Zane Grey (19 page)

Joe wondered which of the two bullets, the death-seeking one fired
by the savage, or the life-saving missile from Wetzel's fatal
weapon, had passed nearest to him.

"Come," said the hunter, after he had scalped the Indian.

"What's to be done with this savage?" inquired Joe, as Wetzel
started up the path.

"Let him lay."

They returned to camp without further incident. While the hunter
busied himself reinforcing their temporary shelter—for the clouds
looked threatening—Joe cut up some buffalo meat, and then went down
to the brook for a gourd of water. He came hurriedly back to where
Wetzel was working, and spoke in a voice which he vainly endeavors
to hold steady:

"Come quickly. I have seen something which may mean a good deal."

He led the way down to the brookside.

"Look!" Joe said, pointing at the water.

Here the steam was about two feet deep, perhaps twenty wide, and had
just a noticeable current. Shortly before, it had been as clear as a
bright summer sky; it was now tinged with yellow clouds that slowly
floated downstream, each one enlarging and becoming fainter as the
clear water permeated and stained. Grains of sand glided along with
the current, little pieces of bark floated on the surface, and
minnows darted to and fro nibbling at these drifting particles.

"Deer wouldn't roil the water like that. What does it mean?" asked
Joe.

"Injuns, an' not fer away."

Wetzel returned to the shelter and tore it down. Then he bent the
branch of a beech tree low over the place. He pulled down another
branch over the remains of the camp-fire. These precautions made the
spot less striking. Wetzel knew that an Indian scout never glances
casually; his roving eyes survey the forest, perhaps quickly, but
thoroughly. An unnatural position of bush or log always leads to an
examination.

This done, the hunter grasped Joe's hand and led him up the knoll.
Making his way behind a well-screened tree, which had been uprooted,
he selected a position where, hidden themselves, they could see the
creek.

Hardly had Wetzel, admonished Joe to lie perfectly still, when from
a short distance up the stream came the sound of splashing water;
but nothing could be seen above the open glade, as in that direction
willows lined the creek in dense thickets. The noise grew more
audible.

Suddenly Joe felt a muscular contraction pass over the powerful
frame lying close beside him. It was a convulsive thrill such as
passes through a tiger when he is about to spring upon his quarry.
So subtle and strong was its meaning, so clearly did it convey to
the lad what was coming, that he felt it himself; save that in his
case it was a cold, chill shudder.

Breathless suspense followed. Then into the open space along the
creek glided a tall Indian warrior. He was knee-deep in the water,
where he waded with low, cautious steps. His garish, befrilled
costume seemed familiar to Joe. He carried a rifle at a low trail,
and passed slowly ahead with evident distrust. The lad believed he
recognized that head, with its tangled black hair, and when he saw
the swarthy, villainous countenance turned full toward him, he
exclaimed:

"Girty! by—"

Wetzel's powerful arm forced him so hard against the log that he
could not complete the exclamation; but he could still see. Girty
had not heard that stifled cry, for he continued his slow wading,
and presently his tall, gaudily decorated form passed out of sight.

Another savage appeared in the open space, and then another. Close
between them walked a white man, with hands bound behind him. The
prisoner and guards disappeared down stream among the willows.

The splashing continued—grew even louder than before. A warrior
came into view, then another, and another. They walked close
together. Two more followed. They were wading by the side of a raft
made of several logs, upon which were two prostrate figures that
closely resembled human beings.

Joe was so intent upon the lithe forms of the Indians that he barely
got a glimpse of their floating prize, whatever it might have been.
Bringing up the rear was an athletic warrior, whose broad shoulders,
sinewy arms, and shaved, polished head Joe remembered well. It was
the Shawnee chief, Silvertip.

When he, too, passed out of sight in the curve of willows, Joe found
himself trembling. He turned eagerly to Wetzel; but instantly
recoiled.

Terrible, indeed, had been the hunter's transformation. All calmness
of facial expression was gone; he was now stern, somber. An intense
emotion was visible in his white face; his eyes seemed reduced to
two dark shining points, and they emitted so fierce, so piercing a
flash, so deadly a light, that Joe could not bear their glittering
gaze.

