The Spirit of the Border: A Romance of the Early Settlers in the Ohio Valley

THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER

A ROMANCE OF THE EARLY SETTLERS IN THE OHIO VALLEY

BY ZANE GREY

1906

To my brother

With many fond recollections of days spent in the solitude of the

forests where only can be satisfied that wild fever of freedom of

which this book tells; where to hear the whirr of a wild duck in his

rapid flight is joy; where the quiet of an autumn afternoon swells

the heart, and where one may watch the fragrant wood-smoke curl from

the campfire, and see the stars peep over dark, wooded hills as

twilight deepens, and know a happiness that dwells in the wilderness

alone.

Introduction

The author does not intend to apologize for what many readers may

call the "brutality" of the story; but rather to explain that its

wild spirit is true to the life of the Western border as it was

known only a little more than one hundred years ago.

The writer is the fortunate possessor of historical material of

undoubted truth and interest. It is the long-lost journal of Colonel

Ebenezer Zane, one of the most prominent of the hunter-pioneer, who

labored in the settlement of the Western country.

The story of that tragic period deserves a higher place in

historical literature than it has thus far been given, and this

unquestionably because of a lack of authentic data regarding the

conquering of the wilderness. Considering how many years the

pioneers struggled on the border of this country, the history of

their efforts is meager and obscure.

If the years at the close of the eighteenth and the beginning of the

nineteenth century were full of stirring adventure on the part of

the colonists along the Atlantic coast, how crowded must they have

been for the almost forgotten pioneers who daringly invaded the

trackless wilds! None there was to chronicle the fight of these

sturdy travelers toward the setting sun. The story of their stormy

lives, of their heroism, and of their sacrifice for the benefit of

future generations is too little known.

It is to a better understanding of those days that the author has

labored to draw from his ancestor's notes a new and striking

portrayal of the frontier; one which shall paint the fever of

freedom, that powerful impulse which lured so many to unmarked

graves; one which shall show his work, his love, the effect of the

causes which rendered his life so hard, and surely one which does

not forget the wronged Indian.

The frontier in 1777 produced white men so savage as to be men in

name only. These outcasts and renegades lived among the savages, and

during thirty years harassed the border, perpetrating all manner of

fiendish cruelties upon the settlers. They were no less cruel to the

redmen whom they ruled, and at the height of their bloody careers

made futile the Moravian missionaries' long labors, and destroyed

the beautiful hamlet of the Christian Indians, called Gnaddenhutten,

or Village of Peace.

And while the border produced such outlaws so did it produce hunters

Eke Boone, the Zanes, the McCollochs, and Wetzel, that strange,

silent man whose deeds are still whispered in the country where he

once roamed in his insatiate pursuit of savages and renegades, and

who was purely a product of the times. Civilization could not have

brought forth a man like Wetzel. Great revolutions, great crises,

great moments come, and produce the men to deal with them.

The border needed Wetzel. The settlers would have needed many more

years in which to make permanent homes had it not been for him. He

was never a pioneer; but always a hunter after Indians. When not on

the track of the savage foe, he was in the settlement, with his keen

eye and ear ever alert for signs of the enemy. To the superstitious

Indians he was a shadow; a spirit of the border, which breathed

menace from the dark forests. To the settlers he was the right arm

of defense, a fitting leader for those few implacable and unerring

frontiersmen who made the settlement of the West a possibility.

And if this story of one of his relentless pursuits shows the man as

he truly was, loved by pioneers, respected and feared by redmen, and

hated by renegades; if it softens a little the ruthless name history

accords him, the writer will have been well repaid.

Z. G.

The Spirit of the Border

Chapter I.

"Nell, I'm growing powerful fond of you."

"So you must be, Master Joe, if often telling makes it true."

The girl spoke simply, and with an absence of that roguishness which

was characteristic of her. Playful words, arch smiles, and a touch

of coquetry had seemed natural to Nell; but now her grave tone and

her almost wistful glance disconcerted Joe.

During all the long journey over the mountains she had been gay and

bright, while now, when they were about to part, perhaps never to

meet again, she showed him the deeper and more earnest side of her

character. It checked his boldness as nothing else had done.

Suddenly there came to him the real meaning of a woman's love when

she bestows it without reservation. Silenced by the thought that he

had not understood her at all, and the knowledge that he had been

half in sport, he gazed out over the wild country before them.

The scene impressed its quietness upon the young couple and brought

more forcibly to their minds the fact that they were at the gateway

of the unknown West; that somewhere beyond this rude frontier

settlement, out there in those unbroken forests stretching dark and

silent before them, was to be their future home.

From the high bank where they stood the land sloped and narrowed

gradually until it ended in a sharp point which marked the last bit

of land between the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers. Here these

swift streams merged and formed the broad Ohio. The new-born river,

even here at its beginning proud and swelling as if already certain

of its far-away grandeur, swept majestically round a wide curve and

apparently lost itself in the forest foliage.

On the narrow point of land commanding a view of the rivers stood a

long, low structure enclosed by a stockade fence, on the four

corners of which were little box-shaped houses that bulged out as if

trying to see what was going on beneath. The massive timbers used in

the construction of this fort, the square, compact form, and the

small, dark holes cut into the walls, gave the structure a

threatening, impregnable aspect.

Below Nell and Joe, on the bank, were many log cabins. The yellow

clay which filled the chinks between the logs gave these a peculiar

striped appearance. There was life and bustle in the vicinity of

these dwellings, in sharp contrast with the still grandeur of the

neighboring forests. There were canvas-covered wagons around which

curly-headed youngsters were playing. Several horses were grazing on

the short grass, and six red and white oxen munched at the hay that

had been thrown to them. The smoke of many fires curled upward, and

near the blaze hovered ruddy-faced women who stirred the contents of

steaming kettles. One man swung an axe with a vigorous sweep, and

the clean, sharp strokes rang on the air; another hammered stakes

into the ground on which to hang a kettle. Before a large cabin a

fur-trader was exhibiting his wares to three Indians. A second

redskin was carrying a pack of pelts from a canoe drawn up on the

river bank. A small group of persons stood near; some were

indifferent, and others gazed curiously at the savages. Two children

peeped from behind their mother's skirts as if half-curious,

half-frightened.

From this scene, the significance of which had just dawned on him,

Joe turned his eyes again to his companion. It was a sweet face he

saw; one that was sedate, but had a promise of innumerable smiles.

The blue eyes could not long hide flashes of merriment. The girl

turned, and the two young people looked at each other. Her eyes

softened with a woman's gentleness as they rested upon him, for,

broad of shoulder, and lithe and strong as a deer stalker, he was

good to look at.

"Listen," she said. "We have known each other only three weeks.

Since you joined our wagon-train, and have been so kind to me and so

helpful to make that long, rough ride endurable, you have won my

regard. I--I cannot say more, even if I would. You told me you ran

away from your Virginian home to seek adventure on the frontier, and

that you knew no one in all this wild country. You even said you

could not, or would not, work at farming. Perhaps my sister and I

are as unfitted as you for this life; but we must cling to our uncle

because he is the only relative we have. He has come out here to

join the Moravians, and to preach the gospel to these Indians. We

shall share his life, and help him all we can. You have been telling

me you--you cared for me, and now that we are about to part I--I

don't know what to say to you--unless it is: Give up this intention

of yours to seek adventure, and come with us. It seems to me you

need not hunt for excitement here; it will come unsought."

"I wish I were Jim," said he, suddenly.

"Who is Jim?"

"My brother."

"Tell me of him."

"There's nothing much to tell. He and I are all that are left of our

people, as are you and Kate of yours. Jim's a preacher, and the best

fellow--oh! I cared a lot for Jim."

"Then, why did you leave him?"

"I was tired of Williamsburg--I quarreled with a fellow, and hurt

him. Besides, I wanted to see the West; I'd like to hunt deer and

bear and fight Indians. Oh, I'm not much good."

"Was Jim the only one you cared for?" asked Nell, smiling. She was

surprised to find him grave.

"Yes, except my horse and dog, and I had to leave them behind,"

answered Joe, bowing his head a little.

"You'd like to be Jim because he's a preacher, and could help uncle

convert the Indians?"

"Yes, partly that, but mostly because--somehow--something you've

said or done has made me care for you in a different way, and I'd

like to be worthy of you."

"I don't think I can believe it, when you say you are 'no good,'"

she replied.

"Nell," he cried, and suddenly grasped her hand.

She wrenched herself free, and leaped away from him. Her face was

bright now, and the promise of smiles was made good.

"Behave yourself, sir." She tossed her head with a familiar backward

motion to throw the chestnut hair from her face, and looked at him

with eyes veiled slightly under their lashes. "You will go with Kate

and me?"

Before he could answer, a cry from some one on the plain below

attracted their attention. They turned and saw another wagon-train

pulling into the settlement. The children were shooting and running

alongside the weary oxen; men and women went forward expectantly.

"That must be the train uncle expected. Let us go down," said Nell.

Joe did not answer; but followed her down the path. When they gained

a clump of willows near the cabins he bent forward and took her

hand. She saw the reckless gleam in his eyes.

"Don't. They'll see," she whispered.

"If that's the only reason you have, I reckon I don't care," said

Joe.

"What do you mean? I didn't say--I didn't tell--oh! let me go!"

implored Nell.

She tried to release the hand Joe had grasped in his broad palm, but

in vain; the more she struggled the firmer was his hold. A frown

wrinkled her brow and her eyes sparkled with spirit. She saw the

fur-trader's wife looking out of the window, and remembered laughing

and telling the good woman she did not like this young man; it was,

perhaps, because she feared those sharp eyes that she resented his

audacity. She opened her mouth to rebuke him; but no words came. Joe

had bent his head and softly closed her lips with his own.

For the single instant during which Nell stood transfixed, as if

with surprise, and looking up at Joe, she was dumb. Usually the girl

was ready with sharp or saucy words and impulsive in her movements;

but now the bewilderment of being kissed, particularly within view

of the trader's wife, confused her. Then she heard voices, and as

Joe turned away with a smile on his face, the unusual warmth in her

heart was followed by an angry throbbing.

Joe's tall figure stood out distinctly as he leisurely strolled

toward the incoming wagon-train without looking backward. Flashing

after him a glance that boded wordy trouble in the future, she ran

into the cabin.

As she entered the door it seemed certain the grizzled frontiersman

sitting on the bench outside had grinned knowingly at her, and

winked as if to say he would keep her secret. Mrs. Wentz, the

fur-trader's wife, was seated by the open window which faced the

fort; she was a large woman, strong of feature, and with that calm

placidity of expression common to people who have lived long in

sparsely populated districts. Nell glanced furtively at her and

thought she detected the shadow of a smile in the gray eyes.

"I saw you and your sweetheart makin' love behind the willow," Mrs.

Wentz said in a matter-of-fact voice. "I don't see why you need hide

to do it. We folks out here like to see the young people sparkin'.

Your young man is a fine-appearin' chap. I felt certain you was

sweethearts, for all you allowed you'd known him only a few days.

Lize Davis said she saw he was sweet on you. I like his face. Jake,

my man, says as how he'll make a good husband for you, and he'll

take to the frontier like a duck does to water. I'm sorry you'll not

tarry here awhile. We don't see many lasses, especially any as

pretty as you, and you'll find it more quiet and lonesome the

farther West you get. Jake knows all about Fort Henry, and Jeff

Lynn, the hunter outside, he knows Eb and Jack Zane, and Wetzel, and

all those Fort Henry men. You'll be gettin' married out there, won't

you?"

"You are--quite wrong," said Nell, who all the while Mrs. Wentz was

speaking grew rosier and rosier. "We're not anything---"

Then Nell hesitated and finally ceased speaking. She saw that

denials or explanations were futile; the simple woman had seen the

kiss, and formed her own conclusions. During the few days Nell had

spent at Fort Pitt, she had come to understand that the dwellers on

the frontier took everything as a matter of course. She had seen

them manifest a certain pleasure; but neither surprise, concern, nor

any of the quick impulses so common among other people. And this was

another lesson Nell took to heart. She realized that she was

entering upon a life absolutely different from her former one, and

the thought caused her to shrink from the ordeal. Yet all the

suggestions regarding her future home; the stories told about

Indians, renegades, and of the wild border-life, fascinated her.

These people who had settled in this wild region were simple, honest

and brave; they accepted what came as facts not to be questioned,

and believed what looked true. Evidently the fur-trader's wife and

her female neighbors had settled in their minds the relation in

which the girl stood to Joe.

This latter reflection heightened Nell's resentment toward her

lover. She stood with her face turned away from Mrs. Wentz; the

little frown deepened, and she nervously tapped her foot on the

floor.

"Where is my sister?" she presently asked.

"She went to see the wagon-train come in. Everybody's out there."

Nell deliberated a moment and then went into the open air. She saw a

number of canvas-covered wagons drawn up in front of the cabins; the

vehicles were dusty and the wheels encrusted with yellow mud. The

grizzled frontiersman who had smiled at Nell stood leaning on his

gun, talking to three men, whose travel-stained and worn homespun

clothes suggested a long and toilsome journey. There was the bustle

of excitement incident to the arrival of strangers; to the quick

exchange of greetings, the unloading of wagons and unharnessing of

horses and oxen.

Nell looked here and there for her sister. Finally she saw her

standing near her uncle while he conversed with one of the

teamsters. The girl did not approach them; but glanced quickly

around in search of some one else. At length she saw Joe unloading

goods from one of the wagons; his back was turned toward her, but

she at once recognized the challenge conveyed by the broad

shoulders. She saw no other person; gave heed to nothing save what

was to her, righteous indignation.

Hearing her footsteps, the young man turned, glancing at her

admiringly, said:

"Good evening, Miss."

Nell had not expected such a matter-of-fact greeting from Joe. There

was not the slightest trace of repentance in his calm face, and he

placidly continued his labor.

"Aren't you sorry you--you treated me so?" burst out Nell.

His coolness was exasperating. Instead of the contrition and apology

she had expected, and which was her due, he evidently intended to

tease her, as he had done so often.

The young man dropped a blanket and stared.

"I don't understand," he said, gravely. "I never saw you before."

This was too much for quick-tempered Nell. She had had some vague

idea of forgiving him, after he had sued sufficiently for pardon;

but now, forgetting her good intentions in the belief that he was

making sport of her when he should have pleaded for forgiveness, she

swiftly raised her hand and slapped him smartly.

The red blood flamed to the young man's face; as he staggered

backward with his hand to his cheek, she heard a smothered

exclamation behind her, and then the quick, joyous barking of a dog.

When Nell turned she was amazed to see Joe standing beside the

wagon, while a big white dog was leaping upon him. Suddenly she felt

faint. Bewildered, she looked from Joe to the man she had just

struck; but could not say which was the man who professed to love

her.

"Jim! So you followed me!" cried Joe, starting forward and flinging

his arms around the other.

"Yes, Joe, and right glad I am to find you," answered the young man,

while a peculiar expression of pleasure came over his face.

"It's good to see you again! And here's my old dog Mose! But how on

earth did you know? Where did you strike my trail? What are you

going to do out here on the frontier? Tell me all. What happened

after I left---"

Then Joe saw Nell standing nearby, pale and distressed, and he felt

something was amiss. He glanced quickly from her to his brother; she

seemed to be dazed, and Jim looked grave.

"What the deuce--? Nell, this is my brother Jim, the one I told you

about. Jim, this is my friend, Miss Wells."

"I am happy to meet Miss Wells," said Jim, with a smile, "even

though she did slap my face for nothing."

"Slapped you? What for?" Then the truth dawned on Joe, and he

laughed until the tears came into his eyes. "She took you for me!

Ha, ha, ha! Oh, this is great!"

Nell's face was now rosy red and moisture glistened in her eyes; but

she tried bravely to stand her ground. Humiliation had taken the

place of anger.

"I--I--am sorry, Mr. Downs. I did take you for him. He--he has

insulted me." Then she turned and ran into the cabin.

Chapter II.

Joe and Jim were singularly alike. They were nearly the same size,

very tall, but so heavily built as to appear of medium height, while

their grey eyes and, indeed, every feature of their clean-cut faces

corresponded so exactly as to proclaim them brothers.

"Already up to your old tricks?" asked Jim, with his hand on Joe's

shoulder, as they both watched Nell's flight.

"I'm really fond of her, Jim, and didn't mean to hurt her feelings.

But tell me about yourself; what made you come West?"

"To teach the Indians, and I was, no doubt, strongly influenced by

your being here."

"You're going to do as you ever have--make some sacrifice. You are

always devoting yourself; if not to me, to some other. Now it's your

life you're giving up. To try to convert the redskins and influence

me for good is in both cases impossible. How often have I said there

wasn't any good in me! My desire is to kill Indians, not preach to

them, Jim. I'm glad to see you; but I wish you hadn't come. This

wild frontier is no place for a preacher."

"I think it is," said Jim, quietly.

"What of Rose--the girl you were to marry?"

Joe glanced quickly at his brother. Jim's face paled slightly as he

turned away.

"I'll speak once more of her, and then, never again," he answered.

"You knew Rose better than I did. Once you tried to tell me she was

too fond of admiration, and I rebuked you; but now I see that your

wider experience of women had taught you things I could not then

understand. She was untrue. When you left Williamsburg, apparently

because you had gambled with Jewett and afterward fought him, I was

not misled. You made the game of cards a pretense; you sought it

simply as an opportunity to wreak your vengeance on him for his

villainy toward me. Well, it's all over now. Though you cruelly beat

and left him disfigured for life, he will live, and you are saved

from murder, thank God! When I learned of your departure I yearned

to follow. Then I met a preacher who spoke of having intended to go

West with a Mr. Wells, of the Moravian Mission. I immediately said I

would go in his place, and here I am. I'm fortunate in that I have

found both him and you."

"I'm sorry I didn't kill Jewett; I certainly meant to. Anyway,

there's some comfort in knowing I left my mark on him. He was a

sneaking, cold-blooded fellow, with his white hair and pale face,

and always fawning round the girls. I hated him, and gave it to him

good." Joe spoke musingly and complacently as though it was a

trivial thing to compass the killing of a man.

"Well, Jim, you're here now, and there's no help for it. We'll go

along with this Moravian preacher and his nieces. If you haven't any

great regrets for the past, why, all may be well yet. I can see that

the border is the place for me. But now, Jim, for once in your life

take a word of advice from me. We're out on the frontier, where

every man looks after himself. Your being a minister won't protect

you here where every man wears a knife and a tomahawk, and where

most of them are desperadoes. Cut out that soft voice and most of

your gentle ways, and be a little more like your brother. Be as kind

as you like, and preach all you want to; but when some of these

buckskin-legged frontiermen try to walk all over you, as they will,

take your own part in a way you have never taken it before. I had my

lesson the first few days out with that wagon-train. It was a case

of four fights; but I'm all right now."

"Joe, I won't run, if that's what you mean," answered Jim, with a

laugh. "Yes, I understand that a new life begins here, and I am

content. If I can find my work in it, and remain with you, I shall

be happy."

"Ah! old Mose! I'm glad to see you," Joe cried to the big dog who

came nosing round him. "You've brought this old fellow; did you

bring the horses?"

"Look behind the wagon."

With the dog bounding before him, Joe did as he was directed, and

there found two horses tethered side by side. Little wonder that his

eyes gleamed with delight. One was jet-black; the other iron-gray

and in every line the clean-limbed animals showed the thoroughbred.

The black threw up his slim head and whinnied, with affection

clearly shining in his soft, dark eyes as he recognized his master.

"Lance, old fellow, how did I ever leave you!" murmured Joe, as he

threw his arm over the arched neck. Mose stood by looking up, and

wagging his tail in token of happiness at the reunion of the three

old friends. There were tears in Joe's eyes when, with a last

affectionate caress, he turned away from his pet.

"Come, Jim, I'll take you to Mr. Wells."

They started across the little square, while Mose went back under the

wagon; but at a word from Joe he bounded after them, trotting

contentedly at their heels. Half way to the cabins a big, raw-boned

teamster, singing in a drunken voice, came staggering toward them.

Evidently he had just left the group of people who had gathered near

the Indians.

"I didn't expect to see drunkenness out here," said Jim, in a low

tone.

"There's lots of it. I saw that fellow yesterday when he couldn't

walk. Wentz told me he was a bad customer."

The teamster, his red face bathed in perspiration, and his sleeves

rolled up, showing brown, knotty arms, lurched toward them. As they

met he aimed a kick at the dog; but Mose leaped nimbly aside,

avoiding the heavy boot. He did not growl, nor show his teeth; but

the great white head sank forward a little, and the lithe body

crouched for a spring.

"Don't touch that dog; he'll tear your leg off!" Joe cried sharply.

"Say, pard, cum an' hev' a drink," replied the teamster, with a

friendly leer.

"I don't drink," answered Joe, curtly, and moved on.

The teamster growled something of which only the word "parson" was

intelligible to the brothers. Joe stopped and looked back. His gray

eyes seemed to contract; they did not flash, but shaded and lost

their warmth. Jim saw the change, and, knowing what it signified,

took Joe's arm as he gently urged him away. The teamster's shrill

voice could be heard until they entered the fur-trader's cabin.

An old man with long, white hair flowing from beneath his

wide-brimmed hat, sat near the door holding one of Mrs. Wentz's

children on his knee. His face was deep-lined and serious; but

kindness shone from his mild blue eyes.

"Mr. Wells, this is my brother James. He is a preacher, and has come

in place of the man you expected from Williamsburg."

The old minister arose, and extended his hand, gazing earnestly at

the new-comer meanwhile. Evidently he approved of what he saw in his

quick scrutiny of the other's face, for his lips were wreathed with

a smile of welcome.

"Mr. Downs, I am glad to meet you, and to know you will go with me.

I thank God I shall take into the wilderness one who is young enough

to carry on the work when my days are done."

"I will make it my duty to help you in whatsoever way lies in my

power," answered Jim, earnestly.

"We have a great work before us. I have heard many scoffers who

claim that it is worse than folly to try to teach these fierce

savages Christianity; but I know it can be done, and my heart is in

the work. I have no fear; yet I would not conceal from you, young

man, that the danger of going among these hostile Indians must be

great."

"I will not hesitate because of that. My sympathy is with the

redman. I have had an opportunity of studying Indian nature and

believe the race inherently noble. He has been driven to make war,

and I want to help him into other paths."

Joe left the two ministers talking earnestly and turned toward Mrs.

Wentz. The fur-trader's wife was glowing with pleasure. She held in

her hand several rude trinkets, and was explaining to her listener,

a young woman, that the toys were for the children, having been

brought all the way from Williamsburg.

"Kate, where's Nell?" Joe asked of the girl.

"She went on an errand for Mrs. Wentz."

Kate Wells was the opposite of her sister. Her motions were slow,

easy and consistent with her large, full, form. Her brown eyes and

hair contrasted sharply with Nell's. The greatest difference in the

sisters lay in that Nell's face was sparkling and full of the fire

of her eager young life, while Kate's was calm, like the unruffled

surface of a deep lake.

"That's Jim, my brother. We're going with you," said Joe.

"Are you? I'm glad," answered the girl, looking at the handsome

earnest face of the young minister.

"Your brother's like you for all the world," whispered Mrs. Wentz.

"He does look like you," said Kate, with her slow smile.

"Which means you think, or hope, that that is all," retorted Joe

laughingly. "Well, Kate, there the resemblance ends, thank God for

Jim!"

He spoke in a sad, bitter tone which caused both women to look at

him wonderingly. Joe had to them ever been full of surprises; never

until then had they seen evidences of sadness in his face. A

moment's silence ensued. Mrs. Wentz gazed lovingly at the children

who were playing with the trinkets; while Kate mused over the young

man's remark, and began studying his, half-averted face. She felt

warmly drawn to him by the strange expression in the glance he had

given his brother. The tenderness in his eyes did not harmonize with

much of this wild and reckless boy's behavior. To Kate he had always

seemed so bold, so cold, so different from other men, and yet here

was proof that Master Joe loved his brother.

The murmured conversation of the two ministers was interrupted by a

low cry from outside the cabin. A loud, coarse laugh followed, and

then a husky voice:

"Hol' on, my purty lass."'

Joe took two long strides, and was on the door-step. He saw Nell

struggling violently in the grasp of the half-drunken teamster.

"I'll jes' hev' to kiss this lassie fer luck," he said in a tone of

good humor.

At the same instant Joe saw three loungers laughing, and a fourth,

the grizzled frontiersman, starting forward with a yell.

"Let me go!" cried Nell.

Just when the teamster had pulled her close to him, and was bending

his red, moist face to hers, two brown, sinewy hands grasped his

neck with an angry clutch. Deprived thus of breath, his mouth

opened, his tongue protruded; his eyes seemed starting from their

sockets, and his arms beat the air. Then he was lifted and flung

with a crash against the cabin wall. Falling, he lay in a heap on

the grass, while the blood flowed from a cut on his temple.

"What's this?" cried a man, authoritatively. He had come swiftly up,

and arrived at the scene where stood the grizzled frontiersman.

"It was purty handy, Wentz. I couldn't hev' did better myself, and I

was comin' for that purpose," said the frontiersman. "Leffler was

tryin' to kiss the lass. He's been drunk fer two days. That little

girl's sweetheart kin handle himself some, now you take my word on

it."

"I'll agree Leff's bad when he's drinkin'," answered the fur-trader,

and to Joe he added, "He's liable to look you up when he comes

around."

"Tell him if I am here when he gets sober, I'll kill him," Joe cried

in a sharp voice. His gaze rested once more on the fallen teamster,

and again an odd contraction of his eyes was noticeable. The glance

was cutting, as if with the flash of cold gray steel. "Nell, I'm

sorry I wasn't round sooner," he said, apologetically, as if it was

owing to his neglect the affair had happened.

As they entered the cabin Nell stole a glance at him. This was the

third time he had injured a man because of her. She had on several

occasions seen that cold, steely glare in his eyes, and it had

always frightened her. It was gone, however, before they were inside

the building. He said something which she did not hear distinctly,

and his calm voice allayed her excitement. She had been angry with

him; but now she realized that her resentment had disappeared. He

had spoken so kindly after the outburst. Had he not shown that he

considered himself her protector and lover? A strange emotion, sweet

and subtle as the taste of wine, thrilled her, while a sense of fear

because of his strength was mingled with her pride in it. Any other

girl would have been only too glad to have such a champion; she

would, too, hereafter, for he was a man of whom to be proud.

"Look here, Nell, you haven't spoken to me," Joe cried suddenly,

seeming to understand that she had not even heard what he said, so

engrossed had she been with her reflections. "Are you mad with me

yet?" he continued. "Why, Nell, I'm in--I love you!"

Evidently Joe thought such fact a sufficient reason for any act on

his part. His tender tone conquered Nell, and she turned to him with

flushed cheeks and glad eyes.

"I wasn't angry at all," she whispered, and then, eluding the arm he

extended, she ran into the other room.

Chapter III.

Joe lounged in the doorway of the cabin, thoughtfully contemplating

two quiet figures that were lying in the shade of a maple tree. One

he recognized as the Indian with whom Jim had spent an earnest hour

that morning; the red son of the woods was wrapped in slumber. He

had placed under his head a many-hued homespun shirt which the young

preacher had given him; but while asleep his head had rolled off

this improvised pillow, and the bright garment lay free, attracting

the eye. Certainly it had led to the train of thought which had

found lodgment in Joe's fertile brain.

The other sleeper was a short, stout man whom Joe had seen several

times before. This last fellow did not appear to be well-balanced in

his mind, and was the butt of the settlers' jokes, while the

children called him "Loorey." He, like the Indian, was sleeping off

the effects of the previous night's dissipation.

During a few moments Joe regarded the recumbent figures with an

expression on his face which told that he thought in them were great

possibilities for sport. With one quick glance around he disappeared

within the cabin, and when he showed himself at the door, surveying

the village square with mirthful eyes, he held in his hand a small

basket of Indian design. It was made of twisted grass, and simply

contained several bits of soft, chalky stone such as the Indians

used for painting, which collection Joe had discovered among the

fur-trader's wares.

He glanced around once more, and saw that all those in sight were

busy with their work. He gave the short man a push, and chuckled

when there was no response other than a lazy grunt. Joe took the

Indians' gaudy shirt, and, lifting Loorey, slipped it around him,

shoved the latter's arms through the sleeves, and buttoned it in

front. He streaked the round face with red and white paint, and

then, dexterously extracting the eagle plume from the Indian's

head-dress, stuck it in Loorey's thick shock of hair. It was all

done in a moment, after which Joe replaced the basket, and went down

to the river.

Several times that morning he had visited the rude wharf where Jeff

Lynn, the grizzled old frontiersman, busied himself with

preparations for the raft-journey down the Ohio. Lynn had been

employed to guide the missionary's party to Fort Henry, and, as the

brothers had acquainted him with their intention of accompanying the

travelers, he had constructed a raft for them and their horses.

Joe laughed when he saw the dozen two-foot logs fastened together,

upon which a rude shack had been erected for shelter. This slight

protection from sun and storm was all the brothers would have on

their long journey.

Joe noted, however, that the larger raft had been prepared with some

thought for the comfort of the girls. The floor of the little hut

was raised so that the waves which broke over the logs could not

reach it. Taking a peep into the structure, Joe was pleased to see

that Nell and Kate would be comfortable, even during a storm. A

buffalo robe and two red blankets gave to the interior a cozy, warm

look. He observed that some of the girls' luggage was already on

board.

"When'll we be off?" he inquired.

"Sun-up," answered Lynn, briefly.

"I'm glad of that. I like to be on the go in the early morning,"

said Joe, cheerfully.

"Most folks from over Eastways ain't in a hurry to tackle the

river," replied Lynn, eyeing Joe sharply.

"It's a beautiful river, and I'd like to sail on it from here to

where it ends, and then come back to go again," Joe replied, warmly.

"In a hurry to be a-goin'? I'll allow you'll see some slim red

devils, with feathers in their hair, slipping among the trees along

the bank, and mebbe you'll hear the ping which's made when whistlin'

lead hits. Perhaps you'll want to be back here by termorrer

sundown."

"Not I," said Joe, with his short, cool laugh.

The old frontiersman slowly finished his task of coiling up a rope

of wet cowhide, and then, producing a dirty pipe, he took a live

ember from the fire and placed it on the bowl. He sucked slowly at

the pipe-stem, and soon puffed out a great cloud of smoke. Sitting

on a log, he deliberately surveyed the robust shoulders and long,

heavy limbs of the young man, with a keen appreciation of their

symmetry and strength. Agility, endurance and courage were more to a

borderman than all else; a new-comer on the frontier was always

"sized-up" with reference to these "points," and respected in

proportion to the measure in which he possessed them.

Old Jeff Lynn, riverman, hunter, frontiersman, puffed slowly at his

pipe while he mused thus to himself: "Mebbe I'm wrong in takin' a

likin' to this youngster so sudden. Mebbe it's because I'm fond of

his sunny-haired lass, an' ag'in mebbe it's because I'm gettin' old

an' likes young folks better'n I onct did. Anyway, I'm kinder

thinkin, if this young feller gits worked out, say fer about twenty

pounds less, he'll lick a whole raft-load of wild-cats."

Joe walked to and fro on the logs, ascertained how the raft was put

together, and took a pull on the long, clumsy steering-oar. At

length he seated himself beside Lynn. He was eager to ask questions;

to know about the rafts, the river, the forest, the

Indians--everything in connection with this wild life; but already

he had learned that questioning these frontiersmen is a sure means

of closing their lips.

"Ever handle the long rifle?" asked Lynn, after a silence.

"Yes," answered Joe, simply.

"Ever shoot anythin'?" the frontiersman questioned, when he had

taken four or five puffs at his pipe.

"Squirrels."

"Good practice, shootin' squirrels," observed Jeff, after another

silence, long enough to allow Joe to talk if he was so inclined.

"Kin ye hit one--say, a hundred yards?"

"Yes, but not every time in the head," returned Joe. There was an

apologetic tone in his answer.

Another interval followed in which neither spoke. Jeff was slowly

pursuing his line of thought. After Joe's last remark he returned

his pipe to his pocket and brought out a tobacco-pouch. He tore off

a large portion of the weed and thrust it into his mouth. Then he

held out the little buckskin sack to Joe.

"Hev' a chaw," he said.

To offer tobacco to anyone was absolutely a borderman's guarantee of

friendliness toward that person.

Jeff expectorated half a dozen times, each time coming a little

nearer the stone he was aiming at, some five yards distant. Possibly

this was the borderman's way of oiling up his conversational

machinery. At all events, he commenced to talk.

"Yer brother's goin' to preach out here, ain't he? Preachin' is all

right, I'll allow; but I'm kinder doubtful about preachin' to

redskins. Howsumever, I've knowed Injuns who are good fellows, and

there's no tellin'. What are ye goin' in fer--farmin'?"

"No, I wouldn't make a good farmer."

"Jest cum out kinder wild like, eh?" rejoined Jeff, knowingly.

"I wanted to come West because I was tired of tame life. I love the

forest; I want to fish and hunt; and I think I'd like to--to see

Indians."

"I kinder thought so," said the old frontiersman, nodding his head

as though he perfectly understood Joe's case. "Well, lad, where

you're goin' seein' Injuns ain't a matter of choice. You has to see

'em, and fight 'em, too. We've had bad times for years out here on

the border, and I'm thinkin' wuss is comin'. Did ye ever hear the

name Girty?"

"Yes; he's a renegade."

"He's a traitor, and Jim and George Girty, his brothers, are p'isin

rattlesnake Injuns. Simon Girty's bad enough; but Jim's the wust.

He's now wusser'n a full-blooded Delaware. He's all the time on the

lookout to capture white wimen to take to his Injun teepee. Simon

Girty and his pals, McKee and Elliott, deserted from that thar fort

right afore yer eyes. They're now livin' among the redskins down

Fort Henry way, raisin' as much hell fer the settlers as they kin."

"Is Fort Henry near the Indian towns?" asked Joe.

"There's Delawares, Shawnees and Hurons all along the Ohio below

Fort Henry."

"Where is the Moravian Mission located?"

"Why, lad, the Village of Peace, as the Injuns call it, is right in

the midst of that Injun country. I 'spect it's a matter of a hundred

miles below and cross-country a little from Fort Henry."

"The fort must be an important point, is it not?"

"Wal, I guess so. It's the last place on the river," answered Lynn,

with a grim smile. "There's only a stockade there, an' a handful of

men. The Injuns hev swarmed down on it time and ag'in, but they hev

never burned it. Only such men as Colonel Zane, his brother Jack,

and Wetzel could hev kept that fort standin' all these bloody years.

Eb Zane's got but a few men, yet he kin handle 'em some, an' with

such scouts as Jack Zane and Wetzel, he allus knows what's goin' on

among the Injuns."

"I've heard of Colonel Zane. He was an officer under Lord Dunmore.

The hunters here speak often of Jack Zane and Wetzel. What are

they?"

"Jack Zane is a hunter an' guide. I knowed him well a few years

back. He's a quiet, mild chap; but a streak of chain-lightnin' when

he's riled. Wetzel is an Injun-killer. Some people say as how he's

crazy over scalp-huntin'; but I reckon that's not so. I've seen him

a few times. He don't hang round the settlement 'cept when the

Injuns are up, an' nobody sees him much. At home he sets round

silent-like, an' then mebbe next mornin' he'll be gone, an' won't

show up fer days or weeks. But all the frontier knows of his deeds.

Fer instance, I've hearn of settlers gettin' up in the mornin' an'

findin' a couple of dead and scalped Injuns right in front of their

cabins. No one knowed who killed 'em, but everybody says 'Wetzel.'

He's allus warnin' the settlers when they need to flee to the fort,

and sure he's right every time, because when these men go back to

their cabins they find nothin' but ashes. There couldn't be any

farmin' done out there but fer Wetzel."

"What does he look like?" questioned Joe, much interested.

"Wetzel stands straight as the oak over thar. He'd hev' to go

sideways to git his shoulders in that door, but he's as light of

foot an' fast as a deer. An' his eyes--why, lad, ye kin hardly look

into 'em. If you ever see Wetzel you'll know him to onct."

"I want to see him," Joe spoke quickly, his eyes lighting with an

eager flash. "He must be a great fighter."

"Is he? Lew Wetzel is the heftiest of 'em all, an' we hev some as

kin fight out here. I was down the river a few years ago and joined

a party to go out an' hunt up some redskins as had been reported.

Wetzel was with us. We soon struck Injun sign, and then come on to a

lot of the pesky varmints. We was all fer goin' home, because we had

a small force. When we started to go we finds Wetzel sittin'

calm-like on a log. We said: 'Ain't ye goin' home?' and he replied,

'I cum out to find redskins, an' now as we've found 'em, I'm not

goin' to run away.' An' we left him settin' thar. Oh, Wetzel is a

fighter!"

"I hope I shall see him," said Joe once more, the warm light, which

made him look so boyish, still glowing in his face.

"Mebbe ye'll git to; and sure ye'll see redskins, an' not tame ones,

nuther."

At this moment the sound of excited voices near the cabins broke in

on the conversation. Joe saw several persons run toward the large

cabin and disappear behind it. He smiled as he thought perhaps the

commotion had been caused by the awakening of the Indian brave.

Rising to his feet, Joe went toward the cabin, and soon saw the

cause of the excitement. A small crowd of men and women, all

laughing and talking, surrounded the Indian brave and the little

stout fellow. Joe heard some one groan, and then a deep, guttural

voice:

"Paleface--big steal--ugh! Injun mad--heap mad--kill paleface."

After elbowing his way into the group, Joe saw the Indian holding

Loorey with one hand, while he poked him on the ribs with the other.

The captive's face was the picture of dismay; even the streaks of

paint did not hide his look of fear and bewilderment. The poor

half-witted fellow was so badly frightened that he could only groan.

"Silvertip scalp paleface. Ugh!" growled the savage, giving Loorey

another blow on the side. This time he bent over in pain. The

bystanders were divided in feeling; the men laughed, while the women

murmured sympathetically.

"This's not a bit funny," muttered Joe, as he pushed his way nearly

to the middle of the crowd. Then he stretched out a long arm that,

bare and brawny, looked as though it might have been a blacksmith's,

and grasped the Indian's sinewy wrist with a force that made him

loosen his hold on Loorey instantly.

"I stole the shirt--fun--joke," said Joe. "Scalp me if you want to

scalp anyone."

The Indian looked quickly at the powerful form before him. With a

twist he slipped his arm from Joe's grasp.

"Big paleface heap fun--all squaw play," he said, scornfully. There

was a menace in his somber eyes as he turned abruptly and left the

group.

"I'm afraid you've made an enemy," said Jake Wentz to Joe. "An

Indian never forgets an insult, and that's how he regarded your

joke. Silvertip has been friendly here because he sells us his

pelts. He's a Shawnee chief. There he goes through the willows!"

By this time Jim and Mr. Wells, Mrs. Wentz and the girls had joined

the group. They all watched Silvertip get into his canoe and paddle

away.

"A bad sign," said Wentz, and then, turning to Jeff Lynn, who joined

the party at that moment, he briefly explained the circumstances.

"Never did like Silver. He's a crafty redskin, an' not to be

trusted," replied Jeff.

"He has turned round and is looking back," Nell said quickly.

"So he has," observed the fur-trader.

The Indian was now several hundred yards down the swift river, and

for an instant had ceased paddling. The sun shone brightly on his

eagle plumes. He remained motionless for a moment, and even at such

a distance the dark, changeless face could be discerned. He lifted

his hand and shook it menacingly.

"If ye don't hear from that redskin ag'in Jeff Lynn don't know

nothin'," calmly said the old frontiersman.

Chapter IV.

As the rafts drifted with the current the voyagers saw the settlers

on the landing-place diminish until they had faded from indistinct

figures to mere black specks against the green background. Then came

the last wave of a white scarf, faintly in the distance, and at

length the dark outline of the fort was all that remained to their

regretful gaze. Quickly that, too, disappeared behind the green

hill, which, with its bold front, forces the river to take a wide

turn.

The Ohio, winding in its course between high, wooded bluffs, rolled

on and on into the wilderness.

Beautiful as was the ever-changing scenery, rugged gray-faced cliffs

on one side contrasting with green-clad hills on the other, there

hovered over land and water something more striking than beauty.

Above all hung a still atmosphere of calmness--of loneliness.

And this penetrating solitude marred somewhat the pleasure which

might have been found in the picturesque scenery, and caused the

voyagers, to whom this country was new, to take less interest in the

gaily-feathered birds and stealthy animals that were to be seen on

the way. By the forms of wild life along the banks of the river,

this strange intruder on their peace was regarded with attention.

