Zane Grey (20 page)

It was yet daylight, which seemed a strange time to creep into this
little nook; but, Joe thought, it was not to sleep, only to wait,
wait, wait for the long hours to pass. He was amazed once more,
because, by the time twilight had given place to darkness, Wetzel
was asleep. The lad said then to himself that he would never again
be surprised at the hunter. He assumed once and for all that Wetzel
was capable of anything. Yet how could he lose himself in slumber?
Feeling, as he must, over the capture of the girls; eager to draw a
bead on the black-hearted renegade; hating Indians with all his soul
and strength, and lying there but a few hours before what he knew
would be a bloody battle, Wetzel calmly went to sleep. Knowing the
hunter to be as bloodthirsty as a tiger, Joe had expected he would
rush to a combat with his foes; but, no, this man, with his keen
sagacity, knew when to creep upon his enemy; he bided that time,
and, while he waited, slept.

Joe could not close his eyes in slumber. Through the interstices in
the branches he saw the stars come out one by one, the darkness
deepened, and the dim outline of tall trees over the dark hill came
out sharply. The moments dragged, each one an hour. He heard a
whippoorwill call, lonely and dismal; then an owl hoot monotonously.
A stealthy footed animal ran along the log, sniffed at the boughs,
and then scurried away over the dry leaves. By and by the dead
silence of night fell over all. Still Joe lay there wide awake,
listening—his heart on fire. He was about to rescue Nell; to kill
that hawk-nosed renegade; to fight Silvertip to the death.

The hours passed, but not Joe's passionate eagerness. When at last
he saw the crescent moon gleam silver-white over the black hilltop
he knew the time was nigh, and over him ran thrill on thrill.

When the waning moon rose high enough to shed a pale light over
forest and field, two dark figures, moving silently from the shade
of the trees, crossed the moonlit patches of ground, out to the open
plain where low on the grass hung silver mists.

A timber wolf, gray and gaunt, came loping along with lowered nose.
A new scent brought the animal to a standstill. His nose went up,
his fiery eyes scanned the plain. Two men had invaded his domain,
and, with a short, dismal bark, he dashed away.

Like spectres, gliding swiftly with noiseless tread, the two
vanished. The long grass had swallowed them.

Deserted once again seemed the plain. It became unutterably lonely.
No stir, no sound, no life; nothing but a wide expanse bathed in
sad, gray light.

The moon shone steadily; the silver radiance mellowed; the stars
paled before this brighter glory.

Slowly the night hours wore away.

On the other side of the plain, near where the adjoining forest
loomed darkling, the tall grass parted to disclose a black form. Was
it only a deceiving shade cast by a leafy branch—only a shadow?
Slowly it sank, and was lost. Once more the gray, unwavering line of
silver-crested grass tufts was unbroken.

Only the night breeze, wandering caressingly over the grass, might
have told of two dark forms gliding, gliding, gliding so softly, so
surely, so surely toward the forest. Only the moon and the pale
stars had eyes to see these creeping figures.

Like avengers they moved, on a mission to slay and to save!

On over the dark line where plain merged into forest they crawled.
No whispering, no hesitating; but a silent, slow, certain progress
showed their purpose. In single file they slipped over the moss, the
leader clearing the path. Inch by inch they advanced. Tedious was
this slow movement, difficult and painful this journey which must
end in lightninglike speed. They rustled no leaf, nor snapped a
twig, nor shook a fern, but passed onward slowly, like the approach
of Death. The seconds passed as minutes; minutes as hours; an entire
hour was spent in advancing twenty feet!

At last the top of the knoll was reached. The Avenger placed his
hand on his follower's shoulder. The strong pressure was meant to
remind, to warn, to reassure. Then, like a huge snake, the first
glided away.

He who was left behind raised his head to look into the open place
called the glade of the Beautiful Spring. An oval space lay before
him, exceedingly lovely in the moonlight; a spring, as if a pearl,
gemmed the center. An Indian guard stood statuelike against a stone.
Other savages lay in a row, their polished heads shining. One
slumbering form was bedecked with feathers and frills. Near him lay
an Indian blanket, from the border of which peered two faces,
gleaming white and sad in the pitying moonlight.

The watcher quivered at the sight of those pale faces; but he must
wait while long moments passed. He must wait for the Avenger to
creep up, silently kill the guard, and release the prisoners without
awakening the savages. If that plan failed, he was to rush into the
glade, and in the excitement make off with one of the captives.