"Three white captives, two of 'em women," uttered the hunter, as if
weighing in his mind the importance of this fact.

"Were those women on the raft?" questioned Joe, and as Wetzel only
nodded, he continued, "A white man and two women, six warriors,
Silvertip, and that renegade, Jim Girty!"

Wetzel deigned not to answer Joe's passionate outburst, but
maintained silence and his rigid posture. Joe glanced once more at
the stern face.

"Considering we'd go after Girty and his redskins if they were
alone, we're pretty likely to go quicker now that they've got white
women prisoners, eh?" and Joe laughed fiercely between his teeth.

The lad's heart expanded, while along every nerve tingled an
exquisite thrill of excitement. He had yearned for wild, border
life. Here he was in it, with the hunter whose name alone was to the
savages a symbol for all that was terrible.

Wetzel evidently decided quickly on what was to be done, for in few
words he directed Joe to cut up so much of the buffalo meat as they
could stow in their pockets. Then, bidding the lad to follow, he
turned into the woods, walking rapidly, and stopping now and then
for a brief instant. Soon they emerged from the forest into more
open country. They faced a wide plain skirted on the right by a
long, winding strip of bright green willows which marked the course
of the stream. On the edge of this plain Wetzel broke into a run. He
kept this pace for a distance of an hundred yards, then stopped to
listen intently as he glanced sharply on all sides, after which he
was off again.

Half way across this plain Joe's wind began to fail, and his
breathing became labored; but he kept close to the hunter's heels.
Once he looked back to see a great wide expanse of waving grass.
They had covered perhaps four miles at a rapid pace, and were
nearing the other side of the plain. The lad felt as if his head was
about to burst; a sharp pain seized upon his side; a blood-red film
obscured his sight. He kept doggedly on, and when utterly exhausted
fell to the ground.

When, a few minutes later, having recovered his breath, he got up,
they had crossed the plain and were in a grove of beeches. Directly
in front of him ran a swift stream, which was divided at the rocky
head of what appeared to be a wooded island. There was only a slight
ripple and fall of the water, and, after a second glance, it was
evident that the point of land was not an island, but a portion of
the mainland which divided the stream. The branches took almost
opposite courses.

Joe wondered if they had headed off the Indians. Certainly they had
run fast enough. He was wet with perspiration. He glanced at Wetzel,
who was standing near. The man's broad breast rose and fell a little
faster; that was the only evidence of exertion. The lad had a
painful feeling that he could never keep pace with the hunter, if
this five-mile run was a sample of the speed he would be forced to
maintain.

"They've got ahead of us, but which crick did they take?" queried
Wetzel, as though debating the question with himself.

"How do you know they've passed?"

"We circled," answered Wetzel, as he shook his head and pointed into
the bushes. Joe stepped over and looked into the thicket. He found a
quantity of dead leaves, sticks, and litter thrown aside, exposing
to light a long, hollowed place on the ground. It was what would be
seen after rolling over a log that had lain for a long time. Little
furrows in the ground, holes, mounds, and curious winding passages
showed where grubs and crickets had made their homes. The frightened
insects were now running round wildly.

"What was here? A log?"

"A twenty-foot canoe was hid under thet stuff. The Injuns has taken
one of these streams."

"How can we tell which one?"

"Mebbe we can't; but we'll try. Grab up a few of them bugs, go below
thet rocky point, an' crawl close to the bank so you can jest peep
over. Be keerful not to show the tip of your head, an' don't knock
nothin' off'en the bank into the water. Watch fer trout. Look
everywheres, an' drop in a bug now and then. I'll do the same fer
the other stream. Then we'll come back here an' talk over what the
fish has to say about the Injuns."

Joe walked down stream a few paces, and, dropping on his knees,
crawled carefully to the edge of the bank. He slightly parted the
grass so he could peep through, and found himself directly over a
pool with a narrow shoal running out from the opposite bank. The
water was so clear he could see the pebbly bottom in all parts,
except a dark hole near a bend in the shore close by. He did not see
a living thing in the water, not a crawfish, turtle, nor even a
frog. He peered round closely, then flipped in one of the bugs he
had brought along. A shiny yellow fish flared up from the depths of
the deep hole and disappeared with the cricket; but it was a bass or
a pike, not a trout. Wetzel had said there were a few trout living
near the cool springs of these streams. The lad tried again to coax
one to the surface. This time the more fortunate cricket swam and
hopped across the stream to safety.

