The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey

to this rock I spoke ’bout, we’ll be right over ’em. It’s ten feet high, an’ we can jump straight amongst ’em. Most likely two or three’ll be guardin’ the openin’ which is a little ways to the right. Ther’s a big tree, the only one, low down by the spring. Helen’s under it, half-sittin’, half-leanin’ against the roots. When I first looked, her hands were free; but I saw Brandt bind her feet. An’ he had to get an Injun to help him, fer she kicked like a spirited little filly. There’s moss under the tree an’ there’s where the redskins’ll lay down to rest.”

      “I’ve got that; now out with your plan.”

      “Wal, I calkilate it’s this. The moon’ll be up in about an hour. We’ll crawl as we’ve never crawled afore, because Helen’s life depends as much on our not makin’ a noise, as it does on fightin’ when the time comes. If they hear us afore we’re ready to shoot, the lass’ll be tomahawked quicker’n lightnin’. If they don’t suspicion us, when the right moment comes you shoot Brandt, yell louder’n you ever did afore, leap amongst ’em, an’ cut down the first Injun thet’s near you on your way to Helen. Swing her over your arm, an’ dig into the woods.”

      “Well?” asked Jonathan when Wetzel finished.

      “That’s all,” the borderman replied grimly.

      “An’ leave you all alone to fight Legget an’ the rest of ’em?”

      “I reckon.”

      “Not to be thought of.”

      “Ther’s no other way.”

      “There must be! Let me think; I can’t, I’m not myself.”

      “No other way,” repeated Wetzel curtly.

      Jonathan’s broad hand fastened on Wetzel’s shoulder and wheeled him around.

      “Have I ever left you alone?”

      “This’s different,” and Wetzel turned away again. His voice was cold and hard.

      “How is it different? We’ve had the same thing to do, almost, more than once.”

      “We’ve never had as bad a bunch to handle as Legget’s. They’re lookin’ fer us, an’ will be hard to beat.”

      “That’s no reason.”

      “We never had to save a girl one of us loved.”

      Jonathan was silent.

      “I said this’d be my last trail,” continued Wetzel. “I felt it, an’ I know it’ll be yours.”

      “Why?”

      “If you get away with the girl she’ll keep you at home, an’ it’ll be well. If you don’t succeed, you’ll die tryin’, so it’s sure your last trail.”

      Wetzel’s deep, cold voice rang with truth.

      “Lew, I can’t run away an’ leave you to fight those devils alone, after all these years we’ve been together, I can’t.”

      “No other chance to save the lass.”

      Jonathan quivered with the force of his emotion. His black eyes glittered; his hands grasped at nothing. Once more he was between love and duty. Again he fought over the old battle, but this time it left him weak.

      “You love the big-eyed lass, don’t you?” asked Wetzel, turning with softened face and voice.

      “I have gone mad!” cried Jonathan, tortured by the simple question of his friend. Those big, dear, wonderful eyes he loved so well, looked at him now from the gloom of the thicket. The old, beautiful, soft glow, the tender light, was there, and more, a beseeching prayer to save her.

      Jonathan bowed his head, ashamed to let his friend see the tears that dimmed his eyes.

      “Jack, we’ve follered the trail fer years together. Always you’ve been true an’ staunch. This is our last, but whatever bides we’ll break up Legget’s band tonight, an’ the border’ll be cleared, mebbe, for always. At least his race is run. Let thet content you. Our time’d have to come, sooner or later, so why not now? I know how it is, that you want to stick by me; but the lass draws you to her. I understand, an’ want you to save her. Mebbe you never dreamed it; but I can tell jest how you feel. All the tremblin’, an’ softness, an’ sweetness, an’ delight you’ve got for thet girl, is no mystery to Lew Wetzel.”

      “You loved a lass?”

      Wetzel bowed his head, as perhaps he had never before in all his life.

      “Betty—always,” he answered softly.

      “My sister!” exclaimed Jonathan, and then his hand closed hard on his comrade’s, his mind going back to many things, strange in the past, but now explained. Wetzel had revealed his secret.

      “An’ it’s been all my life, since she wasn’t higher ’n my knee. There was a time when I might hev been closer to you than I am now. But I was a mad an’ bloody Injun hater, so I never let her know till I seen it was too late. Wal, wal, no more of me. I only told it fer you.”

      Jonathan was silent.

      “An’ now to come back where we left off,” continued Wetzel. “Let’s take a more hopeful look at this comin’ fight. Sure I said it was my last trail, but mebbe it’s not. You can never tell. Feelin’ as we do, I imagine they’ve no odds on us. Never in my life did I say to you, least of all to any one else, what I was goin’ to do; but I’ll tell it now. If I land uninjured amongst thet bunch, I’ll kill them all.”

      The giant borderman’s low voice hissed, and stung. His eyes glittered with unearthly fire. His face was cold and gray. He spread out his brawny arms and clenched his huge fists, making the muscles of his broad shoulders roll and bulge.

      “I hate the thought, Lew, I hate the thought. Ain’t there no other way?”

      “No other way.”

      “I’ll do it, Lew, because I’d do the same for you; because I have to, because I love her; but God! it hurts.”

      “Thet’s right,” answered Wetzel, his deep voice softening until it was singularly low and rich. “I’m glad you’ve come to it. An’ sure it hurts. I want you to feel so at leavin’ me to go it alone. If we both get out alive, I’ll come many times to see you an’ Helen. If you live an’ I don’t, think of me sometimes, think of the trails we’ve crossed together. When the fall comes with its soft, cool air, an’ smoky mornin’s an’ starry nights, when the wind’s sad among the bare branches, an’ the leaves drop down, remember they’re fallin’ on my grave.”

      Twilight darkened into gloom; the red tinge in the west changed to opal light; through the trees over a dark ridge a rim of silver glinted and moved.

      The moon had risen; the hour was come.

      The bordermen tightened their belts, replaced their leggings, tied their hunting coats, loosened their hatchets, looked to the priming of their rifles, and were ready.

      Wetzel walked twenty paces and turned. His face was white in the moonlight; his dark eyes softened into a look of love as he gripped his comrade’s outstretched hand.

      Then he dropped flat on the ground, carefully saw to the position of his rifle, and began to creep. Jonathan kept close at his heels.

      Slowly but steadily they crawled, minute after minute. The hazel-nut bushes above them had not yet shed their leaves; the ground was clean and hard, and the course fatefully perfect for their deadly purpose.

      A slight rustling of their buckskin garments sounded like the rustling of leaves in a faint breeze.

      The moon came out above the trees and still Wetzel advanced softly, steadily, surely.

      The owl, lonely sentinel of that wood, hooted dismally. Even his night eyes, which made the darkness seem clear as day, missed those