The birds and beasts evinced little fear of the floating rafts. The

sandhill crane, stalking along the shore, lifted his long neck as

the unfamiliar thing came floating by, and then stood still and

silent as a statue until the rafts disappeared from view.

Blue-herons feeding along the bars, saw the unusual spectacle, and,

uttering surprised "booms," they spread wide wings and lumbered away

along the shore. The crows circled above the voyagers, cawing in not

unfriendly excitement. Smaller birds alighted on the raised poles,

and several--a robin, a catbird and a little brown wren--ventured

with hesitating boldness to peck at the crumbs the girls threw to

them. Deer waded knee-deep in the shallow water, and, lifting their

heads, instantly became motionless and absorbed. Occasionally a

buffalo appeared on a level stretch of bank, and, tossing his huge

head, seemed inclined to resent the coming of this stranger into his

domain.

All day the rafts drifted steadily and swiftly down the river,

presenting to the little party ever-varying pictures of densely

wooded hills, of jutting, broken cliffs with scant evergreen growth;

of long reaches of sandy bar that glistened golden in the sunlight,

and over all the flight and call of wildfowl, the flitting of

woodland songsters, and now and then the whistle and bellow of the

horned watchers in the forest.

The intense blue of the vault above began to pale, and low down in

the west a few fleecy clouds, gorgeously golden for a fleeting

instant, then crimson-crowned for another, shaded and darkened as

the setting sun sank behind the hills. Presently the red rays

disappeared, a pink glow suffused the heavens, and at last, as gray

twilight stole down over the hill-tops, the crescent moon peeped

above the wooded fringe of the western bluffs.

"Hard an' fast she is," sang out Jeff Lynn, as he fastened the rope

to a tree at the head of a small island. "All off now, and' we'll

hev' supper. Thar's a fine spring under yon curly birch, an' I

fetched along a leg of deer-meat. Hungry, little 'un?"

He had worked hard all day steering the rafts, yet Nell had seen him

smiling at her many times during the journey, and he had found time

before the early start to arrange for her a comfortable seat. There

was now a solicitude in the frontiersman's voice that touched her.

"I am famished," she replied, with her bright smile. "I am afraid I

could eat a whole deer."

They all climbed the sandy slope, and found themselves on the summit

of an oval island, with a pretty glade in the middle surrounded by

birches. Bill, the second raftsman, a stolid, silent man, at once

swung his axe upon a log of driftwood. Mr. Wells and Jim walked to

and fro under the birches, and Kate and Nell sat on the grass

watching with great interest the old helmsman as he came up from the

river, his brown hands and face shining from the scrubbing he had

given them. Soon he had a fire cheerfully blazing, and after laying

out the few utensils, he addressed himself to Joe:

"I'll tell ye right here, lad, good venison kin be spoiled by bad

cuttin' and cookin'. You're slicin' it too thick. See--thar! Now

salt good, an' keep outen the flame; on the red coals is best."

With a sharpened stick Jeff held the thin slices over the fire for a

few moments. Then he laid them aside on some clean white-oak chips

Bill's axe had provided. The simple meal of meat, bread, and

afterward a drink of the cold spring water, was keenly relished by

the hungry voyagers. When it had been eaten, Jeff threw a log on the

fire and remarked:

"Seein' as how we won't be in redskin territory fer awhile yit, we

kin hev a fire. I'll allow ye'll all be chilly and damp from

river-mist afore long, so toast yerselves good."

"How far have we come to-day?" inquired Mr. Wells, his mind always

intent on reaching the scene of his cherished undertaking.

"'Bout thirty-odd mile, I reckon. Not much on a trip, thet's sartin,

but we'll pick up termorrer. We've some quicker water, an' the rafts

hev to go separate."

"How quiet!" exclaimed Kate, suddenly breaking the silence that

followed the frontiersman's answer.

"Beautiful!" impetuously said Nell, looking up at Joe. A quick flash

from his gray eyes answered her; he did not speak; indeed he had

said little to her since the start, but his glance showed her how

glad he was that she felt the sweetness and content of this wild

land.

"I was never in a wilderness before," broke in the earnest voice of

the young minister. "I feel an almost overpowering sense of

loneliness. I want to get near to you all; I feel lost. Yet it is

grand, sublime!"

"Here is the promised land--the fruitful life--Nature as it was

created by God," replied the old minister, impressively.

"Tell us a story," said Nell to the old frontiersman, as he once

more joined the circle round the fire.

"So, little 'un, ye want a story?" queried Jeff, taking up a live

coal and placing it in the bowl of his pipe. He took off his

coon-skin cap and carefully laid it aside. His weather-beaten face

beamed in answer to the girl's request. He drew a long and audible

pull at his black pipe, and sent forth slowly a cloud of white

smoke. Deliberately poking the fire with a stick, as if stirring

into life dead embers of the past, he sucked again at his pipe, and

emitted a great puff of smoke that completely enveloped the grizzled

head. From out that white cloud came his drawling voice.

"Ye've seen thet big curly birch over thar--thet 'un as bends kind

of sorrowful like. Wal, it used to stand straight an' proud. I've

knowed thet tree all the years I've navigated this river, an' it

seems natural like to me thet it now droops dyin', fer it shades the

grave of as young, an' sweet, an' purty a lass as yerself, Miss

Nell. Rivermen called this island George's Island, 'cause Washington

onct camped here; but of late years the name's got changed, an' the

men say suthin' like this: 'We'll try an' make Milly's birch afore

sundown,' jest as Bill and me hev done to-day. Some years agone I

was comin' up from Fort Henry, an' had on board my slow old scow a

lass named Milly--we never learned her other name. She come to me at

the fort, an' tells as how her folks hed been killed by Injuns, an'

she wanted to git back to Pitt to meet her sweetheart. I was ag'in

her comin' all along, an' fust off I said 'No.' But when I seen

tears in her blue eyes, an' she puts her little hand on mine, I jest

wilted, an' says to Jim Blair, 'She goes.' Wal, jest as might hev

been expected--an' fact is I looked fer it--we wus tackled by

redskins. Somehow, Jim Girty got wind of us hevin' a lass aboard,

an' he ketched up with us jest below here. It's a bad place, called

Shawnee Rock, an' I'll show it to ye termorrer. The renegade, with

his red devils, attacked us thar, an' we had a time gittin' away.

Milly wus shot. She lived fer awhile, a couple of days, an' all the

time wus so patient, an' sweet, an' brave with thet renegade's

bullet in her--fer he shot her when he seen he couldn't capture

her--thet thar wusn't a blame man of us who wouldn't hev died to

grant her prayer, which wus that she could live to onct more see her

lover."

There was a long silence, during which the old frontiersman sat

gazing into the fire with sad eyes.

"We couldn't do nuthin', an' we buried her thar under thet birch,

where she smiled her last sad, sweet smile, an' died. Ever since

then the river has been eatn' away at this island. It's only half as

big as it wus onct, an' another flood will take away this sand-bar,

these few birches--an' Milly's grave."

The old frontiersman's story affected all his listeners. The elder

minister bowed his head and prayed that no such fate might overtake

his nieces. The young minister looked again, as he had many times

that day, at Nell's winsome face. The girls cast grave glances at

the drooping birch, and their bright tears glistened in the

fire-glow. Once more Joe's eyes glinted with that steely flash, and

as he gazed out over the wide, darkening expanse of water his face

grew cold and rigid.

"I'll allow I might hev told a more cheerful story, an' I'll do so

next time; but I wanted ye all, particular the lasses, to know

somethin' of the kind of country ye're goin' into. The frontier

needs women; but jist yit it deals hard with them. An' Jim Girty,

with more of his kind, ain't dead yit."

"Why don't some one kill him?" was Joe's sharp question.

"Easier said than done, lad. Jim Girty is a white traitor, but he's

a cunnin' an' fierce redskin in his ways an' life. He knows the

woods as a crow does, an' keeps outer sight 'cept when he's least

expected. Then ag'in, he's got Simon Girty, his brother, an' almost

the whole redskin tribe behind him. Injuns stick close to a white

man that has turned ag'inst his own people, an' Jim Girty hain't

ever been ketched. Howsumever, I heard last trip thet he'd been

tryin' some of his tricks round Fort Henry, an' thet Wetzel is on

his trail. Wal, if it's so thet Lew Wetzel is arter him, I wouldn't

give a pinch o' powder fer the white-redskin's chances of a long

life."

No one spoke, and Jeff, after knocking the ashes from his pipe, went

down to the raft, returning shortly afterward with his blanket. This

he laid down and rolled himself in it. Presently from under his

coon-skin cap came the words:

"Wal, I've turned in, an' I advise ye all to do the same."

All save Joe and Nell acted on Jeff's suggestion. For a long time

the young couple sat close together on the bank, gazing at the

moonlight on the river.

The night was perfect. A cool wind fanned the dying embers of the

fire and softly stirred the leaves. Earlier in the evening a single

frog had voiced his protest against the loneliness; but now his

dismal croak was no longer heard. A snipe, belated in his feeding,

ran along the sandy shore uttering his tweet-tweet, and his little

cry, breaking in so softly on the silence, seemed only to make more

deeply felt the great vast stillness of the night.

Joe's arm was around Nell. She had demurred at first, but he gave no

heed to her slight resistance, and finally her head rested against

his shoulder. There was no need of words.

Joe had a pleasurable sense of her nearness, and there was a delight

in the fragrance of her hair as it waved against his cheek; but just

then love was not uppermost in his mind. All day he had been silent

under the force of an emotion which he could not analyze. Some

power, some feeling in which the thought of Nell had no share, was

drawing him with irresistible strength. Nell had just begun to

surrender to him in the sweetness of her passion; and yet even with

that knowledge knocking reproachfully at his heart, he could not

help being absorbed in the shimmering water, in the dark reflection

of the trees, the gloom and shadow of the forest.

Presently he felt her form relax in his arms; then her soft regular

breathing told him she had fallen asleep and he laughed low to

himself. How she would pout on the morrow when he teased her about

it! Then, realizing that she was tired with her long day's journey,

he reproached himself for keeping her from the needed rest, and

instantly decided to carry her to the raft. Yet such was the novelty

of the situation that he yielded to its charm, and did not go at

once. The moonlight found bright threads in her wavy hair; it shone

caressingly on her quiet face, and tried to steal under the downcast

lashes.

Joe made a movement to rise with her, when she muttered indistinctly

as if speaking to some one. He remembered then she had once told him

that she talked in her sleep, and how greatly it annoyed her. He

might hear something more with which to tease her; so he listened.

"Yes--uncle--I will go--Kate, we must--go. . ."

Another interval of silence, then more murmurings. He distinguished

his own name, and presently she called clearly, as if answering some

inward questioner.

"I--love him--yes--I love Joe--he has mastered me. Yet I wish he

were--like Jim--Jim who looked at me--so--with his deep eyes--and

I. . . ."

Joe lifted her as if she were a baby, and carrying her down to the

raft, gently laid her by her sleeping sister.

The innocent words which he should not have heard were like a blow.

What she would never have acknowledged in her waking hours had been

revealed in her dreams. He recalled the glance of Jim's eyes as it

had rested on Nell many times that day, and now these things were

most significant.

He found at the end of the island a great, mossy stone. On this he

climbed, and sat where the moonlight streamed upon him. Gradually

that cold bitterness died out from his face, as it passed from his

heart, and once more he became engrossed in the silver sheen on the

water, the lapping of the waves on the pebbly beach, and in that

speaking, mysterious silence of the woods.

* * *

When the first faint rays of red streaked over the eastern

hill-tops, and the river mist arose from the water in a vapory

cloud, Jeff Lynn rolled out of his blanket, stretched his long

limbs, and gave a hearty call to the morning. His cheerful welcome

awakened all the voyagers except Joe, who had spent the night in

watching and the early morning in fishing.

"Wal, I'll be darned," ejaculated Jeff as he saw Joe. "Up afore me,

an' ketched a string of fish."

"What are they?" asked Joe, holding up several bronze-backed fish.

"Bass--black bass, an' thet big feller is a lammin' hefty 'un. How'd

ye ketch 'em?"

"I fished for them."

"Wal, so it 'pears," growled Jeff, once more reluctantly yielding to

his admiration for the lad. "How'd ye wake up so early?"

"I stayed up all night. I saw three deer swim from the mainland, but

nothing else came around."

"Try yer hand at cleanin' 'em fer breakfast," continued Jeff,

beginning to busy himself with preparations for that meal. "Wal,

wal, if he ain't surprisin'! He'll do somethin' out here on the

frontier, sure as I'm a born sinner," he muttered to himself,

wagging his head in his quaint manner.

Breakfast over, Jeff transferred the horses to the smaller raft,

which he had cut loose from his own, and, giving a few directions to

Bill, started down-stream with Mr. Wells and the girls.

The rafts remained close together for a while, but as the current

quickened and was more skillfully taken advantage of by Jeff, the

larger raft gained considerable headway, gradually widening the gap

between the two.

All day they drifted. From time to time Joe and Jim waved their

hands to the girls; but the greater portion of their attention was

given to quieting the horses. Mose, Joe's big white dog, retired in

disgust to the hut, where he watched and dozed by turns. He did not

fancy this kind of voyaging. Bill strained his sturdy arms all day

on the steering-oar.

About the middle of the afternoon Joe observed that the hills grew

more rugged and precipitous, and the river ran faster. He kept a

constant lookout for the wall of rock which marked the point of

danger. When the sun had disappeared behind the hills, he saw ahead

a gray rock protruding from the green foliage. It was ponderous,

overhanging, and seemed to frown down on the river. This was Shawnee

Rock. Joe looked long at the cliff, and wondered if there was now an

Indian scout hidden behind the pines that skirted the edge.

Prominent on the top of the bluff a large, dead tree projected its

hoary, twisted branches.

Bill evidently saw the landmark, for he stopped in his monotonous

walk to and fro across the raft, and pushing his oar amidships he

looked ahead for the other raft. The figure of the tall frontiersman

could be plainly seen as he labored at the helm.

The raft disappeared round a bend, and as it did so Joe saw a white

scarf waved by Nell.

Bill worked the clumsy craft over toward the right shore where the

current was more rapid. He pushed with all his strength, and when

the oar had reached its widest sweep, he lifted it and ran back

across the raft for another push. Joe scanned the river ahead. He

saw no rapids; only rougher water whirling over some rocks. They

were where the channel narrowed and ran close to the right-hand

bank. Under a willow-flanked ledge was a sand-bar. To Joe there

seemed nothing hazardous in drifting through this pass.

"Bad place ahead," said Bill, observing Joe's survey of the river.

"It doesn't look so," replied Joe.

"A raft ain't a boat. We could pole a boat. You has to hev water to

float logs, an' the river's run out considerable. I'm only afeerd

fer the horses. If we hit or drag, they might plunge around a bit."

When the raft passed into the head of the bend it struck the rocks

several times, but finally gained the channel safely, and everything

seemed propitious for an easy passage.

But, greatly to Bill's surprise, the wide craft was caught directly

in the channel, and swung round so that the steering-oar pointed

toward the opposite shore. The water roared a foot deep over the

logs.

"Hold hard on the horses!" yelled Bill. "Somethin's wrong. I never

seen a snag here."

The straining mass of logs, insecurely fastened together, rolled and

then pitched loose again, but the short delay had been fatal to the

steering apparatus.

Joe would have found keen enjoyment in the situation, had it not

been for his horse, Lance. The thoroughbred was difficult to hold.

As Bill was making strenuous efforts to get in a lucky stroke of the

oar, he failed to see a long length of grapevine floating like a

brown snake of the water below. In the excitement they heeded not

the barking of Mose. Nor did they see the grapevine straighten and

become taut just as they drifted upon it; but they felt the raft

strike and hold on some submerged object. It creaked and groaned and

the foamy water surged, gurgling, between the logs.

Jim's mare snorted with terror, and rearing high, pulled her halter

loose and plunged into the river. But Jim still held her, at risk of

being drawn overboard.

"Let go! She'll drag you in!" yelled Joe, grasping him with his free

hand. Lance trembled violently and strained at the rope, which his

master held with a strong grip.

CRACK!

The stinging report of a rifle rang out above the splashing of the

water.

Without a cry, Bill's grasp on the oar loosened; he fell over it

limply, his head striking the almost submerged log. A dark-red fluid

colored the water; then his body slipped over the oar and into the

river, where it sank.

"My God! Shot!" cried Jim, in horrified tones.

He saw a puff of white smoke rising above the willows. Then the

branches parted, revealing the dark forms of several Indian

warriors. From the rifle in the foremost savage's hand a slight veil

of smoke rose. With the leap of a panther the redskin sprang from

the strip of sand to the raft.

"Hold, Jim! Drop that ax! We're caught!" cried Joe.

"It's that Indian from the fort!" gasped Jim.

The stalwart warrior was indeed Silvertip. But how changed! Stripped

of the blanket he had worn at the settlement, now standing naked but

for his buckskin breech-cloth, with his perfectly proportioned form

disclosed in all its sinewy beauty, and on his swarthy, evil face an

expression of savage scorn, he surely looked a warrior and a chief.

He drew his tomahawk and flashed a dark glance at Joe. For a moment

he steadily regarded the young man; but if he expected to see fear

in the latter's face he was mistaken, for the look was returned

coolly.

"Paleface steal shirt," he said in his deep voice. "Fool paleface

play--Silvertip no forget."

Chapter V.

Silvertip turned to his braves, and giving a brief command, sprang

from the raft. The warriors closed in around the brothers; two

grasping each by the arms, and the remaining Indian taking care of

the horse. The captives were then led ashore, where Silvertip

awaited them.

When the horse was clear of the raft, which task necessitated

considerable labor on the part of the Indians, the chief seized the

grapevine, that was now plainly in sight, and severed it with one

blow of his tomahawk. The raft dashed forward with a lurch and

drifted downstream.

In the clear water Joe could see the cunning trap which had caused

the death of Bill, and insured the captivity of himself and his

brother. The crafty savages had trimmed a six-inch sapling and

anchored it under the water. They weighted the heavy end, leaving

the other pointing upstream. To this last had been tied the

grapevine. When the drifting raft reached the sapling, the Indians

concealed in the willows pulled hard on the improvised rope; the end

of the sapling stuck up like a hook, and the aft was caught and

held. The killing of the helmsman showed the Indians' foresight;

even had the raft drifted on downstream the brothers would have been

helpless on a craft they could not manage. After all, Joe thought,

he had not been so far wrong when he half fancied that an Indian lay

behind Shawnee Rock, and he marveled at this clever trick which had

so easily effected their capture.

But he had little time to look around at the scene of action. There

was a moment only in which to study the river to learn if the

unfortunate raftsman's body had appeared. It was not to be seen. The

river ran swiftly and hid all evidence of the tragedy under its

smooth surface. When the brave who had gone back to the raft for the

goods joined his companion the two hurried Joe up the bank after the

others.

Once upon level ground Joe saw before him an open forest. On the

border of this the Indians stopped long enough to bind the

prisoners' wrists with thongs of deerhide. While two of the braves

performed this office, Silvertip leaned against a tree and took no

notice of the brothers. When they were thus securely tied one of

their captors addressed the chief, who at once led the way westward

through the forest. The savages followed in single file, with Joe

and Jim in the middle of the line. The last Indian tried to mount

Lance; but the thoroughbred would have none of him, and after

several efforts the savage was compelled to desist. Mose trotted

reluctantly along behind the horse.

Although the chief preserved a dignified mien, his braves were

disposed to be gay. They were in high glee over their feat of

capturing the palefaces, and kept up an incessant jabbering. One

Indian, who walked directly behind Joe, continually prodded him with

the stock of a rifle; and whenever Joe turned, the brawny redskin

grinned as he grunted, "Ugh!" Joe observed that this huge savage had

a broad face of rather a lighter shade of red than his companions.

Perhaps he intended those rifle-prods in friendliness, for although

they certainly amused him, he would allow no one else to touch Joe;

but it would have been more pleasing had he shown his friendship in

a gentle manner. This Indian carried Joe's pack, much to his own

delight, especially as his companions evinced an envious curiosity.

The big fellow would not, however, allow them to touch it.

"He's a cheerful brute," remarked Joe to Jim.

"Ugh!" grunted the big Indian, jamming Joe with his rifle-stock.

Joe took heed to the warning and spoke no more. He gave all his

attention to the course over which he was being taken. Here was his

first opportunity to learn something of Indians and their woodcraft.

It occurred to him that his captors would not have been so gay and

careless had they not believed themselves safe from pursuit, and he

concluded they were leisurely conducting him to one of the Indian

towns. He watched the supple figure before him, wondering at the

quick step, light as the fall of a leaf, and tried to walk as

softly. He found, however, that where the Indian readily avoided the

sticks and brush, he was unable to move without snapping twigs. Now

and then he would look up and study the lay of the land ahead; and

as he came nearer to certain rocks and trees he scrutinized them

closely, in order to remember their shape and general appearance. He

believed he was blazing out in his mind this woodland trail, so that

should fortune favor him and he contrive to escape, he would be able

to find his way back to the river. Also, he was enjoying the wild

scenery.

This forest would have appeared beautiful, even to one indifferent

to such charms, and Joe was far from that. Every moment he felt

steal stronger over him a subtle influence which he could not

define. Half unconsciously he tried to analyze it, but it baffled

him. He could no more explain what fascinated him than he could

understand what caused the melancholy quiet which hung over the

glades and hollows. He had pictured a real forest so differently

from this. Here was a long lane paved with springy moss and fenced

by bright-green sassafras; there a secluded dale, dotted with

pale-blue blossoms, over which the giant cottonwoods leaned their

heads, jealously guarding the delicate flowers from the sun. Beech

trees, growing close in clanny groups, spread their straight limbs

gracefully; the white birches gleamed like silver wherever a stray

sunbeam stole through the foliage, and the oaks, monarchs of the

forest, rose over all, dark, rugged, and kingly.

Joe soon understood why the party traveled through such open forest.

The chief, seeming hardly to deviate from his direct course, kept

clear of broken ground, matted thickets and tangled windfalls. Joe

got a glimpse of dark ravines and heard the music of tumbling

waters; he saw gray cliffs grown over with vines, and full of holes

and crevices; steep ridges, covered with dense patches of briar and

hazel, rising in the way. Yet the Shawnee always found an easy path.

The sun went down behind the foliage in the west, and shadows

appeared low in the glens; then the trees faded into an indistinct

mass; a purple shade settled down over the forest, and night brought

the party to a halt.

The Indians selected a sheltered spot under the lee of a knoll, at

the base of which ran a little brook. Here in this inclosed space

were the remains of a camp-fire. Evidently the Indians had halted

there that same day, for the logs still smouldered. While one brave

fanned the embers, another took from a neighboring branch a haunch

of deer meat. A blaze was soon coaxed from the dull coals, more fuel

was added, and presently a cheerful fire shone on the circle of

dusky forms.

It was a picture which Joe had seen in many a boyish dream; now that

he was a part of it he did not dwell on the hopelessness of the

situation, nor of the hostile chief whose enmity he had incurred.

Almost, it seemed, he was glad of this chance to watch the Indians

and listen to them. He had been kept apart from Jim, and it appeared

to Joe that their captors treated his brother with a contempt which

they did not show him. Silvertip had, no doubt, informed them that

Jim had been on his way to teach the Indians of the white man's God.

Jim sat with drooping head; his face was sad, and evidently he took

the most disheartening view of his capture. When he had eaten the

slice of venison given him he lay down with his back to the fire.

Silvertip, in these surroundings, showed his real character. He had

appeared friendly in the settlement; but now he was the relentless

savage, a son of the wilds, free as an eagle. His dignity as a chief

kept him aloof from his braves. He had taken no notice of the

prisoners since the capture. He remained silent, steadily regarding

the fire with his somber eyes. At length, glancing at the big

Indian, he motioned toward the prisoners and with a single word

stretched himself on the leaves.

Joe noted the same changelessness of expression in the other dark

faces as he had seen in Silvertip's. It struck him forcibly. When

they spoke in their soft, guttural tones, or burst into a low, not

unmusical laughter, or sat gazing stolidly into the fire, their

faces seemed always the same, inscrutable, like the depths of the

forest now hidden in night. One thing Joe felt rather than

saw--these savages were fierce and untamable. He was sorry for Jim,

because, as he believed, it would be as easy to teach the panther

gentleness toward his prey as to instill into one of these wild

creatures a belief in Christ.

The braves manifested keen pleasure in anticipation as to what they

would get out of the pack, which the Indian now opened. Time and

again the big brave placed his broad hand on the shoulder of a

comrade Indian and pushed him backward.

Finally the pack was opened. It contained a few articles of wearing

apparel, a pair of boots, and a pipe and pouch of tobacco. The big

Indian kept the latter articles, grunting with satisfaction, and

threw the boots and clothes to the others. Immediately there was a

scramble. One brave, after a struggle with another, got possession

of both boots. He at once slipped off his moccasins and drew on the

white man's foot-coverings. He strutted around in them a few

moments, but his proud manner soon changed to disgust.

Cowhide had none of the soft, yielding qualities of buckskin, and

hurt the Indian's feet. Sitting down, he pulled one off, not without

difficulty, for the boots were wet; but he could not remove the

other. He hesitated a moment, being aware of the subdued merriment

of his comrades, and then held up his foot to the nearest one. This

chanced to be the big Indian, who evidently had a keen sense of

humor. Taking hold of the boot with both hands, he dragged the

luckless brave entirely around the camp-fire. The fun, however, was

not to be all one-sided. The big Indian gave a more strenuous pull,

and the boot came off suddenly. Unprepared for this, he lost his

balance and fell down the bank almost into the creek. He held on to

the boot, nevertheless, and getting up, threw it into the fire.

The braves quieted down after that, and soon lapsed into slumber,

leaving the big fellow, to whom the chief had addressed his brief

command, acting, as guard. Observing Joe watching him as he puffed

on his new pipe, he grinned, and spoke in broken English that was

intelligible, and much of a surprise to the young man.

"Paleface--tobac'--heap good."

Then, seeing that Joe made no effort to follow his brother's

initiative, for Jim was fast asleep, he pointed to the recumbent

figures and spoke again.

"Ugh! Paleface sleep--Injun wigwams--near setting sun."

On the following morning Joe was awakened by the pain in his legs,

which had been bound all night. He was glad when the bonds were cut

and the party took up its westward march.

The Indians, though somewhat quieter, displayed the same

carelessness: they did not hurry, nor use particular caution, but

selected the most open paths through the forest. They even halted

while one of their number crept up on a herd of browsing deer. About

noon the leader stopped to drink from a spring; his braves followed

suit and permitted the white prisoners to quench their thirst.

When they were about to start again the single note of a bird far

away in the woods sounded clearly on the quiet air. Joe would not

have given heed to it had he been less attentive. He instantly

associated this peculiar bird-note with the sudden stiffening of

Silvertip's body and his attitude of intense listening. Low

exclamations came from the braves as they bent to catch the lightest

sound. Presently, above the murmur of the gentle fall of water over

the stones, rose that musical note once more. It was made by a bird,

Joe thought, and yet, judged by the actions of the Indians, how

potent with meaning beyond that of the simple melody of the woodland

songster! He turned, half expecting to see somewhere in the

tree-tops the bird which had wrought so sudden a change in his

captors. As he did so from close at hand came the same call, now

louder, but identical with the one that had deceived him. It was an

answering signal, and had been given by Silvertip.

It flashed into Joe's mind that other savages were in the forest;

they had run across the Shawnees' trail, and were thus communicating

with them. Soon dark figures could be discerned against the patches

of green thicket; they came nearer and nearer, and now entered the

open glade where Silvertip stood with his warriors.

Joe counted twelve, and noted that they differed from his captors.

He had only time to see that this difference consisted in the

head-dress, and in the color and quantity of paint on their bodies,

when his gaze was attracted and riveted to the foremost figures.

The first was that of a very tall and stately chief, toward whom

Silvertip now advanced with every show of respect. In this Indian's

commanding stature, in his reddish-bronze face, stern and powerful,

there were readable the characteristics of a king. In his deep-set

eyes, gleaming from under a ponderous brow; in his mastiff-like jaw;

in every feature of his haughty face were visible all the high

intelligence, the consciousness of past valor, and the power and

authority that denote a great chieftain.

The second figure was equally striking for the remarkable contrast

it afforded to the chief's. Despite the gaudy garments, the paint,

the fringed and beaded buckskin leggins--all the Indian

accouterments and garments which bedecked this person, he would have

been known anywhere as a white man. His skin was burned to a dark

bronze, but it had not the red tinge which characterizes the Indian.

This white man had, indeed, a strange physiognomy. The forehead was

narrow and sloped backward from the brow, denoting animal instincts.

The eyes were close together, yellowish-brown in color, and had a

peculiar vibrating movement, as though they were hung on a pivot,

like a compass-needle. The nose was long and hooked, and the mouth

set in a thin, cruel line. There was in the man's aspect an

extraordinary combination of ignorance, vanity, cunning and

ferocity.

While the two chiefs held a short consultation, this

savage-appearing white man addressed the brothers.

"Who're you, an' where you goin'?" he asked gruffly, confronting

Jim.

"My name is Downs. I am a preacher, and was on my way to the

Moravian Mission to preach to the Indians. You are a white man; will

you help us?"

If Jim expected the information would please his interrogator, he

was mistaken.

"So you're one of 'em? Yes, I'll do suthin' fer you when I git back

from this hunt. I'll cut your heart out, chop it up, an' feed it to

the buzzards," he said fiercely, concluding his threat by striking

Jim a cruel blow on the head.

Joe paled deathly white at this cowardly action, and his eyes, as

they met the gaze of the ruffian, contracted with their

characteristic steely glow, as if some powerful force within the

depths of his being were at white heat and only this pale flash came

to the surface.

"You ain't a preacher?" questioned the man, meeting something in

Joe's glance that had been absent from Jim's.

Joe made no answer, and regarded questioner steadily.

"Ever see me afore? Ever hear of Jim Girty?" he asked boastfully.

"Before you spoke I knew you were Girty," answered Joe quietly.

"How d'you know? Ain't you afeared?"

"Of what?"

"Me--me?"

Joe laughed in the renegades face.

"How'd you know me?" growled Girty. "I'll see thet you hev cause to

remember me after this."

"I figured there was only one so-called white man in these woods who

is coward enough to strike a man whose hands are tied."

"Boy, ye're too free with your tongue. I'll shet off your wind."

Girty's hand was raised, but it never reached Joe's neck.

The big Indian had an hour or more previous cut Joe's bonds, but he

still retained the thong which was left attached to Joe's left

wrist. This allowed the young man free use of his right arm, which,

badly swollen or not, he brought into quick action.

When the renegade reached toward him Joe knocked up the hand, and,

instead of striking, he grasped the hooked nose with all the

powerful grip of his fingers. Girty uttered a frightful curse; he

writhed with pain, but could not free himself from the vise-like

clutch. He drew his tomahawk and with a scream aimed a vicious blow

at Joe. He missed his aim, however, for Silvertip had intervened and

turned the course of the keen hatchet. But the weapon struck Joe a

glancing blow, inflicting a painful, though not dangerous wound.

The renegade's nose was skinned and bleeding profusely. He was

frantic with fury, and tried to get at Joe; but Silvertip remained

in front of his captive until some of the braves led Girty into the

forest, where the tall chief had already disappeared.

The nose-pulling incident added to the gayety of the Shawnees, who

evidently were pleased with Girty's discomfiture. They jabbered

among themselves and nodded approvingly at Joe, until a few words

spoken by Silvertip produced a sudden change.

What the words were Joe could not understand, but to him they

sounded like French. He smiled at the absurdity of imagining he had

heard a savage speak a foreign language. At any rate, whatever had

been said was trenchant with meaning. The Indians changed from gay

to grave; they picked up their weapons and looked keenly on every

side; the big Indian at once retied Joe, and then all crowded round

the chief.

"Did you hear what Silvertip said, and did you notice the effect it

had?" whispered Jim, taking advantage of the moment.

"It sounded like French, but of course it wasn't," replied Joe.

"It was French. 'Le Vent de la Mort.'"

"By Jove, that's it. What does it mean?" asked Joe, who was not a

scholar.

"The Wind of Death."

"That's English, but I can't apply it here. Can you?"

"No doubt it is some Indian omen."

The hurried consultation over, Silvertip tied Joe's horse and dog to

the trees, and once more led the way; this time he avoided the open

forest and kept on low ground. For a long time he traveled in the

bed of the brook, wading when the water was shallow, and always

stepping where there was the least possibility of leaving a

footprint. Not a word was spoken. If either of the brothers made the

lightest splash in the water, or tumbled a stone into the brook, the

Indian behind rapped him on the head with a tomahawk handle.

At certain places, indicated by the care which Silvertip exercised

in walking, the Indian in front of the captives turned and pointed

where they were to step. They were hiding the trail. Silvertip

hurried them over the stony places; went more slowly through the

water, and picked his way carefully over the soft ground it became

necessary to cross. At times he stopped, remaining motionless many

seconds.

This vigilance continued all the afternoon. The sun sank; twilight

spread its gray mantle, and soon black night enveloped the forest.

The Indians halted, but made no fire; they sat close together on a

stony ridge, silent and watchful.

Joe pondered deeply over this behavior. Did the Shawnees fear

pursuit? What had that Indian chief told Silvertip? To Joe it seemed

that they acted as if believing foes were on all sides. Though they

hid their tracks, it was, apparently, not the fear of pursuit alone

which made them cautious.

Joe reviewed the afternoon's march and dwelt upon the possible

meaning of the cat-like steps, the careful brushing aside of

branches, the roving eyes, suspicious and gloomy, the eager

watchfulness of the advance as well as to the rear, and always the

strained effort to listen, all of which gave him the impression of

some grave, unseen danger.

And now as he lay on the hard ground, nearly exhausted by the long

march and suffering from the throbbing wound, his courage lessened

somewhat, and he shivered with dread. The quiet and gloom of the

forest; these fierce, wild creatures, free in the heart of their own

wilderness yet menaced by a foe, and that strange French phrase

which kept recurring in his mind--all had the effect of conjuring up

giant shadows in Joe's fanciful mind. During all his life, until

this moment, he had never feared anything; now he was afraid of the

darkness. The spectral trees spread long arms overhead, and phantom

forms stalked abroad; somewhere out in that dense gloom stirred this

mysterious foe--the "Wind of Death."

Nevertheless, he finally slept. In the dull-gray light of early

morning the Indians once more took up the line of march toward the

west. They marched all that day, and at dark halted to eat and rest.

Silvertip and another Indian stood watch.

Some time before morning Joe suddenly awoke. The night was dark, yet

it was lighter than when he had fallen asleep. A pale, crescent moon

shown dimly through the murky clouds. There was neither movement of

the air nor the chirp of an insect. Absolute silence prevailed.

Joe saw the Indian guard leaning against a tree, asleep. Silvertip

was gone. The captive raised his head and looked around for the

chief. There were only four Indians left, three on the ground and

one against the tree.

He saw something shining near him. He looked more closely, and made

out the object to be an eagle plume Silvertip had worn, in his

head-dress. It lay on the ground near the tree. Joe made some slight

noise which awakened the guard. The Indian never moved a muscle; but

his eyes roved everywhere. He, too, noticed the absence of the

chief.

At this moment from out of the depths of the woods came a swelling

sigh, like the moan of the night wind. It rose and died away,

leaving the silence apparently all the deeper.

A shudder ran over Joe's frame. Fascinated, he watched the guard.

The Indian uttered a low gasp; his eyes started and glared wildly;

he rose very slowly to his full height and stood waiting, listening.

The dark hand which held the tomahawk trembled so that little glints

of moonlight glanced from the bright steel.

From far back in the forest-deeps came that same low moaning:

"Um-m-mm-woo-o-o-o!"

It rose from a faint murmur and swelled to a deep moan, soft but

clear, and ended in a wail like that of a lost soul.

The break it made in that dead silence was awful. Joe's blood seemed

to have curdled and frozen; a cold sweat oozed from his skin, and it

was as if a clammy hand clutched at his heart. He tried to persuade

himself that the fear displayed by the savage was only superstition,

and that that moan was but the sigh of the night wind.

The Indian sentinel stood as if paralyzed an instant after that

weird cry, and then, swift as a flash, and as noiseless, he was gone

into the gloomy forest. He had fled without awakening his

companions.

Once more the moaning cry arose and swelled mournfully on the still

night air. It was close at hand!

"The Wind of Death," whispered Joe.

He was shaken and unnerved by the events of the past two days, and

dazed from his wound. His strength deserted him, and he lost

consciousness.

Chapter VI.

One evening, several days previous to the capture of the brothers, a

solitary hunter stopped before a deserted log cabin which stood on

the bank of a stream fifty miles or more inland from the Ohio River.

It was rapidly growing dark; a fine, drizzling rain had set in, and

a rising wind gave promise of a stormy night.

Although the hunter seemed familiar with his surroundings, he moved

cautiously, and hesitated as if debating whether he should seek the

protection of this lonely hut, or remain all night under dripping

trees. Feeling of his hunting frock, he found that it was damp and

slippery. This fact evidently decided him in favor of the cabin, for

he stooped his tall figure and went in. It was pitch dark inside;

but having been there before, the absence of a light did not trouble

him. He readily found the ladder leading to the loft, ascended it,

and lay down to sleep.

During the night a noise awakened him. For a moment he heard nothing

except the fall of the rain. Then came the hum of voices, followed

by the soft tread of moccasined feet. He knew there was an Indian

town ten miles across the country, and believed some warriors,

belated on a hunting trip, had sought the cabin for shelter.

The hunter lay perfectly quiet, awaiting developments. If the

Indians had flint and steel, and struck a light, he was almost

certain to be discovered. He listened to their low conversation, and

understood from the language that they were Delawares.

A moment later he heard the rustling of leaves and twigs,

accompanied by the metallic click of steel against some hard

substance. The noise was repeated, and then followed by a hissing

sound, which he knew to be the burning of a powder on a piece of dry

wood, after which rays of light filtered through cracks of the

unstable floor of the loft.

The man placed his eye to one of these crevices, and counted eleven

Indians, all young braves, with the exception of the chief. The

Indians had been hunting; they had haunches of deer and buffalo

tongues, together with several packs of hides. Some of them busied

themselves drying their weapons; others sat down listlessly, plainly

showing their weariness, and two worked over the smouldering fire.

The damp leaves and twigs burned faintly, yet there was enough to

cause the hunter fear that he might be discovered. He believed he

had not much to worry about from the young braves, but the hawk-eyed

chief was dangerous.

And he was right. Presently the stalwart chief heard, or saw, a drop

of water fall from the loft. It came from the hunter's wet coat.

Almost any one save an Indian scout would have fancied this came

from the roof. As the chief's gaze roamed everywhere over the

interior of the cabin his expression was plainly distrustful. His

eye searched the wet clay floor, but hardly could have discovered

anything there, because the hunter's moccasined tracks had been

obliterated by the footprints of the Indians. The chief's suspicions

seemed to be allayed.

But in truth this chief, with the wonderful sagacity natural to

Indians, had observed matters which totally escaped the young

braves, and, like a wily old fox, he waited to see which cub would

prove the keenest. Not one of them, however, noted anything unusual.

They sat around the fire, ate their meat and parched corn, and

chatted volubly.

The chief arose and, walking to the ladder, ran his hand along one

of the rungs.

"Ugh!" he exclaimed.

Instantly he was surrounded by ten eager, bright-eyed braves. He

extended his open palm; it was smeared with wet clay like that under

his feet. Simultaneously with their muttered exclamations the braves

grasped their weapons. They knew there was a foe above them. It was

a paleface, for an Indian would have revealed himself.

The hunter, seeing he was discovered, acted with the unerring

judgment and lightning-like rapidity of one long accustomed to

perilous situations. Drawing his tomahawk and noiselessly stepping

to the hole in the loft, he leaped into the midst of the astounded

Indians.

Rising from the floor like the rebound of a rubber ball, his long

arm with the glittering hatchet made a wide sweep, and the young

braves scattered like frightened sheep.

He made a dash for the door and, incredible as it may seem, his

movements were so quick he would have escaped from their very midst

without a scratch but for one unforeseen circumstance. The clay

floor was wet and slippery; his feet were hardly in motion before

they slipped from under him and he fell headlong.

With loud yells of triumph the band jumped upon him. There was a

convulsive, heaving motion of the struggling mass, one frightful cry

of agony, and then hoarse commands. Three of the braves ran to their

packs, from which they took cords of buckskin. So exceedingly

powerful was the hunter that six Indians were required to hold him

while the others tied his hands and feet. Then, with grunts and

chuckles of satisfaction, they threw him into a corner of the cabin.

