The Spirit of the Border - Zane Grey (good e books to read txt) 📗

“When I came out here alone twelve years ago the Indians were peaceable. If the pioneers had paid for land, as I paid Cornplanter, there would never have been a border war. But no; the settlers must grasp every acre they could. Then the Indians rebelled; then the Girtys and their allies spread discontent, and now the border is a bloody warpath.”

“Have the Jesuit missionaries accomplished anything with these war tribes?” inquired Jim.

“No; their work has been chiefly among the Indians near Detroit and northward. The Hurons, Delawares, Shawnees and other western tribes have been demoralized by the French traders’ rum, and incited to fierce hatred by Girty and his renegades. Your work at Gnaddenhutten must be among these hostile tribes, and it is surely a hazardous undertaking.”

“My life is God’s,” murmured the old minister. No fear could assail his steadfast faith.

“Jim, it strikes me you’d be more likely to impress these Indians Colonel Zane spoke of if you’d get a suit like mine and wear a knife and tomahawk,” interposed Joe, cheerfully. “Then, if you couldn’t convert, you could scalp them.”

“Well, well, let us hope for the best,” said Colonel Zane, when the laughter had subsided. “We’ll go over to dinner now. Come, all of you. Jonathan, bring Wetzel. Betty, make him come, if you can.”

As the party slowly wended its way toward the colonel’s cabin Jim and Nell found themselves side by side. They had not exchanged a word since the evening previous, when Jim had kissed her. Unable to look at each other now, and finding speech difficult, they walked in embarrassed silence.

“Doesn’t Joe look splendid in his hunting suit?” asked Jim, presently.

“I hadn’t noticed. Yes; he looks well,” replied Nell, carelessly. She was too indifferent to be natural.

“Are you angry with him?”

“Certainly not.”

Jim was always simple and frank in his relations with women. He had none of his brother’s fluency of speech, with neither confidence, boldness nor understanding of the intricate mazes of a woman’s moods.

“But—you are angry with—me?” he whispered.

Nell flushed to her temples, yet she did not raise her eyes nor reply.

“It was a terrible thing for me to do,” went on Jim, hesitatingly. “I don’t know why I took advantage—of—of your mistaking me for Joe. If you only hadn’t held up your mouth. No—I don’t mean that—of course you didn’t. But—well, I couldn’t help it. I’m guilty. I have thought of little else. Some wonderful feeling has possessed me ever since—since–”

“What has Joe been saying about me?” demanded Nell, her eyes burning like opals.

“Why, hardly anything,” answered Jim, haltingly. “I took him to task about—about what I considered might be wrong to you. Joe has never been very careful of young ladies’ feelings, and I thought—well, it was none of my business. He said he honestly cared for you, that you had taught him how unworthy he was of a good woman. But he’s wrong there. Joe is wild and reckless, yet his heart is a well of gold. He is a diamond in the rough. Just now he is possessed by wild notions of hunting Indians and roaming through the forests; but he’ll come round all right. I wish I could tell you how much he has done for me, how much I love him, how I know him! He can be made worthy of any woman. He will outgrow this fiery, daring spirit, and then—won’t you help him?”

“I will, if he will let me,” softly whispered Nell, irresistibly drawn by the strong, earnest love thrilling in his voice.

 

Chapter X.

Once more out under the blue-black vault of heaven, with its myriads of twinkling stars, the voyagers resumed their westward journey. Whispered farewells of new but sincere friends lingered in their ears. Now the great looming bulk of the fort above them faded into the obscure darkness, leaving a feeling as if a protector had gone—perhaps forever. Admonished to absolute silence by the stern guides, who seemed indeed to have embarked upon a dark and deadly mission, the voyagers lay back in the canoes and thought and listened. The water eddied with soft gurgles in the wake of the racing canoes; but that musical sound was all they heard. The paddles might have been shadows, for all the splash they made; they cut the water swiftly and noiselessly. Onward the frail barks glided into black space, side by side, close under the overhanging willows. Long moments passed into long hours, as the guides paddled tirelessly as if their sinews were cords of steel.

With gray dawn came the careful landing of the canoes, a cold breakfast eaten under cover of a willow thicket, and the beginning of a long day while they were lying hidden from the keen eyes of Indian scouts, waiting for the friendly mantle of night.

The hours dragged until once more the canoes were launched, this time not on the broad Ohio, but on a stream that mirrored no shining stars as it flowed still and somber under the dense foliage.

The voyagers spoke not, nor whispered, nor scarcely moved, so menacing had become the slow, listening caution of Wetzel and Zane. Snapping of twigs somewhere in the inscrutable darkness delayed them for long moments. Any movement the air might resound with the horrible Indian war-whoop. Every second was heavy with fear. How marvelous that these scouts, penetrating the wilderness of gloom, glided on surely, silently, safely! Instinct, or the eyes of the lynx, guide their course. But another dark night wore on to the tardy dawn, and each of its fearful hours numbered miles past and gone.

The sun was rising in ruddy glory when Wetzel ran his canoe into the bank just ahead of a sharp bend in the stream.

“Do we get out here?” asked Jim, seeing Jonathan turn his canoe toward Wetzel’s.

