Zane Grey (31 page)

Edwards left the group, and, stepping upon the platform, faced the
Christians.

At the same moment Half King stalked majestically from before his
party. He carried no weapon save a black, knotted war-club. A
surging forward of the crowd of savages behind him showed the
intense interest which his action had aroused. He walked forward
until he stood half way between the platform and the converts. He
ran his evil glance slowly over the Christians, and then rested it
upon Edwards.

"Half King's orders are to be obeyed. Let the paleface keep his
mouth closed," he cried in the Indian tongue. The imperious command
came as a thunderbolt from a clear sky. The missionaries behind
Edwards stood bewildered, awaiting the outcome.

But Edwards, without a moment's hesitation, calmly lifted his hand
and spoke.

"Beloved Christians, we meet to-day as we have met before, as we
hope to meet in—"

"Spang!"

The whistling of a bullet over the heads of the Christians
accompanied the loud report of a rifle. All presently plainly heard
the leaden missile strike. Edwards wheeled, clutching his side,
breathed hard, and then fell heavily without uttering a cry. He had
been shot by an Indian concealed in the thicket.

For a moment no one moved, nor spoke. The missionaries were stricken
with horror; the converts seemed turned to stone, and the hostile
throng waited silently, as they had for hours.

"He's shot! He's shot! Oh, I feared this!" cried Heckewelder,
running forward. The missionaries followed him. Edwards was lying on
his back, with a bloody hand pressed to his side.

"Dave, Dave, how is it with you?" asked Heckewelder, in a voice low
with fear.

"Not bad. It's too far out to be bad, but it knocked me over,"
answered Edwards, weakly. "Give me—water."

They carried him from the platform, and laid him on the grass under
a tree.

Young pressed Edwards' hand; he murmured something that sounded like
a prayer, and then walked straight upon the platform, as he raised
his face, which was sublime with a white light.

"Paleface! Back!" roared Half King, as he waved his war-club.

"You Indian dog! Be silent!"

Young's clear voice rolled out on the quiet air so imperiously, so
powerful in its wonderful scorn and passion, that the hostile
savages were overcome by awe, and the Christians thrilled anew with
reverential love.

Young spoke again in a voice which had lost its passion, and was
singularly sweet in its richness.

"Beloved Christians, if it is God's will that we must die to prove
our faith, then as we have taught you how to live, so we can show
you how to die—"

"Spang!"

Again a whistling sound came with the bellow of an overcharged
rifle; again the sickening thud of a bullet striking flesh.

Young fell backwards from the platform.

The missionaries laid him beside Edwards, and then stood in
shuddering silence. A smile shone on Young's pale face; a stream of
dark blood welled from his breast. His lips moved; he whispered:

"I ask no more—God's will."

Jim looked down once at his brother missionaries; then with blanched
face, but resolute and stern, he marched toward the platform.

Heckewelder ran after him, and dragged him back.

"No! no! no! My God! Would you be killed? Oh! I tried to prevent
this!" cried Heckewelder, wringing his hands.

One long, fierce, exultant yell pealed throughout the grove. It came
from those silent breasts in which was pent up hatred; it greeted
this action which proclaimed victory over the missionaries.

All eyes turned on Half King. With measured stride he paced to and
fro before the Christian Indians.

Neither cowering nor shrinking marked their manner; to a man, to a
child, they rose with proud mien, heads erect and eyes flashing.
This mighty chief with his blood-thirsty crew could burn the Village
of Peace, could annihilate the Christians, but he could never change
their hope and trust in God.

"Blinded fools!" cried Half King. "The Huron is wise; he tells no
lies. Many moons ago he told the Christians they were sitting half
way between two angry gods, who stood with mouths open wide and
looking ferociously at each other. If they did not move back out of
the road they would be ground to powder by the teeth of one or the
other, or both. Half King urged them to leave the peaceful village,
to forget the paleface God; to take their horses, and flocks, and
return to their homes. The Christians scorned the Huron King's
counsel. The sun has set for the Village of Peace. The time has
come. Pipe and the Huron are powerful. They will not listen to the
paleface God. They will burn the Village of Peace. Death to the
Christians!"

