Chapter XXIX.
The fleeting human instinct of Wetzel had given way to the habit ofyears. His merciless quest for many days had been to kill thefrontier fiend. Now that it had been accomplished, he turned hisvengeance into its accustomed channel, and once more became theruthless Indian-slayer.
A fierce, tingling joy surged through him as he struck theDelaware's trail. Wingenund had made little or no effort to concealhis tracks; he had gone northwest, straight as a crow flies, towardthe Indian encampment. He had a start of sixty minutes, and it wouldrequire six hours of rapid traveling to gain the Delaware town.
"Reckon he'll make fer home," muttered Wetzel, following the trailwith all possible speed.
The hunter's method of trailing an Indian was singular. Intuitionplayed as great a part as sight. He seemed always to divine hisvictim's intention. Once on the trail he was as hard to shake off asa bloodhound. Yet he did not, by any means, always stick to theIndian's footsteps. With Wetzel the direction was of the greatestimportance.
For half a mile he closely followed the Delaware's plainly markedtrail. Then he stopped to take a quick survey of the forest beforehim. He abruptly left the trail, and, breaking into a run, wentthrough the woods as fleetly and noiselessly as a deer, running fora quarter of a mile, when he stopped to listen. All seemed well, forhe lowered his head, and walked slowly along, examining the moss andleaves. Presently he came upon a little open space where the soilwas a sandy loam. He bent over, then rose quickly. He had come uponthe Indian's trail. Cautiously he moved forward, stopping everymoment to listen. In all the close pursuits of his maturer years hehad never been a victim of that most cunning of Indian tricks, anambush. He relied solely on his ear to learn if foes were close by.The wild creatures of the forest were his informants. As soon as heheard any change in their twittering, humming or playing--whicheverway they manifested their joy or fear of life--he became as hard tosee, as difficult to hear as a creeping snake.
The Delaware's trail led to a rocky ridge and there disappeared.Wetzel made no effort to find the chief's footprints on the flintyground, but halted a moment and studied the ridge, the lay of theland around, a ravine on one side, and a dark impenetrable forest onthe other. He was calculating his chances of finding the Delaware'strail far on the other side. Indian woodcraft, subtle, wonderful asit may be, is limited to each Indian's ability. Savages, as well asother men, were born unequal. One might leave a faint trail throughthe forest, while another could be readily traced, and a third, morecunning and skillful than his fellows, have flown under the shadytrees, for all the trail he left. But redmen followed the samemethods of woodcraft from tradition, as Wetzel had learned afterlong years of study and experience.
And now, satisfied that he had divined the Delaware's intention, heslipped down the bank of the ravine, and once more broke into a run.He leaped lightly, sure-footed as a goat, from stone to stone, overfallen logs, and the brawling brook. At every turn of the ravine, atevery open place, he stopped to listen.
Arriving on the other side of the ridge, he left the ravine andpassed along the edge of the rising ground. He listened to thebirds, and searched the grass and leaves. He found not the slightestindication of a trail where he had expected to find one. He retracedhis steps patiently, carefully, scrutinizing every inch of theground. But it was all in vain. Wingenund had begun to show hissavage cunning. In his warrior days for long years no chief couldrival him. His boast had always been that, when Wingenund sought toelude his pursuers, his trail faded among the moss and the ferns.
