Spirit of the Border. Zane Grey

among the redskins down Fort Henry way, raisin’ as much hell fer the settlers as they kin.”

      “Is Fort Henry near the Indian towns?” asked Joe.

      “There’s Delawares, Shawnees, and Hurons all along the Ohio below Fort Henry.”

      “Where is the Moravian Mission located?”

      “Why, lad, the Village of Peace, as the Injuns call it, is right in the midst of that Injun country. I s’pect it’s a matter of a hundred miles below and cross-country a little from Fort Henry.”

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

      “Wal, I guess so. It’s the last place on the river,” answered Lynn, with a grim smile. “There’s only a stockade there, an’ a handful of men. The Injuns hev swarmed down on it time and ag’in, but they hev never burned it. Only such men as Colonel Zane, his brother Jack, and Wetzel could hev kept that fort standin’ all these bloody years. Eb Zane’s got but a few men, yet he kin handle ’em some, an’ with such scouts as Jack Zane and Wetzel, he allus knows what’s goin’ on among the Injuns.”

      “I’ve heard of Colonel Zane. He was an officer under Lord Dunmore. The hunters here speak often of Jack Zane and Wetzel. What are they?”

      “Jack Zane is a hunter an’ guide. I knowed him well a few years back. He’s a quiet, mild chap; but a streak of chain-lightnin’ when he’s riled. Wetzel is an Injunkiller. Some people say as how he’s crazy over scalp-huntin’ but I reckon that’s not so. I’ve seen him a few times. He don’t hang round the settlement ’cept when the Injuns are up, an’ nobody sees him much. At home he sets round silent-like, an’ then mebbe next mornin’ he’ll be gone, an’ won’t show up fer days or weeks. But all the frontier knows of his deeds. Fer instance, I’ve hearn of settlers gettin’ up in the mornin’ an’ findin’ a couple of dead and scalped Injuns right in front of their cabins. No one knowed who killed ’em, but everybody says ‘Wetzel.’ He’s allus warnin’ the settlers when they need to flee to the fort, and sure he’s right every time, because when these men go back to their cabins they find nothin’ but ashes. There couldn’t be any farmin’ done out there but fer Wetzel.”

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

      “Wetzel stands straight as the oak over thar. He’d hev to go sideways to git his shoulders in that door, but he’s as light of foot an’ fast as a deer. An’ his eyes—why, lad, ye kin hardly look into ’em. If you ever see Wetzel you’ll know him to onct.”

      “I want to see him,” Joe spoke quickly, his eyes lighting with an eager flash. “He must be a great fighter.”

      “Is he? Lew Wetzel is the heftiest of ’em all, an’ we hev some as kin fight out here. I was down the river a few years ago and joined a party to go out an’ hunt up some redskins as had been reported. Wetzel was with us. We soon struck Injun sign, and then come on to a lot of the pesky varmints. We was all fer goin’ home, because we had a small force. When we started to go we finds Wetzel sittin’ calmlike on a log. We said: ‘Ain’t ye goin’ home?’ and he replied, ‘I come out to find redskins, an’ now as we’ve found ’em, I’m not goin’ to run away.’ An’ we left him settin’ thar. Oh, Wetzel is a fighter!”

      “I hope I shall see him,” said Joe once more, the warm light, which made him look so boyish, still glowing in his face.

      “Mebbe ye’ll git to; and sure ye’ll see redskins, an’ not tame ones, nuther.”

      At this moment the sound of excited voices near the cabins broke in upon the conversation. Joe saw several persons run toward the large cabin and disappear behind it. He smiled as he thought perhaps the commotion had been caused by the awakening of the Indian brave.

      Rising to his feet, Joe went toward the cabin, and soon saw the cause of the excitement. A small crowd of men and women, all laughing and talking, surrounded the Indian brave and the little stout fellow. Joe heard someone groan, and then a deep, guttural voice:

      “Paleface—big steal—ugh! Injun mad—heap mad—kill paleface.”

      After elbowing his way into the group, Joe saw the Indian holding Loorey with one hand, while he poked him in the ribs with the other. The captive’s face was the picture of dismay: even the streaks of paint did not hide his look of fear and bewilderment. The poor, half-witted fellow was so badly frightened that he could only groan.

      “Silvertip scalp paleface. Ugh!” growled the savage, giving Loorey another blow. This time he bent over in pain. The bystanders were divided in feeling; the men laughed, while the women murmured sympathetically.

      “This’s not a bit funny,” muttered Joe, as he pushed his way nearly to the middle of the crowd. Then he stretched out a long arm that, bare and brawny, looked as though it might have been a blacksmith’s, and grasped the Indian’s sinewy wrist with a force that made him loosen his hold on Loorey instantly.

      “I stole the shirt—fun—joke,” said Joe. “Scalp me if you want to scalp anyone.”

      The Indian looked quickly at the powerful form before him. With a twist he slipped his arm from Joe’s grasp.

      “Big paleface heap fun—all squaw play,” he said, scornfully. There was a menace in his somber eyes as he turned abruptly and left the group.

      “I’m afraid you’ve made an enemy,” said Jake Wentz to Joe. “An Indian never forgets an insult, and that’s how he regarded your joke. Silvertip has been friendly here because he sells us his pelts. He’s a Shawnee chief. There he goes through the willows!”

      By this time Jim and Mr. Wells, Mrs. Wentz, and the girls had joined in the group. They all watched Silvertip get into his canoe and paddle away.

      “A bad sign,” said Wentz, and then, turning to Jeff Lynn, who joined the party at that moment, he briefly explained the circumstances.

      “Never did like Silver. He’s a crafty redskin, an’ not to be trusted,” replied Jeff.

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

      “So he has,” observed the fur trader.

      The Indian was now several hundred yards down the swift river, and for an instant had ceased paddling. The sun shone brightly on his eagle plumes. He remained motionless for a moment, and even at such a distance the dark, changeless face could be discerned. He lifted his hand and shook it menacingly.

      “If ye don’t hear from that redskin ag’in, Jeff Lynn don’t know nothin’,” calmly said the old frontiersman.

      Chapter IV

      As the rafts drifted with the current the voyagers saw the settlers on the landing place diminish until they had faded from indistinct figures to mere black specks against the green background. Then came the last wave of a white scarf, faintly in the distance, and at length the dark outline of the fort was all that remained to their regretful gaze. Quickly that, too, disappeared behind the green hill, which, with its bold front, forces the river to take a wide turn.

      The Ohio, winding in its course between high, wooded bluffs, rolled on and on into the wilderness.

      Beautiful as was the ever-changing scenery, rugged, gray-faced cliffs on one side contrasting with green-clad hills on the other, there hovered over land and water something more striking than beauty. Above all hung a still atmosphere of calmness—of loneliness.

      And this penetrating solitude marred somewhat the pleasure which might have been found in the picturesque scenery, and caused the voyagers, to whom this country was new, to take less interest in the gaily feathered birds and stealthy animals that were to be seen on the way. By the forms of wild-life along the banks of the river, this strange intruder on their peace was regarded with attention. The birds and beasts evinced little fear of the floating rafts. The sandhill crane, stalking along the shore, lifted his long neck as the unfamiliar thing came