Half King threw the black war-club with a passionate energy on the
grass before the Indians.

They heard this decree of death with unflinching front. Even the
children were quiet. Not a face paled, not an eye was lowered.

Half King cast their doom in their teeth. The Christians eyed him
with unspoken scorn.

"My God! My God! It is worse than I thought!" moaned Heckewelder.
"Utter ruin! Murder! Murder!"

In the momentary silence which followed his outburst, a tiny cloud
of blue-white smoke came from the ferns overhanging a cliff.

Crack!

All heard the shot of a rifle; all noticed the difference between
its clear, ringing intonation and the loud reports of the other two.
All distinctly heard the zip of a bullet as it whistled over their
heads.

All? No, not all. One did not hear that speeding bullet. He who was
the central figure in this tragic scene, he who had doomed the
Christians might have seen that tiny puff of smoke which heralded
his own doom, but before the ringing report could reach his ears a
small blue hole appeared, as if by magic, over his left eye, and
pulse, and sense, and life had fled forever.

Half King, great, cruel chieftain, stood still for an instant as if
he had been an image of stone; his haughty head lost its erect
poise, the fierceness seemed to fade from his dark face, his proud
plume waved gracefully as he swayed to and fro, and then fell before
the Christians, inert and lifeless.

No one moved; it was as if no one breathed. The superstitious
savages awaited fearfully another rifle shot; another lightning
stroke, another visitation from the paleface's God.

But Jim Girty, with a cunning born of his terrible fear, had
recognized the ring of that rifle. He had felt the zip of a bullet
which could just as readily have found his brain as Half King's. He
had stood there as fair a mark as the cruel Huron, yet the Avenger
had not chosen him. Was he reserved for a different fate? Was not
such a death too merciful for the frontier Deathshead? He yelled in
his craven fear:

"Le vent de la Mort!"

The well known, dreaded appellation aroused the savages from a
fearful stupor into a fierce manifestation of hatred. A tremendous
yell rent the air. Instantly the scene changed.

In the confusion the missionaries carried Young and Edwards into Mr.
Wells' cabin. Nell's calm, white face showed that she had expected
some such catastrophe as this, but she of all was the least excited.
Heckewelder left them at the cabin and hurried away to consult
Captain Williamson. While Zeisberger, who was skilled in surgery,
attended to the wounded men, Jim barred the heavy door, shut the
rude, swinging windows, and made the cabin temporarily a refuge from
prowling savages.

Outside the clamor increased. Shrill yells rent the air, long,
rolling war-cries sounded above all the din. The measured stamp of
moccasined feet, the rush of Indians past the cabin, the dull thud
of hatchets struck hard into the trees—all attested to the
excitement of the savages, and the imminence of terrible danger.

In the front room of Mr. Wells' cabin Edwards lay on a bed, his face
turned to the wall, and his side exposed. There was a bloody hole in
his white skin. Zeisberger was probing for the bullet. He had no
instruments, save those of his own manufacture, and they were
darning needles with bent points, and a long knife-blade ground
thin.

"There, I have it," said Zeisberger. "Hold still, Dave. There!" As
Edwards moaned Zeisberger drew forth the bloody bullet. "Jim, wash
and dress this wound. It isn't bad. Dave will be all right in a
couple of days. Now I'll look at George."

Zeisberger hurried into the other room. Young lay with quiet face
and closed eyes, breathing faintly. Zeisberger opened the wounded
man's shirt and exposed the wound, which was on the right side,
rather high up. Nell, who had followed Zeisberger that she might be
of some assistance if needed, saw him look at the wound and then
turn a pale face away for a second. That hurried, shuddering
movement of the sober, practical missionary was most significant.
Then he bent over Young and inserted on of the probes into the
wound. He pushed the steel an inch, two, three, four inches into
Young's breast, but the latter neither moved nor moaned. Zeisberger
shook his head, and finally removed the instrument. He raised the
sufferer's shoulder to find the bed saturated with blood. The bullet
wound extended completely through the missionary's body, and was
bleeding from the back. Zeisberger folded strips of linsey cloth
into small pads and bound them tightly over both apertures of the
wound.

