Betty Zane

BETTY ZANE

BY

ZANE GREY

TO THE BETTY ZANE CHAPTER OF

THE DAUGHTERS OF THE REVOLUTION

THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED

BY THE AUTHOR

NOTE

In a quiet corner of the stately little city of Wheeling, West Va.,

stands a monument on which is inscribed:

"By authority of the State of West Virginia to commemorate the siege

of Fort Henry, Sept 11, 1782, the last battle of the American

Revolution, this tablet is here placed."

Had it not been for the heroism of a girl the foregoing inscription

would never have been written, and the city of Wheeling would never

have existed. From time to time I have read short stories and

magazine articles which have been published about Elizabeth Zane and

her famous exploit; but they are unreliable in some particulars,

which is owing, no doubt, to the singularly meagre details available

in histories of our western border.

For a hundred years the stories of Betty and Isaac Zane have been

familiar, oft-repeated tales in my family--tales told with that

pardonable ancestral pride which seems inherent in every one. My

grandmother loved to cluster the children round her and tell them

that when she was a little girl she had knelt at the feet of Betty

Zane, and listened to the old lady as she told of her brother's

capture by the Indian Princess, of the burning of the Fort, and of

her own race for life. I knew these stories by heart when a child.

Two years ago my mother came to me with an old note book which had

been discovered in some rubbish that had been placed in the yard to

burn. The book had probably been hidden in an old picture frame for

many years. It belonged to my great-grandfather, Col. Ebenezer Zane.

From its faded and time-worn pages I have taken the main facts of my

story. My regret is that a worthier pen than mine has not had this

wealth of material.

In this busy progressive age there are no heroes of the kind so dear

to all lovers of chivalry and romance. There are heroes, perhaps,

but they are the patient sad-faced kind, of whom few take cognizance

as they hurry onward. But cannot we all remember some one who

suffered greatly, who accomplished great deeds, who died on the

battlefield--some one around whose name lingers a halo of glory? Few

of us are so unfortunate that we cannot look backward on kith or kin

and thrill with love and reverence as we dream of an act of heroism

or martyrdom which rings down the annals of time like the melody of

the huntsman's horn, as it peals out on a frosty October morn purer

and sweeter with each succeeding note.

If to any of those who have such remembrances, as well as those who

have not, my story gives an hour of pleasure I shall be rewarded.

PROLOGUE

On June 16, 1716, Alexander Spotswood, Governor of the Colony of

Virginia, and a gallant soldier who had served under Marlborough in

the English wars, rode, at the head of a dauntless band of

cavaliers, down the quiet street of quaint old Williamsburg.

The adventurous spirits of this party of men urged them toward the

land of the setting sun, that unknown west far beyond the blue

crested mountains rising so grandly before them.

Months afterward they stood on the western range of the Great North

mountains towering above the picturesque Shenandoah Valley, and from

the summit of one of the loftiest peaks, where, until then, the foot

of a white man had never trod, they viewed the vast expanse of plain

and forest with glistening eyes. Returning to Williamsburg they told

of the wonderful richness of the newly discovered country and thus

opened the way for the venturesome pioneer who was destined to

overcome all difficulties and make a home in the western world.

But fifty years and more passed before a white man penetrated far

beyond the purple spires of those majestic mountains.

One bright morning in June, 1769, the figure of a stalwart, broad

shouldered man could have been seen standing on the wild and rugged

promontory which rears its rocky bluff high above the Ohio river, at

a point near the mouth of Wheeling Creek. He was alone save for the

companionship of a deerhound that crouched at his feet. As he leaned

on a long rifle, contemplating the glorious scene that stretched

before him, a smile flashed across his bronzed cheek, and his heart

bounded as he forecast the future of that spot. In the river below

him lay an island so round and green that it resembled a huge lily

pad floating placidly on the water. The fresh green foliage of the

trees sparkled with glittering dewdrops. Back of him rose the high

ridges, and, in front, as far as eye could reach, extended an

unbroken forest.

Beneath him to the left and across a deep ravine he saw a wide level

clearing. The few scattered and blackened tree stumps showed the

ravages made by a forest fire in the years gone by. The field was

now overgrown with hazel and laurel bushes, and intermingling with

them were the trailing arbutus, the honeysuckle, and the wild rose.

A fragrant perfume was wafted upward to him. A rushing creek

bordered one edge of the clearing. After a long quiet reach of

water, which could be seen winding back in the hills, the stream

tumbled madly over a rocky ledge, and white with foam, it hurried

onward as if impatient of long restraint, and lost its individuality

in the broad Ohio.

This solitary hunter was Colonel Ebenezer Zane. He was one of those

daring men, who, as the tide of emigration started westward, had

left his friends and family and had struck out alone into the

wilderness. Departing from his home in Eastern Virginia he had

plunged into the woods, and after many days of hunting and

exploring, he reached the then far Western Ohio valley.

The scene so impressed Colonel Zane that he concluded to found a

settlement there. Taking "tomahawk possession" of the locality

(which consisted of blazing a few trees with his tomahawk), he built

himself a rude shack and remained that summer on the Ohio.

In the autumn he set out for Berkeley County, Virginia, to tell his

people of the magnificent country he had discovered. The following

spring he persuaded a number of settlers, of a like spirit with

himself, to accompany him to the wilderness. Believing it unsafe to

take their families with them at once, they left them at Red Stone

on the Monongahela river, while the men, including Colonel Zane, his

brothers Silas, Andrew, Jonathan and Isaac, the Wetzels, McCollochs,

Bennets, Metzars and others, pushed on ahead.

The country through which they passed was one tangled, most

impenetrable forest; the axe of the pioneer had never sounded in

this region, where every rod of the way might harbor some unknown

danger.

These reckless bordermen knew not the meaning of fear; to all,

daring adventure was welcome, and the screech of a redskin and the

ping of a bullet were familiar sounds; to the Wetzels, McCollochs

and Jonathan Zane the hunting of Indians was the most thrilling

passion of their lives; indeed, the Wetzels, particularly, knew no

other occupation. They had attained a wonderful skill with the

rifle; long practice had rendered their senses as acute as those of

the fox. Skilled in every variety of woodcraft, with lynx eyes ever

on the alert for detecting a trail, or the curling smoke of some

camp fire, or the minutest sign of an enemy, these men stole onward

through the forest with the cautious but dogged and persistent

determination that was characteristic of the settler.

They at length climbed the commanding bluff overlooking the majestic

river, and as they gazed out on the undulating and uninterrupted

area of green, their hearts beat high with hope.

The keen axe, wielded by strong arms, soon opened the clearing and

reared stout log cabins on the river bluff. Then Ebenezer Zane and

his followers moved their families and soon the settlement began to

grow and flourish. As the little village commenced to prosper the

redmen became troublesome. Settlers were shot while plowing the

fields or gathering the harvests. Bands of hostile Indians prowled

around and made it dangerous for anyone to leave the clearing.

Frequently the first person to appear in the early morning would be

shot at by an Indian concealed in the woods.

General George Rodgers Clark, commandant of the Western Military

Department, arrived at the village in 1774. As an attack from the

savages was apprehended during the year the settlers determined to

erect a fort as a defense for the infant settlement. It was planned

by General Clark and built by the people themselves. At first they

called it Fort Fincastle, in honor of Lord Dunmore, who, at the time

of its erection, was Governor of the Colony of Virginia. In 1776 its

name was changed to Fort Henry, in honor of Patrick Henry.

For many years it remained the most famous fort on the frontier,

having withstood numberless Indian attacks and two memorable sieges,

one in 1777, which year is called the year of the "Bloody Sevens,"

and again in 1782. In this last siege the British Rangers under

Hamilton took part with the Indians, making the attack practically

the last battle of the Revolution.

BETTY ZANE

CHAPTER I.

The Zane family was a remarkable one in early days, and most of its

members are historical characters.

The first Zane of whom any trace can be found was a Dane of

aristocratic lineage, who was exiled from his country and came to

America with William Penn. He was prominent for several years in the

new settlement founded by Penn, and Zane street, Philadelphia, bears

his name. Being a proud and arrogant man, he soon became obnoxious

to his Quaker brethren. He therefore cut loose from them and

emigrated to Virginia, settling on the Potomac river, in what was

then known as Berkeley county. There his five sons, and one

daughter, the heroine of this story, were born.

Ebenezer Zane, the eldest, was born October 7, 1747, and grew to

manhood in the Potomac valley. There he married Elizabeth McColloch,

a sister of the famous McColloch brothers so well known in frontier

history.

Ebenezer was fortunate in having such a wife and no pioneer could

have been better blessed. She was not only a handsome woman, but one

of remarkable force of character as well as kindness of heart. She

was particularly noted for a rare skill in the treatment of illness,

and her deftness in handling the surgeon's knife and extracting a

poisoned bullet or arrow from a wound had restored to health many a

settler when all had despaired.

The Zane brothers were best known on the border for their athletic

prowess, and for their knowledge of Indian warfare and cunning. They

were all powerful men, exceedingly active and as fleet as deer. In

appearance they were singularly pleasing and bore a marked

resemblance to one another, all having smooth faces, clear cut,

regular features, dark eyes and long black hair.

When they were as yet boys they had been captured by Indians, soon

after their arrival on the Virginia border, and had been taken far

into the interior, and held as captives for two years. Ebenezer,

Silas, and Jonathan Zane were then taken to Detroit and ransomed.

While attempting to swim the Scioto river in an effort to escape,

Andrew Zane had been shot and killed by his pursuers.

But the bonds that held Isaac Zane, the remaining and youngest

brother, were stronger than those of interest or revenge such as had

caused the captivity of his brothers. He was loved by an Indian

princess, the daughter of Tarhe, the chief of the puissant Huron

race. Isaac had escaped on various occasions, but had always been

retaken, and at the time of the opening of our story nothing had

been heard of him for several years, and it was believed he had been

killed.

At the period of the settling of the little colony in the

wilderness, Elizabeth Zane, the only sister, was living with an aunt

in Philadelphia, where she was being educated.

Colonel Zane's house, a two story structure built of rough hewn

logs, was the most comfortable one in the settlement, and occupied a

prominent site on the hillside about one hundred yards from the

fort. It was constructed of heavy timber and presented rather a

forbidding appearance with its square corners, its ominous looking

portholes, and strongly barred doors and windows. There were three

rooms on the ground floor, a kitchen, a magazine room for military

supplies, and a large room for general use. The several sleeping

rooms were on the second floor, which was reached by a steep

stairway.

The interior of a pioneer's rude dwelling did not reveal, as a rule,

more than bare walls, a bed or two, a table and a few chairs--in

fact, no more than the necessities of life. But Colonel Zane's house

proved an exception to this. Most interesting was the large room.

The chinks between the logs had been plastered up with clay and then

the walls covered with white birch bark; trophies of the chase,

Indian bows and arrows, pipes and tomahawks hung upon them; the wide

spreading antlers of a noble buck adorned the space above the mantel

piece; buffalo robes covered the couches; bearskin rugs lay

scattered about on the hardwood floor. The wall on the western side

had been built over a huge stone, into which had been cut an open

fireplace.

This blackened recess, which had seen two houses burned over it,

when full of blazing logs had cheered many noted men with its

warmth. Lord Dunmore, General Clark, Simon Kenton, and Daniel Boone

had sat beside that fire. There Cornplanter, the Seneca chief, had

made his famous deal with Colonel Zane, trading the island in the

river opposite the settlement for a barrel of whiskey. Logan, the

Mingo chief and friend of the whites, had smoked many pipes of peace

there with Colonel Zane. At a later period, when King Louis

Phillippe, who had been exiled from France by Napoleon, had come to

America, during the course of his melancholy wanderings he had

stopped at Fort Henry a few days. His stay there was marked by a

fierce blizzard and the royal guest passed most of his time at

Colonel Zane's fireside. Musing by those roaring logs perhaps he saw

the radiant star of the Man of Destiny rise to its magnificent

zenith.

One cold, raw night in early spring the Colonel had just returned

from one of his hunting trips and the tramping of horses mingled

with the rough voices of the negro slaves sounded without. When

Colonel Zane entered the house he was greeted affectionately by his

wife and sister. The latter, at the death of her aunt in

Philadelphia, had come west to live with her brother, and had been

there since late in the preceding autumn. It was a welcome sight for

the eyes of a tired and weary hunter. The tender kiss of his comely

wife, the cries of the delighted children, and the crackling of the

fire warmed his heart and made him feel how good it was to be home

again after a three days' march in the woods. Placing his rifle in a

corner and throwing aside his wet hunting coat, he turned and stood

with his back to the bright blaze. Still young and vigorous, Colonel

Zane was a handsome man. Tall, though not heavy, his frame denoted

great strength and endurance. His face was smooth, his heavy

eyebrows met in a straight line; his eyes were dark and now beamed

with a kindly light; his jaw was square and massive; his mouth

resolute; in fact, his whole face was strikingly expressive of

courage and geniality. A great wolf dog had followed him in and,

tired from travel, had stretched himself out before the fireplace,

laying his noble head on the paws he had extended toward the warm

blaze.

"Well! Well! I am nearly starved and mighty glad to get back," said

the Colonel, with a smile of satisfaction at the steaming dishes a

negro servant was bringing from the kitchen.

"We are glad you have returned," answered his wife, whose glowing

face testified to the pleasure she felt. "Supper is ready--Annie,

bring in some cream--yes, indeed, I am happy that you are home. I

never have a moment's peace when you are away, especially when you

are accompanied by Lewis Wetzel."

"Our hunt was a failure," said the Colonel, after he had helped

himself to a plate full of roast wild turkey. "The bears have just

come out of their winter's sleep and are unusually wary at this

time. We saw many signs of their work, tearing rotten logs to pieces

in search of grubs and bees' nests. Wetzel killed a deer and we

baited a likely place where we had discovered many bear tracks. We

stayed up all night in a drizzling rain, hoping to get a shot. I am

tired out. So is Tige. Wetzel did not mind the weather or the ill

luck, and when we ran across some Indian sign he went off on one of

his lonely tramps, leaving me to come home alone."

"He is such a reckless man," remarked Mrs. Zane.

"Wetzel is reckless, or rather, daring. His incomparable nerve

carries him safely through many dangers, where an ordinary man would

have no show whatever. Well, Betty, how are you?"

"Quite well," said the slender, dark-eyed girl who had just taken

the seat opposite the Colonel.

"Bessie, has my sister indulged in any shocking escapade in my

absence? I think that last trick of hers, when she gave a bucket of

hard cider to that poor tame bear, should last her a spell."

"No, for a wonder Elizabeth has been very good. However, I do not

attribute it to any unusual change of temperament; simply the cold,

wet weather. I anticipate a catastrophe very shortly if she is kept

indoors much longer."

"I have not had much opportunity to be anything but well behaved. If

it rains a few days more I shall become desperate. I want to ride my

pony, roam the woods, paddle my canoe, and enjoy myself," said

Elizabeth.

"Well! Well! Betts, I knew it would be dull here for you, but you

must not get discouraged. You know you got here late last fall, and

have not had any pleasant weather yet. It is perfectly delightful in

May and June. I can take you to fields of wild white honeysuckle and

May flowers and wild roses. I know you love the woods, so be patient

a little longer."

Elizabeth had been spoiled by her brothers--what girl would not have

been by five great big worshippers?--and any trivial thing gone

wrong with her was a serious matter to them. They were proud of her,

and of her beauty and accomplishments were never tired of talking.

She had the dark hair and eyes so characteristic of the Zanes; the

same oval face and fine features: and added to this was a certain

softness of contour and a sweetness of expression which made her

face bewitching. But, in spite of that demure and innocent face, she

possessed a decided will of her own, and one very apt to be

asserted; she was mischievous; inclined to coquettishness, and more

terrible than all she had a fiery temper which could be aroused with

the most surprising ease.

Colonel Zane was wont to say that his sister's accomplishments were

innumerable. After only a few months on the border she could prepare

the flax and weave a linsey dresscloth with admirable skill.

Sometimes to humor Betty the Colonel's wife would allow her to get

the dinner, and she would do it in a manner that pleased her

brothers, and called forth golden praises from the cook, old Sam's

wife who had been with the family twenty years. Betty sang in the

little church on Sundays; she organized and taught a Sunday school

class; she often beat Colonel Zane and Major McColloch at their

favorite game of checkers, which they had played together since they

were knee high; in fact, Betty did nearly everything well, from

baking pies to painting the birch bark walls of her room. But these

things were insignificant in Colonel Zane's eyes. If the Colonel

were ever guilty of bragging it was about his sister's ability in

those acquirements demanding a true eye, a fleet foot, a strong arm

and a daring spirit. He had told all the people in the settlement,

to many of whom Betty was unknown, that she could ride like an

Indian and shoot with undoubted skill; that she had a generous share

of the Zanes' fleetness of foot, and that she would send a canoe

over as bad a place as she could find. The boasts of the Colonel

remained as yet unproven, but, be that as it may, Betty had,

notwithstanding her many faults, endeared herself to all. She made

sunshine and happiness everywhere; the old people loved her; the

children adored her, and the broad shouldered, heavy footed young

settlers were shy and silent, yet blissfully happy in her presence.

"Betty, will you fill my pipe?" asked the Colonel, when he had

finished his supper and had pulled his big chair nearer the fire.

His oldest child, Noah, a sturdy lad of six, climbed upon his knee

and plied him with questions.

"Did you see any bars and bufflers?" he asked, his eyes large and

round.

"No, my lad, not one."

"How long will it be until I am big enough to go?"

"Not for a very long time, Noah."

"But I am not afraid of Betty's bar. He growls at me when I throw

sticks at him, and snaps his teeth. Can I go with you next time?"

"My brother came over from Short Creek to-day. He has been to Fort

Pitt," interposed Mrs. Zane. As she was speaking a tap sounded on

the door, which, being opened by Betty, disclosed Captain Boggs his

daughter Lydia, and Major Samuel McColloch, the brother of Mrs.

Zane.

"Ah, Colonel! I expected to find you at home to-night. The weather

has been miserable for hunting and it is not getting any better. The

wind is blowing from the northwest and a storm is coming," said

Captain Boggs, a fine, soldierly looking man.

"Hello, Captain! How are you? Sam, I have not had the pleasure of

seeing you for a long time," replied Colonel Zane, as he shook hands

with his guests.

Major McColloch was the eldest of the brothers of that name. As an

Indian killer he ranked next to the intrepid Wetzel; but while

Wetzel preferred to take his chances alone and track the Indians

through the untrodden wilds, McColloch was a leader of expeditions

against the savages. A giant in stature, massive in build, bronzed

and bearded, he looked the typical frontiersman. His blue eyes were

like those of his sister and his voice had the same pleasant ring.

"Major McColloch, do you remember me?" asked Betty.

"Indeed I do," he answered, with a smile. "You were a little girl,

running wild, on the Potomac when I last saw you!"

"Do you remember when you used to lift me on your horse and give me

lessons in riding?"

"I remember better than you. How you used to stick on the back of

that horse was a mystery to me."

"Well, I shall be ready soon to go on with those lessons in riding.

I have heard of your wonderful leap over the hill and I should like

to have you tell me all about it. Of all the stories I have heard

since I arrived at Fort Henry, the one of your ride and leap for

life is the most wonderful."

"Yes, Sam, she will bother you to death about that ride, and will

try to give you lessons in leaping down precipices. I should not be

at all surprised to find her trying to duplicate your feat. You know

the Indian pony I got from that fur trader last summer. Well, he is

as wild as a deer and she has been riding him without his being

broken," said Colonel Zane.

"Some other time I shall tell you about my jump over the hill. Just

now I have important matters to discuss," answered the Major to

Betty.

It was evident that something unusual had occurred, for after

chatting a few moments the three men withdrew into the magazine room

and conversed in low, earnest tones.

Lydia Boggs was eighteen, fair haired and blue eyed. Like Betty she

had received a good education, and, in that respect, was superior to

the border girls, who seldom knew more than to keep house and to

make linen. At the outbreak of the Indian wars General Clark had

stationed Captain Boggs at Fort Henry and Lydia had lived there with

him two years. After Betty's arrival, which she hailed with delight,

the girls had become fast friends.

Lydia slipped her arm affectionately around Betty's neck and said,

"Why did you not come over to the Fort to-day?"

"It has been such an ugly day, so disagreeable altogether, that I

have remained indoors."

"You missed something," said Lydia, knowingly.

"What do you mean? What did I miss?"

"Oh, perhaps, after all, it will not interest you."

"How provoking! Of course it will. Anything or anybody would

interest me to-night. Do tell me, please."

"It isn't much. Only a young soldier came over with Major

McColloch."

"A soldier? From Fort Pitt? Do I know him? I have met most of the

officers."

"No, you have never seen him. He is a stranger to all of us."

"There does not seem to be so much in your news," said Betty, in a

disappointed tone. "To be sure, strangers are a rarity in our little

village, but, judging from the strangers who have visited us in the

past, I imagine this one cannot be much different."

"Wait until you see him," said Lydia, with a serious little nod of

her head.

"Come, tell me all about him," said Betty, now much interested.

"Major McColloch brought him in to see papa, and he was introduced

to me. He is a southerner and from one of those old families. I

could tell by his cool, easy, almost reckless air. He is handsome,

tall and fair, and his face is frank and open. He has such beautiful

manners. He bowed low to me and really I felt so embarrassed that I

hardly spoke. You know I am used to these big hunters seizing your

hand and giving it a squeeze which makes you want to scream. Well,

this young man is different. He is a cavalier. All the girls are in

love with him already. So will you be."

"I? Indeed not. But how refreshing. You must have been strongly

impressed to see and remember all you have told me."

"Betty Zane, I remember so well because he is just the man you

described one day when we were building castles and telling each

other what kind of a hero we wanted."

"Girls, do not talk such nonsense," interrupted the Colonel's wife

who was perturbed by the colloquy in the other room. She had seen

those ominous signs before. "Can you find nothing better to talk

about?"

Meanwhile Colonel Zane and his companions were earnestly discussing

certain information which had arrived that day. A friendly Indian

runner had brought news to Short Creek, a settlement on the river

between Fort Henry and Fort Pitt of an intended raid by the Indians

all along the Ohio valley. Major McColloch, who had been warned by

Wetzel of the fever of unrest among the Indians--a fever which broke

out every spring--had gone to Fort Pitt with the hope of bringing

back reinforcements, but, excepting the young soldier, who had

volunteered to return with him, no help could he enlist, so he

journeyed back post-haste to Fort Henry.

The information he brought disturbed Captain Boggs, who commanded

the garrison, as a number of men were away on a logging expedition

up the river, and were not expected to raft down to the Fort for two

weeks.

Jonathan Zane, who had been sent for, joined the trio at this

moment, and was acquainted with the particulars. The Zane brothers

were always consulted where any question concerning Indian craft and

cunning was to be decided. Colonel Zane had a strong friendly

influence with certain tribes, and his advice was invaluable.

Jonathan Zane hated the sight of an Indian and except for his

knowledge as a scout, or Indian tracker or fighter, he was of little

use in a council. Colonel Zane informed the men of the fact that

Wetzel and he had discovered Indian tracks within ten miles of the

Fort, and he dwelt particularly on the disappearance of Wetzel.

"Now, you can depend on what I say. There are Wyandots in force on

the war path. Wetzel told me to dig for the Fort and he left me in a

hurry. We were near that cranberry bog over at the foot of Bald

mountain. I do not believe we shall be attacked. In my opinion the

Indians would come up from the west and keep to the high ridges

along Yellow creek. They always come that way. But of course, it is

best to know surely, and I daresay Lew will come in to-night or

to-morrow with the facts. In the meantime put out some scouts back

in the woods and let Jonathan and the Major watch the river."

"I hope Wetzel will come in," said the Major. "We can trust him to

know more about the Indians than any one. It was a week before you

and he went hunting that I saw him. I went to Fort Pitt and tried to

bring over some men, but the garrison is short and they need men as

much as we do. A young soldier named Clarke volunteered to come and

I brought him along with me. He has not seen any Indian fighting,

but he is a likely looking chap, and I guess will do. Captain Boggs

will give him a place in the block house if you say so."

"By all means. We shall be glad to have him," said Colonel Zane.

"It would not be so serious if I had not sent the men up the river,"

said Captain Boggs, in anxious tones. "Do you think it possible they

might have fallen in with the Indians?"

"It is possible, of course, but not probable," answered Colonel

Zane. "The Indians are all across the Ohio. Wetzel is over there and

he will get here long before they do."

"I hope it may be as you say. I have much confidence in your

judgment," returned Captain Boggs. "I shall put out scouts and take

all the precaution possible. We must return now. Come, Lydia."

"Whew! What an awful night this is going to be," said Colonel Zane,

when he had closed the door after his guests' departure. "I should

not care to sleep out to-night."

"Eb, what will Lew Wetzel do on a night like this?" asked Betty,

curiously.

"Oh, Lew will be as snug as a rabbit in his burrow," said Colonel

Zane, laughing. "In a few moments he can build a birch bark shack,

start a fire inside and go to sleep comfortably."

"Ebenezer, what is all this confab about? What did my brother tell

you?" asked Mrs. Zane, anxiously.

"We are in for more trouble from the Wyandots and Shawnees. But,

Bessie, I don't believe it will come soon. We are too well protected

here for anything but a protracted siege."

Colonel Zane's light and rather evasive answer did not deceive his

wife. She knew her brother and her husband would not wear anxious

faces for nothing. Her usually bright face clouded with a look of

distress. She had seen enough of Indian warfare to make her shudder

with horror at the mere thought. Betty seemed unconcerned. She sat

down beside the dog and patted him on the head.

"Tige, Indians! Indians!" she said.

The dog growled and showed his teeth. It was only necessary to

mention Indians to arouse his ire.

"The dog has been uneasy of late," continued Colonel Zane "He found

the Indian tracks before Wetzel did. You know how Tige hates

Indians. Ever since he came home with Isaac four years ago he has

been of great service to the scouts, as he possesses so much

intelligence and sagacity. Tige followed Isaac home the last time he

escaped from the Wyandots. When Isaac was in captivity he nursed and

cared for the dog after he had been brutally beaten by the redskins.

Have you ever heard that long mournful howl Tige gives out sometimes

in the dead of night?"

"Yes I have, and it makes me cover up my head," said Betty.

"Well, it is Tige mourning for Isaac," said Colonel Zane

"Poor Isaac," murmured Betty.

"Do you remember him? It has been nine years since you saw him,"

said Mrs. Zane.

"Remember Isaac? Indeed I do. I shall never forget him. I wonder if

he is still living?"

"Probably not. It is now four years since he was recaptured. I think

it would have been impossible to keep him that length of time,

unless, of course, he has married that Indian girl. The simplicity

of the Indian nature is remarkable. He could easily have deceived

them and made them believe he was content in captivity. Probably, in

attempting to escape again, he has been killed as was poor Andrew."

Brother and sister gazed with dark, sad eyes into the fire, now

burned down to a glowing bed of coals. The silence remained unbroken

save for the moan of the rising wind outside, the rattle of hail,

and the patter of rain drops on the roof.

CHAPTER II.

Fort Henry stood on a bluff overlooking the river and commanded a

fine view of the surrounding country. In shape it was a

parallelogram, being about three hundred and fifty-six feet in

length, and one hundred and fifty in width. Surrounded by a stockade

fence twelve feet high, with a yard wide walk running around the

inside, and with bastions at each corner large enough to contain six

defenders, the fort presented an almost impregnable defense. The

blockhouse was two stories in height, the second story projecting

out several feet over the first. The thick white oak walls bristled

with portholes. Besides the blockhouse, there were a number of

cabins located within the stockade. Wells had been sunk inside the

inclosure, so that if the spring happened to go dry, an abundance of

good water could be had at all times.

In all the histories of frontier life mention is made of the forts

and the protection they offered in time of savage warfare. These

forts were used as homes for the settlers, who often lived for weeks

inside the walls.

Forts constructed entirely of wood without the aid of a nail or

spike (for the good reason that these things could not be had) may

seem insignificant in these days of great nasal and military

garrisons. However, they answered the purpose at that time and

served to protect many an infant settlement from the savage attacks

of Indian tribes. During a siege of Fort Henry, which had occurred

about a year previous, the settlers would have lost scarcely a man

had they kept to the fort. But Captain Ogle, at that time in charge

of the garrison, had led a company out in search of the Indians.

Nearly all of his men were killed, several only making their way to

the fort.

On the day following Major McColloch's arrival at Fort Henry, the

settlers had been called in from their spring plowing and other

labors, and were now busily engaged in moving their stock and the

things they wished to save from the destructive torch of the

redskin. The women had their hands full with the children, the

cleaning of rifles and moulding of bullets, and the thousand and one

things the sterner tasks of their husbands had left them. Major

McColloch, Jonathan and Silas Zane, early in the day, had taken

different directions along the river to keep a sharp lookout for

signs of the enemy. Colonel Zane intended to stay in his oven house

and defend it, so he had not moved anything to the fort excepting

his horses and cattle. Old Sam, the negro, was hauling loads of hay

inside the stockade. Captain Boggs had detailed several scouts to

watch the roads and one of these was the young man, Clarke, who had

accompanied the Major from Fort Pitt.

The appearance of Alfred Clarke, despite the fact that he wore the

regulation hunting garb, indicated a young man to whom the hard work

and privation of the settler were unaccustomed things. So thought

the pioneers who noticed his graceful walk, his fair skin and smooth

hands. Yet those who carefully studied his clearcut features were

favorably impressed; the women, by the direct, honest gaze of his

blue eyes and the absence of ungentle lines in his face; the men, by

the good nature, and that indefinable something by which a man marks

another as true steel.

He brought nothing with him from Fort Pitt except his horse, a

black-coated, fine limbed thoroughbred, which he frankly confessed

was all he could call his own. When asking Colonel Zane to give him

a position in the garrison he said he was a Virginian and had been

educated in Philadelphia; that after his father died his mother

married again, and this, together with a natural love of adventure,

had induced him to run away and seek his fortune with the hardy

pioneer and the cunning savage of the border. Beyond a few months'

service under General Clark he knew nothing of frontier life; but he

was tired of idleness; he was strong and not afraid of work, and he

could learn. Colonel Zane, who prided himself on his judgment of

character, took a liking to the young man at once, and giving him a

rifle and accoutrements, told him the border needed young men of

pluck and fire, and that if he brought a strong hand and a willing

heart he could surely find fortune. Possibly if Alfred Clarke could

have been told of the fate in store for him he might have mounted

his black steed and have placed miles between him and the frontier

village; but, as there were none to tell, he went cheerfully out to

meet that fate.

On this is bright spring morning he patrolled the road leading along

the edge of the clearing, which was distant a quarter of a mile from

the fort. He kept a keen eye on the opposite side of the river, as

he had been directed. From the upper end of the island, almost

straight across from where he stood, the river took a broad turn,

which could not be observed from the fort windows. The river was

high from the recent rains and brush heaps and logs and debris of

all descriptions were floating down with the swift current. Rabbits

and other small animals, which had probably been surrounded on some

island and compelled to take to the brush or drown, crouched on

floating logs and piles of driftwood. Happening to glance down the

road, Clarke saw a horse galloping in his direction. At first he

thought it was a messenger for himself, but as it neared him he saw

that the horse was an Indian pony and the rider a young girl, whose

long, black hair was flying in the wind.

"Hello! I wonder what the deuce this is? Looks like an Indian girl,"

said Clarke to himself. "She rides well, whoever she may be."

He stepped behind a clump of laurel bushes near the roadside and

waited. Rapidly the horse and rider approached him. When they were

but a few paces distant he sprang out and, as the pony shied and

reared at sight of him, he clutched the bridle and pulled the pony's

head down. Looking up he encountered the astonished and bewildered

gaze from a pair of the prettiest dark eyes it had ever been his

fortune, or misfortune, to look into.

Betty, for it was she, looked at the young man in amazement, while

Alfred was even more surprised and disconcerted. For a moment they

looked at each other in silence. But Betty, who was scarcely ever at

a loss for words, presently found her voice.

"Well, sir! What does this mean?" she asked indignantly.

"It means that you must turn around and go back to the fort,"

answered Alfred, also recovering himself.

Now Betty's favorite ride happened to be along this road. It lay

along the top of the bluff a mile or more and afforded a fine

unobstructed view of the river. Betty had either not heard of the

Captain's order, that no one was to leave the fort, or she had

disregarded it altogether; probably the latter, as she generally did

what suited her fancy.

"Release my pony's head!" she cried, her face flushing, as she gave

a jerk to the reins. "How dare you? What right have you to detain

me?"

The expression Betty saw on Clarke's face was not new to her, for

she remembered having seen it on the faces of young gentlemen whom

she had met at her aunt's house in Philadelphia. It was the slight,

provoking smile of the man familiar with the various moods of young

women, the expression of an amused contempt for their imperiousness.

But it was not that which angered Betty. It was the coolness with

which he still held her pony regardless of her commands.

"Pray do not get excited," he said. "I am sorry I cannot allow such

a pretty little girl to have her own way. I shall hold your pony

until you say you will go back to the fort."

"Sir!" exclaimed Betty, blushing a bright-red. "You--you are

impertinent!"

"Not at all," answered Alfred, with a pleasant laugh. "I am sure I

do not intend to be. Captain Boggs did not acquaint me with full

particulars or I might have declined my present occupation: not,

however, that it is not agreeable just at this moment. He should

have mentioned the danger of my being run down by Indian ponies and

imperious young ladies."

"Will you let go of that bridle, or shall I get off and walk back

for assistance?" said Betty, getting angrier every moment.

"Go back to the fort at once," ordered Alfred, authoritatively.

"Captain Boggs' orders are that no one shall be allowed to leave the

clearing."

"Oh! Why did you not say so? I thought you were Simon Girty, or a

highwayman. Was it necessary to keep me here all this time to

explain that you were on duty?"

"You know sometimes it is difficult to explain," said Alfred,

"besides, the situation had its charm. No, I am not a robber, and I

don't believe you thought so. I have only thwarted a young lady's

whim, which I am aware is a great crime. I am very sorry. Goodbye."

Betty gave him a withering glance from her black eyes, wheeled her

pony and galloped away. A mellow laugh was borne to her ears before

she got out of hearing, and again the red blood mantled her cheeks.

"Heavens! What a little beauty," said Alfred to himself, as he

watched the graceful rider disappear. "What spirit! Now, I wonder

who she can be. She had on moccasins and buckskin gloves and her

hair tumbled like a tomboy's, but she is no backwoods girl, I'll bet

on that. I'm afraid I was a little rude, but after taking such a

stand I could not weaken, especially before such a haughty and

disdainful little vixen. It was too great a temptation. What eyes

she had! Contrary to what I expected, this little frontier

settlement bids fair to become interesting."

The afternoon wore slowly away, and until late in the day nothing

further happened to disturb Alfred's meditations, which consisted

chiefly of different mental views and pictures of red lips and black

eyes. Just as he decided to return to the fort for his supper he

heard the barking of a dog that he had seen running along the road

some moments before. The sound came from some distance down the

river bank and nearer the fort. Walking a few paces up the bluff

Alfred caught sight of a large black dog running along the edge of

the water. He would run into the water a few paces and then come out

and dash along the shore. He barked furiously all the while. Alfred

concluded that he must have been excited by a fox or perhaps a wolf;

so he climbed down the steep bank and spoke to the dog. Thereupon

the dog barked louder and more fiercely than ever, ran to the water,

looked out into the river and then up at the man with almost human

intelligence.

Alfred understood. He glanced out over the muddy water, at first

making out nothing but driftwood. Then suddenly he saw a log with an

object clinging to it which he took to be a man, and an Indian at

that. Alfred raised his rifle to his shoulder and was in the act of

pressing the trigger when he thought he heard a faint halloo.

Looking closer, he found he was not covering the smooth polished

head adorned with the small tuft of hair, peculiar to a redskin on

the warpath, but a head from which streamed long black hair.

Alfred lowered his rifle and studied intently the log with its human

burden. Drifting with the current it gradually approached the bank,

and as it came nearer he saw that it bore a white man, who was

holding to the log with one hand and with the other was making

feeble strokes. He concluded the man was either wounded or nearly

drowned, for his movements were becoming slower and weaker every

moment. His white face lay against the log and barely above water.

Alfred shouted encouraging words to him.

At the bend of the river a little rocky point jutted out a few yards

into the water. As the current carried the log toward this point,

Alfred, after divesting himself of some of his clothing, plunged in

and pulled it to the shore. The pallid face of the man clinging to

the log showed that he was nearly exhausted, and that he had been

rescued in the nick of time. When Alfred reached shoal water he

slipped his arm around the man, who was unable to stand, and carried

him ashore.

The rescued man wore a buckskin hunting shirt and leggins and

moccasins of the same material, all very much the worse for wear.

The leggins were torn into tatters and the moccasins worn through.

His face was pinched with suffering and one arm was bleeding from a

gunshot wound near the shoulder.

"Can you not speak? Who are you?" asked Clarke, supporting the limp

figure.

The man made several efforts to answer, and finally said something

that to Alfred sounded like "Zane," then he fell to the ground

unconscious.

All this time the dog had acted in a most peculiar manner, and if

Alfred had not been so intent on the man he would have noticed the

animal's odd maneuvers. He ran to and fro on the sandy beach; he

scratched up the sand and pebbles, sending them flying in the air;

he made short, furious dashes; he jumped, whirled, and, at last,

crawled close to the motionless figure and licked its hand.

Clarke realized that he would not be able to carry the inanimate

figure, so he hurriedly put on his clothes and set out on a run for

Colonel Zane's house. The first person whom he saw was the old negro

slave, who was brushing one of the Colonel's horses.

Sam was deliberate and took his time about everything. He slowly

looked up and surveyed Clarke with his rolling eyes. He did not

recognize in him any one he had ever seen before, and being of a

sullen and taciturn nature, especially with strangers, he seemed in

no hurry to give the desired information as to Colonel Zane's

whereabouts.

"Don't stare at me that way, you damn nigger," said Clarke, who was

used to being obeyed by negroes. "Quick, you idiot. Where is the

Colonel?"

At that moment Colonel Zane came out of the barn and started to

speak, when Clarke interrupted him.

"Colonel, I have just pulled a man out of the river who says his

name is Zane, or if he did not mean that, he knows you, for he

surely said 'Zane.'"

"What!" ejaculated the Colonel, letting his pipe fall from his

mouth.

Clarke related the circumstances in a few hurried words. Calling Sam

they ran quickly down to the river, where they found the prostrate

figure as Clarke had left it, the dog still crouched close by.

"My God! It is Isaac!" exclaimed Colonel Zane, when he saw the white

face. "Poor boy, he looks as if he were dead. Are you sure he spoke?

Of course he must have spoken for you could not have known. Yes, his

heart is still beating."

Colonel Zane raised his head from the unconscious man's breast,

where he had laid it to listen for the beating heart.

"Clarke, God bless you for saving him," said he fervently. "It shall

never be forgotten. He is alive, and, I believe, only exhausted, for

that wound amounts to little. Let us hurry."

"I did not save him. It was the dog," Alfred made haste to answer.

They carried the dripping form to the house, where the door was

opened by Mrs. Zane.

"Oh, dear, another poor man," she said, pityingly. Then, as she saw

his face, "Great Heavens, it is Isaac! Oh! don't say he is dead!"

"Yes, it is Isaac, and he is worth any number of dead men yet," said

Colonel Zane, as they laid the insensible man on the couch. "Bessie,

there is work here for you. He has been shot."

"Is there any other wound beside this one in his arm?" asked Mrs.

Zane, examining it.

"I do not think so, and that injury is not serious. It is lose of

blood, exposure and starvation. Clarke, will you please run over to

Captain Boggs and tell Betty to hurry home! Sam, you get a blanket

and warm it by the fire. That's right, Bessie, bring the whiskey,"

and Colonel Zane went on giving orders.

Alfred did not know in the least who Betty was, but, as he thought

that unimportant, he started off on a run for the fort. He had a

vague idea that Betty was the servant, possibly Sam's wife, or some

one of the Colonel's several slaves.

Let us return to Betty. As she wheeled her pony and rode away from

the scene of her adventure on the river bluff, her state of mind can

be more readily imagined than described. Betty hated opposition of

any kind, whether justifiable or not; she wanted her own way, and

when prevented from doing as she pleased she invariably got angry.

To be ordered and compelled to give up her ride, and that by a

stranger, was intolerable. To make it all the worse this stranger

had been decidedly flippant. He had familiarly spoken to her as "a

pretty little girl." Not only that, which was a great offense, but

he had stared at her, and she had a confused recollection of a gaze

in which admiration had been ill disguised. Of course, it was that

soldier Lydia had been telling her about. Strangers were of so rare

an occurrence in the little village that it was not probable there

could be more than one.

Approaching the house she met her brother who told her she had

better go indoors and let Sam put up the pony. Accordingly, Betty

called the negro, and then went into the house. Bessie had gone to

the fort with the children. Betty found no one to talk to, so she

tried to read. Finding she could not become interested she threw the

book aside and took up her embroidery. This also turned out a

useless effort; she got the linen hopelessly twisted and tangled,

and presently she tossed this upon the table. Throwing her shawl

over her shoulders, for it was now late in the afternoon and growing

chilly, she walked downstairs and out into the Yard. She strolled

aimlessly to and fro awhile, and then went over to the fort and into

Captain Bogg's house, which adjoined the blockhouse. Here she found

Lydia preparing flax.

"I saw you racing by on your pony. Goodness, how you can ride! I

should be afraid of breaking my neck," exclaimed Lydia, as Betty

entered.

"My ride was spoiled," said Betty, petulantly.

