Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 92
“Betty and Will! I’m sure I’d love to see them care for each other.” Then with big, bright eyes bent gravely on him she continued, “May I ask, Colonel Zane, who you have picked out for me?”
“There, now you’ve said it, and that’s the problem. I’ve looked over every marriageable young man in the settlement, except Jack. Of course you couldn’t care for him, a borderman, a fighter and all that; but I can’t find a fellow I think quite up to you.”
“Colonel Zane, is not a borderman such as Jonathan worthy a woman’s regard?” Helen asked a little wistfully.
“Bless your heart, lass, yes!” replied Colonel Zane heartily. “People out here are not as they are back east. An educated man, polished and all that, but incapable of hard labor, or shrinking from dirt and sweat on his hands, or even blood, would not help us in the winning of the West. Plain as Jonathan is, and with his lack of schooling, he is greatly superior to the majority of young men on the frontier. But, unlettered or not, he is as fine a man as ever stepped in moccasins, or any other kind of foot gear.”
“Then why did you say — that — what you did?”
“Well, it’s this way,” replied Colonel Zane, stealing a glance at her pensive, downcast face. “Girls all like to be wooed. Almost every one I ever knew wanted the young man of her choice to outstrip all her other admirers, and then, for a spell, nearly die of love for her, after which she’d give in. Now, Jack, being a borderman, a man with no occupation except scouting, will never look at a girl, let alone make up to her. I imagine, my dear, it’d take some mighty tall courting to fetch home Helen Sheppard a bride. On the other hand, if some pretty and spirited lass, like, say for instance, Helen Sheppard, would come along and just make Jack forget Indians and fighting, she’d get the finest husband in the world. True, he’s wild; but only in the woods. A simpler, kinder, cleaner man cannot be found.”
“I believe that, Colonel Zane; but where is the girl who would interest him?” Helen asked with spirit. “These bordermen are unapproachable. Imagine a girl interesting that great, cold, stern Wetzel! All her flatteries, her wiles, the little coquetries that might attract ordinary men, would not be noticed by him, or Jonathan either.”
“I grant it’d not be easy, but woman was made to subjugate man, and always, everlastingly, until the end of life here on this beautiful earth, she will do it.”
“Do you think Jonathan and Wetzel will catch Brandt?” asked Helen, changing the subject abruptly.
“I’d stake my all that this year’s autumn leaves will fall on Brandt’s grave.”
Colonel Zane’s calm, matter-of-fact coldness made Helen shiver.
“Why, the leaves have already begun to fall. Papa told me Brandt had gone to join the most powerful outlaw band on the border. How can these two men, alone, cope with savages, as I’ve heard they do, and break up such an outlaw band as Legget’s?”
“That’s a question I’ve heard Daniel Boone ask about Wetzel, and Boone, though not a borderman in all the name implies, was a great Indian fighter. I’ve heard old frontiersmen, grown grizzled on the frontier, use the same words. I’ve been twenty years with that man, yet I can’t answer it. Jonathan, of course, is only a shadow of him; Wetzel is the type of these men who have held the frontier for us. He was the first borderman, and no doubt he’ll be the last.”
“What have Jonathan and Wetzel that other men do not possess?”
“In them is united a marvelously developed woodcraft, with wonderful physical powers. Imagine a man having a sense, almost an animal instinct, for what is going on in the woods. Take for instance the fleetness of foot. That is one of the greatest factors. It is absolutely necessary to run, to get away when to hold ground would be death. Whether at home or in the woods, the bordermen retreat every day. You wouldn’t think they practiced anything of the kind, would you? Well, a man can’t be great in anything without keeping at it. Jonathan says he exercises to keep his feet light. Wetzel would just as soon run as walk. Think of the magnificent condition of these men. When a dash of speed is called for, when to be fleet of foot is to elude vengeance-seeking Indians, they must travel as swiftly as the deer. The Zanes were all sprinters. I could do something of the kind; Betty was fast on her feet, as that old fort will testify until the logs rot; Isaac was fleet, too, and Jonathan can get over the ground like a scared buck. But, even so, Wetzel can beat him.”