Wetzel, calm, patient, resourceful, deliberated a moment. TheDelaware had not crossed this rocky ridge. He had been cunningenough to make his pursuer think such was his intention. The hunterhurried to the eastern end of the ridge for no other reason thanapparently that course was the one the savage had the least reasonto take. He advanced hurriedly because every moment was precious.Not a crushed blade of grass, a brushed leaf, an overturned pebblenor a snapped twig did he find. He saw that he was getting near tothe side of the ridge where the Delaware's trail had abruptly ended.Ah! what was there? A twisted bit of fern, with the drops of dewbrushed off. Bending beside the fern, Wetzel examined the grass; itwas not crushed. A small plant with triangular leaves of dark green,lay under the fern. Breaking off one of these leaves, he exposed itslower side to the light. The fine, silvery hair of fuzz that grewupon the leaf had been crushed. Wetzel knew that an Indian couldtread so softly as not to break the springy grass blades, but theunder side of one of these leaves, if a man steps on it, alwaysbetrays his passage through the woods. To keen eyes this leaf showedthat it had been bruised by a soft moccasin. Wetzel had located thetrail, but was still ignorant of its direction. Slowly he traced theshaken ferns and bruised leaves down over the side of the ridge, andat last, near a stone, he found a moccasin-print in the moss. Itpointed east. The Delaware was traveling in exactly the oppositedirection to that which he should be going. He was, moreover,exercising wonderful sagacity in hiding his trail. This, however,did not trouble Wetzel, for if it took him a long time to find thetrail, certainly the Delaware had expended as much, or more, inchoosing hard ground, logs or rocks on which to tread.
Wetzel soon realized that his own cunning was matched. He trusted nomore to his intuitive knowledge, but stuck close to the trail, as ahungry wolf holds to the scent of his quarry.
The Delaware trail led over logs, stones and hard-baked ground, upstony ravines and over cliffs. The wily chief used all of his oldskill; he walked backward over moss and sand where his footprintsshowed plainly; he leaped wide fissures in stony ravines, and thenjumped back again; he let himself down over ledges by branches; hecrossed creeks and gorges by swinging himself into trees andclimbing from one to another; he waded brooks where he found hardbottom, and avoided swampy, soft ground.
With dogged persistence and tenacity of purpose Wetzel stuck to thisgradually fading trail. Every additional rod he was forced to gomore slowly, and take more time in order to find any sign of hisenemy's passage through the forests. One thing struck him forcibly.Wingenund was gradually circling to the southwest, a course thattook him farther and farther from the Delaware encampment.
Slowly it dawned upon Wetzel that the chief could hardly have anyreason for taking this circling course save that of pride and savagejoy in misleading, in fooling the foe of the Delawares, indeliberately showing Deathwind that there was one Indian who couldlaugh at and loose him in the forests. To Wetzel this was bitter asgall. To be led a wild goose chase! His fierce heart boiled withfury. His dark, keen eyes sought the grass and moss with terribleearnestness. Yet in spite of the anger that increased to the whiteheat of passion, he became aware of some strange sensation creepingupon him. He remembered that the Delawares had offered his life.Slowly, like a shadow, Wetzel passed up and down the ridges, throughthe brown and yellow aisles of the forest, over the babbling brooks,out upon the golden-flecked fields--always close on the trail.
At last in an open part of the forest, where a fire had once sweptaway the brush and smaller timber, Wetzel came upon the spot wherethe Delaware's trail ended.
There in the soft, black ground was a moccasin-print. The forest wasnot dense; there was plenty of light; no logs, stones or trees werenear, and yet over all that glade no further evidence of theIndian's trail was visible.
It faded there as the great chief had boasted it would.
Wetzel searched the burnt ground; he crawled on his hands and knees;again and again he went over the surroundings. The fact that onemoccasin-print pointed west and the other east, showed that theDelaware had turned in his tracks, was the most baffling thing thathad ever crossed the hunter in all his wild wanderings.
For the first time in many years he had failed. He took his defeathard, because he had been successful for so long he thought himselfalmost infallible, and because the failure lost him the opportunityto kill his great foe. In his passion he cursed himself for being soweak as to let the prayer of a woman turn him from his life'spurpose.
With bowed head and slow, dragging steps he made his way westward.The land was strange to him, but he knew he was going towardfamiliar ground. For a time he walked quietly, all the time thefierce fever in his veins slowly abating. Calm he always was, exceptwhen that unnatural lust for Indians' blood overcame him.