"Spoiled? By what--whom?"

"By a man, of course," retorted Betty, whose temper still was high.

"It is always a man that spoils everything."

"Why, Betty, what in the world do you mean? I never heard you talk

that way," said Lydia, opening her blue eyes in astonishment.

"Well, Lyde, I'll tell you. I was riding down the river road and

just as I came to the end of the clearing a man jumped out from

behind some bushes and grasped Madcap's bridle. Imagine! For a

moment I was frightened out of my wits. I instantly thought of the

Girtys, who, I have heard, have evinced a fondness for kidnapping

little girls. Then the fellow said he was on guard and ordered me,

actually commanded me to go home."

"Oh, is that all?" said Lydia, laughing.

"No, that is not all. He--he said I was a pretty little girl and

that he was sorry I could not have my own way; that his present

occupation was pleasant, and that the situation had its charm. The

very idea. He was most impertinent," and Betty's telltale cheeks

reddened again at the recollection.

"Betty, I do not think your experience was so dreadful, certainly

nothing to put you out as it has," said Lydia, laughing merrily. "Be

serious. You know we are out in the backwoods now and must not

expect so much of the men. These rough border men know little of

refinement like that with which you have been familiar. Some of them

are quiet and never speak unless addressed; their simplicity is

remarkable; Lew Wetzel and your brother Jonathan, when they are not

fighting Indians, are examples. On the other hand, some of them are

boisterous and if they get anything to drink they will make trouble

for you. Why, I went to a party one night after I had been here only

a few weeks and they played a game in which every man in the place

kissed me."

"Gracious! Please tell me when any such games are likely to be

proposed and I'll stay home," said Betty.

"I have learned to get along very well by simply making the best of

it," continued Lydia. "And to tell the truth, I have learned to

respect these rugged fellows. They are uncouth; they have no

manners, but their hearts are honest and true, and that is of much

greater importance in frontiersmen than the little attentions and

courtesies upon which women are apt to lay too much stress."

"I think you speak sensibly and I shall try and be more reasonable

hereafter. But, to return to the man who spoiled my ride. He, at

least, is no frontiersman, notwithstanding his gun and his buckskin

suit. He is an educated man. His manner and accent showed that. Then

he looked at me so differently. I know it was that soldier from Fort

Pitt."

"Mr. Clarke? Why, of course!" exclaimed Lydia, clapping her hands in

glee. "How stupid of me!"

"You seem to be amused," said Betty, frowning.

"Oh, Betty, it is such a good joke."

"Is it? I fail to see it."

"But I can. I am very much amused. You see, I heard Mr. Clarke say,

after papa told him there were lots of pretty girls here, that he

usually succeeded in finding those things out and without any

assistance. And the very first day he has met you and made you

angry. It is delightful."

"Lyde, I never knew you could be so horrid."

"It is evident that Mr. Clarke is not only discerning, but not

backward in expressing his thoughts. Betty, I see a romance."

"Don't be ridiculous," retorted Betty, with an angry blush. "Of

course, he had a right to stop me, and perhaps he did me a good turn

by keeping me inside the clearing, though I cannot imagine why he

hid behind the bushes. But he might have been polite. He made me

angry. He was so cool and--and--"

"I see," interrupted Lydia, teasingly. "He failed to recognize your

importance."

"Nonsense, Lydia. I hope you do not think I am a silly little fool.

It is only that I have not been accustomed to that kind of

treatment, and I will not have it."

Lydia was rather pleased that some one had appeared on the scene who

did not at once bow down before Betty, and therefore she took the

young man's side of the argument.

"Do not be hard on poor Mr. Clarke. Maybe he mistook you for an

Indian girl. He is handsome. I am sure you saw that."

"Oh, I don't remember how he looked," said Betty. She did remember,

but would not admit it.

The conversation drifted into other channels after this, and soon

twilight came stealing down on them. As Betty rose to go there came

a hurried tap on the door.

"I wonder who would knock like that," said Lydia, rising "Betty,

wait a moment while I open the door."

On doing this she discovered Clarke standing on the step with his

cap in his hand.

"Why, Mr. Clarke! Will you come in?" exclaimed Lydia. "Thank you,

only for a moment," said Alfred. "I cannot stay. I came to find

Betty. Is she here?"

He had not observed Betty, who had stepped back into the shadow of

the darkening room. At his question Lydia became so embarrassed she

did not know what to say or do, and stood looking helplessly at him.

But Betty was equal to the occasion. At the mention of her first

name in such a familiar manner by this stranger, who had already

grievously offended her once before that day, Betty stood perfectly

still a moment, speechless with surprise, then she stepped quickly

out of the shadow.

Clarke turned as he heard her step and looked straight into a pair

of dark, scornful eyes and a face pale with anger.

"If it be necessary that you use my name, and I do not see how that

can be possible, will you please have courtesy enough to say Miss

Zane?" she cried haughtily.

Lydia recovered her composure sufficiently to falter out:

"Betty, allow me to introduce--"

"Do not trouble yourself, Lydia. I have met this person once before

to-day, and I do not care for an introduction."

When Alfred found himself gazing into the face that had haunted him

all the afternoon, he forgot for the moment all about his errand. He

was finally brought to a realization of the true state of affairs by

Lydia's words.

"Mr. Clarke, you are all wet. What has happened?" she exclaimed,

noticing the water dripping from his garments.

Suddenly a light broke in on Alfred. So the girl he had accosted on

the road and "Betty" were one and the same person. His face flushed.

He felt that his rudeness on that occasion may have merited censure,

but that it had not justified the humiliation she had put upon him.

These two persons, so strangely brought together, and on whom Fate

had made her inscrutable designs, looked steadily into each other's

eyes. What mysterious force thrilled through Alfred Clarke and made

Betty Zane tremble?

"Miss Boggs, I am twice unfortunate," said Alfred, tuning to Lydia,

and there was an earnest ring in his deep voice "This time I am

indeed blameless. I have just left Colonel Zane's house, where there

has been an accident, and I was dispatched to find 'Betty,' being

entirely ignorant as to who she might be. Colonel Zane did not stop

to explain. Miss Zane is needed at the house, that is all."

And without so much as a glance at Betty he bowed low to Lydia and

then strode out of the open door.

"What did he say?" asked Betty, in a small trembling voice, all her

anger and resentment vanished.

"There has been an accident. He did not say what or to whom. You

must hurry home. Oh, Betty, I hope no one has been hurt! And you

were very unkind to Mr. Clarke. I am sure he is a gentleman, and you

might have waited a moment to learn what he meant."

Betty did not answer, but flew out of the door and down the path to

the gate of the fort. She was almost breathless when she reached

Colonel Zane's house, and hesitated on the step before entering.

Summoning her courage she pushed open the door. The first thing that

struck her after the bright light was the pungent odor of strong

liniment. She saw several women neighbors whispering together. Major

McColloch and Jonathan Zane were standing by a couch over which Mrs.

Zane was bending. Colonel Zane sat at the foot of the couch. Betty

saw this in the first rapid glance, and then, as the Colonel's wife

moved aside, she saw a prostrate figure, a white face and dark eyes

that smiled at her.

"Betty," came in a low voice from those pale lips.

Her heart leaped and then seemed to cease beating. Many long years

had passed since she had heard that voice, but it had never been

forgotten. It was the best beloved voice of her childhood, and with

it came the sweet memories of her brother and playmate. With a cry

of joy she fell on her knees beside him and threw her arms around

his neck.

"Oh, Isaac, brother, brother!" she cried, as she kissed him again

and again. "Can it really be you? Oh, it is too good to be true!

Thank God! I have prayed and prayed that you would be restored to

us."

Then she began to cry and laugh at the same time in that strange way

in which a woman relieves a heart too full of joy. "Yes, Betty. It

is all that is left of me," he said, running his hand caressingly

over the dark head that lay on his breast.

"Betty, you must not excite him," said Colonel Zane.

"So you have not forgotten me?" whispered Isaac.

"No, indeed, Isaac. I have never forgotten," answered Betty, softly.

"Only last night I spoke of you and wondered if you were living. And

now you are here. Oh, I am so happy!" The quivering lips and the

dark eyes bright with tears spoke eloquently of her joy.

"Major will you tell Captain Boggs to come over after supper? Isaac

will be able to talk a little by then, and he has some news of the

Indians," said Colonel Zane.

"And ask the young man who saved my life to come that I may thank

him," said Isaac.

"Saved your life?" exclaimed Betty, turning to her brother, in

surprise, while a dark red flush spread over her face. A humiliating

thought had flashed into her mind.

"Saved his life, of course," said Colonel Zane, answering for Isaac.

"Young Clarke pulled him out of the river. Didn't he tell you?"

"No," said Betty, rather faintly.

"Well, he is a modest young fellow. He saved Isaac's life, there is

no doubt of that. You will hear all about it after supper. Don't

make Isaac talk any more at present."

Betty hid her face on Isaac's shoulder and remained quiet a few

moments; then, rising, she kissed his cheek and went quietly to her

room. Once there she threw herself on the bed and tried to think.

The events of the day, coming after a long string of monotonous,

wearying days, had been confusing; they had succeeded one another in

such rapid order as to leave no time for reflection. The meeting by

the river with the rude but interesting stranger; the shock to her

dignity; Lydia's kindly advice; the stranger again, this time

emerging from the dark depths of disgrace into the luminous light as

the hero of her brother's rescue--all these thoughts jumbled in her

mind making it difficult for her to think clearly. But after a time

one thing forced itself upon her. She could not help being conscious

that she had wronged some one to whom she would be forever indebted.

Nothing could alter that. She was under an eternal obligation to the

man who had saved the life she loved best on earth. She had unjustly

scorned and insulted the man to whom she owed the life of her

brother.

Betty was passionate and quick-tempered, but she was generous and

tender-hearted as well, and when she realized how unkind and cruel

she kind been she felt very miserable. Her position admitted of no

retreat. No matter how much pride rebelled; no matter how much she

disliked to retract anything she had said, she knew no other course

lay open to her. She would have to apologize to Mr. Clarke. How

could she? What would she say? She remembered how cold and stern his

face had been as he turned from her to Lydia. Perplexed and unhappy,

Betty did what any girl in her position would have done: she

resorted to the consoling and unfailing privilege of her sex--a good

cry.

When she became composed again she got up and bathed her hot cheeks,

brushed her hair, and changed her gown for a becoming one of white.

She tied a red ribbon about her throat and put a rosette in her

hair. She had forgotten all about the Indians. By the time Mrs. Zane

called her for supper she had her mind made up to ask Mr. Clarke's

pardon, tell him she was sorry, and that she hoped they might be

friends.

Isaac Zane's fame had spread from the Potomac to Detroit and

Louisville. Many an anxious mother on the border used the story of

his captivity as a means to frighten truant youngsters who had

evinced a love for running wild in the woods. The evening of Isaac's

return every one in the settlement called to welcome home the

wanderer. In spite of the troubled times and the dark cloud hanging

over them they made the occasion one of rejoicing.

Old John Bennet, the biggest and merriest man in the colony, came in

and roared his appreciation of Isaac's return. He was a huge man,

and when he stalked into the room he made the floor shake with his

heavy tread. His honest face expressed his pleasure as he stood over

Isaac and nearly crushed his hand.

"Glad to see you, Isaac. Always knew you would come back. Always

said so. There are not enough damn redskins on the river to keep you

prisoner."

"I think they managed to keep him long enough," remarked Silas Zane.

"Well, here comes the hero," said Colonel Zane, as Clarke entered,

accompanied by Captain Boggs, Major McColloch and Jonathan. "Any

sign of Wetzel or the Indians?"

Jonathan had not yet seen his brother, and he went over and seized

Isaac's hand and wrung it without speaking.

"There are no Indians on this side of the river," said Major

McColloch, in answer to the Colonel's question.

"Mr. Clarke, you do not seem impressed with your importance," said

Colonel Zane. "My sister said you did not tell her what part you

took in Isaac's rescue."

"I hardly deserve all the credit," answered Alfred. "Your big black

dog merits a great deal of it."

"Well, I consider your first day at the fort a very satisfactory

one, and an augury of that fortune you came west to find."

"How are you?" said Alfred, going up to the couch where Isaac lay.

"I am doing well, thanks to you," said Isaac, warmly shaking

Alfred's hand.

"It is good to see you pulling out all right," answered Alfred. "I

tell you, I feared you were in a bad way when I got you out of the

water."

Isaac reclined on the couch with his head and shoulder propped up by

pillows. He was the handsomest of the brothers. His face would have

been but for the marks of privation, singularly like Betty's; the

same low, level brows and dark eyes; the same mouth, though the lips

were stronger and without the soft curves which made his sister's

mouth so sweet.

Betty appeared at the door, and seeing the room filled with men she

hesitated a moment before coming forward. In her white dress she

made such a dainty picture that she seemed out of place among those

surroundings. Alfred Clarke, for one, thought such a charming vision

was wasted on the rough settlers, every one of whom wore a faded and

dirty buckskin suit and a belt containing a knife and a tomahawk.

Colonel Zane stepped up to Betty and placing his arm around her

turned toward Clarke with pride in his eyes.

"Betty, I want to make you acquainted with the hero of the hour, Mr.

Alfred Clarke. This is my sister."

Betty bowed to Alfred, but lowered her eyes instantly on

encountering the young man's gaze.

"I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Zane twice today," said

Alfred.

"Twice?" asked Colonel Zane, turning to Betty. She did not answer,

but disengaged herself from his arm and sat down by Isaac.

"It was on the river road that I first met Miss Zane, although I did

not know her then," answered Alfred. "I had some difficulty in

stopping her pony from going to Fort Pitt, or some other place down

the river."

"Ha! Ha! Well, I know she rides that pony pretty hard," said Colonel

Zane, with his hearty laugh. "I'll tell you, Clarke, we have some

riders here in the settlement. Have you heard of Major McColloch's

leap over the hill?"

"I have heard it mentioned, and I would like to hear the story,"

responded Alfred. "I am fond of horses, and think I can ride a

little myself. I am afraid I shall be compelled to change my mind."

"That is a fine animal you rode from Fort Pitt," remarked the Major.

"I would like to own him."

"Come, draw your chairs up and he'll listen to Isaac's story," said

Colonel Zane.

"I have not much of a story to tell," said Isaac, in a voice still

weak and low. "I have some bad news, I am sorry to say, but I shall

leave that for the last. This year, if it had been completed, would

have made my tenth year as a captive of the Wyandots. This last

period of captivity, which has been nearly four years, I have not

been ill-treated and have enjoyed more comfort than any of you can

imagine. Probably you are all familiar with the reason for my long

captivity. Because of the interest of Myeerah, the Indian Princess,

they have importuned me for years to be adopted into the tribe,

marry the White Crane, as they call Myeerah, and become a Wyandot

chief. To this I would never consent, though I have been careful not

to provoke the Indians. I was allowed the freedom of the camp, but

have always been closely watched. I should still be with the Indians

had I not suspected that Hamilton, the British Governor, had formed

a plan with the Hurons, Shawnees, Delawares, and other tribes, to

strike a terrible blow at the whites along, the river. For months I

have watched the Indians preparing for an expedition, the extent of

which they had never before undertaken. I finally learned from

Myeerah that my suspicions were well founded. A favorable chance to

escape presented and I took it and got away. I outran all the

braves, even Arrowswift, the Wyandot runner, who shot me through the

arm. I have had a hard time of it these last three or four days,

living on herbs and roots, and when I reached the river I was ready

to drop. I pushed a log into the water and started to drift over.

When the old dog saw me I knew I was safe if I could hold on. Once,

when the young man pointed his gun at me, I thought it was all over.

I could not shout very loud."

"Were you going to shoot?" asked Colonel Zane of Clarke.

"I took him for an Indian, but fortunately I discovered my mistake

in time," answered Alfred.

"Are the Indians on the way here?" asked Jonathan.

"That I cannot say. At present the Wyandots are at home. But I know

that the British and the Indians will make a combined attack on the

settlements. It may be a month, or a year, but it is coming."

"And Hamilton, the hair buyer, the scalp buyer, is behind the plan,"

said Colonel Zane, in disgust.

"The Indians have their wrongs. I sympathize with them in many ways.

We have robbed them, broken faith with them, and have not lived up

to the treaties. Pipe and Wingenund are particularly bitter toward

the whites. I understand Cornplanter is also. He would give anything

for Jonathan's scalp, and I believe any of the tribes would give a

hundred of their best warriors for 'Black Wind,' as they call Lew

Wetzel."

"Have you ever seen Red Fox?" asked Jonathan, who was sitting near

the fire and as usual saying but little. He was the wildest and most

untamable of all the Zanes. Most of the time he spent in the woods,

not so much to fight Indians, as Wetzel did, but for pure love of

outdoor life. At home he was thoughtful and silent.

"Yes, I have seen him," answered Isaac. "He is a Shawnee chief and

one of the fiercest warriors in that tribe of fighters. He was at

Indian-head, which is the name of one of the Wyandot villages, when

I visited there last, and he had two hundred of his best braves with

him."

"He is a bad Indian. Wetzel and I know him. He swore he would hang

our scalps up in his wigwam," said Jonathan.

"What has he in particular against you?" asked Colonel Zane. "Of

course, Wetzel is the enemy of all Indians."

"Several years ago Wetzel and I were on a hunt down the river at the

place called Girty's Point, where we fell in with the tracks of five

Shawnees. I was for coming home, but Wetzel would not hear of it. We

trailed the Indians and, coming up on them after dark, we tomahawked

them. One of them got away crippled, but we could not follow him

because we discovered that they had a white girl as captive, and one

of the red devils, thinking we were a rescuing party, had tomahawked

her. She was not quite dead. We did all we could to save her life.

She died and we buried her on the spot. They were Red Fox's braves

and were on their way to his camp with the prisoner. A year or so

afterwards I learned from a friendly Indian that the Shawnee chief

had sworn to kill us. No doubt he will be a leader in the coming

attack."

"We are living in the midst of terrible times," remarked Colonel

Zane. "Indeed, these are the times that try men's souls, but I

firmly believe the day is not far distant when the redmen will be

driven far over the border."

"Is the Indian Princess pretty?" asked Betty of Isaac.

"Indeed she is, Betty, almost as beautiful as you are," said Isaac.

"She is tall and very fair for an Indian. But I have something to

tell about her more interesting than that. Since I have been with

the Wyandots this last time I have discovered a little of the

jealously guarded secret of Myeerah's mother. When Tarhe and his

band of Hurons lived in Canada their home was in the Muskoka Lakes

region on the Moon river. The old warriors tell wonderful stories of

the beauty of that country. Tarhe took captive some French

travellers, among them a woman named La Durante. She had a beautiful

little girl. The prisoners, except this little girl, were released.

When she grew up Tarhe married her. Myeerah is her child. Once Tarhe

took his wife to Detroit and she was seen there by an old Frenchman

who went crazy over her and said she was his child. Tarhe never went

to the white settlements again. So you see, Myeerah is from a great

French family on her mother's side, as this is old Frenchman was

probably Chevalier La Durante, and Myeerah's grandfather."

"I would love to see her, and yet I hate her. What an odd name she

has," said Betty.

"It is the Indian name for the white crane, a rare and beautiful

bird. I never saw one. The name has been celebrated among the Hurons

as long as any one of them can remember. The Indians call her the

White Crane, or Walk-in-the-Water, because of her love for wading in

the stream."

"I think we have made Isaac talk enough for one night," said Colonel

Zane. "He is tired out. Major, tell Isaac and Betty, and Mr. Clarke,

too, of your jump over the cliff."

"I have heard of that leap from the Indians," said Isaac.

"Major, from what hill did you jump your horse?" asked Alfred.

"You know the bare rocky bluff that stands out prominently on the

hill across the creek. From that spot Colonel Zane first saw the

valley, and from there I leaped my horse. I can never convince

myself that it really happened. Often I look up at that cliff in

doubt. But the Indians and Colonel Zane, Jonathan, Wetzel and others

say they actually saw the deed done, so I must accept it," said

Major McColloch.

"It seems incredible!" said Alfred. "I cannot understand how a man

or horse could go over that precipice and live."

"That is what we all say," responded the Colonel. "I suppose I shall

have to tell the story. We have fighters and makers of history here,

but few talkers."

"I am anxious to hear it," answered Clarke, "and I am curious to see

this man Wetzel, whose fame has reached as far as my home, way down

in Virginia."

"You will have your wish gratified soon, I have no doubt," resumed

the Colonel. "Well, now for the story of McColloch's mad ride for

life and his wonderful leap down Wheeling hill. A year ago, when the

fort was besieged by the Indians, the Major got through the lines

and made off for Short Creek. He returned next morning with forty

mounted men. They marched boldly up to the gate, and all succeeded

in getting inside save the gallant Major, who had waited to be the

last man to go in. Finding it impossible to make the short distance

without going under the fire of the Indians, who had rushed up to

prevent the relief party from entering the fort, he wheeled his big

stallion, and, followed by the yelling band of savages, he took the

road leading around back of the fort to the top of the bluff. The

road lay along the edge of the cliff and I saw the Major turn and

wave his rifle at us, evidently with the desire of assuring us that

he was safe. Suddenly, on the very summit of the hill, he reined in

his horse as if undecided. I knew in an instant what had happened.

The Major had run right into the returning party of Indians, which

had been sent out to intercept our reinforcements. In a moment more

we heard the exultant yells of the savages, and saw them gliding

from tree to tree, slowly lengthening out their line and surrounding

the unfortunate Major. They did not fire a shot. We in the fort were

stupefied with horror, and stood helplessly with our useless guns,

watching and waiting for the seemingly inevitable doom of our

comrade. Not so with the Major! Knowing that he was a marked man by

the Indians and feeling that any death was preferable to the

gauntlet, the knife, the stake and torch of the merciless savage, he

had grasped at a desperate chance. He saw his enemies stealthily

darting from rock to tree, and tree to bush, creeping through the

brush, and slipping closer and closer every moment. On three sides

were his hated foes and on the remaining side--the abyss. Without a

moment's hesitation the intrepid Major spurred his horse at the

precipice. Never shall I forget that thrilling moment. The three

hundred savages were silent as they realized the Major's intention.

Those in the fort watched with staring eyes. A few bounds and the

noble steed reared high on his hind legs. Outlined by the clear blue

sky the magnificent animal stood for one brief instant, his black

mane flying in the wind, his head thrown up and his front hoofs

pawing the air like Marcus Curtius' mailed steed of old, and then

down with a crash, a cloud of dust, and the crackling of pine limbs.

A long yell went up from the Indians below, while those above ran to

the edge of the cliff. With cries of wonder and baffled vengeance

they gesticulated toward the dark ravine into which horse and rider

had plunged rather than wait to meet a more cruel death. The

precipice at this point is over three hundred feet in height, and in

places is almost perpendicular. We believed the Major to be lying

crushed and mangled on the rocks. Imagine our frenzy of joy when we

saw the daring soldier and his horse dash out of the bushes that

skirt the base of the cliff, cross the creek, and come galloping to

the fort in safety."

"It was wonderful! Wonderful!" exclaimed Isaac, his eyes glistening.

"No wonder the Indians call you the 'Flying Chief.'"

"Had the Major not jumped into the clump of pine trees which grow

thickly some thirty feet below the summit he would not now be

alive," said Colonel Zane. "I am certain of that. Nevertheless that

does not detract from the courage of his deed. He had no time to

pick out the best place to jump. He simply took his one chance, and

came out all right. That leap will live in the minds of men as long

as yonder bluff stands a monument to McColloch's ride for life."

Alfred had listened with intense interest to the Colonel's recital.

When it ended, although his pulses quickened and his soul expanded

with awe and reverence for the hero of that ride, he sat silent.

Alfred honored courage in a man more than any other quality. He

marvelled at the simplicity of these bordermen who, he thought, took

the most wonderful adventures and daring escapes as a matter of

course, a compulsory part of their daily lives. He had already, in

one day, had more excitement than had ever befallen him, and was

beginning to believe his thirst for a free life of stirring action

would be quenched long before he had learned to become useful in his

new sphere. During the remaining half hour of his call on his lately

acquired friends, he took little part in the conversation, but sat

quietly watching the changeful expressions on Betty's face, and

listening to Colonel Zane's jokes. When he rose to go he bade his

host good-night, and expressed a wish that Isaac, who had fallen

asleep, might have a speedy recovery. He turned toward the door to

find that Betty had intercepted him.

"Mr. Clarke," she said, extending a little hand that trembled

slightly. "I wish to say--that--I want to say that my feelings have

changed. I am sorry for what I said over at Lydia's. I spoke hastily

and rudely. You have saved my brother's life. I will be forever

grateful to you. It is useless to try to thank you. I--I hope we may

be friends."

Alfred found it desperately hard to resist that low voice, and those

dark eyes which were raised shyly, yet bravely, to his. But he had

been deeply hurt. He pretended not to see the friendly hand held out

to him, and his voice was cold when he answered her.

"I am glad to have been of some service," he said, "but I think you

overrate my action. Your brother would not have drowned, I am sure.

You owe me nothing. Good-night."

Betty stood still one moment staring at the door through which he

had gone before she realized that her overtures of friendship had

been politely, but coldly, ignored. She had actually been snubbed.

The impossible had happened to Elizabeth Zane. Her first sensation

after she recovered from her momentary bewilderment was one of

amusement, and she laughed in a constrained manner; but, presently,

two bright red spots appeared in her cheeks, and she looked quickly

around to see if any of the others had noticed the incident. None of

them had been paying any attention to her and she breathed a sigh of

relief. It was bad enough to be snubbed without having others see

it. That would have been too humiliating. Her eyes flashed fire as

she remembered the disdain in Clarke's face, and that she had not

been clever enough to see it in time.

"Tige, come here!" called Colonel Zane. "What ails the dog?"

The dog had jumped to his feet and ran to the door, where he sniffed

at the crack over the threshold. His aspect was fierce and

threatening. He uttered low growls and then two short barks. Those

in the room heard a soft moccasined footfall outside. The next

instant the door opened wide and a tall figure stood disclosed.

"Wetzel!" exclaimed Colonel Zane. A hush fell on the little company

after that exclamation, and all eyes were fastened on the new comer.

Well did the stranger merit close attention. He stalked into the

room, leaned his long rifle against the mantelpiece and spread out

his hands to the fire. He was clad from head to foot in fringed and

beaded buckskin, which showed evidence of a long and arduous tramp.

It was torn and wet and covered with mud. He was a magnificently

made man, six feet in height, and stood straight as an arrow. His

wide shoulders, and his muscular, though not heavy, limbs denoted

wonderful strength and activity. His long hair, black as a raven's

wing, hung far down his shoulders. Presently he turned and the light

shone on a remarkable face. So calm and cold and stern it was that

it seemed chiselled out of marble. The most striking features were

its unusual pallor, and the eyes, which were coal black, and

piercing as the dagger's point.

"If you have any bad news out with it," cried Colonel Zane,

impatiently.

"No need fer alarm," said Wetzel. He smiled slightly as he saw

Betty's apprehensive face. "Don't look scared, Betty. The redskins

are miles away and goin' fer the Kanawha settlement."

CHAPTER III.

Many weeks of quiet followed the events of the last chapter. The

settlers planted their corn, harvested their wheat and labored in

the fields during the whole of one spring and summer without hearing

the dreaded war cry of the Indians. Colonel Zane, who had been a

disbursing officer in the army of Lord Dunmore, where he had

attained the rank of Colonel, visited Fort Pitt during the summer in

the hope of increasing the number of soldiers in his garrison. His

efforts proved fruitless. He returned to Fort Henry by way of the

river with several pioneers, who with their families were bound for

Fort Henry. One of these pioneers was a minister who worked in the

fields every week day and on Sundays preached the Gospel to those

who gathered in the meeting house.

Alfred Clarke had taken up his permanent abode at the fort, where he

had been installed as one of the regular garrison. His duties, as

well as those of the nine other members of the garrison, were light.

For two hours out of the twenty-four he was on guard. Thus he had

ample time to acquaint himself with the settlers and their families.

Alfred and Isaac had now become firm friends. They spent many hours

fishing in the river, and roaming the woods in the vicinity, as

Colonel Zane would not allow Isaac to stray far from the fort.

Alfred became a regular visitor at Colonel Zane's house. He saw

Betty every day, but as yet, nothing had mended the breach between

them. They were civil to each other when chance threw them together,

but Betty usually left the room on some pretext soon after he

entered. Alfred regretted his hasty exhibition of resentment and

would have been glad to establish friendly relations with her. But

she would not give him an opportunity. She avoided him on all

possible occasions. Though Alfred was fast succumbing to the charm

of Betty's beautiful face, though his desire to be near her had

grown well nigh resistless, his pride had not yet broken down. Many

of the summer evenings found him on the Colonel's doorstep, smoking

a pipe, or playing with the children. He was that rare and best

company--a good listener. Although he laughed at Colonel Zane's

stories, and never tired of hearing of Isaac's experiences among the

Indians, it is probable he would not have partaken of the Colonel's

hospitality nearly so often had it not been that he usually saw

Betty, and if he got only a glimpse of her he went away satisfied.

On Sundays he attended the services at the little church and

listened to Betty's sweet voice as she led the singing.

There were a number of girls at the fort near Betty's age. With all

of these Alfred was popular. He appeared so entirely different from

the usual young man on the frontier that he was more than welcome

everywhere. Girls in the backwoods are much the same as girls in

thickly populated and civilized districts. They liked his manly

ways; his frank and pleasant manners; and when to these virtues he

added a certain deferential regard, a courtliness to which they were

unaccustomed, they were all the better pleased. He paid the young

women little attentions, such as calling on them, taking them to

parties and out driving, but there was not one of them who could

think that she, in particular, interested him.

The girls noticed, however, that he never approached Betty after

service, or on any occasion, and while it caused some wonder and

gossip among them, for Betty enjoyed the distinction of being the

belle of the border, they were secretly pleased. Little hints and

knowing smiles, with which girls are so skillful, made known to

Betty all of this, and, although she was apparently indifferent, it

hurt her sensitive feelings. It had the effect of making her believe

she hated the cause of it more than ever.

What would have happened had things gone on in this way, I am not

prepared to say; probably had not a meddling Fate decided to take a

hand in the game, Betty would have continued to think she hated

Alfred, and I would never have had occasion to write his story; but

Fate did interfere, and, one day in the early fall, brought about an

incident which changed the whole world for the two young people.

It was the afternoon of an Indian summer day--in that most beautiful

time of all the year--and Betty, accompanied by her dog, had

wandered up the hillside into the woods. From the hilltop the broad

river could be seen winding away in the distance, and a soft,

bluish, smoky haze hung over the water. The forest seemed to be on

fire. The yellow leaves of the poplars, the brown of the white and

black oaks, the red and purple of the maples, and the green of the

pines and hemlocks flamed in a glorious blaze of color. A stillness,

which was only broken now and then by the twittering of birds

uttering the plaintive notes peculiar to them in the autumn as they

band together before their pilgrimage to the far south, pervaded the

forest.

Betty loved the woods, and she knew all the trees. She could tell

their names by the bark or the shape of the leaves. The giant black

oak, with its smooth shiny bark and sturdy limbs, the chestnut with

its rugged, seamed sides and bristling burrs, the hickory with its

lofty height and curled shelling bark, were all well known and well

loved by Betty. Many times had she wondered at the trembling,

quivering leaves of the aspen, and the foliage of the silver-leaf as

it glinted in the sun. To-day, especially, as she walked through the

woods, did their beauty appeal to her. In the little sunny patches

of clearing which were scattered here and there in the grove, great

clusters of goldenrod grew profusely. The golden heads swayed

gracefully on the long stems Betty gathered a few sprigs and added

to them a bunch of warmly tinted maple leaves.

The chestnuts burrs were opening. As Betty mounted a little rocky

eminence and reached out for a limb of a chestnut tree, she lost her

footing and fell. Her right foot had twisted under her as she went

down, and when a sharp pain shot through it she was unable to

repress a cry. She got up, tenderly placed the foot on the ground

and tried her weight on it, which caused acute pain. She unlaced and

removed her moccasin to find that her ankle had commenced to swell.

Assured that she had sprained it, and aware of the serious

consequences of an injury of that nature, she felt greatly

distressed. Another effort to place her foot on the ground and bear

her weight on it caused such severe pain that she was compelled to

give up the attempt. Sinking down by the trunk of the tree and

leaning her head against it she tried to think of a way out of her

difficulty.

The fort, which she could plainly see, seemed a long distance off,

although it was only a little way down the grassy slope. She looked

and looked, but not a person was to be seen. She called to Tige. She

remembered that he had been chasing a squirrel a short while ago,

but now there was no sign of him. He did not come at her call. How

annoying! If Tige were only there she could have sent him for help.

She shouted several times, but the distance was too great for her

voice to carry to the fort. The mocking echo of her call came back

from the bluff that rose to her left. Betty now began to be alarmed

in earnest, and the tears started to roll down her cheeks. The

throbbing pain in her ankle, the dread of having to remain out in

that lonesome forest after dark, and the fear that she might not be

found for hours, caused Betty's usually brave spirit to falter; she

was weeping unreservedly.

In reality she had been there only a few minutes--although they

seemed hours to her--when she heard the light tread of moccasined

feet on the moss behind her. Starting up with a cry of joy she

turned and looked up into the astonished face of Alfred Clarke.

Returning from a hunt back in the woods he had walked up to her

before being aware of her presence. In a single glance he saw the

wildflowers scattered beside her, the little moccasin turned inside

out, the woebegone, tearstained face, and he knew Betty had come to

grief.

Confused and vexed, Betty sank back at the foot of the tree. It is

probable she would have encountered Girty or a member of his band of

redmen, rather than have this young man find her in this

predicament. It provoked her to think that of all the people at the

fort it should be the only one she could not welcome who should find

her in such a sad plight.

"Why, Miss Zane!" he exclaimed, after a moment of hesitation. "What

in the world has happened? Have you been hurt? May I help you?"

"It is nothing," said Betty, bravely, as she gathered up her flowers

and the moccasin and rose slowly to her feet. "Thank you, but you

need not wait."

The cold words nettled Alfred and he was in the act of turning away

from her when he caught, for the fleetest part of a second, the full

gaze of her eyes. He stopped short. A closer scrutiny of her face

convinced him that she was suffering and endeavoring with all her

strength to conceal it.

"But I will wait. I think you have hurt yourself. Lean upon my arm,"

he said, quietly.

"Please let me help you," he continued, going nearer to her.

But Betty refused his assistance. She would not even allow him to

take the goldenrod from her arms. After a few hesitating steps she

paused and lifted her foot from the ground.

"Here, you must not try to walk a step farther," he said,

resolutely, noting how white she had suddenly become. "You have

sprained your ankle and are needlessly torturing yourself. Please

let me carry you?"

"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Betty, in evident distress. "I will manage.

It is not so--very--far."

She resumed the slow and painful walking, but she had taken only a

few steps when she stopped again and this time a low moan issued

from her lips. She swayed slightly backward and if Alfred had not

dropped his rifle and caught her she would have fallen.

"Will you--please--for some one?" she whispered faintly, at the same

time pushing him away.

"How absurd!" burst out Alfred, indignantly. "Am I then, so

distasteful to you that you would rather wait here and suffer a half

hour longer while I go for assistance? It is only common courtesy on

my part. I do not want to carry you. I think you would be quite

heavy."

He said this in a hard, bitter tone, deeply hurt that she would not

accept even a little kindness from him. He looked away from her and

waited. Presently a soft, half-smothered sob came from Betty and it

expressed such utter wretchedness that his heart melted. After all

she was only a child. He turned to see the tears running down her

cheeks, and with a suppressed imprecation upon the wilfulness of

young women in general, and this one in particular, he stepped

forward and before she could offer any resistance, he had taken her

up in his arms, goldenrod and all, and had started off at a rapid

walk toward the fort.

Betty cried out in angry surprise, struggled violently for a moment,

and then, as suddenly, lay quietly in his arms. His anger changed to

self-reproach as he realized what a light burden she made. He looked

down at the dark head lying on his shoulder. Her face was hidden by

the dusky rippling hair, which tumbled over his breast, brushed

against his cheek, and blew across his lips. The touch of those

fragrant tresses was a soft caress. Almost unconsciously he pressed

her closer to his heart. And as a sweet mad longing grew upon him he

was blind to all save that he held her in his arms, that uncertainty

was gone forever, and that he loved her. With these thoughts running

riot in his brain he carried her down the hill to Colonel Zane's

house.

The negro, Sam, who came out of the kitchen, dropped the bucket he

had in his hand and ran into the house when he saw them. When Alfred

reached the gate Colonel Zane and Isaac were hurrying out to meet

him.

"For Heaven's sake! What has happened? Is she badly hurt? I have

always looked for this," said the Colonel, excitedly.

"You need not look so alarmed," answered Alfred. "She has only

sprained her ankle, and trying to walk afterward hurt her so badly

that she became faint and I had to carry her."

"Dear me, is that all?" said Mrs. Zane, who had also come out. "We

were terribly frightened. Sam came running into the house with some

kind of a wild story. Said he knew you would be the death of Betty."

"How ridiculous! Colonel Zane, that servant of yours never fails to

say something against me," said Alfred, as he carried Betty into the

house.

"He doesn't like you. But you need not mind Sam. He is getting old

and we humor him, perhaps too much. We are certainly indebted to

you," returned the Colonel.

Betty was laid on the couch and consigned to the skillful hands of

Mrs. Zane, who pronounced the injury a bad sprain.

"Well, Betty, this will keep you quiet for a few days," said she,

with a touch of humor, as she gently felt the swollen ankle.

"Alfred, you have been our good angel so often that I don't see how

we shall ever reward you," said Isaac to Alfred.

"Oh, that time will come. Don't worry about that," said Alfred,

jestingly, and then, turning to the others he continued, earnestly.

"I will apologize for the manner in which I disregarded Miss Zane's

wish not to help her. I am sure I could do no less. I believe my

rudeness has spared her considerable suffering."

"What did he mean, Betts?" asked Isaac, going back to his sister

after he had closed the door. "Didn't you want him to help you?"

Betty did not answer. She sat on the couch while Mrs. Zane held the

little bare foot and slowly poured the hot water over the swollen

and discolored ankle. Betty's lips were pale. She winced every time

Mrs. Zane touched her foot, but as yet she had not uttered even a

sigh.

"Betty, does it hurt much?" asked Isaac.

"Hurt? Do you think I am made of wood? Of course it hurts," retorted

Betty. "That water is so hot. Bessie, will not cold water do as

well?"

"I am sorry. I won't tease any more," said Isaac, taking his

sister's hand. "I'll tell you what, Betty, we owe Alfred Clarke a

great deal, you and I. I am going to tell you something so you will

know how much more you owe him. Do you remember last month when that

red heifer of yours got away. Well, Clarke chased her away and

finally caught her in the woods. He asked me to say I had caught

her. Somehow or other he seems to be afraid of you. I wish you and

he would be good friends. He is a mighty fine fellow."

In spite of the pain Betty was suffering a bright blush suffused her

face at the words of her brother, who, blind as brothers are in

regard to their own sisters, went on praising his friend.

Betty was confined to the house a week or more and during this

enforced idleness she had ample time for reflection and opportunity

to inquire into the perplexed state of her mind.

The small room, which Betty called her own, faced the river and

fort. Most of the day she lay by the window trying to read her

favorite books, but often she gazed out on the quiet scene, the

rolling river, the everchanging trees and the pastures in which the

red and white cows grazed peacefully; or she would watch with idle,

dreamy eyes the flight of the crows over the hills, and the graceful

motion of the hawk as he sailed around and around in the azure sky,

looking like a white sail far out on a summer sea.

But Betty's mind was at variance with this peaceful scene. The

consciousness of a change, which she could not readily define, in

her feelings toward Alfred Clarke, vexed and irritated her. Why did

she think of him so often? True, he had saved her brother's life.

Still she was compelled to admit to herself that this was not the

reason. Try as she would, she could not banish the thought of him.

Over and over again, a thousand times, came the recollection of that

moment when he had taken her up in his arms as though she were a

child. Some vague feeling stirred in her heart as she remembered the

strong yet gentle clasp of his arms.

Several times from her window she had seen him coming across the

square between the fort and her brother's house, and womanlike,

unseen herself, she had watched him. How erect was his carriage. How

pleasant his deep voice sounded as she heard him talking to her

brother. Day by day, as her ankle grew stronger and she knew she

could not remain much longer in her room, she dreaded more and more

the thought of meeting him. She could not understand herself; she

had strange dreams; she cried seemingly without the slightest cause

and she was restless and unhappy. Finally she grew angry and scolded

herself. She said she was silly and sentimental. This had the effect

of making her bolder, but it did not quiet her unrest. Betty did not

know that the little blind God, who steals unawares on his victim,

had marked her for his own, and that all this sweet perplexity was

the unconscious awakening of the heart.

One afternoon, near the end of Betty's siege indoors, two of her

friends, Lydia Boggs and Alice Reynolds, called to see her.

Alice had bright blue eyes, and her nut brown hair hung in

rebellious curls around her demure and pretty face. An adorable

dimple lay hidden in her rosy cheek and flashed into light with her

smiles.

"Betty, you are a lazy thing!" exclaimed Lydia. "Lying here all day

long doing nothing but gaze out of the window."

"Girls, I am glad you came over," said Betty. "I am blue. Perhaps

you will cheer me up."

"Betty needs some one of the sterner sex to cheer her," said Alice,

mischievously, her eyes twinkling. "Don't you think so, Lydia?"