“The village lies yonder, around the bend,” answered the guide. “Wetzel cannot go there, so I’ll take you all in my canoe.”

“There’s no room; I’ll wait,” replied Joe, quietly. Jim noted his look—a strange, steady glance it was—and then saw him fix his eyes upon Nell, watching her until the canoe passed around the green-bordered bend in the stream.

Unmistakable signs of an Indian town were now evident. Dozens of graceful birchen canoes lay upon the well-cleared banks; a log bridge spanned the stream; above the slight ridge of rising ground could be seen the poles of Indian teepees.

As the canoe grated upon the sandy beach a little Indian boy, who was playing in the shallow water, raised his head and smiled.

“That’s an Indian boy,” whispered Kate.

“The dear little fellow!” exclaimed Nell.

The boy came running up to them, when they were landed, with pleasure and confidence shining in his dusky eyes. Save for tiny buckskin breeches, he was naked, and his shiny skin gleamed gold-bronze in the sunlight. He was a singularly handsome child.

“Me—Benny,” he lisped in English, holding up his little hand to Nell.

The action was as loving and trusting as any that could have been manifested by a white child. Jonathan Zane stared with a curious light in his dark eyes; Mr. Wells and Jim looked as though they doubted the evidence of their own sight. Here, even in an Indian boy, was incontestable proof that the savage nature could be tamed and civilized.

With a tender exclamation Nell bent over the child and kissed him.

Jonathan Zane swung his canoe upstream for the purpose of bringing Joe. The trim little bark slipped out of sight round the bend. Presently its gray, curved nose peeped from behind the willows; then the canoe swept into view again. There was only one person in it, and that the guide.

“Where is my brother?” asked Jim, in amazement.

“Gone,” answered Zane, quietly.

“Gone! What do you mean? Gone? Perhaps you have missed the spot where you left him.”

“They’re both gone.”

Nell and Jim gazed at each other with slowly whitening faces.

“Come, I’ll take you up to the village,” said Zane, getting out of his canoe. All noticed that he was careful to take his weapons with him.

“Can’t you tell us what it means—this disappearance?” asked Jim, his voice low and anxious.

“They’re gone, canoe and all. I knew Wetzel was going, but I didn’t calkilate on the lad. Mebbe he followed Wetzel, mebbe he didn’t,” answered the taciturn guide, and he spoke no more.

In his keen expectation and wonder as to what the village would be like, Jim momentarily forgot his brother’s disappearance, and when he arrived at the top of the bank he surveyed the scene with eagerness. What he saw was more imposing than the Village of Peace which he had conjured up in his imagination. Confronting him was a level plain, in the center of which stood a wide, low structure surrounded by log cabins, and these in turn encircled by Indian teepees. A number of large trees, mostly full-foliaged maples, shaded the clearing. The settlement swarmed with Indians. A few shrill halloes uttered by the first observers of the newcomers brought braves, maidens and children trooping toward the party with friendly curiosity.

Jonathan Zane stepped before a cabin adjoining the large structure, and called in at the open door. A short, stoop-shouldered white man, clad in faded linsey, appeared on the threshold. His serious, lined face had the unmistakable benevolent aspect peculiar to most teachers of the gospel.

“Mr. Zeisberger, I’ve fetched a party from Fort Henry,” said Zane, indicating those he had guided. Then, without another word, never turning his dark face to the right or left, he hurried down the lane through the throng of Indians.

Jim remembered, as he saw the guide vanish over the bank of the creek, that he had heard Colonel Zane say that Jonathan, as well as Wetzel, hated the sight of an Indian. No doubt long years of war and bloodshed had rendered these two great hunters callous. To them there could be no discrimination—an Indian was an Indian.

“Mr. Wells, welcome to the Village of Peace!” exclaimed Mr. Zeisberger, wringing the old missionary’s hand. “The years have not been so long but that I remember you.”

“Happy, indeed, am I to get here, after all these dark, dangerous journeys,” returned Mr. Wells. “I have brought my nieces, Nell and Kate, who were children when you left Williamsburg, and this young man, James Downs, a minister of God, and earnest in his hope for our work.”

“A glorious work it is! Welcome, young ladies, to our peaceful village. And, young man, I greet you with heartfelt thankfulness. We need young men. Come in, all of your, and share my cabin. I’ll have your luggage brought up. I have lived in this hut alone. With some little labor, and the magic touch women bring to the making of a home, we can be most comfortable here.”

Mr. Zeisberger gave his own room to the girls, assuring them with a smile that it was the most luxurious in the village. The apartment contained a chair, a table, and a bed of Indian blankets and buffalo robes. A few pegs driven in the chinks between the logs completed the furnishings. Sparse as were the comforts, they appealed warmly to the girls, who, weary from their voyage, lay down to rest.

“I am not fatigued,” said Mr. Wells, to his old friend. “I want to hear all about your work, what you have done, and what you hope to do.”

“We have met with wonderful success, far beyond our wildest dreams,” responded Mr. Zeisberger. “Certainly we have been blessed of God.”

Then the missionary began a long, detailed account of the Moravian Mission’s efforts among the western tribes. The work lay chiefly among the Delawares, a noble nation of redmen, intelligent, and wonderfully susceptible to the teaching of the gospel. Among the eastern Delawares, living