Chapter 6. One evening, several days previous to the capture of the brothers, a solitary hunter stopped before a deserted long 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 mocus and defeat. 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 Delaware's. 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 smoldering 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 Hawkeye chief was dangerous. And he was right. Presently the stalward chief heard or saw a drop of water fall from the loft. It came from the hunter's wet coat. Almost anyone, say, of 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 eyes searched the wet clay floor, but hardly could have discovered anything there, because the hunter's moccasin 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. Ah, 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 pay-off face, 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 blistlessly 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 the horse 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. Two of the braves had been hurt in the brief struggle, one having a badly-wretched shoulder, and the other a broken arm, so much for the hunter's power in that single moment of action. The loft was searched and found to be empty. Then the excitement died away, and the braves settled themselves down for the night. The injured ones bore their hurts with characteristic stoicism. If they did not sleep, both remained quiet, and not a sigh escaped them. The wind changed during the night, the storm abated, and when daylight came the sky was cloudless. The first rays of the sun shone in the open door, lighting up the interior of the cabin. A sleepy Indian who had acted as guard stretched his limbs and yawned. He looked for the prisoner and saw him sitting up in the corner. One arm was free, and the other nearly so. He had almost untied the thongs which bound him. A few moments more, and he would have been free. Ah! exclaimed the young brave, a wagging his cheek and pointing to the hunter. The chief glanced at his prisoner, then looked more closely, and with one spring was on his feet a drawn tomahawk in his hand. A short shrill yell issued from his lips. Roused by that clarion call, the young braves jumped up, trembling in eager excitement. The chief summons had been the sharp war cry of the Delaware's. He manifested as intense emotion as could possibly have been betrayed by a matured, experienced chieftain, and pointing to the hunter, he spoke a single word. At noonday the Indians entered the fields of corn, which marked the outskirts of the Delaware entampment. Kalu Kalu Kalu! The long signal heralding the return of the party with important news, peeled throughout the quiet valley, and scarcely had the echoes died away when from the village came answering shouts. Once beyond the aisles of waving corn, the hunter saw over the shoulders of his captors the home of the red men. A grassy plain, sloping gradually from the woody hill to a winding stream, was brightly beautiful with justnut trees and long, well-formed lines of lodges. Many huge blankets hung fluttering in the sun, and rising lazily were curling columns of blue smoke. The scene was picturesque and reposeful, the vivid hues suggesting the Indians' love of color and ornament, the absence of life and stir, his languorous habit of sleeping away the hot noonday hours. The loud whoops, however, changed the quiet encampment into a scene of animation. Children ran from the wigwams, maidens and braves dashed here and there, squaws awakened from their slumber, and many a doubty warrior rose from his rest in the shade. French fur traders came curiously from their lodges, and renegades hurriedly left their blackets roused to instant action by the well-known summons. The hunter, led down the lane toward the approaching crowd, presented a calm and fearless demeanor. When the Indians surrounded him, one prolonged, furious yell ripped the air, and then followed an extraordinary demonstration of fierce delight. The young braves staccato yell, the maidens scream, the old squaws screech, and the deep war cry of the warriors intermingled in a fearful discordance. Often had this hunter heard the name which the Indian called him. He had been there before, the prisoner. He had run the gauntlet down the lane. He had been bound to a stake in front of the lodge, where his captors were now leading him. He knew the chief, Winganund, sachem of the Delaware's. Since that time, now five years ago, when Winganund had tortured him, they had been bitterest foes. If the hunter heard the horse cries or the words hissed into his ears, if he saw the fiery glances of hatred and sudden giving way at one governable rage, unusual to the Indian nature, if he felt in their fierce exultation the hopelessness of succor or mercy, he gave not the slightest sign. Atalang, atalang, atalang, rang out the strange Indian name. The French traders, like real savages, ran along with the procession, their feathers waving, their paint shining, their faces expressive of as much excitement as the Indians as they cried aloud in their native tongue, Le vent de l'amour, le vent de l'amour, le vent de l'amour. The hunter, while yet some paces distant, saw the lofty figure of the chieftain standing in front of his principal men. Well, he knew them all. There were the crafty pipe, and his savage comrade, the half-king. There was Sengis, who wore on his forehead a scar, the mark of the hunter's bullet. There were Kotaksin, the lynx, and Miseppa, the source, and when Stona, the war cloud, chiefs of sagacity and renown. Three renegades completed the circle, and these three traders represented a power which had for ten years left an awful bloody trail over the country.  Elliott, the Tory deserter from Fort Pitt, a wiry spider-like little man, and last the gaunt and glottily arrayed form of the demon of the frontier, Jim Gertie. The procession halted before this group, and two brawny braves pushed the hunter forward. Simon Gertie's face betrayed satisfaction. Elliott's shifty eyes snapped, and the dark, repulsive face of the other Gertie exhibited an exultant joy. These desperados had feared this hunter. Weiganand, with the majestic wave of his arm, silenced the yelling horde of frenzied savages and stepped before the captive. The deadly foes were once again face-to-face. The chieftain's lofty figure and dark-sleeaked head, now bare of plumes, towered over the other Indians, but he was not obliged to lure his gaze in order to look straight into the hunter's eyes. Verily this hunter merited the respect which shone in the great chieftain's glance. Like a mountain ash he stood, straight and strong, his magnificent frame tapering wedge-like from his broad shoulders. The bulging line of his thick neck, the deep chest, the knotty contour of his bared forearm, and the full curves of his legs all denoted a wonderful muscular development. The power expressed in this man's body seemed intensified in his features. His face was white and cold, his jaw square and set, his cold black eyes glittered with almost a superhuman fire, and his hair, darker than the wing of a crow, fell far below his shoulders, matted and tangled as it was, still it hung to his waist, and had it been combed out, must have reached his knees. One long moment Winganon stood facing his foal, and then over the multitude and through the valley rose his sonorous voice. Death-wind dies at dawn. The hunter was tied to a tree and left in view of the Indian populace. The children ran fearfully by. The brave skazed long at the great foe of their race. The warriors passed in gloomy silence. The savages' tricks of torture, all