Zane Grey (10 page)

"He did not; he spoke little, but I will say he was exceedingly
active," answered Joe, with a smile.

"To have seen Wetzel fight Indians is something you are not likely
to forget," said Colonel Zane grimly. "Now, tell me, how did those
Indians wear their scalp-lock?"

"Their heads were shaved closely, with the exception of a little
place on top. The remaining hair was twisted into a tuft, tied
tightly, and into this had been thrust a couple of painted pins.
When Wetzel scalped the Indians the pins fell out. I picked one up,
and found it to be bone."

"You will make a woodsman, that's certain," replied Colonel Zane.
"The Indians were Shawnee on the warpath. Well, we will not borrow
trouble, for when it comes in the shape of redskins it usually comes
quickly. Mr. Wells seemed anxious to resume the journey down the
river; but I shall try to persuade him to remain with us awhile.
Indeed, I am sorry I cannot keep you all here at Fort Henry, and
more especially the girls. On the border we need young people, and,
while I do not want to frighten the women, I fear there will be more
than Indians fighting for them."

"I hope not; but we have come prepared for anything," said Kate,
with a quiet smile. "Our home was with uncle, and when he announced
his intention of going west we decided our duty was to go with him."

"You were right, and I hope you will find a happy home," rejoined
Colonel Zane. "If life among the Indians, proves to be too hard, we
shall welcome you here. Betty, show the girls your pets and Indian
trinkets. I am going to take the boys to Silas' cabin to see Mr.
Wells, and then show them over the fort."

As they went out Joe saw the Indian guide standing in exactly the
same position as when they entered the building.

"Can't that Indian move?" he asked curiously.

"He can cover one hundred miles in a day, when he wants to," replied
Colonel Zane. "He is resting now. An Indian will often stand or sit
in one position for many hours."

"He's a fine-looking chap," remarked Joe, and then to himself: "but
I don't like him. I guess I'm prejudiced."

"You'll learn to like Tome, as we call him."

"Colonel Zane, I want a light for my pipe. I haven't had a smoke
since the day we were captured. That blamed redskin took my tobacco.
It's lucky I had some in my other pack. I'd like to meet him again;
also Silvertip and that brute Girty."

"My lad, don't make such wishes," said Colonel Zane, earnestly. "You
were indeed fortunate to escape, and I can well understand your
feelings. There is nothing I should like better than to see Girty
over the sights of my rifle; but I never hunt after danger, and to
look for Girty is to court death."

"But Wetzel—"

"Ah, my lad, I know Wetzel goes alone in the woods; but then, he is
different from other men. Before you leave I will tell you all about
him."

Colonel Zane went around the corner of the cabin and returned with a
live coal on a chip of wood, which Joe placed in the bowl of his
pipe, and because of the strong breeze stepped close to the cabin
wall. Being a keen observer, he noticed many small, round holes in
the logs. They were so near together that the timbers had an odd,
speckled appearance, and there was hardly a place where he could
have put his thumb without covering a hole. At first he thought they
were made by a worm or bird peculiar to that region; but finally lie
concluded that they were bullet-holes. He thrust his knife blade
into one, and out rolled a leaden ball.

"I'd like to have been here when these were made," he said.

"Well, at the time I wished I was back on the Potomac," replied
Colonel Zane.

They found the old missionary on the doorstep of the adjacent cabin.
He appeared discouraged when Colonel Zane interrogated him, and said
that he was impatient because of the delay.

"Mr. Wells, is it not possible that you underrate the danger of your
enterprise?"

"I fear naught but the Lord," answered the old man.

"Do you not fear for those with you?" went on the colonel earnestly.
"I am heart and soul with you in your work, but want to impress upon
you that the time is not propitious. It is a long journey to the
village, and the way is beset with dangers of which you have no
idea. Will you not remain here with me for a few weeks, or, at
least, until my scouts report?"

"I thank you; but go I will."

"Then let me entreat you to remain here a few days, so that I may
send my brother Jonathan and Wetzel with you. If any can guide you
safely to the Village of Peace it will be they."

At this moment Joe saw two men approaching from the fort, and
recognized one of them as Wetzel. He doubted not that the other was
Lord Dunmore's famous guide and hunter, Jonathan Zane. In features
he resembled the colonel, and was as tall as Wetzel, although not so
muscular or wide of chest.

