Authors: The Last Trail
All the borderman cared to know was if Wetzel still pursued. He passed
on swiftly up a hill, through a wood of birches where the trail showed
on a line of broken ferns, then out upon a low ridge where patches of
grass grew sparsely. Here he saw in this last ground no indication of
his comrade's trail; nothing was to be seen save the imprints of the
horses' hoofs. Jonathan halted behind the nearest underbrush. This
sudden move on the part of Wetzel was token that, suspecting an
ambush, he had made a detour somewhere, probably in the grove
of birches.
All the while his eyes searched the long, barren reach ahead. No
thicket, fallen tree, or splintered rocks, such as Indians utilized
for an ambush, could be seen. Indians always sought the densely matted
underbrush, a windfall, or rocky retreat and there awaited a pursuer.
It was one of the borderman's tricks of woodcraft that he could
recognize such places.
Far beyond the sandy ridge Jonathan came to a sloping, wooded
hillside, upon which were scattered big rocks, some mossy and
lichen-covered, and one, a giant boulder, with a crown of ferns and
laurel gracing its flat surface. It was such a place as the savages
would select for ambush. He knew, however, that if an Indian had
hidden himself there Wetzel would have discovered him. When opposite
the rock Jonathan saw a broken fern hanging over the edge. The heavy
trail of the horses ran close beside it.
Then with that thoroughness of search which made the borderman what
he was, Jonathan leaped upon the rock. There, lying in the midst of
the ferns, lay an Indian with sullen, somber face set in the repose of
death. In his side was a small bullet hole.
Jonathan examined the savage's rifle. It had been discharged. The
rock, the broken fern, the dead Indian, the discharged rifle, told the
story of that woodland tragedy.
Wetzel had discovered the ambush. Leaving the trail, he had tricked
the redskin into firing, then getting a glimpse of the Indian's red
body through the sights of his fatal weapon, the deed was done.
With greater caution Jonathan advanced once more. Not far beyond the
rock he found Wetzel's trail. The afternoon was drawing to a close. He
could not travel much farther, yet he kept on, hoping to overtake his
comrade before darkness set in. From time to time he whistled; but got
no answering signal.
When the tracks of the horses were nearly hidden by the gathering
dusk, Jonathan decided to halt for the night. He whistled one more
note, louder and clearer, and awaited the result with strained ears.
The deep silence of the wilderness prevailed, suddenly to be broken by
a faint, far-away, melancholy call of the hermit-thrush. It was the
answering signal the borderman had hoped to hear.
Not many moments elapsed before he heard another call, low, and near
at hand, to which he replied. The bushes parted noiselessly on his
left, and the tall form of Wetzel appeared silently out of the gloom.
The two gripped hands in silence.
"Hev you any meat?" Wetzel asked, and as Jonathan handed him his
knapsack, he continued, "I was kinder lookin' fer you. Did you get out
all right with the lass?"
"Nary a scratch."
The giant borderman grunted his satisfaction.
"How'd Legget and Brandt get away?" asked Jonathan.
"Cut an' run like scared bucks. Never got a hand on either of 'em."
"How many redskins did they meet back here a spell?"
"They was seven; but now there are only six, an' all snug in Legget's
place by this time."
"I reckon we're near his den."
"We're not far off."
Night soon closing down upon the bordermen found them wrapped in
slumber, as if no deadly foes were near at hand. The soft night wind
sighed dismally among the bare trees. A few bright stars twinkled
overhead. In the darkness of the forest the bordermen were at home.
In Legget's rude log cabin a fire burned low, lightening the forms of
the two border outlaws, and showing in the background the dark forms
of Indians sitting motionless on the floor. Their dusky eyes emitted a
baleful glint, seemingly a reflection of their savage souls caught by
the firelight. Legget wore a look of ferocity and sullen fear
strangely blended. Brandt's face was hard and haggard, his lips set,
his gray eyes smoldering.
"Safe?" he hissed. "Safe you say? You'll see that it's the same now as
on the other night, when those border-tigers jumped us and we ran
like cowards. I'd have fought it out here, but for you."
"Thet man Wetzel is ravin' mad, I tell you," growled Legget. "I reckon
I've stood my ground enough to know I ain't no coward. But this
fellar's crazy. He hed the Injuns slashin' each other like a pack of
wolves round a buck."