their diabolical ingenuity of inflicting pain, was suppressed, awaiting the hour of sunrise, when this hated long knife was to die. Only one person offered an insult to the prisoner. He was a man of his own color. Jim Gertie stopped before him, his yellowish eyes lighted by a tigerish glare, his lips curled in a snarl, and from between them issuing the odor of the fur trader's vile rum. He'll soon be feed for the buzzards, he croaked in his hoarse voice. He had so often strewn the plains with human flesh for the carrion-birds that the thought had a deep fascination for him. Dear hear, scalp-hunter, feed for buzzards! He deliberately spat in the hunter's face. Dear hear, he repeated! There was no answer save that which glittered in the hunter's eye, but the renegade could not read it because he did not meet that flaming glance. Wild horses could not have dragged him to face this man had he been free. Even now a chill crept over Gertie. For a moment he was enthralled by a mysterious fear, half paralyzed by a foreshadowing of what would be this hunter's vengeance. Then he shook off his craven fear. He was free, the hunter's doom was sure. His sharp face was again wreathed in a savage lure, and he spat once more on the prisoner. His fierce impetuousity took him a step too far. The hunter's arms and waist were fastened, but his feet were free. His powerful leg was raised suddenly, his foot struck Gertie in the pit of the stomach, the renegade dropped limp and gasping. The braves carried him away, his gaudy feathers trailing, his long arms hanging inertly, and his face distorted with agony. The maidens of the tribe, however, showed for the prisoner an interest that had in it something of veiled sympathy. Indian girls were always fascinated by white men. Many records of Indian maidens' kindness, of love, of heroism for white prisoners, brightened the dark pages of frontier history. These girls walked past the hunter, averting their eyes when within his range of vision, but stealing many a side-long glance at his impressive face and noble proportions. One of them particularly attracted the hunter's eye. This was because, as she came by with her companions, while they all turned away, she looked at him with her soft, dark eyes. She was a young girl whose delicate beauty bloomed fresh and sweet as that of a wild rose. Her costume, fringed, beaded, and exquisitely rocked with fanciful design, retained her rank. She was Winganon's daughter. The hunter had seen her when she was a child, and he recognized her now. He knew that the beauty of Eola, of whispering winds among the leaves, had been sung from the Ohio to the Great Lakes. Often she passed him that afternoon. At sunset, as the braves untied him and led him away, he once more caught the full intense gaze of her lovely eyes. That night, as he lay securely bound in the corner of a lodge, and the long hours wore slowly away, he strained at his stout bonds, and in his mind revolved different plans of escape. It was not in this man's nature to despair. While he had life, he would fight. From time to time he expanded his muscles, striving to loosen the wet buckskin bongs. The dark hours slowly passed. No sound coming to him saved the distant bark of a dog and the monotonous tread of his guard. A dim grayness pervaded the lodge. Dawn was close at hand. His hour was nearly come. Suddenly his hearing, trained to a most acute sensibility, caught a faint sound, almost inaudible. It came from without on the other side of the lodge. There it was again a slight tearing sound, such as is caused by a knife when it cuts through soft material. Someone was slitting the wall of the lodge. The hunter rolled noiselessly over and over until he lay against the skins. In the dim grayness he saw a bright blade moving carefully upward through the deer hide. Then a long knife was pushed into the opening. A small, brown hand grasped the hilt. Another little hand followed and felt of the wall and floor reaching out with throbbing fingers.  He felt the little hand on his arm. Then it slipped down to his wrists. The contact of cold steel set a trimmer of joy through his heart. The pressure of his bonds relaxed, ceased. His arms were free. He turned to find the long-bladed knife on the ground. The little hands were gone. In a twinkling he rose, unbound, armed, desperate. In another second an Indian warrior lay upon the ground and his death rose. While a fleeing form vanished in the gray morning mist. End of Chapter 6 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Chapter 7 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson Chapter 7 Joe felt the heavy lethargy rise from him like the removal of a blanket. His eyes became clear and he saw the trees and the forest gloom. Slowly he realized his actual position. He was a prisoner lying helpless among his sleeping captors. Silver tip and the guard had fled into the woods, frightened by the appalling moan which they believed sounded their death knell. And Joe believed he might have fled himself had he been free. What could have caused that sound? He fought off the numbing chill that once again began to creep over him. He was wide awake now, his head was clear, and he resolved to retain his senses. He told himself there could be nothing supernatural in that wind or whale or whatever it was which had risen murmuring from out the forest depths. Yet, despite his reasoning, Joe could not allay his fears. That thrilling cry haunted him. The frantic flight of an Indian brave, may have a cunning experienced chief, was not to be lightly considered. The savages were at home in these untracked wilds, trained from infancy to sent danger and to fight when they had an equal chance they surely would not run without good cause. Joe knew that something moved under those dark trees. He had no idea what. It might be the fretting night wind or a stealthy prowling soft-footed beast or a savage alien to these wild Indians and wilder than they by far. The chirp of a bird awoke the stillness. Night had given way to morning. Welcoming the light that was chasing away the gloom, Joe raised his head with a deep sigh of relief. As he did so, he saw a bush move. Then a shadow seemed to sink into the ground. He had seen an object lighter than the trees, darker than the gray background. Again that strange sense of the nearness of something thrilled him. Moments passed. To him, long as hours, he saw a tall fern waver and tremble. A rabbit or perhaps a snake had brushed it. Other ferns moved. Their tops agitated perhaps by a faint breeze. No, that wavering line came straight toward him. It could not be the wind. It marked the course of a creeping noiseless thing. It must be a panther calling nearer and nearer. Joe opened his lips to awaken his captors, but could not speak. It was as if his heart had stopped beating.  