On the summit of a high ridge he looked around to ascertain hisbearings. He was surprised to find he had traveled in a circle. Amile or so below him arose the great oak tree which he recognized asthe landmark of Beautiful Spring. He found himself standing on thehill, under the very dead tree to which he had directed Girty'sattention a few hours previous.
With the idea that he would return to the spring to scalp the deadIndians, he went directly toward the big oak tree. Once out of theforest a wide plain lay between him and the wooded knoll whichmarked the glade of Beautiful Spring. He crossed this stretch ofverdant meadow-land, and entered the copse.
Suddenly he halted. His keen sense of the usual harmony of theforest, with its innumerable quiet sounds, had received a severeshock. He sank into the tall weeds and listened. Then he crawled alittle farther. Doubt became certainty. A single note of an oriolewarned him, and it needed not the quick notes of a catbird to tellhim that near at hand, somewhere, was human life.
Once more Wetzel became a tiger. The hot blood leaped from hisheart, firing all his veins and nerves. But calmly noiseless,certain, cold, deadly as a snake he began the familiar crawlingmethod of stalking his game.
On, on under the briars and thickets, across the hollows full ofyellow leaves, up over stony patches of ground to the fern-coveredcliff overhanging the glade he glided--lithe, sinuous, a tiger inmovement and in heart.
He parted the long, graceful ferns and gazed with glittering eyesdown into the beautiful glade.
He saw not the shining spring nor the purple moss, nor the ghastlywhite bones--all that the buzzards had left of the dead--noranything, save a solitary Indian standing erect in the glade.
There, within range of his rifle, was his great Indian foe,Wingenund.
Wetzel sank back into the ferns to still the furious exultationswhich almost consumed him during the moment when he marked hisvictim. He lay there breathing hard, gripping tightly his rifle,slowly mastering the passion that alone of all things might renderhis aim futile.
For him it was the third great moment of his life, the last of threemoments in which the Indian's life had belonged to him. Once beforehe had seen that dark, powerful face over the sights of his rifle,and he could not shoot because his one shot must be for another.Again had that lofty, haughty figure stood before him, calm,disdainful, arrogant, and he yielded to a woman's prayer.
The Delaware's life was his to take, and he swore he would have it!He trembled in the ecstasy of his triumphant passion; his greatmuscles rippled and quivered, for the moment was entirely beyond hiscontrol. Then his passion calmed. Such power for vengeance had hethat he could almost still the very beats of his heart to make sureand deadly his fatal aim. Slowly he raised himself; his eyes of coldfire glittered; slowly he raised the black rifle.
Wingenund stood erect in his old, grand pose, with folded arms, buthis eyes, instead of being fixed on the distant hills, were loweredto the ground.
An Indian girl, cold as marble, lay at his feet. Her garments werewet, and clung to her slender form. Her sad face was frozen into aneternal rigidity.
By her side was a newly dug grave.
The bead on the front sight of the rifle had hardly covered thechief's dark face when Wetzel's eye took in these other details. Hehad been so absorbed in his purpose that he did not dream of theDelaware's reason for returning to the Beautiful Spring.
Slowly Wetzel's forefinger stiffened; slowly he lowered the blackrifle.
Wingenund had returned to bury Whispering Winds.
Wetzel's teethe clenched, an awful struggle tore his heart. Slowlythe rifle rose, wavered and fell. It rose again, wavered and fell.Something terrible was wrong with him; something awful was awakeningin his soul.
Wingenund had not made a fool of him. The Delaware had led him along chase, had given him the slip in the forest, not to boast ofit, but to hurry back to give his daughter Christian burial.
Wingenund was a Christian!
Had he not been, once having cast his daughter from him, he wouldnever have looked upon her face again.
Wingenund was true to his race, but he was a Christian.
Suddenly Wetzel's terrible temptation, his heart-racking struggleceased. He lowered the long, black rifle. He took one last look atthe chieftain's dark, powerful face.
