Zane Grey (7 page)

While the two chiefs held a short consultation, this
savage-appearing white man addressed the brothers.

"Who're you, an' where you goin'?" he asked gruffly, confronting
Jim.

"My name is Downs. I am a preacher, and was on my way to the
Moravian Mission to preach to the Indians. You are a white man; will
you help us?"

If Jim expected the information would please his interrogator, he
was mistaken.

"So you're one of 'em? Yes, I'll do suthin' fer you when I git back
from this hunt. I'll cut your heart out, chop it up, an' feed it to
the buzzards," he said fiercely, concluding his threat by striking
Jim a cruel blow on the head.

Joe paled deathly white at this cowardly action, and his eyes, as
they met the gaze of the ruffian, contracted with their
characteristic steely glow, as if some powerful force within the
depths of his being were at white heat and only this pale flash came
to the surface.

"You ain't a preacher?" questioned the man, meeting something in
Joe's glance that had been absent from Jim's.

Joe made no answer, and regarded questioner steadily.

"Ever see me afore? Ever hear of Jim Girty?" he asked boastfully.

"Before you spoke I knew you were Girty," answered Joe quietly.

"How d'you know? Ain't you afeared?"

"Of what?"

"Me—me?"

Joe laughed in the renegades face.

"How'd you knew me?" growled Girty. "I'll see thet you hev cause to
remember me after this."

"I figured there was only one so-called white man in these woods who
is coward enough to strike a man whose hands are tied."

"Boy, ye're too free with your tongue. I'll shet off your wind."
Girty's hand was raised, but it never reached Joe's neck.

The big Indian had an hour or more previous cut Joe's bonds, but he
still retained the thong which was left attached to Joe's left
wrist. This allowed the young man free use of his right arm, which,
badly swollen or not, he brought into quick action.

When the renegade reached toward him Joe knocked up the hand, and,
instead of striking, he grasped the hooked nose with all the
powerful grip of his fingers. Girty uttered a frightful curse; he
writhed with pain, but could not free himself from the vise-like
clutch. He drew his tomahawk and with a scream aimed a vicious blow
at Joe. He missed his aim, however, for Silvertip had intervened and
turned the course of the keen hatchet. But the weapon struck Joe a
glancing blow, inflicting a painful, though not dangerous wound.

The renegade's nose was skinned and bleeding profusely. He was
frantic with fury, and tried to get at Joe; but Silvertip remained
in front of his captive until some of the braves led Girty into the
forest, where the tall chief had already disappeared.

The nose-pulling incident added to the gayety of the Shawnees, who
evidently were pleased with Girty's discomfiture. They jabbered
among themselves and nodded approvingly at Joe, until a few words
spoken by Silvertip produced a sudden change.

What the words were Joe could not understand, but to him they
sounded like French. He smiled at the absurdity of imagining he had
heard a savage speak a foreign language. At any rate, whatever had
been said was trenchant with meaning. The Indians changed from gay
to grave; they picked up their weapons and looked keenly on every
side; the big Indian at once retied Joe, and then all crowded round
the chief.

"Did you hear what Silvertip said, and did you notice the effect it
had?" whispered Jim, taking advantage of the moment.

"It sounded like French, but of course it wasn't," replied Joe.

"It was French. 'Le Vent de la Mort.'"

"By Jove, that's it. What does it mean?" asked Joe, who was not a
scholar.

"The Wind of Death."

"That's English, but I can't apply it here. Can you?"

"No doubt it is some Indian omen."

The hurried consultation over, Silvertip tied Joe's horse and dog to
the trees, and once more led the way; this time he avoided the open
forest and kept on low ground. For a long time he traveled in the
bed of the brook, wading when the water was shallow, and always
stepping where there was the least possibility of leaving a
footprint. Not a word was spoken. If either of the brothers made the
lightest splash in the water, or tumbled a stone into the brook, the
Indian behind rapped him on the head with a tomahawk handle.