"Of course," answered Lydia. "When I get blue--"

"Please spare me," interrupted Betty, holding up her hands in

protest. "I have not a single doubt that your masculine remedies are

sufficient for all your ills. Girls who have lost their interest in

the old pleasures, who spend their spare time in making linen and

quilts, and who have sunk their very personalities in a great big

tyrant of a man, are not liable to get blue. They are afraid he may

see a tear or a frown. But thank goodness, I have not yet reached

that stage."

"Oh, Betty Zane! Just you wait! Wait!" exclaimed Lydia, shaking her

finger at Betty. "Your turn is coming. When it does do not expect

any mercy from us, for you shalt never get it."

"Unfortunately, you and Alice have monopolized the attentions of the

only two eligible young men at the fort," said Betty, with a laugh.

"Nonsense there plenty of young men all eager for our favor, you

little coquette," answered Lydia. "Harry Martin, Will Metzer,

Captain Swearengen, of Short Creek, and others too numerous to

count. Look at Lew Wetzel and Billy Bennet."

"Lew cares for nothing except hunting Indians and Billy's only a

boy," said Betty.

"Well, have it your own way," said Lydia. "Only this, I know Billy

adores you, for he told me so, and a better lad never lived."

"Lyde, you forget to include one other among those prostrate before

Betty's charms," said Alice.

"Oh, yes, you mean Mr. Clarke. To be sure, I had forgotten him,"

answered Lydia. "How odd that he should be the one to find you the

day you hurt your foot. Was it an accident?"

"Of course. I slipped off the bank," said Betty.

"No, no. I don't mean that. Was his finding you an accident?"

"Do you imagine I waylaid Mr. Clarke, and then sprained my ankle on

purpose?" said Betty, who began to look dangerous.

"Certainly not that; only it seems so odd that he should be the one

to rescue all the damsels in distress. Day before yesterday he

stopped a runaway horse, and saved Nell Metzer who was in the wagon,

a severe shaking up, if not something more serious. She is

desperately in love with him. She told me Mr. Clarke--"

"I really do not care to hear about it," interrupted Betty.

"But, Betty, tell us. Wasn't it dreadful, his carrying you?" asked

Alice, with a sly glance at Betty. "You know you are so--so prudish,

one may say. Did he take you in his arms? It must have been very

embarrassing for you, considering your dislike of Mr. Clarke, and

he so much in love with--"

"You hateful girls," cried Betty, throwing a pillow at Alice, who

just managed to dodge it. "I wish you would go home."

"Never mind, Betty. We will not tease anymore," said Lydia, putting

her arm around Betty. "Come, Alice, we will tell Betty you have

named the day for your wedding. See! She is all eyes now."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The young people of the frontier settlements were usually married

before they were twenty. This was owing to the fact that there was

little distinction of rank and family pride. The object of the

pioneers in moving West was, of course, to better their condition;

but, the realization of their dependence on one another, the common

cause of their labors, and the terrible dangers to which they were

continually exposed, brought them together as one large family.

Therefore, early love affairs were encouraged--not frowned upon as

they are to-day--and they usually resulted in early marriages.

However, do not let it be imagined that the path of the youthful

swain was strewn with flowers. Courting or "sparking" his sweetheart

had a painful as well as a joyous side. Many and varied were the

tricks played on the fortunate lover by the gallants who had vied

with him for the favor of the maid. Brave, indeed, he who won her.

If he marched up to her home in the early evening he was made the

object of innumerable jests, even the young lady's family indulging

in and enjoying the banter. Later, when he come out of the door, it

was more than likely that, if it were winter, he would be met by a

volley of water soaked snowballs, or big buckets of icewater, or a

mountain of snow shoved off the roof by some trickster, who had

waited patiently for such an opportunity. On summer nights his horse

would be stolen, led far into the woods and tied, or the wheels of

his wagon would be taken off and hidden, leaving him to walk home.

Usually the successful lover, and especially if he lived at a

distance, would make his way only once a week and then late at night

to the home of his betrothed. Silently, like a thief in the dark, he

would crawl through the grass and shrubs until beneath her window.

At a low signal, prearranged between them, she would slip to the

door and let him in without disturbing the parents. Fearing to make

a light, and perhaps welcoming that excuse to enjoy the darkness

beloved by sweethearts, they would sit quietly, whispering low,

until the brightening in the east betokened the break of day, and

then he was off, happy and lighthearted, to his labors.

A wedding was looked forward to with much pleasure by old and young.

Practically, it meant the only gathering of the settlers which was

not accompanied by the work of reaping the harvest, building a

cabin, planning an expedition to relieve some distant settlement, or

a defense for themselves. For all, it meant a rollicking good time;

to the old people a feast, and the looking on at the merriment of

their children--to the young folk, a pleasing break in the monotony

of their busy lives, a day given up to fun and gossip, a day of

romance, a wedding, and best of all, a dance. Therefore Alice

Reynold's wedding proved a great event to the inhabitants of Fort

Henry.

The day dawned bright and clear. The sun, rising like a ball of red

gold, cast its yellow beams over the bare, brown hills, shining on

the cabin roofs white with frost, and making the delicate weblike

coat of ice on the river sparkle as if it had been sprinkled with

powdered diamonds. William Martin, the groom, and his attendants,

met at an appointed time to celebrate an old time-honored custom

which always took place before the party started for the house of

the bride. This performance was called "the race for the bottle."

A number of young men, selected by the groom, were asked to take

part in this race, which was to be run over as rough and dangerous a

track as could be found. The worse the road, the more ditches, bogs,

trees, stumps, brush, in fact, the more obstacles of every kind, the

better, as all these afforded opportunity for daring and expert

horsemanship. The English fox race, now famous on three continents,

while it involves risk and is sometimes dangerous, cannot, in the

sense of hazard to life and limb, be compared to this race for the

bottle.

On this day the run was not less exciting than usual. The horses

were placed as nearly abreast as possible and the starter gave an

Indian yell. Then followed the cracking of whips, the furious

pounding of heavy hoofs, the commands of the contestants, and the

yells of the onlookers. Away they went at a mad pace down the road.

The course extended a mile straight away down the creek bottom. The

first hundred yards the horses were bunched. At the ditch beyond the

creek bridge a beautiful, clean limbed animal darted from among the

furiously galloping horses and sailed over the deep furrow like a

bird. All recognized the rider as Alfred Clarke on his black

thoroughbred. Close behind was George Martin mounted on a large roan

of powerful frame and long stride. Through the willows they dashed,

over logs and brush heaps, up the little ridges of rising ground,

and down the shallow gullies, unheeding the stinging branches and

the splashing water. Half the distance covered and Alfred turned, to

find the roan close behind. On a level road he would have laughed at

the attempt of that horse to keep up with his racer, but he was

beginning to fear that the strong limbed stallion deserved his

reputation. Directly before them rose a pile of logs and matted

brush, placed there by the daredevil settlers who had mapped out the

route. It was too high for any horse to be put at. With pale cheek

and clinched teeth Alfred touched the spurs to Roger and then threw

himself forward. The gallant beast responded nobly. Up, up, up he

rose, clearing all but the topmost branches. Alfred turned again and

saw the giant roan make the leap without touching a twig. The next

instant Roger went splash into a swamp. He sank to his knees in the

soft black soil. He could move but one foot at a time, and Alfred

saw at a glance he had won the race. The great weight of the roan

handicapped him here. When Alfred reached the other side of the bog,

where the bottle was swinging from a branch of a tree, his rival's

horse was floundering hopelessly in the middle of the treacherous

mire. The remaining three horsemen, who had come up by this time,

seeing that it would be useless to attempt further efforts, had

drawn up on the bank. With friendly shouts to Clarke, they

acknowledged themselves beaten. There were no judges required for

this race, because the man who reached the bottle first won it.

The five men returned to the starting point, where the victor was

greeted by loud whoops. The groom got the first drink from the

bottle, then came the attendants, and others in order, after which

the bottle was put away to be kept as a memento of the occasion.

The party now repaired to the village and marched to the home of the

bride. The hour for the observance of the marriage rites was just

before the midday meal. When the groom reached the bride's home he

found her in readiness. Sweet and pretty Alice looked in her gray

linsey gown, perfectly plain and simple though it was, without an

ornament or a ribbon. Proud indeed looked her lover as he took her

hand and led her up to the waiting minister. When the whisperings

had ceased the minister asked who gave this woman to be married.

Alice's father answered.

"Will you take this woman to be your wedded wife, to love, cherish

and protect her all the days of her life?" asked the minister.

"I will," answered a deep bass voice.

"Will you take this man to be your wedded husband, to love, honor

and obey him all the days of your life?"

"I will," said Alice, in a low tone.

"I pronounce you man and wife. Those whom God has joined together

let no man put asunder."

There was a brief prayer and the ceremony ended. Then followed the

congratulations of relatives and friends. The felicitations were apt

to be trying to the nerves of even the best tempered groom. The hand

shakes, the heavy slaps on the back, and the pommeling he received

at the hands of his intimate friends were as nothing compared to the

anguish of mind he endured while they were kissing his wife. The

young bucks would not have considered it a real wedding had they

been prevented from kissing the bride, and for that matter, every

girl within reach. So fast as the burly young settlers could push

themselves through the densely packed rooms they kissed the bride,

and then the first girl they came to.

Betty and Lydia had been Alice's maids of honor. This being Betty's

first experience at a frontier wedding, it developed that she was

much in need of Lydia's advice, which she had previously disdained.

She had rested secure in her dignity. Poor Betty! The first man to

kiss Alice was George Martin, a big, strong fellow, who gathered his

brother's bride into his arms and gave her a bearish hug and a

resounding kiss. Releasing her he turned toward Lydia and Betty.

Lydia eluded him, but one of his great hands clasped around Betty's

wrist. She tried to look haughty, but with everyone laughing, and

the young man's face expressive of honest fun and happiness she

found it impossible. She stood still and only turned her face a

little to one side while George kissed her. The young men now made a

rush for her. With blushing cheeks Betty, unable to stand her ground

any longer, ran to her brother, the Colonel. He pushed her away with

a laugh. She turned to Major McColloch, who held out his arms to

her. With an exclamation she wrenched herself free from a young man,

who had caught her hand, and flew to the Major. But alas for Betty!

The Major was not proof against the temptation and he kissed her

himself.

"Traitor!" cried Betty, breaking away from him.

Poor Betty was in despair. She had just made up her mind to submit

when she caught sight of Wetzel's familiar figure. She ran to him

and the hunter put one of his long arms around her.

"I reckon I kin take care of you, Betty," he said, a smile playing

over his usually stern face. "See here, you young bucks. Betty don't

want to be kissed, and if you keep on pesterin' her I'll have to

scalp a few of you."

The merriment grew as the day progressed. During the wedding feast

great hilarity prevailed. It culminated in the dance which followed

the dinner. The long room of the block-house had been decorated with

evergreens, autumn leaves and goldenrod, which were scattered

profusely about, hiding the blackened walls and bare rafters.

Numerous blazing pine knots, fastened on sticks which were stuck

into the walls, lighted up a scene, which for color and animation

could not have been surpassed.

Colonel Zane's old slave, Sam, who furnished the music, sat on a

raised platform at the upper end of the hall, and the way he sawed

away on his fiddle, accompanying the movements of his arm with a

swaying of his body and a stamping of his heavy foot, showed he had

a hearty appreciation of his own value.

Prominent among the men and women standing and sitting near the

platform could be distinguished the tall forms of Jonathan Zane,

Major McColloch and Wetzel, all, as usual, dressed in their hunting

costumes and carrying long rifles. The other men had made more or

less effort to improve their appearance. Bright homespun shirts and

scarfs had replaced the everyday buckskin garments. Major McColloch

was talking to Colonel Zane. The genial faces of both reflected the

pleasure they felt in the enjoyment of the younger people. Jonathan

Zane stood near the door. Moody and silent he watched the dance.

Wetzel leaned against the wall. The black barrel of his rifle lay in

the hollow of his arm. The hunter was gravely contemplating the

members of the bridal party who were dancing in front of him. When

the dance ended Lydia and Betty stopped before Wetzel and Betty

said: "Lew, aren't you going to ask us to dance?"

The hunter looked down into the happy, gleaming faces, and smiling

in his half sad way, answered: "Every man to his gifts."

"But you can dance. I want you to put aside your gun long enough to

dance with me. If I waited for you to ask me, I fear I should have

to wait a long time. Come, Lew, here I am asking you, and I know the

other men are dying to dance with me," said Betty, coaxingly, in a

roguish voice.

Wetzel never refused a request of Betty's, and so, laying aside his

weapons, he danced with her, to the wonder and admiration of all.

Colonel Zane clapped his hands, and everyone stared in amazement at

the unprecedented sight Wetzel danced not ungracefully. He was

wonderfully light on his feet. His striking figure, the long black

hair, and the fancifully embroidered costume he wore contrasted

strangely with Betty's slender, graceful form and pretty gray dress.

"Well, well, Lewis, I would not have believed anything but the

evidence of my own eyes," said Colonel Zane, with a laugh, as Betty

and Wetzel approached him.

"If all the men could dance as well as Lew, the girls would be

thankful, I can assure you," said Betty.

"Betty, I declare you grow prettier every day," said old John

Bennet, who was standing with the Colonel and the Major. "If I were

only a young man once more I should try my chances with you, and I

wouldn't give up very easily."

"I do not know, Uncle John, but I am inclined to think that if you

were a young man and should come a-wooing you would not get a rebuff

from me," answered Betty, smiling on the old man, of whom she was

very fond.

"Miss Zane, will you dance with me?"

The voice sounded close by Betty's side. She recognized it, and an

unaccountable sensation of shyness suddenly came over her. She had

firmly made up her mind, should Mr. Clarke ask her to dance, that

she would tell him she was tired, or engaged for that

number--anything so that she could avoid dancing with him. But, now

that the moment had come she either forgot her resolution or lacked

the courage to keep it, for as the music commenced, she turned and

without saying a word or looking at him, she placed her hand on his

arm. He whirled her away. She gave a start of surprise and delight

at the familiar step and then gave herself up to the charm of the

dance. Supported by his strong arm she floated around the room in a

sort of dream. Dancing as they did was new to the young people at

the Fort--it was a style then in vogue in the east--and everyone

looked on with great interest and curiosity. But all too soon the

dance ended and before Betty had recovered her composure she found

that her partner had led her to a secluded seat in the lower end of

the hall. The bench was partly obscured from the dancers by masses

of autumn leaves. "That was a very pleasant dance," said Alfred.

"Miss Boggs told me you danced the round dance."

"I was much surprised and pleased," said Betty, who had indeed

enjoyed it.

"It has been a delightful day," went on Alfred, seeing that Betty

was still confused. "I almost killed myself in that race for the

bottle this morning. I never saw such logs and brush heaps and

ditches in my life. I am sure that if the fever of recklessness

which seemed in the air had not suddenly seized me I would never

have put my horse at such leaps."

"I heard my brother say your horse was one of the best he had ever

seen, and that you rode superbly," murmured Betty.

"Well, to be honest, I would not care to take that ride again. It

certainly was not fair to the horse."

"How do you like the fort by this time?"

"Miss Zane, I am learning to love this free, wild life. I really

think I was made for the frontier. The odd customs and manners which

seemed strange at first have become very acceptable to me now. I

find everyone so honest and simple and brave. Here one must work to

live, which is right. Do you know, I never worked in my life until I

came to Fort Henry. My life was all uselessness, idleness."

"I can hardly believe that," answered Betty. "You have learned to

dance and ride and--"

"What?" asked Alfred, as Betty hesitated.

"Never mind. It was an accomplishment with which the girls credited

you," said Betty, with a little laugh.

"I suppose I did not deserve it. I heard I had a singular aptitude

for discovering young ladies in distress."

"Have you become well acquainted with the boys?" asked Betty,

hastening to change the subject.

"Oh, yes, particularly with your Indianized brother, Isaac. He is

the finest fellow, as well as the most interesting, I ever knew. I

like Colonel Zane immensely too. The dark, quiet fellow, Jack, or

John, they call him, is not like your other brothers. The hunter,

Wetzel, inspires me with awe. Everyone has been most kind to me and

I have almost forgotten that I was a wanderer."

"I am glad to hear that," said Betty.

"Miss Zane," continued Alfred, "doubtless you have heard that I came

West because I was compelled to leave my home. Please do not believe

everything you hear of me. Some day I may tell you my story if you

care to hear it. Suffice it to say now that I left my home of my own

free will and I could go back to-morrow."

"I did not mean to imply--" began Betty, coloring.

"Of course not. But tell me about yourself. Is it not rather dull

and lonesome here for you?"

"It was last winter. But I have been contented and happy this

summer. Of course, it is not Philadelphia life, and I miss the

excitement and gayety of my uncle's house. I knew my place was with

my brothers. My aunt pleaded with me to live with her and not go to

the wilderness. I had everything I wanted there--luxury, society,

parties, balls, dances, friends--all that the heart of a girl could

desire, but I preferred to come to this little frontier settlement.

Strange choice for a girl, was it not?"

"Unusual, yes," answered Alfred, gravely. "And I cannot but wonder

what motives actuated our coming to Fort Henry. I came to seek my

fortune. You came to bring sunshine into the home of your brother,

and left your fortune behind you. Well, your motive has the element

of nobility. Mine has nothing but that of recklessness. I would like

to read the future."

"I do not think it is right to have such a wish. With the veil

rolled away could you work as hard, accomplish as much? I do not

want to know the future. Perhaps some of it will be unhappy. I have

made my choice and will cheerfully abide by it. I rather envy your

being a man. You have the world to conquer. A woman--what can she

do? She can knead the dough, ply the distaff, and sit by the lattice

and watch and wait."

"Let us postpone such melancholy thoughts until some future day. I

have not as yet said anything that I intended. I wish to tell you

how sorry I am that I acted in such a rude way the night your

brother came home. I do not know what made me do so, but I know I

have regretted it ever since. Will you forgive me and may we not be

friends?"

"I--I do not know," said Betty, surprised and vaguely troubled by

the earnest light in his eyes.

"But why? Surely you will make some little allowance for a naturally

quick temper, and you know you did not--that you were--"

"Yes, I remember I was hasty and unkind. But I made amends, or at

least, I tried to do so."

"Try to overlook my stupidity. I will not give up until you forgive

me. Consider how much you can avoid by being generous."

"Very well, then, I will forgive you," said Betty, who had arrived

at the conclusion that this young man was one of determination.

"Thank you. I promise you shall never regret it. And the sprained

ankle? It must be well, as I noticed you danced beautifully."

"I am compelled to believe what the girls say--that you are inclined

to the language of compliment. My ankle is nearly well, thank you.

It hurts a little now and then."

"Speaking of your accident reminds me of the day it happened," said

Alfred, watching her closely. He desired to tease her a little, but

he was not sure of his ground. "I had been all day in the woods with

nothing but my thoughts--mostly unhappy ones--for company. When I

met you I pretended to be surprised. As a matter of fact I was not,

for I had followed your dog. He took a liking to me and I was

extremely pleased, I assure you. Well, I saw your face a moment

before you knew I was as near you. When you heard my footsteps you

turned with a relieved and joyous cry. When you saw whom it was your

glad expression changed, and if I had been a hostile Wyandot you

could not have looked more unfriendly. Such a woeful, tear-stained

face I never saw."

"Mr. Clarke, please do not speak any more of that," said Betty with

dignity. "I desire that you forget it."

"I will forget all except that it was I who had the happiness of

finding you and of helping you. I cannot forget that. I am sure we

should never have been friends but for that accident."

"There is Isaac. He is looking for me," answered Betty, rising.

"Wait a moment longer--please. He will find you," said Alfred,

detaining her. "Since you have been so kind I have grown bolder. May

I come over to see you to-morrow?"

He looked straight down into the dark eyes which wavered and fell

before he had completed his question.

"There is Isaac. He cannot see me here. I must go."

"But not before telling me. What is the good of your forgiving me if

I may not see you. Please say yes."

"You may come," answered Betty, half amused and half provoked at his

persistence. "I should think you would know that such permission

invariably goes with a young woman's forgiveness."

"Hello, here you are. What a time I have had in finding you," said

Isaac, coming up with flushed face and eyes bright with excitement.

"Alfred, what do you mean by hiding the belle of the dance away like

this? I want to dance with you, Betts. I am having a fine time. I

have not danced anything but Indian dances for ages. Sorry to take

her away, Alfred. I can see she doesn't want to go. Ha! Ha!" and

with a mischievous look at both of them he led Betty away.

Alfred kept his seat awhile lost in thought. Suddenly he remembered

that it would look strange if he did not make himself agreeable, so

he got up and found a partner. He danced with Alice, Lydia, and the

other young ladies. After an hour he slipped away to his room. He

wished to be alone. He wanted to think; to decide whether it would

be best for him to stay at the fort, or ride away in the darkness

and never return. With the friendly touch of Betty's hand the

madness with which he had been battling for weeks rushed over him

stronger than ever. The thrill of that soft little palm remained

with him, and he pressed the hand it had touched to his lips.

For a long hour he sat by his window. He could dimly see the broad

winding river, with its curtain of pale gray mist, and beyond, the

dark outline of the forest. A cool breeze from the water fanned his

heated brow, and the quiet and solitude soothed him.

CHAPTER IV.

"Good morning, Harry. Where are you going so early?" called Betty

from the doorway.

A lad was passing down the path in front of Colonel Zane's house as

Betty hailed him. He carried a rifle almost as long as himself.

"Mornin', Betty. I am goin' 'cross the crick fer that turkey I hear

gobblin'," he answered, stopping at the gate and smiling brightly at

Betty.

"Hello, Harry Bennet. Going after that turkey? I have heard him

several mornings and he must be a big, healthy gobbler," said

Colonel Zane, stepping to the door. "You are going to have company.

Here comes Wetzel."

"Good morning, Lew. Are you too off on a turkey hunt?" said Betty.

"Listen," said the hunter, as he stopped and leaned against the

gate. They listened. All was quiet save for the tinkle of a cow-bell

in the pasture adjoining the Colonel's barn. Presently the silence

was broken by a long, shrill, peculiar cry.

"Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug-chug."

"Well, it's a turkey, all right, and I'll bet a big gobbler,"

remarked Colonel Zane, as the cry ceased.

"Has Jonathan heard it?" asked Wetzel.

"Not that I know of. Why do you ask?" said the Colonel, in a low

tone. "Look here, Lew, is that not a genuine call?"

"Goodbye, Harry, be sure and bring me a turkey," called Betty, as

she disappeared.

"I calkilate it's a real turkey," answered the hunter, and motioning

the lad to stay behind, he shouldered his rifle and passed swiftly

down the path.

Of all the Wetzel family--a family noted from one end of the

frontier to the other--Lewis was as the most famous.

The early history of West Virginia and Ohio is replete with the

daring deeds of this wilderness roamer, this lone hunter and

insatiable Nemesis, justly called the greatest Indian slayer known

to men.

When Lewis was about twenty years old, and his brothers John and

Martin little older, they left their Virginia home for a protracted

hunt. On their return they found the smoking ruins of the home, the

mangled remains of father and mother, the naked and violated bodies

of their sisters, and the scalped and bleeding corpse of a baby

brother.

Lewis Wetzel swore sleepless and eternal vengeance on the whole

Indian race. Terribly did he carry out that resolution. From that

time forward he lived most of the time in the woods, and an Indian

who crossed his trail was a doomed man. The various Indian tribes

gave him different names. The Shawnees called him "Long Knife;" the

Hurons, "Destroyer;" the Delawares, "Death Wind," and any one of

these names would chill the heart of the stoutest warrior.

To most of the famed pioneer hunters of the border, Indian fighting

was only a side issue--generally a necessary one--but with Wetzel it

was the business of his life. He lived solely to kill Indians. He

plunged recklessly into the strife, and was never content unless

roaming the wilderness solitudes, trailing the savages to their very

homes and ambushing the village bridlepath like a panther waiting

for his prey. Often in the gray of the morning the Indians, sleeping

around their camp fire, were awakened by a horrible, screeching

yell. They started up in terror only to fall victims to the tomahawk

of their merciless foe, or to hear a rifle shot and get a glimpse of

a form with flying black hair disappearing with wonderful quickness

in the forest. Wetzel always left death behind him, and he was gone

before his demoniac yell ceased to echo throughout the woods.

Although often pursued, he invariably eluded the Indians, for he was

the fleetest runner on the border.

For many years he was considered the right hand of the defense of

the fort. The Indians held him in superstitious dread, and the fact

that he was known to be in the settlement had averted more than one

attack by the Indians.

Many regarded Wetzel as a savage, a man who was mad for the blood of

the red men, and without one redeeming quality. But this was an

unjust opinion. When that restless fever for revenge left him--it

was not always with him--he was quiet and peaceable. To those few

who knew him well he was even amiable. But Wetzel, although known to

everyone, cared for few. He spent little time in the settlements and

rarely spoke except when addressed.

Nature had singularly fitted him for his pre-eminent position among

scouts and hunters. He was tall and broad across the shoulders; his

strength, agility and endurance were marvelous; he had an eagle eye,

the sagacity of the bloodhound, and that intuitive knowledge which

plays such an important part in a hunter's life. He knew not fear.

He was daring where daring was the wiser part. Crafty, tireless and

implacable, Wetzel was incomparable in his vocation.

His long raven-black hair, of which he was vain, when combed out

reached to within a foot of the ground. He had a rare scalp, one for

which the Indians would have bartered anything.

A favorite Indian decoy, and the most fatal one, was the imitation

of the call of the wild turkey. It had often happened that men from

the settlements who had gone out for a turkey which had been

gobbling, had not returned.

For several mornings Wetzel had heard a turkey call, and becoming

suspicious of it, had determined to satisfy himself. On the east

side of the creek hill there was a cavern some fifty or sixty yards

above the water. The entrance to this cavern was concealed by vines

and foliage. Wetzel knew of it, and, crossing the stream some

distance above, he made a wide circuit and came up back of the cave.

Here he concealed himself in a clump of bushes and waited. He had

not been there long when directly below him sounded the cry,

"Chug-a-lug, Chug-a-lug, Chug-a-lug." At the same time the polished

head and brawny shoulders of an Indian warrior rose out of the

cavern. Peering cautiously around, the savage again gave the

peculiar cry, and then sank back out of sight. Wetzel screened

himself safely in his position and watched the savage repeat the

action at least ten times before he made up his mind that the Indian

was alone in the cave. When he had satisfied himself of this he took

a quick aim at the twisted tuft of hair and fired. Without waiting

to see the result of his shot--so well did he trust his unerring

aim--he climbed down the steep bank and brushing aside the vines

entered the cave. A stalwart Indian lay in the entrance with his

face pressed down on the vines. He still clutched in his sinewy

fingers the buckhorn mouthpiece with which he had made the calls

that had resulted in his death.

"Huron," muttered the hunter to himself as he ran the keen edge of

his knife around the twisted tuft of hair and tore off the

scalp-lock.

The cave showed evidence of having been inhabited for some time.

There was a cunningly contrived fireplace made of stones, against

which pieces of birch bark were placed in such a position that not a

ray of light could get out of the cavern. The bed of black coals

between the stones still smoked; a quantity of parched corn lay on a

little rocky shelf which jutted out from the wall; a piece of jerked

meat and a buckskin pouch hung from a peg.

Suddenly Wetzel dropped on his knees and began examining the

footprints in the sandy floor of the cavern. He measured the length

and width of the dead warrior's foot. He closely scrutinized every

moccasin print. He crawled to the opening of the cavern and

carefully surveyed the moss.

Then he rose to his feet. A remarkable transformation had come over

him during the last few moments. His face had changed; the calm

expression was replaced by one sullen and fierce: his lips were set

in a thin, cruel line, and a strange light glittered in his eyes.

He slowly pursued a course lending gradually down to the creek. At

intervals he would stop and listen. The strange voices of the woods

were not mysteries to him. They were more familiar to him than the

voices of men.

He recalled that, while on his circuit over the ridge to get behind

the cavern, he had heard the report of a rifle far off in the

direction of the chestnut grove, but, as that was a favorite place

of the settlers for shooting squirrels, he had not thought anything

of it at the time. Now it had a peculiar significance. He turned

abruptly from the trail he had been following and plunged down the

steep hill. Crossing the creek he took to the cover of the willows,

which grew profusely along the banks, and striking a sort of bridle

path he started on a run. He ran easily, as though accustomed to

that mode of travel, and his long strides covered a couple of miles

in short order. Coming to the rugged bluff, which marked the end of

the ridge, he stopped and walked slowly along the edge of the water.

He struck the trail of the Indians where it crossed the creek, just

where he expected. There were several moccasin tracks in the wet

sand and, in some of the depressions made by the heels the rounded

edges of the imprints were still smooth and intact. The little pools

of muddy water, which still lay in these hollows, were other

indications to his keen eyes that the Indians had passed this point

early that morning.

The trail led up the hill and far into the woods. Never in doubt the

hunter kept on his course; like a shadow he passed from tree to tree

and from bush to bush; silently, cautiously, but rapidly he followed

the tracks of the Indians. When he had penetrated the dark backwoods

of the Black Forest tangled underbrush, windfalls and gullies

crossed his path and rendered fast trailing impossible. Before these

almost impassible barriers he stopped and peered on all sides,

studying the lay of the land, the deadfalls, the gorges, and all the

time keeping in mind the probable route of the redskins. Then he

turned aside to avoid the roughest travelling. Sometimes these

detours were only a few hundred feet long; often they were miles;

but nearly always he struck the trail again. This almost superhuman

knowledge of the Indian's ways of traversing the forest, which

probably no man could have possessed without giving his life to the

hunting of Indians, was the one feature of Wetzel's woodcraft which

placed him so far above other hunters, and made him so dreaded by

the savages.

Descending a knoll he entered a glade where the trees grew farther

apart and the underbrush was only knee high. The black soil showed

that the tract of land had been burned over. On the banks of a

babbling brook which wound its way through this open space, the

hunter found tracks which brought an exclamation from him. Clearly

defined in the soft earth was the impress of a white man's moccasin.

The footprints of an Indian toe inward. Those of a white man are

just the opposite. A little farther on Wetzel came to a slight

crushing of the moss, where he concluded some heavy body had fallen.

As he had seen the tracks of a buck and doe all the way down the

brook he thought it probable one of them had been shot by the white

hunter. He found a pool of blood surrounded by moccasin prints; and

from that spot the trail led straight toward the west, showing that

for some reason the Indians had changed their direction.

This new move puzzled the hunter, and he leaned against the trunk of

a tree, while he revolved in his mind the reasons for this abrupt

departure--for such he believed it. The trail he had followed for

miles was the devious trail of hunting Indians, stealing slowly and

stealthily along watching for their prey, whether it be man or

beast. The trail toward the west was straight as the crow flies; the

moccasin prints that indented the soil were wide apart, and to an

inexperienced eye looked like the track of one Indian. To Wetzel

this indicated that the Indians had all stepped in the tracks of a

leader.

As was usually his way, Wetzel decided quickly. He had calculated

that there were eight Indians in all, not counting the chief whom he

had shot. This party of Indians had either killed or captured the

white man who had been hunting. Wetzel believed that a part of the

Indians would push on with all possible speed, leaving some of their

number to ambush the trail or double back on it to see if they were

pursued.

An hour of patient waiting, in which he never moved from his

position, proved the wisdom of his judgment. Suddenly, away at the

other end of the grove, he caught a flash of brown, of a living,

moving something, like the flitting of a bird behind a tree. Was it

a bird or a squirrel? Then again he saw it, almost lost in the shade

of the forest. Several minutes passed, in which Wetzel never moved

and hardly breathed. The shadow had disappeared behind a tree. He

fixed his keen eyes on that tree and presently a dark object glided

from it and darted stealthily forward to another tree. One, two,

three dark forms followed the first one. They were Indian warriors,

and they moved so quickly that only the eyes of a woodsman like

Wetzel could have discerned their movements at that distance.

Probably most hunters would have taken to their heels while there

was yet time. The thought did not occur to Wetzel. He slowly raised

the hammer of his rifle. As the Indians came into plain view he saw

they did not suspect his presence, but were returning on the trail

in their customary cautious manner.

When the first warrior reached a big oak tree some two hundred yards

distant, the long, black barrel of the hunter's rifle began slowly,

almost imperceptibly, to rise, and as it reached a level the savage

stepped forward from the tree. With the sharp report of the weapon

he staggered and fell.

Wetzel sprang up and knowing that his only escape was in rapid

flight, with his well known yell, he bounded off at the top of his

speed. The remaining Indians discharged their guns at the fleeing,

dodging figure, but without effect. So rapidly did he dart in and

out among the trees that an effectual aim was impossible. Then, with

loud yells, the Indians, drawing their tomahawks, started in

pursuit, expecting soon to overtake their victim.

In the early years of his Indian hunting, Wetzel had perfected

himself in a practice which had saved his life many tunes, and had

added much to his fame. He could reload his rifle while running at

topmost speed. His extraordinary fleetness enabled him to keep ahead

of his pursuers until his rifle was reloaded. This trick he now

employed. Keeping up his uneven pace until his gun was ready, he

turned quickly and shot the nearest Indian dead in his tracks. The

next Indian had by this time nearly come up with him and close

enough to throw his tomahawk, which whizzed dangerously near

Wetzel's head. But he leaped forward again and soon his rifle was

reloaded. Every time he looked around the Indians treed, afraid to

face his unerring weapon. After running a mile or more in this

manner, he reached an open space in the woods where he wheeled

suddenly on his pursuers. The foremost Indian jumped behind a tree,

but, as it did not entirely screen his body, he, too, fell a victim

to the hunter's aim. The Indian must have been desperately wounded,

for his companion now abandoned the chase and went to his

assistance. Together they disappeared in the forest.

Wetzel, seeing that he was no longer pursued, slackened his pace and

proceeded thoughtfully toward the settlement.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That same day, several hours after Wetzel's departure in quest of

the turkey, Alfred Clarke strolled over from the fort and found

Colonel Zane in the yard. The Colonel was industriously stirring the

contents of a huge copper kettle which swung over a brisk wood fire.

The honeyed fragrance of apple-butter mingled with the pungent odor

of burning hickory.

"Morning, Alfred, you see they have me at it," was the Colonel's

salute.

"So I observe," answered Alfred, as he seated himself on the

wood-pile. "What is it you are churning so vigorously?"

"Apple-butter, my boy, apple-butter. I don't allow even Bessie to

help when I am making apple-butter."

"Colonel Zane, I have come over to ask a favor. Ever since you

notified us that you intended sending an expedition up the river I

have been worried about my horse Roger. He is too light for a pack

horse, and I cannot take two horses."

"I'll let you have the bay. He is big and strong enough. That black

horse of yours is a beauty. You leave Roger with me and if you never

come back I'll be in a fine horse. Ha, Ha! But, seriously, Clarke,

this proposed trip is a hazardous undertaking, and if you would

rather stay--"

"You misunderstand me," quickly replied Alfred, who had flushed. "I

do not care about myself. I'll go and take my medicine. But I do

mind about my horse."

"That's right. Always think of your horses. I'll have Sam take the

best of care of Roger."

"What is the nature of this excursion, and how long shall we be

gone?"

"Jonathan will guide the party. He says it will take six weeks if

you have pleasant weather. You are to go by way of Short Creek,

where you will help put up a blockhouse. Then you go to Fort Pitt.

There you will embark on a raft with the supplies I need and make

the return journey by water. You will probably smell gunpowder

before you get back."

"What shall we do with the horses?"

"Bring them along with you on the raft, of course."

"That is a new way to travel with horses," said Alfred, looking

dubiously at the swift river. "Will there be any way to get news

from Fort Henry while we are away?"

"Yes, there will be several runners."

"Mr. Clarke, I am going to feed my pets. Would you like to see

them?" asked a voice which brought Alfred to his feet. He turned and

saw Betty. Her dog followed her, carrying a basket.

"I shall be delighted," answered Alfred. "Have you more pets than

Tige and Madcap?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. I have a bear, six squirrels, one of them white,

and some pigeons."

Betty led the way to an enclosure adjoining Colonel Zane's barn. It

was about twenty feet square, made of pine saplings which had been

split and driven firmly into the ground. As Betty took down a bar

and opened the small gate a number of white pigeons fluttered down

from the roof of the barn, several of them alighting on her

shoulders. A half-grown black bear came out of a kennel and shuffled

toward her. He was unmistakably glad to see her, but he avoided

going near Tige, and looked doubtfully at the young man. But after

Alfred had stroked his head and had spoken to him he seemed disposed

to be friendly, for he sniffed around Alfred's knees and then stood

up and put his paws against the young man's shoulders.

"Here, Caesar, get down," said Betty. "He always wants to wrestle,

especially with anyone of whom he is not suspicious. He is very tame

and will do almost anything. Indeed, you would marvel at his

intelligence. He never forgets an injury. If anyone plays a trick on

him you may be sure that person will not get a second opportunity.

The night we caught him Tige chased him up a tree and Jonathan

climbed the tree and lassoed him. Ever since he has evinced a hatred

of Jonathan, and if I should leave Tige alone with him there would

be a terrible fight. But for that I could allow Caesar to run free

about the yard."

"He looks bright and sagacious," remarked Alfred.

"He is, but sometimes he gets into mischief. I nearly died laughing

one day. Bessie, my brother's wife, you know, had the big kettle on

the fire, just as you saw it a moment ago, only this time she was

boiling down maple syrup. Tige was out with some of the men and I

let Caesar loose awhile. If there is anything he loves it is maple

sugar, so when he smelled the syrup he pulled down the kettle and

the hot syrup went all over his nose. Oh, his howls were dreadful to

hear. The funniest part about it was he seemed to think it was

intentional, for he remained sulky and cross with me for two weeks."

"I can understand your love for animals," said Alfred. "I think

there are many interesting things about wild creatures. There are

comparatively few animals down in Virginia where I used to live, and

my opportunities to study them have been limited."

"Here are my squirrels," said Betty, unfastening the door of a cage.

A number of squirrels ran out. Several jumped to the ground. One

perched on top of the box. Another sprang on Betty's shoulder. "I

fasten them up every night, for I'm afraid the weasels and foxes

will get them. The white squirrel is the only albino we have seen

around here. It took Jonathan weeks to trap him, but once captured

he soon grew tame. Is he not pretty?"

"He certainly is. I never saw one before; in fact, I did not know

such a beautiful little animal existed," answered Alfred, looking in

admiration at the graceful creature, as he leaped from the shelf to

Betty's arm and ate from her hand, his great, bushy white tail

arching over his back and his small pink eyes shining.

"There! Listen," said Betty. "Look at the fox squirrel, the big

brownish red one. I call him the Captain, because he always wants to

boss the others. I had another fox squirrel, older than this fellow,

and he ran things to suit himself, until one day the grays united

their forces and routed him. I think they would have killed him had

I not freed him. Well, this one is commencing the same way. Do you

hear that odd clicking noise? That comes from the Captain's teeth,

and he is angry and jealous because I show so much attention to this

one. He always does that, and he would fight too if I were not

careful. It is a singular fact, though, that the white squirrel has

not even a little pugnacity. He either cannot fight, or he is too

well behaved. Here, Mr. Clarke, show Snowball this nut, and then

hide it in your pocket, and see him find it."

Alfred did as he was told, except that while he pretended to put the

nut in his pocket he really kept it concealed in his hand.

The pet squirrel leaped lightly on Alfred's shoulder, ran over his

breast, peeped in all his pockets, and even pushed his cap to one

side of his head. Then he ran down Alfred's arm, sniffed in his coat

sleeve, and finally wedged a cold little nose between his closed

fingers.

"There, he has found it, even though you did not play fair," said

Betty, laughing gaily.

Alfred never forgot the picture Betty made standing there with the

red cap on her dusky hair, and the loving smile upon her face as she

talked to her pets. A white fan-tail pigeon had alighted on her

shoulder and was picking daintily at the piece of cracker she held

between her lips. The squirrels were all sitting up, each with a nut

in his little paws, and each with an alert and cunning look in the

corner of his eye, to prevent, no doubt, being surprised out of a

portion of his nut. Caesar was lying on all fours, growling and

tearing at his breakfast, while the dog looked on with a superior

air, as if he knew they would not have had any breakfast but for

him.

"Are you fond of canoeing and fishing?" asked Betty, as they

returned to the house.

"Indeed I am. Isaac has taken me out on the river often. Canoeing

may be pleasant for a girl, but I never knew one who cared for

fishing."

"Now you behold one. I love dear old Izaak Walton. Of course, you

have read his books?"

"I am ashamed to say I have not."

"And you say you are a fisherman? Well, you haste a great pleasure

in store, as well as an opportunity to learn something of the

'contemplative man's recreation.' I shall lend you the books."

"I have not seen a book since I came to Fort Henry."

"I have a fine little library, and you are welcome to any of my

books. But to return to fishing. I love it, and yet I nearly always

allow the fish to go free. Sometimes I bring home a pretty sunfish,

place him in a tub of water, watch him and try to tame him. But I

must admit failure. It is the association which makes fishing so

delightful. The canoe gliding down a swift stream, the open air, the

blue sky, the birds and trees and flowers--these are what I love.

Come and see my canoe."

Thus Betty rattled on as she led the way through the sitting-room

and kitchen to Colonel Zane's magazine and store-house which opened

into the kitchen. This little low-roofed hut contained a variety of

things. Boxes, barrels and farming implements filled one corner;

packs of dried skins were piled against the wall; some otter and fox

pelts were stretched on the wall, and a number of powder kegs lined

a shelf. A slender canoe swung from ropes thrown over the rafters.

Alfred slipped it out of the loops and carried it outside.