Two of the braves had been hurt in the brief struggle, one having a

badly wrenched shoulder and the other a broken arm. So much for the

hunter's power in that single moment of action.

The loft was searched, and found to be empty. Then the excitement

died away, and the braves settled themselves down for the night. The

injured ones bore their hurts with characteristic stoicism; if they

did not sleep, both remained quiet and not a sigh escaped them.

The wind changed during the night, the storm abated, and when

daylight came the sky was cloudless. The first rays of the sun shone

in the open door, lighting up the interior of the cabin.

A sleepy Indian who had acted as guard stretched his limbs and

yawned. He looked for the prisoner, and saw him sitting up in the

corner. One arm was free, and the other nearly so. He had almost

untied the thongs which bound him; a few moments more and he would

have been free.

"Ugh!" exclaimed the young brave, awakening his chief and pointing

to the hunter.

The chief glanced at his prisoner; then looked more closely, and

with one spring was on his feet, a drawn tomahawk in his hand. A

short, shrill yell issued from his lips. Roused by that clarion

call, the young braves jumped up, trembling in eager excitement. The

chief's summons had been the sharp war-cry of the Delawares.

He manifested as intense emotion as could possibly have been

betrayed by a matured, experienced chieftain, and pointing to the

hunter, he spoke a single word.

* * *

At noonday the Indians entered the fields of corn which marked the

outskirts of the Delaware encampment.

"Kol-loo--kol-loo--kol-loo."

The long signal, heralding the return of the party with important

news, pealed throughout the quiet valley; and scarcely had the

echoes died away when from the village came answering shouts.

Once beyond the aisles of waving corn the hunter saw over the

shoulders of his captors the home of the redmen. A grassy plain,

sloping gradually from the woody hill to a winding stream, was

brightly beautiful with chestnut trees and long, well-formed lines

of lodges. Many-hued blankets hung fluttering in the sun, and rising

lazily were curling columns of blue smoke. The scene was picturesque

and reposeful; the vivid hues suggesting the Indians love of color

and ornament; the absence of life and stir, his languorous habit of

sleeping away the hot noonday hours.

The loud whoops, however, changed the quiet encampment into a scene

of animation. Children ran from the wigwams, maidens and braves

dashed here and there, squaws awakened from their slumber, and many

a doughty warrior rose from his rest in the shade. French fur

traders came curiously from their lodges, and renegades hurriedly

left their blankets, roused to instant action by the well-known

summons.

The hunter, led down the lane toward the approaching crowd,

presented a calm and fearless demeanor. When the Indians surrounded

him one prolonged, furious yell rent the air, and then followed an

extraordinary demonstration of fierce delight. The young brave's

staccato yell, the maiden's scream, the old squaw's screech, and the

deep war-cry of the warriors intermingled in a fearful discordance.

Often had this hunter heard the name which the Indian called him; he

had been there before, a prisoner; he had run the gauntlet down the

lane; he had been bound to a stake in front of the lodge where his

captors were now leading him. He knew the chief, Wingenund, sachem

of the Delawares. Since that time, now five years ago, when

Wingenund had tortured him, they had been bitterest foes.

If the hunter heard the hoarse cries, or the words hissed into his

ears; if he saw the fiery glances of hatred, and sudden giving way

to ungovernable rage, unusual to the Indian nature; if he felt in

their fierce exultation the hopelessness of succor or mercy, he gave

not the slightest sign.

"Atelang! Atelang! Atelang!" rang out the strange Indian name.

The French traders, like real savages, ran along with the

procession, their feathers waving, their paint shining, their faces

expressive of as much excitement as the Indians' as they cried aloud

in their native tongue:

"Le Vent de la Mort! Le Vent de la Mort! La Vent de la Mort!"

The hunter, while yet some paces distant, saw the lofty figure of

the chieftain standing in front of his principal men. Well he knew

them all. There were the crafty Pipe, and his savage comrade, the

Half King; there was Shingiss, who wore on his forehead a scar--the

mark of the hunter's bullet; there were Kotoxen, the Lynx, and

Misseppa, the Source, and Winstonah, the War-cloud, chiefs of

sagacity and renown. Three renegades completed the circle; and these

three traitors represented a power which had for ten years left an

awful, bloody trail over the country. Simon Girty, the so-called

White Indian, with his keen, authoritative face turned expectantly;

Elliott, the Tory deserter, from Fort Pitt, a wiry, spider-like

little man; and last, the gaunt and gaudily arrayed form of the

demon of the frontier--Jim Girty.

The procession halted before this group, and two brawny braves

pushed the hunter forward. Simon Girty's face betrayed satisfaction;

Elliott's shifty eyes snapped, and the dark, repulsive face of the

other Girty exhibited an exultant joy. These desperadoes had feared

this hunter.

Wingenund, with a majestic wave of his arm, silenced the yelling

horde of frenzied savages and stepped before the captive.

The deadly foes were once again face to face. The chieftain's lofty

figure and dark, sleek head, now bare of plumes, towered over the

other Indians, but he was not obliged to lower his gaze in order to

look straight into the hunter's eyes.

Verily this hunter merited the respect which shone in the great

chieftain's glance. Like a mountain-ash he stood, straight and

strong, his magnificent frame tapering wedge-like from his broad

shoulders. The bulging line of his thick neck, the deep chest, the

knotty contour of his bared forearm, and the full curves of his

legs--all denoted a wonderful muscular development.

The power expressed in this man's body seemed intensified in his

features. His face was white and cold, his jaw square and set; his

coal-black eyes glittered with almost a superhuman fire. And his

hair, darker than the wing of a crow, fell far below his shoulders;

matted and tangled as it was, still it hung to his waist, and had it

been combed out, must have reached his knees.

One long moment Wingenund stood facing his foe, and then over the

multitude and through the valley rolled his sonorous voice:

"Deathwind dies at dawn!"

The hunter was tied to a tree and left in view of the Indian

populace. The children ran fearfully by; the braves gazed long at

the great foe of their race; the warriors passed in gloomy silence.

The savages' tricks of torture, all their diabolical ingenuity of

inflicting pain was suppressed, awaiting the hour of sunrise when

this hated Long Knife was to die.

Only one person offered an insult to the prisoner; he was a man of

his own color. Jim Girty stopped before him, his yellowish eyes

lighted by a tigerish glare, his lips curled in a snarl, and from

between them issuing the odor of the fir traders' vile rum.

"You'll soon be feed fer the buzzards," he croaked, in his hoarse

voice. He had so often strewed the plains with human flesh for the

carrion birds that the thought had a deep fascination for him. "D'ye

hear, scalp-hunter? Feed for buzzards!" He deliberately spat in the

hunter's face. "D'ye hear?" he repeated.

There was no answer save that which glittered in the hunter's eye.

But the renegade could not read it because he did not meet that

flaming glance. Wild horses could not have dragged him to face this

man had he been free. Even now a chill crept over Girty. For a

moment he was enthralled by a mysterious fear, half paralyzed by a

foreshadowing of what would be this hunter's vengeance. Then he

shook off his craven fear. He was free; the hunter's doom was sure.

His sharp face was again wreathed in a savage leer, and he spat once

more on the prisoner.

His fierce impetuosity took him a step too far. The hunter's arms

and waist were fastened, but his feet were free. His powerful leg

was raised suddenly; his foot struck Girty in the pit of the

stomach. The renegade dropped limp and gasping. The braves carried

him away, his gaudy feathers trailing, his long arms hanging

inertly, and his face distorted with agony.

The maidens of the tribe, however, showed for the prisoner an

interest that had in it something of veiled sympathy. Indian girls

were always fascinated by white men. Many records of Indian maidens'

kindness, of love, of heroism for white prisoners brighten the dark

pages of frontier history. These girls walked past the hunter,

averting their eyes when within his range of vision, but stealing

many a sidelong glance at his impressive face and noble proportions.

One of them, particularly, attracted the hunter's eye.

This was because, as she came by with her companions, while they all

turned away, she looked at him with her soft, dark eyes. She was a

young girl, whose delicate beauty bloomed fresh and sweet as that of

a wild rose. Her costume, fringed, beaded, and exquisitely wrought

with fanciful design, betrayed her rank, she was Wingenund's

daughter. The hunter had seen her when she was a child, and he

recognized her now. He knew that the beauty of Aola, of Whispering

Winds Among the Leaves, had been sung from the Ohio to the Great

Lakes.

Often she passed him that afternoon. At sunset, as the braves untied

him and led him away, he once more caught the full, intense gaze of

her lovely eyes.

That night as he lay securely bound in the corner of a lodge, and

the long hours wore slowly away, he strained at his stout bonds, and

in his mind revolved different plans of escape. It was not in this

man's nature to despair; while he had life he would fight. From time

to time he expanded his muscles, striving to loosen the wet buckskin

thongs.

The dark hours slowly passed, no sound coming to him save the

distant bark of a dog and the monotonous tread of his guard; a dim

grayness pervaded the lodge. Dawn was close at hand--his hour was

nearly come.

Suddenly his hearing, trained to a most acute sensibility, caught a

faint sound, almost inaudible. It came from without on the other

side of the lodge. There it was again, a slight tearing sound, such

as is caused by a knife when it cuts through soft material.

Some one was slitting the wall of the lodge.

The hunter rolled noiselessly over and over until he lay against the

skins. In the dim grayness he saw a bright blade moving carefully

upward through the deer-hide. Then a long knife was pushed into the

opening; a small, brown hand grasped the hilt. Another little hand

followed and felt of the wall and floor, reaching out with groping

fingers.

The hunter rolled again so that his back was against the wall and

his wrists in front of the opening. He felt the little hand on his

arm; then it slipped down to his wrists. The contact of cold steel

set a tremor of joy through his heart. The pressure of his bonds

relaxed, ceased; his arms were free. He turned to find the

long-bladed knife on the ground. The little hands were gone.

In a tinkling he rose unbound, armed, desperate. In another second

an Indian warrior lay upon the ground in his death-throes, while a

fleeing form vanished in the gray morning mist.

Chapter VII.

Joe felt the heavy lethargy rise from him like the removal of a

blanket; his eyes became clear, and he saw the trees and the forest

gloom; slowly he realized his actual position.

He was a prisoner, lying helpless among his sleeping captors.

Silvertip and the guard had fled into the woods, frightened by the

appalling moan which they believed sounded their death-knell. And

Joe believed he might have fled himself had he been free. What could

have caused that sound? He fought off the numbing chill that once

again began to creep over him. He was wide-awake now; his head was

clear, and he resolved to retain his senses. He told himself there

could be nothing supernatural in that wind, or wail, or whatever it

was, which had risen murmuring from out the forest-depths.

Yet, despite his reasoning, Joe could not allay his fears. That

thrilling cry haunted him. The frantic flight of an Indian

brave--nay, of a cunning, experienced chief--was not to be lightly

considered. The savages were at home in these untracked wilds.

Trained from infancy to scent danger and to fight when they had an

equal chance they surely would not run without good cause.

Joe knew that something moved under those dark trees. He had no idea

what. It might be the fretting night wind, or a stealthy, prowling,

soft-footed beast, or a savage alien to these wild Indians, and

wilder than they by far. The chirp of a bird awoke the stillness.

Night had given way to morning. Welcoming the light that was chasing

away the gloom, Joe raised his head with a deep sigh of relief. As

he did so he saw a bush move; then a shadow seemed to sink into the

ground. He had seen an object lighter than the trees, darker than

the gray background. Again, that strange sense of the nearness of

something thrilled him.

Moments, passed--to him long as hours. He saw a tall fern waver and

tremble. A rabbit, or perhaps a snake, had brushed it. Other ferns

moved, their tops agitated, perhaps, by a faint breeze. No; that

wavering line came straight toward him; it could not be the wind; it

marked the course of a creeping, noiseless thing. It must be a

panther crawling nearer and nearer.

Joe opened his lips to awaken his captors, but could not speak; it

was as if his heart had stopped beating. Twenty feet away the ferns

were parted to disclose a white, gleaming face, with eyes that

seemingly glittered. Brawny shoulders were upraised, and then a

tall, powerful man stood revealed. Lightly he stepped over the

leaves into the little glade. He bent over the sleeping Indians.

Once, twice, three times a long blade swung high. One brave

shuddered another gave a sobbing gasp, and the third moved two

fingers--thus they passed from life to death.

"Wetzel!" cried Joe.

"I reckon so," said the deliverer, his deep, calm voice contrasting

strangely with what might have been expected from his aspect. Then,

seeing Joe's head covered with blood, he continued: "Able to get

up?"

"I'm not hurt," answered Joe, rising when his bonds had been cut.

"Brothers, I reckon?" Wetzel said, bending over Jim.

"Yes, we're brothers. Wake up, Jim, wake up! We're saved!"

"What? Who's that?" cried Jim, sitting up and staring at Wetzel.

"This man has saved our lives! See, Jim, the Indians are dead! And,

Jim, it's Wetzel, the hunter. You remember, Jeff Lynn said I'd know

him if I ever saw him and---"

"What happened to Jeff?" inquired Wetzel, interrupting. He had

turned from Jim's grateful face.

"Jeff was on the first raft, and for all we know he is now safe at

Fort Henry. Our steersman was shot, and we were captured."

"Has the Shawnee anythin' ag'inst you boys?"

"Why, yes, I guess so. I played a joke on him--took his shirt and

put it on another fellow."

"Might jes' as well kick an' Injun. What has he ag'in you?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he did not like my talk to him," answered

Jim. "I am a preacher, and have come west to teach the gospel to the

Indians."

"They're good Injuns now," said Wetzel, pointing to the prostrate

figures.

"How did you find us?" eagerly asked Joe.

"Run acrost yer trail two days back."

"And you've been following us?"

The hunter nodded.

"Did you see anything of another band of Indians? A tall chief and

Jim Girty were among them."

"They've been arter me fer two days. I was followin' you when

Silvertip got wind of Girty an' his Delawares. The big chief was

Wingenund. I seen you pull Girty's nose. Arter the Delawares went I

turned loose yer dog an' horse an' lit out on yer trail.''

"Where are the Delawares now?"

"I reckon they're nosin' my back trail. We must be gittin'.

Silvertip'll soon hev a lot of Injuns here."

Joe intended to ask the hunter about what had frightened the

Indians, but despite his eager desire for information, he refrained

from doing so.

"Girty nigh did fer you," remarked Wetzel, examining Joe's wound.

"He's in a bad humor. He got kicked a few days back, and then hed

the skin pulled offen his nose. Somebody'll hev to suffer. Wal, you

fellers grab yer rifles, an' we'll be startin' fer the fort."

Joe shuddered as he leaned over one of the dusky forms to detach

powder and bullet horn. He had never seen a dead Indian, and the

tense face, the sightless, vacant eyes made him shrink. He shuddered

again when he saw the hunter scalp his victims. He shuddered the

third time when he saw Wetzel pick up Silvertip's beautiful white

eagle plume, dabble it in a pool of blood, and stick it in the bark

of a tree. Bereft of its graceful beauty, drooping with its gory

burden, the long feather was a deadly message. It had been

Silvertip's pride; it was now a challenge, a menace to the Shawnee

chief.

"Come," said Wetzel, leading the way into the forest.

* * *

Shortly after daylight on the second day following the release of

the Downs brothers the hunter brushed through a thicket of alder and

said: "Thar's Fort Henry."

The boys were on the summit of a mountain from which the land sloped

in a long incline of rolling ridges and gentle valleys like a green,

billowy sea, until it rose again abruptly into a peak higher still

than the one upon which they stood. The broad Ohio, glistening in

the sun, lay at the base of the mountain.

Upon the bluff overlooking the river, and under the brow of the

mountain, lay the frontier fort. In the clear atmosphere it stood

out in bold relief. A small, low structure surrounded by a high

stockade fence was all, and yet it did not seem unworthy of its

fame. Those watchful, forbidding loopholes, the blackened walls and

timbers, told the history of ten long, bloody years. The whole

effect was one of menace, as if the fort sent out a defiance to the

wilderness, and meant to protect the few dozen log cabins clustered

on the hillside.

"How will we ever get across that big river?" asked Jim,

practically.

"Wade--swim," answered the hunter, laconically, and began the

descent of the ridge. An hour's rapid walking brought the three to

the river. Depositing his rifle in a clump of willows, and directing

the boys to do the same with their guns, the hunter splashed into

the water. His companions followed him into the shallow water, and

waded a hundred yards, which brought them near the island that they

now perceived hid the fort. The hunter swam the remaining distance,

and, climbing the bank, looked back for the boys. They were close

behind him. Then he strode across the island, perhaps a quarter of a

mile wide.

"We've a long swim here," said Wetzel, waving his hand toward the

main channel of the river. "Good fer it?" he inquired of Joe, since

Jim had not received any injuries during the short captivity and

consequently showed more endurance.

"Good for anything," answered Joe, with that coolness Wetzel had

been quick to observe in him.

The hunter cast a sharp glance at the lad's haggard face, his

bruised temple, and his hair matted with blood. In that look he read

Joe thoroughly. Had the young man known the result of that scrutiny,

he would have been pleased as well as puzzled, for the hunter had

said to himself: "A brave lad, an' the border fever's on him."

"Swim close to me," said Wetzel, and he plunged into the river. The

task was accomplished without accident.

"See the big cabin, thar, on the hillside? Thar's Colonel Zane in

the door," said Wetzel.

As they neared the building several men joined the one who had been

pointed out as the colonel. It was evident the boys were the subject

of their conversation. Presently Zane left the group and came toward

them. The brothers saw a handsome, stalwart man, in the prime of

life.

"Well, Lew, what luck?" he said to Wetzel.

"Not much. I treed five Injuns, an' two got away," answered the

hunter as he walked toward the fort.

"Lads, welcome to Fort Henry," said Colonel Zane, a smile lighting

his dark face. "The others of your party arrived safely. They

certainly will be overjoyed to see you."

"Colonel Zane, I had a letter from my uncle to you," replied Jim;

"but the Indians took that and everything else we had with us."

"Never mind the letter. I knew your uncle, and your father, too.

Come into the house and change those wet clothes. And you, my lad,

have got an ugly knock on the head. Who gave you that?"

"Jim Girty."

"What?" exclaimed the colonel.

"Jim Girty did that. He was with a party of Delawares who ran across

us. They were searching for Wetzel."

"Girty with the Delawares! The devil's to pay now. And you say

hunting Wetzel? I must learn more about this. It looks bad. But tell

me, how did Girty come to strike you?"

"I pulled his nose."

"You did? Good! Good!" cried Colonel Zane, heartily. "By George,

that's great! Tell me--but wait until you are more comfortable. Your

packs came safely on Jeff's raft, and you will find them inside."

As Joe followed the colonel he heard one of the other men say:

"Like as two peas in a pod."

Farther on he saw an Indian standing a little apart from the others.

Hearing Joe's slight exclamation of surprise, he turned, disclosing

a fine, manly countenance, characterized by calm dignity. The Indian

read the boy's thought.

"Ugh! Me friend," he said in English.

"That's my Shawnee guide, Tomepomehala. He's a good fellow, although

Jonathan and Wetzel declare the only good Indian is a dead one. Come

right in here. There are your packs, and you'll find water outside

the door."

Thus saying, Colonel Zane led the brothers into a small room,

brought out their packs, and left them. He came back presently with

a couple of soft towels.

"Now you lads fix up a bit; then come out and meet my family and

tell us all about your adventure. By that time dinner will be

ready."

"Geminy! Don't that towel remind you of home?" said Joe, when the

colonel had gone. "From the looks of things, Colonel Zane means to

have comfort here in the wilderness. He struck me as being a fine

man."

The boys were indeed glad to change the few articles of clothing the

Indians had left them, and when they were shaved and dressed they

presented an entirely different appearance. Once more they were twin

brothers, in costume and feature. Joe contrived, by brushing his

hair down on his forehead, to conceal the discolored bump.

"I think I saw a charming girl," observed Joe.

"Suppose you did--what then?" asked Jim, severely.

"Why--nothing--see here, mayn't I admire a pretty girl if I want?"

"No, you may not. Joe, will nothing ever cure you? I should think

the thought of Miss Wells---"

"Look here, Jim; she don't care--at least, it's very little she

cares. And I'm--I'm not worthy of her."

"Turn around here and face me," said the young minister sharply.

Joe turned and looked in his brother's eyes.

"Have you trifled with her, as you have with so many others? Tell

me. I know you don't lie."

"No."

"Then what do you mean?"

"Nothing much, Jim, except I'm really not worthy of her. I'm no

good, you know, and she ought to get a fellow like--like you."

"Absurd! You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

"Never mind me. See here; don't you admire her?"

"Why--why, yes," stammered Jim, flushing a dark, guilty red at the

direct question. "Who could help admiring her?"

"That's what I thought. And I know she admires you for qualities

which I lack. Nell's like a tender vine just beginning to creep

around and cling to something strong. She cares for me; but her love

is like the vine. It may hurt her a little to tear that love away,

but it won't kill her; and in the end it will be best for her. You

need a good wife. What could I do with a woman? Go in and win her,

Jim."

"Joe, you're sacrificing yourself again for me," cried Jim, white to

the lips. "It's wrong to yourself and wrong to her. I tell you---"

"Enough!" Joe's voice cut in cold and sharp. "Usually you influence

me; but sometimes you can't; I say this: Nell will drift into your

arms as surely as the leaf falls. It will not hurt her--will be best

for her. Remember, she is yours for the winning."

"You do not say whether that will hurt you," whispered Jim.

"Come--we'll find Colonel Zane," said Joe, opening the door.

They went out in the hallway which opened into the yard as well as

the larger room through which the colonel had first conducted them.

As Jim, who was in advance, passed into this apartment a trim figure

entered from the yard. It was Nell, and she ran directly against

him. Her face was flushed, her eyes were beaming with gladness, and

she seemed the incarnation of girlish joy.

"Oh, Joe," was all she whispered. But the happiness and welcome in

that whisper could never have been better expressed in longer

speech. Then slightly, ever so slightly, she tilted her sweet face

up to his.

It all happened with the quickness of thought. In a single instant

Jim saw the radiant face, the outstretched hands, and heard the glad

whisper. He knew that she had a again mistaken him for Joe; but for

his life he could not draw back his head. He had kissed her, and

even as his lips thrilled with her tremulous caress he flushed with

the shame of his deceit.

"You're mistaken again--I'm Jim," he whispered.

For a moment they stood staring into each other's eyes, slowly

awakening to what had really happened, slowly conscious of a sweet,

alluring power. Then Colonel Zane's cheery voice rang in their ears.

"Ah, here's Nellie and your brother! Now, lads, tell me which is

which?'

"That's Jim, and I'm Joe," answered the latter. He appeared not to

notice his brother, and his greeting to Nell was natural and hearty.

For the moment she drew the attention of the others from them.

Joe found himself listening to the congratulations of a number of

people. Among the many names he remembered were those of Mrs. Zane,

Silas Zane, and Major McColloch. Then he found himself gazing at the

most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life.

"My only sister, Mrs. Alfred Clarke--once Betty Zane, and the

heroine of Fort Henry," said Colonel Zane proudly, with his arm

around the slender, dark-eyed girl.

"I would brave the Indians and the wilderness again for this

pleasure," replied Joe gallantly, as he bowed low over the little

hand she cordially extended.

"Bess, is dinner ready?" inquired Colonel Zane of his comely wife.

She nodded her head, and the colonel led the way into the adjoining

room. "I know you boys must be hungry as bears."

During the meal Colonel Zane questioned his guests about their

journey, and as to the treatment they had received at the hands of

the Indians. He smiled at the young minister's earnestness in regard

to the conversion of the redmen, and he laughed outright when Joe

said "he guessed he came to the frontier because it was too slow at

home."

"I am sure your desire for excitement will soon be satisfied, if

indeed it be not so already," remarked the colonel. "But as to the

realization of your brother's hopes I am not so sanguine.

Undoubtedly the Moravian missionaries have accomplished wonders with

the Indians. Not long ago I visited the Village of Peace--the Indian

name for the mission--and was struck by the friendliness and

industry which prevailed there. Truly it was a village of peace. Yet

it is almost too early to be certain of permanent success of this

work. The Indian's nature is one hard to understand. He is naturally

roving and restless, which, however, may be owing to his habit of

moving from place to place in search of good hunting grounds. I

believe--though I must confess I haven't seen any pioneers who share

my belief--that the savage has a beautiful side to his character. I

know of many noble deeds done by them, and I believe, if they are

honestly dealt with, they will return good for good. There are bad

ones, of course; but the French traders, and men like the Girtys,

have caused most of this long war. Jonathan and Wetzel tell me the

Shawnees and Chippewas have taken the warpath again. Then the fact

that the Girtys are with the Delawares is reason for alarm. We have

been comparatively quiet here of late. Did you boys learn to what

tribe your captors belong? Did Wetzel say?"

"He did not; he spoke little, but I will say he was exceedingly

active," answered Joe, with a smile.

"To have seen Wetzel fight Indians is something you are not likely

to forget," said Colonel Zane grimly. "Now, tell me, how did those

Indians wear their scalp-lock?"

"Their heads were shaved closely, with the exception of a little

place on top. The remaining hair was twisted into a tuft, tied

tightly, and into this had been thrust a couple of painted pins.

When Wetzel scalped the Indians the pins fell out. I picked one up,

and found it to be bone."

"You will make a woodsman, that's certain," replied Colonel Zane.

"The Indians were Shawnee on the warpath. Well, we will not borrow

trouble, for when it comes in the shape of redskins it usually comes

quickly. Mr. Wells seemed anxious to resume the journey down the

river; but I shall try to persuade him to remain with us awhile.

Indeed, I am sorry I cannot keep you all here at Fort Henry, and

more especially the girls. On the border we need young people, and,

while I do not want to frighten the women, I fear there will be more

than Indians fighting for them."

"I hope not; but we have come prepared for anything," said Kate,

with a quiet smile. "Our home was with uncle, and when he announced

his intention of going west we decided our duty was to go with him."

"You were right, and I hope you will find a happy home," rejoined

Colonel Zane. "If life among the Indians proves to be too hard, we

shall welcome you here. Betty, show the girls your pets and Indian

trinkets. I am going to take the boys to Silas' cabin to see Mr.

Wells, and then show them over the fort."

As they went out Joe saw the Indian guide standing in exactly the

same position as when they entered the building.

"Can't that Indian move?" he asked curiously.

"He can cover one hundred miles in a day, when he wants to," replied

Colonel Zane. "He is resting now. An Indian will often stand or sit

in one position for many hours."

"He's a fine-looking chap," remarked Joe, and then to himself: "but

I don't like him. I guess I'm prejudiced."

"You'll learn to like Tome, as we call him."

"Colonel Zane, I want a light for my pipe. I haven't had a smoke

since the day we were captured. That blamed redskin took my tobacco.

It's lucky I had some in my other pack. I'd like to meet him again;

also Silvertip and that brute Girty."

"My lad, don't make such wishes," said Colonel Zane, earnestly. "You

were indeed fortunate to escape, and I can well understand your

feelings. There is nothing I should like better than to see Girty

over the sights of my rifle; but I never hunt after danger, and to

look for Girty is to court death."

"But Wetzel---"

"Ah, my lad, I know Wetzel goes alone in the woods; but then, he is

different from other men. Before you leave I will tell you all about

him."

Colonel Zane went around the corner of the cabin and returned with a

live coal on a chip of wood, which Joe placed in the bowl of his

pipe, and because of the strong breeze stepped close to the cabin

wall. Being a keen observer, he noticed many small, round holes in

the logs. They were so near together that the timbers had an odd,

speckled appearance, and there was hardly a place where he could

have put his thumb without covering a hole. At first he thought they

were made by a worm or bird peculiar to that region; but finally he

concluded that they were bullet-holes. He thrust his knife blade

into one, and out rolled a leaden ball.

"I'd like to have been here when these were made," he said.

"Well, at the time I wished I was back on the Potomac," replied

Colonel Zane.

They found the old missionary on the doorstep of the adjacent cabin.

He appeared discouraged when Colonel Zane interrogated him, and said

that he was impatient because of the delay.

"Mr. Wells, is it not possible that you underrate the danger of your

enterprise?"

"I fear naught but the Lord," answered the old man.

"Do you not fear for those with you?" went on the colonel earnestly.

"I am heart and soul with you in your work, but want to impress upon

you that the time is not propitious. It is a long journey to the

village, and the way is beset with dangers of which you have no

idea. Will you not remain here with me for a few weeks, or, at

least, until my scouts report?"

"I thank you; but go I will."

"Then let me entreat you to remain here a few days, so that I may

send my brother Jonathan and Wetzel with you. If any can guide you

safely to the Village of Peace it will be they."

At this moment Joe saw two men approaching from the fort, and

recognized one of them as Wetzel. He doubted not that the other was

Lord Dunmore's famous guide and hunter, Jonathan Zane. In features

he resembled the colonel, and was as tall as Wetzel, although not so

muscular or wide of chest.

Joe felt the same thrill he had experienced while watching the

frontiersmen at Fort Pitt. Wetzel and Jonathan spoke a word to

Colonel Zane and then stepped aside. The hunters stood lithe and

erect, with the easy, graceful poise of Indians.

"We'll take two canoes, day after to-morrow," said Jonathan,

decisively, to Colonel Zane. "Have you a rifle for Wetzel? The

Delawares got his."

Colonel Zane pondered over the question; rifles were not scarce at

the fort, but a weapon that Wetzel would use was hard to find.

"The hunter may have my rifle," said the old missionary. "I have no

use for a weapon with which to destroy God's creatures. My brother

was a frontiersman; he left this rifle to me. I remember hearing him

say once that if a man knew exactly the weight of lead and powder

needed, it would shoot absolutely true."

He went into the cabin, and presently came out with a long object

wrapped in linsey cloths. Unwinding the coverings, he brought to

view a rifle, the proportions of which caused Jonathan's eyes to

glisten, and brought an exclamation from Colonel Zane. Wetzel

balanced the gun in his hands. It was fully six feet long; the

barrel was large, and the dark steel finely polished; the stock was

black walnut, ornamented with silver trimmings. Using Jonathan's

powder-flask and bullet-pouch, Wetzel proceeded to load the weapon.

He poured out a quantity of powder into the palm of his hand,

performing the action quickly and dexterously, but was so slow while

measuring it that Joe wondered if he were counting the grains. Next

he selected a bullet out of a dozen which Jonathan held toward him.

He examined it carefully and tried it in the muzzle of the rifle.

Evidently it did not please him, for he took another. Finally he

scraped a bullet with his knife, and placing it in the center of a

small linsey rag, deftly forced it down. He adjusted the flint,

dropped a few grains of powder in the pan, and then looked around

for a mark at which to shoot.

Joe observed that the hunters and Colonel Zane were as serious

regarding the work as if at that moment some important issue

depended upon the accuracy of the rifle.

"There, Lew; there's a good shot. It's pretty far, even for you,

when you don't know the gun," said Colonel Zane, pointing toward the

river.

Joe saw the end of a log, about the size of a man's head, sticking

out of the water, perhaps an hundred and fifty yards distant. He

thought to hit it would be a fine shot; but was amazed when he heard

Colonel Zane say to several men who had joined the group that Wetzel

intended to shoot at a turtle on the log. By straining his eyes Joe

succeeded in distinguishing a small lump, which he concluded was the

turtle.

Wetzel took a step forward; the long, black rifle was raised with a

stately sweep. The instant it reached a level a thread of flame

burst forth, followed by a peculiarly clear, ringing report.

"Did he hit?" asked Colonel Zane, eagerly as a boy.

"I allow he did," answered Jonathan.

"I'll go and see," said Joe. He ran down the bank, along the beach,

and stepped on the log. He saw a turtle about the size of an

ordinary saucer. Picking it up, he saw a bullet-hole in the shell

near the middle. The bullet had gone through the turtle, and it was

quite dead. Joe carried it to the waiting group.

"I allowed so," declared Jonathan.

Wetzel examined the turtle, and turning to the old missionary, said:

"Your brother spoke the truth, an' I thank you fer the rifle."

Chapter VIII.

"So you want to know all about Wetzel?" inquired Colonel Zane of

Joe, when, having left Jim and Mr. Wells, they returned to the

cabin.

"I am immensely interested in him," replied Joe.

"Well, I don't think there's anything singular in that. I know Wetzel

better, perhaps, than any man living; but have seldom talked about

him. He doesn't like it. He is by birth a Virginian; I should say,

forty years old. We were boys together, and I am a little beyond that

age. He was like any of the lads, except that he excelled us all in

strength and agility. When he was nearly eighteen years old a band

if Indians--Delawares, I think--crossed the border on a marauding

expedition far into Virginia. They burned the old Wetzel homestead

and murdered the father, mother, two sisters, and a baby brother. The

terrible shock nearly killed Lewis, who for a time was very ill. When

he recovered he went in search of his brothers, Martin and John Wetzel,

who were hunting, and brought them back to their desolated home. Over

the ashes of the home and the graves of the loved ones the brothers

swore sleepless and eternal vengeance. The elder brothers have been

devoted all these twenty years and more to the killing of Indians; but

Lewis has been the great foe of the redman. You have already seen an

example of his deeds, and will hear of more. His name is a household

word on the border. Scores of times he has saved, actually saved, this

fort and settlement. His knowledge of savage ways surpasses by far

Boone's, Major McColloch's, Jonathan's, or any of the hunters'."

"Then hunting Indians is his sole occupation?"

"He lives for that purpose alone. He is very seldom in the

settlement. Sometimes he stays here a few days, especially if he is

needed; but usually he roams the forests."

"What did Jeff Lynn mean when he said that some people think Wetzel

is crazy?"

"There are many who think the man mad; but I do not. When the

passion for Indian hunting comes upon him he is fierce, almost

frenzied, yet perfectly sane. While here he is quiet, seldom speaks

except when spoken to, and is taciturn with strangers. He often

comes to my cabin and sits beside the fire for hours. I think he

finds pleasure in the conversation and laughter of friends. He is

fond of the children, and would do anything for my sister Betty."

"His life must be lonely and sad," remarked Joe.

"The life of any borderman is that; but Wetzel's is particularly

so."

"What is he called by the Indians?"

"They call him Atelang, or, in English, Deathwind."

"By George! That's what Silvertip said in French--'Le Vent de la

Mort.'"

"Yes; you have it right. A French fur trader gave Wetzel that name

years ago, and it has clung to him. The Indians say the Deathwind

blows through the forest whenever Wetzel stalks on their trail."

"Colonel Zane, don't you think me superstitious," whispered Joe,

leaning toward the colonel, "but I heard that wind blow through the

forest."

"What!" ejaculated Colonel Zane. He saw that Joe was in earnest, for

the remembrance of the moan had more than once paled his cheek and

caused beads of perspiration to collect on his brow.

Joe related the circumstances of that night, and at the end of his

narrative Colonel Zane sat silent and thoughtful.

"You don't really think it was Wetzel who moaned?" he asked, at

length.

"No, I don't," replied Joe quickly; "but, Colonel Zane, I heard that

moan as plainly as I can hear your voice. I heard it twice. Now,

what was it?"

"Jonathan said the same thing to me once. He had been out hunting

with Wetzel; they separated, and during the night Jonathan heard the

wind. The next day he ran across a dead Indian. He believes Wetzel

makes the noise, and so do the hunters; but I think it is simply the

moan of the night wind through the trees. I have heard it at times,

when my very blood seemingly ran cold."

"I tried to think it was the wind soughing through the pines, but am

afraid I didn't succeed very well. Anyhow, I knew Wetzel instantly,

just as Jeff Lynn said I would. He killed those Indians in an

instant, and he must have an iron arm."

"Wetzel excels in strength and speed any man, red or white, on the

frontier. He can run away from Jonathan, who is as swift as an

Indian. He's stronger than any of the other men. I remember one day

old Hugh Bennet's wagon wheels stuck in a bog down by the creek.

Hugh tried, as several others did, to move the wheels; but they

couldn't be made to budge. Along came Wetzel, pushed away the men,

and lifted the wagon unaided. It would take hours to tell you about

him. In brief, among all the border scouts and hunters Wetzel stands

alone. No wonder the Indians fear him. He is as swift as an eagle,

strong as mountain-ash, keen as a fox, and absolutely tireless and

implacable."

"How long have you been here, Colonel Zane?"

"More than twelve years, and it has been one long fight."

"I'm afraid I'm too late for the fun," said Joe, with his quiet

laugh.

"Not by about twelve more years," answered Colonel Zane, studying

the expression on Joe's face. "When I came out here years ago I had

the same adventurous spirit which I see in you. It has been

considerably quelled, however. I have seen many a daring young

fellow get the border fever, and with it his death. Let me advise

you to learn the ways of the hunters; to watch some one skilled in

woodcraft. Perhaps Wetzel himself will take you in hand. I don't

mind saying that he spoke of you to me in a tone I never heard Lew

use before."

"He did?" questioned Joe, eagerly, flushing with pleasure. "Do you

think he'd take me out? Dare I ask him?"

"Don't be impatient. Perhaps I can arrange it. Come over here now to

Metzar's place. I want to make you acquainted with him. These boys

have all been cutting timber; they've just come in for dinner. Be

easy and quiet with them; then you'll get on."

Colonel Zane introduced Joe to five sturdy boys and left him in

their company. Joe sat down on a log outside a cabin and leisurely

surveyed the young men. They all looked about the same: strong

without being heavy, light-haired and bronze-faced. In their turn

they carefully judged Joe. A newcomer from the East was always

regarded with some doubt. If they expected to hear Joe talk much

they were mistaken. He appeared good-natured, but not too friendly.

"Fine weather we're havin'," said Dick Metzar.

"Fine," agreed Joe, laconically.

"Like frontier life?"

"Sure."

A silence ensued after this breaking of the ice. The boys were

awaiting their turn at a little wooden bench upon which stood a

bucket of water and a basin.

"Hear ye got ketched by some Shawnees?" remarked another youth, as

he rolled up his shirt-sleeves. They all looked at Joe now. It was

not improbably their estimate of him would be greatly influenced by

the way he answered this question.

"Yes; was captive for three days."

"Did ye knock any redskins over?" This question was artfully put to

draw Joe out. Above all things, the bordermen detested boastfulness;

tried on Joe the ruse failed signally.

"I was scared speechless most of the time," answered Joe, with his

pleasant smile.

"By gosh, I don't blame ye!" burst out Will Metzar. "I hed that

experience onct, an' onct's enough."

The boys laughed and looked in a more friendly manner at Joe. Though

he said he had been frightened, his cool and careless manner belied

his words. In Joe's low voice and clear, gray eye there was

something potent and magnetic, which subtly influenced those with

whom he came in contact.

While his new friends were at dinner Joe strolled over to where

Colonel Zane sat on the doorstep of his home.

"How did you get on with the boys?" inquired the colonel.

"All right, I hope. Say, Colonel Zane, I'd like to talk to your

Indian guide."

Colonel Zane spoke a few words in the Indian language to the guide,

who left his post and came over to them. The colonel then had a

short conversation with him, at the conclusion of which he pointed

toward Joe.

"How do--shake," said Tome, extending his hand.

Joe smiled, and returned the friendly hand-pressure.

"Shawnee--ketch'um?" asked the Indian, in his fairly intelligible

English.

Joe nodded his head, while Colonel Zane spoke once more in Shawnee,

explaining the cause of Silvertip's enmity.

"Shawnee--chief--one--bad--Injun," replied Tome, seriously.

"Silvertip--mad--thunder-mad. Ketch'um paleface--scalp'um sure."

After giving this warning the chief returned to his former position

near the corner of the cabin.

"He can talk in English fairly well, much better than the Shawnee

brave who talked with me the other day," observed Joe.

"Some of the Indians speak the language almost fluently," said

Colonel Zane. "You could hardly have distinguished Logan's speech

from a white man's. Corn-planter uses good English, as also does my

brother's wife, a Wyandot girl."

"Did your brother marry an Indian?" and Joe plainly showed his

surprise.

"Indeed he did, and a most beautiful girl she is. I'll tell you

Isaac's story some time. He was a captive among the Wyandots for ten

years. The chief's daughter, Myeerah, loved him, kept him from being

tortured, and finally saved him from the stake."

"Well, that floors me," said Joe; "yet I don't see why it should.

I'm just surprised. Where is your brother now?"

"He lives with the tribe. He and Myeerah are working hard for peace.

We are now on more friendly terms with the great Wyandots, or

Hurons, as we call them, than ever before."

"Who is this big man coming from the fort?" asked Joe, suddenly

observing a stalwart frontiersman approaching.

