The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey

      The silence of the wood was the silence of the desert. No bird chirped; no breath of wind sighed in the tree-tops; even the aspens remained unagitated. Pale yellow leaves sailed slowly, reluctantly down from above.

      But some faint sound, something unusual had jarred upon the exquisitely sensitive ears of the leader, for with a meaning shake of the head to his followers, he resumed the march in a direction at right angles with the original course.

      This caution, and evident distrust of the forest ahead, made Helen think again of Jonathan and Wetzel. Those great bordermen might already be on the trail of her captors. The thought thrilled her. Presently she realized, from another long, silent march through forest thickets, glades, aisles, and groves, over rock-strewn ridges, and down mossy-stoned ravines, that her strength was beginning to fail.

      “I can go no further with my arms tied in this way,” she declared, stopping suddenly.

      “Ugh!” uttered the savage before her, turning sharply. He brandished a tomahawk before her eyes.

      Mordaunt hurriedly set free her wrists. His pale face flushed a dark, flaming red when she shrank from his touch as if he were a viper.

      After they had traveled what seemed to Helen many miles, the vigilance of the leaders relaxed.

      On the banks of the willow-skirted stream the Indian guide halted them, and proceeded on alone to disappear in a green thicket. Presently he reappeared, and motioned for them to come on. He led the way over smooth, sandy paths between clumps of willows, into a heavy growth of alder bushes and prickly thorns, at length to emerge upon a beautiful grassy plot enclosed by green and yellow shrubbery. Above the stream, which cut the edge of the glade, rose a sloping, wooded ridge, with huge rocks projecting here and there out of the brown forest.

      Several birch-bark huts could be seen; then two rough bearded men lolling upon the grass, and beyond them a group of painted Indians.

      A whoop so shrill, so savage, so exultant, that it seemingly froze her blood, rent the silence. A man, unseen before, came crashing through the willows on the side of the ridge. He leaped the stream with the spring of a wild horse. He was big and broad, with disheveled hair, keen, hard face, and wild, gray eyes.

      Helen’s sight almost failed her; her head whirled dizzily; it was as if her heart had stopped beating and was become a cold, dead weight. She recognized in this man the one whom she feared most of all—Brandt.

      He cast one glance full at her, the same threatening, cool, and evil-meaning look she remembered so well, and then engaged the Indian guide in low conversation.

      Helen sank at the foot of a tree, leaning against it. Despite her weariness she had retained some spirit until this direful revelation broke her courage. What worse could have happened? Mordaunt had led her, for some reason that she could not divine, into the clutches of Brandt, into the power of Legget and his outlaws.

      But Helen was not one to remain long dispirited or hopeless. As this plot thickened, as every added misfortune weighed upon her, when just ready to give up to despair she remembered the bordermen. Then Colonel Zane’s tales of their fearless, implacable pursuit when bent on rescue or revenge, recurred to her, and fortitude returned. While she had life she would hope.

      The advent of the party with their prisoner enlivened Legget’s gang. A great giant of a man, blond-bearded, and handsome in a wild, rugged, uncouth way, a man Helen instinctively knew to be Legget, slapped Brandt on the shoulder.

      “Damme, Roge, if she ain’t a regular little daisy! Never seed such a purty lass in my life.”

      Brandt spoke hurriedly, and Legget laughed.

      All this time Case had been sitting on the grass, saying nothing, but with his little eyes watchful. Mordaunt stood near him, his head bowed, his face gloomy.

      “Say, cap’n, I don’t like this mess,” whispered Case to his master. “They ain’t no crew fer us. I know men, fer I’ve sailed the seas, an’ you’re goin’ to get what Metz calls the double-cross.”

      Mordaunt seemed to arouse from his gloomy reverie. He looked at Brandt and Legget who were now in earnest council. Then his eyes wandered toward Helen. She beckoned him to come to her.

      “Why did you bring me here?” she asked.

      “Brandt understood my case. He planned this thing, and seemed to be a good friend of mine. He said if I once got you out of the settlement, he would give me protection until I crossed the border into Canada. There we could be married,” replied Mordaunt unsteadily.

      “Then you meant marriage by me, if I could be made to consent?”

      “Of course. I’m not utterly vile,” he replied, with face lowered in shame.

      “Have you any idea what you’ve done?”

      “Done? I don’t understand.”

      “You have ruined yourself, lost your manhood, become an outlaw, a fugitive, made yourself the worst thing on the border—a girl-thief, and all for nothing.”

      “No, I have you. You are more to me than all.”

      “But can’t you see? You’ve brought me out here for Brandt!”

      “My God!” exclaimed Mordaunt. He rose slowly to his feet and gazed around like a man suddenly wakened from a dream. “I see it all now! Miserable, drunken wretch that I am!”

      Helen saw his face change and lighten as if a cloud of darkness had passed away from it. She understood that love of liquor had made him a party to this plot. Brandt had cunningly worked upon his weakness, proposed a daring scheme; and filled his befogged mind with hopes that, in a moment of clear-sightedness, he would have seen to be vain and impossible. And Helen understood also that the sudden shock of surprise, pain, possible fury, had sobered Mordaunt, probably for the first time in weeks.

      The Englishman’s face became exceedingly pale. Seating himself on a stone near Case, he bowed his head, remaining silent and motionless.

      The conference between Legget and Brandt lasted for some time. When it ended the latter strode toward the motionless figure on the rock.

      “Mordaunt, you and Case will do well to follow this Indian at once to the river, where you can strike the Fort Pitt trail,” said Brandt.

      He spoke arrogantly and authoritatively. His keen, hard face, his steely eyes, bespoke the iron will and purpose of the man.

      Mordaunt rose with cold dignity. If he had been a dupe, he was one no longer, as could be plainly read on his calm, pale face. The old listlessness, the unsteadiness had vanished. He wore a manner of extreme quietude; but his eyes were like balls of blazing blue steel.

      “Mr. Brandt, I seem to have done you a service, and am no longer required,” he said in a courteous tone.

      Brandt eyed his man; but judged him wrongly. An English gentleman was new to the border-outlaw.

      “I swore the girl should be mine,” he hissed.

      “Doomed men cannot be choosers!” cried Helen, who had heard him. Her dark eyes burned with scorn and hatred.

      All the party heard her passionate outburst. Case arose as if unconcernedly, and stood by the side of his master. Legget and the other two outlaws came up. The Indians turned their swarthy faces.

      “Hah! ain’t she sassy?” cried Legget.

      Brandt looked at Helen, understood the meaning of her words, and laughed. But his face paled, and involuntarily his shifty glance sought the rocks and trees upon the ridge.

      “You played me from the first?” asked Mordaunt quietly.

      “I did,” replied Brandt.

      “You meant nothing of your promise to help me across the border?”

      “No.”

      “You intended to let me shift for myself out here in this wilderness?”