the outlaw.”

It was an indescribable glance that Brandt cast upon the tearful face of the girl who had saved his life. But without a word he followed Colonel Zane from the room.

The crowd slowly filed down the steps. Betty and Nell lingered behind, their eyes beaming through happy tears. Jonathan, long so cold, showed evidence of becoming as quick and passionate a lover as he had been a borderman. At least, Helen had to release herself from his embrace, and it was a blushing, tearstained face she turned to her friends.

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.

 

F
ORGE
B
OOKS BY
Z
ANE
G
REY

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)