The canoe was a superb specimen of Indian handiwork. It had a length

of fourteen feet and was made of birch bark, stretched over a light

framework of basswood. The bow curved gracefully upward, ending in a

carved image representing a warrior's head. The sides were

beautifully ornamented and decorated in fanciful Indian designs.

"My brother's Indian guide, Tomepomehala, a Shawnee chief, made it

for me. You see this design on the bow. The arrow and the arm mean

in Indian language, 'The race is to the swift and the strong.' The

canoe is very light. See, I can easily carry it," said Betty,

lifting it from the grass.

She ran into the house and presently came out with two rods, a book

and a basket.

"These are Jack's rods. He cut them out of the heart of ten-year-old

basswood trees, so he says. We must be careful of them."

Alfred examined the rods with the eye of a connoisseur and

pronounced them perfect.

"These rods have been made by a lover of the art. Anyone with half

an eye could see that. What shall we use for bait?" he said.

"Sam got me some this morning."

"Did you expect to go?" asked Alfred, looking up in surprise.

"Yes, I intended going, and as you said you were coming over, I

meant to ask you to accompany me."

"That was kind of you."

"Where are you young people going?" called Colonel Zane, stopping in

his task.

"We are going down to the sycamore," answered Betty.

"Very well. But be certain and stay on this side of the creek and do

not go out on the river," said the Colonel.

"Why, Eb, what do you mean? One might think Mr. Clarke and I were

children," exclaimed Betty.

"You certainly aren't much more. But that is not my reason. Never

mind the reason. Do as I say or do not go," said Colonel Zane.

"All right, brother. I shall not forget," said Betty, soberly,

looking at the Colonel. He had not spoken in his usual teasing way,

and she was at a loss to understand him. "Come, Mr. Clarke, you

carry the canoe and follow me down this path and look sharp for

roots and stones or you may trip."

"Where is Isaac?" asked Alfred, as he lightly swung the canoe over

his shoulder.

"He took his rifle and went up to the chestnut grove an hour or more

ago."

A few minutes' walk down the willow skirted path and they reached

the creek. Here it was a narrow stream, hardly fifty feet wide,

shallow, and full of stones over which the clear brown water rushed

noisily.

"Is it not rather risky going down there?" asked Alfred as he

noticed the swift current and the numerous boulders poking

treacherous heads just above the water.

"Of course. That is the great pleasure in canoeing," said Betty,

calmly. "If you would rather walk--"

"No, I'll go if I drown. I was thinking of you."

"It is safe enough if you can handle a paddle," said Betty, with a

smile at his hesitation. "And, of course, if your partner in the

canoe sits trim."

"Perhaps you had better allow me to use the paddle. Where did you

learn to steer a canoe?"

"I believe you are actually afraid. Why, I was born on the Potomac,

and have used a paddle since I was old enough to lift one. Come,

place the canoe in here and we will keep to the near shore until we

reach the bend. There is a little fall just below this and I love to

shoot it."

He steadied the canoe with one hand while he held out the other to

help her, but she stepped nimbly aboard without his assistance.

"Wait a moment while I catch some crickets and grasshoppers."

"Gracious! What a fisherman. Don't you know we have had frost?"

"That's so," said Alfred, abashed by her simple remark.

"But you might find some crickets under those logs," said Betty. She

laughed merrily at the awkward spectacle made by Alfred crawling

over the ground, improvising a sort of trap out of his hat, and

pouncing down on a poor little insect.

"Now, get in carefully, and give the canoe a push. There, we are

off," she said, taking up the paddle.

The little bark glided slowly down stream at first hugging the bank

as though reluctant to trust itself to the deeper water, and then

gathering headway as a few gentle strokes of the paddle swerved it

into the current. Betty knelt on one knee and skillfully plied the

paddle, using the Indian stroke in which the paddle was not removed

from the water.

"This is great!" exclaimed Alfred, as he leaned back in the bow

facing her. "There is nothing more to be desired. This beautiful

clear stream, the air so fresh, the gold lined banks, the autumn

leaves, a guide who--"

"Look," said Betty. "There is the fall over which we must pass."

He looked ahead and saw that they were swiftly approaching two huge

stones that reared themselves high out of the water. They were only

a few yards apart and surrounded by smaller rocks, about high the

water rushed white with foam.

"Please do not move!" cried Betty, her eyes shining bright with

excitement.

Indeed, the situation was too novel for Alfred to do anything but

feel a keen enjoyment. He had made up his mind that he was sure to

get a ducking, but, as he watched Betty's easy, yet vigorous sweeps

with the paddle, and her smiling, yet resolute lips, he felt

reassured. He could see that the fall was not a great one, only a

few feet, but one of those glancing sheets of water like a mill

race, and he well knew that if they struck a stone disaster would be

theirs. Twenty feet above the white-capped wave which marked the

fall, Betty gave a strong forward pull on the paddle, a deep stroke

which momentarily retarded their progress even in that swift

current, and then, a short backward stroke, far under the stern of

the canoe, and the little vessel turned straight, almost in the

middle of the course between the two rocks. As she raised her paddle

into the canoe and smiled at the fascinated young man, the bow

dipped, and with that peculiar downward movement, that swift,

exhilarating rush so dearly loved by canoeists, they shot down the

smooth incline of water, were lost for a moment in a white cloud of

mist, and in another they coated into a placid pool.

"Was not that delightful?" she asked, with just a little conscious

pride glowing in her dark eyes.

"Miss Zane, it was more than that. I apologize for my suspicions.

You have admirable skill. I only wish that on my voyage down the

River of Life I could have such a sure eye and hand to guide me

through the dangerous reefs and rapids."

"You are poetical," said Betty, who laughed, and at the same time

blushed slightly. "But you are right about the guide. Jonathan says

'always get a good guide,' and as guiding is his work he ought to

know. But this has nothing in common with fishing, and here is my

favorite place under the old sycamore."

With a long sweep of the paddle she ran the canoe alongside a stone

beneath a great tree which spread its long branches over the creek

and shaded the pool. It was a grand old tree and must have guarded

that sylvan spot for centuries. The gnarled and knotted trunk was

scarred and seamed with the ravages of time. The upper part was

dead. Long limbs extended skyward, gaunt and bare, like the masts of

a storm beaten vessel. The lower branches were white and shining,

relieved here and there by brown patches of bark which curled up

like old parchment as they shelled away from the inner bark. The

ground beneath the tree was carpeted with a velvety moss with little

plots of grass and clusters of maiden-hair fern growing on it. From

under an overhanging rock on the bank a spring of crystal water

bubbled forth.

Alfred rigged up the rods, and baiting a hook directed Betty to

throw her line well out into the current and let it float down into

the eddy. She complied, and hardly had the line reached the circle

of the eddy, where bits of white foam floated round and round, when

there was a slight splash, a scream from Betty and she was standing

up in the canoe holding tightly to her rod.

"Be careful!" exclaimed Alfred. "Sit down. You will have the canoe

upset in a moment. Hold your rod steady and keep the line taut.

That's right. Now lead him round toward me. There," and grasping the

line he lifted a fine rock bass over the side of the canoe.

"Oh! I always get so intensely excited," breathlessly cried Betty.

"I can't help it. Jonathan always declares he will never take me

fishing again. Let me see the fish. It's a goggle-eye. Isn't he

pretty? Look how funny he bats his eyes," and she laughed gleefully

as she gingerly picked up the fish by the tail and dropped him into

the water. "Now, Mr. Goggle-eye, if you are wise, in future you will

beware of tempting looking bugs."

For an hour they had splendid sport. The pool teemed with sunfish.

The bait would scarcely touch the water when the little orange

colored fellows would rush for it. Now and then a black bass darted

wickedly through the school of sunfish and stole the morsel from

them. Or a sharp-nosed fiery-eyed pickerel--vulture of the

water--rising to the surface, and, supreme in his indifference to

man or fish, would swim lazily round until he had discovered the

cause of all this commotion among the smaller fishes, and then,

opening wide his jaws would take the bait with one voracious snap.

Presently something took hold of Betty's line and moved out toward

the middle of the pool. She struck and the next instant her rod was

bent double and the tip under water.

"Pull your rod up!" shouted Alfred. "Here, hand it to me."

But it was too late. A surge right and left, a vicious tug, and

Betty's line floated on the surface of the water.

"Now, isn't that too bad? He has broken my line. Goodness, I never

before felt such a strong fish. What shall I do?"

"You should be thankful you were not pulled in. I have been in a

state of fear ever since we commenced fishing. You move round in

this canoe as though it were a raft. Let me paddle out to that

little ripple and try once there; then we will stop. I know you are

tired."

Near the center of the pool a half submerged rock checked the

current and caused a little ripple of the water. Several times

Alfred had seen the dark shadow of a large fish followed by a swirl

of the water, and the frantic leaping of little bright-sided minnows

in all directions. As his hook, baited with a lively shiner, floated

over the spot, a long, yellow object shot from out that shaded lair.

There was a splash, not unlike that made by the sharp edge of a

paddle impelled by a short, powerful stroke, the minnow disappeared,

and the broad tail of the fish flapped on the water. The instant

Alfred struck, the water boiled and the big fish leaped clear into

the air, shaking himself convulsively to get rid of the hook. He

made mad rushes up and down the pool, under the canoe, into the

swift current and against the rocks, but all to no avail. Steadily

Alfred increased the strain on the line and gradually it began to

tell, for the plunges of the fish became shorter and less frequent.

Once again, in a last magnificent effort, he leaped straight into

the air, and failing to get loose, gave up the struggle and was

drawn gasping and exhausted to the side of the canoe.

"Are you afraid to touch him?" asked Alfred.

"Indeed I am not," answered Betty.

"Then run your hand gently down the line, slip your fingers in under

his gills and lift him over the side carefully."

"Five pounds," exclaimed Alfred, when the fish lay at his feet.

"This is the largest black bass I ever caught. It is pity to take

such a beautiful fish out of his element."

"Let him go, then. May I?" said Betty.

"No, you have allowed them all to go, even the pickerel which I

think ought to be killed. We will keep this fellow alive, and place

him in that nice clear pool over in the fort-yard."

"I like to watch you play a fish," said Betty. "Jonathan always

hauls them right out. You are so skillful. You let this fish run so

far and then you checked him. Then you gave him a line to go the

other way, and no doubt he felt free once more when you stopped him

again."

"You are expressing a sentiment which has been, is, and always will

be particularly pleasing to the fair sex, I believe," observed

Alfred, smiling rather grimly as he wound up his line.

"Would you mind being explicit?" she questioned.

Alfred had laughed and was about to answer when the whip-like crack

of a rifle came from the hillside. The echoes of the shot

reverberated from hill to hill and were finally lost far down the

valley.

"What can that be?" exclaimed Alfred anxiously, recalling Colonel

Zane's odd manner when they were about to leave the house.

"I am not sure, but I think that is my turkey, unless Lew Wetzel

happened to miss his aim," said Betty, laughing. "And that is such

an unprecedented thing that it can hardly be considered. Turkeys are

scarce this season. Jonathan says the foxes and wolves ate up the

broods. Lew heard this turkey calling and he made little Harry

Bennet, who had started out with his gun, stay at home and went

after Mr. Gobbler himself."

"Is that all? Well, that is nothing to get alarmed about, is it? I

actually had a feeling of fear, or a presentiment, we might say."

They beached the canoe and spread out the lunch in the shade near

the spring. Alfred threw himself at length upon the grass and Betty

sat leaning against the tree. She took a biscuit in one hand, a

pickle in the other, and began to chat volubly to Alfred of her

school life, and of Philadelphia, and the friends she had made

there. At length, remarking his abstraction, she said: "You are not

listening to me."

"I beg your pardon. My thoughts did wander. I was thinking of my

mother. Something about you reminds me of her. I do not know what,

unless it is that little mannerism you have of pursing up your lips

when you hesitate or stop to think."

"Tell me of her," said Betty, seeing his softened mood.

"My mother was very beautiful, and as good as she was lovely. I

never had a care until my father died. Then she married again, and

as I did not get on with my step-father I ran away from home. I have

not been in Virginia for four years."

"Do you get homesick?"

"Indeed I do. While at Fort Pitt I used to have spells of the blues

which lasted for days. For a time I felt more contented here. But I

fear the old fever of restlessness will come over me again. I can

speak freely to you because I know you will understand, and I feel

sure of your sympathy. My father wanted me to be a minister. He sent

me to the theological seminary at Princeton, where for two years I

tried to study. Then my father died. I went home and looked after

things until my mother married again. That changed everything for

me. I ran away and have since been a wanderer. I feel that I am not

lazy, that I am not afraid of work, but four years have drifted by

and I have nothing to show for it. I am discouraged. Perhaps that is

wrong, but tell me how I can help it. I have not the stoicism of the

hunter, Wetzel, nor have I the philosophy of your brother. I could

not be content to sit on my doorstep and smoke my pipe and watch the

wheat and corn grow. And then, this life of the borderman, environed

as it is by untold dangers, leads me, fascinates me, and yet appalls

me with the fear that here I shall fall a victim to an Indian's

bullet or spear, and find a nameless grave."

A long silence ensued. Alfred had spoken quietly, but with an

undercurrent of bitterness that saddened Betty. For the first time

she saw a shadow of pain in his eyes. She looked away down the

valley, not seeing the brown and gold hills boldly defined against

the blue sky, nor the beauty of the river as the setting sun cast a

ruddy glow on the water. Her companion's words had touched an

unknown chord in her heart. When finally she turned to answer him a

beautiful light shone in her eyes, a light that shines not on land

or sea--the light of woman's hope.

"Mr. Clarke," she said, and her voice was soft and low, "I am only a

girl, but I can understand. You are unhappy. Try to rise above it.

Who knows what will befall this little settlement? It may be swept

away by the savages, and it may grow to be a mighty city. It must

take that chance. So must you, so must we all take chances. You are

here. Find your work and do it cheerfully, honestly, and let the

future take care of itself. And let me say--do not be

offended--beware of idleness and drink. They are as great a

danger--nay, greater than the Indians."

"Miss Zane, if you were to ask me not to drink I would never touch a

drop again," said Alfred, earnestly.

"I did not ask that," answered Betty, flushing slightly. "But I

shall remember it as a promise and some day I may ask it of you."

He looked wonderingly at the girl beside him. He had spent most of

his life among educated and cultured people. He had passed several

years in the backwoods. But with all his experience with people he

had to confess that this young woman was as a revelation to him. She

could ride like an Indian and shoot like a hunter. He had heard that

she could run almost as swiftly as her brothers. Evidently she

feared nothing, for he had just seen an example of her courage in a

deed that had tried even his own nerve, and, withal, she was a

bright, happy girl, earnest and true, possessing all the softer

graces of his sisters, and that exquisite touch of feminine delicacy

and refinement which appeals more to men than any other virtue.

"Have you not met Mr. Miller before he came here from Fort Pitt?"

asked Betty.

"Why do you ask?"

"I think he mentioned something of the kind."

"What else did he say?"

"Why--Mr. Clarke, I hardly remember."

"I see," said Alfred, his face darkening. "He has talked about me. I

do not care what he said. I knew him at Fort Pitt, and we had

trouble there. I venture to say he has told no one about it. He

certainly would not shine in the story. But I am not a tattler."

"It is not very difficult to see that you do not like him. Jonathan

does not, either. He says Mr. Miller was friendly with McKee, and

the notorious Simon Girty, the soldiers who deserted from Fort Pitt

and went to the Indians. The girls like him however."

"Usually if a man is good looking and pleasant that is enough for

the girls. I noticed that he paid you a great deal of attention at

the dance. He danced three times with you."

"Did he? How observing you are," said Betty, giving him a little

sidelong glance. "Well, he is very agreeable, and he dances better

than many of the young men."

"I wonder if Wetzel got the turkey. I have heard no more shots,"

said Alfred, showing plainly that he wished to change the subject.

"Oh, look there! Quick!" exclaimed Betty, pointing toward the

hillside.

He looked in the direction indicated and saw a doe and a spotted

fawn wading into the shallow water. The mother stood motionless a

moment, with head erect and long ears extended. Then she drooped her

graceful head and drank thirstily of the cool water. The fawn

splashed playfully round while its mother was drinking. It would

dash a few paces into the stream and then look back to see if its

mother approved. Evidently she did not, for she would stop her

drinking and call the fawn back to her side with a soft, crooning

noise. Suddenly she raised her head, the long ears shot up, and she

seemed to sniff the air. She waded through the deeper water to get

round a rocky bluff which ran out into the creek. Then she turned

and called the little one. The fawn waded until the water reached

its knees, then stopped and uttered piteous little bleats.

Encouraged by the soft crooning it plunged into the deep water and

with great splashing and floundering managed to swim the short

distance. Its slender legs shook as it staggered up the bank.

Exhausted or frightened, it shrank close to its mother. Together

they disappeared in the willows which fringed the side of the hill.

"Was not that little fellow cute? I have had several fawns, but have

never had the heart to keep them," said Betty. Then, as Alfred made

no motion to speak, she continued:

"You do not seem very talkative."

"I have nothing to say. You will think me dull. The fact is when I

feel deepest I am least able to express myself."

"I will read to you." said Betty taking up the book. He lay back

against the grassy bank and gazed dreamily at the many hued trees on

the little hillside; at the bare rugged sides of McColloch's Rock

which frowned down upon them. A silver-breasted eagle sailed slowly

round and round in the blue sky, far above the bluff. Alfred

wondered what mysterious power sustained that solitary bird as he

floated high in the air without perceptible movement of his broad

wings. He envied the king of birds his reign over that illimitable

space, his far-reaching vision, and his freedom. Round and round the

eagle soared, higher and higher, with each perfect circle, and at

last, for an instant poising as lightly as if he were about to perch

on his lonely crag, he arched his wings and swooped down through the

air with the swiftness of a falling arrow.

Betty's low voice, the water rushing so musically over the falls,

the great yellow leaves falling into the pool, the gentle breeze

stirring the clusters of goldenrod--all came softly to Alfred as he

lay there with half closed eyes.

The time slipped swiftly by as only such time can.

"I fear the melancholy spirit of the day has prevailed upon you,"

said Betty, half wistfully. "You did not know I had stopped reading,

and I do not believe you heard my favorite poem. I have tried to

give you a pleasant afternoon and have failed."

"No, no," said Alfred, looking at her with a blue flame in his eyes.

"The afternoon has been perfect. I have forgotten my role, and have

allowed you to see my real self, something I have tried to hide from

all."

"And are you always sad when you are sincere?"

"Not always. But I am often sad. Is it any wonder? Is not all nature

sad? Listen! There is the song of the oriole. Breaking in on the

stillness it is mournful. The breeze is sad, the brook is sad, this

dying Indian summer day is sad. Life itself is sad."

"Oh, no. Life is beautiful."

"You are a child," said he, with a thrill in his deep voice "I hope

you may always be as you are to-day, in heart, at least."

"It grows late. See, the shadows are falling. We must go."

"You know I am going away to-morrow. I don't want to go. Perhaps

that is why I have been such poor company today. I have a

presentiment of evil I am afraid I may never come back."

"I am sorry you must go."

"Do you really mean that?" asked Alfred, earnestly, bending toward

her "You know it is a very dangerous undertaking. Would you care if

I never returned?"

She looked up and their eyes met. She had raised her head haughtily,

as if questioning his right to speak to her in that manner, but as

she saw the unspoken appeal in his eyes her own wavered and fell

while a warm color crept into her cheek.

"Yes, I would be sorry," she said, gravely. Then, after a moment:

"You must portage the canoe round the falls, and from there we can

paddle back to the path."

The return trip made, they approached the house. As they turned the

corner they saw Colonel Zane standing at the door talking to Wetzel.

They saw that the Colonel looked pale and distressed, and the face

of the hunter was dark and gloomy.

"Lew, did you get my turkey?" said Betty, after a moment of

hesitation. A nameless fear filled her breast.

For answer Wetzel threw back the flaps of his coat and there at his

belt hung a small tuft of black hair. Betty knew at once it was the

scalp-lock of an Indian. Her face turned white and she placed a hand

on the hunter's arm.

"What do you mean? That is an Indian's scalp. Lew, you look so

strange. Tell me, is it because we went off in the canoe and have

been in danger?"

"Betty, Isaac has been captured again," said the Colonel.

"Oh, no, no, no," cried Betty in agonized tones, and wringing her

hands. Then, excitedly, "Something can be done; you must pursue

them. Oh, Lew, Mr. Clarke, cannot you rescue him? They have not had

time to go far."

"Isaac went to the chestnut grove this morning. If he had stayed

there he would not have been captured. But he went far into the

Black Forest. The turkey call we heard across the creek was made by

a Wyandot concealed in the cave. Lewis tells me that a number of

Indians have camped there for days. He shot the one who was calling

and followed the others until he found where they had taken Isaac's

trail."

Betty turned to the younger man with tearful eyes, and with

beseeching voice implored them to save her brother.

"I am ready to follow you," said Clarke to Wetzel.

The hunter shook his head, but did not answer.

"It is that hateful White Crane," passionately burst out Betty, as

the Colonel's wife led her weeping into the house.

"Did you get more than one shot at them?" asked Clarke.

The hunter nodded, and the slight, inscrutable smile flitted across

his stern features. He never spoke of his deeds. For this reason

many of the thrilling adventures which he must have had will forever

remain unrevealed. That evening there was sadness at Colonel Zane's

supper table. They felt the absence of the Colonel's usual spirits,

his teasing of Betty, and his cheerful conversation. He had nothing

to say. Betty sat at the table a little while, and then got up and

left the room saying she could not eat. Jonathan, on hearing of his

brother's recapture, did not speak, but retired in gloomy silence.

Silas was the only one of the family who was not utterly depressed.

He said it could have been a great deal worse; that they must make

the best of it, and that the sooner Isaac married his Indian

Princess the better for his scalp and for the happiness of all

concerned.

"I remember Myeerah very well," he said. "It was eight years ago,

and she was only a child. Even then she was very proud and willful,

and the loveliest girl I ever laid eyes on."

Alfred Clarke staid late at Colonel Zane's that night. Before going

away for so many weeks he wished to have a few more moments alone

with Betty. But a favorable opportunity did not present itself

during the evening, so when he had bade them all goodbye and

goodnight, except Betty, who opened the door for him, he said softly

to her:

"It is bright moonlight outside. Come, please, and walk to the gate

with me."

A full moon shone serenely down on hill and dale, flooding the

valley with its pure white light and bathing the pastures in its

glory; at the foot of the bluff the waves of the river gleamed like

myriads of stars all twinkling and dancing on a bed of snowy clouds.

Thus illumined the river wound down the valley, its brilliance

growing fainter and fainter until at last, resembling the shimmering

of a silver thread which joined the earth to heaven, it disappeared

in the horizon.

"I must say goodbye," said Alfred, as they reached the gate.

"Friends must part. I am sorry you must go, Mr. Clarke, and I trust

you may return safe. It seems only yesterday that you saved my

brother's life, and I was so grateful and happy. Now he is gone."

"You should not think about it so much nor brood over it," answered

the young man. "Grieving will not bring him back nor do you any

good. It is not nearly so bad as if he had been captured by some

other tribe. Wetzel assures us that Isaac was taken alive. Please do

not grieve."

"I have cried until I cannot cry any more. I am so unhappy. We were

children together, and I have always loved him better than any one

since my mother died. To have him back again and then to lose him!

Oh! I cannot bear it."

She covered her face with her hands and a low sob escaped her.

"Don't, don't grieve," he said in an unsteady voice, as he took the

little hands in his and pulled them away from her face.

Betty trembled. Something in his voice, a tone she had never heard

before startled her. She looked up at him half unconscious that he

still held her hands in his. Never had she appeared so lovely.

"You cannot understand my feelings."

"I loved my mother."

"But you have not lost her. That makes all the difference."

"I want to comfort you and I am powerless. I am unable to say

what--I--"

He stopped short. As he stood gazing down into her sweet face,

burning, passionate words came to his lips; but he was dumb; he

could not speak. All day long he had been living in a dream. Now he

realized that but a moment remained for him to be near the girl he

loved so well. He was leaving her, perhaps never to see her again,

or to return to find her another's. A fierce pain tore his heart.

"You--you are holding my hands," faltered Betty, in a doubtful,

troubled voice. She looked up into his face and saw that it was pale

with suppressed emotion.

Alfred was mad indeed. He forgot everything. In that moment the

world held nothing for him save that fair face. Her eyes, uplifted

to his in the moonlight, beamed with a soft radiance. They were

honest eyes, just now filled with innocent sadness and regret, but

they drew him with irresistible power. Without realizing in the

least what he was doing he yielded to the impulse. Bending his head

he kissed the tremulous lips.

"Oh," whispered Betty, standing still as a statue and looking at him

with wonderful eyes. Then, as reason returned, a hot flush dyed her

face, and wrenching her hands free she struck him across the cheek.

"For God's sake, Betty, I did not mean to do that! Wait. I have

something to tell you. For pity's sake, let me explain," he cried,

as the full enormity of his offence dawned upon him.

Betty was deaf to the imploring voice, for she ran into the house

and slammed the door.

He called to her, but received no answer. He knocked on the door,

but it remained closed. He stood still awhile, trying to collect his

thoughts, and to find a way to undo the mischief he had wrought.

When the real significance of his act came to him he groaned in

spirit. What a fool he had been! Only a few short hours and he must

start on a perilous journey, leaving the girl he loved in ignorance

of his real intentions. Who was to tell her that he loved her? Who

was to tell her that it was because his whole heart and soul had

gone to her that he had kissed her?

With bowed head he slowly walked away toward the fort, totally

oblivious of the fact that a young girl, with hands pressed tightly

over her breast to try to still a madly beating heart, watched him

from her window until he disappeared into the shadow of the

block-house.

Alfred paced up and down his room the four remaining hours of that

eventful day. When the light was breaking in at the east and dawn

near at hand he heard the rough voices of men and the tramping of

iron-shod hoofs. The hour of his departure was at hand.

He sat down at his table and by the aid of the dim light from a pine

knot he wrote a hurried letter to Betty. A little hope revived in

his heart as he thought that perhaps all might yet be well. Surely

some one would be up to whom he could intrust the letter, and if no

one he would run over and slip it under the door of Colonel Zane's

house.

In the gray of the early morning Alfred rode out with the daring

band of heavily armed men, all grim and stern, each silent with the

thought of the man who knows he may never return. Soon the

settlement was left far behind.

CHAPTER V.

During the last few days, in which the frost had cracked open the

hickory nuts, and in which the squirrels had been busily collecting

and storing away their supply of nuts for winter use, it had been

Isaac's wont to shoulder his rifle, walk up the hill, and spend the

morning in the grove.

On this crisp autumn morning he had started off as usual, and had

been called back by Col. Zane, who advised him not to wander far

from the settlement. This admonition, kind and brotherly though it

was, annoyed Isaac. Like all the Zanes he had born in him an intense

love for the solitude of the wilderness. There were times when

nothing could satisfy him but the calm of the deep woods.

One of these moods possessed him now. Courageous to a fault and

daring where daring was not always the wiser part, Isaac lacked the

practical sense of the Colonel and the cool judgment of Jonathan.

Impatient of restraint, independent in spirit, and it must be

admitted, in his persistence in doing as he liked instead of what he

ought to do, he resembled Betty more than he did his brothers.

Feeling secure in his ability to take care of himself, for he knew

he was an experienced hunter and woodsman, he resolved to take a

long tramp in the forest. This resolution was strengthened by the

fact that he did not believe what the Colonel and Jonathan had told

him--that it was not improbable some of the Wyandot braves were

lurking in the vicinity, bent on killing or recapturing him. At any

rate he did not fear it.

Once in the shade of the great trees the fever of discontent left

him, and, forgetting all except the happiness of being surrounded by

the silent oaks, he penetrated deeper and deeper into the forest.

The brushing of a branch against a tree, the thud of a falling nut,

the dart of a squirrel, and the sight of a bushy tail disappearing

round a limb--all these things which indicated that the little gray

fellows were working in the tree-tops, and which would usually have

brought Isaac to a standstill, now did not seem to interest him. At

times he stooped to examine the tender shoots growing at the foot of

a sassafras tree. Then, again, he closely examined marks he found in

the soft banks of the streams.

He went on and on. Two hours of this still-hunting found him on the

bank of a shallow gully through which a brook went rippling and

babbling over the mossy green stones. The forest was dense here;

rugged oaks and tall poplars grew high over the tops of the first

growth of white oaks and beeches; the wild grapevines which coiled

round the trees like gigantic serpents, spread out in the upper

branches and obscured the sun; witch-hopples and laurel bushes grew

thickly; monarchs of the forest, felled by some bygone storm, lay

rotting on the ground; and in places the wind-falls were so thick

and high as to be impenetrable.

Isaac hesitated. He realized that he had plunged far into the Black

Forest. Here it was gloomy; a dreamy quiet prevailed, that deep calm

of the wilderness, unbroken save for the distant note of the

hermit-thrush, the strange bird whose lonely cry, given at long

intervals, pierced the stillness. Although Isaac had never seen one

of these birds, he was familiar with that cry which was never heard

except in the deepest woods, far from the haunts of man.

A black squirrel ran down a tree and seeing the hunter scampered

away in alarm. Isaac knew the habits of the black squirrel, that it

was a denizen of the wildest woods and frequented only places remote

from civilization. The song of the hermit and the sight of the black

squirrel caused Isaac to stop and reflect, with the result that he

concluded he had gone much farther from the fort than he had

intended. He turned to retrace his steps when a faint sound from

down the ravine came to his sharp ears.

There was no instinct to warn him that a hideously painted face was

raised a moment over the clump of laurel bushes to his left, and

that a pair of keen eyes watched every move he made.

Unconscious of impending evil Isaac stopped and looked around him.

Suddenly above the musical babble of the brook and the rustle of the

leaves by the breeze came a repetition of the sound. He crouched

close by the trunk of a tree and strained his ears. All was quiet

for some moments. Then he heard the patter, patter of little hoofs

coming down the stream. Nearer and nearer they came. Sometimes they

were almost inaudible and again he heard them clearly and

distinctly. Then there came a splashing and the faint hollow sound

caused by hard hoofs striking the stones in shallow water. Finally

the sounds ceased.

Cautiously peering from behind the tree Isaac saw a doe standing on

the bank fifty yards down the brook. Trembling she had stopped as if

in doubt or uncertainty. Her ears pointed straight upward, and she

lifted one front foot from the ground like a thoroughbred pointer.

Isaac knew a doe always led the way through the woods and if there

were other deer they would come up unless warned by the doe.

Presently the willows parted and a magnificent buck with wide

spreading antlers stepped out and stood motionless on the bank.

Although they were down the wind Isaac knew the deer suspected some

hidden danger. They looked steadily at the clump of laurels at

Isaac's left, a circumstance he remarked at the time, but did not

understand the real significance of until long afterward.

Following the ringing report of Isaac's rifle the buck sprang almost

across the stream, leaped convulsively up the bank, reached the top,

and then his strength failing, slid down into the stream, where, in

his dying struggles, his hoofs beat the water into white foam. The

doe had disappeared like a brown flash.

Isaac, congratulating himself on such a fortunate shot--for rarely

indeed does a deer fall dead in his tracks even when shot through

the heart--rose from his crouching position and commenced to reload

his rifle. With great care he poured the powder into the palm of his

hand, measuring the quantity with his eye--for it was an evidence of

a hunter's skill to be able to get the proper quantity for the ball.

Then he put the charge into the barrel. Placing a little greased

linsey rag, about half an inch square, over the muzzle, he laid a

small lead bullet on it, and with the ramrod began to push the ball

into the barrel.

A slight rustle behind him, which sounded to him like the gliding of

a rattlesnake over the leaves, caused him to start and turn round.

But he was too late. A crushing blow on the head from a club in the

hand of a brawny Indian laid him senseless on the ground.

When Isaac regained his senses he felt a throbbing pain in his head,

and then he opened his eyes he was so dizzy that he was unable to

discern objects clearly. After a few moments his sight returned.

When he had struggled to a sitting posture he discovered that his

hands were bound with buckskin thongs. By his side he saw two long

poles of basswood, with some strips of green bark and pieces of

grapevine laced across and tied fast to the poles. Evidently this

had served as a litter on which he had been carried. From his wet

clothes and the position of the sun, now low in the west, he

concluded he had been brought across the river and was now miles

from the fort. In front of him he saw three Indians sitting before a

fire. One of them was cutting thin slices from a haunch of deer

meat, another was drinking from a gourd, and the third was roasting

a piece of venison which he held on a sharpened stick. Isaac knew at

once the Indians were Wyandots, and he saw they were in full war

paint. They were not young braves, but middle aged warriors. One of

them Isaac recognized as Crow, a chief of one of the Wyandot tribes,

and a warrior renowned for his daring and for his ability to make

his way in a straight line through the wilderness. Crow was a short,

heavy Indian and his frame denoted great strength. He had a broad

forehead, high cheek bones, prominent nose and his face would have

been handsome and intelligent but for the scar which ran across his

cheek, giving him a sinister look.

"Hugh!" said Crow, as he looked up and saw Isaac staring at him. The

other Indians immediately gave vent to a like exclamation.

"Crow, you caught me again," said Isaac, in the Wyandot tongue,

which he spoke fluently.

"The white chief is sure of eye and swift of foot, but he cannot

escape the Huron. Crow has been five times on his trail since the

moon was bright. The white chief's eyes were shut and his ears were

deaf," answered the Indian loftily.

"How long have you been near the fort?"

"Two moons have the warriors of Myeerah hunted the pale face."

"Have you any more Indians with you?"

The chief nodded and said a party of nine Wyandots had been in the

vicinity of Wheeling for a month. He named some of the warriors.

Isaac was surprised to learn of the renowned chiefs who had been

sent to recapture him. Not to mention Crow, the Delaware chiefs

Son-of-Wingenund and Wapatomeka were among the most cunning and

sagacious Indians of the west. Isaac reflected that his year's

absence from Myeerah had not caused her to forget him.

Crow untied Isaac's hands and gave him water and venison. Then he

picked up his rifle and with a word to the Indians he stepped into

the underbrush that skirted the little dale, and was lost to view.

Isaac's head ached and throbbed so that after he had satisfied his

thirst and hunger he was glad to close his eyes and lean back

against the tree. Engrossed in thoughts of the home he might never

see again, he had lain there an hour without moving, when he was

aroused from his meditations by low guttural exclamations from the

Indians. Opening his eyes he saw Crow and another Indian enter the

glade, leading and half supporting a third savage.

They helped this Indian to the log, where he sat down slowly and

wearily, holding one hand over his breast. He was a magnificent

specimen of Indian manhood, almost a giant in stature, with broad

shoulders in proportion to his height. His head-dress and the gold

rings which encircled his bare muscular arms indicated that he was a

chief high in power. The seven eagle plumes in his scalp-lock

represented seven warriors that he had killed in battle. Little

sticks of wood plaited in his coal black hair and painted different

colors showed to an Indian eye how many times this chief had been

wounded by bullet, knife, or tomahawk.

His face was calm. If he suffered he allowed no sign of it to escape

him. He gazed thoughtfully into the fire, slowly the while untying

the belt which contained his knife and tomahawk. The weapons were

raised and held before him, one in each hand, and then waved on

high. The action was repeated three times. Then slowly and

reluctantly the Indian lowered them as if he knew their work on

earth was done.

It was growing dark and the bright blaze from the camp fire lighted

up the glade, thus enabling Isaac to see the drooping figure on the

log, and in the background Crow, holding a whispered consultation

with the other Indians. Isaac heard enough of the colloquy to guess

the facts. The chief had been desperately rounded; the palefaces

were on their trail, and a march must be commenced at once.

Isaac knew the wounded chief. He was the Delaware Son-of-Wingenund.

He married a Wyandot squaw, had spent much of his time in the

Wyandot village and on warring expeditions which the two friendly

nations made on other tribes. Isaac had hunted with him, slept under

the same blanket with him, and had grown to like him.

As Isaac moved slightly in his position the chief saw him. He

straightened up, threw back the hunting shirt and pointed to a small

hole in his broad breast. A slender stream of blood issued from the

wound and flowed down his chest.

"Wind-of-Death is a great white chief. His gun is always loaded," he

said calmly, and a look of pride gleamed across his dark face, as

though he gloried in the wound made by such a warrior.

"Deathwind" was one of the many names given to Wetzel by the

savages, and a thrill of hope shot through Isaac's heart when he saw

the Indians feared Wetzel was on their track. This hope was short

lived, however, for when he considered the probabilities of the

thing he knew that pursuit would only result in his death before the

settlers could come up with the Indians, and he concluded that

Wetzel, familiar with every trick of the redmen, would be the first

to think of the hopelessness of rescuing him and so would not

attempt it.

The four Indians now returned to the fire and stood beside the

chief. It was evident to them that his end was imminent. He sang in

a low, not unmusical tone the death-chant of the Hurons. His

companions silently bowed their heads. When he had finished singing

he slowly rose to his great height, showing a commanding figure.

Slowly his features lost their stern pride, his face softened, and

his dark eyes, gazing straight into the gloom of the forest, bespoke

a superhuman vision.

"Wingenund has been a great chief. He has crossed his last trail.

The deeds of Wingenund will be told in the wigwams of the Lenape,"

said the chief in a loud voice, and then sank back into the arms of

his comrades. They laid him gently down.

A convulsive shudder shook the stricken warrior's frame. Then,

starting up he straightened out his long arm and clutched wildly at

the air with his sinewy fingers as if to grasp and hold the life

that was escaping him.

Isaac could see the fixed, sombre light in the eyes, and the pallor

of death stealing over the face of the chief. He turned his eyes

away from the sad spectacle, and when he looked again the majestic

figure lay still.

The moon sailed out from behind a cloud and shed its mellow light

down on the little glade. It showed the four Indians digging a grave

beneath the oak tree. No word was spoken. They worked with their

tomahawks on the soft duff and soon their task was completed. A bed

of moss and ferns lined the last resting place of the chief. His

weapons were placed beside him, to go with him to the Happy Hunting

Ground, the eternal home of the redmen, where the redmen believe the

sun will always shine, and where they will be free from their cruel

white foes.

When the grave had been filled and the log rolled on it the Indians

stood by it a moment, each speaking a few words in a low tone, while

the night wind moaned the dead chief's requiem through the tree

tops.

Accustomed as Isaac was to the bloody conflicts common to the

Indians, and to the tragedy that surrounded the life of a borderman,

the ghastly sight had unnerved him. The last glimpse of that stern,

dark face, of that powerful form, as the moon brightened up the spot

in seeming pity, he felt he could never forget. His thoughts were

interrupted by the harsh voice of Crow bidding him get up. He was

told that the slightest inclination on his part to lag behind on the

march before them, or in any way to make their trail plainer, would

be the signal for his death. With that Crow cut the thongs which

bound Isaac's legs and placing him between two of the Indians, led

the way into the forest.

Moving like spectres in the moonlight they marched on and on for

hours. Crow was well named. He led them up the stony ridges where

their footsteps left no mark, and where even a dog could not find

their trail; down into the valleys and into the shallow streams

where the running water would soon wash away all trace of their

tracks; then out on the open plain, where the soft, springy grass

retained little impress of their moccasins.

Single file they marched in the leader's tracks as he led them

onward through the dark forests, out under the shining moon, never

slacking his rapid pace, ever in a straight line, and yet avoiding

the roughest going with that unerring instinct which was this

Indian's gift. Toward dawn the moon went down, leaving them in

darkness, but this made no difference, for, guided by the stars,

Crow kept straight on his course. Not till break of day did he come

to a halt.

Then, on the banks of a narrow stream, the Indians kindled a fire

and broiled some of the venison. Crow told Isaac he could rest, so

he made haste to avail himself of the permission, and almost

instantly was wrapped in the deep slumber of exhaustion. Three of

the Indians followed suit, and Crow stood guard. Sleepless,

tireless, he paced to and fro on the bank his keen eyes vigilant for

signs of pursuers.

The sun was high when the party resumed their flight toward the

west. Crow plunged into the brook and waded several miles before he

took to the woods on the other shore. Isaac suffered severely from

the sharp and slippery stones, which in no wise bothered the

Indians. His feet were cut and bruised; still he struggled on

without complaining. They rested part of the night, and the next day

the Indians, now deeming themselves practically safe from pursuit,

did not exercise unusual care to conceal their trail.

That evening about dusk they came to a rapidly flowing stream which

ran northwest. Crow and one of the other Indians parted the willows

on the bank at this point and dragged forth a long birch-bark canoe

which they ran into the stream. Isaac recognized the spot. It was

near the head of Mad River, the river which ran through the Wyandot

settlements.

Two of the Indians took the bow, the third Indian and Isaac sat in

the middle, back to back, and Crow knelt in the stern. Once launched

on that wild ride Isaac forgot his uneasiness and his bruises. The

night was beautiful; he loved the water, and was not lacking in

sentiment. He gave himself up to the charm of the silver moonlight,

of the changing scenery, and the musical gurgle of the water. Had it

not been for the cruel face of Crow, he could have imagined himself

on one of those enchanted canoes in fairyland, of which he had read

when a boy. Ever varying pictures presented themselves at the range,

impelled by vigorous arms, flew over the shining bosom of the

stream. Here, in a sharp bend, was a narrow place where the trees on

each bank interlaced their branches and hid the moon, making a dark

and dim retreat. Then came a short series of ripples, with merry,

bouncing waves and foamy currents; below lay a long, smooth reach of

water, deep and placid, mirroring the moon and the countless stars.