"Major Sam McColloch. You have met him. He's the man who jumped his

horse from yonder bluff."

"Jonathan and he have the same look, the same swing," observed Joe,

as he ran his eye over the major. His faded buckskin costume,

beaded, fringed, and laced, was similar to that of the colonel's

brother. Powder-flask and bullet-pouch were made from cow-horns and

slung around his neck on deerhide strings. The hunting coat was

unlaced, exposing, under the long, fringed borders, a tunic of the

same well-tanned, but finer and softer, material. As he walked, the

flaps of his coat fell back, showing a belt containing two knives,

sheathed in heavy buckskin, and a bright tomahawk. He carried a long

rifle in the hollow of his arm.

"These hunters have the same kind of buckskin suits," continued Joe;

"still, it doesn't seem to me the clothes make the resemblance to

each other. The way these men stand, walk and act is what strikes me

particularly, as in the case of Wetzel."

"I know what you mean. The flashing eye, the erect poise of

expectation, and the springy step--those, my lad, come from a life

spent in the woods. Well, it's a grand way to live."

"Colonel, my horse is laid up," said Major McColloch, coming to the

steps. He bowed pleasantly to Joe.

"So you are going to Short Creek? You can have one of my horses; but

first come inside and we'll talk over you expedition."

The afternoon passed uneventfully for Joe. His brother and Mr. Wells

were absorbed in plans for their future work, and Nell and Kate were

resting; therefore he was forced to find such amusement or

occupation as was possible in or near the stockade.

Chapter IX.

Joe went to bed that night with a promise to himself to rise early

next morning, for he had been invited to take part in a "raising,"

which term meant that a new cabin was to be erected, and such task

was ever an event in the lives of the settlers.

The following morning Joe rose early, dressing himself in a complete

buckskin suit, for which he had exchanged his good garments of

cloth. Never before had he felt so comfortable. He wanted to hop,

skip and jump. The soft, undressed buckskin was as warm and smooth

as silk-plush; the weight so light, the moccasins so well-fitting

and springy, that he had to put himself under considerable restraint

to keep from capering about like a frolicsome colt.

The possession of this buckskin outfit, and the rifle and

accouterments which went with the bargain, marked the last stage in

Joe's surrender to the border fever. The silent, shaded glens, the

mystery of the woods, the breath of this wild, free life claimed him

from this moment entirely and forever.

He met the others, however, with a serene face, showing no trace of

the emotion which welled up strongly from his heart. Nell glanced

shyly at him; Kate playfully voiced her admiration; Jim met him with

a brotherly ridicule which bespoke his affection as well as his

amusement; but Colonel Zane, having once yielded to the same

burning, riotous craving for freedom which now stirred in the boy's

heart, understood, and felt warmly drawn toward the lad. He said

nothing, though as he watched Joe his eyes were grave and kind. In

his long frontier life, where many a day measured the life and fire

of ordinary years, he had seen lad after lad go down before this

forest fever. It was well, he thought, because the freedom of the

soil depended on these wild, light-footed boys; yet it always made

him sad. How many youths, his brother among them, lay under the

fragrant pine-needle carpet of the forest, in their last earthly

sleep!

The "raising" brought out all the settlement--the women to look on

and gossip, while the children played; the men to bend their backs

in the moving of the heavy timbers. They celebrated the erection of

a new cabin as a noteworthy event. As a social function it had a

prominent place in the settlers' short list of pleasures.

Joe watched the proceeding with the same pleasure and surprise he

had felt in everything pertaining to border life.

To him this log-raising appeared the hardest kind of labor. Yet it

was plain these hardy men, these low-voiced women, and merry

children regarded the work as something far more significant than

the mere building of a cabin. After a while he understood the

meaning of the scene. A kindred spirit, the spirit of the pioneer,

drew them all into one large family. This was another cabin; another

home; another advance toward the conquering of the wilderness, for

which these brave men and women were giving their lives. In the

bright-eyed children's glee, when they clapped their little hands at

the mounting logs, Joe saw the progress, the march of civilization.

"Well, I'm sorry you're to leave us to-night," remarked Colonel Zane

to Joe, as the young man came over to where he, his wife, and sister

watched the work. "Jonathan said all was ready for your departure at

sundown."

"Do we travel by night?"

"Indeed, yes, my lad. There are Indians everywhere on the river. I

think, however, with Jack and Lew handling the paddles, you will

slip by safely. The plan is to keep along the south shore all night;

then cross over at a place called Girty's Point, where you are to

remain in hiding during daylight. From there you paddle up Yellow

Creek; then portage across country to the head of the Tuscarwawas.

Another night's journey will then bring you to the Village of

Peace."

Jim and Mr. Wells, with his nieces, joined the party now, and all

stood watching as the last logs were put in place.

"Colonel Zane, my first log-raising is an education to me," said the

young minister, in his earnest manner. "This scene is so full of

life. I never saw such goodwill among laboring men. Look at that

brawny-armed giant standing on the topmost log. How he whistles as

he swings his ax! Mr. Wells, does it not impress you?"

"The pioneers must be brothers because of their isolation and peril;

to be brothers means to love one another; to love one another is to

love God. What you see in this fraternity is God. And I want to see

this same beautiful feeling among the Indians."

"I have seen it," said Colonel Zane, to the old missionary. "When I

came out here alone twelve years ago the Indians were peaceable. If

the pioneers had paid for land, as I paid Cornplanter, there would

never have been a border war. But no; the settlers must grasp every

acre they could. Then the Indians rebelled; then the Girtys and

their allies spread discontent, and now the border is a bloody

warpath."

"Have the Jesuit missionaries accomplished anything with these war

tribes?" inquired Jim.

"No; their work has been chiefly among the Indians near Detroit and

northward. The Hurons, Delawares, Shawnees and other western tribes

have been demoralized by the French traders' rum, and incited to

fierce hatred by Girty and his renegades. Your work at Gnaddenhutten

must be among these hostile tribes, and it is surely a hazardous

undertaking."

"My life is God's," murmured the old minister. No fear could assail

his steadfast faith.

"Jim, it strikes me you'd be more likely to impress these Indians

Colonel Zane spoke of if you'd get a suit like mine and wear a knife

and tomahawk," interposed Joe, cheerfully. "Then, if you couldn't

convert, you could scalp them."

"Well, well, let us hope for the best," said Colonel Zane, when the

laughter had subsided. "We'll go over to dinner now. Come, all of

you. Jonathan, bring Wetzel. Betty, make him come, if you can."

As the party slowly wended its way toward the colonel's cabin Jim

and Nell found themselves side by side. They had not exchanged a

word since the evening previous, when Jim had kissed her. Unable to

look at each other now, and finding speech difficult, they walked in

embarrassed silence.

"Doesn't Joe look splendid in his hunting suit?" asked Jim,

presently.

"I hadn't noticed. Yes; he looks well," replied Nell, carelessly.

She was too indifferent to be natural.

"Are you angry with him?"

"Certainly not."

Jim was always simple and frank in his relations with women. He had

none of his brother's fluency of speech, with neither confidence,

boldness nor understanding of the intricate mazes of a woman's

moods.

"But--you are angry with--me?" he whispered.

Nell flushed to her temples, yet she did not raise her eyes nor

reply.

"It was a terrible thing for me to do," went on Jim, hesitatingly.

"I don't know why I took advantage--of--of your mistaking me for

Joe. If you only hadn't held up your mouth. No--I don't mean

that--of course you didn't. But--well, I couldn't help it. I'm

guilty. I have thought of little else. Some wonderful feeling has

possessed me ever since--since---"

"What has Joe been saying about me?" demanded Nell, her eyes burning

like opals.

"Why, hardly anything," answered Jim, haltingly. "I took him to task

about--about what I considered might be wrong to you. Joe has never

been very careful of young ladies' feelings, and I thought--well, it

was none of my business. He said he honestly cared for you, that you

had taught him how unworthy he was of a good woman. But he's wrong

there. Joe is wild and reckless, yet his heart is a well of gold. He

is a diamond in the rough. Just now he is possessed by wild notions

of hunting Indians and roaming through the forests; but he'll come

round all right. I wish I could tell you how much he has done for

me, how much I love him, how I know him! He can be made worthy of

any woman. He will outgrow this fiery, daring spirit, and

then--won't you help him?"

"I will, if he will let me," softly whispered Nell, irresistibly

drawn by the strong, earnest love thrilling in his voice.

Chapter X.

Once more out under the blue-black vault of heaven, with its myriads

of twinkling stars, the voyagers resumed their westward journey.

Whispered farewells of new but sincere friends lingered in their

ears. Now the great looming bulk of the fort above them faded into

the obscure darkness, leaving a feeling as if a protector had

gone--perhaps forever. Admonished to absolute silence by the stern

guides, who seemed indeed to have embarked upon a dark and deadly

mission, the voyagers lay back in the canoes and thought and

listened. The water eddied with soft gurgles in the wake of the

racing canoes; but that musical sound was all they heard. The

paddles might have been shadows, for all the splash they made; they

cut the water swiftly and noiselessly. Onward the frail barks glided

into black space, side by side, close under the overhanging willows.

Long moments passed into long hours, as the guides paddled

tirelessly as if their sinews were cords of steel.

With gray dawn came the careful landing of the canoes, a cold

breakfast eaten under cover of a willow thicket, and the beginning

of a long day while they were lying hidden from the keen eyes of

Indian scouts, waiting for the friendly mantle of night.

The hours dragged until once more the canoes were launched, this

time not on the broad Ohio, but on a stream that mirrored no shining

stars as it flowed still and somber under the dense foliage.

The voyagers spoke not, nor whispered, nor scarcely moved, so

menacing had become the slow, listening caution of Wetzel and Zane.

Snapping of twigs somewhere in the inscrutable darkness delayed them

for long moments. Any movement the air might resound with the

horrible Indian war-whoop. Every second was heavy with fear. How

marvelous that these scouts, penetrating the wilderness of gloom,

glided on surely, silently, safely! Instinct, or the eyes of the

lynx, guide their course. But another dark night wore on to the

tardy dawn, and each of its fearful hours numbered miles past and

gone.

The sun was rising in ruddy glory when Wetzel ran his canoe into the

bank just ahead of a sharp bend in the stream.

"Do we get out here?" asked Jim, seeing Jonathan turn his canoe

toward Wetzel's.

"The village lies yonder, around the bend," answered the guide.

"Wetzel cannot go there, so I'll take you all in my canoe."

"There's no room; I'll wait," replied Joe, quietly. Jim noted his

look--a strange, steady glance it was--and then saw him fix his eyes

upon Nell, watching her until the canoe passed around the

green-bordered bend in the stream.

Unmistakable signs of an Indian town were now evident. Dozens of

graceful birchen canoes lay upon the well-cleared banks; a log

bridge spanned the stream; above the slight ridge of rising ground

could be seen the poles of Indian teepees.

As the canoe grated upon the sandy beach a little Indian boy, who

was playing in the shallow water, raised his head and smiled.

"That's an Indian boy," whispered Kate.

"The dear little fellow!" exclaimed Nell.

The boy came running up to them, when they were landed, with

pleasure and confidence shining in his dusky eyes. Save for tiny

buckskin breeches, he was naked, and his shiny skin gleamed

gold-bronze in the sunlight. He was a singularly handsome child.

"Me--Benny," he lisped in English, holding up his little hand to

Nell.

The action was as loving and trusting as any that could have been

manifested by a white child. Jonathan Zane stared with a curious

light in his dark eyes; Mr. Wells and Jim looked as though they

doubted the evidence of their own sight. Here, even in an Indian

boy, was incontestable proof that the savage nature could be tamed

and civilized.

With a tender exclamation Nell bent over the child and kissed him.

Jonathan Zane swung his canoe up-stream for the purpose of bringing

Joe. The trim little bark slipped out of sight round the bend.

Presently its gray, curved nose peeped from behind the willows; then

the canoe swept into view again. There was only one person in it,

and that the guide.

"Where is my brother?" asked Jim, in amazement.

"Gone," answered Zane, quietly.

"Gone! What do you mean? Gone? Perhaps you have missed the spot

where you left him."

"They're both gone."

Nell and Jim gazed at each other with slowly whitening faces.

"Come, I'll take you up to the village," said Zane, getting out of

his canoe. All noticed that he was careful to take his weapons with

him.

"Can't you tell us what it means--this disappearance?" asked Jim,

his voice low and anxious.

"They're gone, canoe and all. I knew Wetzel was going, but I didn't

calkilate on the lad. Mebbe he followed Wetzel, mebbe he didn't,"

answered the taciturn guide, and he spoke no more.

In his keen expectation and wonder as to what the village would be

like, Jim momentarily forgot his brother's disappearance, and when

he arrived at the top of the bank he surveyed the scene with

eagerness. What he saw was more imposing than the Village of Peace

which he had conjured up in his imagination. Confronting him was a

level plain, in the center of which stood a wide, low structure

surrounded by log cabins, and these in turn encircled by Indian

teepees. A number of large trees, mostly full-foliaged maples,

shaded the clearing. The settlement swarmed with Indians. A few

shrill halloes uttered by the first observers of the newcomers

brought braves, maidens and children trooping toward the party with

friendly curiosity.

Jonathan Zane stepped before a cabin adjoining the large structure,

and called in at the open door. A short, stoop-shouldered white man,

clad in faded linsey, appeared on the threshold. His serious, lined

face had the unmistakable benevolent aspect peculiar to most

teachers of the gospel.

"Mr. Zeisberger, I've fetched a party from Fort Henry," said Zane,

indicating those he had guided. Then, without another word, never

turning his dark face to the right or left, he hurried down the lane

through the throng of Indians.

Jim remembered, as he saw the guide vanish over the bank of the

creek, that he had heard Colonel Zane say that Jonathan, as well as

Wetzel, hated the sight of an Indian. No doubt long years of war and

bloodshed had rendered these two great hunters callous. To them

there could be no discrimination--an Indian was an Indian.

"Mr. Wells, welcome to the Village of Peace!" exclaimed Mr.

Zeisberger, wringing the old missionary's hand. "The years have not

been so long but that I remember you."

"Happy, indeed, am I to get here, after all these dark, dangerous

journeys," returned Mr. Wells. "I have brought my nieces, Nell and

Kate, who were children when you left Williamsburg, and this young

man, James Downs, a minister of God, and earnest in his hope for our

work."

"A glorious work it is! Welcome, young ladies, to our peaceful

village. And, young man, I greet you with heartfelt thankfulness. We

need young men. Come in, all of you, and share my cabin. I'll have

your luggage brought up. I have lived in this hut alone. With some

little labor, and the magic touch women bring to the making of a

home, we can be most comfortable here."

Mr. Zeisberger gave his own room to the girls, assuring them with a

smile that it was the most luxurious in the village. The apartment

contained a chair, a table, and a bed of Indian blankets and buffalo

robes. A few pegs driven in the chinks between the logs completed

the furnishings. Sparse as were the comforts, they appealed warmly

to the girls, who, weary from their voyage, lay down to rest.

"I am not fatigued," said Mr. Wells, to his old friend. "I want to

hear all about your work, what you have done, and what you hope to

do."

"We have met with wonderful success, far beyond our wildest dreams,"

responded Mr. Zeisberger. "Certainly we have been blessed of God."

Then the missionary began a long, detailed account of the Moravian

Mission's efforts among the western tribes. The work lay chiefly

among the Delawares, a noble nation of redmen, intelligent, and

wonderfully susceptible to the teaching of the gospel. Among the

eastern Delawares, living on the other side of the Allegheny

Mountains, the missionaries had succeeded in converting many; and it

was chiefly through the western explorations of Frederick Post that

his Church decided the Indians of the west could as well be taught

to lead Christian lives. The first attempt to convert the western

redmen took place upon the upper Allegheny, where many Indians,

including Allemewi, a blind Delaware chief, accepted the faith. The

mission decided, however, it would be best to move farther west,

where the Delawares had migrated and were more numerous.

In April, 1770, more than ten years before, sixteen canoes, filled

with converted Indians and missionaries, drifted down the Allegheny

to Fort Pitt; thence down the Ohio to the Big Beaver; up that stream

and far into the Ohio wilderness.

Upon a tributary of the Muskingong, called the Tuscarwawas, a

settlement was founded. Near and far the news was circulated. Redmen

from all tribes came flocking to the new colony. Chiefs and

warriors, squaws and maidens, were attracted by the new doctrine of

the converted Indians. They were astonished at the missionaries'

teachings. Many doubted, some were converted, all listened. Great

excitement prevailed when old Glickhican, one of the wisest chiefs

of the Turtle tribe of the Delawares, became a convert to the

palefaces' religion.

The interest widened, and in a few years a beautiful, prosperous

town arose, which was called Village of Peace. The Indians of the

warlike tribes bestowed the appropriate name. The vast forests were

rich in every variety of game; the deep, swift streams were teeming

with fish. Meat and grain in abundance, buckskin for clothing, and

soft furs for winter garments were to be had for little labor. At

first only a few wigwams were erected. Soon a large log structure

was thrown up and used as a church. Then followed a school, a mill,

and a workshop. The verdant fields were cultivated and surrounded by

rail fences. Horses and cattle grazed with the timid deer on the

grassy plains.

The Village of Peace blossomed as a rose. The reports of the love

and happiness existing in this converted community spread from mouth

to mouth, from town to town, with the result that inquisitive

savages journeyed from all points to see this haven. Peaceful and

hostile Indians were alike amazed at the change in their brethren.

The good-fellowship and industry of the converts had a widespread

and wonderful influence. More, perhaps, than any other thing, the

great fields of waving corn, the hills covered with horses and

cattle, those evidences of abundance, impressed the visitors with

the well-being of the Christians. Bands of traveling Indians,

whether friendly or otherwise, were treated with hospitality, and

never sent away empty-handed. They were asked to partake of the

abundance and solicited to come again.

A feature by no means insignificant in the popularity of the village

was the church bell. The Indians loved music, and this bell charmed

them. On still nights the savages in distant towns could hear at

dusk the deep-toned, mellow notes of the bell summoning the

worshipers to the evening service. Its ringing clang, so strange, so

sweet, so solemn, breaking the vast dead wilderness quiet, haunted

the savage ear as though it were a call from a woodland god.

"You have arrived most opportunely," continued Mr. Zeisberger. "Mr.

Edwards and Mr. Young are working to establish other missionary

posts. Heckewelder is here now in the interest of this branching

out."

"How long will it take me to learn the Delaware language?" inquired

Jim.

"Not long. You do not, however, need to speak the Indian tongue, for

we have excellent interpreters."

"We heard much at Fort Pitt and Fort Henry about the danger, as well

as uselessness, of our venture," Jim continued. "The frontiersmen

declared that every rod of the way was beset with savage foes, and

that, even in the unlikely event of our arriving safely at the

Village of Peace, we would then be hemmed in by fierce, vengeful

tribes."

"Hostile savages abound here, of course; but we do not fear them. We

invite them. Our work is to convert the wicked, to teach them to

lead good, useful lives. We will succeed."

Jim could not help warming to the minister for his unswervable

faith, his earnest belief that the work of God could not fail;

nevertheless, while he felt no fear and intended to put all his

heart in the work, he remembered with disquietude Colonel Zane's

warnings. He thought of the wonderful precaution and eternal

vigilance of Jonathan and Wetzel--men of all men who most understood

Indian craft and cunning. It might well be possible that these good

missionaries, wrapped up in saving the souls of these children of

the forest, so full of God's teachings as to have little mind for

aught else, had no knowledge of the Indian nature beyond what the

narrow scope of their work invited. If what these frontiersmen

asserted was true, then the ministers' zeal had struck them blind.

Jim had a growing idea of the way in which the savages could be best

taught. He resolved to go slowly; to study the redmen's natures; not

to preach one word of the gospel to them until he had mastered their

language and could convey to their simple minds the real truth. He

would make Christianity as clear to them as were the deer-trails on

the moss and leaves of the forest.

"Ah, here you are. I hope you have rested well," said Mr.

Zeisberger, when at the conclusion of this long recital Nell and

Kate came into the room.

"Thank you, we feel much better," answered Kate. The girls certainly

looked refreshed. The substitution of clean gowns for their former

travel-stained garments made a change that called forth the

minister's surprise and admiration.

"My! My! Won't Edwards and Young beg me to keep them here now!" he

exclaimed, his pleased eyes resting on Nell's piquant beauty and

Kate's noble proportions and rich coloring. "Come; I will show you

over the Village of Peace."

"Are all these Indians Christians?" asked Jim.

"No, indeed. These Indians you see here, and out yonder under the

shade, though they are friendly, are not Christians. Our converts

employ themselves in the fields or shops. Come; take a peep in here.

This is where we preach in the evenings and during inclement

weather. On pleasant days we use the maple grove yonder."

Jim and the others looked in at the door of the large log structure.

They saw an immense room, the floor covered with benches, and a

raised platform at one end. A few windows let in the light. Spacious

and barn-like was this apartment; but undoubtedly, seen through the

beaming eyes of the missionary, it was a grand amphitheater for

worship. The hard-packed clay floor was velvet carpet; the rude

seats soft as eiderdown; the platform with its white-oak cross, an

altar of marble and gold.

"This is one of our shops," said Mr. Zeisberger, leading them to a

cabin. "Here we make brooms, harness for the horses, farming

implements--everything useful that we can. We have a forge here.

Behold an Indian blacksmith!"

The interior of the large cabin presented a scene of bustling

activity. Twenty or more Indians bent their backs in earnest

employment. In one corner a savage stood holding a piece of red-hot

iron on an anvil, while a brawny brave wielded a sledge-hammer. The

sparks flew; the anvil rang. In another corner a circle of braves

sat around a pile of dried grass and flags. They were twisting and

fashioning these materials into baskets. At a bench three Indian

carpenters were pounding and sawing. Young braves ran back and

forth, carrying pails, rough-hewn boards and blocks of wood.

Instantly struck by two things, Jim voiced his curiosity:

"Why do these Indians all wear long hair, smooth and shiny, without

adornment?"

"They are Christians. They wear neither headdress, war-bonnet, nor

scalp-lock," replied Mr. Zeisberger, with unconscious pride.

"I did not expect to see a blacksmith's anvil out here in the

wilderness. Where did you procure these tools?"

"We have been years getting them here. Some came by way of the Ohio

River; others overland from Detroit. That anvil has a history. It

was lost once, and lay for years in the woods, until some Indians

found it again. It is called the Ringing Stone, and Indians come

from miles around to see and hear it."

The missionary pointed out wide fields of corn, now growing yellow,

and hillsides doted with browsing cattle, droves of sturdy-limbed

horses, and pens of fat, grunting pigs--all of which attested to the

growing prosperity of the Village of Peace.

On the way back to the cabin, while the others listened to and

questioned Mr. Zeisberger, Jim was silent and thoughtful, for his

thoughts reverted to his brother.

Later, as he walked with Nell by the golden-fringed stream, he spoke

of Joe.

"Joe wanted so much to hunt with Wetzel. He will come back; surely

he will return to us when he has satisfied his wild craving for

adventure. Do you not think so?"

There was an eagerness that was almost pleading in Jim's voice. What

he so much hoped for--that no harm had befallen Joe, and that he

would return--he doubted. He needed the encouragement of his hope.

"Never," answered Nell, solemnly.

"Oh, why--why do you say that?"

"I saw him look at you--a strange, intent glance. He gazed long at

me as we separated. Oh! I can feel his eyes. No; he will never come

back."

"Nell, Nell, you do not mean he went away deliberately--because, oh!

I cannot say it."

"For no reason, except that the wilderness called him more than love

for you or--me."

"No, no," returned Jim, his face white. "You do not understand. He

really loved you--I know it. He loved me, too. Ah, how well! He has

gone because--I can't tell you."

"Oh, Jim, I hope--he loved--me," sobbed Nell, bursting into tears.

"His coldness--his neglect those--last few days--hurt me--so. If he

cared--as you say--I won't be--so--miserable."

"We are both right--you when you say he will never return, and I

when I say he loved us both," said Jim sadly, as the bitter

certainty forced itself into his mind.

As she sobbed softly, and he gazed with set, stern face into the

darkening forest, the deep, mellow notes of the church bell pealed

out. So thrilled, so startled were they by this melody wondrously

breaking the twilight stillness, that they gazed mutely at each

other. Then they remembered. It was the missionary's bell summoning

the Christian Indians to the evening service.

Chapter XI.

The, sultry, drowsy, summer days passed with no untoward event to

mar their slumbering tranquillity. Life for the newcomers to the

Village of Peace brought a content, the like of which they had never

dreamed of. Mr. Wells at once began active work among the Indians,

preaching to them through an interpreter; Nell and Kate, in hours

apart from household duties, busied themselves brightening their new

abode, and Jim entered upon the task of acquainting himself with the

modes and habits of the redmen. Truly, the young people might have

found perfect happiness in this new and novel life, if only Joe had

returned. His disappearance and subsequent absence furnished a theme

for many talks and many a quiet hour of dreamy sadness. The

fascination of his personality had been so impelling that long after

it was withdrawn a charm lingered around everything which reminded

them of him; a subtle and sweet memory, with perverse and half

bitter persistence, returned hauntingly. No trace of Joe had been

seen by any of the friendly Indian runners. He was gone into the

mazes of deep-shadowed forests, where to hunt for him would be like

striving to trail the flight of a swallow. Two of those he had left

behind always remembered him, and in their thoughts followed him in

his wanderings.

Jim settled down to his study of Indians with single-heartedness of

purpose. He spent part of every morning with the interpreters, with

whose assistance he rapidly acquired the Delaware language. He went

freely among the Indians, endeavoring to win their good-will. There

were always fifty to an hundred visiting Indians at the village;

sometimes, when the missionaries had advertised a special meeting,

there were assembled in the shady maple grove as many as five

hundred savages. Jim had, therefore, opportunities to practice his

offices of friendliness.

Fortunately for him, he at once succeeded in establishing himself in

the good graces of Glickhican, the converted Delaware chief. The

wise old Indian was of inestimable value to Jim. Early in their

acquaintance he evinced an earnest regard for the young minister,

and talked with him for hours.

From Glickhican Jim learned the real nature of the redmen. The

Indian's love of freedom and honor, his hatred of subjection and

deceit, as explained by the good old man, recalled to Jim Colonel

Zane's estimate of the savage character. Surely, as the colonel had

said, the Indians had reason for their hatred of the pioneers.

Truly, they were a blighted race.

Seldom had the rights of the redmen been thought of. The settler

pushed onward, plodding, as it were, behind his plow with a rifle.

He regarded the Indian as little better than a beast; he was easier

to kill than to tame. How little the settler knew the proud

independence, the wisdom, the stainless chastity of honor, which

belonged so truly to many Indian chiefs!

The redmen were driven like hounded deer into the untrodden wilds.

From freemen of the forests, from owners of the great boundless

plains, they passed to stern, enduring fugitives on their own lands.

Small wonder that they became cruel where once they had been gentle!

Stratagem and cunning, the night assault, the daylight ambush took

the place of their one-time open warfare. Their chivalrous courage,

that sublime inheritance from ancestors who had never known the

paleface foe, degenerated into a savage ferocity.

Interesting as was this history to Jim, he cared more for

Glickhican's rich portrayal of the redmen's domestic life, for the

beautiful poetry of his tradition and legends. He heard with delight

the exquisite fanciful Indian lore. From these romantic legends,

beautiful poems, and marvelous myths he hoped to get ideas of the

Indian's religion. Sweet and simple as childless dreams were these

quaint tales--tales of how the woodland fairies dwelt in

fern-carpeted dells; how at sunrise they came out to kiss open the

flowers; how the forest walks were spirit-haunted paths; how the

leaves whispered poetry to the winds; how the rocks harbored Indian

gods and masters who watched over their chosen ones.

Glickhican wound up his long discourses by declaring he had never

lied in the whole course of his seventy years, had never stolen,

never betrayed, never murdered, never killed, save in self-defence.

Gazing at the chief's fine features, now calm, yet showing traces of

past storms, Jim believed he spoke the truth.

When the young minister came, however, to study the hostile Indians

that flocked to the village, any conclusive delineation of

character, or any satisfactory analysis of their mental state in

regard to the paleface religion, eluded him. Their passive, silent,

sphinx-like secretiveness was baffling. Glickhican had taught him

how to propitiate the friendly braves, and with these he was

successful. Little he learned, however, from the unfriendly ones.

When making gifts to these redmen he could never be certain that his

offerings were appreciated. The jewels and gold he had brought west

with him went to the French traders, who in exchange gave him

trinkets, baubles, bracelets and weapons. Jim made hundreds of

presents. Boldly going up to befeathered and befringed chieftains,

he offered them knives, hatchets, or strings of silvery beads.

Sometimes his kindly offerings were repelled with a haughty stare;

at other times they would be accepted coldly, suspiciously, as if

the gifts brought some unknown obligation.

For a white man it was a never-to-be-forgotten experience to see

eight or ten of these grim, slowly stepping forest kings, arrayed in

all the rich splendor of their costume, stalking among the teepees

of the Village of Peace. Somehow, such a procession always made Jim

shiver. The singing, praying and preaching they heard unmoved. No

emotion was visible on their bronzed faces; nothing changed their

unalterable mien. Had they not moved, or gazed with burning eyes,

they would have been statues. When these chieftains looked at the

converted Indians, some of whom were braves of their nations, the

contempt in their glances betrayed that they now regarded these

Christian Indians as belonging to an alien race.

Among the chiefs Glickhican pointed out to Jim were Wingenund, the

Delaware; Tellane, the Half-King; Shingiss and Kotoxen--all of the

Wolf tribe of the Delawares.

Glickhican was careful to explain that the Delaware nation had been

divided into the Wolf and Turtle tribes, the former warlike people,

and the latter peaceable. Few of the Wolf tribe had gone over to the

new faith, and those who had were scorned. Wingenund, the great

power of the Delawares--indeed, the greatest of all the western

tribes--maintained a neutral attitude toward the Village of Peace.

But it was well known that his right-hand war-chiefs, Pipe and

Wishtonah, remained coldly opposed.

Jim turned all he had learned over and over in his mind, trying to

construct part of it to fit into a sermon that would be different

from any the Indians had ever heard. He did not want to preach far

over their heads. If possible, he desired to keep to their

ideals--for he deemed them more beautiful than his own--and to

conduct his teaching along the simple lines of their belief, so that

when he stimulated and developed their minds he could pass from what

they knew to the unknown Christianity of the white man.

His first address to the Indians was made one day during the

indisposition of Mr. Wells--who had been over-working himself--and

the absence of the other missionaries. He did not consider himself

at all ready for preaching, and confined his efforts to simple,

earnest talk, a recital of the thoughts he had assimilated while

living here among the Indians.

Amazement would not have described the state of his feelings when he

learned that he had made a powerful impression. The converts were

loud in his praise; the unbelievers silent and thoughtful. In spite

of himself, long before he had been prepared, he was launched on his

teaching. Every day he was called upon to speak; every day one

savage, at least, was convinced; every day the throng of interested

Indians was augmented. The elder missionaries were quite overcome

with joy; they pressed him day after day to speak, until at length

he alone preached during the afternoon service.

The news flew apace; the Village of Peace entertained more redmen

than ever before. Day by day the faith gained a stronger foothold. A

kind of religious trance affected some of the converted Indians, and

this greatly influenced the doubting ones. Many of them half

believed the Great Manitou had come.

Heckewelder, the acknowledged leader of the western Moravian

Mission, visited the village at this time, and, struck by the young

missionary's success, arranged a three days' religious festival.

Indian runners were employed to carry invitations to all the tribes.

The Wyandots in the west, the Shawnees in the south, and the

Delawares in the north were especially requested to come. No

deception was practiced to lure the distant savages to the Village

of Peace. They were asked to come, partake of the feasts, and listen

to the white man's teaching.

Chapter XII.

"The Groves Were God's First Temples."

From dawn until noon on Sunday bands of Indians arrived at the

Village of Peace. Hundreds of canoes glided down the swift stream

and bumped their prows into the pebbly beach. Groups of mounted

warriors rode out of the forests into the clearing; squaws with

papooses, maidens carrying wicker baskets, and children playing with

rude toys, came trooping along the bridle-paths.

Gifts were presented during the morning, after which the visitors

were feasted. In the afternoon all assembled in the grove to hear

the preaching.

The maple grove wherein the service was to be conducted might have

been intended by Nature for just such a purpose as it now fulfilled.

These trees were large, spreading, and situated far apart. Mossy

stones and the thick carpet of grass afforded seats for the

congregation.

Heckewelder--a tall, spare, and kindly appearing man--directed the

arranging of the congregation. He placed the converted Indians just

behind the knoll upon which the presiding minister was to stand. In

a half circle facing the knoll he seated the chieftains and

important personages of the various tribes. He then made a short

address in the Indian language, speaking of the work of the mission,

what wonders it had accomplished, what more good work it hoped to

do, and concluded by introducing the young missionary.

While Heckewelder spoke, Jim, who stood just behind, employed the

few moments in running his eye over the multitude. The sight which

met his gaze was one he thought he would never forget. An

involuntary word escaped him.

"Magnificent!" he exclaimed.

The shady glade had been transformed into a theater, from which

gazed a thousand dark, still faces. A thousand eagle plumes waved,

and ten thousand bright-hued feathers quivered in the soft breeze.

The fantastically dressed scalps presented a contrast to the smooth,

unadorned heads of the converted redmen. These proud plumes and

defiant feathers told the difference between savage and Christian.

In front of the knoll sat fifty chiefs, attentive and dignified.

Representatives of every tribe as far west as the Scioto River were

numbered in that circle. There were chiefs renowned for war, for

cunning, for valor, for wisdom. Their stately presence gave the

meeting tenfold importance. Could these chiefs be interested, moved,

the whole western world of Indians might be civilized.

Hepote, a Maumee chief, of whom it was said he had never listened to

words of the paleface, had the central position in this circle. On

his right and left, respectively, sat Shaushoto and Pipe, implacable

foes of all white men. The latter's aspect did not belie his

reputation. His copper-colored, repulsive visage compelled fear; it

breathed vindictiveness and malignity. A singular action of his was

that he always, in what must have been his arrogant vanity, turned

his profile to those who watched him, and it was a remarkable one;

it sloped in an oblique line from the top of his forehead to his

protruding chin, resembling somewhat the carved bowl of his pipe,

which was of flint and a famed inheritance from his ancestors. From

it he took his name. One solitary eagle plume, its tip stained

vermilion, stuck from his scalp-lock. It slated backward on a line

with his profile.

Among all these chiefs, striking as they were, the figure of

Wingenund, the Delaware, stood out alone.

His position was at the extreme left of the circle, where he leaned

against a maple. A long, black mantle, trimmed with spotless white,

enveloped him. One bronzed arm, circled by a heavy bracelet of gold,

held the mantle close about his lofty form. His headdress, which

trailed to the ground, was exceedingly beautiful. The eagle plumes

were of uniform length and pure white, except the black-pointed

tips.

At his feet sat his daughter, Whispering Winds. Her maidens were

gathered round her. She raised her soft, black eyes, shining with a

wondrous light of surprise and expectation, to the young

missionary's face.

Beyond the circle the Indians were massed together, even beyond the

limits of the glade. Under the trees on every side sat warriors

astride their steeds; some lounged on the green turf; many reclined

in the branches of low-spreading maples.

As Jim looked out over the sea of faces he started in surprise. The

sudden glance of fiery eyes had impelled his gaze. He recognized

Silvertip, the Shawnee chief. The Indian sat motionless on a

powerful black horse. Jim started again, for the horse was Joe's

thoroughbred, Lance. But Jim had no further time to think of Joe's

enemy, for Heckewelder stepped back.

Jim took the vacated seat, and, with a far-reaching, resonant voice

began his discourse to the Indians.

"Chieftains, warriors, maidens, children of the forest, listen, and

your ears shall hear no lie. I am come from where the sun rises to

tell you of the Great Spirit of the white man.

"Many, many moons ago, as many as blades of grass grow on yonder

plain, the Great Spirit of whom I shall speak created the world. He

made the sparkling lakes and swift rivers, the boundless plains and

tangled forests, over which He caused the sun to shine and the rain

to fall. He gave life to the kingly elk, the graceful deer, the

rolling bison, the bear, the fox--all the beasts and birds and

fishes. But He was not content; for nothing He made was perfect in

His sight. He created the white man in His own image, and from this

first man's rib He created his mate--a woman. He turned them free in

a beautiful forest.

"Life was fair in the beautiful forest. The sun shone always, the

birds sang, the waters flowed with music, the flowers cast sweet

fragrance on the air. In this forest, where fruit bloomed always,

was one tree, the Tree of Life, the apple of which they must not

eat. In all this beautiful forest of abundance this apple alone was

forbidden them.

"Now evil was born with woman. A serpent tempted her to eat of the

apple of Life, and she tempted the man to eat. For their sin the

Great Spirit commanded the serpent to crawl forever on his belly,

and He drove them from the beautiful forest. The punishment for

their sin was to be visited on their children's children, always,

until the end of time. The two went afar into the dark forest, to

learn to live as best they might. From them all tribes descended.

The world is wide. A warrior might run all his days and not reach

the setting sun, where tribes of yellow-skins live. He might travel

half his days toward the south-wind, where tribes of black-skins

abound. People of all colors inhabited the world. They lived in

hatred toward one another. They shed each other's blood; they stole

each other's lands, gold, and women. They sinned.

"Many moons ago the Great Spirit sorrowed to see His chosen tribe,

the palefaces, living in ignorance and sin. He sent His only Son to

redeem them, and said if they would listen and believe, and teach

the other tribes, He would forgive their sin and welcome them to the

beautiful forest.

"That was moons and moons ago, when the paleface killed his brother

for gold and lands, and beat his women slaves to make them plant his

corn. The Son of the Great Spirit lifted the cloud from the

palefaces' eyes, and they saw and learned. So pleased was the Great

Spirit that He made the palefaces wiser and wiser, and master of the

world. He bid them go afar to teach the ignorant tribes.

"To teach you is why the young paleface journeyed from the rising

sun. He wants no lands or power. He has given all that he had. He

walks among you without gun or knife. He can gain nothing but the

happiness of opening the redmen's eyes.

"The Great Spirit of whom I teach and the Great Manitou, your idol,

are the same; the happy hunting ground of the Indian and the

beautiful forest of the paleface are the same; the paleface and the

redman are the same. There is but one Great Spirit, that is God; but

one eternal home, that is heaven; but one human being, that is man.

"The Indian knows the habits of the beaver; he can follow the paths

of the forests; he can guide his canoe through the foaming rapids;

he is honest, he is brave, he is great; but he is not wise. His

wisdom is clouded with the original sin. He lives in idleness; he

paints his face; he makes his squaw labor for him, instead of

laboring for her; he kills his brothers. He worships the trees and

rocks. If he were wise he would not make gods of the swift arrow and

bounding canoe; of the flowering ash and the flaming flint. For

these things have not life. In his dreams he sees his arrow speed to

the reeling deer; in his dreams he sees his canoe shoot over the

crest of shining waves; and in his mind he gives them life. When his

eyes are opened he will see they have no spirit. The spirit is in

his own heart. It guides the arrow to the running deer, and steers

the canoe over the swirling current. The spirit makes him find the

untrodden paths, and do brave deeds, and love his children and his

honor. It makes him meet his foe face to face, and if he is to die

it gives him strength to die--a man. The spirit is what makes him

different from the arrow, the canoe, the mountain, and all the birds

and beasts. For it is born of the Great Spirit, the creator of all.

Him you must worship.

"Redmen, this worship is understanding your spirit and teaching it

to do good deeds. It is called Christianity. Christianity is love.

If you will love the Great Spirit you will love your wives, your

children, your brothers, your friends, your foes--you will love the

palefaces. No more will you idle in winter and wage wars in summer.

You will wear your knife and tomahawk only when you hunt for meat.

You will be kind, gentle, loving, virtuous--you will have grown

wise. When your days are done you will meet all your loved ones in

the beautiful forest. There, where the flowers bloom, the fruits

ripen always, where the pleasant water glides and the summer winds

whisper sweetly, there peace will dwell forever.

"Comrades, be wise, think earnestly. Forget the wicked paleface; for

there are many wicked palefaces. They sell the serpent firewater;

they lie and steal and kill. These palefaces' eyes are still

clouded. If they do not open they will never see the beautiful

forest. You have much to forgive, but those who forgive please the

Great Spirit; you must give yourselves to love, but those who love

are loved; you must work, but those who work are happy.