Brony shoulders were appraised and then a tall, powerful man stood revealed. Lightly he stepped over the leaves into the little glade. He bent over the sleeping Indians. Once, twice, three times a long blade swung high. One brave shuddered, another gave a sobbing gasp, and the third moved two fingers. Thus they passed from life to death. What's all, cried Joe? I reckon so, said the leverer, his deep calm voice contrasting strangely with what might have been expected from his aspect. Then seeing Joe's head covered with blood, he continued, able to get up. I'm not hurt, answered Joe, rising when his bonds had been cut. Brothers, I reckon, Wetzel said, bending over Jim. Yes, we're brothers. Wake up, Jim. Wake up. We're saved. What? Who's that? cried Jim, sitting up and staring at Wetzel. This man has saved our lives. See, Jim, the Indians are dead. And, Jim, it's Wetzel the Hutter. You remember, Jeff Linn said, I'd know him if I ever saw him. And what happened to Jeff, inquired Wetzel, interrupting. He had turned from Jim's grateful face. Jeff was on the first raft, and for all we know, he's now safe at Fort Henry. Our steersman was shot, and we were captured. As the Shawnee anything against you boys. Why, yes, I guess so. I played a joke on him, took his shirt, put it on another fellow. Might just as well kick an engine. What is he again, you? I don't know. Perhaps he did not like my talk to him, answered Jim. I am a preacher, and have come west to teach the gospel to the Indians. Very good Indians now, said Wetzel, pointing to the prostrate figures. How did you find us, eagerly asked Joe? Run across your trail, two days back. And you've been following this, the Hutter nodded. Did you see anything of another band of Indians? A tall chief, and Jim Gertie were among them. They'd been after me for a few days. I was following you when Silver Tip got wind of Gertie and his Delaware's. The big chief was Wingenand. I seen you pull Gertie's snows. Harder the Delaware's went, I turned, loosed your dog and horse and lit out on your trail. Oh, where are the Delaware's now? I reckon they're nosing my back trail. We must be getting. Silver Tip will soon have a lot of engines here. Joe intended to ask the hunter about what had frightened the Indians, but despite his eager desire for information, he refrained from doing so. Gertie and I did for you, remarked Wetzel, examining Joe's wound. He's in a bad humor. He got kicked a few days back.  Somebody'll have to suffer. Well, you fellas, grab your rifles and we'll be starting for the fort. Joe shuddered as he leaned over one of the desky forms to detach powder and bullet horn. He had never seen a dead Indian, and the tense face, the sightless vacant eyes, made him shrink. He shuddered again when he saw the hunter scalp his victims. He shuddered the third time when he saw Wetzel pick up Silver Tip's beautiful white eagle plume, dabble it in a pool of blood, and stick it in the bark of a tree. Bereft of its graceful beauty, drooping with its gory burden, the long feather was a deadly message. It had been Silver Tip's pride. It was now a challenge, a menace to the Shawnee chief. Come, said Wetzel, leading the way into the forest. Shortly after daylight on the second day following the release of the Downs' brothers, the hunter brushed through a thicket of alder and said, Vars Fort Henry, the boys were on a summit of a mountain from which the land sloped at a long incline of rolling ridges and gentle valleys like a green bellowy sea until it rose again abruptly into a peak higher still than the one upon which they stood. The broad Ohio, glistening in the sun, lay at the base of the mountain. Upon the bluff overlooking the river and under the brow of the mountain, lay the frontier fort. In the clear atmosphere it stood out in bold relief. A small, low structure surrounded by a high, stockade fence was all, and yet it did not seem unworthy of its fame.  The whole effect was one of menace, as if the fort sent out a defiance to the wilderness and meant to protect the few dozen log cabins clustered on the hillside. How will we ever get across that big river, asked Jim practically. Wade of Swim answered the hunter leconically and began the descent of the ridge. An hour's rapid walking brought the three to the river. Depositing his rifle in a clump of wellows and directing the boys to do the same with their guns, the hunter splashed into the water. His companions followed him into the shallow water and waded a hundred yards which brought them near the island that they now perceived hid the fort. The hunter swam the remaining distance and, climbing the bank, looked back for the boys. They were close behind him. Then he strode across the island, perhaps a quarter of a mile wide. Riva long swam here, said Wetzel, waving his hand toward the main channel of the river. Good for it, he inquired of Joe, since Jim had not received any injuries during the short captivity and consequently showed more endurance. Good for anything, answered Joe, with that coolness Wetzel had been quick to observe in him. The hunter cast a sharp glance at the land's haggard face, his bruised temple, and his hair matted with blood. With that look he read Joe thoroughly. Had the young man known the result of that scrutiny he would have been pleased as well as puzzled, for the hunter had said to himself, a brave lad on the border fevers on him. Swam close to me, said Wetzel, and he plunged into the river. The task was accomplished without accident. See the big cabin there on the hillside? There's Colonel Zane in the door, said Wetzel. As they neared the building several men joined the one who had been pointed out as the Colonel. It was evident the boys were the subject of their conversation. Presently Zane left the group and came toward them. The brothers saw a handsome stalwart man in the prime of life. Well, Lou, what luck! he said to Wetzel. Not much, I treed five engines and two got away, answered the hunter as he walked toward the fort. The lads welcomed to Fort Henry, said Colonel Zane, a smile lighting his dark face. The others of your party arrived safely. They certainly will be overjoyed to see you. Colonel Zane, I had a letter from my uncle to you, replied Jim. But the Indians took that and everything else we had with us. Oh, never mind the letter. I knew your uncle and your father too. Come into the house and change those wet clothes.  Who gave you that? Jim Gertie. What? exclaimed the Colonel. Jim Gertie did that. He was with a party of Delaware's who ran across us. They were searching for Wetzel. Gertie with the Delaware's? The devil's to pay now. And you say hunting Wetzel? I must learn more about this. It looks bad. But tell me, how did Gertie come to strike you? I pulled his nose. You did? Good, good, cried Colonel Zane heartily. Bye, George, that's great. Tell me, but wait until you are more comfortable. Your packs came safely on Jeff's raft, and you will find them inside. As Joe followed the Colonel, he heard one of the other men say, Like as two peas in a pod. Farther on he saw an Indian standing a little apart from the others. Hearing Joe's slight exclamation of surprise, he turned, Disclosing a fine manly countenance characterized by calm dignity. The Indian read the boy's thought. Err, a friend, he said in English. Oh, that's my Shawnee guide. Tommy Pomehala. He's a good fellow, although Jonathan and Wetzel declared the only good Indian is a dead one. Come right in here. There are your packs, and you'll find water outside the door. Thus saying, Colonel Zane led the brothers into a small room, Brought out their packs, and left them. He came back presently with a couple of soft towels. Now you lads, fix up a bit, and come out and meet my family, And tell us all about your adventure. By that time dinner will be ready. Gee, Minnie, don't that towel remind you of homes, Said Joe, when the Colonel had gone? From the looks of things Colonel Zane means to have comfort here in the wilderness. He struck me as being a fine man. The boys were indeed glad to change the few articles of clothing the Indians had left them, And when they were shaved and dressed, they presented an entirely different appearance. Once more they were twin brothers in costume and feature. Joe contrived by brushing his hair down on his forehead to conceal the discolored bump. I think I saw a charming girl observe Joe. Suppose you did, what then? Asked Jim severely. Why, nothing. See here, mate, I admire a pretty girl if I want. No, you may not.  