“Goodness me, Helen!” exclaimed the colonel’s buxom wife, from the window, “don’t you ever get tired hearing Eb talk of Wetzel, and Jack, and Indians? Come in with me. I venture to say my gossip will do you more good than his stories.”
Therefore Helen went in to chat with Mrs. Zane, for she was always glad to listen to the colonel’s wife, who was so bright and pleasant, so helpful and kindly in her womanly way. In the course of their conversation, which drifted from weaving linsey, Mrs. Zane’s occupation at the tune, to the costly silks and satins of remembered days, and then to matters of more present interest, Helen spoke of Colonel Zane’s hint about Will and Betty.
“Isn’t Eb a terror? He’s the worst matchmatcher you ever saw,” declared the colonel’s good spouse.
“There’s no harm in that.”
“No, indeed; it’s a good thing, but he makes me laugh, and Betty, he sets her furious.”
“The colonel said he had designs on me.”
“Of course he has, dear old Eb! How he’d love to see you happily married. His heart is as big as that mountain yonder. He has given this settlement his whole life.”
“I believe you. He has such interest, such zeal for everybody. Only the other day he was speaking to me of Mr. Mordaunt, telling how sorry he was for the Englishman, and how much he’d like to help him. It does seem a pity a man of Mordaunt’s blood and attainments should sink to utter worthlessness.”
“Yes,’tis a pity for any man, blood or no, and the world’s full of such wrecks. I always liked that man’s looks. I never had a word with him, of course; but I’ve seen him often, and something about him appealed to me. I don’t believe it was just his handsome face; still I know women are susceptible that way.”
“I, too, liked him once as a friend,” said Helen feelingly. “Well, I’m glad he’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes, he left Fort Henry yesterday. He came to say good-bye to me, and, except for his pale face and trembling hands, was much as he used to be in Virginia. Said he was going home to England, and wanted to tell me he was sorry — for — for all he’d done to make papa and me suffer. Drink had broken him, he said, and surely he looked ‘a broken man. I shook hands with him, and then slipped upstairs and cried.”
“Poor fellow!” sighed Mrs. Zane.
“Papa said he left Fort Pitt with one of Metzar’s men as a guide.”
“Then he didn’t take the ‘little cuss,’ as Eb calls his man Case?”
“No, if I remember rightly papa said Case wouldn’t go.”
“I wish he had. He’s no addition to our village.”
Voices outside attracted their attention. Mrs. Zane glanced from the window and said: “There come Betty and Will.”
Helen went on the porch to see her cousin and Betty entering the yard, and Colonel Zane once again leaning on his spade.
“Gather any hickory-nuts from birch or any other kind of trees?” asked the colonel grimly.
“No,” replied Will cheerily, “the shells haven’t opened yet.”
“Too bad the frost is so backward,” said Colonel Zane with a laugh. “But I can’t see that it makes any difference.”
“Where are my leaves?” asked Helen, with a smile and a nod to Betty.
“What leaves?” inquired that young woman, plainly mystified.
“Why, the autumn leaves Will promised to gather with me, then changed his mind, and said he’d bring them.”
“I forgot,” Will replied a little awkwardly.
Colonel Zane coughed, and then, catching Betty’s glance, which had begun to flash, he plied his spade vigorously.
Betty’s face had colored warmly at her brother’s first question; it toned down slightly when she understood that he was not going to tease her as usual, and suddenly, as she looked over his head, it paled white as snow.
“Eb, look down the lane!” she cried.
Two tall men were approaching with labored tread, one half-supporting his companion.
“Wetzel! Jack! and Jack’s hurt!” cried Betty.
“My dear, be calm,” said Colonel Zane, in that quiet tone he always used during moments of excitement. He turned toward the bordermen, and helped Wetzel lead Jonathan up the walk into the yard.
From Wetzel’s clothing water ran, his long hair was disheveled, his aspect frightful. Jonathan’s face was white and drawn. His buckskin hunting coat was covered with blood, and the hand which he held tightly against his left breast showed dark red stains.