Joe felt the same thrill he had experienced while watching the
frontiersmen at Fort Pitt. Wetzel and Jonathan spoke a word to
Colonel Zane and then stepped aside. The hunters stood lithe and
erect, with the easy, graceful poise of Indians.

"We'll take two canoes, day after to-morrow," said Jonathan,
decisively, to Colonel Zane. "Have you a rifle for Wetzel? The
Delawares got his."

Colonel Zane pondered over the question; rifles were not scarce at
the fort, but a weapon that Wetzel would use was hard to find.

"The hunter may have my rifle," said the old missionary. "I have no
use for a weapon with which to destroy God's creatures. My brother
was a frontiersman; he left this rifle to me. I remember hearing him
say once that if a man knew exactly the weight of lead and powder
needed, it would shoot absolutely true."

He went into the cabin, and presently came out with a long object
wrapped in linsey cloths. Unwinding the coverings, he brought to
view a rifle, the proportions of which caused Jonathan's eyes to
glisten, and brought an exclamation from Colonel Zane. Wetzel
balanced the gun in his hands. It was fully six feet long; the
barrel was large, and the dark steel finely polished; the stock was
black walnut, ornamented with silver trimmings. Using Jonathan's
powder-flask and bullet-pouch, Wetzel proceeded to load the weapon.
He poured out a quantity of powder into the palm of his hand,
performing the action quickly and dexterously, but was so slow while
measuring it that Joe wondered if he were counting the grains. Next
he selected a bullet out of a dozen which Jonathan held toward him.
He examined it carefully and tried it in the muzzle of the rifle.
Evidently it did not please him, for he took another. Finally he
scraped a bullet with his knife, and placing it in the center of a
small linsey rag, deftly forced it down. He adjusted the flint,
dropped a few grains of powder in the pan, and then looked around
for a mark at which to shoot.

Joe observed that the hunters and Colonel Zane were as serious
regarding the work as if at that moment some important issue
depended upon the accuracy of the rifle.

"There, Lew; there's a good shot. It's pretty far, even for you,
when you don't know the gun," said Colonel Zane, pointing toward the
river.

Joe saw the end of a log, about the size of a man's head, sticking
out of the water, perhaps an hundred and fifty yards distant. He
thought to hit it would be a fine shot; but was amazed when he heard
Colonel Zane say to several men who had joined the group that Wetzel
intended to shoot at a turtle on the log. By straining his eyes Joe
succeeded in distinguishing a small lump, which he concluded was the
turtle.

Wetzel took a step forward; the long, black rifle was raised with a
stately sweep. The instant it reached a level a thread of flame
burst forth, followed by a peculiarly clear, ringing report.

"Did he hit?" asked Colonel Zane, eagerly as a boy.

"I allow he did," answered Jonathan.

"I'll go and see," said Joe. He ran down the bank, along the beach,
and stepped on the log. He saw a turtle about the size of an
ordinary saucer. Picking it up, he saw a bullet-hole in the shell
near the middle. The bullet had gone through the turtle, and it was
quite dead. Joe carried it to the waiting group.

"I allowed so," declared Jonathan.

Wetzel examined the turtle, and turning to the old missionary, said:

"Your brother spoke the truth, an' I thank you fer the rifle."

"So you want to know all about Wetzel?" inquired Colonel Zane of
Joe, when, having left Jim and Mr. Wells, they returned to the
cabin.

"I am immensely interested in him," replied Joe.

"Well, I don't think there's anything singular in that. I know
Wetzel better, perhaps, than any man living; but have seldom talked
about him. He doesn't like it. He is by birth a Virginian; I should
say, forty years old. We were boys together, and and I am a little
beyond that age. He was like any of the lads, except that he
excelled us all in strength and agility. When he was nearly eighteen
years old a band if Indians—Delawares, I think—crossed the border
on a marauding expedition far into Virginia. They burned the old
Wetzel homestead and murdered the father, mother, two sisters, and a
baby brother. The terrible shock nearly killed Lewis, who for a time
was very ill. When he recovered he went in search of his brothers,
Martin and John Wetzel, who were hunting, and brought them back to
their desolated home. Over the ashes of the home and the graves of
the loved ones the brothers swore sleepless and eternal vengeance.
The elder brothers have been devoted all these twenty years and more
to the killing of Indians; but Lewis has been the great foe of the
redman. You have already seen an example of his deeds, and will hear
of more. His name is a household word on the border. Scores of times
he has saved, actually saved, this fort and settlement. His
knowledge of savage ways surpasses by far Boone's, Major
McColloch's, Jonathan's, or any of the hunters'."