I should think the thought of Miss Wells. Look here, Jim. She don't care. At least it's very little she cares. And I'm not worthy of her. Turn around and face me, said the young minister sharply. Joe turned and looked in his brother's eyes. Have you trifle with her as you have with so many others? Tell me, I know you don't lie. No. Then what do you mean? Well, nothing much, Jim, except I'm really not worthy of her.   Never mind me, see here, don't you admire her? Why, yes, stammered Jim, fleshing a dark, guilty red at the direct question. Who could help admiring her? That's what I thought, and I know she admires you for qualities which I lack. Nell's like a tender vine just beginning to creep around and cling to something strong. She cares for me, but her love is like the vine. It may hurt her a little to tear that love away, but it won't kill her. And in the end it will be best for her. You need a good wife. What could I do with the woman? Go in and win her, Jim. Joe, you're sacrificing yourself again for me, cried Jim, white to the lips. It's wrong to yourself and wrong to her. I tell you, enough. Joe's voice cut in cold and sharp. Usually you influence me, but sometimes you can't. I say this. Nell will drift into your arms as surely as the leaf falls. It will not hurt her, will be best for her. Remember, she is yours for the winning. You do not say whether that will hurt you, whispered Jim. Come, we'll find Colonel Zane, said Joe, opening the door. They went out in the hallway which opened into the yard, as well as the larger room through which the Colonel had first conducted them. As Jim, who was in advance, passed into this apartment, the trim figure entered from the yard. It was Nell, and she ran directly against him. Her face was flushed, her eyes were beaming with gladness, and she seemed the incarnation of girlish joy. Oh, Joe was all she whispered. But the happiness and welcome in that whisper could never have been better expressed in longer speech.  It all happened with a quickness of thought. In a single instant Jim saw the radiant face, the outstretched hands, and heard the glad whisper. He knew that she had again mistaken him for Joe. But for his life he could not draw back his head. He had kissed her.  You're mistaken again. I'm Jim, he whispered. For a moment they stood staring into each other's eyes, slowly awakening to what had really happened. Slowly conscious of a sweet alluring power. Then Colonel Zane's cheery voice rang in their ears. Oh, here's Nelly and your brother. Now, let's tell me which is which. That's Jim, and I'm Joe, answered the latter. He appeared not to notice his brother, and his greeting to Nell was natural and hearty. For the moment she drew the attention of the others from them. Joe found himself listening to the congratulations of a number of people. Among the many names he remembered were those of Mrs. Zane, Silas Zane, and McCulloch. Then he found himself gazing at the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life. My only sister, Mrs. Shalford Clark, wants Betty Zane and the heroine of Fort Henry, said Colonel Zane proudly with his arm around the slender, dark-eyed girl. I would brave the Indians and the wilderness again for this pleasure, replied Joe gallantly, as he bowed low over the little hand she cordially extended. The best is dinner ready, inquired Colonel Zane of his comely wife. She nodded her head, and the Colonel led the way into the adjoining room. I know you boys must be hungry as bears. During the meal Colonel Zane questioned his guests about their journey, and as to the treatment they had received at the hands of the Indians. He smiled at the young minister's earnestness in regard to the conversion of the red men, and he laughed outright when Joe said he guessed he came to the frontier because it was too slow at home. I am sure your desire for excitement will soon be satisfied, if indeed it be not so already, remarked the Colonel, but as to the realization of your brother's hopes I am not so sanguine. Undoubtedly the Moravian Mysteries have accomplished wonders with the Indians. Not long ago I visited the village of Peace, the Indian name for the mission, and was struck by the friendliness and industry which prevailed there. Truly it was a village of peace. Yet it is almost too early to be certain the permanent success of this work. The Indian's nature is one hard to understand. He is naturally roving and restless, which, however, may be owing to his habit of moving from place to place in search of good hunting grounds. I believe, though I must confess I haven't seen any pioneers who share my belief, that the savage has a beautiful side to his character. I know of many noble deeds done by them, and I believe if they are honestly dealt with they will return good for good. There are bad ones, of course, but the French traders and men like the Gurdys have caused most of this long war. Jonathan and Wetzel tell me the Shaunis and Chippewas have taken the warpath again. Then the fact that the Gurdys are with the Delaware's is reason for alarm. We have been comparatively quiet here of late. Did you boys learn to what tribe your captors belong? Did Wetzel say? He did not. He spoke a little, but I will say he was exceedingly active, answered Joe with a smile. To have seen Wetzel fight Indians is something you are not likely to forget, said Colonel Zane Gremley. Now tell me, how did those Indians wear their scout-lock?  The remaining hair was twisted into a tuft, tied tightly, and into this had been thrust a couple of painted pins. When Wetzel scouted the Indians the pins fell out. I picked one up and found it to be bone. You will make a woodsman, that's certain, replied Colonel Zane. The Indians were Shaunis on the warpath. Well, we will not borrow trouble, for when it comes in the shape of Redskins, it usually comes quickly. Mr. Wetzel seemed anxious to resume the journey down the river, but I shall try to persuade him to remain with us awhile. Indeed, I am sorry I cannot keep you all here at Fort Henry, and more especially the girls. On the border we need young people, and while I do not want to frighten the women, I fear there will be more than Indians fighting for them. I hope not, but we have come prepared for anything, said Kate, with a quiet smile. Our home was with Uncle, and when he announced his intention of going west, we decided our duty was to go with him. You were right, and I hope you will find a happy home, rejoining Colonel Zane. If life among the Indians proves to be too hard, we shall welcome you here. Betty, show the girls your pets and Indian trinkets. I am going to take the boys to Silas' cabin to see Mr. Wells, and then show them over the fort. As they went out, Joe saw the Indian guide standing in exactly the same position as when they entered the building. Can't that Indian move, he asked curiously. He can cover one hundred miles in a day when he wants to, replied Colonel Zane. He is resting now, and Indian will often stand or sit in one position for many hours. He's a fine-looking chap, remarked Joe, and then to himself, but I don't like him. I guess I'm prejudiced. You'll learn to like Tomay, as we call him. Colonel Zane, I want a light for my pipe. I haven't had a smoke since the day we were captured. That blamed red skin took my tobacco. It's lucky I had some in my other pack. I'd like to meet him again, also silver-tipped in that brute dirty. My lad, don't make such wishes, said Colonel Zane earnestly. You were indeed fortunate to escape, and I can well understand your feelings. There's nothing I should like better than to see Gertie over the sights of my rifle. But I never hunt after danger, and to look for