"How is he?" asked Jim, when the amateur surgeon returned to the
other room, and proceeded to wash the blood from his hands.

Zeisberger shook his head gloomily.

"How is George?" whispered Edwards, who had heard Jim's question.

"Shot through the right lung. Human skill can not aid him! Only God
can save."

"Didn't I hear a third shot?" whispered Dave, gazing round with sad,
questioning eyes. "Heckewelder?"

"Is safe. He has gone to see Williamson. You did hear a third shot.
Half King fell dead with a bullet over his left eye. He had just
folded his arms in a grand pose after his death decree to the
Christians."

"A judgment of God!"

"It does seem so, but it came in the form of leaden death from
Wetzel's unerring rifle. Do you hear all that yelling? Half King's
death has set the Indians wild."

There was a gentle knock at the door, and then the word, "Open," in
Heckewelder's voice.

Jim unbarred the door. Heckewelder came in carrying over his
shoulder what apparently was a sack of meal. He was accompanied by
young Christy. Heckewelder put the bag down, opened it, and lifted
out a little Indian boy. The child gazed round with fearful eyes.

"Save Benny! Save Benny!" he cried, running to Nell, and she clasped
him closely in her arms.

Heckewelder's face was like marble as he asked concerning Edwards'
condition.

"I'm not badly off," said the missionary with a smile.

"How's George?" whispered Heckewelder.

No one answered him. Zeisberger raised his hands. All followed
Heckewelder into the other room, where Young lay in the same
position as when first brought in. Heckewelder stood gazing down
into the wan face with its terribly significant smile.

"I brought him out here. I persuaded him to come!" whispered
Heckewelder. "Oh, Almighty God!" he cried. His voice broke, and his
prayer ended with the mute eloquence of clasped hands and uplifted,
appealing face.

"Come out," said Zeisberger, leading him into the larger room. The
others followed, and Jim closed the door.

"What's to be done?" said Zeisberger, with his practical common
sense. "What did Williamson say? Tell us what you learned?"

"Wait—directly," answered Heckewelder, sitting down and covering
his face with his hands. There was a long silence. At length he
raised his white face and spoke calmly:

"Gentlemen, the Village of Peace is doomed. I entreated Captain
Williamson to help us, but he refused. Said he dared not interfere.
I prayed that he would speak at least a word to Girty, but he denied
my request."

"Where are the converts?"

"Imprisoned in the church, every one of them except Benny. Mr.
Christy and I hid the child in the meal sack and were thus able to
get him here. We must save him."

"Save him?" asked Nell, looking from Heckewelder to the trembling
Indian boy.

"Nellie, the savages have driven all our Christians into the church,
and shut them up there, until Girty and his men shall give the word
to complete their fiendish design. The converts asked but one
favor—an hour in which to pray. It was granted. The savages intend
to murder them all."

"Oh! Horrible! Monstrous!" cried Nell. "How can they be so inhuman?"
She lifted Benny up in her arms. "They'll never get you, my boy.
We'll save you—I'll save you!" The child moaned and clung to her
neck.

"They are scouring the clearing now for Christians, and will search
all the cabins. I'm positive."

"Will they come here?" asked Nell, turning her blazing eyes on
Heckewelder.

"Undoubtedly. We must try to hide Benny. Let me think; where would
be a good place? We'll try a dark corner of the loft."

"No, no," cried Nell.

"Put Benny in Young's bed," suggested Jim.

"No, no," cried Nell.

"Put him in a bucket and let him down in the well," whispered
Edwards, who had listened intently to the conversation.

"That's a capital place," said Heckewelder. "But might he not fall
out and drown?"

"Tie him in the bucket," said Jim.

"No, no, no," cried Nell.

"But Nellie, we must decide upon a hiding place, and in a hurry."

"I'll save Benny."

"You? Will you stay here to face those men? Jim Girty and Deering
are searching the cabins. Could you bear it to see them? You
couldn't."

"Oh! No, I believe it would kill me! That man! that beast! will he
come here?" Nell grew ghastly pale, and looked as if about to faint.
She shrunk in horror at the thought of again facing Girty. "For
God's sake, Heckewelder, don't let him see me! Don't let him come
in! Don't!"