"Behold the Village of Peace! Once it contained few; now there are

many. Where once the dark forest shaded the land, see the cabins,

the farms, the horses, the cattle! Field on field of waving, golden

grain shine there under your eyes. The earth has blossomed

abundance. Idling and fighting made not these rich harvests. Belief

made love; love made wise eyes; wise eyes saw, and lo! there came

plenty.

"The proof of love is happiness. These Christian Indians are happy.

They are at peace with the redman and the paleface. They till the

fields and work in the shops. In days to come cabins and farms and

fields of corn will be theirs. They will bring up their children,

not to hide in the forest to slay, but to walk hand in hand with the

palefaces as equals.

"Oh, open your ears! God speaks to you; peace awaits you! Cast the

bitterness from your hearts; it is the serpent-poison. While you

hate, God shuts His eyes. You are great on the trail, in the

council, in war; now be great in forgiveness. Forgive the palefaces

who have robbed you of your lands. Then will come peace. If you do

not forgive, the war will go on; you will lose lands and homes, to

find unmarked graves under the forest leaves. Revenge is sweet; but

it is not wise. The price of revenge is blood and life. Root it out

of your hearts. Love these Christian Indians; love the missionaries

as they love you; love all living creatures. Your days are but few;

therefore, cease the the strife. Let us say, 'Brothers, that is

God's word, His law; that is love; that is Christianity!' If you

will say from your heart, brother, you are a Christian.

"Brothers, the paleface teacher beseeches you. Think not of this

long, bloody war, of your dishonored dead, of your silenced wigwams,

of your nameless graves, of your homeless children. Think of the

future. One word from you will make peace over all this broad land.

The paleface must honor a Christian. He can steal no Christian's

land. All the palefaces, as many as the stars of the great white

path, dare not invade the Village of Peace. For God smiles here.

Listen to His words: 'Come unto me all that are weary and heavy

laden, and I will give you rest.'"

Over the multitude brooded an impressive, solemn silence. Then an

aged Delaware chief rose, with a mien of profound thought, and

slowly paced before the circle of chiefs. Presently he stopped,

turned to the awaiting Indians, and spoke:

"Netawatwees is almost persuaded to be a Christian." He resumed his

seat.

Another interval of penetrating quiet ensued. At length a

venerable-looking chieftain got up:

"White Eyes hears the rumbling thunder in his ears. The smoke blows

from his eyes. White Eyes is the oldest chief of the Lenni-Lenape.

His days are many; they are full; they draw near the evening of his

life; he rejoices that wisdom is come before his sun is set.

"White Eyes believes the young White Father. The ways of the Great

Spirit are many as the fluttering leaves; they are strange and

secret as the flight of a loon; White Eyes believes the redman's

happy hunting grounds need not be forgotten to love the palefaces'

God. As a young brave pants and puzzles over his first trail, so the

grown warrior feels in his understanding of his God. He gropes

blindly through dark ravines.

"White Eyes speaks few words to-day, for he is learning wisdom; he

bids his people hearken to the voice of the White Father. War is

wrong; peace is best. Love is the way to peace. The paleface

advances one step nearer his God. He labors for his home; he keeps

the peace; he asks but little; he frees his women. That is well.

White Eyes has spoken."

The old chief slowly advanced toward the Christian Indians. He laid

aside his knife and tomahawk, and then his eagle plumes and

war-bonnet. Bareheaded, he seated himself among the converted

redmen. They began chanting in low, murmuring tones.

Amid the breathless silence that followed this act of such great

significance, Wingenund advanced toward the knoll with slow, stately

step. His dark eye swept the glade with lightning scorn; his glance

alone revealed the passion that swayed him.

"Wingenund's ears are keen; they have heard a feather fall in the

storm; now they hear a soft-voiced thrush. Wingenund thunders to his

people, to his friends, to the chiefs of other tribes: 'Do not bury

the hatchet!' The young White Father's tongue runs smooth like the

gliding brook; it sings as the thrush calls its mate. Listen; but

wait, wait! Let time prove his beautiful tale; let the moons go by

over the Village of Peace.

"Wingenund does not flaunt his wisdom. He has grown old among his

warriors; he loves them; he fears for them. The dream of the

palefaces' beautiful forest glimmers as the rainbow glows over the

laughing falls of the river. The dream of the paleface is too

beautiful to come true. In the days of long ago, when Wingenund's

forefathers heard not the paleface's ax, they lived in love and

happiness such as the young White Father dreams may come again. They

waged no wars. A white dove sat in every wigwam. The lands were

theirs and they were rich. The paleface came with his leaden death,

his burning firewater, his ringing ax, and the glory of the redmen

faded forever.

"Wingenund seeks not to inflame his braves to anger. He is sick of

blood-spilling--not from fear; for Wingenund cannot feel fear. But

he asks his people to wait. Remember, the gifts of the paleface ever

contained a poisoned arrow. Wingenund's heart is sore. The day of

the redman is gone. His sun is setting. Wingenund feels already the

gray shades of evening."

He stopped one long moment as if to gather breath for his final

charge to his listeners. Then with a magnificent gesture he

thundered:

"Is the Delaware a fool? When Wingenund can cross unarmed to the Big

Water he shall change his mind. When Deathwind ceases to blow his

bloody trail over the fallen leaves Wingenund will believe."

Chapter XIII.

As the summer waned, each succeeding day, with its melancholy calm,

its changing lights and shades, its cool, damp evening winds,

growing more and more suggestive of autumn, the little colony of

white people in the Village of Peace led busy, eventful lives.

Upwards of fifty Indians, several of them important chiefs, had

become converted since the young missionary began preaching.

Heckewelder declared that this was a wonderful showing, and if it

could be kept up would result in gaining a hold on the Indian tribes

which might not be shaken. Heckewelder had succeeded in interesting

the savages west of the Village of Peace to the extent of permitting

him to establish missionary posts in two other localities--one near

Goshhocking, a Delaware town; and one on the Muskingong, the

principal river running through central Ohio. He had, with his

helpers, Young and Edwards, journeyed from time to time to these

points, preaching, making gifts, and soliciting help from chiefs.

The most interesting feature, perhaps, of the varied life of the

missionary party was a rivalry between Young and Edwards for the

elder Miss Wells. Usually Nell's attractiveness appealed more to men

than Kate's; however, in this instance, although the sober teachers

of the gospel admired Nell's winsome beauty, they fell in love with

Kate. The missionaries were both under forty, and good, honest men,

devoted to the work which had engrossed them for years. Although

they were ardent lovers, certainly they were not picturesque. Two

homelier men could hardly have been found. Moreover, the sacrifice

of their lives to missionary work had taken them far from the

companionship of women of their own race, so that they lacked the

ease of manner which women like to see in men. Young and Edwards

were awkward, almost uncouth. Embarrassment would not have done

justice to their state of feeling while basking in the shine of

Kate's quiet smile. They were happy, foolish, and speechless.

If Kate shared in the merriment of the others--Heckewelder could not

conceal his, and Nell did not try very hard to hide hers--she never

allowed a suspicion of it to escape. She kept the easy, even tenor

of her life, always kind and gracious in her quaint way, and

precisely the same to both her lovers. No doubt she well knew that

each possessed, under all his rough exterior, a heart of gold.

One day the genial Heckewelder lost, or pretended to lose, his

patience.

"Say, you worthy gentlemen are becoming ornamental instead of

useful. All this changing of coats, trimming of mustaches, and

eloquent sighing doesn't seem to have affected the young lady. I've

a notion to send you both to Maumee town, one hundred miles away.

This young lady is charming, I admit, but if she is to keep on

seriously hindering the work of the Moravian Mission I must object.

As for that matter, I might try conclusions myself. I'm as young as

either of you, and, I flatter myself, much handsomer. You'll have a

dangerous rival presently. Settle it! You can't both have her;

settle it!"

This outburst from their usually kind leader placed the earnest but

awkward gentlemen in a terrible plight.

On the afternoon following the crisis Heckewelder took Mr. Wells to

one of the Indian shops, and Jim and Nell went canoeing. Young and

Edwards, after conferring for one long, trying hour, determined on

settling the question.

Young was a pale, slight man, very homely except when he smiled. His

smile not only broke up the plainness of his face, but seemed to

chase away a serious shadow, allowing his kindly, gentle spirit to

shine through. He was nervous, and had a timid manner. Edwards was

his opposite, being a man of robust frame, with a heavy face, and a

manner that would have suggested self-confidence in another man.

They were true and tried friends.

"Dave, I couldn't ask her," said Young, trembling at the very

thought. "Besides, there's no hope for me. I know it. That's why I'm

afraid, why I don't want to ask her. What'd such a glorious creature

see in a poor, puny little thing like me?"

"George, you're not over-handsome," admitted Dave, shaking his head.

"But you can never tell about women. Sometimes they like even

little, insignificant fellows. Don't be too scared about asking her.

Besides, it will make it easier for me. You might tell her about

me--you know, sort of feel her out, so I'd---"

Dave's voice failed him here; but he had said enough, and that was

most discouraging to poor George. Dave was so busy screwing up his

courage that he forgot all about his friend.

"No; I couldn't," gasped George, falling into a chair. He was

ghastly pale. "I couldn't ask her to accept me, let alone do another

man's wooing. She thinks more of you. She'll accept you."

"You really think so?" whispered Dave, nervously.

"I know she will. You're such a fine, big figure of a man. She'll

take you, and I'll be glad. This fever and fretting has about

finished me. When she's yours I'll not be so bad. I'll be happy in

your happiness. But, Dave, you'll let me see her occasionally, won't

you? Go! Hurry--get it over!"

"Yes; we must have it over," replied Dave, getting up with a brave,

effort. Truly, if he carried that determined front to his lady-love

he would look like a masterful lover. But when he got to the door he

did not at all resemble a conqueror.

"You're sure she--cares for me?" asked Dave, for the hundredth time.

This time, as always, his friend was faithful and convincing.

"I know she does. Go--hurry. I tell you I can't stand this any

longer," cried George, pushing Dave out of the door.

"You won't go--first?" whispered Dave, clinging to the door.

"I won't go at all. I couldn't ask her--I don't want her--go! Get

out!"

Dave started reluctantly toward the adjoining cabin, from the open

window of which came the song of the young woman who was responsible

for all this trouble. George flung himself on his bed. What a relief

to feel it was all over! He lay there with eves shut for hours, as

it seemed. After a time Dave came in. George leaped to his feet and

saw his friend stumbling over a chair. Somehow, Dave did not look as

usual. He seemed changed, or shrunken, and his face wore a

discomfited, miserable expression.

"Well?" cried George, sharply. Even to his highly excited

imagination this did not seem the proper condition for a victorious

lover.

"She refused--refused me," faltered Dave. "She was very sweet and

kind; said something about being my sister--I don't remember just

what--but she wouldn't have me."

"What did you say to her?" whispered George, a paralyzing hope

almost rendering him speechless.

"I--I told her everything I could think of," replied Dave,

despondently; "even what you said."

"What I said? Dave, what did you tell her I said?"

"Why, you know--about she cared for me--that you were sure of it,

and that you didn't want her---"

"Jackass!" roared George, rising out of his meekness like a lion

roused from slumber.

"Didn't you--say so?" inquired Dave, weakly.

"No! No! No! Idiot!"

As one possessed, George rushed out of the cabin, and a moment later

stood disheveled and frantic before Kate.

"Did that fool say I didn't love you?" he demanded.

Kate looked up, startled; but as an understanding of George's wild

aspect and wilder words dawned upon her, she resumed her usual calm

demeanor. Looking again to see if this passionate young man was

indeed George, she turned her face as she said:

"If you mean Mr. Edwards, yes; I believe he did say as much. Indeed,

from his manner, he seemed to have monopolized all the love near the

Village of Peace."

"But it's not true. I do love you. I love you to distraction. I have

loved you ever since I first saw you. I told Dave that. Heckewelder

knows it; even the Indians know it," cried George, protesting

vehemently against the disparaging allusion to his affections. He

did not realize he was making a most impassioned declaration of

love. When he was quite out of breath he sat down and wiped his

moist brow.

A pink bloom tinged Kate's cheeks, and her eyes glowed with a happy

light; but George never saw these womanly evidences of pleasure.

"Of course I know you don't care for me---"

"Did Mr. Edwards tell you so?" asked Kate, glancing up quickly.

"Why, yes, he has often said he thought that. Indeed, he always

seemed to regard himself as the fortunate object of your affections.

I always believed he was."

"But it wasn't true."

"What?"

"It's not true."

"What's not true?"

"Oh--about my--not caring."

"Kate!" cried George, quite overcome with rapture. He fell over two

chairs getting to her; but he succeeded, and fell on his knees to

kiss her hand.

"Foolish boy! It has been you all the time," whispered Kate, with

her quiet smile.

* * *

"Look here, Downs; come to the door. See there," said Heckewelder to

Jim.

Somewhat surprised at Heckewelder's grave tone, Jim got up from the

supper-table and looked out of the door. He saw two tall Indians

pacing to and fro under the maples. It was still early twilight and

light enough to see clearly. One Indian was almost naked; the lithe,

graceful symmetry of his dark figure standing out in sharp contrast

to the gaunt, gaudily-costumed form of the other.

"Silvertip! Girty!" exclaimed Jim, in a low voice.

"Girty I knew, of course; but I was not sure the other was the

Shawnee who captured you and your brother," replied Heckewelder,

drawing Jim into another room.

"What do they mean by loitering around the village? Inquired Jim,

apprehensively. Whenever he heard Girty's name mentioned, or even

thought of him, he remembered with a shudder the renegade's allusion

to the buzzards. Jim never saw one of these carrion birds soaring

overhead but his thoughts instantly reverted to the frontier ruffian

and his horrible craving.

"I don't know," answered Heckewelder. "Girty has been here several

times of late. I saw him conferring with Pipe at Goshhocking. I hope

there's no deviltry afoot. Pipe is a relentless enemy of all

Christians, and Girty is a fiend, a hyena. I think, perhaps, it will

be well for you and the girls to stay indoors while Girty and

Silvertip are in the village."

That evening the entire missionary party were gathered in Mr. Wells'

room. Heckewelder told stories of Indian life; Nell sang several

songs, and Kate told many amusing things said and done by the little

Indian boys in her class at the school. Thus the evening passed

pleasantly for all.

"So next Wednesday I am to perform the great ceremony," remarked

Heckewelder, laying his hand kindly on Young's knee. "We'll

celebrate the first white wedding in the Village of Peace."

Young looked shyly down at his boots; Edwards crossed one leg over

the other, and coughed loudly to hide his embarrassment. Kate wore,

as usual, her pensive smile; Nell's eyes twinkled, and she was about

to speak, when Heckewelder's quizzical glance in her direction made

her lips mute.

"I hope I'll have another wedding on my hands soon," he said

placidly.

This ordinary remark had an extraordinary effect. Nell turned with

burning cheeks and looked out of the window. Jim frowned fiercely

and bit his lips. Edwards began to laugh, and even Mr. Wells'

serious face lapsed into a smile.

"I mean I've picked out a nice little Delaware squaw for Dave," said

Heckewelder, seeing his badinage had somehow gone amiss.

"Oh-h!" suddenly cried Nell, in shuddering tones.

They all gazed at her in amazement. Every vestige of color had

receded from her face, leaving it marblelike. Her eves were fixed in

startled horror. Suddenly she relaxed her grasp on the windowsill

and fell back limp and senseless.

Heckewelder ran to the door to look out, while the others bent over

the unconscious girl, endeavoring to revive her. Presently a

fluttering breath and a quivering of her dark lashes noted a return

of suspended life. Then her beautiful eyes opened wide to gaze with

wonder and fear into the grave faces bent so anxiously over her.

"Nell, dearest, you are safe. What was it? What frightened you so?"

said Kate, tenderly.

"Oh, it was fearful!" gasped Nell, sitting up. She clung to her

sister with one hand, while the other grasped Jim's sleeve.

"I was looking out into the dark, when suddenly I beheld a face, a

terrible face!" cried Nell. Those who watched her marveled at the

shrinking, awful fear in her eyes. "It was right by the window. I

could have touched it. Such a greedy, wolfish face, with a long,

hooked nose! The eyes, oh! the eyes! I'll never forget them. They

made me sick; they paralyzed me. It wasn't an Indian's face. It

belonged to that white man, that awful white man! I never saw him

before; but I knew him."

"Girty!" said Heckewelder, who had come in with his quiet step. "He

looked in at the window. Calm yourself, Nellie. The renegade has

gone."

The incident worried them all at the time, and made Nell nervous for

several days; but as Girty had disappeared, and nothing more was

heard of him, gradually they forgot. Kate's wedding day dawned with

all the little party well and happy. Early in the afternoon Jim and

Nell, accompanied by Kate and her lover, started out into the woods

just beyond the clearing for the purpose of gathering wild flowers

to decorate the cabin.

"We are both thinking of--him," Jim said, after he and Nell had

walked some little way in silence.

"Yes," answered Nell, simply.

"I hope--I pray Joe comes back, but if he doesn't--Nell--won't you

care a little for me?"

He received no answer. But Nell turned her face away.

"We both loved him. If he's gone forever our very love for him

should bring us together. I know--I know he would have wished that."

"Jim, don't speak of love to me now," she whispered. Then she turned

to the others. "Come quickly; here are great clusters of wild

clematis and goldenrod. How lovely! Let us gather a quantity."

The young men had almost buried the girls under huge masses of the

beautiful flowers, when the soft tread of moccasined feet caused

them all to turn in surprise. Six savages stood waist-deep in the

bushes, where they had lain concealed. Fierce, painted visages

scowled from behind leveled rifles.

"Don't yell!" cried a hoarse voice in English. Following the voice

came a snapping of twigs, and then two other figures came into view.

They were Girty and Silvertip.

"Don't yell, er I'll leave you layin' here fer the buzzards," said

the renegade. He stepped forward and grasped Young, at the same time

speaking in the Indian language and pointing to a nearby tree.

Strange to relate, the renegade apparently wanted no bloodshed.

While one of the savages began to tie Young to the tree, Girty

turned his gaze on the girls. His little, yellow eyes glinted; he

stroked his chin with a bony hand, and his dark, repulsive face was

wreathed in a terrible, meaning smile.

"I've been layin' fer you," he croaked, eyeing Nell. "Ye're the

purtiest lass, 'ceptin' mebbe Bet Zane, I ever seed on the border. I

got cheated outen her, but I've got you; arter I feed yer Injun

preacher to ther buzzards mebbe ye'll larn to love me."

Nell gazed one instant into the monster's face. Her terror-stricken

eyes were piteous to behold. She tried to speak; but her voice

failed. Then, like stricken bird, she fell on the grass.

Chapter XIV.

Not many miles from the Village of Peace rose an irregular chain of

hills, the first faint indications of the grand Appalachian Mountain

system. These ridges were thickly wooded with white oak, poplar and

hickory, among which a sentinel pine reared here and there its

evergreen head. There were clefts in the hills, passes lined by

gray-stoned cliffs, below which ran clear brooks, tumbling over

rocks in a hurry to meet their majestic father, the Ohio.

One of these valleys, so narrow that the sun seldom brightened the

merry brook, made a deep cut in the rocks. The head of this valley

tapered until the walls nearly met; it seemed to lose itself in the

shade of fern-faced cliffs, shadowed as they were by fir trees

leaning over the brink, as though to search for secrets of the

ravine. So deep and dark and cool was this sequestered nook that

here late summer had not dislodged early spring. Everywhere was a

soft, fresh, bright green. The old gray cliffs were festooned with

ferns, lichens and moss. Under a great, shelving rock, damp and

stained by the copper-colored water dripping down its side, was a

dewy dell into which the sunshine had never peeped. Here the swift

brook tarried lovingly, making a wide turn under the cliff, as

though loth to leave this quiet nook, and then leaped once more to

enthusiasm in its murmuring flight.

Life abounded in this wild, beautiful, almost inaccessible spot.

Little brown and yellow birds flitted among the trees; thrushes ran

along the leaf-strewn ground; orioles sang their melancholy notes;

robins and flickers darted beneath the spreading branches. Squirrels

scurried over the leaves like little whirlwinds, and leaped daringly

from the swinging branches or barked noisily from woody perches.

Rabbits hopped inquisitively here and there while nibbling at the

tender shoots of sassafras and laurel.

Along this flower-skirted stream a tall young man, carrying a rifle

cautiously stepped, peering into the branches overhead. A gray flash

shot along a limb of a white oak; then the bushy tail of a squirrel

flitted into a well-protected notch, from whence, no doubt, a keen

little eye watched the hunter's every movement.

The rifle was raised; then lowered. The hunter walked around the

tree. Presently up in the tree top, snug under a knotty limb, he

spied a little ball of gray fur. Grasping a branch of underbush, he

shook it vigorously. The thrashing sound worried the gray squirrel,

for he slipped from his retreat and stuck his nose over the limb.

CRACK! With a scratching and tearing of bark the squirrel loosened

his hold and then fell; alighting with a thump. As the hunter picked

up his quarry a streak of sunshine glinting through the tree top

brightened his face.

The hunter was Joe.

He was satisfied now, for after stowing the squirrel in the pocket

of his hunting coat he shouldered his rifle and went back up the

ravine. Presently a dull roar sounded above the babble of the brook.

It grew louder as he threaded his way carefully over the stones.

Spots of white foam flecked the brook. Passing under the gray,

stained cliff, Joe turned around a rocky corner, and came to an

abrupt end of the ravine. A waterfall marked the spot where the

brook entered. The water was brown as it took the leap, light green

when it thinned out; and below, as it dashed on the stones, it

became a beautiful, sheeny white.

Upon a flat rock, so near the cascade that spray flew over him, sat

another hunter. The roaring falls drowned all other sounds, yet the

man roused from his dreamy contemplation of the waterfall when Joe

rounded the corner.

"I heerd four shots," he said, as Joe came up.

"Yes; I got a squirrel for every shot."

Wetzel led the way along a narrow foot trail which gradually wound

toward the top of the ravine. This path emerged presently, some

distance above the falls, on the brink of a bluff. It ran along the

edge of the precipice a few yards, then took a course back into

densely wooded thickets. Just before stepping out on the open cliff

Wetzel paused and peered keenly on all sides. There was no living

thing to be seen; the silence was the deep, unbroken calm of the

wilderness.

Wetzel stepped to the bluff and looked over. The stony wall opposite

was only thirty feet away, and somewhat lower. From Wetzel's action

it appeared as if he intended to leap the fissure. In truth, many a

band of Indians pursuing the hunter into this rocky fastness had

come out on the bluff, and, marveling at what they thought Wetzel's

prowess, believed he had made a wonderful leap, thus eluding them.

But he had never attempted that leap, first, because he knew it was

well-nigh impossible, and secondly, there had never been any

necessity for such risk.

Any one leaning over this cliff would have observed, perhaps ten

feet below, a narrow ledge projecting from the face of the rock. He

would have imagined if he were to drop on that ledge there would be

no way to get off and he would be in a worse predicament.

Without a moment's hesitation Wetzel swung himself over the ledge.

Joe followed suit. At one end of this lower ledge grew a hardy shrub

of the ironwood species, and above it a scrub pine leaned

horizontally out over the ravine. Laying his rifle down, Wetzel

grasped a strong root and cautiously slid over the side. When all of

his body had disappeared, with the exception of his sinewy fingers,

they loosened their hold on the root, grasped the rifle, and dragged

it down out of sight. Quietly, with similar caution, Joe took hold

of the same root, let himself down, and when at full length swung

himself in under the ledge. His feet found a pocket in the cliff.

Letting go of the root, he took his rifle, and in another second was

safe.

Of all Wetzel's retreats--for he had many--he considered this one

the safest. The cavern under the ledge he had discovered by

accident. One day, being hotly pursued by Shawnees, he had been

headed off on this cliff, and had let himself down on the ledge,

intending to drop from it to the tops of the trees below. Taking

advantage of every little aid, he hung over by means of the shrub,

and was in the act of leaping when he saw that the cliff shelved

under the ledge, while within reach of his feet was the entrance to

a cavern. He found the cave to be small with an opening at the back

into a split in the rock. Evidently the place had been entered from

the rear by bears, who used the hole for winter sleeping quarters.

By crawling on his hands and knees, Wetzel found the rear opening.

Thus he had established a hiding place where it was almost

impossible to locate him. He provisioned his retreat, which he

always entered by the cliff and left by the rear.

An evidence of Wetzel's strange nature, and of his love for this

wild home, manifested itself when he bound Joe to secrecy. It was

unlikely, even if the young man ever did get safely out of the

wilderness, that any stories he might relate would reveal the

hunter's favorite rendezvous. But Wetzel seriously demanded this

secrecy, as earnestly as if the forest were full of Indians and

white men, all prowling in search of his burrow.

Joe was in the seventh heaven of delight, and took to the free life

as a wild gosling takes to the water. No place had ever appealed to

him as did this dark, silent hole far up on the side of a steep

cliff. His interest in Wetzel soon passed into a great admiration,

and from that deepened to love.

This afternoon, when they were satisfied that all was well within

their refuge, Joe laid aside his rifle, and, whistling softly, began

to prepare supper. The back part of the cave permitted him to stand

erect, and was large enough for comparative comfort. There was a

neat, little stone fireplace, and several cooking utensils and

gourds. From time to time Wetzel had brought these things. A pile of

wood and a bundle of pine cones lay in one corner. Haunches of dried

beef, bear and buffalo meat hung from pegs; a bag of parched corn,

another of dried apples lay on a rocky shelf. Nearby hung a

powder-horn filled with salt and pepper. In the cleft back of the

cave was a spring of clear, cold water.

The wants of woodsmen are few and simple. Joe and Wetzel, with

appetites whetted by their stirring outdoor life, relished the

frugal fare as they could never have enjoyed a feast. As the shadows

of evening entered the cave, they lighted their pipes to partake of

the hunter's sweetest solace, a quiet smoke.

Strange as it may appear, this lonely, stern Indian-hunter and the

reckless, impulsive boy were admirably suited for companionship.

Wetzel had taken a liking to the young man when he led the brothers

to Fort Henry. Subsequent events strengthened his liking, and now,

many days after, Joe having followed him into the forest, a strong

attachment had been insensibly forged between them.

Wetzel understood Joe's burning desire to roam the forests; but he

half expected the lad would soon grow tired of this roving life, but

exactly the opposite symptoms were displayed. The hunter had

intended to take his comrade on a hunting trip, and to return with

him, after that was over, to Fort Henry. They had now been in the

woods for weeks and every day in some way had Joe showed his mettle.

Wetzel finally admitted him into the secrets of his most cherished

hiding place. He did not want to hurt the lad's feelings by taking

him back to the settlement; he could not send him back. So the days

wore on swiftly; full of heart-satisfying incident and life, with

man and boy growing closer in an intimacy that was as warm as it was

unusual.

Two reasons might account for this: First, there is no sane human

being who is not better off for companionship. An exile would find

something of happiness in one who shared his misery. And, secondly,

Joe was a most acceptable comrade, even for a slayer of Indians.

Wedded as Wetzel was to the forest trails, to his lonely life, to

the Nemesis-pursuit he had followed for eighteen long years, he was

still a white man, kind and gentle in his quiet hours, and because

of this, though he knew it not, still capable of affection. He had

never known youth; his manhood had been one pitiless warfare against

his sworn foes; but once in all those years had his sore, cold heart

warmed; and that was toward a woman who was not for him. His life

had held only one purpose--a bloody one. Yet the man had a heart,

and he could not prevent it from responding to another. In his

simple ignorance he rebelled against this affection for anything

other than his forest homes. Man is weak against hate; what can he

avail against love? The dark caverns of Wetzel's great heart opened,

admitting to their gloomy depths this stranger. So now a new love

was born in that cheerless heart, where for so long a lonely inmate,

the ghost of old love, had dwelt in chill seclusion.

The feeling of comradeship which Wetzel had for Joe was something

altogether new in the hunter's life. True he had hunted with

Jonathan Zane, and accompanied expeditions where he was forced to

sleep with another scout; but a companion, not to say friend, he had

never known. Joe was a boy, wilder than an eagle, yet he was a man.

He was happy and enthusiastic, still his good spirits never jarred

on the hunter; they were restrained. He never asked questions, as

would seem the case in any eager lad; he waited until he was spoken

to. He was apt; he never forgot anything; he had the eye of a born

woodsman, and lastly, perhaps what went far with Wetzel, he was as

strong and supple as a young lynx, and absolutely fearless.

On this evening Wetzel and Joe followed their usual custom; they

smoked a while before lying down to sleep. Tonight the hunter was

even more silent than usual, and the lad, tired out with his day's

tramp, lay down on a bed of fragrant boughs.

Wetzel sat there in the gathering gloom while he pulled slowly on

his pipe. The evening was very quiet; the birds had ceased their

twittering; the wind had died away; it was too early for the bay of

a wolf, the wail of a panther, or hoot of an owl; there was simply

perfect silence.

The lad's deep, even breathing caught Wetzel's ear, and he found

himself meditating, as he had often of late, on this new something

that had crept into his life. For Joe loved him; he could not fail

to see that. The lad had preferred to roam with the lonely

Indian-hunter through the forests, to encounter the perils and

hardships of a wild life, rather than accept the smile of fortune

and of love. Wetzel knew that Colonel Zane had taken a liking to the

boy, and had offered him work and a home; and, also, the hunter

remembered the warm light he had seen in Nell's hazel eyes. Musing

thus, the man felt stir in his heart an emotion so long absent that

it was unfamiliar. The Avenger forgot, for a moment his brooding

plans. He felt strangely softened. When he laid his head on the rude

pillow it was with some sense of gladness that, although he had

always desired a lonely life, and wanted to pass it in the

fulfillment of his vow, his loneliness was now shared by a lad who

loved him.

Joe was awakened by the merry chirp of a chipmunk that every morning

ran along the seamy side of the opposite wall of the gorge. Getting

up, he went to the back of the cave, where he found Wetzel combing

out his long hair. The lad thrust his hands into the cold pool, and

bathed his face. The water was icy cold, and sent an invigorating

thrill through him. Then he laughed as he took a rude comb Wetzel

handed to him.

"My scalp is nothing to make an Indian very covetous, is it?" said

he, eyeing in admiration the magnificent black hair that fell over

the hunter's shoulders.

"It'll grow," answered Wetzel.

Joe did not wonder at the care Wetzel took of his hair, nor did he

misunderstand the hunter's simple pride. Wetzel was very careful of

his rifle, he was neat and clean about his person, he brushed his

buckskin costume, he polished his knife and tomahawk; but his hair

received more attention than all else. It required much care. When

combed out it reached fully to his knees. Joe had seen him, after he

returned from a long hunt, work patiently for an hour with his

wooden comb, and not stop until every little burr was gone, or

tangle smoothed out. Then he would comb it again in the

morning--this, of course, when time permitted--and twist and tie it

up so as to offer small resistance to his slipping through the

underbush. Joe knew the hunter's simplicity was such, that if he cut

off his hair it would seem he feared the Indians--for that streaming

black hair the Indians had long coveted and sworn to take. It would

make any brave a famous chief, and was the theme of many a savage

war tale.

After breakfast Wetzel said to Joe:

"You stay here, an' I'll look round some; mebbe I'll come back soon,

and we'll go out an' kill a buffalo. Injuns sometimes foller up a

buffalo trail, an' I want to be sure none of the varlets are chasin'

that herd we saw to-day."

Wetzel left the cave by the rear. It took him fifteen minutes to

crawl to the head of the tortuous, stony passage. Lifting the stone

which closed up the aperture, he looked out and listened. Then,

rising, he replaced the stone, and passed down the wooded hillside.

It was a beautiful morning; the dew glistened on the green leaves,

the sun shone bright and warm, the birds warbled in the trees. The

hunter's moccasins pressed so gently on the moss and leaves that

they made no more sound than the soft foot of a panther. His trained

ear was alert to catch any unfamiliar noise; his keen eyes sought

first the remoter open glades and glens, then bent their gaze on the

mossy bluff beneath his feet. Fox squirrels dashed from before him

into bushy retreats; grouse whirred away into the thickets; startled

deer whistled, and loped off with their white-flags upraised. Wetzel

knew from the action of these denizens of the woods that he was the

only creature, not native to these haunts, who had disturbed them

this morning. Otherwise the deer would not have been grazing, but

lying low in some close thicket; fox squirrels seldom or never were

disturbed by a hunter twice in one day, for after being frightened

these little animals, wilder and shyer than gray squirrels, remained

hidden for hours, and grouse that have been flushed a little while

before, always get up unusually quick, and fly very far before

alighting.

Wetzel circled back over the hill, took a long survey from a rocky

eminence, and then reconnoitered the lowland for several miles. He

located the herd of buffalo, and satisfying himself there were no

Indians near--for the bison were grazing quietly--he returned to the

cave. A soft whistle into the back door of the rocky home told Joe

that the hunter was waiting.

"Coast clear?" whispered the lad, thrusting his head out of the

entrance. His gray eyes gleamed brightly, showing his eager spirit.

The hunter nodded, and, throwing his rifle in the hollow of his arm,

proceeded down the hill. Joe followed closely, endeavoring, as

Wetzel had trained him, to make each step precisely in the hunter's

footprints. The lad had soon learned to step nimbly and softly as a

cat. When half way down the bill Wetzel paused.

"See anythin'?" he whispered.

Joe glanced on all sides. Many mistakes had taught him to be

cautious. He had learned from experience that for every woodland

creature he saw, there were ten watching his every move. Just now he

could not see even a little red squirrel. Everywhere were sturdy

hickory and oak trees, thickets and hazelnuts, slender ash saplings,

and, in the open glades, patches of sumach. Rotting trees lay on the

ground, while ferns nodded long, slender heads over the fallen

monarchs. Joe could make out nothing but the colors of the woods,

the gray of the tree trunks, and, in the openings through the

forest-green, the dead purple haze of forests farther on. He smiled,

and, shaking his head at the hunter, by his action admitted failure.

"Try again. Dead ahead," whispered Wetzel.

Joe bent a direct gaze on the clump of sassafras one hundred feet

ahead. He searched the open places, the shadows--even the branches.

Then he turned his eyes slowly to the right. Whatever was

discernible to human vision he studied intently. Suddenly his eye

became fixed on a small object protruding from behind a beech tree.

It was pointed, and in color darker than the gray bark of the beech.

It had been a very easy matter to pass over this little thing; but

now that the lad saw it, he knew to what it belonged.

"That's a buck's ear," he replied.

Hardly had he finished speaking when Wetzel intentionally snapped a

twig. There was a crash and commotion in the thicket; branches moved

and small saplings waved; then out into the open glade bounded a

large buck with a whistle of alarm. Throwing his rifle to a level,

Joe was trying to cover the bounding deer, when the hunter struck up

his piece.

"Lad, don't kill fer the sake of killin," he said, quietly. "We have

plenty of venison. We'll go arter a buffalo. I hev a hankerin' fer a

good rump steak."

Half an hour later, the hunters emerged from the forest into a wide

plain of waving grass. It was a kind of oval valley, encircled by

hills, and had been at one time, perhaps, covered with water. Joe

saw a herd of large animals browsing, like cattle, in a meadow. His

heart beat high, for until that moment the only buffalo he had seen

were the few which stood on the river banks as the raft passed down

the Ohio. He would surely get a shot at one of these huge fellows.

Wetzel bade Joe do exactly as he did, whereupon he dropped on his

hands and knees and began to crawl through the long grass. This was

easy for the hunter, but very hard for the lad to accomplish. Still,

he managed to keep his comrade in sight, which was a matter for

congratulation, because the man crawled as fast as he walked. At

length, after what to Joe seemed a very long time, the hunter

paused.

"Are we near enough?" whispered Joe, breathlessly.

"Nope. We're just circlin' on 'em. The wind's not right, an' I'm

afeered they'll get our scent."

Wetzel rose carefully and peeped over the top of the grass; then,

dropping on all fours, he resumed the advance.

He paused again, presently and waited for Joe to come up.

"See here, young fellar, remember, never hurry unless the bizness

calls fer speed, an' then act like lightnin'."

Thus admonishing the eager lad, Wetzel continued to crawl. It was

easy for him. Joe wondered how those wide shoulders got between the

weeds and grasses without breaking, or, at least, shaking them. But

so it was.

"Flat now," whispered Wetzel, putting his broad hand on Joe's back

and pressing him down. "Now's yer time fer good practice. Trail yer

rifle over yer back--if yer careful it won't slide off--an' reach

out far with one arm an' dig yer fingers in deep. Then pull yerself

forrard."

Wetzel slipped through the grass like a huge buckskin snake. His

long, lithe body wormed its way among the reeds. But for Joe, even

with the advantage of having the hunter's trail to follow, it was

difficult work. The dry reeds broke under him, and the stalks of

saw-grass shook. He worked persistently at it, learning all the

while, and improving with every rod. He was surprised to hear a

swish, followed by a dull blow on the ground. Raising his head, he

looked forward. He saw the hunter wipe his tomahawk on the grass.

"Snake," whispered Wetzel.

Joe saw a huge blacksnake squirming in the grass. Its head had been

severed. He caught glimpses of other snakes gliding away, and glossy

round moles darting into their holes. A gray rabbit started off with

a leap.

"We're near enough," whispered Wetzel, stopping behind a bush. He

rose and surveyed the plain; then motioned Joe to look.

Joe raised himself on his knees. As his gaze reached the level of

the grassy plain his heart leaped. Not fifty yards away was a great,

shaggy, black buffalo. He was the king of the herd; but ill at ease,

for he pawed the grass and shook his huge head. Near him were

several cows and a half-grown calf. Beyond was the main herd,

extending as far as Joe could see--a great sea of black humps! The

lad breathed hard as he took in the grand sight.

"Pick out the little fellar--the reddish-brown one--an' plug him

behind the shoulder. Shoot close now, fer if we miss, mebbe I can't

hit one, because I'm not used to shootin' at sich small marks."

Wetzel's rare smile lighted up his dark face. Probably he could have

shot a fly off the horn of the bull, if one of the big flies or

bees, plainly visible as they swirled around the huge head, had

alighted there.

Joe slowly raised his rifle. He had covered the calf, and was about

to pull the trigger, when, with a sagacity far beyond his experience

as hunter, he whispered to Wetzel:

"If I fire they may run toward us."

"Nope; they'll run away," answered Wetzel, thinking the lad was as

keen as an Indian.

Joe quickly covered the calf again, and pulled the trigger.

Bellowing loud the big bull dashed off. The herd swung around toward

the west, and soon were galloping off with a lumbering roar. The

shaggy humps bobbed up and down like hot, angry waves on a

storm-blackened sea.

Upon going forward, Wetzel and Joe found the calf lying dead in the

grass.

"You might hev did better'n that," remarked the hunter, as he saw

where the bullet had struck. "You went a little too fer back, but

mebbe thet was 'cause the calf stepped as you shot."

Chapter XV.

So the days passed swiftly, dreamily, each one bringing Joe a keener

delight. In a single month he was as good a woodsman as many

pioneers who had passed years on the border, for he had the

advantage of a teacher whose woodcraft was incomparable. Besides, he

was naturally quick in learning, and with all his interest centered

upon forest lore, it was no wonder he assimilated much of Wetzel's

knowledge. He was ever willing to undertake anything whereby he

might learn. Often when they were miles away in the dense forest,

far from their cave, he asked Wetzel to let him try to lead the way

back to camp. And he never failed once, though many times he got off

a straight course, thereby missing the easy travelling.

Joe did wonderfully well, but he lacked, as nearly all white men do,

the subtler, intuitive forest-instinct, which makes the Indian as

much at home in the woods as in his teepee. Wetzel had this

developed to a high degree. It was born in him. Years of training,

years of passionate, unrelenting search for Indians, had given him a

knowledge of the wilds that was incomprehensible to white men, and

appalling to his red foes.

Joe saw how Wetzel used this ability, but what it really was baffled

him. He realized that words were not adequate to explain fully this

great art. Its possession required a marvelously keen vision, an eye

perfectly familiar with every creature, tree, rock, shrub and thing

belonging in the forest; an eye so quick in flight as to detect

instantly the slightest change in nature, or anything unnatural to

that environment. The hearing must be delicate, like that of a deer,

and the finer it is, the keener will be the woodsman. Lastly, there

is the feeling that prompts the old hunter to say: "No game to-day."

It is something in him that speaks when, as he sees a night-hawk

circling low near the ground, he says: "A storm to-morrow." It is

what makes an Indian at home in any wilderness. The clouds may hide

the guiding star; the northing may be lost; there may be no moss on

the trees, or difference in their bark; the ridges may be flat or

lost altogether, and there may be no water-courses; yet the Indian

brave always goes for his teepee, straight as a crow flies. It was

this voice which rightly bade Wetzel, when he was baffled by an

Indian's trail fading among the rocks, to cross, or circle, or

advance in the direction taken by his wily foe.