Gertie is to court death. But Wetzel, ah, my lad, I know. Wetzel goes alone in the woods. But then he is different from other men. Before you leave, I will tell you all about him. Colonel Zane went around the corner of the cabin and returned with a live coal on a chip of wood, which Joe placed in the bowl of his pipe, and because of the strong breeze, stepped close to the cabin wall. Being a keen observer, he noticed many small round holes in the logs. They were so near together that the timbers had an odd speckled appearance, and there was hardly a place where he could put his thumb without covering a hole. At first he thought they were made by a worm or bird, peculiar to that region. But finally he concluded that they were bullet holes. He thrust his knife blade into one, and out rolled a leadened ball. I'd like to have been here when these were made, he said. Well, at the time I wished I was back on the Potomac, replied Colonel Zane. They found the old missionary on the doorstep with the adjacent cabin. He appeared discouraged when Colonel Zane interrogated him, and said that he was impatient because of the delay. Mr. Wells, is it not possible that you underrate the danger of your enterprise? I fear not but the Lord, answered the old man. Do not you fear for those with you when on the Colonel earnestly? I am heart and soul with you in your work, but want to impress upon you that the time is not propitious. It is a long journey to the village, and the way is beset with dangers of which you have no idea. Will you not remain here with me for a few weeks, or at least until my scouts report? I thank you, but go I will. Then let me entreat you to remain here a few days, so that I may send my brother Jonathan and Wetzel with you. If any can guide you safely to the village apiece, it will be they. At this moment Joe saw two men approaching from the fort, and recognized one of them as Wetzel. He doubted not that the other was Lord Danmore's famous guide and hunter, Jonathan Zane. In features he resembled the Colonel, and was as tall as Wetzel, although not so muscular or wide of chest. Joe felt the same thrill he had experienced while watching the frontiersmen at Fort Pitt. Wetzel and Jonathan spoke a word to Colonel Zane and then stepped aside. The hunters stood wide and erect with the easy graceful poise of Indians. We'll take two canoes day after tomorrow, said Jonathan decisively to Colonel Zane. Have you a rifle for Wetzel? The Delaware's got his. Colonel Zane pondered over the question. Rifles were not scarce at the fort, but a weapon that Wetzel would use was hard to find. The hunter may have my rifle, said the old missionary. I have no use for a weapon with which to destroy God's creatures. My brother was a frontiersman. He left this rifle to me. I remember hearing him say once that if a man knew exactly the weight of lead and power needed, it would shoot absolutely true. He went into the cabin and presently came out with a long object wrapped in linseed cloths, unwinding the coverings he brought to view a rifle, the proportions of which caused Jonathan's eyes to glisten and brought an exclamation from Colonel Zane. Wetzel balanced the gun in his hands. It was fully six feet long. The barrel was large and the dark steel finally polished. The stock was black walnut ornamented with silver trimmings. Using Jonathan's powder flask and bullet pouch, Wetzel proceeded to load the weapon. He poured out a quantity of powder into the palm of his hand, performing the action quickly and dexterously, but was so slow while measuring it that Joe wondered if he were counting the grains. Next he selected a bullet out of a dozen which Jonathan held toward him. He examined it carefully and tried it in the muzzle of the rifle. Evidently it did not please him for he took another. Finally he scraped a bullet with his knife and placing it in the center of a small linseed rag, deftly forced it down. He adjusted the flint, dropped a few grains of powder in the pan, and then looked around for a mark at which to shoot. Joe observed that the hunters and Colonel Zane were as serious regarding the work as if, at that moment, some important issue depended upon the accuracy of the rifle. There, Lou, there's a good shot. It's pretty far even for you when you don't know the gun," said Colonel Zane, pointing toward the river. Joe saw the end of a log about the size of a man's head sticking out of the water, perhaps a hundred and fifty yards distant. He thought to hit it would be a fine shot but was amazed when he heard Colonel Zane say to several men who had joined the group that Wetzel intended to shoot at a turtle on the log. By straining his eyes, Joe succeeded in distinguishing a small lump, which he concluded was the turtle. Wetzel took a step forward. The long black rifle was raised with a stately sweep. The instant it reached a level, a thread of flame burst forth followed by a peculiarly clear ringing report. Did he hit it, asked Colonel Zane, eagerly as a boy? I allow he did, answered Jonathan. I'll go and see, said Joe. He ran down the bank along the beach and stepped on the log. He saw a turtle about the size of an ordinary saucer. Picking it up, he saw a bullet hole in the shell near the middle. The bullet had gone through the turtle and it was quite dead. Joe carried it to the waiting group. I allowed so, declared Jonathan. Wetzel examined the turtle and turning to the old missionary said, Your brother spoke the truth and I thank you for the rifle. End of Chapter 7 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Chapter 8 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. Chapter 8 So you want to know all about Wetzel, inquired Colonel Zane of Joe, when having left Jim and Mr. Wells, they returned to the cabin. I am immensely interested in him, replied Joe. Well, I don't think there's anything singular in that. I know Wetzel better, perhaps, than any man living. But I've seldom talked about him. He doesn't lack it. He is by birth a Virginian. I should say, forty years old. We were boys together and I'm a little beyond that age. He was like any of the lads, except that he excelled a soul in strength and agility. When he was nearly eighteen years old, a band of Indians, Delaware's, I think, crossed the border on a marauding expedition far into Virginia. They burned the old Wetzel homestead and murdered the father, mother, two sisters, and a baby brother. The terrible shock nearly killed Louis, who for a time was very ill. When he recovered, he went in search of his brothers, Martin and John Wetzel, who were hunting and brought them back to their desolated home. Over the ashes of the home and the graves of the loved ones, the brothers swore sleepless and eternal vengeance. The elder brothers had been devoted all these twenty years and more to the killing of Indians. But Louis has been the great foe of the red man. You've already seen an example of his deeds and we'll hear of more. His name is a household word on the border. Scorches of time she has saved actually saved this fort in its settlement. His knowledge of savage ways surpasses by far Boons, Major McCulloch's, Jonathan's, or any of the hunters. Then hunting Indians is his sole occupation. He lives for that purpose alone. He is very seldom in the settlement. Sometimes he stays here a few days, especially if he is needed, but usually he roams the forest. What did Jeff Lin mean when he said that some people think Wetzel is crazy? There are many who think the man mad, but I do not. When the passion for Indian hunting comes upon him, he is fierce, almost frenzied, yet perfectly sane. While here he is quiet, seldom speaks except when spoken to, and