Noiseless as a shadow the canoe glided down this stretch, the paddle

dipping regularly, flashing brightly, and scattering diamond drops

in the clear moonlight.

Another turn in the stream and a sound like the roar of an

approaching storm as it is borne on a rising wind, broke the

silence. It was the roar of rapids or falls. The stream narrowed;

the water ran swifter; rocky ledges rose on both sides, gradually

getting higher and higher. Crow rose to his feet and looked ahead.

Then he dropped to his knees and turned the head of the canoe into

the middle of the stream. The roar became deafening. Looking forward

Isaac saw that they were entering a dark gorge. In another moment

the canoe pitched over a fall and shot between two high, rocky

bluffs. These walls ran up almost perpendicularly two hundred feet;

the space between was scarcely twenty feet wide, and the water

fairly screamed as it rushed madly through its narrow passage. In

the center it was like a glancing sheet of glass, weird and dark,

and was bordered on the sides by white, seething foam-capped waves

which tore and dashed and leaped at their stony confines.

Though the danger was great, though Death lurked in those jagged

stones and in those black waits Isaac felt no fear, he knew the

strength of that arm, now rigid and again moving with lightning

swiftness; he knew the power of the eye which guided them.

Once more out under the starry sky; rifts, shallows, narrows, and

lake-like basins were passed swiftly. At length as the sky was

becoming gray in the east, they passed into the shadow of what was

called the Standing Stone. This was a peculiarly shaped stone-faced

bluff, standing high over the river, and taking its name from Tarhe,

or Standing Stone, chief of all the Hurons.

At the first sight of that well known landmark, which stood by the

Wyandot village, there mingled with Isaac's despondency and

resentment some other feeling that was akin to pleasure; with a

quickening of the pulse came a confusion of expectancy and bitter

memories as he thought of the dark eyed maiden from whom he had fled

a year ago.

"Co-wee-Co-woe," called out one of the Indians in the bow of the

canoe. The signal was heard, for immediately an answering shout came

from the shore.

When a few moments later the canoe grated softly on a pebbly beach.

Isaac saw, indistinctly in the morning mist, the faint outlines of

tepees and wigwams, and he knew he was once more in the encampment

of the Wyandots.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Late in the afternoon of that day Isaac was awakened from his heavy

slumber and told that the chief had summoned him. He got up from the

buffalo robes upon which he had flung himself that morning,

stretched his aching limbs, and walked to the door of the lodge.

The view before him was so familiar that it seemed as if he had

suddenly come home after being absent a long time. The last rays of

the setting sun shone ruddy and bright over the top of the Standing

Stone; they touched the scores of lodges and wigwams which dotted

the little valley; they crimsoned the swift, narrow river, rushing

noisily over its rocky bed. The banks of the stream were lined with

rows of canoes; here and there a bridge made of a single tree

spanned the stream. From the camp fires long, thin columns of blue

smoke curled lazily upward; giant maple trees, in them garb of

purple and gold, rose high above the wigwams, adding a further

beauty to this peaceful scene.

As Isaac was led down a lane between two long lines of tepees the

watching Indians did not make the demonstration that usually marked

the capture of a paleface. Some of the old squaws looked up from

their work round the campfires and steaming kettles and grinned as

the prisoner passed. The braves who were sitting upon their blankets

and smoking their long pipes, or lounging before the warm blazes

maintained a stolid indifference; the dusky maidens smiled shyly,

and the little Indian boys, with whom Isaac had always been a great

favorite, manifested their joy by yelling and running after him. One

youngster grasped Isaac round the leg and held on until he was

pulled away.

In the center of the village were several lodges connected with one

another and larger and more imposing than the surrounding tepees.

These were the wigwams of the chief, and thither Isaac was

conducted. The guards led him to a large and circular apartment and

left him there alone. This room was the council-room. It contained

nothing but a low seat and a knotted war-club.

Isaac heard the rattle of beads and bear claws, and as he turned a

tall and majestic Indian entered the room. It was Tarhe, the chief

of all the Wyandots. Though Tarhe was over seventy, he walked erect;

his calm face, dark as a bronze mask, showed no trace of his

advanced age. Every line and feature of his face had race in it; the

high forehead, the square, protruding jaw, the stern mouth, the

falcon eyes--all denoted the pride and unbending will of the last of

the Tarhes.

"The White Eagle is again in the power of Tarhe," said the chief in

his native tongue. "Though he had the swiftness of the bounding deer

or the flight of the eagle it would avail him not. The wild geese as

they fly northward are not swifter than the warriors of Tarhe.

Swifter than all is the vengeance of the Huron. The young paleface

has cost the lives of some great warriors. What has he to say?"

"It was not my fault," answered Isaac quickly. "I was struck down

from behind and had no chance to use a weapon. I have never raised

my hand against a Wyandot. Crow will tell you that. If my people and

friends kill your braves I am not to blame. Yet I have had good

cause to shed Huron blood. Your warriors have taken me from my home

and have wounded me many times."

"The White Chief speaks well. Tarhe believes his words," answered

Tarhe in his sonorous voice. "The Lenapee seek the death of the pale

face. Wingenund grieves for his son. He is Tarhe's friend. Tarhe is

old and wise and he is king here. He can save the White Chief from

Wingenund and Cornplanter. Listen. Tarhe is old and he has no son.

He will make you a great chief and give you lands and braves and

honors. He shall not ask you to raise your hand against your people,

but help to bring peace. Tarhe does not love this war. He wants only

justice. He wants only to keep his lands, his horses, and his

people. The White Chief is known to be brave; his step is light, his

eye is keen, and his bullet is true. For many long moons Tarhe's

daughter has been like the singing bird without its mate. She sings

no more. She shall be the White Chief's wife. She has the blood of

her mother and not that of the last of the Tarhes. Thus the mistakes

of Tarhe's youth come to disappoint his old age. He is the friend of

the young paleface. Tarhe has said. Now go and make your peace with

Myeerah."

The chief motioned toward the back of the lodge. Isaac stepped

forward and went through another large room, evidently the chief's,

as it was fitted up with a wild and barbaric splendor. Isaac

hesitated before a bearskin curtain at the farther end of the

chief's lodge. He had been there many times before, but never with

such conflicting emotions. What was it that made his heart beat

faster? With a quick movement he lifted the curtain and passed under

it.

The room which he entered was circular in shape and furnished with

all the bright colors and luxuriance known to the Indian. Buffalo

robes covered the smooth, hard-packed clay floor; animals,

allegorical pictures, and fanciful Indian designs had been painted

on the wall; bows and arrows, shields, strings of bright-colored

beads and Indian scarfs hung round the room. The wall was made of

dried deerskins sewed together and fastened over long poles which

were planted in the ground and bent until the ends met overhead. An

oval-shaped opening let in the light. Through a narrow aperture,

which served as a door leading to a smaller apartment, could be seen

a low couch covered with red blankets, and a glimpse of many hued

garments hanging on the wall.

As Isaac entered the room a slender maiden ran impulsively to him

and throwing her arms round his neck hid her face on his breast. A

few broken, incoherent words escaped her lips. Isaac disengaged

himself from the clinging arms and put her from him. The face raised

to his was strikingly beautiful. Oval in shape, it was as white as

his own, with a broad, low brow and regular features. The eyes were

large and dark and they dilated and quickened with a thousand

shadows of thought.

"Myeerah, I am taken again. This time there has been blood shed. The

Delaware chief was killed, and I do not know how many more Indians.

The chiefs are all for putting me to death. I am in great danger.

Why could you not leave me in peace?"

At his first words the maiden sighed and turned sorrowfully and

proudly away from the angry face of the young man. A short silence

ensued.

"Then you are not glad to see Myeerah?" she said, in English. Her

voice was music. It rang low, sweet, clear-toned as a bell.

"What has that to do with it? Under some circumstances I would be

glad to see you. But to be dragged back here and perhaps

murdered--no, I don't welcome it. Look at this mark where Crow hit

me," said Isaac, passionately, bowing his head to enable her to see

the bruise where the club had struck him.

"I am sorry," said Myeerah, gently.

"I know that I am in great danger from the Delawares."

"The daughter of Tarhe has saved your life before and will save it

again."

"They may kill me in spite of you."

"They will not dare. Do not forget that I saved you from the

Shawnees. What did my father say to you?"

"He assured me that he was my friend and that he would protect me

from Wingenund. But I must marry you and become one of the tribe. I

cannot do that. And that is why I am sure they will kill me."

"You are angry now. I will tell you. Myeerah tried hard to win your

love, and when you ran away from her she was proud for a long time.

But there was no singing of birds, no music of the waters, no beauty

in anything after you left her. Life became unbearable without you.

Then Myeerah remembered that she was a daughter of kings. She

summoned the bravest and greatest warriors of two tribes and said to

them. 'Go and bring to me the paleface, White Eagle. Bring him to me

alive or dead. If alive, Myeerah will smile once more upon her

warriors. If dead, she will look once upon his face and die. Ever

since Myeerah was old enough to remember she has thought of you.

Would you wish her to be inconstant, like the moon?'"

"It is not what I wish you to be. It is that I cannot live always

without seeing my people. I told you that a year ago."

"You told me other things in that past time before you ran away.

They were tender words that were sweet to the ear of the Indian

maiden. Have you forgotten them?"

"I have not forgotten them. I am not without feeling. You do not

understand. Since I have been home this last time, I have realized

more than ever that I could not live away from my home."

"Is there any maiden in your old home whom you have learned to love

more than Myeerah?"

He did not reply, but looked gloomily out of the opening in the

wall. Myeerah had placed her hold upon his arm, and as he did not

answer the hand tightened its grasp.

"She shall never have you."

The low tones vibrated with intense feeling, with a deathless

resolve. Isaac laughed bitterly and looked up at her. Myeerah's face

was pale and her eyes burned like fire.

"I should not be surprised if you gave me up to the Delawares," said

Isaac, coldly. "I am prepared for it, and I would not care very

much. I have despaired of your ever becoming civilized enough to

understand the misery of my sister and family. Why not let the

Indians kill me?"

He knew how to wound her. A quick, shuddery cry broke from her lips.

She stood before him with bowed head and wept. When she spoke again

her voice was broken and pleading.

"You are cruel and unjust. Though Myeerah has Indian blood she is a

white woman. She can feel as your people do. In your anger and

bitterness you forget that Myeerah saved you from the knife of the

Shawnees. You forget her tenderness; you forget that she nursed you

when you were wounded. Myeerah has a heart to break. Has she not

suffered? Is she not laughed at, scorned, called a 'paleface' by the

other tribes? She thanks the Great Spirit for the Indian blood that

keep her true. The white man changes his loves and his wives. That

is not an Indian gift."

"No, Myeerah, I did not say so. There is no other woman. It is that

I am wretched and sick at heart. Do you not see that this will end

in a tragedy some day? Can you not realize that we would be happier

if you would let me go? If you love me you would not want to see me

dead. If I do not marry you they will kill me; if I try to escape

again they win kill me. Let me go free."

"I cannot! I cannot!" she cried. "You have taught me many of the

ways of your people, but you cannot change my nature."

"Why cannot you free me?"

"I love you, and I will not live without you."

"Then come and go to my home and live there with me," said Isaac,

taking the weeping maiden in his arms. "I know that my people will

welcome you."

"Myeerah would be pitied and scorned," she said, sadly, shaking her

head.

Isaac tried hard to steel his heart against her, but he was only

mortal and he failed. The charm of her presence influenced him; her

love wrung tenderness from him. Those dark eyes, so proud to all

others, but which gazed wistfully and yearningly into his, stirred

his heart to its depths. He kissed the tear-wet cheeks and smiled

upon her.

"Well, since I am a prisoner once more, I must make the best of it.

Do not look so sad. We shall talk of this another day. Come, let us

go and find my little friend, Captain Jack. He remembered me, for he

ran out and grasped my knee and they pulled him away."

CHAPTER VI.

When the first French explorers invaded the northwest, about the

year 1615, the Wyandot Indians occupied the territory between

Georgian Bay and the Muskoka Lakes in Ontario. These Frenchmen named

the tribe Huron because of the manner in which they wore their hair.

At this period the Hurons were at war with the Iroquois, and the two

tribes kept up a bitter fight until in 1649, when the Hurons

suffered a decisive defeat. They then abandoned their villages and

sought other hunting grounds. They travelled south and settled in

Ohio along the south and west shores of Lake Erie. The present site

of Zanesfield, named from Isaac Zane, marks the spot where the

largest tribe of Hurons once lived.

In a grove of maples on the banks of a swift little river named Mad

River, the Hurons built their lodges and their wigwams. The stately

elk and graceful deer abounded in this fertile valley, and countless

herds of bison browsed upon the uplands.

There for many years the Hurons lived a peaceful and contented life.

The long war cry was not heard. They were at peace with the

neighboring tribes. Tarhe, the Huron chief, attained great influence

with the Delawares. He became a friend of Logan, the Mingo chief.

With the invasion of the valley of the Ohio by the whites, with the

march into the wilderness of that wild-turkey breed of heroes of

which Boone, Kenton, the Zanes, and the Wetzels were the first, the

Indian's nature gradually changed until he became a fierce and

relentless foe.

The Hurons had sided with the French in Pontiac's war, and in the

Revolution they aided the British. They allied themselves with the

Mingoes, Delawares and Shawnees and made a fierce war on the

Virginian pioneers. Some powerful influence must have engendered

this implacable hatred in these tribes, particularly in the Mingo

and the Wyandot.

The war between the Indians and the settlers along the Pennsylvania

and West Virginia borders was known as "Dunmore's War." The Hurons,

Mingoes, and Delawares living in the "hunter's paradise" west of the

Ohio River, seeing their land sold by the Iroquois and the

occupation of their possessions by a daring band of white men

naturally were filled with fierce anger and hate. But remembering

the past bloody war and British punishment they slowly moved

backward toward the setting sun and kept the peace. In 1774 a canoe

filled with friendly Wyandots was attacked by white men below Yellow

Creek and the Indians were killed. Later the same year a party of

men under Colonel Cresop made an unprovoked and dastardly massacre

of the family and relatives of Logan. This attack reflected the

deepest dishonor upon all the white men concerned, and was the

principal cause of the long and bloody war which followed. The

settlers on the border sent messengers to Governor Dunmore at

Williamsburg for immediate relief parties. Knowing well that the

Indians would not allow this massacre to go unavenged the

frontiersmen erected forts and blockhouses.

Logan, the famous Mingo chief, had been a noted friend of the white

men. After the murder of his people he made ceaseless war upon them.

He incited the wrath of the Hurons and the Delawares. He went on the

warpath, and when his lust for vengeance had been satisfied he sent

the following remarkable address to Lord Dunmore:

"I appeal to any white man to say if ever he entered Logan's cabin

and he gave him not meat: if ever he came cold and naked and he

clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war

Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate of peace. Such was my

love for the whites that my countrymen pointed as they passed and

said: 'Logan is the friend of the white man.' I had even thought to

have lived with you but for the injuries of one man, Colonel Cresop,

who, last spring, in cold blood and unprovoked, murdered all the

relatives of Logan, not even sparing my women and children. There

runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature.

This called upon me for vengeance. I have sought it: I have killed

many; I have glutted my vengeance. For my country I will rejoice at

the beams of peace. But do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy

of fear. Logan never felt fear; he could not turn upon his heel to

save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one."

The war between the Indians and the pioneers was waged for years.

The settlers pushed farther and farther into the wilderness. The

Indians, who at first sought only to save their farms and their

stock, now fought for revenge. That is why every ambitious pioneer

who went out upon those borders carried his life in his hands; why

there was always the danger of being shot or tomahawked from behind

every tree; why wife and children were constantly in fear of the

terrible enemy.

To creep unawares upon a foe and strike him in the dark was Indian

warfare; to an Indian it was not dishonorable; it was not cowardly.

He was taught to hide in the long grass like a snake, to shoot from

coverts, to worm his way stealthily through the dense woods and to

ambush the paleface's trail. Horrible cruelties, such as torturing

white prisoners and burning them at the stake were never heard of

before the war made upon the Indians by the whites.

Comparatively little is known of the real character of the Indian of

that time. We ourselves sit before our warm fires and talk of the

deeds of the redman. We while away an hour by reading Pontiac's

siege of Detroit, of the battle of Braddock's fields, and of

Custer's last charge. We lay the book down with a fervent expression

of thankfulness that the day of the horrible redman is past. Because

little has been written on the subject, no thought is given to the

long years of deceit and treachery practiced upon Pontiac; we are

ignorant of the causes which led to the slaughter of Braddock's

army, and we know little of the life of bitterness suffered by

Sitting Bull.

Many intelligent white men, who were acquainted with the true life

of the Indian before he was harassed and driven to desperation by

the pioneers, said that he had been cruelly wronged. Many white men

in those days loved the Indian life so well that they left the

settlements and lived with the Indians. Boone, who knew the Indian

nature, said the honesty and the simplicity of the Indian were

remarkable. Kenton said he had been happy among the Indians. Col.

Zane had many Indian friends. Isaac Zane, who lived most of his life

with the Wyandots, said the American redman had been wrongfully

judged a bloodthirsty savage, an ignorant, thieving wretch, capable

of not one virtue. He said the free picturesque life of the Indians

would have appealed to any white man; that it had a wonderful charm,

and that before the war with the whites the Indians were kind to

their prisoners, and sought only to make Indians of them. He told

tales of how easily white boys become Indianized, so attached to the

wild life and freedom of the redmen that it was impossible to get

the captives to return to civilized life. The boys had been

permitted to grow wild with the Indian lads; to fish and shoot and

swim with them; to play the Indian games--to live idle, joyous

lives. He said these white boys had been ransomed and taken from

captivity and returned to their homes and, although a close watch

has kept on them, they contrived to escape and return to the

Indians, and that while they were back among civilized people it was

difficult to keep the boys dressed. In summer time it was useless to

attempt it. The strongest hemp-linen shirts, made with the strongest

collar and wrist-band, would directly be torn off and the little

rascals found swimming in the river or rolling on the sand.

If we may believe what these men have said--and there seems no good

reason why we may not--the Indian was very different from the

impression given of him. There can be little doubt that the redman

once lived a noble and blameless life; that he was simple, honest

and brave, that he had a regard for honor and a respect for a

promise far exceeding that of most white men. Think of the beautiful

poetry and legends left by these silent men: men who were a part of

the woods; men whose music was the sighing of the wind, the rustling

of the leaf, the murmur of the brook; men whose simple joys were the

chase of the stag, and the light in the dark eye of a maiden.

If we wish to find the highest type of the American Indian we must

look for him before he was driven west by the land-seeking pioneer

and before he was degraded by the rum-selling French trader.

The French claimed all the land watered by the Mississippi River and

its tributaries. The French Canadian was a restless, roaming

adventurer and he found his vocation in the fur-trade. This

fur-trade engendered a strange class of men--bush-rangers they were

called--whose work was to paddle the canoe along the lakes and

streams and exchange their cheap rum for the valuable furs of the

Indians. To these men the Indians of the west owe their degradation.

These bush-rangers or coureurs-des-bois, perverted the Indians and

sank into barbarism with them.

The few travellers there in those days were often surprised to find

in the wigwams of the Indians men who acknowledged the blood of

France, yet who had lost all semblance to the white man. They lived

in their tepee with their Indian squaws and lolled on their blankets

while the squaws cooked their venison and did all the work. They let

their hair grow long and wore feathers in it; they painted their

faces hideously with ochre and vermilion.

These were the worthless traders and adventurers who, from the year

1748 to 1783, encroached on the hunting grounds of the Indians and

explored the wilderness, seeking out the remote tribes and trading

the villainous rum for the rare pelts. In 1784 the French

authorities, realizing that these vagrants were demoralizing the

Indians, warned them to get off the soil. Finding this course

ineffectual they arrested those that could be apprehended and sent

them to Canada. But it was too late: the harm had been done: the

poor, ignorant savage had tasted of the terrible "fire-water," as he

called the rum and his ruin was inevitable.

It was a singular fact that almost every Indian who had once tasted

strong drink, was unable to resist the desire for more. When a

trader came to one of the Indian hamlets the braves purchased a keg

of rum and then they held a council to see who was to get drunk and

who was to keep sober. It was necessary to have some sober Indians

in camp, otherwise the drunken braves would kill one another. The

weapons would have to be concealed. When the Indians had finished

one keg of rum they would buy another, and so on until not a

beaver-skin was left. Then the trader would move or when the Indians

sobered up they would be much dejected, for invariably they would

find that some had been wounded, others crippled, and often several

had been killed.

Logan, using all his eloquence, travelled from village to village

visiting the different tribes and making speeches. He urged the

Indians to shun the dreaded "fire-water." He exclaimed against the

whites for introducing liquor to the Indians and thus debasing them.

At the same time Logan admitted his own fondness for rum. This

intelligent and noble Indian was murdered in a drunken fight shortly

after sending his address to Lord Dunmore.

Thus it was that the poor Indians had no chance to avert their

downfall; the steadily increasing tide of land-stealing settlers

rolling westward, and the insidious, debasing, soul-destroying

liquor were the noble redman's doom.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Isaac Zane dropped back not altogether unhappily into his old place

in the wigwam, in the hunting parties, and in the Indian games.

When the braves were in camp, the greatest part of the day was spent

in shooting and running matches, in canoe races, in wrestling, and

in the game of ball. The chiefs and the older braves who had won

their laurels and the maidens of the tribe looked on and applauded.

Isaac entered into all these pastimes, partly because he had a

natural love for them, and partly because he wished to win the

regard of the Indians. In wrestling, and in those sports which

required weight and endurance, he usually suffered defeat. In a foot

race there was not a brave in the entire tribe who could keep even

with him. But it was with the rifle that Isaac won his greatest

distinction. The Indians never learned the finer shooting with the

rifle. Some few of them could shoot well, but for the most part they

were poor marksmen.

Accordingly, Isaac was always taken on the fall hunt. Every autumn

there were three parties sent out to bring in the supply of meat for

the winter. Because of Isaac's fine marksmanship he was always taken

with the bear hunters. Bear hunting was exciting and dangerous work.

Before the weather got very cold and winter actually set in the

bears crawled into a hole in a tree or a cave in the rocks, where

they hibernated. A favorite place for them was in hollow trees. When

the Indians found a tree with the scratches of a bear on it and a

hole large enough to admit the body of a bear, an Indian climbed up

the tree and with a long pole tried to punch Bruin out of his den.

Often this was a hazardous undertaking, for the bear would get angry

on being disturbed in his winter sleep and would rush out before the

Indian could reach a place of safety. At times there were even two

or three bears in one den. Sometimes the bear would refuse to come

out, and on these occasions, which were rare, the hunters would

resort to fire. A piece of dry, rotten wood was fastened to a long

pole and was set on fire. When this was pushed in on the bear he

would give a sniff and a growl and come out in a hurry.

The buffalo and elk were hunted with the bow and arrow. This

effective weapon did not make a noise and frighten the game. The

wary Indian crawled through the high grass until within easy range

and sometimes killed several buffalo or elk before the herd became

alarmed. The meat was then jerked. This consisted in cutting it into

thin strips and drying it in the sun. Afterwards it was hung up in

the lodges. The skins were stretched on poles to dry, and when cured

they served as robes, clothing and wigwam-coverings.

The Indians were fond of honey and maple sugar. The finding of a

hive of bees, or a good run of maple syrup was an occasion for

general rejoicing. They found the honey in hollow trees, and they

obtained the maple sugar in two ways. When the sap came up in the

maple trees a hole was bored in the trees about a foot from the

ground and a small tube, usually made from a piece of alder, was

inserted in the hole. Through this the sap was carried into a vessel

which was placed under the tree. This sap was boiled down in

kettles. If the Indians had no kettles they made the frost take the

place of heat in preparing the sugar. They used shallow vessels made

of bark, and these were filled with water and the maple sap. It was

left to freeze over night and in the morning the ice was broken and

thrown away. The sugar did not freeze. When this process had been

repeated several times the residue was very good maple sugar.

Isaac did more than his share toward the work of provisioning the

village for the winter. But he enjoyed it. He was particularly fond

of fishing by moonlight. Early November was the best season for this

sport, and the Indians caught large numbers of fish. They placed a

torch in the bow of a canoe and paddled noiselessly over the stream.

In the clear water a bright light would so attract and fascinate the

fish that they would lie motionless near the bottom of the shallow

stream.

One cold night Isaac was in the bow of the canoe. Seeing a large

fish he whispered to the Indians with him to exercise caution. His

guides paddled noiselessly through the water. Isaac stood up and

raised the spear, ready to strike. In another second Isaac had cast

the iron, but in his eagerness he overbalanced himself and plunged

head first into the icy current, making a great splash and spoiling

any further fishing. Incidents like this were a source of infinite

amusement to the Indians.

Before the autumn evenings grew too cold the Indian held their

courting dances. All unmarried maidens and braves in the village

were expected to take part in these dances. In the bright light of

huge fires, and watched by the chiefs, the old men, the squaws, and

the children, the maidens and the braves, arrayed in their gaudiest

apparel, marched into the circle. They formed two lines a few paces

apart. Each held in the right hand a dry gourd which contained

pebbles. Advancing toward one another they sang the courting song,

keeping time to the tune with the rattling of the pebbles. When they

met in the center the braves bent forward and whispered a word to

the maidens. At a certain point in the song, which was indicated by

a louder note, the maidens would change their positions, and this

was continued until every brave had whispered to every maiden, when

the dance ended.

Isaac took part in all these pleasures; he entered into every phase

of the Indian's life; he hunted, worked, played, danced, and sang

with faithfulness. But when the long, dreary winter days came with

their ice-laden breezes, enforcing idleness on the Indians, he

became restless. Sometimes for days he would be morose and gloomy,

keeping beside his own tent and not mingling with the Indians. At

such times Myeerah did not question him.

Even in his happier hours his diversions were not many. He never

tired of watching and studying the Indian children. When he had an

opportunity without being observed, which was seldom, he amused

himself with the papooses. The Indian baby was strapped to a flat

piece of wood and covered with a broad flap of buckskin. The squaws

hung these primitive baby carriages up on the pole of a tepee, on a

branch of a tree, or threw them round anywhere. Isaac never heard a

papoose cry. He often pulled down the flap of buckskin and looked at

the solemn little fellow, who would stare up at him with big,

wondering eyes.

Isaac's most intimate friend was a six-year-old Indian boy, whom he

called Captain Jack. He was the son of Thundercloud, the war-chief

of the Hurons. Jack made a brave picture in his buckskin hunting

suit and his war bonnet. Already he could stick tenaciously on the

back of a racing mustang and with his little bow he could place

arrow after arrow in the center of the target. Knowing Captain Jack

would some day be a mighty chief, Isaac taught him to speak English.

He endeavored to make Jack love him, so that when the lad should

grow to be a man he would remember his white brother and show mercy

to the prisoners who fell into his power.

Another of Isaac's favorites was a half-breed Ottawa Indian, a

distant relative of Tarhe's. This Indian was very old; no one knew

how old; his face was seamed and scarred and wrinkled. Bent and

shrunken was his form. He slept most of the time, but at long

intervals he would brighten up and tell of his prowess when a

warrior.

One of his favorite stories was of the part he had taken in the

events of that fatal and memorable July 2, 1755, when Gen. Braddock

and his English army were massacred by the French and Indians near

Fort Duquesne.

The old chief told how Beaujeu with his Frenchmen and his five

hundred Indians ambushed Braddock's army, surrounded the soldiers,

fired from the ravines, the trees, the long grass, poured a pitiless

hail of bullets on the bewildered British soldiers, who,

unaccustomed to this deadly and unseen foe, huddled under the trees

like herds of frightened sheep, and were shot down with hardly an

effort to defend themselves.

The old chief related that fifteen years after that battle he went

to the Kanawha settlement to see the Big Chief, Gen. George

Washington, who was travelling on the Kanawha. He told Gen.

Washington how he had fought in the battle of Braddock's Fields; how

he had shot and killed Gen. Braddock; how he had fired repeatedly at

Washington, and had killed two horses under him, and how at last he

came to the conclusion that Washington was protected by the Great

Spirit who destined him for a great future.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Myeerah was the Indian name for a rare and beautiful bird--the white

crane--commonly called by the Indians, Walk-in-the-Water. It had

been the name of Tarhe's mother and grandmother. The present Myeerah

was the daughter of a French woman, who had been taken captive at a

very early age, adopted into the Huron tribe, and married to Tarhe.

The only child of this union was Myeerah. She grew to be beautiful

woman and was known in Detroit and the Canadian forts as Tarhe's

white daughter. The old chief often visited the towns along the lake

shore, and so proud was he of Myeerah that he always had her

accompany him. White men travelled far to look at the Indian beauty.

Many French soldiers wooed her in vain. Once, while Tarhe was in

Detroit, a noted French family tried in every way to get possession

of Myeerah.

The head of this family believed he saw in Myeerah the child of his

long lost daughter. Tarhe hurried away from the city and never

returned to the white settlement.

Myeerah was only five years old at the time of the capture of the

Zane brothers and it was at this early age that she formed the

attachment for Isaac Zane which clung to her all her life. She was

seven when the men came from Detroit to ransom the brothers, and she

showed such grief when she learned that Isaac was to be returned to

his people that Tarhe refused to accept any ransom for Isaac. As

Myeerah grew older her childish fancy for the white boy deepened

into an intense love.

But while this love tendered her inexorable to Isaac on the question

of giving him his freedom, it undoubtedly saved his life as well as

the lives of other white prisoners, on more than one occasion.

To the white captives who fell into the hands of the Hurons, she was

kind and merciful; many of the wounded she had tended with her own

hands, and many poor wretches she had saved from the gauntlet and

the stake. When her efforts to persuade her father to save any one

were unavailing she would retire in sorrow to her lodge and remain

there.

Her infatuation for the White Eagle, the Huron name for Isaac, was

an old story; it was known to all the tribes and had long ceased to

be questioned. At first some of the Delawares and the Shawnee

braves, who had failed to win Myeerah's love, had openly scorned her

for her love for the pale face. The Wyandot warriors to a man

worshipped her; they would have marched straight into the jaws of

death at her command; they resented the insults which had been cast

on their princess, and they had wiped them out in blood: now none

dared taunt her.

In the spring following Isaac's recapture a very serious accident

befell him. He had become expert in the Indian game of ball, which

is a game resembling the Canadian lacrosse, and from which, in fact,

it had been adopted. Goals were placed at both ends of a level

plain. Each party of Indians chose a goal which they endeavored to

defend and at the same time would try to carry the ball over their

opponent's line.

A well contested game of Indian ball presented a scene of wonderful

effort and excitement. Hundreds of strong and supple braves could be

seen running over the plain, darting this way and that, or

struggling in a yelling, kicking, fighting mass, all in a mad

scramble to get the ball.

As Isaac had his share of the Zane swiftness of foot, at times his

really remarkable fleetness enabled him to get control of the ball.

In front of the band of yelling savages he would carry it down the

field, and evading the guards at the goal, would throw it between

the posts. This was a feat of which any brave could be proud.

During one of these games Red Fox, a Wyandot brave, who had long

been hopelessly in love with Myeerah, and who cordially hated Isaac,

used this opportunity for revenge. Red Fox, who was a swift runner,

had vied with Isaac for the honors, but being defeated in the end,

he had yielded to his jealous frenzy and had struck Isaac a terrible

blow on the head with his bat.

It happened to be a glancing blow or Isaac's life would have been

ended then and there. As it was he had a deep gash in his head. The

Indians carried him to his lodge and the medicine men of the tribe

were summoned.

When Isaac recovered consciousness he asked for Myeerah and

entreated her not to punish Red Fox. He knew that such a course

would only increase his difficulties, and, on the other hand, if he

saved the life of the Indian who had struck him in such a cowardly

manner such an act would appeal favorably to the Indians. His

entreaties had no effect on Myeerah, who was furious, and who said

that if Red Fox, who had escaped, ever returned he would pay for his

unprovoked assault with his life, even if she had to kill him

herself. Isaac knew that Myeerah would keep her word. He dreaded

every morning that the old squaw who prepared his meals would bring

him the news that his assailant had been slain. Red Fox was a

popular brave, and there were many Indians who believed the blow he

had struck Isaac was not intentional. Isaac worried needlessly,

however, for Red Fox never came back, and nothing could be learned

as to his whereabouts.

It was during his convalescence that Isaac learned really to love

the Indian maiden. She showed such distress in the first days after

his injury, and such happiness when he was out of danger and on the

road to recovery that Isaac wondered at her. She attended him with

anxious solicitude; when she bathed and bandaged his wound her every

touch was a tender caress; she sat by him for hours; her low voice

made soft melody as she sang the Huron love songs. The moments were

sweet to Isaac when in the gathering twilight she leaned her head on

his shoulder while they listened to the evening carol of the

whip-poor-will. Days passed and at length Isaac was entirely well.

One day when the air was laden with the warm breath of summer

Myeerah and Isaac walked by the river.

"You are sad again," said Myeerah.

"I am homesick. I want to see my people. Myeerah, you have named me

rightly. The Eagle can never be happy unless he is free."

"The Eagle can be happy with his mate. And what life could be freer

than a Huron's? I hope always that you will grow content."

"It has been a long time now, Myeerah, since I have spoken with you

of my freedom. Will you ever free me? Or must I take again those

awful chances of escape? I cannot always live here in this way. Some

day I shall be killed while trying to get away, and then, if you

truly love me, you will never forgive yourself."

"Does not Myeerah truly love you?" she asked, gazing straight into

his eyes, her own misty and sad.

"I do not doubt that, but I think sometimes that it is not the right

kind of love. It is too savage. No man should be made a prisoner for

no other reason than that he is loved by a woman. I have tried to

teach you many things; the language of my people, their ways and

thoughts, but I have failed to civilize you. I cannot make you

understand that it is unwomanly--do not turn away. I am not

indifferent. I have learned to care for you. Your beauty and

tenderness have made anything else impossible."

"Myeerah is proud of her beauty, if it pleases the Eagle. Her beauty

and her love are his. Yet the Eagle's words make Myeerah sad. She

cannot tell what she feels. The pale face's words flow swiftly and

smoothly like rippling waters, but Myeerah's heart is full and her

lips are dumb."

Myeerah and Isaac stopped under a spreading elm tree the branches of

which drooped over and shaded the river. The action of the high

water had worn away the earth round the roots of the old elm,

leaving them bare and dry when the stream was low. As though Nature

had been jealous in the interest of lovers, she had twisted and

curled the roots into a curiously shaped bench just above the water,

which was secluded enough to escape all eyes except those of the

beaver and the muskrat. The bank above was carpeted with fresh, dewy

grass; blue bells and violets hid modestly under their dark green

leaves; delicate ferns, like wonderful fairy lace, lifted their

dainty heads to sway in the summer breeze. In this quiet nook the

lovers passed many hours.

"Then, if my White Chief has learned to care for me, he must not try

to escape," whispered Myeerah, tenderly, as she crept into Isaac's

arms and laid her head on his breast. "I love you. I love you. What

will become of Myeerah if you leave her? Could she ever be happy?

Could she ever forget? No, no, I will keep my captive."

"I cannot persuade you to let me go?"

"If I free you I will come and lie here," cried Myeerah, pointing to

the dark pool.

"Then come with me to my home and live there."

"Go with you to the village of the pale faces, where Myeerah would

be scorned, pointed at as your captors laughed at and pitied? No!

No!"

"But you would not be," said Isaac, eagerly. "You would be my wife.

My sister and people will love you. Come, Myeerah save me from this

bondage; come home with me and I will make you happy."

"It can never be," she said, sadly, after a long pause. "How would

we ever reach the fort by the big river? Tarhe loves his daughter

and will not give her up. If we tried to get away the braves would

overtake us and then even Myeerah could not save your life. You

would be killed. I dare not try. No, no, Myeerah loves too well for

that."

"You might make the attempt," said Isaac, turning away in bitter

disappointment. "If you loved me you could not see me suffer."

"Never say that again," cried Myeerah, pain and scorn in her dark

eyes. "Can an Indian Princess who has the blood of great chiefs in

her veins prove her love in any way that she has not? Some day you

will know that you wrong me. I am Tarhe's daughter. A Huron does not

lie."

They slowly wended their way back to the camp, both miserable at

heart; Isaac longing to see his home and friends, and yet with

tenderness in his heart for the Indian maiden who would not free

him; Myeerah with pity and love for him and a fear that her long

cherished dream could never be realized.

One dark, stormy night, when the rain beat down in torrents and the

swollen river raged almost to its banks, Isaac slipped out of his

lodge unobserved and under cover of the pitchy darkness he got

safely between the lines of tepees to the river. He had just the

opportunity for which he had been praying. He plunged into the water

and floating down with the swift current he soon got out of sight of

the flickering camp fires. Half a mile below he left the water and

ran along the bank until he came to a large tree, a landmark he

remembered, when he turned abruptly to the east and struck out

through the dense woods. He travelled due east all that night and

the next day without resting, and with nothing to eat except a small

piece of jerked buffalo meat which he had taken the precaution to

hide in his hunting shirt. He rested part of the second night and

next morning pushed on toward the east. He had expected to reach the

Ohio that day, but he did not and he noticed that the ground seemed

to be gradually rising. He did not come across any swampy lands or

saw grass or vegetation characteristic of the lowlands. He stopped

and tried to get his bearings. The country was unknown to him, but

he believed he knew the general lay of the ridges and the

water-courses.

The fourth day found Isaac hopelessly lost in the woods. He was

famished, having eaten but a few herbs and berries in the last two

days; his buckskin garments were torn in tatters; his moccasins were

worn out and his feet lacerated by the sharp thorns.

Darkness was fast approaching when he first realized that he was

lost. He waited hopefully for the appearance of the north star--that

most faithful of hunter's guides--but the sky clouded over and no

stars appeared. Tired out and hopeless he dragged his weary body

into a dense laurel thicket end lay down to wait for dawn. The

dismal hoot of an owl nearby, the stealthy steps of some soft-footed

animal prowling round the thicket, and the mournful sough of the

wind in the treetops kept him awake for hours, but at last he fell

asleep.

CHAPTER VII.

The chilling rains of November and December's flurry of snow had

passed and mid-winter with its icy blasts had set in. The Black

Forest had changed autumn's gay crimson and yellow to the somber hue

of winter and now looked indescribably dreary. An ice gorge had

formed in the bend of the river at the head of the island and from

bank to bank logs, driftwood, broken ice and giant floes were packed

and jammed so tightly as to resist the action of the mighty current.

This natural bridge would remain solid until spring had loosened the

frozen grip of old winter. The hills surrounding Fort Henry were

white with snow. The huge drifts were on a level with Col. Zane's

fence and in some places the top rail had disappeared. The pine

trees in the yard were weighted down and drooped helplessly with

their white burden.

On this frosty January morning the only signs of life round the

settlement were a man and a dog walking up Wheeling hill. The man

carried a rifle, an axe, and several steel traps. His snow-shoes

sank into the drifts as he labored up the steep hill. All at once he

stopped. The big black dog had put his nose high in the air and had

sniffed at the cold wind.

"Well, Tige, old fellow, what is it?" said Jonathan Zane, for this

was he.

The dog answered with a low whine. Jonathan looked up and down the

creek valley and along the hillside, but he saw no living thing.

Snow, snow everywhere, its white monotony relieved here and there by

a black tree trunk. Tige sniffed again and then growled. Turning his

ear to the breeze Jonathan heard faint yelps from far over the

hilltop. He dropped his axe and the traps and ran the remaining

short distance up the hill. When he reached the summit the clear

baying of hunting wolves was borne to his ears.

The hill sloped gradually on the other side, ending in a white,

unbroken plain which extended to the edge of the laurel thicket a

quarter of a mile distant. Jonathan could not see the wolves, but he

heard distinctly their peculiar, broken howls. They were in pursuit

of something, whether quadruped or man he could not decide. Another

moment and he was no longer in doubt, for a deer dashed out of the

thicket. Jonathan saw that it was a buck and that he was well nigh

exhausted; his head swung low from side to side; he sank slowly to

his knees, and showed every indication of distress.

The next instant the baying of the wolves, which had ceased for a

moment, sounded close at hand. The buck staggered to his feet; he

turned this way and that. When he saw the man and the dog he started

toward them without a moment's hesitation.

At a warning word from Jonathan the dog sank on the snow. Jonathan

stepped behind a tree, which, however, was not large enough to

screen his body. He thought the buck would pass close by him and he

determined to shoot at the most favorable moment.

The buck, however, showed no intention of passing by; in his abject

terror he saw in the man and the dog foes less terrible than those

which were yelping on his trail. He came on in a lame uneven trot,

making straight for the tree. When he reached the tree he crouched,

or rather fell, on the ground within a yard of Jonathan and his dog.

He quivered and twitched; his nostrils flared; at every pant drops

of blood flecked the snow; his great dark eyes had a strained and

awful look, almost human in its agony.

Another yelp from the thicket and Jonathan looked up in time to see

five timber wolves, gaunt, hungry looking beasts, burst from the

bushes. With their noses close to the snow they followed the trail.

When they came to the spot where the deer had fallen a chorus of

angry, thirsty howls filled the air.

"Well, if this doesn't beat me! I thought I knew a little about

deer," said Jonathan. "Tige, we will save this buck from those gray

devils if it costs a leg. Steady now, old fellow, wait."

When the wolves were within fifty yards of the tree and coming

swiftly Jonathan threw his rifle forward and yelled with all the

power of his strong lungs:

"Hi! Hi! Hi! Take 'em, Tige!"

In trying to stop quickly on the slippery snowcrust the wolves fell

all over themselves. One dropped dead and another fell wounded at

the report of Jonathan's rifle. The others turned tail and loped

swiftly off into the thicket. Tige made short work of the wounded

one.