At certain places, indicated by the care which Silvertip exercised
in walking, the Indian in front of the captives turned and pointed
where they were to step. They were hiding the trail. Silvertip
hurried them over the stony places; went more slowly through the
water, and picked his way carefully over the soft ground it became
necessary to cross. At times he stopped, remaining motionless many
seconds.

This vigilance continued all the afternoon. The sun sank; twilight
spread its gray mantle, and soon black night enveloped the forest.
The Indians halted, but made no fire; they sat close together on a
stony ridge, silent and watchful.

Joe pondered deeply over this behavior. Did the Shawnees fear
pursuit? What had that Indian chief told Silvertip? To Joe it seemed
that they acted as if believing foes were on all sides. Though they
hid their tracks, it was, apparently, not the fear of pursuit alone
which made them cautious.

Joe reviewed the afternoon's march and dwelt upon the possible
meaning of the cat-like steps, the careful brushing aside of
branches, the roving eyes, suspicious and gloomy, the eager
watchfulness of the advance as well as to the rear, and always the
strained effort to listen, all of which gave him the impression of
some grave, unseen danger.

And now as he lay on the hard ground, nearly exhausted by the long
march and suffering from the throbbing wound, his courage lessened
somewhat, and he shivered with dread. The quiet and gloom of the
forest; these fierce, wild creatures, free in the heart of their own
wilderness yet menaced by a foe, and that strange French phrase
which kept recurring in his mind—all had the effect of conjuring up
giant shadows in Joe's fanciful mind. During all his life, until
this moment, he had never feared anything; now he was afraid of the
darkness. The spectral trees spread long arms overhead, and phantom
forms stalked abroad; somewhere out in that dense gloom stirred this
mysterious foe—the "Wind of Death."

Nevertheless, he finally slept. In the dull-gray light of early
morning the Indians once more took up the line of march toward the
west. They marched all that day, and at dark halted to eat and rest.
Silvertip and another Indian stood watch.

Some time before morning Joe suddenly awoke. The night was dark, yet
it was lighter than when he had fallen asleep. A pale, crescent moon
shown dimly through the murky clouds. There was neither movement of
the air nor the chirp of an insect. Absolute silence prevailed.

Joe saw the Indian guard leaning against a tree, asleep. Silvertip
was gone. The captive raised his head and looked around for the
chief. There were only four Indians left, three on the ground and
one against the tree.

He saw something shining near him. He looked more closely, and made
out the object to be an eagle plume Silvertip had worn, in his
head-dress. It lay on the ground near the tree. Joe made some slight
noise which awakened the guard. The Indian never moved a muscle; but
his eyes roved everywhere. He, too, noticed the absence of the
chief.

At this moment from out of the depths of the woods came a swelling
sigh, like the moan of the night wind. It rose and died away,
leaving the silence apparently all the deeper.

A shudder ran over Joe's frame. Fascinated, he watched the guard.
The Indian uttered a low gasp; his eyes started and glared wildly;
he rose very slowly to his full height and stood waiting, listening.
The dark hand which held the tomahawk trembled so that little glints
of moonlight glanced from the bright steel.

From far back in the forest-deeps came that same low moaning:

"Um-m-mm-woo-o-o-o!"

It rose from a faint murmur and swelled to a deep moan, soft but
clear, and ended in a wail like that of a lost soul.

The break it made in that dead silence was awful. Joe's blood seemed
to have curdled and frozen; a cold sweat oozed from his skin, and it
was as if a clammy hand clutched at his heart. He tried to persuade
himself that the fear displayed by the savage was only superstition,
and that that moan was but the sigh of the night wind.

The Indian sentinel stood as if paralyzed an instant after that
weird cry, and then, swift as a flash, and as noiseless, he was gone
into the gloomy forest. He had fled without awakening his
companions.

Once more the moaning cry arose and swelled mournfully on the still
night air. It was close at hand!

"The Wind of Death," whispered Joe.

He was shaken and unnerved by the events of the past two days, and
dazed from his wound. His strength deserted him, and he lost
consciousness.

One evening, several day previous to the capture of the brothers, a
solitary hunter stopped before a deserted log cabin which stood on
the bank of a stream fifty miles or more inland from the Ohio River.
It was rapidly growing dark; a fine, drizzling rain had set in, and
a rising wind gave promise of a stormy night.

