Zane Grey (18 page)

Joe had practiced trailing deer and other hoofed game, until he was
true as a hound. Then he began to perfect himself in the art of
following a human being through the forest. Except a few old Indian
trails, which the rain had half obliterated, he had no tracks to
discover save Wetzel's, and these were as hard to find as the airy
course of a grosbeak. On soft ground or marshy grass, which Wetzel
avoided where he could, he left a faint trail, but on a hard
surface, for all the traces he left, he might as well not have gone
over the ground at all.

Joe's persistence stood him in good stead; he hung on, and the more
he failed, the harder he tried. Often he would slip out of the cave
after Wetzel had gone, and try to find which way he had taken. In
brief, the lad became a fine marksman, a good hunter, and a close,
persevering student of the wilderness. He loved the woods, and all
they contained. He learned the habits of the wild creatures. Each
deer, each squirrel, each grouse that he killed, taught him some
lesson.

He was always up with the lark to watch the sun rise red and grand
over the eastern hills, and chase away the white mist from the
valleys. Even if he was not hunting, or roaming the woods, if it was
necessary for him to lie low in camp awaiting Wetzel's return, he
was always content. Many hours he idled away lying on his back, with
the west wind blowing softly over him, his eye on the distant hills,
where the cloud shadows swept across with slow, majestic movement,
like huge ships at sea.

If Wetzel and Joe were far distant from the cave, as was often the
case, they made camp in the open woods, and it was here that Joe's
contentment was fullest. Twilight shades stealing down over the
camp-fire; the cheery glow of red embers; the crackling of dry
stocks; the sweet smell of wood smoke, all had for the lad a subtle,
potent charm.

The hunter would broil a venison steak, or a partridge, on the
coals. Then they would light their pipes and smoke while twilight
deepened. The oppressive stillness of the early evening hour always
brought to the younger man a sensation of awe. At first he
attributed this to the fact that he was new to this life; however,
as the days passed and the emotion remained, nay, grew stronger, he
concluded it was imparted by this close communion with nature. Deep
solemn, tranquil, the gloaming hour brought him no ordinary fullness
of joy and clearness of perception.

"Do you ever feel this stillness?" he asked Wetzel one evening, as
they sat near their flickering fire.

The hunter puffed his pipe, and, like an Indian, seemed to let the
question take deep root.

"I've scalped redskins every hour in the day, 'ceptin' twilight," he
replied.

Joe wondered no longer whether the hunter was too hardened to feel
this beautiful tranquillity. That hour which wooed Wetzel from his
implacable pursuit was indeed a bewitching one.

There was never a time, when Joe lay alone in camp waiting for
Wetzel, that he did not hope the hunter would return with
information of Indians. The man never talked about the savages, and
if he spoke at all it was to tell of some incident of his day's
travel. One evening he came back with a large black fox that he had
killed.

"What beautiful, glossy fur!" said Joe. "I never saw a black fox
before."

"I've been layin' fer this fellar some time," replied Wetzel, as he
began his first evening task, that of combing his hair. "Jest back
here in a clump of cottonwoods there's a holler log full of leaves.
Happenin' to see a blacksnake sneakin' round, I thought mebbe he was
up to somethin', so I investigated, an' found a nest full of young
rabbits. I killed the snake, an' arter that took an interest in 'em.
Every time I passed I'd look in at the bunnies, an' each time I seen
signs that some tarnal varmint had been prowlin' round. One day I
missed a bunny, an' next day another; so on until only one was left,
a peart white and gray little scamp. Somethin' was stealin' of 'em,
an' it made me mad. So yistidday an' to-day I watched, an' finally I
plugged this black thief. Yes, he's got a glossy coat; but he's a
bad un fer all his fine looks. These black foxes are bigger,
stronger an' cunniner than red ones. In every litter you'll find a
dark one, the black sheep of the family. Because he grows so much
faster, an' steals all the food from the others, the mother jest
takes him by the nape of the neck an' chucks him out in the world to
shift fer hisself. An' it's a good thing."