Joe had practiced trailing deer and other hoofed game, until he was

true as a hound. Then he began to perfect himself in the art of

following a human being through the forest. Except a few old Indian

trails, which the rain had half obliterated, he had no tracks to

discover save Wetzel's, and these were as hard to find as the airy

course of a grosbeak. On soft ground or marshy grass, which Wetzel

avoided where he could, he left a faint trail, but on a hard

surface, for all the traces he left, he might as well not have gone

over the ground at all.

Joe's persistence stood him in good stead; he hung on, and the more

he failed, the harder he tried. Often he would slip out of the cave

after Wetzel had gone, and try to find which way he had taken. In

brief, the lad became a fine marksman, a good hunter, and a close,

persevering student of the wilderness. He loved the woods, and all

they contained. He learned the habits of the wild creatures. Each

deer, each squirrel, each grouse that he killed, taught him some

lesson.

He was always up with the lark to watch the sun rise red and grand

over the eastern hills, and chase away the white mist from the

valleys. Even if he was not hunting, or roaming the woods, if it was

necessary for him to lie low in camp awaiting Wetzel's return, he

was always content. Many hours he idled away lying on his back, with

the west wind blowing softly over him, his eye on the distant hills,

where the cloud shadows swept across with slow, majestic movement,

like huge ships at sea.

If Wetzel and Joe were far distant from the cave, as was often the

case, they made camp in the open woods, and it was here that Joe's

contentment was fullest. Twilight shades stealing down over the

camp-fire; the cheery glow of red embers; the crackling of dry

stocks; the sweet smell of wood smoke, all had for the lad a subtle,

potent charm.

The hunter would broil a venison steak, or a partridge, on the coals.

Then they would light their pipes and smoke while twilight deepened.

The oppressive stillness of the early evening hour always brought to

the younger man a sensation of awe. At first he attributed this to the

fact that he was new to this life; however, as the days passed and the

emotion remained, nay, grew stronger, he concluded it was imparted

by this close communion with nature. Deep, solemn, tranquil, the

gloaming hour brought him no ordinary fullness of joy and clearness of

perception.

"Do you ever feel this stillness?" he asked Wetzel one evening, as

they sat near their flickering fire.

The hunter puffed his pipe, and, like an Indian, seemed to let the

question take deep root.

"I've scalped redskins every hour in the day, 'ceptin' twilight," he

replied.

Joe wondered no longer whether the hunter was too hardened to feel

this beautiful tranquillity. That hour which wooed Wetzel from his

implacable pursuit was indeed a bewitching one.

There was never a time, when Joe lay alone in camp waiting for

Wetzel, that he did not hope the hunter would return with

information of Indians. The man never talked about the savages, and

if he spoke at all it was to tell of some incident of his day's

travel. One evening he came back with a large black fox that he had

killed.

"What beautiful, glossy fur!" said Joe. "I never saw a black fox

before."

"I've been layin' fer this fellar some time," replied Wetzel, as he

began his first evening task, that of combing his hair. "Jest back

here in a clump of cottonwoods there's a holler log full of leaves.

Happenin' to see a blacksnake sneakin' round, I thought mebbe he was

up to somethin', so I investigated, an' found a nest full of young

rabbits. I killed the snake, an' arter that took an interest in 'em.

Every time I passed I'd look in at the bunnies, an' each time I seen

signs that some tarnal varmint had been prowlin' round. One day I

missed a bunny, an' next day another; so on until only one was left,

a peart white and gray little scamp. Somethin' was stealin' of 'em,

an' it made me mad. So yistidday an' to-day I watched, an' finally I

plugged this black thief. Yes, he's got a glossy coat; but he's a

bad un fer all his fine looks. These black foxes are bigger,

stronger an' cunniner than red ones. In every litter you'll find a

dark one, the black sheep of the family. Because he grows so much

faster, an' steals all the food from the others, the mother jest

takes him by the nape of the neck an' chucks him out in the world to

shift fer hisself. An' it's a good thing."

The next day Wetzel told Joe they would go across country to seek

new game fields. Accordingly the two set out, and tramped

industriously until evening. They came upon a country no less

beautiful than the one they had left, though the picturesque cliffs

and rugged hills had given way to a rolling land, the luxuriance of

which was explained by the abundant springs and streams. Forests and

fields were thickly interspersed with bubbling springs, narrow and

deep streams, and here and there a small lake with a running outlet.

Wetzel had said little concerning this region, but that little was

enough to rouse all Joe's eagerness, for it was to the effect that

they were now in a country much traversed by Indians, especially

runners and hunting parties travelling from north to south. The

hunter explained that through the center of this tract ran a buffalo

road; that the buffalo always picked out the straightest, lowest and

dryest path from one range to another, and the Indians followed

these first pathfinders.

Joe and Wetzel made camp on the bank of a stream that night, and as

the lad watched the hunter build a hidden camp-fire, he peered

furtively around half expecting to see dark forms scurrying through

the forest. Wetzel was extremely cautious. He stripped pieces of

bark from fallen trees and built a little hut over his firewood. He

rubbed some powder on a piece of punk, and then with flint and steel

dropped two or three sparks on the inflammable substance. Soon he

had a blaze. He arranged the covering so that not a ray of light

escaped. When the flames had subsided, and the wood had burned down

to a glowing bed of red, he threw aside the bark, and broiled the

strips of venison they had brought with them.

They rested on a bed of boughs which they had cut and arranged

alongside a huge log. For hours Joe lay awake, he could not sleep.

He listened to the breeze rustling the leaves, and shivered at the

thought of the sighing wind he had once heard moan through the

forest. Presently he turned over. The slight noise instantly

awakened Wetzel who lifted his dark face while he listened intently.

He spoke one word: "Sleep," and lay back again on the leaves. Joe

forced himself to be quiet, relaxed all his muscles and soon

slumbered.

On the morrow Wetzel went out to look over the hunting prospects.

About noon he returned. Joe was surprised to find some slight change

in the hunter. He could not tell what it was.

"I seen Injun sign," said Wetzel. "There's no tellin' how soon we

may run agin the sneaks. We can't hunt here. Like as not there's

Hurons and Delawares skulkin' round. I think I'd better take you

back to the village."

"It's all on my account you say that," said Joe.

"Sure," Wetzel replied.

"If you were alone what would you do?"

"I calkilate I'd hunt fer some red-skinned game."

The supreme moment had come. Joe's heart beat hard. He could not

miss this opportunity; he must stay with the hunter. He looked

closely at Wetzel.

"I won't go back to the village," he said.

The hunter stood in his favorite position, leaning on his long

rifle, and made no response.

"I won't go," continued Joe, earnestly. "Let me stay with you. If at

any time I hamper you, or can not keep the pace, then leave me to

shift for myself; but don't make me go until I weaken. Let me stay."

Fire and fearlessness spoke in Joe's every word, and his gray eyes

contracted with their peculiar steely flash. Plain it was that,

while he might fail to keep pace with Wetzel, he did not fear this

dangerous country, and, if it must be, would face it alone.

Wetzel extended his broad hand and gave his comrade's a viselike

squeeze. To allow the lad to remain with him was more than he would

have done for any other person in the world. Far better to keep the

lad under his protection while it was possible, for Joe was taking

that war-trail which had for every hunter, somewhere along its

bloody course, a bullet, a knife, or a tomahawk. Wetzel knew that

Joe was conscious of this inevitable conclusion, for it showed in

his white face, and in the resolve in his big, gray eyes.

So there, in the shade of a towering oak, the Indian-killer admitted

the boy into his friendship, and into a life which would no longer

be play, but eventful, stirring, hazardous.

"Wal, lad, stay," he said, with that rare smile which brightened his

dark face like a ray of stray sunshine. "We'll hang round these

diggins a few days. First off, we'll take in the lay of the land.

You go down stream a ways an' scout round some, while I go up, an'

then circle down. Move slow, now, an' don't miss nothin'."

Joe followed the stream a mile or more. He kept close in the shade

of willows, and never walked across an open glade without first

waiting and watching. He listened to all sounds; but none were

unfamiliar. He closely examined the sand along the stream, and the

moss and leaves under the trees. When he had been separated from

Wetzel several hours, and concluded he would slowly return to camp,

he ran across a well-beaten path winding through the forest. This

was, perhaps, one of the bridle-trails Wetzel had referred to. He

bent over the worn grass with keen scrutiny.

CRACK!

The loud report of a heavily charged rifle rang out. Joe felt the

zip of a bullet as it fanned his cheek. With an agile leap he gained

the shelter of a tree, from behind which he peeped to see who had

shot at him. He was just in time to detect the dark form of an

Indian dart behind the foliage an hundred yards down the path. Joe

expected to see other Indians, and to hear more shots, but he was

mistaken. Evidently the savage was alone, for the tree Joe had taken

refuge behind was scarcely large enough to screen his body, which

disadvantage the other Indians would have been quick to note.

Joe closely watched the place where his assailant had disappeared,

and presently saw a dark hand, then a naked elbow, and finally the

ramrod of a rifle. The savage was reloading. Soon a rifle-barrel

protruded from behind the tree. With his heart beating like a

trip-hammer, and the skin tightening on his face, Joe screened his

body as best he might. The tree was small, but it served as a

partial protection. Rapidly he revolved in his mind plans to outwit

the enemy. The Indian was behind a large oak with a low limb over

which he could fire without exposing his own person to danger.

"Bang!" The Indian's rifle bellowed; the bullet crumbled the bark

close to Joe's face. The lad yelled loudly, staggered to his knees,

and then fell into the path, where he lay quiet.

The redskin gave an exultant shout. Seeing that the fallen figure

remained quite motionless he stepped forward, drawing his knife as

he came. He was a young brave, quick and eager in his movements, and

came nimbly up the path to gain his coveted trophy, the paleface's

scalp.

Suddenly Joe sat up, raised his rifle quickly as thought, and fired

point-blank at the Indian.

But he missed.

The redskin stopped aghast when he saw the lad thus seemingly come

back to life. Then, realizing that Joe's aim had been futile, he

bounded forward, brandishing his knife, and uttering infuriated

yells.

Joe rose to his feet with rifle swung high above his head.

When the savage was within twenty feet, so near that his dark face,

swollen with fierce passion, could be plainly discerned, a peculiar

whistling noise sounded over Joe's shoulder. It was accompanied,

rather than followed, by a clear, ringing rifleshot.

The Indian stopped as if he had encountered a heavy shock from a

tree or stone barring his way. Clutching at his breast, he uttered a

weird cry, and sank slowly on the grass.

Joe ran forward to bend over the prostrate figure. The Indian, a

slender, handsome young brave, had been shot through the breast. He

held his hand tightly over the wound, while bright red blood

trickled between his fingers, flowed down his side, and stained the

grass.

The brave looked steadily up at Joe. Shot as he was, dying as he

knew himself to be, there was no yielding in the dark eye--only an

unquenchable hatred. Then the eyes glazed; the fingers ceased

twitching.

Joe was bending over a dead Indian.

It flashed into his mind, of course, that Wetzel had come up in time

to save his life, but he did not dwell on the thought; he shrank

from this violent death of a human being. But it was from the aspect

of the dead, not from remorse for the deed. His heart beat fast, his

fingers trembled, yet he felt only a strange coldness in all his

being. The savage had tried to kill him, perhaps, even now, had it

not been for the hunter's unerring aim, would have been gloating

over a bloody scalp.

Joe felt, rather than heard, the approach of some one, and he turned

to see Wetzel coming down the path.

"He's a lone Shawnee runner," said the hunter, gazing down at the

dead Indian. "He was tryin' to win his eagle plumes. I seen you both

from the hillside."

"You did!" exclaimed Joe. Then he laughed. "It was lucky for me. I

tried the dodge you taught me, but in my eagerness I missed."

"Wal, you hadn't no call fer hurry. You worked the trick clever, but

you missed him when there was plenty of time. I had to shoot over

your shoulder, or I'd hev plugged him sooner."

"Where were you?" asked Joe.

"Up there by that bit of sumach!" and Wetzel pointed to an open

ridge on a hillside not less than one hundred and fifty yards

distant.

Joe wondered which of the two bullets, the death-seeking one fired

by the savage, or the life-saving missile from Wetzel's fatal

weapon, had passed nearest to him.

"Come," said the hunter, after he had scalped the Indian.

"What's to be done with this savage?" inquired Joe, as Wetzel

started up the path.

"Let him lay."

They returned to camp without further incident. While the hunter

busied himself reinforcing their temporary shelter--for the clouds

looked threatening--Joe cut up some buffalo meat, and then went down

to the brook for a gourd of water. He came hurriedly back to where

Wetzel was working, and spoke in a voice which he vainly endeavors

to hold steady:

"Come quickly. I have seen something which may mean a good deal."

He led the way down to the brookside.

"Look!" Joe said, pointing at the water.

Here the steam was about two feet deep, perhaps twenty wide, and had

just a noticeable current. Shortly before, it had been as clear as a

bright summer sky; it was now tinged with yellow clouds that slowly

floated downstream, each one enlarging and becoming fainter as the

clear water permeated and stained. Grains of sand glided along with

the current, little pieces of bark floated on the surface, and

minnows darted to and fro nibbling at these drifting particles.

"Deer wouldn't roil the water like that. What does it mean?" asked

Joe.

"Injuns, an' not fer away."

Wetzel returned to the shelter and tore it down. Then he bent the

branch of a beech tree low over the place. He pulled down another

branch over the remains of the camp-fire. These precautions made the

spot less striking. Wetzel knew that an Indian scout never glances

casually; his roving eyes survey the forest, perhaps quickly, but

thoroughly. An unnatural position of bush or log always leads to an

examination.

This done, the hunter grasped Joe's hand and led him up the knoll.

Making his way behind a well-screened tree, which had been uprooted,

he selected a position where, hidden themselves, they could see the

creek.

Hardly had Wetzel, admonished Joe to lie perfectly still, when from

a short distance up the stream came the sound of splashing water;

but nothing could be seen above the open glade, as in that direction

willows lined the creek in dense thickets. The noise grew more

audible.

Suddenly Joe felt a muscular contraction pass over the powerful

frame lying close beside him. It was a convulsive thrill such as

passes through a tiger when he is about to spring upon his quarry.

So subtle and strong was its meaning, so clearly did it convey to

the lad what was coming, that he felt it himself; save that in his

case it was a cold, chill shudder.

Breathless suspense followed. Then into the open space along the

creek glided a tall Indian warrior. He was knee-deep in the water,

where he waded with low, cautious steps. His garish, befrilled

costume seemed familiar to Joe. He carried a rifle at a low trail,

and passed slowly ahead with evident distrust. The lad believed he

recognized that head, with its tangled black hair, and when he saw

the swarthy, villainous countenance turned full toward him, he

exclaimed:

"Girty! by---"

Wetzel's powerful arm forced him so hard against the log that he

could not complete the exclamation; but he could still see. Girty

had not heard that stifled cry, for he continued his slow wading,

and presently his tall, gaudily decorated form passed out of sight.

Another savage appeared in the open space, and then another. Close

between them walked a white man, with hands bound behind him. The

prisoner and guards disappeared down stream among the willows.

The splashing continued--grew even louder than before. A warrior

came into view, then another, and another. They walked close

together. Two more followed. They were wading by the side of a raft

made of several logs, upon which were two prostrate figures that

closely resembled human beings.

Joe was so intent upon the lithe forms of the Indians that he barely

got a glimpse of their floating prize, whatever it might have been.

Bringing up the rear was an athletic warrior, whose broad shoulders,

sinewy arms, and shaved, polished head Joe remembered well. It was

the Shawnee chief, Silvertip.

When he, too, passed out of sight in the curve of willows, Joe found

himself trembling. He turned eagerly to Wetzel; but instantly

recoiled.

Terrible, indeed, had been the hunter's transformation. All calmness

of facial expression was gone; he was now stern, somber. An intense

emotion was visible in his white face; his eyes seemed reduced to

two dark shining points, and they emitted so fierce, so piercing a

flash, so deadly a light, that Joe could not bear their glittering

gaze.

"Three white captives, two of 'em women," uttered the hunter, as if

weighing in his mind the importance of this fact.

"Were those women on the raft?" questioned Joe, and as Wetzel only

nodded, he continued, "A white man and two women, six warriors,

Silvertip, and that renegade, Jim Girty!"

Wetzel deigned not to answer Joe's passionate outburst, but

maintained silence and his rigid posture. Joe glanced once more at

the stern face.

"Considering we'd go after Girty and his redskins if they were

alone, we're pretty likely to go quicker now that they've got white

women prisoners, eh?" and Joe laughed fiercely between his teeth.

The lad's heart expanded, while along every nerve tingled an

exquisite thrill of excitement. He had yearned for wild, border

life. Here he was in it, with the hunter whose name alone was to the

savages a symbol for all that was terrible.

Wetzel evidently decided quickly on what was to be done, for in few

words he directed Joe to cut up so much of the buffalo meat as they

could stow in their pockets. Then, bidding the lad to follow, he

turned into the woods, walking rapidly, and stopping now and then

for a brief instant. Soon they emerged from the forest into more

open country. They faced a wide plain skirted on the right by a

long, winding strip of bright green willows which marked the course

of the stream. On the edge of this plain Wetzel broke into a run. He

kept this pace for a distance of an hundred yards, then stopped to

listen intently as he glanced sharply on all sides, after which he

was off again.

Half way across this plain Joe's wind began to fail, and his

breathing became labored; but he kept close to the hunter's heels.

Once he looked back to see a great wide expanse of waving grass.

They had covered perhaps four miles at a rapid pace, and were

nearing the other side of the plain. The lad felt as if his head was

about to burst; a sharp pain seized upon his side; a blood-red film

obscured his sight. He kept doggedly on, and when utterly exhausted

fell to the ground.

When, a few minutes later, having recovered his breath, he got up,

they had crossed the plain and were in a grove of beeches. Directly

in front of him ran a swift stream, which was divided at the rocky

head of what appeared to be a wooded island. There was only a slight

ripple and fall of the water, and, after a second glance, it was

evident that the point of land was not an island, but a portion of

the mainland which divided the stream. The branches took almost

opposite courses.

Joe wondered if they had headed off the Indians. Certainly they had

run fast enough. He was wet with perspiration. He glanced at Wetzel,

who was standing near. The man's broad breast rose and fell a little

faster; that was the only evidence of exertion. The lad had a

painful feeling that he could never keep pace with the hunter, if

this five-mile run was a sample of the speed he would be forced to

maintain.

"They've got ahead of us, but which crick did they take?" queried

Wetzel, as though debating the question with himself.

"How do you know they've passed?"

"We circled," answered Wetzel, as he shook his head and pointed into

the bushes. Joe stepped over and looked into the thicket. He found a

quantity of dead leaves, sticks, and litter thrown aside, exposing

to light a long, hollowed place on the ground. It was what would be

seen after rolling over a log that had lain for a long time. Little

furrows in the ground, holes, mounds, and curious winding passages

showed where grubs and crickets had made their homes. The frightened

insects were now running round wildly.

"What was here? A log?"

"A twenty-foot canoe was hid under thet stuff. The Injuns has taken

one of these streams."

"How can we tell which one?"

"Mebbe we can't; but we'll try. Grab up a few of them bugs, go below

thet rocky point, an' crawl close to the bank so you can jest peep

over. Be keerful not to show the tip of your head, an' don't knock

nothin' off'en the bank into the water. Watch fer trout. Look

everywheres, an' drop in a bug now and then. I'll do the same fer

the other stream. Then we'll come back here an' talk over what the

fish has to say about the Injuns."

Joe walked down stream a few paces, and, dropping on his knees,

crawled carefully to the edge of the bank. He slightly parted the

grass so he could peep through, and found himself directly over a

pool with a narrow shoal running out from the opposite bank. The

water was so clear he could see the pebbly bottom in all parts,

except a dark hole near a bend in the shore close by. He did not see

a living thing in the water, not a crawfish, turtle, nor even a

frog. He peered round closely, then flipped in one of the bugs he

had brought along. A shiny yellow fish flared up from the depths of

the deep hole and disappeared with the cricket; but it was a bass or

a pike, not a trout. Wetzel had said there were a few trout living

near the cool springs of these streams. The lad tried again to coax

one to the surface. This time the more fortunate cricket swam and

hopped across the stream to safety.

When Joe's eyes were thoroughly accustomed to the clear water, with

its deceiving lights and shades, he saw a fish lying snug under the

side of a stone. The lad thought he recognized the snub-nose, the

hooked, wolfish jaw, but he could not get sufficient of a view to

classify him. He crawled to a more advantageous position farther

down stream, and then he peered again through the woods. Yes, sure

enough, he had espied a trout. He well knew those spotted silver

sides, that broad, square tail. Such a monster! In his admiration

for the fellow, and his wish for a hook and line to try conclusions

with him, Joe momentarily forgot his object. Remembering, he tossed

out a big, fat cricket, which alighted on the water just above the

fish. The trout never moved, nor even blinked. The lad tried again,

with no better success. The fish would not rise. Thereupon Joe

returned to the point where he had left Wetzel.

"I couldn't see nothin' over there," said the hunter, who was

waiting. "Did you see any?'

"One, and a big fellow."

"Did he see you?"

"No."

"Did he rise to a bug?"

"No, he didn't; but then maybe he wasn't hungry" answered Joe, who

could not understand what Wetzel was driving at.

"Tell me exactly what he did."

"That's just the trouble; he didn't do anything," replied Joe,

thoughtfully. "He just lay low, stifflike, under a stone. He never

batted an eye. But his side-fins quivered like an aspen leaf."

"Them side-fins tell us the story. Girty, an' his redskins hev took

this branch," said Wetzel, positively. "The other leads to the Huron

towns. Girty's got a place near the Delaware camp somewheres. I've

tried to find it a good many times. He's took more'n one white lass

there, an' nobody ever seen her agin."

"Fiend! To think of a white woman, maybe a girl like Nell Wells, at

the mercy of those red devils!"

"Young fellar, don't go wrong. I'll allow Injuns is bad enough; but

I never hearn tell of one abusin' a white woman, as mayhap you mean.

Injuns marry white women sometimes; kill an' scalp 'em often, but

that's all. It's men of our own color, renegades like this Girty, as

do worse'n murder."

Here was the amazing circumstance of Lewis Wetzel, the acknowledged

unsatiable foe of all redmen, speaking a good word for his enemies.

Joe was so astonished he did not attempt to answer.

"Here's where they got in the canoe. One more look, an' then we're

off," said Wetzel. He strode up and down the sandy beach; examined

the willows, and scrutinized the sand. Suddenly he bent over and

picked up an object from the water. His sharp eyes had caught the

glint of something white, which, upon being examined, proved to be a

small ivory or bone buckle with a piece broken out. He showed it to

Joe.

"By heavens! Wetzel, that's a buckle off Nell Well's shoe. I've seen

it too many times to mistake it."

"I was afeared Girty hed your friends, the sisters, an' mebbe your

brother, too. Jack Zane said the renegade was hangin' round the

village, an' that couldn't be fer no good."

"Come on. Let's kill the fiend!" cried Joe, white to the lips.

"I calkilate they're about a mile down stream, makin' camp fer the

night. I know the place. There's a fine spring, an, look! D'ye see

them crows flyin' round thet big oak with the bleached top? Hear

them cawin'? You might think they was chasin' a hawk, or king-birds

were arter 'em, but thet fuss they're makin' is because they see

Injuns."

"Well?" asked Joe, impatiently.

"It'll be moonlight a while arter midnight. We'll lay low an' wait,

an' then---"

The sharp click of his teeth, like the snap of a steel trap,

completed the sentence. Joe said no more, but followed the hunter

into the woods. Stopping near a fallen tree, Wetzel raked up a

bundle of leaves and spread them on the ground. Then he cut a few

spreading branches from a beech, and leaned them against a log.

Bidding the lad crawl in before he took one last look around and

then made his way under the shelter.

It was yet daylight, which seemed a strange time to creep into this

little nook; but, Joe thought, it was not to sleep, only to wait,

wait, wait for the long hours to pass. He was amazed once more,

because, by the time twilight had given place to darkness, Wetzel

was asleep. The lad said then to himself that he would never again

be surprised at the hunter. He assumed once and for all that Wetzel

was capable of anything. Yet how could he lose himself in slumber?

Feeling, as he must, over the capture of the girls; eager to draw a

bead on the black-hearted renegade; hating Indians with all his soul

and strength, and lying there but a few hours before what he knew

would be a bloody battle, Wetzel calmly went to sleep. Knowing the

hunter to be as bloodthirsty as a tiger, Joe had expected he would

rush to a combat with his foes; but, no, this man, with his keen

sagacity, knew when to creep upon his enemy; he bided that time,

and, while he waited, slept.

Joe could not close his eyes in slumber. Through the interstices in

the branches he saw the stars come out one by one, the darkness

deepened, and the dim outline of tall trees over the dark hill came

out sharply. The moments dragged, each one an hour. He heard a

whippoorwill call, lonely and dismal; then an owl hoot monotonously.

A stealthy footed animal ran along the log, sniffed at the boughs,

and then scurried away over the dry leaves. By and by the dead

silence of night fell over all. Still Joe lay there wide awake,

listening--his heart on fire. He was about to rescue Nell; to kill

that hawk-nosed renegade; to fight Silvertip to the death.

The hours passed, but not Joe's passionate eagerness. When at last

he saw the crescent moon gleam silver-white over the black hilltop

he knew the time was nigh, and over him ran thrill on thrill.

Chapter XVI.

When the waning moon rose high enough to shed a pale light over

forest and field, two dark figures, moving silently from the shade

of the trees, crossed the moonlit patches of ground, out to the open

plain where low on the grass hung silver mists.

A timber wolf, gray and gaunt, came loping along with lowered nose.

A new scent brought the animal to a standstill. His nose went up,

his fiery eyes scanned the plain. Two men had invaded his domain,

and, with a short, dismal bark, he dashed away.

Like spectres, gliding swiftly with noiseless tread, the two

vanished. The long grass had swallowed them.

Deserted once again seemed the plain. It became unutterably lonely.

No stir, no sound, no life; nothing but a wide expanse bathed in

sad, gray light.

The moon shone steadily; the silver radiance mellowed; the stars

paled before this brighter glory.

Slowly the night hours wore away.

On the other side of the plain, near where the adjoining forest

loomed darkling, the tall grass parted to disclose a black form. Was

it only a deceiving shade cast by a leafy branch--only a shadow?

Slowly it sank, and was lost. Once more the gray, unwavering line of

silver-crested grass tufts was unbroken.

Only the night breeze, wandering caressingly over the grass, might

have told of two dark forms gliding, gliding, gliding so softly, so

surely, so surely toward the forest. Only the moon and the pale

stars had eyes to see these creeping figures.

Like avengers they moved, on a mission to slay and to save!

On over the dark line where plain merged into forest they crawled.

No whispering, no hesitating; but a silent, slow, certain progress

showed their purpose. In single file they slipped over the moss, the

leader clearing the path. Inch by inch they advanced. Tedious was

this slow movement, difficult and painful this journey which must

end in lightninglike speed. They rustled no leaf, nor snapped a

twig, nor shook a fern, but passed onward slowly, like the approach

of Death. The seconds passed as minutes; minutes as hours; an entire

hour was spent in advancing twenty feet!

At last the top of the knoll was reached. The Avenger placed his

hand on his follower's shoulder. The strong pressure was meant to

remind, to warn, to reassure. Then, like a huge snake, the first

glided away.

He who was left behind raised his head to look into the open place

called the glade of the Beautiful Spring. An oval space lay before

him, exceedingly lovely in the moonlight; a spring, as if a pearl,

gemmed the center. An Indian guard stood statuelike against a stone.

Other savages lay in a row, their polished heads shining. One

slumbering form was bedecked with feathers and frills. Near him lay

an Indian blanket, from the border of which peered two faces,

gleaming white and sad in the pitying moonlight.

The watcher quivered at the sight of those pale faces; but he must

wait while long moments passed. He must wait for the Avenger to

creep up, silently kill the guard, and release the prisoners without

awakening the savages. If that plan failed, he was to rush into the

glade, and in the excitement make off with one of the captives.

He lay there waiting, listening, wrought up to the intensest pitch

of fierce passion. Every nerve was alert, every tendon strung, and

every muscle strained ready for the leap.

Only the faint rustling of leaves, the low swish of swaying

branches, the soft murmur of falling water, and over all the sigh of

the night wind, proved to him that this picture was not an evil

dream. His gaze sought the quiet figures, lingered hopefully on the

captives, menacingly on the sleeping savages, and glowered over the

gaudily arrayed form. His glance sought the upright guard, as he

stood a dark blot against the gray stone. He saw the Indian's plume,

a single feather waving silver-white. Then it became riveted on the

bubbling, refulgent spring. The pool was round, perhaps five feet

across, and shone like a burnished shield. It mirrored the moon, the

twinkling stars, the spectre trees.

An unaccountable horror suddenly swept over the watching man. His

hair stood straight up; a sensation as of cold stole chillingly over

him. Whether it was the climax of this long night's excitement, or

anticipation of the bloody struggle soon to come, he knew not. Did

this boiling spring, shimmering in the silver moon-rays, hold in its

murky depths a secret? Did these lonesome, shadowing trees, with

their sad drooping branches, harbor a mystery? If a future tragedy

was to be enacted here in this quiet glade, could the murmuring

water or leaves whisper its portent? No; they were only silent, only

unintelligible with nature's mystery.

The waiting man cursed himself for a craven coward; he fought back

the benumbing sense; he steeled his heart. Was this his vaunted

willingness to share the Avenger's danger? His strong spirit rose up

in arms; once more he was brave and fierce.

He fastened a piercing gaze on the plumed guard. The Indian's

lounging posture against the rock was the same as it had been

before, yet now it seemed to have a kind of strained attention. The

savage's head was poised, like that of a listening deer. The wary

Indian scented danger.

A faint moan breathed low above the sound of gently splashing water

somewhere beyond the glade.

"Woo-o-oo."

The guard's figure stiffened, and became rigidly erect; his blanket

slowly slid to his feet.

"Ah-oo-o," sighed the soft breeze in the tree tops.

Louder then, with a deep wail, a moan arose out of the dark gray

shadows, swelled thrilling on the still air, and died away

mournfully.

"Um-m-mmwoo-o-o-o!"

The sentinel's form melted into the shade. He was gone like a

phantom.

Another Indian rose quickly, and glanced furtively around the glade.

He bent over a comrade and shook him. Instantly the second Indian

was on his feet. Scarcely had he gained a standing posture when an

object, bounding like a dark ball, shot out of the thicket and

hurled both warriors to the earth. A moonbeam glinted upon something

bright. It flashed again on a swift, sweeping circle. A short,

choking yell aroused the other savages. Up they sprang, alarmed,

confused.

The shadow-form darted among them. It moved with inconceivable

rapidity; it became a monster. Terrible was the convulsive conflict.

Dull blows, the click of steel, angry shouts, agonized yells, and

thrashing, wrestling sounds mingled together and half drowned by an

awful roar like that of a mad bull. The strife ceased as suddenly as

it had begun. Warriors lay still on the grass; others writhed in

agony. For an instant a fleeting shadow crossed the open lane

leading out of the glade; then it vanished.

Three savages had sprung toward their rifles. A blinding flash, a

loud report burst from the thicket overhead. The foremost savage

sank lifelessly. The others were intercepted by a giant shadow with

brandished rifle. The watcher on the knoll had entered the glade. He

stood before the stacked rifles and swung his heavy gun. Crash! An

Indian went down before that sweep, but rose again. The savages

backed away from this threatening figure, and circled around it.

The noise of the other conflict ceased. More savages joined the

three who glided to and fro before their desperate foe. They closed

in upon him, only to be beaten back. One savage threw a glittering

knife, another hurled a stone, a third flung his tomahawk, which

struck fire from the swinging rifle.

He held them at bay. While they had no firearms he was master of the

situation. With every sweep of his arms he brought the long rifle

down and knocked a flint from the firelock of an enemy's weapon.

Soon the Indians' guns were useless. Slowly then he began to edge

away from the stone, toward the opening where he had seen the

fleeting form vanish.

His intention was to make a dash for life, for he had heard a noise

behind the rock, and remembered the guard. He saw the savages glance

behind him, and anticipated danger from that direction, but he must

not turn. A second there might be fatal. He backed defiantly along

the rock until he gained its outer edge. But too late! The Indians

glided before him, now behind him; he was surrounded. He turned

around and around, with the ever-circling rifle whirling in the

faces of the baffled foe.

Once opposite the lane leading from the glade he changed his

tactics, and plunged with fierce impetuosity into the midst of the

painted throng. Then began a fearful conflict. The Indians fell

before the sweep of his powerful arms; but grappled with him from

the ground. He literally plowed his way through the struggling mass,

warding off an hundred vicious blows. Savage after savage he flung

off, until at last he had a clear path before him. Freedom lay

beyond that shiny path. Into it he bounded.

As he left the glade the plumed guard stepped from behind a tree

near the entrance of the path, and cast his tomahawk.

A white, glittering flash, it flew after the fleeing runner; its aim

was true.

Suddenly the moonlight path darkened in the runner's sight; he saw a

million flashing stars; a terrible pain assailed him; he sank

slowly, slowly down; then all was darkness.

Chapter XVII.

Joe awoke as from a fearsome nightmare. Returning consciousness

brought a vague idea that he had been dreaming of clashing weapons,

of yelling savages, of a conflict in which he had been clutched by

sinewy fingers. An acute pain pulsed through his temples; a bloody

mist glazed his eyes; a sore pressure cramped his arms and legs.

Surely he dreamed this distress, as well as the fight. The red film

cleared from his eyes. His wandering gaze showed the stern reality.

The bright sun, making the dewdrops glisten on the leaves, lighted

up a tragedy. Near him lay an Indian whose vacant, sightless eyes

were fixed in death. Beyond lay four more savages, the peculiar,

inert position of whose limbs, the formlessness, as it were, as if

they had been thrown from a great height and never moved again,

attested that here, too, life had been extinguished. Joe took in

only one detail--the cloven skull of the nearest--when he turned

away sickened. He remembered it all now. The advance, the rush, the

fight--all returned. He saw again Wetzel's shadowy form darting like

a demon into the whirl of conflict; he heard again that hoarse,

booming roar with which the Avenger accompanied his blows. Joe's

gaze swept the glade, but found no trace of the hunter.

He saw Silvertip and another Indian bathing a wound on Girty's head.

The renegade groaned and writhed in pain. Near him lay Kate, with

white face and closed eyes. She was unconscious, or dead. Jim sat

crouched under a tree to which he was tied.

"Joe, are you badly hurt?" asked the latter, in deep solicitude.

"No, I guess not; I don't know," answered Joe. "Is poor Kate dead?"

"No, she has fainted."

"Where's Nell?"

"Gone," replied Jim, lowering his voice, and glancing at the

Indians. They were too busy trying to bandage Girty's head to pay

any attention to their prisoners. "That whirlwind was Wetzel, wasn't

it?"

"Yes; how'd you know?"

"I was awake last night. I had an oppressive feeling, perhaps a

presentiment. Anyway, I couldn't sleep. I heard that wind blow

through the forest, and thought my blood would freeze. The moan is

the same as the night wind, the same soft sigh, only louder and

somehow pregnant with superhuman power. To speak of it in broad

daylight one seems superstitious, but to hear it in the darkness of

this lonely forest, it is fearful! I hope I am not a coward; I

certainly know I was deathly frightened. No wonder I was scared!

Look at these dead Indians, all killed in a moment. I heard the

moan; I saw Silvertip disappear, and the other two savages rise.

Then something huge dropped from the rock; a bright object seemed to

circle round the savages; they uttered one short yell, and sank to

rise no more. Somehow at once I suspected that this shadowy form,

with its lightninglike movements, its glittering hatchet, was

Wetzel. When he plunged into the midst of the other savages I

distinctly recognized him, and saw that he had a bundle, possibly

his coat, wrapped round his left arm, and his right hand held the

glittering tomahawk. I saw him strike that big Indian there, the one

lying with split skull. His wonderful daring and quickness seemed to

make the savages turn at random. He broke through the circle, swung

Nell under his arm, slashed at my bonds as he passed by, and then

was gone as he had come. Not until after you were struck, and

Silvertip came up to me, was I aware my bonds were cut. Wetzel's

hatchet had severed them; it even cut my side, which was bleeding. I

was free to help, to fight, and I did not know it. Fool that I am!"

"I made an awful mess of my part of the rescue," groaned Joe. "I

wonder if the savages know it was Wetzel."

"Do they? Well, I rather think so. Did you not hear them scream that

French name? As far as I am able to judge, only two Indians were

killed instantly. The others died during the night. I had to sit

here, tied and helpless, listening as they groaned and called the

name of their slayer, even in their death-throes. Deathwind! They

have named him well."

"I guess he nearly killed Girty."

"Evidently, but surely the evil one protects the renegade."

"Jim Girty's doomed," whispered Joe, earnestly. "He's as good as

dead already. I've lived with Wetzel, and know him. He told me Girty

had murdered a settler, a feeble old man, who lived near Fort Henry

with his son. The hunter has sworn to kill the renegade; but, mind

you, he did not tell me that. I saw it in his eyes. It wouldn't

surprise me to see him jump out of these bushes at any moment. I'm

looking for it. If he knows there are only three left, he'll be

after them like a hound on a trail. Girty must hurry. Where's he

taking you?"

"To the Delaware town."

"I don't suppose the chiefs will let any harm befall you; but Kate

and I would be better off dead. If we can only delay the march,

Wetzel will surely return."

"Hush! Girty's up."

The renegade staggered to an upright position, and leaned on the

Shawnee's arm. Evidently he had not been seriously injured, only

stunned. Covered with blood from a swollen, gashed lump on his

temple, he certainly presented a savage appearance.

"Where's the yellow-haired lass?" he demanded, pushing away

Silvertip's friendly arm. He glared around the glade. The Shawnee

addressed him briefly, whereupon he raged to and fro under the tree,

cursing with foam-flecked lips, and actually howling with baffled

rage. His fury was so great that he became suddenly weak, and was

compelled to sit down.

"She's safe, you villainous renegade!" cried Joe.

"Hush, Joe! Do not anger him. It can do no good," interposed Jim.

"Why not? We couldn't be worse off," answered Joe.

"I'll git her, I'll git her agin," panted Girty. "I'll keep her, an'

she'll love me."

The spectacle of this perverted wretch speaking as if he had been

cheated out of love was so remarkable, so pitiful, so monstrous,

that for a moment Joe was dumbfounded.

"Bah! You white-livered murderer!" Joe hissed. He well knew it was

not wise to give way to his passion; but he could not help it. This

beast in human guise, whining for love, maddened him. "Any white

woman on earth would die a thousand deaths and burn for a million

years afterward rather than love you!"

"I'll see you killed at the stake, beggin' fer mercy, an' be feed

fer buzzards," croaked the renegade.

"Then kill me now, or you may slip up on one of your cherished

buzzard-feasts," cried Joe, with glinting eye and taunting voice.

"Then go sneaking back to your hole like a hyena, and stay there.

Wetzel is on your trail! He missed you last night; but it was

because of the girl. He's after you, Girty; he'll get you one of

these days, and when he does--My God!---"

Nothing could be more revolting than that swarthy, evil face turned

pale with fear. Girty's visage was a ghastly, livid white. So

earnest, so intense was Joe's voice, that it seemed to all as if

Wetzel was about to dart into the glade, with his avenging tomahawk

uplifted to wreak an awful vengeance on the abductor. The renegade's

white, craven heart contained no such thing as courage. If he ever

fought it was like a wolf, backed by numbers. The resemblance ceased

here, for even a cornered wolf will show his teeth, and Girty,

driven to bay, would have cringed and cowered. Even now at the

mention of Wetzel's enmity he trembled.

"I'll shet yer wind," he cried, catching up his tomahawk and making

for Joe.

Silvertip intervened, and prevented the assault. He led Girty back

to his seat and spoke low, evidently trying to soothe the renegade's

feelings.

"Silvertip, give me a tomahawk, and let me fight him," implored Joe.

"Paleface brave--like Injun chief. Paleface Shawnee's prisoner--no

speak more," answered Silvertip, with respect in his voice.

"Oh, where's Nellie?"

A grief-stricken whisper caught Jim's ear. He turned to see Kate's

wide, questioning eyes fixed upon him.