Then the Avenger fled like a shadow through the forest.
Chapter XXX.
It was late afternoon at Fort Henry. The ruddy sun had already sunkbehind the wooded hill, and the long shadows of the trees lengthenedon the green square in front of the fort.
Colonel Zane stood in his doorway watching the river with eagereyes. A few minutes before a man had appeared on the bank of theisland and hailed. The colonel had sent his brother Jonathan tolearn what was wanted. The latter had already reached the othershore in his flatboat, and presently the little boat put out againwith the stranger seated at the stern.
"I thought, perhaps, it might be Wetzel," mused the colonel, "thoughI never knew of Lew's wanting a boat."
Jonathan brought the man across the river, and up the winding pathto where Colonel Zane was waiting.
"Hello! It's young Christy!" exclaimed the colonel, jumping off thesteps, and cordially extending his hand. "Glad to see you! Where'sWilliamson. How did you happen over here?"
"Captain Williamson and his men will make the river eight or tenmiles above," answered Christy. "I came across to inquire about theyoung people who left the Village of Peace. Was glad to learn fromJonathan they got out all right."
"Yes, indeed, we're all glad. Come and sit down. Of course you'llstay over night. You look tired and worn. Well, no wonder, when yousaw that Moravian massacre. You must tell me about it. I saw SamBrady yesterday, and he spoke of seeing you over there. Sam told mea good deal. Ah! here's Jim now."
The young missionary came out of the open door, and the two youngmen greeted each other warmly.
"How is she?" asked Christy, when the first greetings had beenexchanged.
"Nell's just beginning to get over the shock. She'll be glad to seeyou."
"Jonathan tells me you got married just before Girty came up withyou at Beautiful Spring."
"Yes; it is true. In fact, the whole wonderful story is true, yet Icannot believe as yet. You look thin and haggard. When we last metyou were well."
"That awful time pulled me down. I was an unwilling spectator of allthat horrible massacre, and shall never get over it. I can still seethe fiendish savages running about with the reeking scalps of theirown people. I actually counted the bodies of forty-nine grownChristians and twenty-seven children. An hour after you left us thechurch was in ashes, and the next day I saw the burned bodies. Oh!the sickening horror of the scene! It haunts me! That monster JimGirty killed fourteen Christians with his sledge-hammer."
"Did you hear of his death?" asked Colonel Zane.
"Yes, and a fitting end it was to the frontier 'Skull andCross-bones'."
"It was like Wetzel to think of such a vengeance."
"Has Wetzel come in since?"
"No. Jonathan says he went after Wingenund, and there's no tellingwhen he'll return."
"I hoped he would spare the Delaware."
"Wetzel spare an Indian!"
"But the chief was a friend. He surely saved the girl."
"I am sorry, too, because Wingenund was a fine Indian. But Wetzel isimplacable."
"Here's Nell, and Mrs. Clarke too. Come out, both of you," criedJim.
Nell appeared in the doorway with Colonel Zane's sister. The twogirls came down the steps and greeted the young man. The bride'ssweet face was white and thin, and there was a shadow in her eyes.
"I am so glad you got safely away from--from there," said Christy,earn
estly.
"Tell me of Benny?" asked Nell, speaking softly.
"Oh, yes, I forgot. Why, Benny is safe and well. He was the onlyChristian Indian to escape the Christian massacre. Heckewelder hidhim until it was all over. He is going to have the lad educated."
"Thank Heaven!" murmured Nell.
"And the missionaries?" inquired Jim, earnestly.
"Were all well when I left, except, of course, Young. He was dying.The others will remain out there, and try to get another hold, but Ifear it's impossible."
"It is impossible, not because the Indian does not wantChristianity, but because such white men as the Girty's rule. Thebeautiful Village of Peace owes its ruin to the renegades," saidColonel Zane impressively.