"He's no more mad than you or I," declared Brandt. "I know all about
him. His moaning in the woods, and wild yells are only tricks. He
knows the Indian nature, and he makes their very superstition and
religion aid him in his fighting. I told you what he'd do. Didn't I
beg you to kill Zane when we had a chance? Wetzel would never have
taken our trail alone. Now they've beat me out of the girl, and as
sure as death will round us up here."
"You don't believe they'll rush us here?" asked Legget.
"They're too keen to take foolish chances, but something will be done
we don't expect. Zane was a prisoner here; he had a good look at this
place, and you can gamble he'll remember."
"Zane must hev gone back to Fort Henry with the girl."
"Mark what I say, he'll come back!"
"Wal, we kin hold this place against all the men Eb Zane may put out."
"He won't send a man," snapped Brandt passionately. "Remember this,
Legget, we're not to fight against soldiers, settlers, or hunters; but
bordermen—understand—bordermen! Such as have been developed right
here on this bloody frontier, and nowhere else on earth. They haven't
fear in them. Both are fleet as deer in the woods. They can't be seen
or trailed. They can snuff a candle with a rifle ball in the dark.
I've seen Zane do it three times at a hundred yards. And Wetzel! He
wouldn't waste powder on practicing. They can't be ambushed, or shaken
off a track; they take the scent like buzzards, and have eyes
like eagles."
"We kin slip out of here under cover of night," suggested Legget.
"Well, what then? That's all they want. They'd be on us again by
sunset. No! we've got to stand our ground and fight. We'll stay as
long as we can; but they'll rout us out somehow, be sure of that. And
if one of us pokes his nose out to the daylight, it will be shot off."
"You're sore, an' you've lost your nerve," said Legget harshly. "Sore
at me 'cause I got sweet on the girl. Ho! ho!"
Brandt shot a glance at Legget which boded no good. His strong hands
clenched in an action betraying the reckless rage in his heart. Then
he carefully removed his hunting coat, and examined his wound. He
retied the bandage, muttering gloomily, "I'm so weak as to be
light-headed. If this cut opens again, it's all day for me."
After that the inmates of the hut were quiet. The huge outlaw bowed
his shaggy head for a while, and then threw himself on a pile of
hemlock boughs. Brandt was not long in seeking rest. Soon both were
fast asleep. Two of the savages passed out with cat-like step, leaving
the door open. The fire had burned low, leaving a bed of dead coals.
Outside in the dark a waterfall splashed softly.
The darkest hour came, and passed, and paled slowly to gray. Birds
began to twitter. Through the door of the cabin the light of day
streamed in. The two Indian sentinels were building a fire on the
stone hearth. One by one the other savages got up, stretched and
yawned, and began the business of the day by cooking their breakfast.
It was, apparently, every one for himself.
Legget arose, shook himself like a shaggy dog, and was starting for
the door when one of the sentinels stopped him. Brandt, who was now
awake, saw the action, and smiled.
In a few moments Indians and outlaws were eating for breakfast roasted
strips of venison, with corn meal baked brown, which served as bread.
It was a somber, silent group.
Presently the shrill neigh of a horse startled them. Following it, the
whip-like crack of a rifle stung and split the morning air. Hard on
this came an Indian's long, wailing death-cry.
"Hah!" exclaimed Brandt.
Legget remained immovable. One of the savages peered out through a
little port-hole at the rear of the hut. The others continued
their meal.
"Whistler'll come in presently to tell us who's doin' thet shootin',"
said Legget. "He's a keen Injun."
"He's not very keen now," replied Brandt, with bitter certainty. "He's
what the settlers call a good Indian, which is to say, dead!"
Legget scowled at his lieutenant.
"I'll go an' see," he replied and seized his rifle.
He opened the door, when another rifle-shot rang out. A bullet
whistled in the air, grazing the outlaw's shoulder, and imbedded
itself in the heavy door-frame.
Legget leaped back with a curse.
"Close shave!" said Brandt coolly. "That bullet came, probably,
straight down from the top of the cliff. Jack Zane's there. Wetzel is
lower down watching the outlet. We're trapped."
"Trapped," shouted Legget with an angry leer. "We kin live here
longer'n the bordermen kin. We've meat on hand, an' a good spring in
the back of the hut. How'er we trapped?"
"We won't live twenty-four hours," declared Brandt.
"Why?"