is taciturn with strangers. He often comes to my cabin and sits beside the fire for hours. I think he finds pleasure in the conversation and laughter of friends. He is fond of the children and would do anything for my sister Betty. His life must be lonely and sad, remarked Joe. The life of any border man is that, but Wetzel says particularly so. What is he called by the Indians? They call him Atalang, or in English, Deathwind. By George, that is what Silvertip said in French, Le Vendalabre. Yes, you have it right. A French fur trader gave Wetzel that name years ago, and it has clung to him. The Indians say the Deathwind blows through the forest whenever Wetzel stalks on their trail. Colonel Zane, don't you think me superstitious, whispered Joe, leaning toward the Colonel, that I heard that wind blow through the forest. What, ejaculated Colonel Zane, he saw that Joe was an earnest, for the remembrance of the moan had more than once paled his cheek and caused beads of perspiration to collect on his brow. Joe related the circumstances of that night, and at the end of his narrative Colonel Zane sat silent and thoughtful. You don't think it was Wetzel who moaned, he asked at length. No, I don't, replied Joe quickly, but Colonel Zane, I heard that moan as plainly as I could hear your voice. I heard it twice. Now, what was it? Jonathan said the same thing to me once. He had went out hunting with Wetzel. They separated, and during the night Jonathan heard the wind. The next day he ran across a dead Indian. He believes Wetzel makes the noise and so do the hunters. But I think it is simply the moan of the night wind through the trees. I have heard it at times when my very blood seemingly ran cold. Well, I tried to think it was the wind sowing through the pines, but I am afraid I didn't succeed very well. Anyhow, I knew Wetzel instantly just as Jeff Lynn said I would. He killed those Indians in an instant, and he must have an iron arm. Wetzel excels in strength and speed any man, red or white, on the frontier. He can run away from Jonathan, who is as swift as an Indian. He is stronger than any of the other men. I remember one day old Hugh Bennett's wagon wheels stuck in a bog down by the creek. Hugh tried, as several others did, to move the wheels, but they couldn't be made to budge. Along came Wetzel, pushed away the men, and lifted the wagon unaided. It would take hours to tell you about him. In brief, among all the border scouts and hunters, Wetzel stands alone. No wonder the Indians fear him. He is as swift as an eagle, strong as mountain ash, keen as a fox, and absolutely tireless and implacable. How long have you been here, Colonel Sane? More than twelve years, and it has been one long fight. I'm afraid I'm too late for the fun, said Joe, with his quiet laugh. Not by about twelve more years, answered Colonel Sane, studying expression on Joe's face. When I came out here years ago I had the same adventurous spirit which I see in you. It has been considerably quelled, however. I have seen many a daring young fellow get the border fever, and with it his death. Let me advise you to learn the ways of the hunters to watch someone skilled in woodcraft. Perhaps Wetzel himself will take you in hand. I don't mind saying that he spoke of you to me in a tone that I never heard Lou use before. He did, questioned Joe eagerly, fleshing with pleasure. Do you think he'd take me out? Dare I ask him? Don't be impatient. Perhaps I can arrange it. Come over here now to Metzer's place. I want to make you acquainted with him.  They've just come in for dinner. Be easy and quiet with them. Then you'll get on. I'm going to introduce Joe to five sturdy boys and left them in their company. Joe sat down on the log outside a cabin and leisurely surveyed the young men. They all looked about the same, strong without being heavy, light-haired, and bronze-faced. In their turn they carefully judged Joe. A newcomer from the East was always regarded with some doubt. If they expected to hear Joe talk much, they were mistaken. He appeared good-natured, but not too friendly. Fine weather were havin', said Dick Metzer. Fine, agreed Joe, iconically. Like frontier life? Sure. A silence ensued after this breaking of the ice. The boys were awaiting their turn at a little wooden bench upon which stood a bucket of water and a basin. Here you got, catched by some Shawnees, remarked another youth as he rolled up his shirt sleeves. They all looked at Joe now. It was not improbable their estimate of him would be greatly influenced by the way he answered this question. Yes, was captive for three days. Did you knock any redskins over? This question was artfully put to draw Joe out. Above all things, the border men detested mostfulness. Tried on Joe, the roosts failed signally. I was scared speechless most of the time, answered Joe with his pleasant smile. My gosh, I don't blame you, burst-out Will Metzer. I had that experience once and once enough. The boys laughed and looked in a more friendly manner at Joe. Though he said he had been frightened, his cool and careless manner belied his words. In Joe's low voice and clear gray eye, there was something potent and magnetic, which subtly influenced those with whom he came in contact. While his new friends were at dinner, Joe strolled over to where Colonel Zane sat on the doorstep of his home. How did you get on with the boys, inquired the Colonel? All right, I hope. Say, Colonel Zane, I'd like to talk to your Indian guide. Colonel Zane spoke a few words in the Indian language to the guide who left his post and came over to them. The Colonel then had a short conversation with him at the conclusion of which he pointed toward Joe. How do you shake, said Tomay, extending his hand? Joe smiled and returned the friendly hand-pressure. Shawnee, catch him, asked the Indian in his fairly intelligible English. Joe nodded his head while Colonel Zane spoke once more in Shawnee, explaining the cause of silver tips in the Mitty. Shawnee, chief, one bad engine, replied Tomay seriously. Silver tip, mad, thunder-mad, catch him, pale face, scalp, I'm sure. After giving this warning, the chief returned to his former position near the corner of the cabin. He can talk in English fairly well, much better than the Shawnee brave who talked with me the other day, observed Joe. Some of the Indians speak the language almost fluently, said Colonel Zane. You could hardly have distinguished Logan's speech from a white man's. Corn planter uses good English, as also does my brother's wife, a Wyandotte girl. Did your brother marry an Indian, and Joe plainly showed his surprise. Indeed, he did, and a most beautiful girl she is.  