The next day Wetzel told Joe they would go across country to seek
new game fields. Accordingly the two set out, and tramped
industriously until evening. They came upon a country no less
beautiful than the one they had left, though the picturesque cliffs
and rugged hills had given way to a rolling land, the luxuriance of
which was explained by the abundant springs and streams. Forests and
fields were thickly interspersed with bubbling springs, narrow and
deep streams, and here and there a small lake with a running outlet.

Wetzel had said little concerning this region, but that little was
enough to rouse all Joe's eagerness, for it was to the effect that
they were now in a country much traversed by Indians, especially
runners and hunting parties travelling from north to south. The
hunter explained that through the center of this tract ran a buffalo
road; that the buffalo always picked out the straightest, lowest and
dryest path from one range to another, and the Indians followed
these first pathfinders.

Joe and Wetzel made camp on the bank of a stream that night, and as
the lad watched the hunter build a hidden camp-fire, he peered
furtively around half expecting to see dark forms scurrying through
the forest. Wetzel was extremely cautious. He stripped pieces of
bark from fallen trees and built a little hut over his firewood. He
rubbed some powder on a piece of punk, and then with flint and steel
dropped two or three sparks on the inflammable substance. Soon he
had a blaze. He arranged the covering so that not a ray of light
escaped. When the flames had subsided, and the wood had burned down
to a glowing bed of red, he threw aside the bark, and broiled the
strips of venison they had brought with them.

They rested on a bed of boughs which they had cut and arranged
alongside a huge log. For hours Joe lay awake, he could not sleep.
He listened to the breeze rustling the leaves, and shivered at the
thought of the sighing wind he had once heard moan through the
forest. Presently he turned over. The slight noise instantly
awakened Wetzel who lifted his dark face while he listened intently.
He spoke one word: "Sleep," and lay back again on the leaves. Joe
forced himself to be quiet, relaxed all his muscles and soon
slumbered.

On the morrow Wetzel went out to look over the hunting prospects.
About noon he returned. Joe was surprised to find some slight change
in the hunter. He could not tell what it was.

"I seen Injun sign," said Wetzel. "There's no tellin' how soon we
may run agin the sneaks. We can't hunt here. Like as not there's
Hurons and Delawares skulkin' round. I think I'd better take you
back to the village."

"It's all on my account you say that," said Joe.

"Sure," Wetzel replied.

"If you were alone what would you do?"

"I calkilate I'd hunt fer some red-skinned game."

The supreme moment had come. Joe's heart beat hard. He could not
miss this opportunity; he must stay with the hunter. He looked
closely at Wetzel.

"I won't go back to the village," he said.

The hunter stood in his favorite position, leaning on his long
rifle, and made no response.

"I won't go," continued Joe, earnestly. "Let me stay with you. If at
any time I hamper you, or can not keep the pace, then leave me to
shift for myself; but don't make me go until I weaken. Let me stay."

Fire and fearlessness spoke in Joe's every word, and his gray eyes
contracted with their peculiar steely flash. Plain it was that,
while he might fail to keep pace with Wetzel, he did not fear this
dangerous country, and, if it must be, would face it alone.

Wetzel extended his broad hand and gave his comrade's a viselike
squeeze. To allow the lad to remain with him was more than he would
have done for any other person in the world. Far better to keep the
lad under his protection while it was possible, for Joe was taking
that war-trail which had for every hunter, somewhere along its
bloody course, a bullet, a knife, or a tomahawk. Wetzel knew that
Joe was conscious of this inevitable conclusion, for it showed in
his white face, and in the resolve in his big, gray eyes.

So there, in the shade of a towering oak, the Indian-killer admitted
the boy into his friendship, and into a life which would no longer
be play, but eventful, stirring, hazardous.

"Wal, lad, stay," he said, with that rare smile which brightened his
dark face like a ray of stray sunshine. "We'll hang round these
diggins a few days. First off, we'll take in the lay of the land.
You go down stream a ways an' scout round some, while I go up, an'
then circle down. Move slow, now, an' don't miss nothin'."