"Old White Tail, if you were the last buck in the valley, I would

not harm you," said Jonathan, looking at the panting deer. "You need

have no farther fear of that pack of cowards."

So saying Jonathan called to Tige and wended his way down the hill

toward the settlement.

An hour afterward he was sitting in Col. Zane's comfortable cabin,

where all was warmth and cheerfulness. Blazing hickory logs roared

and crackled in the stone fireplace.

"Hello, Jack, where did you come from?" said Col. Zane, who had just

come in. "Haven't seen you since we were snowed up. Come over to see

about the horses? If I were you I would not undertake that trip to

Fort Pitt until the weather breaks. You could go in the sled, of

course, but if you care anything for my advice you will stay home.

This weather will hold on for some time. Let Lord Dunmore wait."

"I guess we are in for some stiff weather."

"Haven't a doubt of it. I told Bessie last fall we might expect a

hard winter. Everything indicated it. Look at the thick corn-husks.

The hulls of the nuts from the shell-bark here in the yard were

larger and tougher than I ever saw them. Last October Tige killed a

raccoon that had the wooliest kind of a fur. I could have given you

a dozen signs of a hard winter. We shall still have a month or six

weeks of it. In a week will be ground-hog day and you had better

wait and decide after that."

"I tell you, Eb, I get tired chopping wood and hanging round the

house."

"Aha! another moody spell," said Col. Zane, glancing kindly at his

brother. "Jack, if you were married you would outgrow those

'blue-devils.' I used to have them. It runs in the family to be

moody. I have known our father to take his gun and go into the woods

and stay there until he had fought out the spell. I have done that

myself, but once I married Bessie I have had no return of the old

feeling. Get married, Jack, and then you will settle down and work.

You will not have time to roam around alone in the woods."

"I prefer the spells, as you call them, any day," answered Jonathan,

with a short laugh. "A man with my disposition has no right to get

married. This weather is trying, for it keeps me indoors. I cannot

hunt because we do not need the meat. And even if I did want to hunt

I should not have to go out of sight of the fort. There were three

deer in front of the barn this morning. They were nearly starved.

They ran off a little at sight of me, but in a few moments came back

for the hay I pitched out of the loft. This afternoon Tige and I

saved a big buck from a pack of wolves. The buck came right up to

me. I could have touched him. This storm is sending the deer down

from the hills."

"You are right. It is too bad. Severe weather like this will kill

more deer than an army could. Have you been doing anything with your

traps?"

"Yes, I have thirty traps out."

"If you are going, tell Sam to fetch down another load of fodder

before he unhitches."

"Eb, I have no patience with your brothers," said Col. Zane's wife

to him after he had closed the door. "They are all alike; forever

wanting to be on the go. If it isn't Indians it is something else.

The very idea of going up the river in this weather. If Jonathan

doesn't care for himself he should think of the horses."

"My dear, I was just as wild and discontented as Jack before I met

you," remarked Col. Zane. "You may not think so, but a home and

pretty little woman will do wonders for any man. My brothers have

nothing to keep them steady."

"Perhaps. I do not believe that Jonathan ever will get married.

Silas may; he certainly has been keeping company long enough with

Mary Bennet. You are the only Zane who has conquered that

adventurous spirit and the desire to be always roaming the woods in

search of something to kill. Your old boy, Noah, is growing up like

all the Zanes. He fights with all the children in the settlement. I

cannot break him of it. He is not a bully, for I have never known

him to do anything mean or cruel. It is just sheer love of

fighting."

"Ha! Ha! I fear you will not break him of that," answered Col. Zane.

"It is a good joke to say he gets it all from the Zanes. How about

the McCollochs? What have you to say of your father and the Major

and John McColloch? They are not anything if not the fighting kind.

It's the best trait the youngster could have, out here on the

border. He'll need it all. Don't worry about him. Where is Betty?"

"I told her to take the children out for a sled ride. Betty needs

exercise. She stays indoors too much, and of late she looks pale."

"What! Betty not looking well! She was never ill in her life. I have

noticed no change in her."

"No, I daresay you have not. You men can't see anything. But I can,

and I tell you, Betty is very different from the girl she used to

be. Most of the time she sits and gazes out of her window. She used

to be so bright, and when she was not romping with the children she

busied herself with her needle. Yesterday as I entered her room she

hurriedly picked up a book, and, I think, intentionally hid her face

behind it. I saw she had been crying."

"Come to think of it, I believe I have missed Betty," said Col.

Zane, gravely. "She seems more quiet. Is she unhappy? When did you

first see this change?"

"I think it a little while after Mr. Clarke left here last fall."

"Clarke! What has he to do with Betty? What are you driving at?"

exclaimed the Colonel, stopping in front of his wife. His faced had

paled slightly. "I had forgotten Clarke. Bess, you can't mean--"

"Now, Eb, do not get that look on your face. You always frighten

me," answered his wife, as she quietly placed her hand on his arm.

"I do not mean anything much, certainly nothing against Mr. Clarke.

He was a true gentleman. I really liked him."

"So did I," interrupted the Colonel.

"I believe Betty cared for Mr. Clarke. She was always different with

him. He has gone away and has forgotten her. That is strange to us,

because we cannot imagine any one indifferent to our beautiful

Betty. Nevertheless, no matter how attractive a woman may be men

sometimes love and ride away. I hear the children coming now. Do not

let Betty see that we have been talking about her. She is as quick

as a steel trap."

A peal of childish laughter came from without. The door opened and

Betty ran in, followed by the sturdy, rosy-checked youngsters. All

three were white with snow.

"We have had great fun," said Betty. "We went over the bank once and

tumbled off the sled into the snow. Then we had a snow-balling

contest, and the boys compelled me to strike my colors and fly for

the house."

Col. Zane looked closely at his sister. Her cheeks were flowing with

health; her eyes were sparkling with pleasure. Failing to observe

any indication of the change in Betty which his wife had spoken, he

concluded that women were better qualified to judge their own sex

than were men. He had to confess to himself that the only change he

could see in his sister was that she grew prettier every day of her

life.

"Oh, papa. I hit Sam right in the head with a big snow-ball, and I

made Betty run into the house, and I slid down to all by myself. Sam

was afraid," said Noah to his father.

"Noah, if Sammy saw the danger in sliding down the hill he was

braver than you. Now both of you run to Annie and have these wet

things taken off."

"I must go get on dry clothes myself," said Betty. "I am nearly

frozen. It is growing colder. I saw Jack come in. Is he going to

Fort Pitt?"

"No. He has decided to wait until good weather. I met Mr. Miller

over at the garrison this afternoon and he wants you to go on the

sled-ride to-night. There is to be a dance down at Watkins' place.

All the young people are going. It is a long ride, but I guess it

will be perfectly safe. Silas and Wetzel are going. Dress yourself

warmly and go with them. You have never seen old Grandma Watkins."

"I shall be pleased to go," said Betty.

Betty's room was very cozy, considering that it was in a pioneer's

cabin. It had two windows, the larger of which opened on the side

toward the river. The walls had been smoothly plastered and covered

with white birch-bark. They were adorned with a few pictures and

Indian ornaments. A bright homespun carpet covered the floor. A

small bookcase stood in the corner. The other furniture consisted of

two chairs, a small table, a bureau with a mirror, and a large

wardrobe. It was in this last that Betty kept the gowns which she

had brought from Philadelphia, and which were the wonder of all the

girls in the village.

"I wonder why Eb looked so closely at me," mused Betty, as she

slipped on her little moccasins. "Usually he is not anxious to have

me go so far from the fort; and now he seemed to think I would enjoy

this dance to-night. I wonder what Bessie has been telling him."

Betty threw some wood on the smouldering fire in the little stone

grate and sat down to think. Like every one who has a humiliating

secret, Betty was eternally suspicious and feared the very walls

would guess it. Swift as light came the thought that her brother and

his wife had suspected her secret and had been talking about her,

perhaps pitying her. With this thought came the fear that if she had

betrayed herself to the Colonel's wife she might have done so to

others. The consciousness that this might well be true and that even

now the girls might be talking and laughing at her caused her

exceeding shame and bitterness.

Many weeks had passed since that last night that Betty and Alfred

Clarke had been together.

In due time Col. Zane's men returned and Betty learned from Jonathan

that Alfred had left them at Ft. Pitt, saying he was going south to

his old home. At first she had expected some word from Alfred, a

letter, or if not that, surely an apology for his conduct on that

last evening they had been together. But Jonathan brought her no

word, and after hoping against hope and wearing away the long days

looking for a letter that never came, she ceased to hope and plunged

into despair.

The last few months had changed her life; changed it as only

constant thinking, and suffering that must be hidden from the world,

can change the life of a young girl. She had been so intent on her

own thoughts, so deep in her dreams that she had taken no heed of

other people. She did not know that those who loved her were always

thinking of her welfare and would naturally see even a slight change

in her. With a sudden shock of surprise and pain she realized that

to-day for the first time in a month she had played with the boys.

Sammy had asked her why she did not laugh any more. Now she

understood the mad antics of Tige that morning; Madcap's whinney of

delight; the chattering of the squirrels, and Caesar's pranks in the

snow. She had neglected her pets. She had neglected her work, her

friends, the boys' lessons; and her brother. For what? What would

her girl friends say? That she was pining for a lover who had

forgotten her. They would say that and it would be true. She did

think of him constantly.

With bitter pain she recalled the first days of the acquaintance

which now seemed so long past; how much she had disliked Alfred; how

angry she had been with him and how contemptuously she had spurned

his first proffer of friendship; how, little by little, her pride

had been subdued; then the struggle with her heart. And, at last,

after he had gone, came the realization that the moments spent with

him had been the sweetest of her life. She thought of him as she

used to see him stand before her; so good to look at; so strong and

masterful, and yet so gentle.

"Oh, I cannot bear it," whispered Betty with a half sob, giving up

to a rush of tender feeling. "I love him. I love him, and I cannot

forget him. Oh, I am so ashamed."

Betty bowed her head on her knees. Her slight form quivered a while

and then grew still. When a half hour later she raised her head her

face was pale and cold. It bore the look of a girl who had suddenly

become a woman; a woman who saw the battle of life before her and

who was ready to fight. Stern resolve gleamed from her flashing

eyes; there was no faltering in those set lips.

Betty was a Zane and the Zanes came of a fighting race. Their blood

had ever been hot and passionate; the blood of men quick to love and

quick to hate. It had flowed in the veins of daring, reckless men

who had fought and died for their country; men who had won their

sweethearts with the sword; men who had had unconquerable spirits.

It was this fighting instinct that now rose in Betty; it gave her

strength and pride to defend her secret; the resolve to fight

against the longing in her heart.

"I will forget him! I will tear him out of my heart!" she exclaimed

passionately. "He never deserved my love. He did not care. I was a

little fool to let him amuse himself with me. He went away and

forgot. I hate him."

At length Betty subdued her excitement, and when she went down to

supper a few minutes later she tried to maintain a cheerful

composure of manner and to chat with her old-time vivacity.

"Bessie, I am sure you have exaggerated things," remarked Col. Zane

after Betty had gone upstairs to dress for the dance. "Perhaps it is

only that Betty grows a little tired of this howling wilderness.

Small wonder if she does. You know she has always been used to

comfort and many young people, places to go and all that. This is

her first winter on the frontier. She'll come round all right."

"Have it your way, Ebenezer," answered his wife with a look of

amused contempt on her face. "I am sure I hope you are right. By the

way, what do you think of this Ralfe Miller? He has been much with

Betty of late."

"I do not know the fellow, Bessie. He seems agreeable. He is a

good-looking young man. Why do you ask?"

"The Major told me that Miller had a bad name at Pitt, and that he

had been a friend of Simon Girty before Girty became a renegade."

"Humph! I'll have to speak to Sam. As for knowing Girty, there is

nothing terrible in that. All the women seem to think that Simon is

the very prince of devils. I have known all the Girtys for years.

Simon was not a bad fellow before he went over to the Indians. It is

his brother James who has committed most of those deeds which have

made the name of Girty so infamous."

"I don't like Miller," continued Mrs. Zane in a hesitating way. "I

must admit that I have no sensible reason for my dislike. He is

pleasant and agreeable, yes, but behind it there is a certain

intensity. That man has something on his mind."

"If he is in love with Betty, as you seem to think, he has enough on

his mind. I'll vouch for that," said Col. Zane. "Betty is inclined

to be a coquette. If she liked Clarke pretty well, it may be a

lesson to her."

"I wish she were married and settled down. It may have been no great

harm for Betty to have had many admirers while in Philadelphia, but

out here on the border it will never do. These men will not have it.

There will be trouble come of Betty's coquettishness."

"Why, Bessie, she is only a child. What would you have her do? Marry

the first man who asked her?"

"The clod-hoppers are coming," said Mrs. Zane as the jingling of

sleigh bells broke the stillness.

Col. Zane sprang up and opened the door. A broad stream of light

flashed from the room and lighted up the road. Three powerful teams

stood before the door. They were hitched to sleds, or clod-hoppers,

which were nothing more than wagon-beds fastened on wooden runners.

A chorus of merry shouts greeted Col. Zane as he appeared in the

doorway.

"All right! all right! Here she is," he cried, as Betty ran down the

steps.

The Colonel bundled her in a buffalo robe in a corner of the

foremost sled. At her feet he placed a buckskin bag containing a hot

stone Mrs. Zane thoughtfully had provided.

"All ready here. Let them go," called the Colonel. "You will have

clear weather. Coming back look well to the traces and keep a watch

for the wolves."

The long whips cracked, the bells jingled, the impatient horses

plunged forward and away they went over the glistening snow. The

night was clear and cold; countless stars blinked in the black vault

overhead; the pale moon cast its wintry light down on a white and

frozen world. As the runners glided swiftly and smoothly onward

showers of dry snow like fine powder flew from under the horses'

hoofs and soon whitened the black-robed figures in the sleds. The

way led down the hill past the Fort, over the creek bridge and along

the road that skirted the Black Forest. The ride was long; it led up

and down hills, and through a lengthy stretch of gloomy forest.

Sometimes the drivers walked the horses up a steep climb and again

raced them along a level bottom. Making a turn in the road they saw

a bright light in the distance which marked their destination. In

five minutes the horses dashed into a wide clearing. An immense log

fire burned in front of a two-story structure. Streams of light

poured from the small windows; the squeaking of fiddles, the

shuffling of many feet, and gay laughter came through the open door.

The steaming horses were unhitched, covered carefully with robes and

led into sheltered places, while the merry party disappeared into

the house.

The occasion was the celebration of the birthday of old Dan Watkins'

daughter. Dan was one of the oldest settlers along the river; in

fact, he had located his farm several years after Col. Zane had

founded the settlement. He was noted for his open-handed dealing and

kindness of heart. He had loaned many a head of cattle which had

never been returned, and many a sack of flour had left his mill

unpaid for in grain. He was a good shot, he would lay a tree on the

ground as quickly as any man who ever swung an axe, and he could

drink more whiskey than any man in the valley.

Dan stood at the door with a smile of welcome upon his rugged

features and a handshake and a pleasant word for everyone. His

daughter Susan greeted the men with a little curtsy and kissed the

girls upon the cheek. Susan was not pretty, though she was strong

and healthy; her laughing blue eyes assured a sunny disposition, and

she numbered her suitors by the score.

The young people lost no time. Soon the floor was covered with their

whirling forms.

In one corner of the room sat a little dried-up old woman with white

hair and bright dark eyes. This was Grandma Watkins. She was very

old, so old that no one knew her age, but she was still vigorous

enough to do her day's work with more pleasure than many a younger

woman. Just now she was talking to Wetzel, who leaned upon his

inseparable rifle and listened to her chatter. The hunter liked the

old lady and would often stop at her cabin while on his way to the

settlement and leave at her door a fat turkey or a haunch of

venison.

"Lew Wetzel, I am ashamed of you." Grandmother Watkins was saying.

"Put that gun in the corner and get out there and dance. Enjoy

yourself. You are only a boy yet."

"I'd better look on, mother," answered the hunter.

"Pshaw! You can hop and skip around like any of then and laugh too

if you want. I hope that pretty sister of Eb Zane has caught your

fancy."

"She is not for the like of me," he said gently "I haven't the

gifts."

"Don't talk about gifts. Not to an old woman who has lived three

times and more your age," she said impatiently. "It is not gifts a

woman wants out here in the West. If she does 'twill do her no good.

She needs a strong arm to build cabins, a quick eye with a rifle,

and a fearless heart. What border-women want are houses and

children. They must bring up men, men to drive the redskins back,

men to till the soil, or else what is the good of our suffering

here."

"You are right," said Wetzel thoughtfully. "But I'd hate to see a

flower like Betty Zane in a rude hunter's cabin."

"I have known the Zanes for forty year' and I never saw one yet that

was afraid of work. And you might win her if you would give up

running mad after Indians. I'll allow no woman would put up with

that. You have killed many Indians. You ought to be satisfied."

"Fightin' redskins is somethin' I can't help," said the hunter,

slowly shaking his head. "If I got married the fever would come on

and I'd leave home. No, I'm no good for a woman. Fightin' is all I'm

good for."

"Why not fight for her, then? Don't let one of these boys walk off

with her. Look at her. She likes fun and admiration. I believe you

do care for her. Why not try to win her?"

"Who is that tall man with her?" continued the old lady as Wetzel

did not answer. "There, they have gone into the other room. Who is

he?"

"His name is Miller."

"Lewis, I don't like him. I have been watching him all evening. I'm

a contrary old woman, I know, but I have seen a good many men in my

time, and his face is not honest. He is in love with her. Does she

care for him?"

"No, Betty doesn't care for Miller. She's just full of life and

fun."

"You may be mistaken. All the Zanes are fire and brimstone and this

girl is a Zane clear through. Go and fetch her to me, Lewis. I'll

tell you if there's a chance for you."

"Dear mother, perhaps there's a wife in Heaven for me. There's none

on earth," said the hunter, a sad smile flitting over his calm face.

Ralfe Miller, whose actions had occasioned the remarks of the old

lady, would have been conspicuous in any assembly of men. There was

something in his dark face that compelled interest and yet left the

observer in doubt. His square chin, deep-set eyes and firm mouth

denoted a strong and indomitable will. He looked a man whom it would

be dangerous to cross.

Little was known of Miller's history. He hailed from Ft. Pitt, where

he had a reputation as a good soldier, but a man of morose and

quarrelsome disposition. It was whispered that he drank, and that he

had been friendly with the renegades McKee, Elliott, and Girty. He

had passed the fall and winter at Ft. Henry, serving on garrison

duty. Since he had made the acquaintance of Betty he had shown her

all the attention possible.

On this night a close observer would have seen that Miller was

laboring under some strong feeling. A half-subdued fire gleamed from

his dark eyes. A peculiar nervous twitching of his nostrils betrayed

a poorly suppressed excitement.

All evening he followed Betty like a shadow. Her kindness may have

encouraged him. She danced often with him and showed a certain

preference for his society. Alice and Lydia were puzzled by Betty's

manner. As they were intimate friends they believed they knew

something of her likes and dislikes. Had not Betty told them she did

not care for Mr. Miller? What was the meaning of the arch glances

she bestowed upon him, if she did not care for him? To be sure, it

was nothing wonderful for Betty to smile,--she was always prodigal

of her smiles--but she had never been known to encourage any man.

The truth was that Betty had put her new resolution into effect; to

be as merry and charming as any fancy-free maiden could possibly be,

and the farthest removed from a young lady pining for an absent and

indifferent sweetheart. To her sorrow Betty played her part too

well.

Except to Wetzel, whose keen eyes little escaped, there was no

significance in Miller's hilarity one moment and sudden

thoughtfulness the next. And if there had been, it would have

excited no comment. Most of the young men had sampled some of old

Dan's best rye and their flushed faces and unusual spirits did not

result altogether from the exercise of the dance.

After one of the reels Miller led Betty, with whom he had been

dancing, into one of the side rooms. Round the dimly lighted room

were benches upon which were seated some of the dancers. Betty was

uneasy in mind and now wished that she had remained at home. They

had exchanged several commonplace remarks when the music struck up

and Betty rose quickly to her feet.

"See, the others have gone. Let us return," she said.

"Wait," said Miller hurriedly. "Do not go just yet. I wish to speak

to you. I have asked you many times if you will marry me. Now I ask

you again."

"Mr. Miller, I thanked you and begged you not to cause us both pain

by again referring to that subject," answered Betty with dignity.

"If you will persist in bringing it up we cannot be friends any

longer."

"Wait, please wait. I have told you that I will not take 'No' for an

answer. I love you with all my heart and soul and I cannot give you

up."

His voice was low and hoarse and thrilled with a strong man's

passion. Betty looked up into his face and tears of compassion

filled her eyes. Her heart softened to this man, and her conscience

gave her a little twinge of remorse. Could she not have averted all

this? No doubt she had been much to blame, and this thought made her

voice very low and sweet as she answered him.

"I like you as a friend, Mr. Miller, but we can never be more than

friends. I am very sorry for you, and angry with myself that I did

not try to help you instead of making it worse. Please do not speak

of this again. Come, let us join the others."

They were quite alone in the room. As Betty finished speaking and

started for the door Miller intercepted her. She recoiled in alarm

from his white face.

"No, you don't go yet. I won't give you up so easily. No woman can

play fast and loose with me! Do you understand? What have you meant

all this winter? You encouraged me. You know you did," he cried

passionately.

"I thought you were a gentleman. I have really taken the trouble to

defend you against persons who evidently were not misled as to your

real nature. I will not listen to you," said Betty coldly. She

turned away from him, all her softened feeling changed to scorn.

"You shall listen to me," he whispered as he grasped her wrist and

pulled her backward. All the man's brutal passion had been aroused.

The fierce border blood boiled within his heart. Unmasked he showed

himself in his true colors a frontier desperado. His eyes gleamed

dark and lurid beneath his bent brows and a short, desperate laugh

passed his lips.

"I will make you love me, my proud beauty. I shall have you yet, one

way or another."

"Let me go. How dare you touch me!" cried Betty, the hot blood

coloring her face. She struck him a stinging blow with her free hand

and struggled with all her might to free herself; but she was

powerless in his iron grasp. Closer he drew her.

"If it costs me my life I will kiss you for that blow," he muttered

hoarsely.

"Oh, you coward! you ruffian! Release me or I will scream."

She had opened her lips to call for help when she saw a dark figure

cross the threshold. She recognized the tall form of Wetzel. The

hunter stood still in the doorway for a second and then with the

swiftness of light he sprang forward. The single straightening of

his arm sent Miller backward over a bench to the floor with a

crashing sound. Miller rose with some difficulty and stood with one

hand to his head.

"Lew, don't draw your knife," cried Betty as she saw Wetzel's hand

go inside his hunting shirt. She had thrown herself in front of him

as Miller got to his feet. With both little hands she clung to the

brawny arm of the hunter, but she could not stay it. Wetzel's hand

slipped to his belt.

"For God's sake, Lew, do not kill him," implored Betty, gazing

horror-stricken at the glittering eyes of the hunter. "You have

punished him enough. He only tried to kiss me. I was partly to

blame. Put your knife away. Do not shed blood. For my sake, Lew, for

my sake!"

When Betty found that she could not hold Wetzel's arm she threw her

arms round his neck and clung to him with all her young strength. No

doubt her action averted a tragedy. If Miller had been inclined to

draw a weapon then he might have had a good opportunity to use it.

He had the reputation of being quick with his knife, and many of his

past fights testified that he was not a coward. But he made no

effort to attack Wetzel. It was certain that he measured with his

eye the distance to the door. Wetzel was not like other men.

Irrespective of his wonderful strength and agility there was

something about the Indian hunter that terrified all men. Miller

shrank before those eyes. He knew that never in all his life of

adventure had he been as near death as at that moment. There was

nothing between him and eternity but the delicate arms of this frail

girl. At a slight wave of the hunter's hand towards the door he

turned and passed out.

"Oh, how dreadful!" cried Betty, dropping upon a bench with a sob of

relief. "I am glad you came when you did even though you frightened

me more than he did. Promise me that you will not do Miller any

further harm. If you had fought it would all have been on my

account; one or both of you might have been killed. Don't look at me

so. I do not care for him. I never did. Now that I know him I

despise him. He lost his senses and tried to kiss me. I could have

killed him myself."

Wetzel did not answer. Betty had been holding his hand in both her

own while she spoke impulsively.

"I understand how difficult it is for you to overlook an insult to

me," she continued earnestly. "But I ask it of you. You are my best

friend, almost my brother, and I promise you that if he ever speaks

a word to me again that is not what it should be I will tell you."

"I reckon I'll let him go, considerin' how set on it you are."

"But remember, Lew, that he is revengeful and you must be on the

lookout," said Betty gravely as she recalled the malignant gleam in

Miller's eyes.

"He's dangerous only like a moccasin snake that hides in the grass."

"Am I all right? Do I look mussed or--or excited--or anything?"

asked Betty.

Lewis smiled as she turned round for his benefit. Her hair was a

little awry and the lace at her neck disarranged. The natural bloom

had not quite returned to her cheeks. With a look in his eyes that

would have mystified Betty for many a day had she but seen it he ran

his gaze over the dainty figure. Then reassuring her that she looked

as well as ever, he led her into the dance-room.

"So this is Betty Zane. Dear child, kiss me," said Grandmother

Watkins when Wetzel had brought Betty up to her. "Now, let me get a

good look at you. Well, well, you are a true Zane. Black hair and

eyes; all fire and pride. Child, I knew your father and mother long

before you were born. Your father was a fine man but a proud one.

And how do you like the frontier? Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," said Betty, smiling brightly at the old lady.

"Well, dearie, have a good time while you can. Life is hard in a

pioneer's cabin. You will not always have the Colonel to look after

you. They tell me you have been to some grand school in

Philadelphia. Learning is very well, but it will not help you in the

cabin of one of these rough men."

"There is a great need of education in all the pioneers' homes. I

have persuaded brother Eb to have a schoolteacher at the Fort next

spring."

"First teach the boys to plow and the girls to make Johnny cake. How

much you favor your brother Isaac. He used to come and see me often.

So must you in summertime. Poor lad, I suppose he is dead by this

time. I have seen so many brave and good lads go. There now, I did

not mean to make you sad," and the old lady patted Betty's hand and

sighed.

"He often spoke of you and said that I must come with him to see

you. Now he is gone," said Betty.

"Yes, he is gone, Betty, but you must not be sad while you are so

young. Wait until you are old like I am. How long have you known Lew

Wetzel?"

"All my life. He used to carry me in his arm, when I was a baby. Of

course I do not remember that, but as far back as I can go in memory

I can see Lew. Oh, the many times he has saved me from disaster! But

why do you ask?"

"I think Lew Wetzel cares more for you than for all the world. He is

as silent as an Indian, but I am an old woman and I can read men's

hearts. If he could be made to give up his wandering life he would

be the best man on the border."

"Oh, indeed I think you are wrong. Lew does not care for me in that

way," said Betty, surprised and troubled by the old lady's

vehemence.

A loud blast from a hunting-horn directed the attention of all to

the platform at the upper end of the hall, where Dan Watkins stood.

The fiddlers ceased playing, the dancers stopped, and all looked

expectantly. The scene was simple strong, and earnest. The light in

the eyes of these maidens shone like the light from the pine cones

on the walls. It beamed soft and warm. These fearless sons of the

wilderness, these sturdy sons of progress, standing there clasping

the hands of their partners and with faces glowing with happiness,

forgetful of all save the enjoyment of the moment, were ready to go

out on the morrow and battle unto the death for the homes and the

lives of their loved ones.

"Friends," said Dan when the hum of voices had ceased "I never

thought as how I'd have to get up here and make a speech to-night or

I might have taken to the woods. Howsomever, mother and Susan says

as it's gettin' late it's about time we had some supper. Somewhere

in the big cake is hid a gold ring. If one of the girls gets it she

can keep it as a gift from Susan, and should one of the boys find it

he may make a present to his best girl. And in the bargain he gets

to kiss Susan. She made some objection about this and said that part

of the game didn't go, but I reckon the lucky young man will decide

that for hisself. And now to the festal board."

Ample justice was done to the turkey, the venison, and the bear

meat. Grandmother Watkins' delicious apple and pumpkin pies for

which she was renowned, disappeared as by magic. Likewise the cakes

and the sweet cider and the apple butter vanished.

When the big cake had been cut and divided among the guests, Wetzel

discovered the gold ring within his share. He presented the ring to

Betty, and gave his privilege of kissing Susan to George Reynolds,

with the remark: "George, I calkilate Susan would like it better if

you do the kissin' part." Now it was known to all that George had

long been an ardent admirer of Susan's, and it was suspected that

she was not indifferent to him. Nevertheless, she protested that it

was not fair. George acted like a man who had the opportunity of his

life. Amid uproarious laughter he ran Susan all over the room, and

when he caught her he pulled her hands away from her blushing face

and bestowed a right hearty kiss on her cheek. To everyone's

surprise and to Wetzel's discomfiture, Susan walked up to him and

saying that as he had taken such an easy way out of it she intended

to punish him by kissing him. And so she did. Poor Lewis' face

looked the picture of dismay. Probably he had never been kissed

before in his life.

Happy hours speed away on the wings of the wind. The feasting over,

the good-byes were spoken, the girls were wrapped in the warm robes,

for it was now intensely cold, and soon the horses, eager to start

on the long homeward journey, were pulling hard on their bits. On

the party's return trip there was an absence of the hilarity which

had prevailed on their coming. The bells were taken off before the

sleds left the blockhouse, and the traces and the harness examined

and tightened with the caution of men who were apprehensive of

danger and who would take no chances.

In winter time the foes most feared by the settlers were the timber

wolves. Thousands of these savage beasts infested the wild forest

regions which bounded the lonely roads, and their wonderful power of

scent and swift and tireless pursuit made a long night ride a thing

to be dreaded. While the horses moved swiftly danger from wolves was

not imminent; but carelessness or some mishap to a trace or a wheel

had been the cause of more than one tragedy.

Therefore it was not remarkable that the drivers of our party

breathed a sigh of relief when the top of the last steep hill had

been reached. The girls were quiet, and tired out and cold they

pressed close to one another; the men were silent and watchful.

When they were half way home and had just reached the outskirts of

the Black Forest the keen ear of Wetzel caught the cry of a wolf. It

came from the south and sounded so faint that Wetzel believed at

first that he had been mistaken. A few moments passed in which the

hunter turned his ear to the south. He had about made up his mind

that he had only imagined he had heard something when the

unmistakable yelp of a wolf came down on the wind. Then another,

this time clear and distinct, caused the driver to turn and whisper

to Wetzel. The hunter spoke in a low tone and the driver whipped up

his horses. From out the depths of the dark woods along which they

were riding came a long and mournful howl. It was a wolf answering

the call of his mate. This time the horses heard it, for they threw

back their ears and increased their speed. The girls heard it, for

they shrank closer to the men.

There is that which is frightful in the cry of a wolf. When one is

safe in camp before a roaring fire the short, sharp bark of a wolf

is startling, and the long howl will make one shudder. It is so

lonely and dismal. It makes no difference whether it be given while

the wolf is sitting on his haunches near some cabin waiting for the

remains of the settler's dinner, or while he is in full chase after

his prey--the cry is equally wild, savage and bloodcurdling.

Betty had never heard it and though she was brave, when the howl

from the forest had its answer in another howl from the creek

thicket, she slipped her little mittened hand under Wetzel's arm and

looked up at him with frightened eyes.

In half an hour the full chorus of yelps, barks and howls swelled

hideously on the air, and the ever increasing pack of wolves could

be seen scarcely a hundred yards behind the sleds. The patter of

their swiftly flying feet on the snow could be distinctly heard. The

slender, dark forms came nearer and nearer every moment. Presently

the wolves had approached close enough for the occupants of the

sleds to see their shining eyes looking like little balls of green

fire. A gaunt beast bolder than the others, and evidently the leader

of the pack, bounded forward until he was only a few yards from the

last sled. At every jump he opened his great jaws and uttered a

quick bark as if to embolden his followers.

Almost simultaneously with the red flame that burst from Wetzel's

rifle came a sharp yelp of agony from the leader. He rolled over and

over. Instantly followed a horrible mingling of snarls and barks,

and snapping of jaws as the band fought over the body of their

luckless comrade.

This short delay gave the advantage to the horses. When the wolves

again appeared they were a long way behind. The distance to the fort

was now short and the horses were urged to their utmost. The wolves

kept up the chase until they reached the creek bridge and the mill.

Then they slowed up: the howling became desultory, and finally the

dark forms disappeared in the thickets.

CHAPTER VIII.

Winter dragged by uneventfully for Betty. Unlike the other pioneer

girls, who were kept busy all the time with their mending, and

linsey weaving, and household duties, Betty had nothing to divert

her but her embroidery and her reading. These she found very

tiresome. Her maid was devoted to her and never left a thing undone.

Annie was old Sam's daughter, and she had waited on Betty since she

had been a baby. The cleaning or mending or darning--anything in the

shape of work that would have helped pass away the monotonous hours

for Betty, was always done before she could lift her hand.

During the day she passed hours in her little room, and most of them

were dreamed away by her window. Lydia and Alice came over sometimes

and whiled away the tedious moments with their bright chatter and

merry laughter, their castle-building, and their romancing on heroes

and love and marriage as girls always will until the end of time.

They had not forgotten Mr. Clarke, but as Betty had rebuked them

with a dignity which forbade any further teasing on that score, they

had transferred their fun-making to the use of Mr. Miller's name.

Fearing her brothers' wrath Betty had not told them of the scene

with Miller at the dance. She had learned enough of rough border

justice to dread the consequence of such a disclosure. She permitted

Miller to come to the house, although she never saw him alone.

Miller had accepted this favor gratefully. He said that on the night

of the dance he had been a little the worse for Dan Watkins' strong

liquor, and that, together with his bitter disappointment, made him

act in the mad way which had so grievously offended her. He exerted

himself to win her forgiveness. Betty was always tender-hearted, and

though she did not trust him, she said they might still be friends,

but that that depended on his respect for her forbearance. Miller

had promised he would never refer to the old subject and he had kept

his word.

Indeed Betty welcomed any diversion for the long winter evenings.

Occasionally some of the young people visited her, and they sang and

danced, roasted apples, popped chestnuts, and played games. Often

Wetzel and Major McColloch came in after supper. Betty would come

down and sing for them, and afterward would coax Indian lore and

woodcraft from Wetzel, or she would play checkers with the Major. If

she succeeded in winning from him, which in truth was not often, she

teased him unmercifully. When Col. Zane and the Major had settled

down to their series of games, from which nothing short of Indians

could have diverted them, Betty sat by Wetzel. The silent man of the

woods, an appellation the hunter had earned by his reticence, talked

for Betty as he would for no one else.

One night while Col. Zane, his wife and Betty were entertaining

Capt. Boggs and Major McColloch and several of Betty's girls

friends, after the usual music and singing, storytelling became the

order of the evening. Little Noah told of the time he had climbed

the apple-tree in the yard after a raccoon and got severely bitten.

"One day," said Noah, "I heard Tige barking out in the orchard and I

ran out there and saw a funny little fur ball up in the tree with a

black tail and white rings around it. It looked like a pretty cat

with a sharp nose. Every time Tige barked the little animal showed

his teeth and swelled up his back. I wanted him for a pet. I got Sam

to give me a sack and I climbed the tree and the nearer I got to him

the farther he backed down the limb. I followed him and put out the

sack to put it over his head and he bit me. I fell from the limb,

but he fell too and Tige killed him and Sam stuffed him for me."

"Noah, you are quite a valiant hunter," said Betty. "Now, Jonathan,

remember that you promised to tell me of your meeting with Daniel

Boone."

"It was over on the Muskingong near the mouth of the Sandusky. I was

hunting in the open woods along the bank when I saw an Indian. He

saw me at the same time and we both treed. There we stood a long

time each afraid to change position. Finally I began to act tired

and resorted to an old ruse. I put my coon-skin cap on my ramrod and

cautiously poked it from behind the tree, expecting every second to

hear the whistle of the redskin's bullet. Instead I heard a jolly

voice yell: 'Hey, young feller, you'll have to try something

better'n that.' I looked and saw a white man standing out in the

open and shaking all over with laughter. I went up to him and found

him to be a big strong fellow with an honest, merry face. He said:

'I'm Boone.' I was considerably taken aback, especially when I saw

he knew I was a white man all the time. We camped and hunted along

the river a week and at the Falls of the Muskingong he struck out

for his Kentucky home."

"Here is Wetzel," said Col. Zane, who had risen and gone to the

door. "Now, Betty, try and get Lew to tell us something."

"Come, Lewis, here is a seat by me," said Betty. "We have been

pleasantly passing the time. We have had bear stories, snake

stories, ghost stories--all kinds of tales. Will you tell us one?"

"Lewis, did you ever have a chance to kill a hostile Indian and not

take it?" asked Col. Zane.

"Never but once," answered Lewis.

"Tell us about it. I imagine it will be interesting."

"Well, I ain't good at tellin' things," began Lewis. "I reckon I've

seen some strange sights. I kin tell you about the only redskin I

ever let off. Three years ago I was takin' a fall hunt over on the

Big Sandy, and I run into a party of Shawnees. I plugged a chief and

started to run. There was some good runners and I couldn't shake 'em

in the open country. Comin' to the Ohio I jumped in and swum across,

keepin' my rifle and powder dry by holdin' 'em up. I hid in some

bulrushes and waited. Pretty soon along comes three Injuns, and when

they saw where I had taken to the water they stopped and held a

short pow-wow. Then they all took to the water. This was what I was

waitin' for. When they got nearly acrosst I shot the first redskin,

and loadin' quick got a bullet into the others. The last Injun did

not sink. I watched him go floatin' down stream expectin' every

minute to see him go under as he was hurt so bad he could hardly

keep his head above water. He floated down a long ways and the

current carried him to a pile of driftwood which had lodged against

a little island. I saw the Injun crawl up on the drift. I went down

stream and by keepin' the island between me and him I got out to

where he was. I pulled my tomahawk and went around the head of the

island and found the redskin leanin' against a big log. He was a

young brave and a fine lookin strong feller. He was tryin' to stop

the blood from my bullet-hole in his side. When he saw me he tried

to get up, but he was too weak. He smiled, pointed to the wound and

said: 'Deathwind not heap times bad shot.' Then he bowed his head

and waited for the tomahawk. Well, I picked him up and carried him

ashore and made a shack by a spring. I staid there with him. When he

got well enough to stand a few days' travel I got him across the

river and givin' him a hunk of deer meat I told him to go, and if I

ever saw him again I'd make a better shot.

"A year afterwards I trailed two Shawnees into Wingenund's camp and

got surrounded and captured. The Delaware chief is my great enemy.

They beat me, shot salt into my legs, made me run the gauntlet, tied

me on the back of a wild mustang. Then they got ready to burn me at

the stake. That night they painted my face black and held the usual

death dances. Some of the braves got drunk and worked themselves

into a frenzy. I allowed I'd never see daylight. I seen that one of

the braves left to guard me was the young feller I had wounded the

year before. He never took no notice of me. In the gray of the early

mornin' when all were asleep and the other watch dozin' I felt cold

steel between my wrists and my buckskin thongs dropped off. Then my

feet were cut loose. I looked round and in the dim light I seen my

young brave. He handed me my own rifle, knife and tomahawk, put his

finger on his lips and with a bright smile, as if to say he was

square with me, he pointed to the east. I was out of sight in a

minute."

"How noble of him!" exclaimed Betty, her eyes all aglow. "He paid

his debt to you, perhaps at the price of his life."

"I have never known an Indian to forget a promise, or a kind action,

or an injury," observed Col. Zane.

"Are the Indians half as bad as they are called?" asked Betty. "I

have heard as many stories of their nobility as of their cruelty."

"The Indians consider that they have been robbed and driven from

their homes. What we think hideously inhuman is war to them,"

answered Col. Zane.

"When I came here from Fort Pitt I expected to see and fight Indians

every day," said Capt. Boggs. "I have been here at Wheeling for

nearly two years and have never seen a hostile Indian. There have

been some Indians in the vicinity during that time but not one has

shown himself to me. I'm not up to Indian tricks, I know, but I

think the last siege must have been enough for them. I don't believe

we shall have any more trouble from them."

"Captain," called out Col. Zane, banging his hand on the table.

"I'll bet you my best horse to a keg of gunpowder that you see

enough Indians before you are a year older to make you wish you had

never seen or heard of the western border."

"And I'll go you the same bet," said Major McColloch.

"You see, Captain, you must understand a little of the nature of the

Indian," continued Col. Zane. "We have had proof that the Delawares

and the Shawnees have been preparing for an expedition for months.

We shall have another siege some day and to my thinking it will be a

longer and harder one than the last. What say you, Wetzel?"

"I ain't sayin' much, but I don't calkilate on goin' on any long

hunts this summer," answered the hunter.

"And do you think Tarhe, Wingenund, Pipe, Cornplanter, and all those

chiefs will unite their forces and attack us?" asked Betty of

Wetzel.

"Cornplanter won't. He has been paid for most of his land and he

ain't so bitter. Tarhe is not likely to bother us. But Pipe and

Wingenund and Red Fox--they all want blood."

"Have you seen these chiefs?" said Betty.

"Yes, I know 'em all and they all know me," answered the hunter.

"I've watched over many a trail waitin' for one of 'em. If I can

ever get a shot at any of 'em I'll give up Injuns and go farmin'.

Good night, Betty."