He was a captive among the Wyandottes for ten years. The chief's daughter, Mayura, loved him, tept him from being tortured, and finally saved him from the stake. Well, that floors me, said Joe. Yet I don't see why it should. I'm just surprised. Where's your brother now? He lives with the tribe. He and Mayura are working hard for peace. We are now on more friendly terms with the great Wyandottes, or Hurons as we call them, than ever before. Who is this big man coming from the fort? asked Joe suddenly, observing a stalwart frontiersman approaching. Major Sam McCulloch. He's the man who jumped his horse from yonder bluff. Jonathan and he had the same look, the same swing, observed Joe, as he ran his eye over the Major. His faded buckskin costume, beaded, fringed, and laced, was similar to that of the Colonel's brother. Powder flask and bullet pouch were made from cowhorns and slung around his neck on deer-hide strings. The hunting coat was unlaced, exposing, under the long, fringed borders, a tunic of the same, well-tanned, but finer and softer material. As he walked, the flaps of his coat fell back, showing a belt containing two knives, sheathed and heavy buckskin, and a bright tomahawk. He carried a long rifle in the hollow of his arm. These hunters have the same kind of buckskin suits, continued Joe. Still, it doesn't seem to me the clothes make the resemblance to each other. The way these men stand, walk, and act is what strikes me particularly, as in the case of Wetzel. I know what you mean, the flashing eye, the wrecked poise of expectation, and the springy step. Those, my lad, come from a life spent in the woods. Well, it's a grand way to live. Colonel, my horse is laid up, said Major McCulloch, coming to the steps. He bowed pleasantly to Joe. So you're going to Short Creek? You can have one of my horses, but first come inside and we'll talk over your expedition. The afternoon passed uneventfully for Joe. His brother and Mr. Wells were absorbed in plans for their future work, and Nell and Kate were resting. Therefore he was forced to find such amusement or occupation as was possible in or near the stockade. End of Chapter 8 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Chapter 9 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray. This Liber Vox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. Chapter 9 Joe went to bed that night with a promise to himself to rise early next morning, for he had been invited to take part in a raising, which term meant that a new cabin was to be erected, and such task was ever an event in the lives of the settlers. The following morning Joe rose early, dressing himself in a complete buckskin suit, for which he had exchanged his good garments of cloth. Never before had he felt so comfortable. He wanted to hop, skip, and jump. The soft undressed buckskin was as warm and smooth as silk plush, the weight so light, the moccasin so well-fitting and springy, that he had to put himself under considerable restraint to keep from cabering about like a frolic sum colt. The possession of this buckskin outfit and the rifle and accoutrements which went with the bargain marked the last stage in Joe's surrender to the border fever. The silent shaded glens, the mystery of the woods, the breath of this wild free life claimed him from this moment entirely and forever. He met the others, however, with a serene face, showing no trace of the emotion which welled up strongly from his heart. Nell glanced shyly at him. Kate playfully voiced her admiration. Jim met him with a brotherly ridicule which bespoke his affection as well as his amusement. But Colonel Zane, having once yielded to the same burning riotous craving for freedom which now stirred in the boy's heart, understood and felt warmly drawn toward the lad. He said nothing, though as he watched Joe his eyes were grave and kind. In his long frontier life where many a day measured the life and fire of ordinary years he had seen lad after lad go down before this forest fever. It was well, he thought, because the freedom of the soil depended on these wild, light-footed boys. Yet it always made him sad. How many youths, his brother among them, lay under the fragrant pine-needle carpet of the forest in their last earthly sleep. The raising brought out all the settlement, the women to look on and gossip while the children played, the men to bend their backs in the moving of the heavy timbers. They celebrated the erection of a new cabin as a noteworthy event. As a social function it had a prominent place in the settler's short list of pleasures. Joe watched the proceedings with the same pleasure and surprise he had felt in everything pertaining to border life. To him this log-raising appeared the hardest kind of labor. Yet it was planned these hardy men, these low-voiced women and married children regarded the work as something far more significant than the mere building of a cabin. After a while he understood the meaning of the scene. The kindred spirit, the spirit of the pioneer, drew them all into one large family. This was another cabin, another home, another advance toward the conquering of the wilderness for which these brave men and women were giving their lives. In the bright-eyed children's glee when they clapped their little hands at the mounting logs, Joe saw the progress, the march of civilization. Well, I'm sorry you're too leavist tonight, remarked Colonel Zayn to Joe as the young man came over to where he, his wife and sister watched the work. Jonathan said, all was ready for your departure at sundown. Do we travel by night? Indeed, yes, by lad. There are Indians everywhere on the river. I think, however, with Jack and Lou handling the paddles, you will slip by safely. The plan is to keep along the south shore all night, then cross over at a place called Gertys Point, where you are to remain in hiding during daylight. From there you paddle up Yellow Creek, then portage across country to the head of the Tuscarolas. Another night's journey will then bring you to the village of peace. Jim and Mr. Wells, with his nieces, joined the party now and all stood watching as the last logs were put in place. Colonel Zayn, my first log-raising, is an education to me, said the young minister in his earnest manner. This scene is so full of lies, that I'm not sure if I'll be able to tell you about it.  I never saw such goodwill among laboring men.  How he whistles as he swings his axe. Mr. Wells, does it not impress you? The pioneers must be brothers because of their isolation and peril. To be brothers means to love one another. To love one another is to love God. What you see in this fraternity is God. And I want to see the same beautiful feeling among the Indians. I have seen it, said Colonel Zayn to the old missionary. When I came out here alone, twelve years ago, the Indians were peaceable. If the pioneers had paid for land, as I paid cornplatter, there would never have been a border war. But no, the settlers must grasp every acre they could. If the pioneers had paid for land, as I paid cornplatter, no, the settlers must grasp every acre they could. Then the Indians rebelled. Then the Gurdys and their allies spread discontent.  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 Iran's, Delaware's, Shawnee's, and other western tribes have been demoralized by the French traders' rum, and incited to fierce hatred by Gurdys and his renegades. Your work at Nadenhutton must be among these hostile tribes, and it is surely a hazardous undertaking. My life is God's, remembered the old minister. No fear could assail his steadfast faith. Yeah, met strikes be you'd be more likely to impress these Indians, Colonel Jayne spoke of. If you'd get a suit like mine and wear a nice suit, 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 him. Well, well, let us hope for the best, said Colonel Jayne, 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 the embarrassed silence. A dozen joe looks 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 what on Jim, hesitatingly. I don't know why I took advantage of your mistaking me for Joe. If you only hadn't held up your mouth. No, I don't mean that, of course you don'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 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 rowing 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. End of Chapter 9 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray Recording by Leonard Wilson of Swinfield, Ohio. Chapter 10 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. Chapter 10. 