When Joe's eyes were thoroughly accustomed to the clear water, with
its deceiving lights and shades, he saw a fish lying snug under the
side of a stone. The lad thought he recognized the snub-nose, the
hooked, wolfish jaw, but he could not get sufficient of a view to
classify him. He crawled to a more advantageous position farther
down stream, and then he peered again through the woods. Yes, sure
enough, he had espied a trout. He well knew those spotted silver
sides, that broad, square tail. Such a monster! In his admiration
for the fellow, and his wish for a hook and line to try conclusions
with him, Joe momentarily forgot his object. Remembering, he tossed
out a big, fat cricket, which alighted on the water just above the
fish. The trout never moved, nor even blinked. The lad tried again,
with no better success. The fish would not rise. Thereupon Joe
returned to the point where he had left Wetzel.

"I couldn't see nothin' over there," said the hunter, who was
waiting. "Did you see any?'

"One, and a big fellow."

"Did he see you?"

"No."

"Did he rise to a bug?"

"No, he didn't; but then maybe he wasn't hungry" answered Joe, who
could not understand what Wetzel was driving at.

"Tell me exactly what he did."

"That's just the trouble; he didn't do anything," replied Joe,
thoughtfully. "He just lay low, stifflike, under a stone. He never
batted an eye. But his side-fins quivered like an aspen leaf."

"Them side-fins tell us the story. Girty, an' his redskins hev took
this branch," said Wetzel, positively. "The other leads to the Huron
towns. Girty's got a place near the Delaware camp somewheres. I've
tried to find it a good many times. He's took more'n one white lass
there, an' nobody ever seen her agin."

"Fiend! To think of a white woman, maybe a girl like Nell Wells, at
the mercy of those red devils!"

"Young fellar, don't go wrong. I'll allow Injuns is bad enough; but
I never hearn tell of one abusin' a white woman, as mayhap you mean.
Injuns marry white women sometimes; kill an' scalp 'em often, but
that's all. It's men of our own color, renegades like this Girty, as
do worse'n murder."

Here was the amazing circumstance of Lewis Wetzel, the acknowledged
unsatiable foe of all redmen, speaking a good word for his enemies.
Joe was so astonished he did not attempt to answer.

"Here's where they got in the canoe. One more look, an' then we're
off," said Wetzel. He strode up and down the sandy beach; examined
the willows, and scrutinized the sand. Suddenly he bent over and
picked up an object from the water. His sharp eyes had caught the
glint of something white, which, upon being examined, proved to be a
small ivory or bone buckle with a piece broken out. He showed it to
Joe.

"By heavens! Wetzel, that's a buckle off Nell Well's shoe. I've seen
it too many times to mistake it."

"I was afeared Girty hed your friends, the sisters, an' mebbe your
brother, too. Jack Zane said the renegade was hangin' round the
village, an' that couldn't be fer no good."

"Come on. Let's kill the fiend!" cried Joe, white to the lips.

"I calkilate they're about a mile down stream, makin' camp fer the
night. I know the place. There's a fine spring, an, look! D'ye see
them crows flyin' round thet big oak with the bleached top? Hear
them cawin'? You might think they was chasin' a hawk, or king-birds
were arter 'em, but thet fuss they're makin' is because they see
Injuns."

"Well?" asked Joe, impatiently.

"It'll be moonlight a while arter midnight. We'll lay low an' wait,
an' then—"

The sharp click of his teeth, like the snap of a steel trap,
completed the sentence. Joe said no more, but followed the hunter
into the woods. Stopping near a fallen tree, Wetzel raked up a
bundle of leaves and spread them on the ground. Then he cut a few
spreading branches from a beech, and leaned them against a log.
Bidding the lad crawl in before he took one last look around and
then made his way under the shelter.