"Then hunting Indians is his sole occupation?"

"He lives for that purpose alone. He is very seldom in the
settlement. Sometimes he stays here a few days, especially if he is
needed; but usually he roams the forests."

"What did Jeff Lynn mean when he said that some people think Wetzel
is crazy?"

"There are many who think the man mad; but I do not. When the
passion for Indian hunting comes upon him he is fierce, almost
frenzied, yet perfectly sane. While here he is quiet, seldom speaks
except when spoken to, and is taciturn with strangers. He often
comes to my cabin and sits beside the fire for hours. I think he
finds pleasure in the conversation and laughter of friends. He is
fond of the children, and would do anything for my sister Betty."

"His life must be lonely and sad," remarked Joe.

"The life of any borderman is that; but Wetzel's is particularly
so."

"What is he called by the Indians?"

"They call him Atelang, or, in English, Deathwind."

"By George! That's what Silvertip said in French—'Le Vent de la
Mort.'"

"Yes; you have it right. A French fur trader gave Wetzel that name
years ago, and it has clung to him. The Indians say the Deathwind
blows through the forest whenever Wetzel stalks on their trail."

"Colonel Zane, don't you think me superstitious," whispered Joe,
leaning toward the colonel, "but I heard that wind blow through the
forest."

"What!" ejaculated Colonel Zane. He saw that Joe was in earnest, for
the remembrance of the moan had more than once paled his cheek and
caused beads of perspiration to collect on his brow.

Joe related the circumstances of that night, and at the end of his
narrative Colonel Zane sat silent and thoughtful.

"You don't really think it was Wetzel who moaned?" he asked, at
length.

"No, I don't," replied Joe quickly; "but, Colonel Zane, I heard that
moan as plainly as I can hear your voice. I heard it twice. Now,
what was it?"

"Jonathan said the same thing to me once. He had been out hunting
with Wetzel; they separated, and during the night Jonathan heard the
wind. The next day he ran across a dead Indian. He believes Wetzel
makes the noise, and so do the hunters; but I think it is simply the
moan of the night wind through the trees. I have heard it at times,
when my very blood seemingly ran cold."

"I tried to think it was the wind soughing through the pines, but am
afraid I didn't succeed very well. Anyhow, I knew Wetzel instantly,
just as Jeff Lynn said I would. He killed those Indians in an
instant, and he must have an iron arm."

"Wetzel excels in strength and speed any man, red or white, on the
frontier. He can run away from Jonathan, who is as swift as an
Indian. He's stronger than any of the other men. I remember one day
old Hugh Bennet's wagon wheels stuck in a bog down by the creek.
Hugh tried, as several others did, to move the wheels; but they
couldn't be made to budge. Along came Wetzel, pushed away the men,
and lifted the wagon unaided. It would take hours to tell you about
him. In brief, among all the border scouts and hunters Wetzel stands
alone. No wonder the Indians fear him. He is as swift as an eagle,
strong as mountain-ash, keen as a fox, and absolutely tireless and
implacable."

"How long have you been here, Colonel Zane?"

"More than twelve years, and it has been one long fight."

"I'm afraid I'm too late for the fun," said Joe, with his quiet
laugh.

"Not by about twelve more years," answered Colonel Zane, studying
the expression on Joe's face. "When I came out here years ago I had
the same adventurous spirit which I see in you. It has been
considerably quelled, however. I have seen many a daring young
fellow get the border fever, and with it his death. Let me advise
you to learn the ways of the hunters; to watch some one skilled in
woodcraft. Perhaps Wetzel himself will take you in hand. I don't
mind saying that he spoke of you to me in a tone I never heard Lew
use before."