"Captain Williamson could have prevented the massacre," remarkedJim.
"Possibly. It was a bad place for him, and I think he was wrong notto try," declared the colonel.
"Hullo!" cried Jonathan Zane, getting up from the steps where he satlistening to the conversation.
A familiar soft-moccasined footfall sounded on the path. All turnedto see Wetzel come slowly toward them. His buckskin hunting costumewas ragged and worn. He looked tired and weary, but the dark eyeswere calm.
It was the Wetzel whom they all loved.
They greeted him warmly. Nell gave him her hands, and smiled up athim.
"I'm so glad you've come home safe," she said.
"Safe an' sound, lass, an' glad to find you well," answered thehunter, as he leaned on his long rifle, looking from Nell to ColonelZane's sister. "Betty, I allus gave you first place among borderlasses, but here's one as could run you most any kind of a race," hesaid, with the rare smile which so warmly lighted his dark, sternface.
"Lew Wetzel making compliments! Well, of all things!" exclaimed thecolonel's sister.
Jonathan Zane stood closely scanning Wetzel's features. ColonelZane, observing his brother's close scrutiny of the hunter, guessedthe cause, and said:
"Lew, tell us, did you see Wingenund over the sights of your rifle?"
"Yes," answered the hunter simply.
A chill seemed to strike the hearts of the listeners. That simpleanswer, coming from Wetzel, meant so much. Nell bowed her headsadly. Jim turned away biting his lip. Christy looked across thevalley. Colonel Zane bent over and picked up some pebbles which hethrew hard at the cabin wall. Jonathan Zane abruptly left the group,and went into the house.
But the colonel's sister fixed her large, black eyes on Wetzel'sface.
"Well?" she asked, and her voice rang.
Wetzel was silent for a moment. He met her eyes with that old,inscrutable smile in his own. A slight shade flitted across hisface.
"Betty, I missed him," he said, calmly, and, shouldering his longrifle, he strode away.
* * *
Nell and Jim walked along the bluff above the river. Twilight wasdeepening. The red glow in the west was slowly darkening behind theboldly defined hills.
"So it's all settled, Jim, that we stay here," said Nell.
"Yes, dear. Colonel Zane has offered me work, and a church besides.We are very fortunate, and should be contented. I am happy becauseyou're my wife, and yet I am sad when I think of--him. Poor Joe!"
"Don't you ever think we--we wronged him?" whispered Nell.
"No, he wished it. I think he knew how he would end. No, we did notwrong him; we loved him."
"Yes, I loved him--I loved you both," said Nell softly.
"Then let us always think of him as he would have wished."
"Think of him? Think of Joe? I shall never forget. In winter, springand summer I shall remember him, but always most in autumn. For Ishall see that beautiful glade with its gorgeous color and the dark,shaded spring where he lies asleep."
* * *
The years rolled by with their changing seasons; every autumn thegolden flowers bloomed richly, and the colored leaves fell softlyupon the amber moss in the glade of Beautiful Spring.
The Indians camped there no more; they shunned the glade and calledit the Haunted Spring. They said the spirit of a white dog ran thereat night, and the Wind-of-Death mourned over the lonely spot.
At long intervals an Indian chief of lofty frame and dark, powerfulface stalked into the glade to stand for many moments silent andmotionless.
And sometimes at twilight when the red glow of the sun had faded togray, a stalwart hunter slipped like a shadow out of the thicket,and leaned upon a long, black rifle while he gazed sadly into thedark spring, and listened to the sad murmur of the waterfall. Thetwilight deepened while he stood motionless. The leaves fell intothe water with a soft splash, a whippoorwill caroled his melancholysong.
From the gloom of the forest came a low sigh which swelledthrillingly upon the quiet air, and then died away like the wailingof the night wind.
Quiet reigned once more over the dark, murky grave of the boy whogave his love and his life to the wilderness.
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