Helen shuddered. Almost fainting, she leaned against the porch, too horrified to cry out, with contracting heart and a chill stealing through her veins.
“Jack! Jack!” cried Betty, in agonized appeal.
“Betty, it’s nothin’,” said Wetzel.
“Now, Betts, don’t be scared of a little blood,” Jonathan said with a faint smile flitting across his haggard face.
“Bring water, shears an’ some linsey cloth,” added Wetzel, as Mrs. Zane came running out.
“Come inside,” cried the colonel’s wife, as she disappeared again immediately.
“No,” replied the borderman, removing his coat, and, with the assistance of his brother, he unlaced his hunting shirt, pulling it down from a wounded shoulder. A great gory hole gaped just beneath his left collar-bone.
Although stricken with fear, when Helen saw the bronzed, massive shoulder, the long, powerful arm with its cords of muscles playing under the brown skin, she felt a thrill of admiration.
“Just missed the lung,” said Mrs. Zane. “Eb, no bullet ever made that hole.”
Wetzel washed the bloody wound, and, placing on it a wad of leaves he took from his pocket, bound up the shoulder tightly.
“What made that hole?” asked Colonel Zane.
Wetzel lifted the quiver of arrows Jonathan had laid on the porch, and, selecting one, handed it to the colonel. The flint-head and a portion of the shaft were stained with blood.
“The Shawnee!” exclaimed Colonel Zane. Then he led Wetzel aside, and began conversing in low tones while Jonathan, with Betty holding his arm, ascended the steps and went within the dwelling.
Helen ran home, and, once in her room, gave vent to her emotions. She cried because of fright, nervousness, relief, and joy. Then she bathed her face, tried to rub some color into her pale cheeks, and set about getting dinner as one in a trance. She could not forget that broad shoulder with its frightful wound. What a man Jonathan must be to receive a blow like that and live! Exhausted, almost spent, had been his strength when he reached home, yet how calm and cool he was! What would she not have given for the faint smile that shone in his eyes for Betty?
The afternoon was long for Helen. When at last supper was over she changed her gown, and, asking Will to accompany her, went down the lane toward Colonel Zane’s cabin. At this hour the colonel almost invariably could be found sitting on his doorstep puffing a long Indian pipe, and gazing with dreamy eyes over the valley.
“Well, well, how sweet you look!” he said to Helen; then with a wink of his eyelid, “Hello, Willie, you’ll find Elizabeth inside with Jack.”
“How is he?” asked Helen eagerly, as Will with a laugh and a retort mounted the steps.
“Jack’s doing splendidly. He slept all day. I don’t think his injury amounts to much, at least not for such as him or Wetzel. It would have finished ordinary men. Bess says if complications don’t set in, blood-poison or something to start a fever, he’ll be up shortly. Wetzel believes the two of ’em will be on the trail inside of a week.”
“Did they find Brandt?” asked Helen in a low voice.
“Yes, they ran him to his hole, and, as might have been expected, it was Bing Legget’s camp. The Indians took Jonathan there.”
“Then Jack was captured?”
Colonel Zane related the events, as told briefly by Wetzel, that had taken place during the preceding three days.
“The Indian I saw at the spring carried that bow Jonathan brought back. He must have shot the arrow. He was a magnificent savage.”
“He was indeed a great, and a bad Indian, one of the craftiest spies who ever stepped in moccasins; but he lies quiet now on the moss and the leaves. Bing Legget will never find another runner like that Shawnee. Let us go indoors.”
He led Helen into the large sitting-room where Jonathan lay on a couch, with Betty and Will sitting beside him. The colonel’s wife and children, Silas Zane, and several neighbors, were present.
“Here, Jack, is a lady inquiring after your health. Betts, this reminds me of the time Isaac came home wounded, after his escape from the Hurons. Strikes me he and his Indian bride should be about due here on a visit.”
Helen forgot every one except the wounded man lying so quiet and pale upon the couch. She looked down upon him with eyes strangely dilated, and darkly bright.
“How are you?” she asked softly.
“I’m all right, thank you, lass,” answered Jonathan.