Although the hunter seemed familiar with his surroundings, he moved
cautiously, and hesitated as if debating whether he should seek the
protection of this lonely hut, or remain all night under dripping
trees. Feeling of his hunting frock, he found that it was damp and
slippery. This fact evidently decided him in favor of the cabin, for
he stooped his tall figure and went in. It was pitch dark inside;
but having been there before, the absence of a light did not trouble
him. He readily found the ladder leading to the loft, ascended it,
and lay down to sleep.

During the night a noise awakened him. For a moment he heard nothing
except the fall of the rain. Then came the hum of voices, followed
by the soft tread of moccasined feet. He knew there was an Indian
town ten miles across the country, and believed some warriors,
belated on a hunting trip, had sought the cabin for shelter.

The hunter lay perfectly quiet, awaiting developments. If the
Indians had flint and steel, and struck a light, he was almost
certain to be discovered. He listened to their low conversation, and
understood from the language that they were Delawares.

A moment later he heard the rustling of leaves and twigs,
accompanied by the metallic click of steel against some hard
substance. The noise was repeated, and then followed by a hissing
sound, which he knew to be the burning of a powder on a piece of dry
wood, after which rays of light filtered through cracks of the
unstable floor of the loft.

The man placed his eye to one of these crevices, and counted eleven
Indians, all young braves, with the exception of the chief. The
Indians had been hunting; they had haunches of deer and buffalo
tongues, together with several packs of hides. Some of them busied
themselves drying their weapons; others sat down listlessly, plainly
showing their weariness, and two worked over the smouldering fire.
The damp leaves and twigs burned faintly, yet there was enough to
cause the hunter fear that he might be discovered. He believed he
had not much to worry about from the young braves, but the hawk-eyed
chief was dangerous.

And he was right. Presently the stalwart chief heard, or saw, a drop
of water fall from the loft. It came from the hunter's wet coat.
Almost any one save an Indian scout would have fancied this came
from the roof. As the chief's gaze roamed everywhere over the
interior of the cabin his expression was plainly distrustful. His
eye searched the wet clay floor, but hardly could have discovered
anything there, because the hunter's moccasined tracks had been
obliterated by the footprints of the Indians. The chief's suspicions
seemed to be allayed.

But in truth this chief, with the wonderful sagacity natural to
Indians, had observed matters which totally escaped the young
braves, and, like a wily old fox, he waited to see which cub would
prove the keenest. Not one of them, however, noted anything unusual.
They sat around the fire, ate their meat and parched corn, and
chatted volubly.

The chief arose and, walking to the ladder, ran his hand along one
of the rungs.

"Ugh!" he exclaimed.

Instantly he was surrounded by ten eager, bright-eyed braves. He
extended his open palm; it was smeared with wet clay like that under
his feet. Simultaneously with their muttered exclamations the braves
grasped their weapons. They knew there was a foe above them. It was
a paleface, for an Indian would have revealed himself.

The hunter, seeing he was discovered, acted with the unerring
judgment and lightning-like rapidity of one long accustomed to
perilous situations. Drawing his tomahawk and noiselessly stepping
to the hole in the loft, he leaped into the midst of the astounded
Indians.

Rising from the floor like the rebound of a rubber ball, his long
arm with the glittering hatchet made a wide sweep, and the young
braves scattered like frightened sheep.

He made a dash for the door and, incredible as it may seem, his
movements were so quick he would have escaped from their very midst
without a scratch but for one unforeseen circumstance. The clay
floor was wet and slippery; his feet were hardly in motion before
they slipped from under him and he fell headlong.

With loud yells of triumph the band jumped upon him. There was a
convulsive, heaving motion of the struggling mass, one frightful cry
of agony, and then hoarse commands. Three of the braves ran to their
packs, from which they took cords of buckskin. So exceedingly
powerful was the hunter that six Indians were required to hold him
while the others tied his hands and feet. Then, with grunts and
chuckles of satisfaction, they threw him into a corner of the cabin.