"What a strange man is Wetzel," mused Betty, after the visitors had

gone. "Do you know, Eb, he is not at all like any one else. I have

seen the girls shudder at the mention of his name and I have heard

them say they could not look in his eyes. He does not affect me that

way. It is not often I can get him to talk, but sometimes he tells

me beautiful thing about the woods; how he lives in the wilderness,

his home under the great trees; how every leaf on the trees and

every blade of grass has its joy for him as well as its knowledge;

how he curls up in his little bark shack and is lulled to sleep by

the sighing of the wind through the pine tops. He told me he has

often watched the stars for hours at a time. I know there is a

waterfall back in the Black Forest somewhere that Lewis goes to,

simply to sit and watch the water tumble over the precipice."

"Wetzel is a wonderful character, even to those who know him only as

an Indian slayer and a man who wants no other occupation. Some day

he will go off on one of these long jaunts and will never return.

That is certain. The day is fast approaching when a man like Wetzel

will be of no use in life. Now, he is a necessity. Like Tige he can

smell Indians. Betty, I believe Lewis tells you so much and is so

kind and gentle toward you because he cares for you."

"Of course Lew likes me. I know he does and I want him to," said

Betty. "But he does not care as you seem to think. Grandmother

Watkins said the same. I am sure both of you are wrong."

"Did Dan's mother tell you that? Well, she's pretty shrewd. It's

quite likely, Betty, quite likely. It seems to me you are not so

quick witted as you used to be."

"Why so?" asked Betty, quickly.

"Well, you used to be different somehow," said her brother, as he

patted her hand.

"Do you mean I am more thoughtful?"

"Yes, and sometimes you seem sad."

"I have tried to be brave and--and happy," said Betty, her voice

trembling slightly.

"Yes, yes, I know you have, Betty. You have done wonderfully well

here in this dead place. But tell me, don't be angry, don't you

think too much of some one?"

"You have no right to ask me that," said Betty, flushing and turning

away toward the stairway.

"Well, well, child, don't mind me. I did not mean anything. There,

good night, Betty."

Long after she had gone up-stairs Col. Zane sat by his fireside.

From time to time he sighed. He thought of the old Virginia home and

of the smile of his mother. It seemed only a few short years since

he had promised her that he would take care of the baby sister. How

had he kept that promise made when Betty was a little thing bouncing

on his knee? It seemed only yesterday. How swift the flight of time!

Already Betty was a woman; her sweet, gay girlhood had passed;

already a shadow had fallen on her face, the shadow of a secret

sorrow.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

March with its blustering winds had departed, and now April's

showers and sunshine were gladdening the hearts of the settlers.

Patches of green freshened the slopes of the hills; the lilac bushes

showed tiny leaves, and the maple-buds were bursting. Yesterday a

blue-bird--surest harbinger of spring--had alighted on the

fence-post and had sung his plaintive song. A few more days and the

blossoms were out mingling their pink and white with the green; the

red-bud, the hawthorne, and the dog-wood were in bloom, checkering

the hillsides.

"Bessie, spring is here," said Col. Zane, as he stood in the

doorway. "The air is fresh, the sun shines warm, the birds are

singing; it makes me feel good."

"Yes, it is pleasant to have spring with us again," answered his

wife. "I think, though, that in winter I am happier. In summer I am

always worried. I am afraid for the children to be out of my sight,

and when you are away on a hunt I am distraught until you are home

safe."

"Well, if the redskins let us alone this summer it will be something

new," he said, laughing. "By the way, Bess, some new people came to

the fort last night. They rafted down from the Monongahela

settlements. Some of the women suffered considerably. I intend to

offer them the cabin on the hill until they can cut the timber and

run up a house. Sam said the cabin roof leaked and the chimney

smoked, but with a little work I think they can be made more

comfortable there than at the block-house."

"It is the only vacant cabin in the settlement. I can accommodate

the women folks here."

"Well, we'll see about it. I don't want you and Betty

inconvenienced. I'll send Sam up to the cabin and have him fix

things up a bit and make it more habitable."

The door opened, admitting Col. Zane's elder boy. The lad's face was

dirty, his nose was all bloody, and a big bruise showed over his

right eye.

"For the land's sake!" exclaimed his mother. "Look at the boy. Noah,

come here. What have you been doing?"

Noah crept close to his mother and grasping her apron with both

hands hid his face. Mrs. Zane turned the boy around and wiped his

discolored features with a wet towel. She gave him a little shake

and said: "Noah, have you been fighting again?"

"Let him go and I'll tell you about it," said the Colonel, and when

the youngster had disappeared he continued: "Right after breakfast

Noah went with me down to the mill. I noticed several children

playing in front of Reihart's blacksmith shop. I went in, leaving

Noah outside. I got a plow-share which I had left with Reihart to be

repaired. He came to the door with me and all at once he said: 'look

at the kids.' I looked and saw Noah walk up to a boy and say

something to him. The lad was a stranger, and I have no doubt

belongs to these new people I told you about. He was bigger than

Noah. At first the older boy appeared very friendly and evidently

wanted to join the others in their game. I guess Noah did not

approve of this, for after he had looked the stranger over he hauled

away and punched the lad soundly. To make it short the strange boy

gave Noah the worst beating he ever got in his life. I told Noah to

come straight to you and confess."

"Well, did you ever!" ejaculated Mrs. Zane. "Noah is a bad boy. And

you stood and watched him fight. You are laughing about it now.

Ebenezer Zane, I would not put it beneath you to set Noah to

fighting. I know you used to make the little niggers fight. Anyway,

it serves Noah right and I hope it will be a lesson to him."

"I'll make you a bet, Bessie," said the Colonel, with another laugh.

"I'll bet you that unless we lock him up, Noah will fight that boy

every day or every time he meets him."

"I won't bet," said Mrs. Zane, with a smile of resignation.

"Where's Betts? I haven't seen her this morning. I am going over to

Short Creek to-morrow or next day, and think I'll take her with me.

You know I am to get a commission to lay out several settlements

along the river, and I want to get some work finished at Short Creek

this spring. Mrs. Raymer'll be delighted to have Betty. Shall I take

her?"

"By all means. A visit there will brighten her up and do her good."

"Well, what on earth have you been doing?" cried the Colonel. His

remark had been called forth by a charming vision that had entered

by the open door. Betty--for it was she--wore a little red cap set

jauntily on her black hair. Her linsey dress was crumpled and

covered with hayseed.

"I've been in the hay-mow," said Betty, waving a small basket. "For

a week that old black hen has circumvented me, but at last I have

conquered. I found the nest in the farthest corner under the hay."

"How did you get up in the loft?" inquired Mrs. Zane.

"Bessie, I climbed up the ladder of course. I acknowledge being

unusually light-hearted and happy this morning, but I have not as

yet grown wings. Sam said I could not climb up that straight ladder,

but I found it easy enough."

"You should not climb up into the loft," said Mrs. Zane, in a severe

tone. "Only last fall Hugh Bennet's little boy slid off the hay down

into one of the stalls and the horse kicked him nearly to death."

"Oh, fiddlesticks, Bessie, I am not a baby," said Betty, with

vehemence. "There is not a horse in the barn but would stand on his

hind legs before he would step on me, let alone kick me."

"I don't know, Betty, but I think that black horse Mr. Clarke left

here would kick any one," remarked the Colonel.

"Oh, no, he would not hurt me."

"Betty, we have had pleasant weather for about three days," said the

Colonel, gravely. "In that time you have let out that crazy bear of

yours to turn everything topsy-turvy. Only yesterday I got my hands

in the paint you have put on your canoe. If you had asked my advice

I would have told you that painting your canoe should not have been

done for a month yet. Silas told me you fell down the creek hill;

Sam said you tried to drive his team over the bluff, and so on. We

are happy to see you get back your old time spirits, but could you

not be a little more careful? Your versatility is bewildering. We do

not know what to look for next. I fully expect to see you brought to

the house some day maimed for life, or all that beautiful black hair

gone to decorate some Huron's lodge."

"I tell you I am perfectly delighted that the weather is again so I

can go out. I am tired to death of staying indoors. This morning I

could have cried for very joy. Bessie will soon be lecturing me

about Madcap. I must not ride farther than the fort. Well, I don't

care. I intend to ride all over."

"Betty, I do not wish you to think I am lecturing you," said the

Colonel's wife. "But you are as wild as a March hare and some one

must tell you things. Now listen. My brother, the Major, told me

that Simon Girty, the renegade, had been heard to say that he had

seen Eb Zane's little sister and that if he ever got his hands on

her he would make a squaw of her. I am not teasing you. I am telling

you the truth. Girty saw you when you were at Fort Pitt two years

ago. Now what would you do if he caught you on one of your lonely

rides and carried you off to his wigwam? He has done things like

that before. James Girty carried off one of the Johnson girls. Her

brothers tried to rescue her and lost their lives. It is a common

trick of the Indians."

"What would I do if Mr. Simon Girty tried to make a squaw of me?"

exclaimed Betty, her eyes flashing fire. "Why, I'd kill him!"

"I believe it, Betts, on my word I do," spoke up the Colonel. "But

let us hope you may never see Girty. All I ask is that you be

careful. I am going over to Short Creek to-morrow. Will you go with

me? I know Mrs. Raymer will be pleased to see you."

"Oh, Eb, that will be delightful!"

"Very well, get ready and we shall start early in the morning."

Two weeks later Betty returned from Short Creek and seemed to have

profited much by her short visit. Col. Zane remarked with

satisfaction to his wife that Betty had regained all her former

cheerfulness.

The morning after Betty's return was a perfect spring morning--the

first in that month of May-days. The sun shone bright and warm; the

mayflowers blossomed; the trailing arbutus scented the air;

everywhere the grass and the leaves looked fresh and green; swallows

flitted in and out of the barn door; the blue-birds twittered; a

meadow-lark caroled forth his pure melody, and the busy hum of bees

came from the fragrant apple-blossoms.

"Mis' Betty, Madcap 'pears powerfo' skittenish," said old Sam, when

he had led the pony to where Betty stood on the hitching block.

"Whoa, dar, you rascal."

Betty laughed as she leaped lightly into the saddle, and soon she

was flying over the old familiar road, down across the creek bridge,

past the old grist-mill, around the fort and then out on the river

bluff. The Indian pony was fiery and mettlesome. He pranced and

side-stepped, galloped and trotted by turns. He seemed as glad to

get out again into the warm sunshine as was Betty herself. He tore

down the road a mile at his best speed. Coming back Betty pulled him

into a walk. Presently her musings were interrupted by a sharp

switch in the face from a twig of a tree. She stopped the pony and

broke off the offending branch. As she looked around the

recollection of what had happened to her in that very spot flashed

into her mind. It was here that she had been stopped by the man who

had passed almost as swiftly out of her life as he had crossed her

path that memorable afternoon. She fell to musing on the old

perplexing question. After all could there not have been some

mistake? Perhaps she might have misjudged him? And then the old

spirit, which resented her thinking of him in that softened mood,

rose and fought the old battle over again. But as often happened the

mood conquered, and Betty permitted herself to sink for the moment

into the sad thoughts which returned like a mournful strain of music

once sung by beloved voices, now forever silent.

She could not resist the desire to ride down to the old sycamore.

The pony turned into the bridle-path that led down the bluff and the

sure-footed beast picked his way carefully over the roots and

stones. Betty's heart beat quicker when she saw the noble tree under

whose spreading branches she had spent the happiest day of her life.

The old monarch of the forest was not one whit changed by the wild

winds of winter. The dew sparkled on the nearly full grown leaves;

the little sycamore balls were already as large as marbles.

Betty drew rein at the top of the bank and looked absently at the

tree and into the foam covered pool beneath. At that moment her eyes

saw nothing physical. They held the faraway light of the dreamer,

the look that sees so much of the past and nothing of the present.

Presently her reflections were broken by the actions of the pony.

Madcap had thrown up her head, laid back her ears and commenced to

paw the ground with her forefeet. Betty looked round to see the

cause of Madcap's excitement. What was that! She saw a tall figure

clad in brown leaning against the stone. She saw a long fishing-rod.

What was there so familiar in the poise of that figure? Madcap

dislodged a stone from the path and it went rattling down the rock,

slope and fell with a splash into the water. The man heard it,

turned and faced the hillside. Betty recognized Alfred Clarke. For a

moment she believed she must be dreaming. She had had many dreams of

the old sycamore. She looked again. Yes, it was he. Pale, worn, and

older he undoubtedly looked, but the features were surely those of

Alfred Clarke. Her heart gave a great bound and then seemed to stop

beating while a very agony of joy surged over her and made her

faint. So he still lived. That was her first thought, glad and

joyous, and then memory returning, her face went white as with

clenched teeth she wheeled Madcap and struck her with the switch.

Once on the level bluff she urged her toward the house at a furious

pace.

Col. Zane had just stepped out of the barn door and his face took on

an expression of amazement when he saw the pony come tearing up the

road, Betty's hair flying in the wind and with a face as white as if

she were pursued by a thousand yelling Indians.

"Say, Betts, what the deuce is wrong?" cried the Colonel, when Betty

reached the fence.

"Why did you not tell me that man was here again?" she demanded in

intense excitement.

"That man! What man?" asked Col. Zane, considerably taken back by

this angry apparition.

"Mr. Clarke, of course. Just as if you did not know. I suppose you

thought it a fine opportunity for one of your jokes."

"Oh, Clarke. Well, the fact is I just found it out myself. Haven't I

been away as well as you? I certainly cannot imagine how any man

could create such evident excitement in your mind. Poor Clarke, what

has he done now?"

"You might have told me. Somebody could have told me and saved me

from making a fool of myself," retorted Betty, who was plainly on

the verge of tears. "I rode down to the old sycamore tree and he saw

me in, of all the places in the world, the one place where I would

not want him to see me."

"Huh!" said the Colonel, who often gave vent to the Indian

exclamation. "Is that all? I thought something had happened."

"All! Is it not enough? I would rather have died. He is a man and he

will think I followed him down there, that I was thinking

of--that--Oh!" cried Betty, passionately, and then she strode into

the house, slammed the door, and left the Colonel, lost in wonder.

"Humph! These women beat me. I can't make them out, and the older I

grow the worse I get," he said, as he led the pony into the stable.

Betty ran up-stairs to her room, her head in a whirl stronger than

the surprise of Alfred's unexpected appearance in Fort Henry and

stronger than the mortification in having been discovered going to a

spot she should have been too proud to remember was the bitter sweet

consciousness that his mere presence had thrilled her through and

through. It hurt her and made her hate herself in that moment. She

hid her face in shame at the thought that she could not help being

glad to see the man who had only trifled with her, the man who had

considered the acquaintance of so little consequence that he had

never taken the trouble to write her a line or send her a message.

She wrung her trembling hands. She endeavored to still that

throbbing heart and to conquer that sweet vague feeling which had

crept over her and made her weak. The tears began to come and with a

sob she threw herself on the bed and buried her head in the pillow.

An hour after, when Betty had quieted herself and had seated herself

by the window a light knock sounded on the door and Col. Zane

entered. He hesitated and came in rather timidly, for Betty was not

to be taken liberties with, and seeing her by the window he crossed

the room and sat down by her side.

Betty did not remember her father or her mother. Long ago when she

was a child she had gone to her brother, laid her head on his

shoulder and told him all her troubles. The desire grew strong

within her now. There was comfort in the strong clasp of his hand.

She was not proof against it, and her dark head fell on his

shoulder.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Alfred Clarke had indeed made his reappearance in Fort Henry. The

preceding October when he left the settlement to go on the

expedition up the Monongahela River his intention had been to return

to the fort as soon as he had finished his work, but what he did do

was only another illustration of that fatality which affects

everything. Man hopefully makes his plans and an inexorable destiny

works out what it has in store for him.

The men of the expedition returned to Fort Henry in due time, but

Alfred had been unable to accompany them. He had sustained a painful

injury and had been compelled to go to Fort Pitt for medical

assistance. While there he had received word that his mother was

lying very ill at his old home in Southern Virginia and if he wished

to see her alive he must not delay in reaching her bedside. He left

Fort Pitt at once and went to his home, where he remained until his

mother's death. She had been the only tie that bound him to the old

home, and now that she was gone he determined to leave the scene of

his boyhood forever.

Alfred was the rightful heir to all of the property, but an unjust

and selfish stepfather stood between him and any contentment he

might have found there. He decided he would be a soldier of fortune.

He loved the daring life of a ranger, and preferred to take his

chances with the hardy settlers on the border rather than live the

idle life of a gentleman farmer. He declared his intention to his

step-father, who ill-concealed his satisfaction at the turn affairs

had taken. Then Alfred packed his belongings, secured his mother's

jewels, and with one sad, backward glance rode away from the stately

old mansion.

It was Sunday morning and Clarke had been two days in Fort Henry.

From his little room in the block-house he surveyed the

well-remembered scene. The rolling hills, the broad river, the green

forests seemed like old friends.

"Here I am again," he mused. "What a fool a man can be. I have left

a fine old plantation, slaves, horses, a country noted for its

pretty women--for what? Here there can be nothing for me but

Indians, hard work, privation, and trouble. Yet I could not get here

quickly enough. Pshaw! What use to speak of the possibilities of a

new country. I cannot deceive myself. It is she. I would walk a

thousand miles and starve myself for months just for one glimpse of

her sweet face. Knowing this what care I for all the rest. How

strange she should ride down to the old sycamore tree yesterday the

moment I was there and thinking of her. Evidently she had just

returned from her visit. I wonder if she ever cared. I wonder if she

ever thinks of me. Shall I accept that incident as a happy augury?

Well, I am here to find out and find out I will. Aha! there goes the

church bell."

Laughing a little at his eagerness he brushed his coat, put on his

cap and went down stairs. The settlers with their families were

going into the meeting house. As Alfred started up the steps he met

Lydia Boggs.

"Why, Mr. Clarke, I heard you had returned," she said, smiling

pleasantly and extending her hand. "Welcome to the fort. I am very

glad to see you."

While they were chatting her father and Col. Zane came up and both

greeted the young man warmly.

"Well, well, back on the frontier," said the Colonel, in his hearty

way. "Glad to see you at the fort again. I tell you, Clarke, I have

taken a fancy to that black horse you left me last fall. I did not

know what to think when Jonathan brought back my horse. To tell you

the truth I always looked for you to come back. What have you been

doing all winter?"

"I have been at home. My mother was ill all winter and she died in

April."

"My lad, that's bad news. I am sorry," said Col. Zane putting his

hand kindly on the young man's shoulder. "I was wondering what gave

you that older and graver look. It's hard, lad, but it's the way of

life."

"I have come back to get my old place with you, Col. Zane, if you

will give it to me."

"I will, and can promise you more in the future. I am going to open

a road through to Maysville, Kentucky, and start several new

settlements along the river. I will need young men, and am more than

glad you have returned."

"Thank you, Col. Zane. That is more than I could have hoped for."

Alfred caught sight of a trim figure in a gray linsey gown coming

down the road. There were several young people approaching, but he

saw only Betty. By some evil chance Betty walked with Ralfe Miller,

and for some mysterious reason, which women always keep to

themselves, she smiled and looked up into his face at a time of all

times she should not have done so. Alfred's heart turned to lead.

When the young people reached the steps the eyes of the rivals met

for one brief second, but that was long enough for them to

understand each other. They did not speak. Lydia hesitated and

looked toward Betty.

"Betty, here is--" began Col. Zane, but Betty passed them with

flaming cheeks and with not so much as a glance at Alfred. It was an

awkward moment for him.

"Let us go in," he said composedly, and they filed into the church.

As long as he lived Alfred Clarke never forgot that hour. His pride

kept him chained in his seat. Outwardly he maintained his composure,

but inwardly his brain seemed throbbing, whirling, bursting. What an

idiot he had been! He understood now why his letter had never been

answered. Betty loved Miller, a man who hated him, a man who would

leave no stone unturned to destroy even a little liking which she

might have felt for him. Once again Miller had crossed his path and

worsted him. With a sudden sickening sense of despair he realized

that all his fond hopes had been but dreams, a fool's dreams. The

dream of that moment when he would give her his mother's jewels, the

dream of that charming face uplifted to his, the dream of the little

cottage to which he would hurry after his day's work and find her

waiting at the gate,--these dreams must be dispelled forever. He

could barely wait until the end of the service. He wanted to be

alone; to fight it out with himself; to crush out of his heart that

fair image. At length the hour ended and he got out before the

congregation and hurried to his room.

Betty had company all that afternoon and it was late in the day when

Col. Zane ascended the stairs and entered her room to find her

alone.

"Betty, I wish to know why you ignored Mr. Clarke this morning?"

said Col. Zane, looking down on his sister. There was a gleam in his

eye and an expression about his mouth seldom seen in the Colonel's

features.

"I do not know that it concerns any one but myself," answered Betty

quickly, as her head went higher and her eyes flashed with a gleam

not unlike that in her brother's.

"I beg your pardon. I do not agree with you," replied Col. Zane. "It

does concern others. You cannot do things like that in this little

place where every one knows all about you and expect it to pass

unnoticed. Martin's wife saw you cut Clarke and you know what a

gossip she is. Already every one is talking about you and Clarke."

"To that I am indifferent."

"But I care. I won't have people talking about you," replied the

Colonel, who began to lose patience. Usually he had the best temper

imaginable. "Last fall you allowed Clarke to pay you a good deal of

attention and apparently you were on good terms when he went away.

Now that he has returned you won't even speak to him. You let this

fellow Miller run after you. In my estimation Miller is not to be

compared to Clarke, and judging from the warm greetings I saw Clarke

receive this morning, there are a number of folk who agree with me.

Not that I am praising Clarke. I simply say this because to Bessie,

to Jack, to everyone, your act is incomprehensible. People are

calling you a flirt and saying that they would prefer some country

manners."

"I have not allowed Mr. Miller to run after me, as you are pleased

to term it," retorted Betty with indignation. "I do not like him. I

never see him any more unless you or Bessie or some one else is

present. You know that. I cannot prevent him from walking to church

with me."

"No, I suppose not, but are you entirely innocent of those sweet

glances which you gave him this morning?"

"I did not," cried Betty with an angry blush. "I won't be called a

flirt by you or by anyone else. The moment I am civil to some man

all these old maids and old women say I am flirting. It is

outrageous."

"Now, Betty, don't get excited. We are getting from the question.

Why are you not civil to Clarke?" asked Col. Zane. She did not

answer and after a moment he continued. "If there is anything about

Clarke that I do not know and that I should know I want you to tell

me. Personally I like the fellow. I am not saying that to make you

think you ought to like him because I do. You might not care for him

at all, but that would be no good reason for your actions. Betty, in

these frontier settlements a man is soon known for his real worth.

Every one at the Fort liked Clarke. The youngsters adored him.

Jessie liked him very much. You know he and Isaac became good

friends. I think he acted like a man to-day. I saw the look Miller

gave him. I don't like this fellow Miller, anyway. Now, I am taking

the trouble to tell you my side of the argument. It is not a

question of your liking Clarke--that is none of my affair. It is

simply that either he is not the man we all think him or you are

acting in a way unbecoming a Zane. I do not purpose to have this

state of affairs continue. Now, enough of this beating about the

bush."

Betty had seen the Colonel angry more than once, but never with her.

It was quite certain she had angered him and she forgot her own

resentment. Her heart had warmed with her brother's praise of

Clarke. Then as she remembered the past she felt a scorn for her

weakness and such a revulsion of feeling that she cried out

passionately:

"He is a trifler. He never cared for me. He insulted me."

Col. Zane reached for his hat, got up without saying another word

and went down stairs.

Betty had not intended to say quite what she had and instantly

regretted her hasty words. She called to the Colonel, but he did not

answer her, nor return.

"Betty, what in the world could you have said to my husband?" said

Mrs. Zane as she entered the room. She was breathless from running

up the stairs and her comely face wore a look of concern. "He was as

white as that sheet and he stalked off toward the Fort without a

word to me."

"I simply told him Mr. Clarke had insulted me," answered Betty

calmly.

"Great Heavens! Betty, what have you done?" exclaimed Mrs. Zane.

"You don't know Eb when he is angry. He is a big fool over you,

anyway. He is liable to kill Clarke."

Betty's blood was up now and she said that would not be a matter of

much importance.

"When did he insult you?" asked the elder woman, yielding to her

natural curiosity.

"It was last October."

"Pooh! It took you a long time to tell it. I don't believe it

amounted to much. Mr. Clarke did not appear to be the sort of a man

to insult anyone. All the girls were crazy about him last year. If

he was not all right they would not have been."

"I do not care if they were. The girls can have him and welcome. I

don't want him. I never did. I am tired of hearing everyone eulogize

him. I hate him. Do you hear? I hate him! And I wish you would go

away and leave me alone."

"Well, Betty, all I will say is that you are a remarkable young

woman," answered Mrs. Zane, who saw plainly that Betty's violent

outburst was a prelude to a storm of weeping. "I don't believe a

word you have said. I don't believe you hate him. There!"

Col. Zane walked straight to the Fort, entered the block-house and

knocked on the door of Clarke's room. A voice bade him come in. He

shoved open the door and went into the room. Clarke had evidently

just returned from a tramp in the hills, for his garments were

covered with burrs and his boots were dusty. He looked tired, but

his face was calm.

"Why, Col. Zane! Have a seat. What can I do for you?"

"I have come to ask you to explain a remark of my sister's."

"Very well, I am at your service," answered Alfred slowly lighting

his pipe, after which he looked straight into Col. Zane's face.

"My sister informs me that you insulted her last fall before you

left the Fort. I am sure you are neither a liar nor a coward, and I

expect you to answer as a man."

"Col. Zane, I am not a liar, and I hope I am not a coward," said

Alfred coolly. He took a long pull on his pipe and blew a puff of

white smoke toward the ceiling.

"I believe you, but I must have an explanation. There is something

wrong somewhere. I saw Betty pass you without speaking this morning.

I did not like it and I took her to task about it. She then said you

had insulted her. Betty is prone to exaggerate, especially when

angry, but she never told me a lie in her life. Ever since you

pulled Isaac out of the river I have taken an interest in you.

That's why I'd like to avoid any trouble. But this thing has gone

far enough. Now be sensible, swallow your pride and let me hear your

side of the story."

Alfred had turned pale at his visitor's first words. There was no

mistaking Col. Zane's manner. Alfred well knew that the Colonel, if

he found Betty had really been insulted, would call him out and kill

him. Col. Zane spoke quietly, ever kindly, but there was an

undercurrent of intense feeling in his voice, a certain deadly

intent which boded ill to anyone who might cross him at that moment.

Alfred's first impulse was a reckless desire to tell Col. Zane he

had nothing to explain and that he stood ready to give any

satisfaction in his power. But he wisely thought better of this. It

struck him that this would not be fair, for no matter what the girl

had done the Colonel had always been his friend. So Alfred pulled

himself together and resolved to make a clean breast of the whole

affair.

"Col. Zane, I do not feel that I owe your sister anything, and what

I am going to tell you is simply because you have always been my

friend, and I do not want you to have any wrong ideas about me. I'll

tell you the truth and you can be the judge as to whether or not I

insulted your sister. I fell in love with her, almost at first

sight. The night after the Indians recaptured your brother, Betty

and I stood out in the moonlight and she looked so bewitching and I

felt so sorry for her and so carried away by my love for her that I

yielded to a momentary impulse and kissed her. I simply could not

help it. There is no excuse for me. She struck me across the face

and ran into the house. I had intended that night to tell her of my

love and place my fate in her hands, but, of course, the unfortunate

occurrence made that impossible. As I was to leave at dawn next day,

I remained up all night, thinking what I ought to do. Finally I

decided to write. I wrote her a letter, telling her all and begging

her to become my wife. I gave the letter to your slave, Sam, and

told him it was a matter of life and death, and not to lose the

letter nor fail to give it to Betty. I have had no answer to that

letter. Today she coldly ignored me. That is my story, Col. Zane."

"Well, I don't believe she got the letter," said Col. Zane. "She has

not acted like a young lady who has had the privilege of saying

'yes' or 'no' to you. And Sam never had any use for you. He disliked

you from the first, and never failed to say something against you."

"I'll kill that d--n nigger if he did not deliver that letter," said

Clarke, jumping up in his excitement. "I never thought of that. Good

Heaven! What could she have thought of me? She would think I had

gone away without a word. If she knew I really loved her she could

not think so terribly of me."

"There is more to be explained, but I am satisfied with your side of

it," said Col. Zane. "Now I'll go to Sam and see what has become of

that letter. I am glad I am justified in thinking of you as I have.

I imagine this thing has hurt you and I don't wonder at it. Maybe we

can untangle the problem yet. My advice would be--but never mind

that now. Anyway, I'm your friend in this matter. I'll let you know

the result of my talk with Sam."

"I thought that young fellow was a gentleman," mused Col. Zane as he

crossed the green square and started up the hill toward the cabins.

He found the old negro seated on his doorstep.

"Sam, what did you do with a letter Mr. Clarke gave you last October

and instructed you to deliver to Betty?"

"I dun recollec' no lettah, sah," replied Sam.

"Now, Sam, don't lie about it. Clarke has just told me that he gave

you the letter. What did you do with it?"

"Masse Zane, I ain dun seen no lettah," answered the old darkey,

taking a dingy pipe from his mouth and rolling his eyes at his

master.

"If you lie again I will punish you," said Col. Zane sternly. "You

are getting old, Sam, and I would not like to whip you, but I will

if you do not find that letter."

Sam grumbled, and shuffled inside the cabin. Col. Zane heard him

rummaging around. Presently he came back to the door and handed a

very badly soiled paper to the Colonel.

"What possessed you to do this, Sam? You have always been honest.

Your act has caused great misunderstanding and it might have led to

worse."

"He's one of dem no good Southern white trash; he's good fer

nuttin'," said Sam. "I saw yo' sistah, Mis' Betty, wit him, and I

seen she was gittin' fond of him, and I says I ain't gwinter have

Mis' Betty runnin' off wif him. And I'se never gibbin de lettah to

her."

That was all the explanation Sam would vouchsafe, and Col. Zane,

knowing it would be useless to say more to the well-meaning but

ignorant and superstitious old negro, turned and wended his way back

to the house. He looked at the paper and saw that it was addressed

to Elizabeth Zane, and that the ink was faded until the letters were

scarcely visible.

"What have you there?" asked his wife, who had watched him go up the

hill to the negro's cabin. She breathed a sigh of relief when she

saw that her husband's face had recovered its usual placid

expression.

"It is a little letter for that young fire-brand up stairs, and, I

believe it will clear up the mystery. Clarke gave it to Sam last

fall and Sam never gave it to Betty."

"I hope with all my heart it may settle Betty. She worries me to

death with her love affairs."

Col. Zane went up stairs and found the young lady exactly as he had

left her. She gave an impatient toss of her head as he entered.

"Well, Madam, I have here something that may excite even your

interest." he said cheerily.

"What?" asked Betty with a start. She flushed crimson when she saw

the letter and at first refused to take it from her brother. She was

at a loss to understand his cheerful demeanor. He had been anything

but pleasant a few moments since.

"Here, take it. It is a letter from Mr. Clarke which you should have

received last fall. That last morning he gave this letter to Sam to

deliver to you, and the crazy old nigger kept it. However, it is too

late to talk of that, only it does seem a great pity. I feel sorry

for both of you. Clarke never will forgive you, even if you want him

to, which I am sure you do not. I don't know exactly what is in this

letter, but I know it will make you ashamed to think you did not

trust him."

With this parting reproof the Colonel walked out, leaving Betty

completely bewildered. The words "too late," "never forgive," and "a

great pity" rang through her head. What did he mean? She tore the

letter open with trembling hands and holding it up to the now

fast-waning light, she read

"Dear Betty:

"If you had waited only a moment longer I know you would not have

been so angry with me. The words I wanted so much to say choked me

and I could not speak them. I love you. I have loved you from the

very first moment, that blessed moment when I looked up over your

pony's head to see the sweetest face the sun ever shone on. I'll be

the happiest man on earth if you will say you care a little for me

and promise to be my wife.

"It was wrong to kiss you and I beg your forgiveness. Could you but

see your face as I saw it last night in the moonlight, I would not

need to plead: you would know that the impulse which swayed me was

irresistible. In that kiss I gave you my hope, my love, my life, my

all. Let it plead for me.

"I expect to return from Ft. Pitt in about six or eight weeks, but I

cannot wait until then for your answer.

"With hope I sign myself,

"Yours until death,

"Alfred."

Betty read the letter through. The page blurred before her eyes; a

sensation of oppression and giddiness made her reach out helplessly

with both hands. Then she slipped forward and fell on the floor. For

the first time in all her young life Betty had fainted. Col. Zane

found her lying pale and quiet under the window.

CHAPTER IX.

Yantwaia, or, as he was more commonly called, Cornplanter, was

originally a Seneca chief, but when the five war tribes

consolidated, forming the historical "Five Nations," he became their

leader. An old historian said of this renowned chieftain: "Tradition

says that the blood of a famous white man coursed through the veins

of Cornplanter. The tribe he led was originally ruled by an Indian

queen of singular power and beauty. She was born to govern her

people by the force of her character. Many a great chief importuned

her to become his wife, but she preferred to cling to her power and

dignity. When this white man, then a very young man, came to the

Ohio valley the queen fell in love with him, and Cornplanter was

their son."

Cornplanter lived to a great age. He was a wise counsellor, a great

leader, and he died when he was one hundred years old, having had

more conceded to him by the white men than any other chieftain.

General Washington wrote of him: "The merits of Cornplanter and his

friendship for the United States are well known and shall not be

forgotten."

But Cornplanter had not always been a friend to the palefaces.

During Dunmore's war and for years after, he was one of the most

vindictive of the savage leaders against the invading pioneers.

It was during this period of Cornplanter's activity against the

whites that Isaac Zane had the misfortune to fall into the great

chief's power.

We remember Isaac last when, lost in the woods, weak from hunger and

exposure, he had crawled into a thicket and had gone to sleep. He

was awakened by a dog licking his face. He heard Indian voices. He

got up and ran as fast as he could, but exhausted as he was he

proved no match for his pursuers. They came up with him and seeing

that he was unable to defend himself they grasped him by the arms

and led him down a well-worn bridle-path.

"D--n poor run. No good legs," said one of his captors, and at this

the other two Indians laughed. Then they whooped and yelled, at

which signal other Indians joined them. Isaac saw that they were

leading him into a large encampment. He asked the big savage who led

him what camp it was, and learned that he had fallen into the hands

of Cornplanter.

While being marched through the large Indian village Isaac saw

unmistakable indications of war. There was a busy hum on all sides;

the squaws were preparing large quantities of buffalo meat, cutting

it in long, thin strips, and were parching corn in stone vessels.

The braves were cleaning rifles, sharpening tomahawks, and mixing

war paints. All these things Isaac knew to be preparations for long

marches and for battle. That night he heard speech after speech in

the lodge next to the one in which he lay, but they were in an

unknown tongue. Later he heard the yelling of the Indians and the

dull thud of their feet as they stamped on the ground. He heard the

ring of the tomahawks as they were struck into hard wood. The

Indians were dancing the war-dance round the war-post. This

continued with some little intermission all the four days that Isaac

lay in the lodge rapidly recovering his strength. The fifth day a

man came into the lodge. He was tall and powerful, his hair fell

over his shoulders and he wore the scanty buckskin dress of the

Indian. But Isaac knew at once he was a white man, perhaps one of

the many French traders who passed through the Indian village.

"Your name is Zane," said the man in English, looking sharply at

Isaac.

"That is my name. Who are you?" asked Isaac in great surprise.

"I am Girty. I've never seen you, but I knew Col. Zane and Jonathan

well. I've seen your sister; you all favor one another."

"Are you Simon Girty?"

"Yes."

"I have heard of your influence with the Indians. Can you do

anything to get me out of this?"

"How did you happen to git over here? You are not many miles from

Wingenund's Camp," said Girty, giving Isaac another sharp look from

his small black eyes.

"Girty, I assure you I am not a spy. I escaped from the Wyandot

village on Mad River and after traveling three days I lost my way. I

went to sleep in a thicket and when I awoke an Indian dog had found

me. I heard voices and saw three Indians. I got up and ran, but they

easily caught me."

"I know about you. Old Tarhe has a daughter who kept you from bein'

ransomed."

"Yes, and I wish I were back there. I don't like the look of

things."

"You are right, Zane. You got ketched at a bad time. The Indians are

mad. I suppose you don't know that Col. Crawford massacred a lot of

Indians a few days ago. It'll go hard with any white man that gits

captured. I'm afraid I can't do nothin' for you."

A few words concerning Simon Girty, the White Savage. He had two

brothers, James and George, who had been desperadoes before they

were adopted by the Delawares, and who eventually became fierce and

relentless savages. Simon had been captured at the same time as his

brothers, but he did not at once fall under the influence of the

unsettled, free-and-easy life of the Indians. It is probable that

while in captivity he acquired the power of commanding the Indians'

interest and learned the secret of ruling them--two capabilities few

white men ever possessed. It is certain that he, like the noted

French-Canadian Joucaire, delighted to sit round the camp fires and

to go into the council-lodge and talk to the assembled Indians.

At the outbreak of the revolution Girty was a commissioned officer

of militia at Ft. Pitt. He deserted from the Fort, taking with him

the Tories McKee and Elliott, and twelve soldiers, and these

traitors spread as much terror among the Delaware Indians as they

did among the whites. The Delawares had been one of the few

peacefully disposed tribes. In order to get them to join their

forces with Governor Hamilton, the British commander, Girty declared

that Gen. Washington had been killed, that Congress had been

dispersed, and that the British were winning all the battles.

Girty spoke most of the Indian languages, and Hamilton employed him

to go among the different Indian tribes and incite them to greater

hatred of the pioneers. This proved to be just the life that suited

him. He soon rose to have a great and bad influence on all the

tribes. He became noted for his assisting the Indians in marauds,

for his midnight forays, for his scalpings, and his efforts to

capture white women, and for his devilish cunning and cruelty.

For many years Girty was the Deathshead of the frontier. The mention

of his name alone created terror in any household; in every

pioneer's cabin it made the children cry out in fear and paled the

cheeks of the stoutest-hearted wife.

It is difficult to conceive of a white man's being such a fiend in

human guise. The only explanation that can be given is that

renegades rage against the cause of their own blood with the fury of

insanity rather than with the malignity of a naturally ferocious

temper. In justice to Simon Girty it must be said that facts not

known until his death showed he was not so cruel and base as

believed; that some deeds of kindness were attributed to him; that

he risked his life to save Kenton from the stake, and that many of

the terrible crimes laid at his door were really committed by his

savage brothers.

Isaac Zane suffered no annoyance at the hands of Cornplanter's

braves until the seventh day of his imprisonment. He saw no one

except the squaw who brought him corn and meat. On that day two

savages came for him and led him into the immense council-lodge of

the Five Nations. Cornplanter sat between his right-hand chiefs, Big

Tree and Half Town, and surrounded by the other chiefs of the

tribes. An aged Indian stood in the center of the lodge and

addressed the others. The listening savages sat immovable, their

faces as cold and stern as stone masks. Apparently they did not heed

the entrance of the prisoner.

"Zane, they're havin' a council," whispered a voice in Isaac's ear.

Isaac turned and recognized Girty. "I want to prepare you for the

worst."

"Is there, then, no hope for me?" asked Isaac.

"I'm afraid not," continued the renegade, speaking in a low whisper.

"They wouldn't let me speak at the council. I told Cornplanter that

killin' you might bring the Hurons down on him, but he wouldn't

listen. Yesterday, in the camp of the Delawares, I saw Col. Crawford

burnt at the stake. He was a friend of mine at Pitt, and I didn't

dare to say one word to the frenzied Indians. I had to watch the

torture. Pipe and Wingenund, both old friends of Crawford, stood by

and watched him walk round the stake on the red-hot coals five

hours."

Isaac shuddered at the words of the renegade, but did not answer. He

had felt from the first that his case was hopeless, and that no

opportunity for escape could possibly present itself in such a large

encampment. He set his teeth hard and resolved to show the red

devils how a white man could die.

Several speeches were made by different chiefs and then an

impressive oration by Big Tree. At the conclusion of the speeches,

which were in an unknown tongue to Isaac, Cornplanter handed a

war-club to Half Town. This chief got up, walked to the end of the

circle, and there brought the club down on the ground with a

resounding thud. Then he passed the club to Big Tree. In a solemn

and dignified manner every chief duplicated Half Town's performance

with the club.

Isaac watched the ceremony as if fascinated. He had seen a war-club

used in the councils of the Hurons and knew that striking it on the

ground signified war and death.

"White man, you are a killer of Indians," said Cornplanter in good

English. "When the sun shines again you die."

A brave came forward and painted Isaac's face black. This Isaac knew

to indicate that death awaited him on the morrow. On his way back to

his prison-lodge he saw that a war-dance was in progress.

A hundred braves with tomahawks, knives, and mallets in their hands

were circling round a post and keeping time to the low music of a

muffled drum. Close together, with heads bowed, they marched. At

certain moments, which they led up to with a dancing on rigid legs

and a stamping with their feet, they wheeled, and uttering hideous

yells, started to march in the other direction. When this had been

repeated three times a brave stepped from the line, advanced, and

struck his knife or tomahawk into the post. Then with a loud voice

he proclaimed his past exploits and great deeds in war. The other

Indians greeted this with loud yells of applause and a flourishing

of weapons. Then the whole ceremony was gone through again.

That afternoon many of the Indians visited Isaac in his lodge and

shook their fists at him and pointed their knives at him. They

hissed and groaned at him. Their vindictive faces expressed the

malignant joy they felt at the expectation of putting him to the

torture.