Colonel Zane contrived, with inimitable skill, to get Betty, Will, Silas, Bessie and the others interested in some remarkable news he had just heard, or made up, and this left Jonathan and Helen comparatively alone for the moment.
The wise old colonel thought perhaps this might be the right time. He saw Helen’s face as she leaned over Jonathan, and that was enough for him. He would have taxed his ingenuity to the utmost to keep the others away from the young couple.
“I was so frightened,” murmured Helen.
“Why?” asked Jonathan.
“Oh! You looked so deathly — the blood, and that awful wound!”
“It’s nothin’, lass.”
Helen smiled down upon him. Whether or not the hurt amounted to anything in the borderman’s opinion, she knew from his weakness, and his white, drawn face, that the strain of the march home had been fearful. His dark eyes held now nothing of the coldness and glitter so natural to them. They were weary, almost sad. She did not feel afraid of him now. He lay there so helpless, his long, powerful frame as quiet as a sleeping child’s! Hitherto an almost indefinable antagonism in him had made itself felt; now there was only gentleness, as of a man too weary to fight longer. Helen’s heart swelled with pity, and tenderness, and love. His weakness affected her as had never his strength. With an involuntary gesture of sympathy she placed her hand softly on his.
Jonathan looked up at her with eyes no longer blind. Pain had softened him. For the moment he felt carried out of himself, as it were, and saw things differently. The melting tenderness of her gaze, the glowing softness of her face, the beauty, bewitched him; and beyond that, a sweet, impelling gladness stirred within him and would not be denied. He thrilled as her fingers lightly, timidly touched his, and opened his broad hand to press hers closely and warmly.
“Lass,” he whispered, with a huskiness and unsteadiness unnatural to his deep voice.
Helen bent her head closer to him; she saw his lips tremble, and his nostrils dilate; but an unutterable sadness shaded the brightness in his eyes.
“I love you.”
The low whisper reached Helen’s ears. She seemed to float dreamily away to some beautiful world, with the music of those words ringing in her ears. She looked at him again. Had she been dreaming? No; his dark eyes met hers with a love that he could no longer deny. An exquisite emotion, keen, strangely sweet and strong, yet terrible with sharp pain, pulsated through her being. The revelation had been too abrupt. It was so wonderfully different from what she had ever dared hope. She lowered her head, trembling.
The next moment she felt Colonel Zane’s hand on her chair, and heard him say in a cheery voice:
“Well, well, see here, lass, you mustn’t make Jack talk too much. See how white and tired he looks.”
CHAPTER XV
IN FORTY-EIGHT HOURS Jonathan Zane was up and about the cabin as though he had never been wounded; the third day he walked to the spring; in a week he was waiting for Wetzel, ready to go on the trail.
On the eighth day of his enforced idleness, as he sat with Betty and the colonel in the yard, Wetzel appeared on a ridge east of the fort. Soon he rounded the stockade fence, and came straight toward them. To Colonel Zane and Betty, Wetzel’s expression was terrible. The stern kindliness, the calm, though cold, gravity of his countenance, as they usually saw it, had disappeared. Yet it showed no trace of his unnatural passion to pursue and slay. No doubt that terrible instinct, or lust, was at white heat; but it wore a mask of impenetrable stone-gray gloom.
Wetzel spoke briefly. After telling Jonathan to meet him at sunset on the following day at a point five miles up the river, he reported to the colonel that Legget with his band had left their retreat, moving southward, apparently on a marauding expedition. Then he shook hands with Colonel Zane and turned to Betty.
“Good-bye, Betty,” he said, in his deep, sonorous voice.
“Good-bye, Lew,” answered Betty slowly, as if surprised. “God save you,” she added.
He shouldered his rifle, and hurried down the lane, halting before entering the thicket that bounded the clearing, to look back at the settlement. In another moment his dark figure had disappeared among the bushes.
“Betts, I’ve seen Wetzel go like that hundreds of times, though he never shook hands before; but I feel sort of queer about it now. Wasn’t he strange?”
Betty did not answer until Jonathan, who had started to go within, was out of hearing.