He lay there waiting, listening, wrought up to the intensest pitch
of fierce passion. Every nerve was alert, every tendon strung, and
every muscle strained ready for the leap.

Only the faint rustling of leaves, the low swish of swaying
branches, the soft murmur of falling water, and over all the sigh of
the night wind, proved to him that this picture was not an evil
dream. His gaze sought the quiet figures, lingered hopefully on the
captives, menacingly on the sleeping savages, and glowered over the
gaudily arrayed form. His glance sought the upright guard, as he
stood a dark blot against the gray stone. He saw the Indian's plume,
a single feather waving silver-white. Then it became riveted on the
bubbling, refulgent spring. The pool was round, perhaps five feet
across, and shone like a burnished shield. It mirrored the moon, the
twinkling stars, the spectre trees.

An unaccountable horror suddenly swept over the watching man. His
hair stood straight up; a sensation as of cold stole chillingly over
him. Whether it was the climax of this long night's excitement, or
anticipation of the bloody struggle soon to come, he knew not. Did
this boiling spring, shimmering in the sliver moon-rays, hold in its
murky depths a secret? Did these lonesome, shadowing trees, with
their sad drooping branches, harbor a mystery? If a future tragedy
was to be enacted here in this quiet glade, could the murmuring
water or leaves whisper its portent? No; they were only silent, only
unintelligible with nature's mystery.

The waiting man cursed himself for a craven coward; he fought back
the benumbing sense; he steeled his heart. Was this his vaunted
willingness to share the Avenger's danger? His strong spirit rose up
in arms; once more he was brave and fierce.

He fastened a piercing gaze on the plumed guard. The Indian's
lounging posture against the rock was the same as it had been
before, yet now it seemed to have a kind of strained attention. The
savage's head was poised, like that of a listening deer. The wary
Indian scented danger.

A faint moan breathed low above the sound of gently splashing water
somewhere beyond the glade.

"Woo-o-oo."

The guard's figure stiffened, and became rigidly erect; his blanket
slowly slid to his feet.

"Ah-oo-o," sighed the soft breeze in the tree tops.

Louder then, with a deep wail, a moan arose out of the dark gray
shadows, swelled thrilling on the still air, and died away
mournfully.

"Um-m-mmwoo-o-o-o!"

The sentinel's form melted into the shade. He was gone like a
phantom.

Another Indian rose quickly, and glanced furtively around the glade.
He bent over a comrade and shook him. Instantly the second Indian
was on his feet. Scarcely had he gained a standing posture when an
object, bounding like a dark ball, shot out of the thicket and
hurled both warriors to the earth. A moonbeam glinted upon something
bright. It flashed again on a swift, sweeping circle. A short,
choking yell aroused the other savages. Up they sprang, alarmed,
confused.

The shadow-form darted among them. It moved with inconceivable
rapidity; it became a monster. Terrible was the convulsive conflict.
Dull blows, the click of steel, angry shouts, agonized yells, and
thrashing, wrestling sounds mingled together and half drowned by an
awful roar like that of a mad bull. The strife ceased as suddenly as
it had begun. Warriors lay still on the grass; others writhed in
agony. For an instant a fleeting shadow crossed the open lane
leading out of the glade; then it vanished.

Three savages had sprung toward their rifles. A blinding flash, a
loud report burst from the thicket overhead. The foremost savage
sank lifelessly. The others were intercepted by a giant shadow with
brandished rifle. The watcher on the knoll had entered the glade. He
stood before the stacked rifles and swung his heavy gun. Crash! An
Indian went down before that sweep, but rose again. The savages
backed away from this threatening figure, and circled around it.

The noise of the other conflict ceased. More savages joined the
three who glided to and fro before their desperate foe. They closed
in upon him, only to be beaten back. One savage threw a glittering
knife, another hurled a stone, a third flung his tomahawk, which
struck fire from the swinging rifle.

He held them at bay. While they had no firearms he was master of the
situation. With every sweep of his arms he brought the long rifle
down and knocked a flint from the firelock of an enemy's weapon.
Soon the Indians' guns were useless. Slowly then he began to edge
away from the stone, toward the opening where he had seen the
fleeting form vanish.