"Because we'll be routed out. They'll find some way to do it, and
we'll never have another chance to fight in the open, as we had the
other night when they came after the girl. From now on there'll be no
sleep, no time to eat, the nameless fear of an unseen foe who can't be
shaken off, marching by night, hiding and starving by day, until—!
I'd rather be back in Fort Henry at Colonel Zane's mercy."
Legget turned a ghastly face toward Brandt. "Look a here. You're
takin' a lot of glee in sayin' these things. I believe you've lost
your nerve, or the lettin' out of a little blood hes made you wobbly.
We've Injuns here, an' ought to be a match fer two men."
Brandt gazed at him with a derisive smile.
"We kin go out an' fight these fellars," continued Legget. "We might
try their own game, hidin' an' crawlin' through the woods."
"We two would have to go it alone. If you still had your trusty,
trained band of experienced Indians, I'd say that would be just the
thing. But Ashbow and the Chippewa are dead; so are the others. This
bunch of redskins here may do to steal a few horses; but they don't
amount to much against Zane and Wetzel. Besides, they'll cut and run
presently, for they're scared and suspicious. Look at the chief;
ask him."
The savage Brandt indicated was a big Indian just coming into manhood.
His swarthy face still retained some of the frankness and
simplicity of youth.
"Chief," said Legget in the Indian tongue. "The great paleface hunter,
Deathwind, lies hid in the woods."
"Last night the Shawnee heard the wind of death mourn through the
trees," replied the chief gloomily.
"See! What did I say?" cried Brandt. "The superstitious fool! He
would begin his death-chant almost without a fight. We can't count on
the redskins. What's to be done?"
The outlaw threw himself upon the bed of boughs, and Legget sat down
with his rifle across his knees. The Indians maintained the same
stoical composure. The moments dragged by into hours.
"Ugh!" suddenly exclaimed the Indian at the end of the hut.
Legget ran to him, and acting upon a motion of the Indian's hand,
looked out through the little port-hole.
The sun was high. He saw four of the horses grazing by the brook; then
gazed scrutinizingly from the steep waterfall, along the green-stained
cliff to the dark narrow cleft in the rocks. Here was the only outlet
from the inclosure. He failed to discover anything unusual.
The Indian grunted again, and pointed upward.
"Smoke! There's smoke risin' above the trees," cried Legget. "Brandt,
come here. What's thet mean?"
Brandt hurried, looked out. His face paled, his lower jaw protruded,
quivered, and then was shut hard. He walked away, put his foot on a
bench and began to lace his leggings.
"Wal?" demanded Legget.
"The game's up! Get ready to run and be shot at," cried Brandt with a
hiss of passion.
Almost as he spoke the roof of the hut shook under a heavy blow.
"What's thet?" No one replied. Legget glanced from Brandt's cold,
determined face to the uneasy savages. They were restless, and
handling their weapons. The chief strode across the floor with
stealthy steps.
"Thud!"
A repetition of the first blow caused the Indians to jump, and drew a
fierce imprecation from their outlaw leader.
Brandt eyed him narrowly. "It's coming to you, Legget. They are
shooting arrows of fire into the roof from the cliff. Zane is doin'
that. He can make a bow and draw one, too. We're to be burned out.
Now, damn you! take your medicine! I wanted you to kill him when you
had the chance. If you had done so we'd never have come to this.
Burned out, do you get that? Burned out!"
"Fire!" exclaimed Legget. He sat down as if the strength had left his
legs.
The Indians circled around the room like caged tigers.
"Ugh!" The chief suddenly reached up and touched the birch-bark roof
of the hut.
His action brought the attention of all to a faint crackling of
burning wood.
"It's caught all right," cried Brandt in a voice which cut the air
like a blow from a knife.
"I'll not be smoked like a ham, fer all these tricky bordermen,"
roared Legget. Drawing his knife he hacked at the heavy buckskin
hinges of the rude door. When it dropped free he measured it against
the open space. Sheathing the blade, he grasped his rifle in his right
hand and swung the door on his left arm. Heavy though it was he
carried it easily. The roughly hewn planks afforded a capital shield
for all except the lower portion of his legs and feet. He went out of
the hut with the screen of wood between himself and the cliff, calling
for the Indians to follow. They gathered behind him, breathing hard,
clutching their weapons, and seemingly almost crazed by excitement.