When night came Isaac's guards laced up the lodge-door and shut him

from the sight of the maddened Indians. The darkness that gradually

enveloped him was a relief. By and by all was silent except for the

occasional yell of a drunken savage. To Isaac it sounded like a

long, rolling death-cry echoing throughout the encampment and

murdering his sleep. Its horrible meaning made him shiver and his

flesh creep. At length even that yell ceased. The watch-dogs quieted

down and the perfect stillness which ensued could almost be felt.

Through Isaac's mind ran over and over again the same words. His

last night to live! His last night to live! He forced himself to

think of other things. He lay there in the darkness of his tent, but

he was far away in thought, far away in the past with his mother and

brothers before they had come to this bloodthirsty country. His

thoughts wandered to the days of his boyhood when he used to drive

the sows to the pasture on the hillside, and in his dreamy,

disordered fancy he was once more letting down the bars of the gate.

Then he was wading in the brook and whacking the green frogs with

his stick. Old playmates' faces, forgotten for years, were there

looking at him from the dark wall of his wigwam. There was Andrew's

face; the faces of his other brothers; the laughing face of his

sister; the serene face of his mother. As he lay there with the

shadow of death over him sweet was the thought that soon he would be

reunited with that mother. The images faded slowly away, swallowed

up in the gloom. Suddenly a vision appeared to him. A radiant white

light illumined the lodge and shone full on the beautiful face of

the Indian maiden who had loved him so well. Myeerah's dark eyes

were bright with an undying love and her lips smiled hope.

A rude kick dispelled Isaac's dreams. A brawny savage pulled him to

his feet and pushed him outside of the lodge.

It was early morning. The sun had just cleared the low hills in the

east and its red beams crimsoned the edges of the clouds of fog

which hung over the river like a great white curtain. Though the air

was warm, Isaac shivered a little as the breeze blew softly against

his cheek. He took one long look toward the rising sun, toward that

east he had hoped to see, and then resolutely turned his face away

forever.

Early though it was the Indians were astir and their whooping rang

throughout the valley. Down the main street of the village the

guards led the prisoner, followed by a screaming mob of squaws and

young braves and children who threw sticks and stones at the hated

Long Knife.

Soon the inhabitants of the camp congregated on the green oval in

the midst of the lodges. When the prisoner appeared they formed in

two long lines facing each other, and several feet apart. Isaac was

to run the gauntlet--one of the severest of Indian tortures. With

the exception of Cornplanter and several of his chiefs, every Indian

in the village was in line. Little Indian boys hardly large enough

to sling a stone; maidens and squaws with switches or spears;

athletic young braves with flashing tomahawks; grim, matured

warriors swinging knotted war clubs,--all were there in line,

yelling and brandishing their weapons in a manner frightful to

behold.

The word was given, and stripped to the waist, Isaac bounded forward

fleet as a deer. He knew the Indian way of running the gauntlet. The

head of that long lane contained the warriors and older braves and

it was here that the great danger lay. Between these lines he sped

like a flash, dodging this way and that, running close in under the

raised weapons, taking what blows he could on his uplifted arms,

knocking this warrior over and doubling that one up with a lightning

blow in the stomach, never slacking his speed for one stride, so

that it was extremely difficult for the Indians to strike him

effectually. Once past that formidable array, Isaac's gauntlet was

run, for the squaws and children scattered screaming before the

sweep of his powerful arms.

The old chiefs grunted their approval. There was a bruise on Isaac's

forehead and a few drops of blood mingled with the beads of

perspiration. Several lumps and scratches showed on his bare

shoulders and arms, but he had escaped any serious injury. This was

a feat almost without a parallel in gauntlet running.

When he had been tied with wet buckskin thongs to the post in the

center of the oval, the youths, the younger braves, and the squaws

began circling round him, yelling like so many demons. The old

squaws thrust sharpened sticks, which had been soaked in salt water,

into his flesh. The maidens struck him with willows which left red

welts on his white shoulders. The braves buried the blades of their

tomahawks in the post as near as possible to his head without

actually hitting him.

Isaac knew the Indian nature well. To command the respect of the

savages was the only way to lessen his torture. He knew that a cry

for mercy would only increase his sufferings and not hasten his

death,--indeed it would prolong both. He had resolved to die without

a moan. He had determined to show absolute indifference to his

torture, which was the only way to appeal to the savage nature, and

if anything could, make the Indians show mercy. Or, if he could

taunt them into killing him at once he would be spared all the

terrible agony which they were in the habit of inflicting on their

victims.

One handsome young brave twirled a glittering tomahawk which he

threw from a distance of ten, fifteen, and twenty feet and every

time the sharp blade of the hatchet sank deep into the stake within

an inch of Isaac's head. With a proud and disdainful look Isaac

gazed straight before him and paid no heed to his tormentor.

"Does the Indian boy think he can frighten a white warrior?" said

Isaac scornfully at length. "Let him go and earn his eagle plumes.

The pale face laughs at him."

The young brave understood the Huron language, for he gave a

frightful yell and cast his tomahawk again, this time shaving a lock

of hair from Isaac's head.

This was what Isaac had prayed for. He hoped that one of these

glittering hatchets would be propelled less skillfully than its

predecessors and would kill him instantly. But the enraged brave had

no other opportunity to cast his weapon, for the Indians jeered at

him and pushed him from the line.

Other braves tried their proficiency in the art of throwing knives

and tomahawks, but their efforts called forth only words of derision

from Isaac. They left the weapons sticking in the post until round

Isaac's head and shoulders there was scarcely room for another.

"The White Eagle is tired of boys," cried Isaac to a chief dancing

near. "What has he done that he be made the plaything of children?

Let him die the death of a chief."

The maidens had long since desisted in their efforts to torment the

prisoner. Even the hardened old squaws had withdrawn. The prisoner's

proud, handsome face, his upright bearing, his scorn for his

enemies, his indifference to the cuts and bruises, and red welts

upon his clear white skin had won their hearts.

Not so with the braves. Seeing that the pale face scorned all

efforts to make him flinch, the young brave turned to Big Tree. At a

command from this chief the Indians stopped their maneuvering round

the post and formed a large circle. In another moment a tall warrior

appeared carrying an armful of fagots.

In spite of his iron nerve Isaac shuddered with horror. He had

anticipated running the gauntlet, having his nails pulled out,

powder and salt shot into his flesh, being scalped alive and a host

of other Indian tortures, but as he had killed no members of this

tribe he had not thought of being burned alive. God, it was too

horrible!

The Indians were now quiet. Their songs and dances would break out

soon enough. They piled fagot after fagot round Isaac's feet. The

Indian warrior knelt on the ground the steel clicked on the flint; a

little shower of sparks dropped on the pieces of punk and then--a

tiny flame shot up, and slender little column of blue smoke floated

on the air.

Isaac shut his teeth hard and prayed with all his soul for a speedy

death.

Simon Girty came hurriedly through the lines of waiting, watching

Indians. He had obtained permission to speak to the man of his own

color.

"Zane, you made a brave stand. Any other time but this it might have

saved you. If you want I'll get word to your people." And then

bending and placing his mouth close to Isaac's ear, he whispered, "I

did all I could for you, but it must have been too late."

"Try and tell them at Ft. Henry," Isaac said simply.

There was a little cracking of dried wood and then a narrow tongue

of red flame darted up from the pile of fagots and licked at the

buckskin fringe on the prisoner's legging. At this supreme moment

when the attention of all centered on that motionless figure lashed

to the stake, and when only the low chanting of the death-song broke

the stillness, a long, piercing yell rang out on the quiet morning

air. So strong, so sudden, so startling was the break in that almost

perfect calm that for a moment afterward there was a silence as of

death. All eyes turned to the ridge of rising ground whence that

sound had come. Now came the unmistakable thunder of horses' hoofs

pounding furiously on the rocky ground. A moment of paralyzed

inaction ensued. The Indians stood bewildered, petrified. Then on

that ridge of rising ground stood, silhouetted against the blue sky,

a great black horse with arching neck and flying mane. Astride him

sat a plumed warrior, who waved his rifle high in the air. Again

that shrill screeching yell came floating to the ears of the

astonished Indians.

The prisoner had seen that horse and rider before; he had heard that

long yell; his heart bounded with hope. The Indians knew that yell;

it was the terrible war-cry of the Hurons.

A horse followed closely after the leader, and then another appeared

on the crest of the hill. Then came two abreast, and then four

abreast, and now the hill was black with plunging horses. They

galloped swiftly down the slope and into the narrow street of the

village. When the black horse entered the oval the train of racing

horses extended to the top of the ridge. The plumes of the riders

streamed gracefully on the breeze; their feathers shone; their

weapons glittered in the bright sunlight.

Never was there more complete surprise. In the earlier morning the

Hurons had crept up to within a rifle shot of the encampment, and at

an opportune moment when all the scouts and runners were round the

torture-stake, they had reached the hillside from which they rode

into the village before the inhabitants knew what had happened. Not

an Indian raised a weapon. There were screams from the women and

children, a shouted command from Big Tree, and then all stood still

and waited.

Thundercloud, the war chief of the Wyandots, pulled his black

stallion back on his haunches not twenty feet from the prisoner at

the stake. His band of painted devils closed in behind him. Full two

hundred strong were they and all picked warriors tried and true.

They were naked to the waist. Across their brawny chests ran a broad

bar of flaming red paint; hideous designs in black and white covered

their faces. Every head had been clean-shaven except where the scalp

lock bristled like a porcupine's quills. Each warrior carried a

plumed spear, a tomahawk, and a rifle. The shining heads, with the

little tufts of hair tied tightly close to the scalp, were enough to

show that these Indians were on the war-path.

From the back of one of the foremost horses a slender figure dropped

and darted toward the prisoner at the stake. Surely that wildly

flying hair proved this was not a warrior. Swift as a flash of light

this figure reached the stake, the blazing fagots scattered right

and left; a naked blade gleamed; the thongs fell from the prisoner's

wrists; and the front ranks of the Hurons opened and closed on the

freed man. The deliverer turned to the gaping Indians, disclosing to

their gaze the pale and beautiful face of Myeerah, the Wyandot

Princes.

"Summon your chief," she commanded.

The tall form of the Seneca chief moved from among the warriors and

with slow and measured tread approached the maiden. His bearing

fitted the leader of five nations of Indians. It was of one who knew

that he was the wisest of chiefs, the hero of a hundred battles. Who

dared beard him in his den? Who dared defy the greatest power in all

Indian tribes? When he stood before the maiden he folded his arms

and waited for her to speak.

"Myeerah claims the White Eagle," she said.

Cornplanter did not answer at once. He had never seen Myeerah,

though he had heard many stories of her loveliness. Now he was face

to face with the Indian Princess whose fame had been the theme of

many an Indian romance, and whose beauty had been sung of in many an

Indian song. The beautiful girl stood erect and fearless. Her

disordered garments, torn and bedraggled and stained from the long

ride, ill-concealed the grace of her form. Her hair rippled from the

uncovered head and fell in dusky splendor over her shoulders; her

dark eyes shone with a stern and steady fire: her bosom swelled with

each deep breath. She was the daughter of great chiefs; she looked

the embodiment of savage love.

"The Huron squaw is brave," said Cornplanter. "By what right does

she come to free my captive?"

"He is an adopted Wyandot."

"Why does the paleface hide like a fox near the camp of

Cornplanter?"

"He ran away. He lost the trail to the Fort on the river."

"Cornplanter takes prisoners to kill; not to free."

"If you will not give him up Myeerah will take him," she answered,

pointing to the long line of mounted warriors. "And should harm

befall Tarhe's daughter it will be avenged."

Cornplanter looked at Thundercloud. Well he knew that chief's

prowess in the field. He ran his eyes over the silent, watching

Hurons, and then back to the sombre face of their leader.

Thundercloud sat rigid upon his stallion; his head held high; every

muscle tense and strong for instant action. He was ready and eager

for the fray. He, and every one of his warriors, would fight like a

thousand tigers for their Princess--the pride of the proud race of

Wyandots. Cornplanter saw this and he felt that on the eve of

important marches he dared not sacrifice one of his braves for any

reason, much less a worthless pale face; and yet to let the prisoner

go galled the haughty spirit of the Seneca chief.

"The Long Knife is not worth the life of one of my dogs," he said,

with scorn in his deep voice. "If Cornplanter willed he could drive

the Hurons before him like leaves before the storm. Let Myeerah take

the pale face back to her wigwam and there feed him and make a squaw

of him. When he stings like a snake in the grass remember the

chief's words. Cornplanter turns on his heel from the Huron maiden

who forgets her blood."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When the sun reached its zenith it shone down upon a long line of

mounted Indians riding single file along the narrow trail and like a

huge serpent winding through the forest and over the plain.

They were Wyandot Indians, and Isaac Zane rode among them. Freed

from the terrible fate which had menaced him, and knowing that he

was once more on his way to the Huron encampment, he had accepted

his destiny and quarreled no more with fate. He was thankful beyond

all words for his rescue from the stake.

Coming to a clear, rapid stream, the warriors dismounted and rested

while their horses drank thirstily of the cool water. An Indian

touched Isaac on the arm and silently pointed toward the huge maple

tree under which Thundercloud and Myeerah were sitting. Isaac turned

his horse and rode the short distance intervening. When he got near

he saw that Myeerah stood with one arm over her pony's neck. She

raised eyes that were weary and sad, which yet held a lofty and

noble resolve.

"White Eagle, this stream leads straight to the Fort on the river,"

she said briefly, almost coldly. "Follow it, and when the sun

reaches the top of yonder hill you will be with your people. Go, you

are free."

She turned her face away. Isaac's head whirled in his amazement. He

could not believe his ears. He looked closely at her and saw that

though her face was calm her throat swelled, and the hand which lay

over the neck of her pony clenched the bridle in a fierce grasp.

Isaac glanced at Thundercloud and the other Indians near by. They

sat unconcerned with the invariable unreadable expression.

"Myeerah, what do you mean?" asked Isaac.

"The words of Cornplanter cut deep into the heart of Myeerah," she

answered bitterly. "They were true. The Eagle does not care for

Myeerah. She shall no longer keep him in a cage. He is free to fly

away."

"The Eagle does not want his freedom. I love you, Myeerah. You have

saved me and I am yours. If you will go home with me and marry me

there as my people are married I will go back to the Wyandot

village."

Myeerah's eyes softened with unutterable love. With a quick cry she

was in his arms. After a few moments of forgetfulness Myeerah spoke

to Thundercloud and waved her hand toward the west. The chief swung

himself over his horse, shouted a single command, and rode down the

bank into the water. His warriors followed him, wading their horses

into the shallow creek, with never backward look. When the last

rider had disappeared in the willows the lovers turned their horses

eastward.

CHAPTER X.

It was near the close of a day in early summer. A small group of

persons surrounded Col. Zane where he sat on his doorstep. From time

to time he took the long Indian pipe from his mouth and blew great

clouds of smoke over his head. Major McColloch and Capt. Boggs were

there. Silas Zane half reclined on the grass. The Colonel's wife

stood in the door-way, and Betty sat on the lower step with her head

leaning against her brother's knee. They all had grave faces.

Jonathan Zane had returned that day after an absence of three weeks,

and was now answering the many questions with which he was plied.

"Don't ask me any more and I'll tell you the whole thing," he had

just said, while wiping the perspiration from his brow. His face was

worn; his beard ragged and unkempt; his appearance suggestive of

extreme fatigue. "It was this way: Colonel Crawford had four hundred

and eighty men under him, with Slover and me acting as guides. This

was a large force of men and comprised soldiers from Pitt and the

other forts and settlers from all along the river. You see, Crawford

wanted to crush the Shawnees at one blow. When we reached the

Sandusky River, which we did after an arduous march, not one Indian

did we see. You know Crawford expected to surprise the Shawnee camp,

and when he found it deserted he didn't know what to do. Slover and

I both advised an immediate retreat. Crawford would not listen to

us. I tried to explain to him that ever since the Guadenhutten

massacre keen-eyed Indian scouts had been watching the border. The

news of the present expedition had been carried by fleet runners to

the different Indian tribes and they were working like hives of

angry bees. The deserted Shawnee village meant to me that the alarm

had been sounded in the towns of the Shawnees and the Delawares;

perhaps also in the Wyandot towns to the north. Colonel Crawford was

obdurate and insisted on resuming the march into the Indian country.

The next day we met the Indians coming directly toward us. It was

the combined force of the Delaware chiefs, Pipe and Wingenund. The

battle had hardly commenced when the redskins were reinforced by

four hundred warriors under Shanshota, the Huron chief. The enemy

skulked behind trees and rocks, hid in ravines, and crawled through

the long grass. They could be picked off only by Indian hunters, of

whom Crawford had but few--probably fifty all told. All that day we

managed to keep our position, though we lost sixty men. That night

we lay down to rest by great fires which we built, to prevent night

surprises.

"Early next morning we resumed the fight. I saw Simon Girty on his

white horse. He was urging and cheering the Indians on to desperate

fighting. Their fire became so deadly that we were forced to

retreat. In the afternoon Slover, who had been out scouting,

returned with the information that a mounted force was approaching,

and that he believed they were the reinforcements which Col.

Crawford expected. The reinforcements came up and proved to be

Butler's British rangers from Detroit. This stunned Crawford's

soldiers. The fire of the enemy became hotter and hotter. Our men

were falling like leaves around us. They threw aside their rifles

and ran, many of them right into the hands of the savages. I believe

some of the experienced bordermen escaped but most of Crawford's

force met death on the field. I hid in a hollow log. Next day when I

felt that it could be done safely I crawled out. I saw scalped and

mutilated bodies everywhere, but did not find Col. Crawford's body.

The Indians had taken all the clothing, weapons, blankets and

everything of value. The Wyandots took a northwest trail and the

Delawares and the Shawnees traveled east. I followed the latter

because their trail led toward home. Three days later I stood on the

high bluff above Wingenund's camp. From there I saw Col. Crawford

tied to a stake and a fire started at his feet. I was not five

hundred yards from the camp. I saw the war chiefs, Pipe and

Wingenund; I saw Simon Girty and a British officer in uniform. The

chiefs and Girty were once Crawford's friends. They stood calmly by

and watched the poor victim slowly burn to death. The Indians yelled

and danced round the stake; they devised every kind of hellish

torture. When at last an Indian ran in and tore off the scalp of the

still living man I could bear to see no more, and I turned and ran.

I have been in some tough places, but this last was the worst."

"My God! it is awful--and to think that man Girty was once a white

man," cried Col. Zane.

"He came very near being a dead man," said Jonathan, with grim

humor. "I got a long shot at him and killed his big white horse."

"It's a pity you missed him," said Silas Zane.

"Here comes Wetzel. What will he say about the massacre?" remarked

Major McColloch.

Wetzel joined the group at that moment and shook hands with

Jonathan. When interrogated about the failure of Col. Crawford's

expedition Wetzel said that Slover had just made his appearance at

the cabin of Hugh Bennet, and that he was without clothing and

almost dead from exposure.

"I'm glad Slover got out alive. He was against the march all along.

If Crawford had listened to us he would have averted this terrible

affair and saved his own life. Lew, did Slover know how many men got

out?" asked Jonathan.

"He said not many. The redskins killed all the prisoners exceptin'

Crawford and Knight."

"I saw Col. Crawford burned at the stake. I did not see Dr. Knight.

Maybe they murdered him before I reached the camp of the Delawares,"

said Jonathan.

"Wetzel, in your judgment, what effect will this massacre and

Crawford's death have on the border?" inquired Col. Zane.

"It means another bloody year like 1777," answered Wetzel.

"We are liable to have trouble with the Indians any day. You mean

that."

"There'll be war all along the river. Hamilton is hatchin' some new

devil's trick with Girty. Col. Zane, I calkilate that Girty has a

spy in the river settlements and knows as much about the forts and

defense as you do."

"You can't mean a white spy."

"Yes, just that."

"That is a strong assertion, Lewis, but coming from you it means

something. Step aside here and explain yourself," said Col. Zane,

getting up and walking out to the fence.

"I don't like the looks of things," said the hunter. "A month ago I

ketched this man Miller pokin' his nose round the block-house where

he hadn't ought to be. And I kep' watchin' him. If my suspicions is

correct he's playin' some deep game. I ain't got any proof, but

things looks bad."

"That's strange, Lewis," said Col. Zane soberly. "Now that you

mention it I remember Jonathan said he met Miller near the Kanawha

three weeks ago. That was when Crawford's expedition was on the way

to the Shawnee villages. The Colonel tried to enlist Miller, but

Miller said he was in a hurry to get back to the Fort. And he hasn't

come back yet."

"I ain't surprised. Now, Col. Zane, you are in command here. I'm not

a soldier and for that reason I'm all the better to watch Miller. He

won't suspect me. You give me authority and I'll round up his little

game."

"By all means, Lewis. Go about it your own way, and report anything

to me. Remember you may be mistaken and give Miller the benefit of

the doubt. I don't like the fellow. He has a way of appearing and

disappearing, and for no apparent reason, that makes me distrust

him. But for Heaven's sake, Lew, how would he profit by betraying

us?"

"I don't know. All I know is he'll bear watchin'."

"My gracious, Lew Wetzel!" exclaimed Betty as her brother and the

hunter rejoined the others. "Have you come all the way over here

without a gun? And you have on a new suit of buckskin."

Lewis stood a moment by Betty, gazing down at her with his slight

smile. He looked exceedingly well. His face was not yet bronzed by

summer suns. His long black hair, of which he was as proud as a

woman could have been, and of which he took as much care as he did

of his rifle, waved over his shoulders.

"Betty, this is my birthday, but that ain't the reason I've got my

fine feathers on. I'm goin' to try and make an impression on you,"

replied Lewis, smiling.

"I declare, this is very sudden. But you have succeeded. Who made

the suit? And where did you get all that pretty fringe and those

beautiful beads?"

"That stuff I picked up round an Injun camp. The suit I made

myself."

"I think, Lewis, I must get you to help me make my new gown," said

Betty, roguishly.

"Well, I must be getting' back," said Wetzel, rising.

"Oh, don't go yet. You have not talked to me at all," said Betty

petulantly. She walked to the gate with him.

"What can an Injun hunter say to amuse the belle of the border?"

"I don't want to be amused exactly. I mean I'm not used to being

unnoticed, especially by you." And then in a lower tone she

continued: "What did you mean about Mr. Miller? I heard his name and

Eb looked worried. What did you tell him?"

"Never mind now, Betty. Maybe I'll tell you some day. It's enough

for you to know the Colonel don't like Miller and that I think he is

a bad man. You don't care nothin' for Miller, do you Betty?"

"Not in the least."

"Don't see him any more, Betty. Good-night, now, I must be goin' to

supper."

"Lew, stop! or I shall run after you."

"And what good would your runnin' do?" said Lewis "You'd never ketch

me. Why, I could give you twenty paces start and beat you to yon

tree."

"You can't. Come, try it," retorted Betty, catching hold of her

skirt. She could never have allowed a challenge like that to pass.

"Ha! ha! We are in for a race, Betty. if you beat him, start or no

start, you will have accomplished something never done before," said

Col. Zane.

"Come, Silas, step off twenty paces and make them long ones," said

Betty, who was in earnest.

"We'll make it forty paces," said Silas, as he commenced taking

immense strides.

"What is Lewis looking at?" remarked Col. Zane's wife.

Wetzel, in taking his position for the race, had faced the river.

Mrs. Zane had seen him start suddenly, straighten up and for a

moment stand like a statue. Her exclamation drew he attention of the

others to the hunter.

"Look!" he cried, waving his hand toward the river.

"I declare, Wetzel, you are always seeing something. Where shall I

look? Ah, yes, there is a dark form moving along the bank. By jove!

I believe it's an Indian," said Col. Zane.

Jonathan darted into the house. When he reappeared second later he

had three rifles.

"I see horses, Lew. What do you make out?" said Jonathan. "It's a

bold manoeuvre for Indians unless they have a strong force."

"Hostile Injuns wouldn't show themselves like that. Maybe they ain't

redskins at all. We'll go down to the bluff."

"Oh, yes, let us go," cried Betty, walking down the path toward

Wetzel.

Col. Zane followed her, and presently the whole party were on their

way to the river. When they reached the bluff they saw two horses

come down the opposite bank and enter the water. Then they seemed to

fade from view. The tall trees cast a dark shadow over the water and

the horses had become lost in this obscurity. Col. Zane and Jonathan

walked up and down the bank seeking to find a place which afforded a

clearer view of the river.

"There they come," shouted Silas.

"Yes, I see them just swimming out of the shadow," said Col. Zane.

"Both horses have riders. Lewis, what can you make out?"

"It's Isaac and an Indian girl," answered Wetzel.

This startling announcement created a commotion in the little group.

It was followed by a chorus of exclamations.

"Heavens! Wetzel, you have wonderful eyes. I hope to God you are

right. There, I see the foremost rider waving his hand," cried Col.

Zane.

"Oh, Bessie, Bessie! I believe Lew is right. Look at Tige," said

Betty excitedly.

Everybody had forgotten the dog. He had come down the path with

Betty and had pressed close to her. First he trembled, then whined,

then with a loud bark he ran down the bank and dashed into the

water.

"Hel-lo, Betts," came the cry across the water. There was no

mistaking that clear voice. It was Isaac's.

Although the sun had long gone down behind the hills daylight

lingered. It was bright enough for the watchers to recognize Isaac

Zane. He sat high on his horse and in his hand he held the bridle of

a pony that was swimming beside him. The pony bore the slender

figure of a girl. She was bending forward and her hands were twisted

in the pony's mane.

By this time the Colonel and Jonathan were standing in the shallow

water waiting to grasp the reins and lead the horses up the steep

bank. Attracted by the unusual sight of a wildly gesticulating group

on the river bluff, the settlers from the Fort hurried down to the

scene of action. Capt. Boggs and Alfred Clarke joined the crowd. Old

Sam came running down from the barn. All were intensely excited and

Col. Zane and Jonathan reached for the bridles and led the horses up

the slippery incline.

"Eb, Jack, Silas, here I am alive and well," cried Isaac as he

leaped from his horse. "Betty, you darling, it's Isaac. Don't stand

staring as if I were a ghost."

Whereupon Betty ran to him, flung her arms around his neck and clung

to him. Isaac kissed her tenderly and disengaged himself from her

arms.

"You'll get all wet. Glad to see me? Well, I never had such a happy

moment in my life. Betty, I have brought you home one whom you must

love. This is Myeerah, your sister. She is wet and cold. Take her

home and make her warm and comfortable. You must forget all the

past, for Myeerah has saved me from the stake."

Betty had forgotten the other. At her brother's words she turned and

saw a slender form. Even the wet, mud-stained and ragged Indian

costume failed to hide the grace of that figure. She saw a beautiful

face, as white as her own, and dark eyes full of unshed tears.

"The Eagle is free," said the Indian girl in her low, musical voice.

"You have brought him home to us. Come," said Betty taking the hand

of the trembling maiden.

The settlers crowded round Isaac and greeted him warmly while they

plied him with innumerable questions. Was he free? Who was the

Indian girl? Had he run off with her? Were the Indians preparing for

war?

On the way to the Colonel's house Isaac told briefly of his escape

from the Wyandots, of his capture by Cornplanter, and of his rescue.

He also mentioned the preparations for war he had seen in

Cornplanter's camp, and Girty's story of Col. Crawford's death.

"How does it come that you have the Indian girl with you?" asked

Col. Zane as they left the curious settlers and entered the house.

"I am going to marry Myeerah and I brought her with me for that

purpose. When we are married I will go back to the Wyandots and live

with them until peace is declared."

"Humph! Will it be declared?"

"Myeerah has promised it, and I believe she can bring it about,

especially if I marry her. Peace with the Hurons may help to bring

about peace with the Shawnees. I shall never cease to work for that

end; but even if peace cannot be secured, my duty still is to

Myeerah. She saved me from a most horrible death."

"If your marriage with this Indian girl will secure the friendly

offices of that grim old warrior Tarhe, it is far more than fighting

will ever do. I do not want you to go back. Would we ever see you

again?"

"Oh, yes, often I hope. You see, if I marry Myeerah the Hurons will

allow me every liberty."

"Well, that puts a different light on the subject."

"Oh, how I wish you and Jonathan could have seen Thundercloud and

his two hundred warriors ride into Cornplanter's camp. It was

magnificent! The braves were all crowded near the stake where I was

bound. The fire had been lighted. Suddenly the silence was shattered

by an awful yell. It was Thundercloud's yell. I knew it because I

had heard it before, and anyone who had once heard that yell could

never forget it. In what seemed an incredibly short time

Thundercloud's warriors were lined up in the middle of the camp. The

surprise was so complete that, had it been necessary, they could

have ridden Cornplanter's braves down, killed many, routed the

others, and burned the village. Cornplanter will not get over that

surprise in many a moon."

Betty had always hated the very mention of the Indian girl who had

been the cause of her brother's long absence from home. But she was

so happy in the knowledge of his return that she felt that it was in

her power to forgive much; more over, the white, weary face of the

Indian maiden touched Betty's warm heart. With her quick intuition

she had divined that this was even a greater trial for Myeerah.

Undoubtedly the Indian girl feared the scorn of her lover's people.

She showed it in her trembling hands, in her fearful glances.

Finding that Myeerah could speak and understand English, Betty

became more interested in her charge every moment. She set about to

make Myeerah comfortable, and while she removed the wet and stained

garments she talked all the time. She told her how happy she was

that Isaac was alive and well. She said Myeerah's heroism in saving

him should atone for all the past, and that Isaac's family would

welcome her in his home.

Gradually Myeerah's agitation subsided under Betty's sweet

graciousness, and by the time Betty had dressed her in a white gown,

had brushed the dark hair and added a bright ribbon to the simple

toilet, Myeerah had so far forgotten her fears as to take a shy

pleasure in the picture of herself in the mirror. As for Betty, she

gave vent to a little cry of delight. "Oh, you are perfectly

lovely," cried Betty. "In that gown no one would know you as a

Wyandot princess."

"Myeerah's mother was a white woman."

"I have heard your story, Myeerah, and it is wonderful. You must

tell me all about your life with the Indians. You speak my language

almost as well as I do. Who taught you?"

"Myeerah learned to talk with the White Eagle. She can speak French

with the Coureurs-des-bois."

"That's more than I can do, Myeerah. And I had French teacher," said

Betty, laughing.

"Hello, up there," came Isaac's voice from below.

"Come up, Isaac," called Betty.

"Is this my Indian sweetheart?" exclaimed Isaac, stopping at the

door. "Betty, isn't she--"

"Yes," answered Betty, "she is simply beautiful."

"Come, Myeerah, we must go down to supper," said Isaac, taking her

in his arms and kissing her. "Now you must not be afraid, nor mind

being looked at."

"Everyone will be kind to you," said Betty, taking her hand. Myeerah

had slipped from Isaac's arm and hesitated and hung back. "Come,"

continued Betty, "I will stay with you, and you need not talk if you

do not wish."

Thus reassured Myeerah allowed Betty to lead her down stairs. Isaac

had gone ahead and was waiting at the door.

The big room was brilliantly lighted with pine knots. Mrs. Zane was

arranging the dishes on the table. Old Sam and Annie were hurrying

to and fro from the kitchen. Col. Zane had just come up the cellar

stairs carrying a mouldy looking cask. From its appearance it might

have been a powder keg, but the merry twinkle in the Colonel's eyes

showed that the cask contained something as precious, perhaps, as

powder, but not quite so dangerous. It was a cask of wine over

thirty years old. With Col. Zane's other effects it had stood the

test of the long wagon-train journey over the Virginia mountains,

and of the raft-ride down the Ohio. Col. Zane thought the feast he

had arranged for Isaac would be a fitting occasion for the breaking

of the cask.

Major McCullough, Capt. Boggs and Hugh Bennet had been invited.

Wetzel had been persuaded to come. Betty's friends Lydia and Alice

were there.

As Isaac, with an air of pride, led the two girls into the room Old

Sam saw them and he exclaimed, "For de Lawd's sakes, Marsh Zane,

dar's two pippins, sure can't tell 'em from one anudder."

Betty and Myeerah did resemble each other. They were of about the

same size, tall and slender. Betty was rosy, bright-eyed and

smiling; Myeerah was pale one moment and red the next.

"Friends, this is Myeerah, the daughter of Tarhe," said Isaac

simply. "We are to be married to-morrow."

"Oh, why did you not tell me?" asked Betty in great surprise. "She

said nothing about it."

"You see Myeerah has that most excellent trait in a woman--knowing

when to keep silent," answered Isaac with a smile.

The door opened at this moment, admitting Will Martin and Alfred

Clarke.

"Everybody is here now, Bessie, and I guess we may as well sit down

to supper," said Col. Zane. "And, good friends, let me say that this

is an occasion for rejoicing. It is not so much a marriage that I

mean. That we might have any day if Lydia or Betty would show some

of the alacrity which got a good husband for Alice. Isaac is a free

man and we expect his marriage will bring about peace with a

powerful tribe of Indians. To us, and particularly to you, young

people, that is a matter of great importance. The friendship of the

Hurons cannot but exert an influence on other tribes. I, myself, may

live to see the day that my dream shall be realized--peaceful and

friendly relations with the Indians, the freedom of the soil,

well-tilled farms and growing settlements, and at last, the opening

of this glorious country to the world. Therefore, let us rejoice;

let every one be happy; let your gayest laugh ring out, and tell

your best story."

Betty had blushed painfully at the entrance of Alfred and again at

the Colonel's remark. To add to her embarrassment she found herself

seated opposite Alfred at the table. This was the first time he had

been near her since the Sunday at the meeting-house, and the

incident had a singular effect on Betty. She found herself

possessed, all at once, of an unaccountable shyness, and she could

not lift her eyes from her plate. But at length she managed to steal

a glance at Alfred. She failed to see any signs in his beaming face

of the broken spirit of which her brother had hinted. He looked very

well indeed. He was eating his dinner like any other healthy man,

and talking and laughing with Lydia. This developed another

unaccountable feeling in Betty, but this time it was resentment. Who

ever heard of a man, who was as much in love as his letter said,

looking well and enjoying himself with any other than the object of

his affections? He had got over it, that was all. Just then Alfred

turned and gazed full into Betty's eyes. She lowered them instantly,

but not so quickly that she failed to see in his a reproach.

"You are going to stay with us a while, are you not?" asked Betty of

Isaac.

"No, Betts, not more than a day or so. Now, do not look so

distressed. I do not go back as a prisoner. Myeerah and I can often

come and visit you. But just now I want to get back and try to

prevent the Delawares from urging Tarhe to war."

"Isaac, I believe you are doing the wisest thing possible," said

Capt. Boggs. "And when I look at your bride-to-be I confess I do not

see how you remained single so long."

"That's so, Captain," answered Isaac. "But you see, I have never

been satisfied or contented in captivity, I wanted nothing but to be

free."

"In other words, you were blind," remarked Alfred, smiling at Isaac.

"Yes, Alfred, was. And I imagine had you been in my place you would

have discovered the beauty and virtue of my Princess long before I

did. Nevertheless, please do not favor Myeerah with so many admiring

glances. She is not used to it. And that reminds me that I must

expect trouble tomorrow. All you fellows will want to kiss her."

"And Betty is going to be maid of honor. She, too, will have her

troubles," remarked Col. Zane.

"Think of that, Alfred," said Isaac "A chance to kiss the two

prettiest girls on the border--a chance of a lifetime."

"It is customary, is it not?" said Alfred coolly.

"Yes, it's a custom, if you can catch the girl," answered Col. Zane.

Betty's face flushed at Alfred's cool assumption. How dared he? In

spite of her will she could not resist the power that compelled her

to look at him. As plainly as if it were written there, she saw in

his steady blue eyes the light of a memory--the memory of a kiss.

And Betty dropped her head, her face burning, her heart on fire with

shame, and love, and regret.

"It'll be a good chance for me, too," said Wetzel. His remark

instantly turned attention to himself.

"The idea is absurd," said Isaac. "Why, Lew Wetzel, you could not be

made to kiss any girl."

"I would not be backward about it," said Col. Zane.

"You have forgotten the fuss you made when the boys were kissing

me," said Mrs. Zane with a fine scorn.

"My dear," said Col. Zane, in an aggrieved tone, "I did not make so

much of a fuss, as you call it, until they had kissed you a great

many times more than was reasonable."

"Isaac, tell us one thing more," said Capt. Boggs. "How did Myeerah

learn of your capture by Cornplanter? Surely she could not have

trailed you?"

"Will you tell us?" said Isaac to Myeerah.

"A bird sang it to me," answered Myeerah.

"She will never tell, that is certain," said Isaac. "And for that

reason I believe Simon Girty got word to her that I was in the hands

of Cornplanter. At the last moment when the Indians were lashing me

to the stake Girty came to me and said he must have been too late."

"Yes, Girty might have done that," said Col. Zane. "I suppose,

though he dared not interfere in behalf of poor Crawford."

"Isaac, Can you get Myeerah to talk? I love to hear her speak," said

Betty, in an aside.

"Myeerah, will you sing a Huron love-song?" said Isaac "Or, if you

do not wish to sing, tell a story. I want them to know how well you

can speak our language."

"What shall Myeerah say?" she said, shyly.

"Tell them the legend of the Standing Stone."

"A beautiful Indian girl once dwelt in the pine forests," began

Myeerah, with her eyes cast down and her hand seeking Isaac's. "Her

voice was like rippling waters, her beauty like the rising sun. From

near and from far came warriors to see the fair face of this maiden.

She smiled on them all and they called her Smiling Moon. Now there

lived on the Great Lake a Wyandot chief. He was young and bold. No

warrior was as great as Tarhe. Smiling Moon cast a spell on his

heart. He came many times to woo her and make her his wife. But

Smiling Moon said: 'Go, do great deeds, an come again.'

"Tarhe searched the east and the west. He brought her strange gifts

from strange lands. She said: 'Go and slay my enemies.' Tarhe went

forth in his war paint and killed the braves who named her Smiling

Moon. He came again to her and she said: 'Run swifter than the deer,

be more cunning than the beaver, dive deeper than the loon.'

"Tarhe passed once more to the island where dwelt Smiling Moon. The

ice was thick, the snow was deep. Smiling Moon turned not from her

warm fire as she said: 'The chief is a great warrior, but Smiling

Moon is not easily won. It is cold. Change winter into summer and

then Smiling Moon will love him.'

"Tarhe cried in a loud voice to the Great Spirit: 'Make me a

master.'

"A voice out of the forest answered: 'Tarhe, great warrior, wise

chief, waste not thy time, go back to thy wigwam.'

"Tarhe unheeding cried 'Tarhe wins or dies. Make him a master so

that he may drive the ice northward.'

"Stormed the wild tempest; thundered the rivers of ice; chill blew

the north wind, the cold northwest wind, against the mild south

wind; snow-spirits and hail-spirits fled before the warm raindrops;

the white mountains melted, and lo! it was summer.

"On the mountain top Tarhe waited for his bride. Never wearying,

ever faithful he watched many years. There he turned to stone. There

he stands to-day, the Standing Stone of ages. And Smiling Moon,

changed by the Great Spirit into the Night Wind, forever wails her

lament at dusk through the forest trees, and moans over the mountain

tops."

Myeerah's story elicited cheers and praises from all. She was

entreated to tell another, but smilingly shook her head. Now that

her shyness had worn off to some extent she took great interest in

the jest and the general conversation.

Col. Zane's fine old wine flowed like water. The custom was to fill

a guest's cup as soon as it was empty. Drinking much was rather

encouraged than otherwise. But Col. Zane never allowed this custom

to go too far in his house.

"Friends, the hour grows late," he said. "To-morrow, after the great

event, we shall have games, shooting matches, running races, and

contests of all kinds. Capt. Boggs and I have arranged to give

prizes, and I expect the girls can give something to lend a zest to

the competition."

"Will the girls have a chance in these races?" asked Isaac. "If so,

I should like to see Betty and Myeerah run."

"Betty can outrun any woman, red or white, on the border," said

Wetzel. "And she could make some of the men run their level best."

"Well, perhaps we shall give her one opportunity to-morrow,"

observed the Colonel. "She used to be good at running but it seems

to me that of late she has taken to books and--"

"Oh, Eb! that is untrue," interrupted Betty.

Col. Zane laughed and patted his sister's cheek. "Never mind,

Betty," and then, rising, he continued, "Now let us drink to the

bride and groom-to-be. Capt. Boggs, I call on you."

"We drink to the bride's fair beauty; we drink to the groom's good

luck," said Capt. Boggs, raising his cup.

"Do not forget the maid-of-honor," said Isaac.

"Yes, and the maid-of-honor. Mr. Clarke, will you say something

appropriate?" asked Col. Zane.

Rising, Clarke said: "I would be glad to speak fittingly on this

occasion, but I do not think I can do it justice. I believe as Col.

Zane does, that this Indian Princess is the first link in that chain

of peace which will some day unite the red men and the white men.

Instead of the White Crane she should be called the White Dove.

Gentlemen, rise and drink to her long life and happiness."

The toast was drunk. Then Clarke refilled his cup and holding it

high over his head he looked at Betty.

"Gentlemen, to the maid-of-honor. Miss Zane, your health, your

happiness, in this good old wine."

"I thank you," murmured Betty with downcast eyes. "I bid you all

good-night. Come, Myeerah."

Once more alone with Betty, the Indian girl turned to her with eyes

like twin stars.

"My sister has made me very happy," whispered Myeerah in her soft,

low voice. "Myeerah's heart is full."