His intention was to make a dash for life, for he had heard a noise
behind the rock, and remembered the guard. He saw the savages glance
behind him, and anticipated danger from that direction, but he must
not turn. A second there might be fatal. He backed defiantly along
the rock until he gained its outer edge. But too late! The Indians
glided before him, now behind him; he was surrounded. He turned
around and around, with the ever-circling rifle whirling in the
faces of the baffled foe.

Once opposite the lane leading from the glade he changed his
tactics, and plunged with fierce impetuosity into the midst of the
painted throng. Then began a fearful conflict. The Indians fell
before the sweep of his powerful arms; but grappled with him from
the ground. He literally plowed his way through the struggling mass,
warding off an hundred vicious blows. Savage after savage he flung
off, until at last he had a clear path before him. Freedom lay
beyond that shiny path. Into it he bounded.

As he left the glade the plumed guard stepped from behind a tree
near the entrance of the path, and cast his tomahawk.

A white, glittering flash, it flew after the fleeing runner; its aim
was true.

Suddenly the moonlight path darkened in the runner's sight; he saw a
million flashing stars; a terrible pain assailed him; he sank
slowly, slowly down; then all was darkness.

Joe awoke as from a fearsome nightmare. Returning consciousness
brought a vague idea that he had been dreaming of clashing weapons,
of yelling savages, of a conflict in which he had been clutched by
sinewy fingers. An acute pain pulsed through his temples; a bloody
mist glazed his eyes; a sore pressure cramped his arms and legs.
Surely he dreamed this distress, as well as the fight. The red film
cleared from his eyes. His wandering gaze showed the stern reality.

The bright sun, making the dewdrops glisten on the leaves, lighted
up a tragedy. Near him lay an Indian whose vacant, sightless eyes
were fixed in death. Beyond lay four more savages, the peculiar,
inert position of whose limbs, the formlessness, as it were, as if
they had been thrown from a great height and never moved again,
attested that here, too, life had been extinguished. Joe took in
only one detail—the cloven skull of the nearest—when he turned
away sickened. He remembered it all now. The advance, the rush, the
fight—all returned. He saw again Wetzel's shadowy form darting like
a demon into the whirl of conflict; he heard again that hoarse,
booming roar with which the Avenger accompanied his blows. Joe's
gaze swept the glade, but found no trace of the hunter.

He saw Silvertip and another Indian bathing a wound on Girty's head.
The renegade groaned and writhed in pain. Near him lay Kate, with
white face and closed eyes. She was unconscious, or dead. Jim sat
crouched under a tree to which he was tied.

"Joe, are you badly hurt?" asked the latter, in deep solicitude.

"No, I guess not; I don't know," answered Joe. "Is poor Kate dead?"

"No, she has fainted."

"Where's Nell?"

"Gone," replied Jim, lowering his voice, and glancing at the
Indians. They were too busy trying to bandage Girty's head to pay
any attention to their prisoners. "That whirlwind was Wetzel, wasn't
it?"

"Yes; how'd you know?"

"I was awake last night. I had an oppressive feeling, perhaps a
presentiment. Anyway, I couldn't sleep. I heard that wind blow
through the forest, and thought my blood would freeze. The moan is
the same as the night wind, the same soft sigh, only louder and
somehow pregnant with superhuman power. To speak of it in broad
daylight one seems superstitious, but to hear it in the darkness of
this lonely forest, it is fearful! I hope I am not a coward; I
certainly know I was deathly frightened. No wonder I was scared!
Look at these dead Indians, all killed in a moment. I heard the
moan; I saw Silvertip disappear, and the other two savages rise.
Then something huge dropped from the rock; a bright object seemed to
circle round the savages; they uttered one short yell, and sank to
rise no more. Somehow at once I suspected that this shadowy form,
with its lightninglike movements, its glittering hatchet, was
Wetzel. When he plunged into the midst of the other savages I
distinctly recognized him, and saw that he had a bundle, possibly
his coat, wrapped round his left arm, and his right hand held the
glittering tomahawk. I saw him strike that big Indian there, the one
lying with split skull. His wonderful daring and quickness seemed to
make the savages turn at random. He broke through the circle, swung
Nell under his arm, slashed at my bonds as he passed by, and then
was gone as he had come. Not until after you were struck, and
Silvertip came up to me, was I aware my bonds were cut. Wetzel's
hatchet had severed them; it even cut my side, which was bleeding. I
was free to help, to fight, and I did not know it. Fool that I am!"