Joe followed the stream a mile or more. He kept close in the shade
of willows, and never walked across an open glade without first
waiting and watching. He listened to all sounds; but none were
unfamiliar. He closely examined the sand along the stream, and the
moss and leaves under the trees. When he had been separated from
Wetzel several hours, and concluded he would slowly return to camp,
he ran across a well-beaten path winding through the forest. This
was, perhaps, one of the bridle-trails Wetzel had referred to. He
bent over the worn grass with keen scrutiny.

CRACK!

The loud report of a heavily charged rifle rang out. Joe felt the
zip of a bullet as it fanned his cheek. With an agile leap he gained
the shelter of a tree, from behind which he peeped to see who had
shot at him. He was just in time to detect the dark form of an
Indian dart behind the foliage an hundred yards down the path. Joe
expected to see other Indians, and to hear more shots, but he was
mistaken. Evidently the savage was alone, for the tree Joe had taken
refuge behind was scarcely large enough to screen his body, which
disadvantage the other Indians would have been quick to note.

Joe closely watched the place where his assailant had disappeared,
and presently saw a dark hand, then a naked elbow, and finally the
ramrod of a rifle. The savage was reloading. Soon a rifle-barrel
protruded from behind the tree. With his heart beating like a
trip-hammer, and the skin tightening on his face, Joe screened his
body as best he might. The tree was small, but it served as a
partial protection. Rapidly he revolved in his mind plans to outwit
the enemy. The Indian was behind a large oak with a low limb over
which he could fire without exposing his own person to danger.

"Bang!" The Indian's rifle bellowed; the bullet crumbled the bark
close to Joe's face. The lad yelled loudly, staggered to his knees,
and then fell into the path, where he lay quiet.

The redskin gave an exultant shout. Seeing that the fallen figure
remained quite motionless he stepped forward, drawing his knife as
he came. He was a young brave, quick and eager in his movements, and
came nimbly up the path to gain his coveted trophy, the paleface's
scalp.

Suddenly Joe sat up, raised his rifle quickly as thought, and fired
point-blank at the Indian.

But he missed.

The redskin stopped aghast when he saw the lad thus seemingly come
back to life. Then, realizing that Joe's aim had been futile, he
bounded forward, brandishing his knife, and uttering infuriated
yells.

Joe rose to his feet with rifle swung high above his head.

When the savage was within twenty feet, so near that his dark face,
swollen with fierce passion, could be plainly discerned, a peculiar
whistling noise sounded over Joe's shoulder. It was accompanied,
rather than followed, by a clear, ringing rifleshot.

The Indian stopped as if he had encountered a heavy shock from a
tree or stone barring his way. Clutching at his breast, he uttered a
weird cry, and sank slowly on the grass.

Joe ran forward to bend over the prostrate figure. The Indian, a
slender, handsome young brave, had been shot through the breast. He
held his hand tightly over the wound, while bright red blood
trickled between his fingers, flowed down his side, and stained the
grass.

The brave looked steadily up at Joe. Shot as he was, dying as he
knew himself to be, there was no yielding in the dark eye—only an
unquenchable hatred. Then the eyes glazed; the fingers ceased
twitching.

Joe was bending over a dead Indian.

It flashed into his mind, of course, that Wetzel had come up in time
to save his life, but he did not dwell on the thought; he shrank
from this violent death of a human being. But it was from the aspect
of the dead, not from remorse for the deed. His heart beat fast, his
fingers trembled, yet he felt only a strange coldness in all his
being. The savage had tried to kill him, perhaps, even now, had it
not been for the hunter's unerring aim, would have been gloating
over a bloody scalp.

Joe felt, rather than heard, the approach of some one, and he turned
to see Wetzel coming down the path.

"He's a lone Shawnee runner," said the hunter, gazing down at the
dead Indian. "He was tryin' to win his eagle plumes. I seen you both
from the hillside."

"You did!" exclaimed Joe. Then he laughed. "It was lucky for me. I
tried the dodge you taught me, but in my eagerness I missed."

"Wal, you hadn't no call fer hurry. You worked the trick clever, but
you missed him when there was plenty of time. I had to shoot over
your shoulder, or I'd hev plugged him sooner."

"Where were you?" asked Joe.

"Up there by that bit of sumach!" and Wetzel pointed to an open
ridge on a hillside not less than one hundred and fifty yards
distant.