"Nell was rescued."

"Thank God!" murmured the girl.

"Come along," shouted Girty, in his harsh voice, as, grasping Kate's

arm, he pulled the girl violently to her feet. Then, picking up his

rifle, he led her into the forest. Silvertip followed with Joe,

while the remaining Indian guarded Jim.

* * *

The great council-lodge of the Delawares rang with savage and fiery

eloquence. Wingenund paced slowly before the orators. Wise as he

was, he wanted advice before deciding what was to be done with the

missionary. The brothers had been taken to the chief, who

immediately called a council. The Indians sat in a half circle

around the lodge. The prisoners, with hands bound, guarded by two

brawny braves, stood in one corner gazing with curiosity and

apprehension at this formidable array. Jim knew some of the braves,

but the majority of those who spoke bitterly against the palefaces

had never frequented the Village of Peace. Nearly all were of the

Wolf tribe of Delawares. Jim whispered to Joe, interpreting that

part of the speeches bearing upon the disposal to be made of them.

Two white men, dressed in Indian garb, held prominent positions

before Wingenund. The boys saw a resemblance between one of these

men and Jim Girty, and accordingly concluded he was the famous

renegade, or so-called white Indian, Simon Girty. The other man was

probably Elliott, the Tory, with whom Girty had deserted from Fort

Pitt. Jim Girty was not present. Upon nearing the encampment he had

taken his captive and disappeared in a ravine.

Shingiss, seldom in favor of drastic measures with prisoners,

eloquently urged initiating the brothers into the tribe. Several

other chiefs were favorably inclined, though not so positive as

Shingiss. Kotoxen was for the death penalty; the implacable Pipe for

nothing less than burning at the stake. Not one was for returning

the missionary to his Christian Indians. Girty and Elliott, though

requested to speak, maintained an ominous silence.

Wingenund strode with thoughtful mien before his council. He had

heard all his wise chiefs and his fiery warriors. Supreme was his

power. Freedom or death for the captives awaited the wave of his

hand. His impassive face gave not the slightest inkling of what to

expect. Therefore the prisoners were forced to stand there with

throbbing hearts while the chieftain waited the customary dignified

interval before addressing the council.

"Wingenund has heard the Delaware wise men and warriors. The white

Indian opens not his lips; his silence broods evil for the

palefaces. Pipe wants the blood of the white men; the Shawnee chief

demands the stake. Wingenund says free the white father who harms no

Indian. Wingenund hears no evil in the music of his voice. The white

father's brother should die. Kill the companion of Deathwind!"

A plaintive murmur, remarkable when coming from an assembly of

stern-browed chiefs, ran round the circle at the mention of the

dread appellation.

"The white father is free," continued Wingenund. "Let one of my

runners conduct him to the Village of Peace."

A brave entered and touched Jim on the shoulder.

Jim shook his head and pointed to Joe. The runner touched Joe.

"No, no. I am not the missionary," cried Joe, staring aghast at his

brother. "Jim, have you lost your senses?"

Jim sadly shook his head, and turning to Wingenund made known in a

broken Indian dialect that his brother was the missionary, and would

sacrifice himself, taking this opportunity to practice the

Christianity he had taught.

"The white father is brave, but he is known," broke in Wingenund's

deep voice, while he pointed to the door of the lodge. "Let him go

back to his Christian Indians."

The Indian runner cut Joe's bonds, and once more attempted to lead

him from the lodge. Rage and misery shown in the lad's face. He

pushed the runner aside. He exhausted himself trying to explain, to

think of Indian words enough to show he was not the missionary. He

even implored Girty to speak for him. When the renegade sat there

stolidly silent Joe's rage burst out.

"Curse you all for a lot of ignorant redskins. I am not a

missionary. I am Deathwind's friend. I killed a Delaware. I was the

companion of Le Vent de la Mort!"

Joe's passionate vehemence, and the truth that spoke from his

flashing eyes compelled the respect, if not the absolute belief of

the Indians. The savages slowly shook their heads. They beheld the

spectacle of two brothers, one a friend, the other an enemy of all

Indians, each willing to go to the stake, to suffer an awful agony,

for love of the other. Chivalrous deeds always stir an Indian's

heart. It was like a redman to die for his brother. The

indifference, the contempt for death, won their admiration.

"Let the white father stand forth," sternly called Wingenund.

A hundred somber eyes turned on the prisoners. Except that one wore

a buckskin coat, the other a linsey one, there was no difference.

The strong figures were the same, the white faces alike, the stern

resolve in the gray eyes identical--they were twin brothers.

Wingenund once more paced before his silent chiefs. To deal rightly

with this situation perplexed him. To kill both palefaces did not

suit him. Suddenly he thought of a way to decide.

"Let Wingenund's daughter come," he ordered.

A slight, girlish figure entered. It was Whispering Winds. Her

beautiful face glowed while she listened to her father.

"Wingenund's daughter has her mother's eyes, that were beautiful as

a doe's, keen as a hawk's, far-seeing as an eagle's. Let the

Delaware maiden show her blood. Let her point out the white father."

Shyly but unhesitatingly Whispering Winds laid her hand Jim's arm.

"Missionary, begone!" came the chieftain's command. "Thank

Wingenund's daughter for your life, not the God of your Christians!"

He waved his hand to the runner. The brave grasped Jim's arm.

"Good-by, Joe," brokenly said Jim.

"Old fellow, good-by," came the answer.

They took one last, long look into each others' eyes. Jim's glance

betrayed his fear--he would never see his brother again. The light

in Joe's eyes was the old steely flash, the indomitable

spirit--while there was life there was hope.

"Let the Shawnee chief paint his prisoner black," commanded

Wingenund.

When the missionary left the lodge with the runner, Whispering Winds

had smiled, for she had saved him whom she loved to hear speak; but

the dread command that followed paled her cheek. Black paint meant

hideous death. She saw this man so like the white father. Her

piteous gaze tried to turn from that white face; but the cold,

steely eyes fascinated her.

She had saved one only to be the other's doom!

She had always been drawn toward white men. Many prisoners had she

rescued. She had even befriended her nation's bitter foe, Deathwind.

She had listened to the young missionary with rapture; she had been

his savior. And now when she looked into the eyes of this young

giant, whose fate had rested on her all unwitting words, she

resolved to save him.

She had been a shy, shrinking creature, fearing to lift her eyes to

a paleface's, but now they were raised clear and steadfast.

As she stepped toward the captive and took his hand, her whole

person radiated with conscious pride in her power. It was the

knowledge that she could save. When she kissed his hand, and knelt

before him, she expressed a tender humility.

She had claimed questionable right of an Indian maiden; she asked

what no Indian dared refuse a chief's daughter; she took the

paleface for her husband.

Her action was followed by an impressive silence. She remained

kneeling. Wingenund resumed his slow march to and fro. Silvertip

retired to his corner with gloomy face. The others bowed their heads

as if the maiden's decree was irrevocable.

Once more the chieftain's sonorous command rang out. An old Indian,

wrinkled and worn, weird of aspect, fanciful of attire, entered the

lodge and waved his wampum wand. He mumbled strange words, and

departed chanting a long song.

Whispering Winds arose, a soft, radiant smile playing over her face,

and, still holding Joe's hand, she led him out of the lodge, through

long rows of silent Indians, down a land bordered by teepees, he

following like one in a dream.

He expected to awaken at any minute to see the stars shining through

the leaves. Yet he felt the warm, soft pressure of a little hand.

Surely this slender, graceful figure was real.

She bade him enter a lodge of imposing proportions. Still silent, in

amazement and gratitude, he obeyed.

The maiden turned to Joe. Though traces of pride still lingered, all

her fire had vanished. Her bosom rose with each quick-panting

breath; her lips quivered, she trembled like a trapped doe.

But at last the fluttering lashes rose. Joe saw two velvety eyes

dark with timid fear, yet veiling in their lustrous depths an

unuttered hope and love.

"Whispering Winds--save--paleface," she said, in a voice low and

tremulous. "Fear--father. Fear--tell--Wingenund--she--Christian."

* * *

Indian summer, that enchanted time, unfolded its golden, dreamy haze

over the Delaware village. The forests blazed with autumn fire, the

meadows boomed in rich luxuriance. All day low down in the valleys

hung a purple smoke which changed, as the cool evening shades crept

out of the woodland, into a cloud of white mist. All day the asters

along the brooks lifted golden-brown faces to the sun as if to catch

the warning warmth of his smile. All day the plains and forests lay

in melancholy repose. The sad swish of the west wind over the tall

grass told that he was slowly dying away before his enemy, the north

wind. The sound of dropping nuts was heard under the motionless

trees.

For Joe the days were days of enchantment. His wild heart had found

its mate. A willing captive he was now. All his fancy for other

women, all his memories faded into love for his Indian bride.

Whispering Winds charmed the eye, mind, and heart. Every day her

beauty seemed renewed. She was as apt to learn as she was quick to

turn her black-crowned head, but her supreme beauty was her loving,

innocent soul. Untainted as the clearest spring, it mirrored the

purity and simplicity of her life. Indian she might be, one of a

race whose morals and manners were alien to the man she loved, yet

she would have added honor to the proudest name.

When Whispering Winds raised her dark eyes they showed radiant as a

lone star; when she spoke low her voice made music.

"Beloved," she whispered one day to him, "teach the Indian maiden

more love for you, and truth, and God. Whispering Winds yearns to go

to the Christians, but she fears her stern father. Wingenund would

burn the Village of Peace. The Indian tribes tremble before the

thunder of his wrath. Be patient, my chief. Time changes the leaves,

so it will the anger of the warriors. Whispering Winds will set you

free, and be free herself to go far with you toward the rising sun,

where dwell your people. She will love, and be constant, as the

northern star. Her love will be an eternal spring where blossoms

bloom ever anew, and fresh, and sweet. She will love your people,

and raise Christian children, and sit ever in the door of your home

praying for the west wind to blow. Or, if my chief wills, we shall

live the Indian life, free as two eagles on their lonely crag."

Although Joe gave himself up completely to his love for his bride,

he did not forget that Kate was in the power of the renegade, and

that he must rescue her. Knowing Girty had the unfortunate girls

somewhere near the Delaware encampment, he resolved to find the

place. Plans of all kinds he resolved in his mind. The best one he

believed lay through Whispering Winds. First to find the whereabouts

of Girty; kill him if possible, or at least free Kate, and then get

away with her and his Indian bride. Sanguine as he invariably was,

he could not but realize the peril of this undertaking. If

Whispering Winds betrayed her people, it meant death to her as well

as to him. He would far rather spend the remaining days of his life

in the Indian village, than doom the maiden whose love had saved

him. Yet he thought he might succeed in getting away with her, and

planned to that end. His natural spirit, daring, reckless, had

gained while he was associated with Wetzel.

Meanwhile he mingled freely with the Indians, and here, as

elsewhere, his winning personality, combined with his athletic

prowess, soon made him well liked. He was even on friendly terms

with Pipe. The swarthy war chief liked Joe because, despite the

animosity he had aroused in some former lovers of Whispering Winds,

he actually played jokes on them. In fact, Joe's pranks raised many

a storm; but the young braves who had been suitors for Wingenund's

lovely daughter, feared the muscular paleface, and the tribe's

ridicule more; so he continued his trickery unmolested. Joe's idea

was to lead the savages to believe he was thoroughly happy in his

new life, and so he was, but it suited him better to be free. He

succeeded in misleading the savages. At first he was closely

watched, the vigilance relaxed, and finally ceased.

This last circumstance was owing, no doubt, to a ferment of

excitement that had suddenly possessed the Delawares. Council after

council was held in the big lodge. The encampment was visited by

runner after runner. Some important crisis was pending.

Joe could not learn what it all meant, and the fact that Whispering

Winds suddenly lost her gladsome spirit and became sad caused him

further anxiety. When he asked her the reason for her unhappiness,

she was silent. Moreover, he was surprised to learn, when he

questioned her upon the subject of their fleeing together, that she

was eager to go immediately. While all this mystery puzzled Joe, it

did not make any difference to him or in his plans. It rather

favored the latter. He understood that the presence of Simon Girty

and Elliott, with several other renegades unknown to him, was

significant of unrest among the Indians. These presagers of evil

were accustomed to go from village to village, exciting the savages

to acts of war. Peace meant the downfall and death of these men.

They were busy all day and far into the night. Often Joe heard

Girty's hoarse voice lifted in the council lodge. Pipe thundered

incessantly for war. But Joe could not learn against whom. Elliott's

suave, oily oratory exhorted the Indians to vengeance. But Joe could

not guess upon whom. He was, however, destined to learn.

The third day of the councils a horseman stopped before Whispering

Winds' lodge, and called out. Stepping to the door, Joe saw a white

man, whose dark, keen, handsome face seemed familiar. Yet Joe knew

he had never seen this stalwart man.

"A word with you," said the stranger. His tone was curt,

authoritative, as that of a man used to power.

"As many as you like. Who are you?"

"I am Isaac Zane. Are you Wetzel's companion, or the renegade

Deering?"

"I am not a renegade any more than you are. I was rescued by the

Indian girl, who took me as her husband," said Joe coldly. He was

surprised, and did not know what to make of Zane's manner.

"Good! I'm glad to meet you," instantly replied Zane, his tone and

expression changing. He extended his hand to Joe. "I wanted to be

sure. I never saw the renegade Deering. He is here now. I am on my

way to the Wyandot town. I have been to Fort Henry, where my brother

told me of you and the missionaries. When I arrived here I heard

your story from Simon Girty. If you can, you must get away from

here. If I dared I'd take you to the Huron village, but it's

impossible. Go, while you have a chance."

"Zane, I thank you. I've suspected something was wrong. What is it?"

"Couldn't be worse," whispered Zane, glancing round to see if they

were overheard. "Girty and Elliott, backed by this Deering, are

growing jealous of the influence of Christianity on the Indians.

They are plotting against the Village of Peace. Tarhe, the Huron

chief, has been approached, and asked to join in a concerted

movement against religion. Seemingly it is not so much the

missionaries as the converted Indians, that the renegades are fuming

over. They know if the Christian savages are killed, the strength of

the missionaries' hold will be forever broken. Pipe is wild for

blood. These renegades are slowly poisoning the minds of the few

chiefs who are favorably disposed. The outlook is bad! bad!"

"What can I do?"

"Cut out for yourself. Get away, if you can, with a gun. Take the

creek below, follow the current down to the Ohio, and then make east

for Fort Henry.

"But I want to rescue the white girl Jim Girty has concealed here

somewhere."

"Impossible! Don't attempt it unless you want to throw your life

away. Buzzard Jim, as we call Girty, is a butcher; he has probably

murdered the girl."

"I won't leave without trying. And there's my wife, the Indian girl

who saved me. Zane, she's a Christian. She wants to go with me. I

can't leave her."

"I am warning you, that's all. If I were you I'd never leave without

a try to find the white girl, and I'd never forsake my Indian bride.

I've been through the same thing. You must be a good woodsman, or

Wetzel wouldn't have let you stay with him. Pick out a favorable

time and make the attempt. I suggest you make your Indian girl show

you where Girty is. She knows, but is afraid to tell you, for she

fears Girty. Get your dog and horse from the Shawnee. That's a fine

horse. He can carry you both to safety. Take him away from

Silvertip."

"How?"

"Go right up and demand your horse and dog. Most of these Delawares

are honest, for all their blood-shedding and cruelty. With them

might is right. The Delawares won't try to get your horse for you;

but they'll stick to you when you assert your rights. They don't

like the Shawnee, anyhow. If Silvertip refuses to give you the

horse, grab him before he can draw a weapon, and beat him good.

You're big enough to do it. The Delawares will be tickled to see you

pound him. He's thick with Girty; that's why he lays round here.

Take my word, it's the best way. Do it openly, and no one will

interfere."

"By Heavens, Zane, I'll give him a drubbing. I owe him one, and am

itching to get hold of him."

"I must go now. I shall send a Wyandot runner to your brother at the

village. They shall be warned. Good-by. Good luck. May we meet

again."

Joe watched Zane ride swiftly down the land and disappear in the

shrubbery. Whispering Winds came to the door of the lodge. She

looked anxiously at him. He went within, drawing her along with him,

and quickly informed her that he had learned the cause of the

council, that he had resolved to get away, and she must find out

Girty's hiding place. Whispering Winds threw herself into his arms,

declaring with an energy and passion unusual to her, that she would

risk anything for him. She informed Joe that she knew the direction

from which Girty always returned to the village. No doubt she could

find his retreat. With a cunning that showed her Indian nature, she

suggested a plan which Joe at once saw was excellent. After Joe got

his horse, she would ride around the village, then off into the

woods, where she could leave the horse and return to say he had run

away from her. As was their custom during afternoons, they would

walk leisurely along the brook, and, trusting to the excitement

created by the councils, get away unobserved. Find the horse, if

possible rescue the prisoner, and then travel east with all speed.

Joe left the lodge at once to begin the working out of the plan.

Luck favored him at the outset, for he met Silvertip before the

council lodge. The Shawnee was leading Lance, and the dog followed

at his heels. The spirit of Mose had been broken. Poor dog, Joe

thought, he had been beaten until he was afraid to wag his tail at

his old master. Joe's resentment blazed into fury, but he kept cool

outwardly.

Right before a crowd of Indians waiting for the council to begin,

Joe planted himself in front of the Shawnee, barring his way.

"Silvertip has the paleface's horse and dog," said Joe, in a loud

voice.

The chief stared haughtily while the other Indians sauntered nearer.

They all knew how the Shawnee had got the animals, and now awaited

the outcome of the white man's challenge.

"Paleface--heap--liar," growled the Indian. His dark eyes glowed

craftily, while his hand dropped, apparently in careless habit, to

the haft of his tomahawk.

Joe swung his long arm; his big fist caught the Shawnee on the jaw,

sending him to the ground. Uttering a frightful yell, Silvertip drew

his weapon and attempted to rise, but the moment's delay in seizing

the hatchet, was fatal to his design. Joe was upon him with

tigerlike suddenness. One kick sent the tomahawk spinning, another

landed the Shawnee again on the ground. Blind with rage, Silvertip

leaped up, and without a weapon rushed at his antagonist; but the

Indian was not a boxer, and he failed to get his hands on Joe.

Shifty and elusive, the lad dodged around the struggling savage.

One, two, three hard blows staggered Silvertip, and a fourth,

delivered with the force of Joe's powerful arm, caught the Indian

when he was off his balance, and felled him, battered and bloody, on

the grass. The surrounding Indians looked down at the vanquished

Shawnee, expressing their approval in characteristic grunts.

With Lance prancing proudly, and Mose leaping lovingly beside him,

Joe walked back to his lodge. Whispering Winds sprang to meet him

with joyful face. She had feared the outcome of trouble with the

Shawnee, but no queen ever bestowed upon returning victorious lord a

loftier look of pride, a sweeter glance of love, than the Indian

maiden bent upon her lover.

Whispering Winds informed Joe that an important council was to be

held that afternoon. It would be wise for them to make the attempt

to get away immediately after the convening of the chiefs.

Accordingly she got upon Lance and rode him up and down the village

lane, much to the pleasure of the watching Indians. She scattered

the idle crowds on the grass plots, she dashed through the side

streets, and let every one in the encampment see her clinging to the

black stallion. Then she rode him out along the creek. Accustomed to

her imperious will, the Indians thought nothing unusual. When she

returned an hour later, with flying hair and disheveled costume, no

one paid particular attention to her.

That afternoon Joe and his bride were the favored of fortune. With

Mose running before them, they got clear of the encampment and into

the woods. Once in the forest Whispering Winds rapidly led the way

east. When they climbed to the top of a rocky ridge she pointed down

into a thicket before her, saying that somewhere in this dense

hollow was Girty's hut. Joe hesitated about taking Mose. He wanted

the dog, but in case he had to run it was necessary Whispering Winds

should find his trail, and for this he left the dog with her.

He started down the ridge, and had not gone a hundred paces when

over some gray boulders he saw the thatched roof of a hut. So wild

and secluded was the spot, that he would never have discovered the

cabin from any other point than this, which he had been so fortunate

as to find.

His study and practice under Wetzel now stood him in good stead. He

picked out the best path over the rough stones and through the

brambles, always keeping under cover. He stepped as carefully as if

the hunter was behind him. Soon he reached level ground. A dense

laurel thicket hid the cabin, but he knew the direction in which it

lay. Throwing himself flat on the ground, he wormed his way through

the thicket, carefully, yet swiftly, because he knew there was no

time to lose. Finally the rear of the cabin stood in front of him.

It was made of logs, rudely hewn, and as rudely thrown together. In

several places clay had fallen from chinks between the timbers,

leaving small holes. Like a snake Joe slipped close to the hut.

Raising his head he looked through one of the cracks.

Instantly he shrank back into the grass, shivering with horror. He

almost choked in his attempt to prevent an outcry.

Chapter XVIII.

The sight which Joe had seen horrified him, for several moments,

into helpless inaction. He lay breathing heavily, impotent, in an

awful rage. As he remained there stunned by the shock, he gazed up

through the open space in the leaves, trying to still his fury, to

realize the situation, to make no hasty move. The soft blue of the

sky, the fleecy clouds drifting eastward, the fluttering leaves and

the twittering birds--all assured him he was wide awake. He had

found Girty's den where so many white women had been hidden, to see

friends and home no more. He had seen the renegade sleeping, calmly

sleeping like any other man. How could the wretch sleep! He had seen

Kate. It had been the sight of her that had paralyzed him. To make a

certainty of his fears, he again raised himself to peep into the

hole. As he did so a faint cry came from within.

Girty lay on a buffalo robe near a barred door. Beyond him sat Kate,

huddled in one corner of the cabin. A long buckskin thong was

knotted round her waist, and tied to a log. Her hair was matted and

tangled, and on her face and arms were many discolored bruises.

Worse still, in her plaintive moaning, in the meaningless movement

of her head, in her vacant expression, was proof that her mind had

gone. She was mad. Even as an agonizing pity came over Joe, to be

followed by the surging fire of rage, blazing up in his breast, he

could not but thank God that she was mad! It was merciful that Kate

was no longer conscious of her suffering.

Like leaves in a storm wavered Joe's hands as he clenched them until

the nails brought blood. "Be calm, be cool," whispered his monitor,

Wetzel, ever with him in spirit. But God! Could he be cool? Bounding

with lion-spring he hurled his heavy frame against the door.

Crash! The door was burst from its fastenings.

Girty leaped up with startled yell, drawing his knife as he rose. It

had not time to descend before Joe's second spring, more fierce even

than the other, carried him directly on top of the renegade. As the

two went down Joe caught the villain's wrist with a grip that

literally cracked the bones. The knife fell and rolled away from the

struggling men. For an instant they tumbled about on the floor,

clasped in a crushing embrace. The renegade was strong, supple,

slippery as an eel. Twice he wriggled from his foe. Gnashing his

teeth, he fought like a hyena. He was fighting for life--life, which

is never so dear as to a coward and a murderer. Doom glared from

Joe's big eyes, and scream after scream issued from the renegade's

white lips.

Terrible was this struggle, but brief. Joe seemingly had the

strength of ten men. Twice he pulled Girty down as a wolf drags a

deer. He dashed him against the wall, throwing him nearer and

nearer the knife. Once within reach of the blade Joe struck the

renegade a severe blow on the temple and the villain's wrestling

became weaker. Planting his heavy knee on Girty's breast, Joe

reached for the knife, and swung it high. Exultantly he cried, mad

with lust for the brute's blood.

But the slight delay saved Girty's life.

The knife was knocked from Joe's hand and he leaped erect to find

himself confronted by Silvertip. The chief held a tomahawk with

which he had struck the weapon from the young man's grasp, and, to

judge from his burning eyes and malignant smile, he meant to brain

the now defenseless paleface.

In a single fleeting instant Joe saw that Girty was helpless for the

moment, that Silvertip was confident of his revenge, and that the

situation called for Wetzel's characteristic advice, "act like

lightnin'."

Swifter than the thought was the leap he made past Silvertip. It

carried him to a wooden bar which lay on the floor. Escape was easy,

for the door was before him and the Shawnee behind, but Joe did not

flee! He seized the bar and rushed at the Indian. Then began a duel

in which the savage's quickness and cunning matched the white man's

strength and fury. Silvertip dodged the vicious swings Joe aimed at

him; he parried many blows, any one of which would have crushed his

skull. Nimble as a cat, he avoided every rush, while his dark eyes

watched for an opening. He fought wholly on the defensive, craftily

reserving his strength until his opponent should tire.

At last, catching the bar on his hatchet, he broke the force of the

blow, and then, with agile movement, dropped to the ground and

grappled Joe's legs. Long before this he had drawn his knife, and

now he used it, plunging the blade into the young man's side.

Cunning and successful as was the savage's ruse, it failed signally,

for to get hold of the Shawnee was all Joe wanted. Feeling the sharp

pain as they fell together, he reached his hand behind him and

caught Silvertip's wrist. Exerting all his power, he wrenched the

Indian's arm so that it was not only dislocated, but the bones

cracked.

Silvertip saw his fatal mistake, but he uttered no sound. Crippled,

though he was, he yet made a supreme effort, but it was as if he had

been in the hands of a giant. The lad handled him with remorseless

and resistless fury. Suddenly he grasped the knife, which Silvertip

had been unable to hold with his crippled hand, and thrust it deeply

into the Indian's side.

All Silvertip's muscles relaxed as if a strong tension had been

removed. Slowly his legs straightened, his arms dropped, and from

his side gushed a dark flood. A shadow crept over his face, not dark

nor white, but just a shadow. His eyes lost their hate; they no

longer saw the foe, they looked beyond with gloomy question, and

then were fixed cold in death. Silvertip died as he had lived--a

chief.

Joe glared round for Girty. He was gone, having slipped away during

the fight. The lad turned to release the poor prisoner, when he

started back with a cry of fear. Kate lay bathed in a pool of

blood--dead. The renegade, fearing she might be rescued, had

murdered her, and then fled from the cabin.

Almost blinded by horror, and staggering with weakness, Joe turned

to leave the cabin. Realizing that he was seriously, perhaps

dangerously, wounded he wisely thought he must not leave the place

without weapons. He had marked the pegs where the renegade's rifle

hung, and had been careful to keep between that and his enemies. He

took down the gun and horns, which were attached to it, and, with

one last shuddering glance at poor Kate, left the place.

He was conscious of a queer lightness in his head, but he suffered

no pain. His garments were dripping with blood. He did not know how

much of it was his, or the Indian's. Instinct rather than sight was

his guide. He grew weaker and weaker; his head began to whirl, yet

he kept on, knowing that life and freedom were his if he found

Whispering Winds. He gained the top of the ridge; his eyes were

blurred, his strength gone. He called aloud, and then plunged

forward on his face. He heard dimly, as though the sound were afar

off, the whine of a dog. He felt something soft and wet on his face.

Then consciousness left him.

When he regained his senses he was lying on a bed of ferns under a

projecting rock. He heard the gurgle of running water mingling with

the song of birds. Near him lay Mose, and beyond rose a wall of

green thicket. Neither Whispering Winds nor his horse was visible.

He felt a dreamy lassitude. He was tired, but had no pain. Finding

he could move without difficulty, he concluded his weakness was more

from loss of blood than a dangerous wound. He put his hand on the

place where he had been stabbed, and felt a soft, warm compress such

as might have been made by a bunch of wet leaves. Some one had

unlaced his hunting-shirt--for he saw the strings were not as he

usually tied them--and had dressed the wound. Joe decided, after

some deliberation, that Whispering Winds had found him, made him as

comfortable as possible, and, leaving Mose on guard, had gone out to

hunt for food, or perhaps back to the Indian encampment. The rifle

and horns he had taken from Girty's hut, together with Silvertip's

knife, lay beside him.

As Joe lay there hoping for Whispering Winds' return, his

reflections were not pleasant. Fortunate, indeed, he was to be

alive; but he had no hope he could continue to be favored by

fortune. Odds were now against his escape. Girty would have the

Delawares on his trail like a pack of hungry wolves. He could not

understand the absence of Whispering Winds. She would have died

sooner than desert him. Girty had, perhaps, captured her, and was

now scouring the woods for him.

"I'll get him next time, or he'll get me," muttered Joe, in bitter

wrath. He could never forgive himself for his failure to kill the

renegade.

The recollection of how nearly he had forever ended Girty's brutal

career brought before Joe's mind the scene of the fight. He saw

again Buzzard Jim's face, revolting, unlike anything human. There

stretched Silvertip's dark figure, lying still and stark, and there

was Kate's white form in its winding, crimson wreath of blood.

Hauntingly her face returned, sad, stern in its cold rigidity.

"Poor girl, better for her to be dead," he murmured. "Not long will

she be unavenged!"

His thoughts drifted to the future. He had no fear of starvation,

for Mose could catch a rabbit or woodchuck at any time. When the

strips of meat he had hidden in his coat were gone, he could start a

fire and roast more. What concerned him most was pursuit. His trail

from the cabin had been a bloody one, which would render it easily

followed. He dared not risk exertion until he had given his wound

time to heal. Then, if he did escape from Girty and the Delawares,

his future was not bright. His experiences of the last few days had

not only sobered, but brought home to him this real border life.

With all his fire and daring he new he was no fool. He had eagerly

embraced a career which, at the present stage of his training, was

beyond his scope--not that he did not know how to act in sudden

crises, but because he had not had the necessary practice to quickly

and surely use his knowledge.

Bitter, indeed, was his self-scorn when he recalled that of the

several critical positions he had been in since his acquaintance

with Wetzel, he had failed in all but one. The exception was the

killing of Silvertip. Here his fury had made him fight as Wetzel

fought with only his every day incentive. He realized that the

border was no place for any save the boldest and most experienced

hunters--men who had become inured to hardship, callous as to death,

keen as Indians. Fear was not in Joe nor lack of confidence; but he

had good sense, and realized he would have done a wiser thing had he

stayed at Fort Henry. Colonel Zane was right. The Indians were

tigers, the renegades vultures, the vast untrammeled forests and

plains their covert. Ten years of war had rendered this wilderness a

place where those few white men who had survived were hardened to

the spilling of blood, stern even in those few quiet hours which

peril allowed them, strong in their sacrifice of all for future

generations.

A low growl from Mose broke into Joe's reflections. The dog had

raised his nose from his paws and sniffed suspiciously at the air.

The lad heard a slight rustling outside, and in another moment was

overjoyed at seeing Whispering Winds. She came swiftly, with a

lithe, graceful motion, and flying to him like a rush of wind, knelt

beside him. She kissed him and murmured words of endearment.

"Winds, where have you been?" he asked her, in the mixed English and

Indian dialect in which they conversed.

She told him the dog had led her to him two evenings before. He was

insensible. She had bathed and bandaged his wound, and remained with

him all that night. The next day, finding he was ill and delirious,

she decided to risk returning to the village. If any questions

arose, she could say he had left her. Then she would find a way to

get back to him, bringing healing herbs for his wound and a soothing

drink. As it turned out Girty had returned to the camp. He was

battered and bruised, and in a white heat of passion. Going at once

to Wingenund, the renegade openly accused Whispering Winds of aiding

her paleface lover to escape. Wingenund called his daughter before

him, and questioned her. She confessed all to her father.

"Why is the daughter of Wingenund a traitor to her race?" demanded

the chief.

"Whispering Winds is a Christian."

Wingenund received this intelligence as a blow. He dismissed Girty

and sent his braves from his lodge, facing his daughter alone.

Gloomy and stern, he paced before her.

"Wingenund's blood might change, but would never betray. Wingenund

is the Delaware chief," he said. "Go. Darken no more the door of

Wingenund's wigwam. Let the flower of the Delawares fade in alien

pastures. Go. Whispering Winds is free!"

Tears shone brightly in the Indian girl's eyes while she told Joe

her story. She loved her father, and she would see him no more.

"Winds is free," she whispered. "When strength returns to her master

she can follow him to the white villages. Winds will live her life

for him."

"Then we have no one to fear?" asked Joe.

"No redman, now that the Shawnee chief is dead."

"Will Girty follow us? He is a coward; he will fear to come alone."

"The white savage is a snake in the grass."

Two long days followed, during which the lovers lay quietly in

hiding. On the morning of the third day Joe felt that he might risk

the start for the Village of Peace. Whispering Winds led the horse

below a stone upon which the invalid stood, thus enabling him to

mount. Then she got on behind him.

The sun was just gilding the horizon when they rode out of the woods

into a wide plain. No living thing could be seen. Along the edge of

the forest the ground was level, and the horse traveled easily.

Several times during the morning Joe dismounted beside a pile of

stones or a fallen tree. The miles were traversed without serious

inconvenience to the invalid, except that he grew tired. Toward the

middle of the afternoon, when they had ridden perhaps twenty-five

miles, they crossed a swift, narrow brook. The water was a beautiful

clear brown. Joe made note of this, as it was an unusual

circumstance. Nearly all the streams, when not flooded, were green

in color. He remembered that during his wanderings with Wetzel they

had found one stream of this brown, copper-colored water. The lad

knew he must take a roundabout way to the village so that he might

avoid Indian runners or scouts, and he hoped this stream would prove

to be the one he had once camped upon.

As they were riding toward a gentle swell or knoll covered with

trees and shrubbery, Whispering Winds felt something warm on her

hand, and, looking, was horrified to find it covered with blood.

Joe's wound had opened. She told him they must dismount here, and

remain until he was stronger. The invalid himself thought this

conclusion was wise. They would be practically safe now, since they

must be out of the Indian path, and many miles from the encampment.

Accordingly he got off the horse, and sat down on a log, while

Whispering Winds searched for a suitable place in which to erect a

temporary shelter.

Joe's wandering gaze was arrested by a tree with a huge knotty

formation near the ground. It was like many trees, but this

peculiarity was not what struck Joe. He had seen it before. He never

forgot anything in the woods that once attracted his attention. He

looked around on all sides. Just behind him was an opening in the

clump of trees. Within this was a perpendicular stone covered with

moss and lichens; above it a beech tree spread long, graceful

branches. He thrilled with the remembrance these familiar marks

brought. This was Beautiful Spring, the place where Wetzel rescued

Nell, where he had killed the Indians in that night attack he would

never forget.

Chapter XIX.

One evening a week or more after the disappearance of Jim and the

girls, George Young and David Edwards, the missionaries, sat on the

cabin steps, gazing disconsolately upon the forest scenery. Hard as

had been the ten years of their labor among the Indians, nothing had

shaken them as the loss of their young friends.

"Dave, I tell you your theory about seeing them again is absurd,"

asserted George. "I'll never forget that wretch, Girty, as he spoke

to Nell. Why, she just wilted like a flower blasted by fire. I can't

understand why he let me go, and kept Jim, unless the Shawnee had

something to do with it. I never wished until now that I was a

hunter. I'd go after Girty. You've heard as well as I of his many

atrocities. I'd rather have seen Kate and Nell dead than have them

fall into his power. I'd rather have killed them myself!"

Young had aged perceptibly in these last few days. The blue veins

showed at his temples; his face had become thinner and paler, his

eyes had a look of pain. The former expression of patience, which

had sat so well on him, was gone.

"George, I can't account for my fancies or feelings, else, perhaps,

I'd be easier in mind," answered Dave. His face, too, showed the

ravages of grief. "I've had queer thoughts lately, and dreams such

as I never had before. Perhaps it's this trouble which has made me

so nervous. I don't seem able to pull myself together. I can neither

preach nor work."

"Neither can I! This trouble has hit you as hard as it has me. But,

Dave, we've still our duty. To endure, to endure--that is our life.

Because a beam of sunshine brightened, for a brief time, the gray of

our lives, and then faded away, we must not shirk nor grow sour and

discontented."

"But how cruel is this border life!"

"Nature itself is brutal."

"Yes, I know, and we have elected to spend our lives here in the

midst of this ceaseless strife, to fare poorly, to have no pleasure,

never to feel the comfort of a woman's smiles, nor the joy of a

child's caress, all because out in the woods are ten or twenty or a

hundred savages we may convert."

"That is why, and it is enough. It is hard to give up the women you

love to a black-souled renegade, but that is not for my thought.

What kills me is the horror for her--for her."

"I, too, suffer with that thought; more than that, I am morbid and

depressed. I feel as if some calamity awaited us here. I have never

been superstitious, nor have I had presentiments, but of late there

are strange fears in my mind."

At this juncture Mr. Wells and Heckewelder came out of the adjoining

cabin.

"I had word from a trustworthy runner to-day. Girty and his captives

have not been seen in the Delaware towns," said Heckewelder.

"It is most unlikely that he will take them to the towns," replied

Edwards. "What do you make of his capturing Jim?"

"For Pipe, perhaps. The Delaware Wolf is snapping his teeth. Pipe is

particularly opposed to Christianity, and--what's that?"

A low whistle from the bushes near the creek bank attracted the

attention of all. The younger men got up to investigate, but

Heckewelder detained them.

"Wait," he added. "There is no telling what that signal may mean."

They waited with breathless interest. Presently the whistle was

repeated, and an instant later the tall figure of a man stepped from

behind a thicket. He was a white man, but not recognizable at that

distance, even if a friend. The stranger waved his hand as if asking

them to be cautious, and come to him.

They went toward the thicket, and when within a few paces of the man

Mr. Wells exclaimed:

"It's the man who guided my party to the village. It is Wetzel!"

The other missionaries had never seen the hunter though, of course,

they were familiar with his name, and looked at him with great

curiosity. The hunter's buckskin garments were wet, torn, and

covered with burrs. Dark spots, evidently blood stains, showed on

his hunting-shirt.

"Wetzel?" interrogated Heckewelder.

The hunter nodded, and took a step behind the bush. Bending over he

lifted something from the ground. It was a girl. It was Nell! She

was very white--but alive. A faint, glad smile lighted up her

features.

Not a word was spoken. With an expression of tender compassion Mr.

Wells received her into his arms. The four missionaries turned

fearful, questioning eyes upon the hunter, but they could not speak.

"She's well, an' unharmed," said Wetzel, reading their thoughts,

"only worn out. I've carried her these ten miles."

"God bless you, Wetzel!" exclaimed the old missionary. "Nellie,

Nellie, can you speak?"

"Uncle dear--I'm--all right," came the faint answer.

"Kate? What--of her?" whispered George Young with lips as dry as

corn husks.

"I did my best," said the hunter with a simple dignity. Nothing but

the agonized appeal in the young man's eyes could have made Wetzel

speak of his achievement.

"Tell us," broke in Heckewelder, seeing that fear had stricken

George dumb.

"We trailed 'em an' got away with the golden-haired lass. The last I

saw of Joe he was braced up agin a rock fightin' like a wildcat. I

tried to cut Jim loose as I was goin' by. I s'pect the wust fer the

brothers an' the other lass."

"Can we do nothing?" asked Mr. Wells.

"Nothin'!"

"Wetzel, has the capturing of James Downs any significance to you?"

inquired Heckewelder.

"I reckon so."

"What?"

"Pipe an' his white-redskin allies are agin Christianity."

"Do you think we are in danger?"

"I reckon so."

"What do you advise?"

"Pack up a few of your traps, take the lass, an' come with me. I'll

see you back in Fort Henry."

Heckewelder nervously walked up to the tree and back again. Young

and Edwards looked blankly at one another. They both remembered

Edward's presentiment. Mr. Wells uttered an angry exclamation.

"You ask us to fail in our duty? No, never! To go back to the white

settlements and acknowledge we were afraid to continue teaching the

Gospel to the Indians! You can not understand Christianity if you

advise that. You have no religion. You are a killer of Indians."

A shadow that might have been one of pain flitted over the hunter's

face.

"No, I ain't a Christian, an' I am a killer of Injuns," said Wetzel,

and his deep voice had a strange tremor. "I don't know nothin' much

'cept the woods an' fields, an' if there's a God fer me He's out

thar under the trees an' grass. Mr. Wells, you're the first man as

ever called me a coward, an' I overlook it because of your callin'.

I advise you to go back to Fort Henry, because if you don't go now

the chances are aginst your ever goin'. Christianity or no

Christianity, such men as you hev no bisness in these woods."

"I thank you for your advice, and bless you for your rescue of this

child; but I can not leave my work, nor can I understand why all

this good work we have done should be called useless. We have

converted Indians, saved their souls. Is that not being of some use,

of some good here?"

"It's accordin' to how you look at it. Now I know the bark of an oak

is different accordin' to the side we see from. I'll allow, hatin'

Injuns as I do, is no reason you oughtn't to try an' convert 'em.

But you're bringin' on a war. These Injuns won't allow this Village

of Peace here with its big fields of corn, an' shops an' workin'

redskins. It's agin their nature. You're only sacrificin' your

Christian Injuns."

"What do you mean?" asked Mr. Wells, startled by Wetzel's words.

"Enough. I'm ready to guide you to Fort Henry."

"I'll never go."

Wetzel looked at the other men. No one would have doubted him. No

one could have failed to see he knew that some terrible anger

hovered over the Village of Peace.

"I believe you, Wetzel, but I can not go," said Heckewelder, with

white face.

"I will stay," said George, steadily.

"And I," said Dave.

Wetzel nodded, and turned to depart when George grasped his arm. The

young missionary's face was drawn and haggard; he fixed an intense

gaze upon the hunter.

"Wetzel, listen;" his voice was low and shaken with deep feeling. "I

am a teacher of God's word, and I am as earnest in that purpose as

you are in your life-work. I shall die here; I shall fill an

unmarked grave; but I shall have done the best I could. This is the

life destiny has marked out for me, and I will live it as best I

may; but in this moment, preacher as I am, I would give all I have

or hope to have, all the little good I may have done, all my life,

to be such a man as you. For I would avenge the woman I loved. To

torture, to kill Girty! I am only a poor, weak fellow who would be

lost a mile from this village, and if not, would fall before the

youngest brave. But you with your glorious strength, your

incomparable woodcraft, you are the man to kill Girty. Rid the

frontier of this fiend. Kill him! Wetzel, kill him! I beseech you

for the sake of some sweet girl who even now may be on her way to

this terrible country, and who may fall into Girty's power--for her

sake, Wetzel, kill him. Trail him like a bloodhound, and when you

find him remember my broken heart, remember Nell, remember, oh, God!

remember poor Kate!"

Young's voice broke into dry sobs. He had completely exhausted

himself, so that he was forced to lean against the tree for support.

Wetzel spoke never a word. He stretched out his long, brawny arm and

gripped the young missionary's shoulder. His fingers clasped hard.

Simple, without words as the action was, it could not have been more

potent. And then, as he stood, the softer look faded slowly from his

face. A ripple seemed to run over his features, which froze, as it

subsided, into a cold, stone rigidity.

His arm dropped; he stepped past the tree, and, bounding lightly as

a deer, cleared the creek and disappeared in the bushes.

Mr. Wells carried Nell to his cabin where she lay for hours with wan

face and listless languor. She swallowed the nourishing drink an old

Indian nurse forced between her teeth; she even smiled weakly when

the missionaries spoke to her; but she said nothing nor seemed to

rally from her terrible shock. A dark shadow lay always before her,

conscious of nothing present, living over again her frightful

experience. Again she seemed sunk in dull apathy.

"Dave, we're going to lose Nell. She's fading slowly," said George,

one evening, several days after the girl's return. "Wetzel said she

was unharmed, yet she seems to have received a hurt more fatal than

a physical one. It's her mind--her mind. If we cannot brighten her

up to make her forget, she'll die."

"We've done all within our power. If she could only be brought out

of this trance! She lies there all day long with those staring eyes.

I can't look into them. They are the eyes of a child who has seen

murder."

"We must try in some way to get her out of this stupor, and I have

an idea. Have you noticed that Mr. Wells has failed very much in the

last few weeks?"

"Indeed I have, and I'm afraid he's breaking down. He has grown so

thin, eats very little, and doesn't sleep. He is old, you know, and,

despite his zeal, this border life is telling on him."

"Dave, I believe he knows it. Poor, earnest old man! He never says a

word about himself, yet he must know he is going down hill. Well, we

all begin, sooner or later, that descent which ends in the grave. I

believe we might stir Nellie by telling her Mr. Wells' health is

breaking."

"Let us try."

A hurried knock on the door interrupted their conversation.

"Come in," said Edwards.

The door opened to admit a man, who entered eagerly.

"Jim! Jim!" exclaimed both missionaries, throwing themselves upon

the newcomer.

It was, indeed, Jim, but no answering smile lighted his worn,

distressed face while he wrung his friends' hands.

"You're not hurt?" asked Dave.

"No, I'm uninjured."

"Tell us all. Did you escape? Did you see your brother? Did you know

Wetzel rescued Nell?"

"Wingenund set me free in spite of many demands for my death. He

kept Joe a prisoner, and intends to kill him, for the lad was

Wetzel's companion. I saw the hunter come into the glade where we

camped, break through the line of fighting Indians and carry Nell

off."

"Kate?" faltered Young, with ashen face.

"George, I wish to God I could tell you she is dead," answered Jim,

nervously pacing the room. "But she was well when I last saw her.

She endured the hard journey better than either Nell or I. Girty did

not carry her into the encampment, as Silvertip did Joe and me, but

the renegade left us on the outskirts of the Delaware town. There

was a rocky ravine with dense undergrowth where he disappeared with

his captive. I suppose he has his den somewhere in that ravine."

George sank down and buried his face in his arms; neither movement

nor sound betokened consciousness.

"Has Wetzel come in with Nell? Joe said he had a cave where he might

have taken her in case of illness or accident."

"Yes, he brought her back," answered Edwards, slowly.

"I want to see her," said Jim, his haggard face expressing a keen

anxiety. "She's not wounded? hurt? ill?"

"No, nothing like that. It's a shock which she can't get over, can't

forget."

"I must see her," cried Jim, moving toward the door.

"Don't go," replied Dave, detaining him. "Wait. We must see what's

best to be done. Wait till Heckewelder comes. He'll be here soon.

Nell thinks you're dead, and the surprise might be bad for her."

Heckewelder came in at that moment, and shook hands warmly with Jim.

"The Delaware runner told me you were here. I am overjoyed that

Wingenund freed you," said the missionary. "It is a most favorable

sign. I have heard rumors from Goshocking and Sandusky that have

worried me. This good news more than offsets the bad. I am sorry

about your brother. Are you well?"

"Well, but miserable. I want to see Nell. Dave tells me she is not

exactly ill, but something is wrong with her. Perhaps I ought not to

see her just yet."

"It'll be exactly the tonic for her," replied Heckewelder. "She'll

be surprised out of herself. She is morbid, apathetic, and, try as

we may, we can't interest her. Come at once."

Heckewelder had taken Jim's arm and started for the door when he

caught sight of Young, sitting bowed and motionless. Turning to Jim

he whispered:

"Kate?"

"Girty did not take her into the encampment," answered Jim, in a low

voice. "I hoped he would, because the Indians are kind, but he

didn't. He took her to his den."

Just then Young raised his face. The despair in it would have melted

a heart of stone. It had become the face of an old man.

"If only you'd told me she had died," he said to Jim, "I'd have been

man enough to stand it, but--this--this kills me--I can't breathe!"

He staggered into the adjoining room, where he flung himself upon a

bed.

"It's hard, and he won't be able to stand up under it, for he's not

strong," whispered Jim.

Heckewelder was a mild, pious man, in whom no one would ever expect

strong passion; but now depths were stirred within his heart that

had ever been tranquil. He became livid, and his face was distorted

with rage.

"It's bad enough to have these renegades plotting and working

against our religion; to have them sow discontent, spread lies, make

the Indians think we have axes to grind, to plant the only obstacle

in our path--all this is bad; but to doom an innocent white woman to

worse than death! What can I call it!"

"What can we do?" asked Jim.

"Do? That's the worst of it. We can do nothing, nothing. We dare not

move."

"Is there no hope of getting Kate back?"

"Hope? None. That villain is surrounded by his savages. He'll lie

low now for a while. I've heard of such deeds many a time, but it

never before came so close home. Kate Wells was a pure, loving

Christian woman. She'll live an hour, a day, a week, perhaps, in

that snake's clutches, and then she'll die. Thank God!"

"Wetzel has gone on Girty's trail. I know that from his manner when

he left us," said Edwards.

"Wetzel may avenge her, but he can never save her. It's too late.

Hello---"

The exclamation was called forth by the appearance of Young, who

entered with a rifle in his hands.

"George, where are you going with that gun?" asked Edwards, grasping

his friend by the arm.

"I'm going after her," answered George wildly. He tottered as he

spoke, but wrenched himself free from Dave.

"Come, George, listen, listen to reason," interposed Heckewelder,

laying hold of Young. "You are frantic with grief now. So are all of

us. But calm yourself. Why, man, you're a preacher, not a hunter.

You'd be lost, you'd starve in the woods before getting half way to

the Indian town. This is terrible enough; don't make it worse by

throwing your life away. Think of us, your friends; think of your

Indian pupils who rely so much on you. Think of the Village of

Peace. We can pray, but we can't prevent these border crimes. With

civilization, with the spread of Christianity, they will pass away.

Bear up under this blow for the sake of your work. Remember we alone

can check such barbarity. But we must not fight. We must sacrifice

all that men hold dear, for the sake of the future."

He took the rifle away from George, and led him back into the

little, dark room. Closing the door he turned to Jim and Dave.

"He is in a bad way, and we must carefully watch him for a few

days."

"Think of George starting out to kill Girty!" exclaimed Dave. "I

never fired a gun, but yet I'd go too."

"So would we all, if we did as our hearts dictate," retorted

Heckewelder, turning fiercely upon Dave as if stung. "Man! we have a

village full of Christians to look after. What would become of them?

I tell you we've all we can do here to outwit these border ruffians.

Simon Girty is plotting our ruin. I heard it to-day from the

Delaware runner who is my friend. He is jealous of our influence,

when all we desire is to save these poor Indians. And, Jim, Girty

has killed our happiness. Can we ever recover from the misery

brought upon us by poor Kate's fate?"

The missionary raised his hand as if to exhort some power above.

"Curse the Girtys!" he exclaimed in a sudden burst of

uncontrollable passion. "Having conquered all other obstacles, must

we fail because of wicked men of our own race? Oh, curse them!"

"Come," he said, presently, in a voice which trembled with the

effort he made to be calm. "We'll go in to Nellie."

The three men entered Mr. Wells' cabin. The old missionary, with

bowed head and hands clasped behind his back, was pacing to and fro.

He greeted Jim with glad surprise.

"We want Nellie to see him," whispered Heckewelder. "We think the

surprise will do her good."

"I trust it may," said Mr. Wells.

"Leave it to me."

They followed Heckewelder into an adjoining room. A torch flickered

over the rude mantle-shelf, lighting up the room with fitful flare.

It was a warm night, and the soft breeze coming in the window

alternately paled and brightened the flame.

Jim saw Nell lying on the bed. Her eyes were closed, and her long,

dark lashes seemed black against the marble paleness of her skin.

"Stand behind me," whispered Heckewelder to Jim.

"Nellie," he called softly, but only a faint flickering of her

lashes answered him.

"Nellie, Nellie," repeated Heckewelder, his deep, strong voice

thrilling.

Her eyes opened. They gazed at Mr. Wells on one side, at Edwards

standing at the foot of the bed, at Heckewelder leaning over her,

but there was no recognition or interest in her look.

"Nellie, can you understand me?" asked Heckewelder, putting into his

voice all the power and intensity of feeling of which he was

capable.

An almost imperceptible shadow of understanding shone in her eyes.

"Listen. You have had a terrible shock, and it has affected your

mind. You are mistaken in what you think, what you dream of all the

time. Do you understand? You are wrong!"

Nell's eyes quickened with a puzzled, questioning doubt. The

minister's magnetic, penetrating voice had pierced her dulled brain.

"See, I have brought you Jim!"

Heckewelder stepped aside as Jim fell on his knees by the bed. He

took her cold hands in his and bent over her. For the moment his

voice failed.

The doubt in Nell's eyes changed to a wondrous gladness. It was like

the rekindling of a smoldering fire.

"Jim?" she whispered.

"Yes, Nellie, it's Jim alive and well. It's Jim come back to you."

A soft flush stained her white face. She slipped her arm tenderly

around his neck, and held her cheek close to his.

"Jim," she murmured.

"Nellie, don't you know me?" asked Mr. Wells, trembling, excited.

This was the first word she had spoken in four days.

"Uncle!" she exclaimed, suddenly loosening her hold on Jim, and

sitting up in bed, then she gazed wildly at the others.

"Was it all a horrible dream?"

Mr. Wells took her hand soothingly, but he did not attempt to answer

her question. He looked helplessly at Heckewelder, but that

missionary was intently studying the expression on Nell's face.

"Part of it was a dream," he answered, impressively.

"Then that horrible man did take us away?"

"Yes."

"Oh-h! but we're free now? This is my room. Oh, tell me?"

"Yes, Nellie, you're safe at home now."

"Tell--tell me," she cried, shudderingly, as she leaned close to Jim

and raised a white, imploring face to his. "Where is Kate?--Oh!

Jim--say, say she wasn't left with Girty?"

"Kate is dead," answered Jim, quickly. He could not endure the

horror in her eyes. He deliberately intended to lie, as had

Heckewelder.

It was as if the tension of Nell's nerves was suddenly relaxed. The

relief from her worst fear was so great that her mind took in only

the one impression. Then, presently, a choking cry escaped her, to

be followed by a paroxysm of sobs.

Chapter XX.

Early on the following day Heckewelder, astride his horse, appeared

at the door of Edwards' cabin.

"How is George?" he inquired of Dave, when the latter had opened the

door.

"He had a bad night, but is sleeping now. I think he'll be all right

after a time," answered Dave.

"That's well. Nevertheless keep a watch on him for a few days."

"I'll do so."

"Dave, I leave matters here to your good judgment. I'm off to

Goshocking to join Zeisberger. Affairs there demand our immediate

attention, and we must make haste."

"How long do you intend to be absent?"

"A few days; possibly a week. In case of any unusual disturbance

among the Indians, the appearance of Pipe and his tribe, or any of

the opposing factions, send a fleet runner at once to warn me. Most

of my fears have been allayed by Wingenund's attitude toward us. His

freeing Jim in face of the opposition of his chiefs is a sure sign

of friendliness. More than once I have suspected that he was

interested in Christianity. His daughter, Whispering Winds,

exhibited the same intense fervor in religion as has been manifested

by all our converts. It may be that we have not appealed in vain to

Wingenund and his daughter; but their high position in the Delaware

tribe makes it impolitic for them to reveal a change of heart. If we

could win over those two we'd have every chance to convert the whole

tribe. Well, as it is we must be thankful for Wingenund's

friendship. We have two powerful allies now. Tarhe, the Wyandot

chieftain, remains neutral, to be sure, but that's almost as helpful

as his friendship."

"I, too, take a hopeful view of the situation," replied Edwards.

"We'll trust in Providence, and do our best," said Heckewelder, as

he turned his horse. "Good-by."

"Godspeed!" called Edwards, as his chief rode away.

The missionary resumed his work of getting breakfast. He remained in

doors all that day, except for the few moments when he ran over to

Mr. Wells' cabin to inquire regarding Nell's condition. He was

relieved to learn she was so much better that she had declared her

intention of moving about the house. Dave kept a close watch on

Young. He, himself, was suffering from the same blow which had

prostrated his friend, but his physical strength and fortitude were

such that he did not weaken. He was overjoyed to see that George

rallied, and showed no further indications of breaking down.

True it was, perhaps, that Heckewelder's earnest prayer on behalf of

the converted Indians had sunk deeply into George's heart and thus

kept it from breaking. No stronger plea could have been made than

the allusion to those gentle, dependent Christians. No one but a

missionary could realize the sweetness, the simplicity, the faith,

the eager hope for a good, true life which had been implanted in the

hearts of these Indians. To bear it in mind, to think of what he, as

a missionary and teacher, was to them, relieved him of half his

burden, and for strength to bear the remainder he went to God. For

all worry there is a sovereign cure, for all suffering there is a

healing balm; it is religious faith. Happiness had suddenly flashed

with a meteor-like radiance into Young's life only to be snuffed out

like a candle in a windy gloom, but his work, his duty remained. So

in his trial he learned the necessity of resignation. He chaffed no

more at the mysterious, seemingly brutal methods of nature; he

questioned no more. He wondered no more at the apparent indifference

of Providence. He had one hope, which was to be true to his faith,

and teach it to the end.

Nell mastered her grief by an astonishing reserve of strength.

Undoubtedly it was that marvelously merciful power which enables a

person, for the love of others, to bear up under a cross, or even to

fight death himself. As Young had his bright-eyed Indian boys and

girls, who had learned Christianity from him, and whose future

depended on him, so Nell had her aged and weakening uncle to care

for and cherish.

Jim's attentions to her before the deep affliction had not been

slight, but now they were so marked as to be unmistakable. In some

way Jim seemed changed since he had returned from the Delaware

encampment. Although he went back to the work with his old

aggressiveness, he was not nearly so successful as he had been

before. Whether or not this was his fault, he took his failure

deeply to heart. There was that in his tenderness which caused Nell

to regard him, in one sense, as she did her uncle. Jim, too, leaned

upon her, and she accepted his devotion where once she had repelled

it. She had unconsciously betrayed a great deal when she had turned

so tenderly to him in the first moments after her recognition, and

he remembered it. He did not speak of love to her; he let a thousand

little acts of kindness, a constant thoughtfulness of her plead his

cause.

The days succeeding Heckewelder's departure were remarkable for

several reasons. Although the weather was enticing, the number of

visiting Indians gradually decreased. Not a runner from any tribe

came into the village, and finally the day dawned when not a single

Indian from the outlying towns was present to hear the preaching.

Jim spoke, as usual. After several days had passed and none but

converted Indians made up the congregation, the young man began to

be uneasy in mind.

Young and Edwards were unable to account for the unusual absence

from worship, yet they did not see in it anything to cause especial

concern. Often there had been days without visitation to the Village

of Peace.

Finally Jim went to consult Glickhican. He found the Delaware at

work in the potato patch. The old Indian dropped his hoe and bowed

to the missionary. A reverential and stately courtesy always

characterized the attitude of the Indians toward the young white

father.

"Glickhican, can you tell me why no Indians have come here lately?"

The old chief shook his head.

"Does their absence signify ill to the Village of Peace?"

"Glickhican saw a blackbird flitting in the shadow of the moon. The

bird hovered above the Village of Peace, but sang no song."

The old Delaware vouchsafed no other than this strange reply.

Jim returned to his cabin decidedly worried. He did not at all like

Glickhican's answer. The purport of it seemed to be that a cloud was

rising on the bright horizon of the Christian village. He confided

his fears to Young and Edwards. After discussing the situation, the

three missionaries decided to send for Heckewelder. He was the

leader of the Mission; he knew more of Indian craft than any of

them, and how to meet it. If this calm in the heretofore busy life

of the Mission was the lull before a storm, Heckewelder should be

there with his experience and influence.

"For nearly ten years Heckewelder has anticipated trouble from

hostile savages," said Edwards, "but so far he has always averted

it. As you know, he has confined himself mostly to propitiating the

Indians, and persuading them to be friendly, and listen to us. We'll

send for him."

Accordingly they dispatched a runner to Goshocking. In due time the

Indian returned with the startling news that Heckewelder had left

the Indian village days before, as had, in fact, all the savages

except the few converted ones. The same held true in the case of

Sandusky, the adjoining town. Moreover, it had been impossible to

obtain any news in regard to Zeisberger.

The missionaries were now thoroughly alarmed, and knew not what to

do. They concealed the real state of affairs from Nell and her

uncle, desiring to keep them from anxiety as long as possible. That

night the three teachers went to bed with heavy hearts.

The following morning at daybreak, Jim was awakened from a sound

sleep by some one calling at his window. He got up to learn who it

was, and, in the gray light, saw Edwards standing outside.

"What's the matter?" questioned Jim, hurriedly.

"Matter enough. Hurry. Get into your clothes," replied Edwards. "As

soon as you are dressed, quietly awaken Mr. Wells and Nellie, but do

not frighten them."

"But what's the trouble?" queried Jim, as he began to dress.

"The Indians are pouring into the village as thickly as flying

leaves in autumn."

Edwards' exaggerated assertion proved to be almost literally true.

No sooner had the rising sun dispelled the mist, than it shone on

long lines of marching braves, mounted warriors, hundreds of

packhorses approaching from the forests. The orderly procession was

proof of a concerted plan on the part of the invaders.

From their windows the missionaries watched with bated breath; with

wonder and fear they saw the long lines of dusky forms. When they

were in the clearing the savages busied themselves with their packs.

Long rows of teepees sprung up as if by magic. The savages had come

to stay! The number of incoming visitors did not lessen until noon,

when a few straggling groups marked the end of the invading host.

Most significant of all was the fact that neither child, maiden, nor

squaw accompanied this army.

Jim appraised the number at six or seven hundred, more than had ever

before visited the village at one time. They were mostly Delawares,

with many Shawnees, and a few Hurons among them. It was soon

evident, however, that for the present, at least, the Indians did

not intend any hostile demonstration. They were quiet in manner, and

busy about their teepees and camp-fires, but there was an absence of

the curiosity that had characterized the former sojourns of Indians

at the peaceful village.

After a brief consultation with his brother missionaries, who all

were opposed to his preaching that afternoon, Jim decided he would

not deviate from his usual custom. He held the afternoon service,

and spoke to the largest congregation that had ever sat before him.

He was surprised to find that the sermon, which heretofore so

strongly impressed the savages, did not now arouse the slightest

enthusiasm. It was followed by a brooding silence of a boding,

ominous import.

Four white men, dressed in Indian garb, had been the most attentive

listeners to Jim's sermon. He recognized three as Simon Girty,

Elliott and Deering, the renegades, and he learned from Edwards that

the other was the notorious McKee. These men went through the

village, stalking into the shops and cabins, and acting as do men

who are on a tour of inspection.

So intrusive was their curiosity that Jim hurried back to Mr. Well's

cabin and remained there in seclusion. Of course, by this time Nell

and her uncle knew of the presence of the hostile savages. They were

frightened, and barely regained their composure when the young man

assured them he was certain they had no real cause for fear.

Jim was sitting at the doorstep with Mr. Wells and Edwards when

Girty, with his comrades, came toward them. The renegade leader was

a tall, athletic man, with a dark, strong face. There was in it none

of the brutality and ferocity which marked his brother's visage.

Simon Girty appeared keen, forceful, authoritative, as, indeed, he

must have been to have attained the power he held in the

confederated tribes. His companions presented wide contrasts.

Elliott was a small, spare man of cunning, vindictive aspect; McKee

looked, as might have been supposed from his reputation, and Deering

was a fit mate for the absent Girty. Simon appeared to be a man of

some intelligence, who had used all his power to make that position

a great one. The other renegades were desperadoes.

"Where's Heckewelder?" asked Girty, curtly, as he stopped before the

missionaries.

"He started out for the Indian towns on the Muskingong," answered

Edwards. "But we have had no word from either him or Zeisberger."

"When d'ye expect him?"

"I can't say. Perhaps to-morrow, and then, again, maybe not for a

week."

"He is in authority here, ain't he?"

"Yes; but he left me in charge of the Mission. Can I serve you in

any way?"

"I reckon not," said the renegade, turning to his companions. They

conversed in low tones for a moment. Presently McKee, Elliott and

Deering went toward the newly erected teepees.

"Girty, do you mean us any ill will?" earnestly asked Edwards. He

had met the man on more than one occasion, and had no hesitation

about questioning him.

"I can't say as I do," answered the renegade, and those who heard

him believed him. "But I'm agin this redskin preachin', an' hev been

all along. The injuns are mad clear through, an' I ain't sayin' I've

tried to quiet 'em any. This missionary work has got to be stopped,

one way or another. Now what I waited here to say is this: I ain't

quite forgot I was white once, an' believe you fellars are honest.

I'm willin' to go outer my way to help you git away from here."

"Go away?" echoed Edwards.

"That's it," answered Girty, shouldering his rifle.

"But why? We are perfectly harmless; we are only doing good and hurt

no one. Why should we go?"

"'Cause there's liable to be trouble," said the renegade,

significantly.

Edwards turned slowly to Mr. Wells and Jim. The old missionary was

trembling visibly. Jim was pale; but more with anger than fear.

"Thank you, Girty, but we'll stay," and Jim's voice rang clear.

Chapter XXI.

"Jim, come out here," called Edwards at the window of Mr. Wells'

cabin.

The young man arose from the breakfast table, and when outside found

Edwards standing by the door with an Indian brave. He was a Wyandot

lightly built, lithe and wiry, easily recognizable as an Indian

runner. When Jim appeared the man handed him a small packet. He

unwound a few folds of some oily skin to find a square piece of

birch bark, upon which were scratched the following words:

"Rev. J. Downs. Greeting.

"Your brother is alive and safe. Whispering Winds rescued him by

taking him as her husband. Leave the Village of Peace. Pipe and Half

King have been influenced by Girty.

"Zane."

"Now, what do you think of that?" exclaimed Jim, handing the message

to Edwards. "Thank Heaven, Joe was saved!"

"Zane? That must be the Zane who married Tarhe's daughter," answered

Edwards, when he had read the note. "I'm rejoiced to hear of your

brother."

"Joe married to that beautiful Indian maiden! Well, of all wonderful

things," mused Jim. "What will Nell say?"

"We're getting warnings enough. Do you appreciate that?" asked

Edwards. "'Pipe and Half King have been influenced by Girty.'

Evidently the writer deemed that brief sentence of sufficient

meaning."

"Edwards, we're preachers. We can't understand such things. I am

learning, at least something every day. Colonel Zane advised us not

to come here. Wetzel said, 'Go back to Fort Henry.' Girty warned us,

and now comes this peremptory order from Isaac Zane."

"Well?"

"It means that these border men see what we will not admit. We

ministers have such hope and trust in God that we can not realize

the dangers of this life. I fear that our work has been in vain."

"Never. We have already saved many souls. Do not be discouraged."

All this time the runner had stood near at hand straight as an

arrow. Presently Edwards suggested that the Wyandot was waiting to

be questioned, and accordingly he asked the Indian if he had

anything further to communicate.

"Huron--go by--paleface." Here he held up both hands and shut his

fists several times, evidently enumerating how many white men he had

seen. "Here--when--high--sun."

With that he bounded lightly past them, and loped off with an even,

swinging stride.

"What did he mean?" asked Jim, almost sure he had not heard the

runner aright.

"He meant that a party of white men are approaching, and will be

here by noon. I never knew an Indian runner to carry unreliable

information. We have joyful news, both in regard to your brother,

and the Village of Peace. Let us go in to tell the others."

The Huron runner's report proved to be correct. Shortly before noon

signals from Indian scouts proclaimed the approach of a band of

white men. Evidently Girty's forces had knowledge beforehand of the

proximity of this band, for the signals created no excitement. The

Indians expressed only a lazy curiosity. Soon several Delaware

scouts appeared, escorting a large party of frontiersmen.

These men turned out to be Captain Williamson's force, which had

been out on an expedition after a marauding tribe of Chippewas. This

last named tribe had recently harried the remote settlers, and

committed depredations on the outskirts of the white settlements

eastward. The company was composed of men who had served in the

garrison at Fort Pitt, and hunters and backwoodsmen from Yellow

Creek and Fort Henry. The captain himself was a typical borderman,

rough and bluff, hardened by long years of border life, and, like

most pioneers, having no more use for an Indian than for a snake. He

had led his party after the marauders, and surprised and slaughtered

nearly all of them. Returning eastward he had passed through

Goshocking, where he learned of the muttering storm rising over the

Village of Peace, and had come more out of curiosity than hope to

avert misfortune.

The advent of so many frontiersmen seemed a godsend to the perplexed

and worried missionaries. They welcomed the newcomers most heartily.

Beds were made in several of the newly erected cabins; the village

was given over for the comfort of the frontiersmen. Edwards

conducted Captain Williamson through the shops and schools, and the

old borderman's weather-beaten face expressed a comical surprise.

"Wal, I'll be durned if I ever expected to see a redskin work," was

his only comment on the industries.

"We are greatly alarmed by the presence of Girty and his followers,"

said Edwards. "We have been warned to leave, but have not been

actually threatened. What do you infer from the appearance here of

these hostile savages?"

"It hardly 'pears to me they'll bother you preachers. They're agin

the Christian redskins, that's plain."

"Why have we been warned to go?"

"That's natural, seein' they're agin the preachin'."

"What will they do with the converted Indians?"

"Mighty onsartin. They might let them go back to the tribes, but

'pears to me these good Injuns won't go. Another thing, Girty is

afeered of the spread of Christianity."

"Then you think our Christians will be made prisoners?"

"'Pears likely."

"And you, also, think we'd do well to leave here."

"I do, sartin. We're startin' for Fort Henry soon. You'd better come

along with us."

"Captain Williamson, we're going to stick it out, Girty or no

Girty."

"You can't do no good stayin' here. Pipe and Half King won't stand

for the singin', prayin' redskins, especially when they've got all

these cattle and fields of grain."

"Wetzel said the same."

"Hev you seen Wetzel?"

"Yes; he rescued a girl from Jim Girty, and returned her to us."

"That so? I met Wetzel and Jack Zane back a few miles in the woods.

They're layin' for somebody, because when I asked them to come along

they refused, sayin' they had work as must be done. They looked like

it, too. I never hearn tell of Wetzel advisin' any one before; but

I'll say if he told me to do a thing, by Gosh! I'd do it."

"As men, we might very well take the advice given us, but as

preachers we must stay here to do all we can for these Christian

Indians. One thing more: will you help us?"

"I reckon I'll stay here to see the thing out," answered Williamson.

Edwards made a mental note of the frontiersman's evasive answer.

Jim had, meanwhile, made the acquaintance of a young minister, John

Christy by name, who had lost his sweetheart in one of the Chippewa

raids, and had accompanied the Williamson expedition in the hope he

might rescue her.

"How long have you been out?" asked Jim.

"About four weeks now," answered Christy. "My betrothed was captured

five weeks ago yesterday. I joined Williamson's band, which made up

at Short Creek to take the trail of the flying Chippewas, in the

hope I might find her. But not a trace! The expedition fell upon a

band of redskins over on the Walhonding, and killed nearly all of

them. I learned from a wounded Indian that a renegade had made off

with a white girl about a week previous. Perhaps it was poor Lucy."

Jim related the circumstances of his own capture by Jim Girty, the

rescue of Nell, and Kate's sad fate.

"Could Jim Girty have gotten your girl?" inquired Jim, in

conclusion.

"It's fairly probable. The description doesn't tally with Girty's.

This renegade was short and heavy, and noted especially for his

strength. Of course, an Indian would first speak of some such

distinguishing feature. There are, however, ten or twelve renegades

on the border, and, excepting Jim Girty, one's as bad as another."

"Then it's a common occurrence, this abducting girls from the

settlements?"

"Yes, and the strange thing is that one never hears of such doings

until he gets out on the frontier."

"For that matter, you don't hear much of anything, except of the

wonderful richness and promise of the western country."

"You're right. Rumors of fat, fertile lands induce the colonist to

become a pioneer. He comes west with his family; two out of every

ten lose their scalps, and in some places the average is much

greater. The wives, daughters and children are carried off into

captivity. I have been on the border two years, and know that the

rescue of any captive, as Wetzel rescued your friend, is a

remarkable exception."

"If you have so little hope of recovering your sweetheart, what then

is your motive for accompanying this band of hunters?"

"Revenge!"

"And you are a preacher?" Jim's voice did not disguise his

astonishment.

"I was a preacher, and now I am thirsting for vengeance," answered

Christy, his face clouding darkly. "Wait until you learn what

frontier life means. You are young here yet; you are flushed with

the success of your teaching; you have lived a short time in this

quiet village, where, until the last few days, all has been serene.

You know nothing of the strife, of the necessity of fighting, of the

cruelty which makes up this border existence. Only two years have

hardened me so that I actually pant for the blood of the renegade

who has robbed me. A frontiersman must take his choice of succumbing

or cutting his way through flesh and bone. Blood will be spilled; if

not yours, then your foe's. The pioneers run from the plow to the

fight; they halt in the cutting of corn to defend themselves, and in

winter must battle against cold and hardship, which would be less

cruel if there was time in summer to prepare for winter, for the

savages leave them hardly an opportunity to plant crops. How many

pioneers have given up, and gone back east? Find me any who would

not return home to-morrow, if they could. All that brings them out

here is the chance for a home, and all that keeps them out here is

the poor hope of finally attaining their object. Always there is a

possibility of future prosperity. But this generation, if it

survives, will never see prosperity and happiness. What does this

border life engender in a pioneer who holds his own in it? Of all

things, not Christianity. He becomes a fighter, keen as the redskin

who steals through the coverts."

* * *

The serene days of the Village of Peace had passed into history.

Soon that depraved vagabond, the French trader, with cheap trinkets

and vile whisky, made his appearance. This was all that was needed

to inflame the visitors. Where they had been only bold and impudent,

they became insulting and abusive. They execrated the Christian

Indians for their neutrality; scorned them for worshiping this

unknown God, and denounced a religion which made women of strong

men.

The slaughtering of cattle commenced; the despoiling of maize

fields, and robbing of corn-cribs began with the drunkenness.

All this time it was seen that Girty and Elliott consulted often

with Pipe and Half King. The latter was the only Huron chief opposed

to neutrality toward the Village of Peace, and he was, if possible,

more fierce in his hatred than Pipe. The future of the Christian

settlement rested with these two chiefs. Girty and Elliott,

evidently, were the designing schemers, and they worked diligently

on the passions of these simple-minded, but fierce, warlike chiefs.

Greatly to the relief of the distracted missionaries, Heckewelder

returned to the village. Jaded and haggard, he presented a

travel-worn appearance. He made the astonishing assertions that he

had been thrice waylaid and assaulted on his way to Goshocking; then

detained by a roving band of Chippewas, and soon after his arrival

at their camping ground a renegade had run off with a white woman

captive, while the Indians west of the village were in an uproar.

Zeisberger, however, was safe in the Moravian town of Salem, some

miles west of Goshocking. Heckewelder had expected to find the same

condition of affairs as existed in the Village of Peace; but he was

bewildered by the great array of hostile Indians. Chiefs who had

once extended friendly hands to him, now drew back coldly, as they

said:

"Washington is dead. The American armies are cut to pieces. The few

thousands who had escaped the British are collecting at Fort Pitt to

steal the Indian's land."

Heckewelder vigorously denied all these assertions, knowing they had

been invented by Girty and Elliott. He exhausted all his skill and

patience in the vain endeavor to show Pipe where he was wrong. Half

King had been so well coached by the renegades that he refused to

listen. The other chiefs maintained a cold reserve that was baffling

and exasperating. Wingenund took no active part in the councils; but

his presence apparently denoted that he had sided with the others.

The outlook was altogether discouraging.

"I'm completely fagged out," declared Heckewelder, that night when

he returned to Edwards' cabin. He dropped into a chair as one whose

strength is entirely spent, whose indomitable spirit has at last

been broken.

"Lie down to rest," said Edwards.

"Oh, I can't. Matters look so black."

"You're tired out and discouraged. You'll feel better to-morrow. The

situation is not, perhaps, so hopeless. The presence of these

frontiersmen should encourage us."

"What will they do? What can they do?" cried Heckewelder, bitterly.

"I tell you never before have I encountered such gloomy, stony

Indians. It seems to me that they are in no vacillating state. They

act like men whose course is already decided upon, and who are only

waiting."

"For what?" asked Jim, after a long silence.

"God only knows! Perhaps for a time; possibly for a final decision,

and, it may be, for a reason, the very thought of which makes me

faint."

"Tell us," said Edwards, speaking quietly, for he had ever been the

calmest of the missionaries.

"Never mind. Perhaps it's only my nerves. I'm all unstrung, and

could suspect anything to-night."

"Heckewelder, tell us?" Jim asked, earnestly.

"My friends, I pray I am wrong. God help us if my fears are correct.

I believe the Indians are waiting for Jim Girty."

Chapter XXII.

Simon Girty lolled on a blanket in Half King's teepee. He was alone,

awaiting his allies. Rings of white smoke curled lazily from his

lips as he puffed on a long Indian pipe, and gazed out over the

clearing that contained the Village of Peace.

Still water has something in its placid surface significant of deep

channels, of hidden depths; the dim outline of the forest is dark

with meaning, suggestive of its wild internal character. So Simon

Girty's hard, bronzed face betrayed the man. His degenerate

brother's features were revolting; but his own were striking, and

fell short of being handsome only because of their craggy hardness.

Years of revolt, of bitterness, of consciousness of wasted life, had

graven their stern lines on that copper, masklike face. Yet despite

the cruelty there, the forbidding shade on it, as if a reflection

from a dark soul, it was not wholly a bad countenance. Traces still

lingered, faintly, of a man in whom kindlier feelings had once

predominated.

In a moment of pique Girty had deserted his military post at Fort

Pitt, and become an outlaw of his own volition. Previous to that

time he had been an able soldier, and a good fellow. When he

realized that his step was irrevocable, that even his best friends

condemned him, he plunged, with anger and despair in his heart, into

a war upon his own race. Both of his brothers had long been border

ruffians, whose only protection from the outraged pioneers lay in

the faraway camps of hostile tribes. George Girty had so sunk his

individuality into the savage's that he was no longer a white man.

Jim Girty stalked over the borderland with a bloody tomahawk, his

long arm outstretched to clutch some unfortunate white woman, and

with his hideous smile of death. Both of these men were far lower

than the worst savages, and it was almost wholly to their deeds of

darkness that Simon Girty owed his infamous name.

To-day White Chief, as Girty was called, awaited his men. A slight

tremor of the ground caused him to turn his gaze. The Huron chief,

Half King, resplendent in his magnificent array, had entered the

teepee. He squatted in a corner, rested the bowl of his great pipe

on his knee, and smoked in silence. The habitual frown of his black

brow, like a shaded, overhanging cliff; the fire flashing from his

eyes, as a shining light is reflected from a dark pool; his

closely-shut, bulging jaw, all bespoke a nature, lofty in its Indian

pride and arrogance, but more cruel than death.

Another chief stalked into the teepee and seated himself. It was

Pipe. His countenance denoted none of the intelligence that made

Wingenund's face so noble; it was even coarser than Half King's, and

his eyes, resembling live coals in the dark; the long, cruel lines

of his jaw; the thin, tightly-closed lips, which looked as if they

could relax only to utter a savage command, expressed fierce cunning

and brutality.

"White Chief is idle to-day," said Half King, speaking in the Indian

tongue.

"King, I am waiting. Girty is slow, but sure," answered the

renegade.

"The eagle sails slowly round and round, up and up," replied Half

King, with majestic gestures, "until his eye sees all, until he

knows his time; then he folds his wings and swoops down from the

blue sky like the forked fire. So does White Chief. But Half King is

impatient."

"To-day decides the fate of the Village of Peace," answered Girty,

imperturbably.

"Ugh!" grunted Pipe.

Half King vented his approval in the same meaning exclamation.

An hour passed; the renegade smoked in silence; the chiefs did

likewise.

A horseman rode up to the door of the teepee, dismounted, and came

in. It was Elliott. He had been absent twenty hours. His buckskin

suit showed the effect of hard riding through the thickets.

"Hullo, Bill, any sign of Jim?" was Girty's greeting to his

lieutenant.

"Nary. He's not been seen near the Delaware camp. He's after that

chap who married Winds."

"I thought so. Jim's roundin' up a tenderfoot who will be a bad man

to handle if he has half a chance. I saw as much the day he took his

horse away from Silver. He finally did fer the Shawnee, an' almost

put Jim out. My brother oughtn't to give rein to personal revenge at

a time like this." Girty's face did not change, but his tone was one

of annoyance.

"Jim said he'd be here to-day, didn't he?"

"To-day is as long as we allowed to wait."

"He'll come. Where's Jake and Mac?"

"They're here somewhere, drinkin' like fish, an' raisin' hell."

Two more renegades appeared at the door, and, entering the teepee,

squatted down in Indian fashion. The little wiry man with the

wizened face was McKee; the other was the latest acquisition to the

renegade force, Jake Deering, deserter, thief, murderer--everything

that is bad. In appearance he was of medium height, but very

heavily, compactly built, and evidently as strong as an ox. He had a

tangled shock of red hair, a broad, bloated face; big, dull eyes,

like the openings of empty furnaces, and an expression of

beastliness.

Deering and McKee were intoxicated.

"Bad time fer drinkin'," said Girty, with disapproval in his glance.

"What's that ter you?" growled Deering. "I'm here ter do your work,

an' I reckon it'll be done better if I'm drunk."

"Don't git careless," replied Girty, with that cool tone and dark

look such as dangerous men use. "I'm only sayin' it's a bad time fer

you, because if this bunch of frontiersmen happen to git onto you

bein' the renegade that was with the Chippewas an' got thet young

feller's girl, there's liable to be trouble."

"They ain't agoin' ter find out."

"Where is she?"

"Back there in the woods."