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 blooming bulk of the fort above them faded into the obscured 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 moment the air might resound with a horrible Indian war hoop 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 ready glory when Wetzel ran his canoe into the bank just ahead of a sharp bend in the stream. Do we get out here as Jem seeing Jonathan turn his canoe toward Wetzel's? The village lies yonder round the bend answered the guide Wetzel cannot go there so I'll take you out there my canoe there's no room I'll wait replied Joe quietly Jem noticed 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 merchant canoes lay upon the well cleared banks a log bridge spanned the stream above the slight bridge of rising ground could be seen the poles of Indian tepees as the canoe graded 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 and the sunlight he was a singularly handsome child me bendy he lisp 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 Jem 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 trem little bark slipped out of sight around the bend presently its gray curved nose peeped from behind the willows and the canoe swept into view again there was only one person in it and that the guide where is my brother? asked Jem an 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 Jem 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 Jem his voice low and anxious they're gone canoe and all I knew Wetzel was going but I didn't calculate on the lag maybe he followed Wetzel maybe 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 Jem 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 plane and the center of which stood a wide low structure surrounded by log cabins and these in turn encircled by Indian tepees a number of large trees mostly full-follaged maples shaded the clearing the settlements warmed with Indians a few shrill hellos uttered by the first observers of the newcomers brought braves, maidens and children trooping toward the party with friendly curiosity Jonathan Zayn stepped before a cabin adjoining the large structure and called in at the open door a short stoop-shoulded white man clad in faded lensey appeared on the threshold his serious lined face had the unmistakable benevolent aspect peculiar to most teachers of the gospel Mr. Zeissberger I fetched to party from Fort Henry said Zayn indicating those he had guided then without another word never turning his dark face to the right or left he hurried down the lame through the throng of Indians Jem remembered as he saw the guide vanish over the bank of the creek that he had heard Colonel Zayn 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 talus to them there could be no discrimination an Indian was an Indian Mr. Wells welcome to the village of peace exclaimed Mr. Zeissberger ringing 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 Downes 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 you and shower my cabin I 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. Zeissberger 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 chanks 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. Zeissberger certainly we have been blessed with God then the missionary began a long detailed account of the Moravian missions efforts among the western tribes the work lay chiefly among the Delaware's a noble nation of red men intelligent and wonderfully susceptible to the teaching of the gospel among the eastern Delaware's living on the other side of the Allegheny Mountains the missionaries had succeeded in converting many and it was chiefly through the western explorations of Frederick Post that his church decided the Indians of the west could as well be taught to lead Christian lives the first attempt to convert the western red men took place upon the upper Allegheny where many Indians including a la May we a blind Delaware chief accepted the faith the mission decided however it would be best to move farther west where the Delaware said migrated and were more numerous in April 1770 more than 10 years before 16 canoes filled with converted Indians and missionaries drifted down the Allegheny to Fort Pitt that's down the Ohio to the Big Beaver up that stream and far into the Ohio wilderness upon a tributary of the Muskingong called the Tuscarovus a settlement was founded near and far the news was circulated red men from all tribes came flocking to the new colony chiefs and warriors squaws and matins were attracted by the new doctrine of the converted Indians they were astonished at the missionaries teachings many doubted some were converted all listened great excitement prevailed but no clicky con one of the wisest chiefs of the turtle tribe of the Delaware's became a convert to the pale faces religion the interest widened and in a few years a beautiful prosperous town arose which was called village of peace the Indians of the warlike tribes bestowed the appropriate name the vast forests were rich in every variety of game the deep swift streams were teeming with fish meat and grain in abundance buckskin for clothing and soft furs for winter garments were to be had for little labor at first only a few wigwams were erected soon a large log structure was thrown up and used as a church then followed a school a mill and a workshop the verdant fields were cultivated and surrounded by rail fences horses and cattle grazed with the timid deer on the grassy plains the village of peace blossomed as arose the reports of the love and happiness existing in this converted community spread from mouth to mouth from town to town with the result that inquisitive savages journeyed from all points to see this haven peaceful and hostile Indians were alike amazed at the change in their brethren the good fellowship and industry of the converts had a widespread and wonderful influence more perhaps than any other thing the great fields of waving corn the hills covered with horses and cattle those evidences of abundance impressed the visitors with the well-being of the Christians bands of traveling Indians whether friendly or otherwise were treated with hospitality and never sent away empty-handed they were asked to partake of the abundance and solicited to come again the feature by no means insignificant in the popularity of the village was the church bell the Indians loved music and this bell charmed them on still nights the savages and distant towns could hear at dusk the deep-toned mellow notes of the bell summoning the worshippers to the evening service its ringing clang so strange so sweet so solemn breaking the vast dead wilderness quiet haunted the savage year as though it were a call from a woodland god you have arrived most opportunely continued Mr. Zeisberger Mr. Edwards and Mr. Young are working to establish other missionary posts Heckevelder is here now in the interest of this branching out how long will it take me to learn the Delaware language inquired Jim not long you do not however need to speak the Indian tongue for we have excellent interpreters we heard much at Fort Pitt and Fort Henry about the danger as well as uselessness of our venture Jim continued the frontiersmen declared that every route of the way was beset with savage foes and that even in the unlikely event of our arriving safely at the village apiece we would then be hemmed in by fierce vengeful tribes hostile savages are bound here of course but we do not fear them we invite them our work is to convert the wicked to teach them to lead good useful lives we will succeed Jim could not help warming to the minister for his unswervable faith his earnest belief that the work of God could not fail nevertheless while he felt no fear and intended to put all his heart in the work he remembered with disquietude Colonel Zane's warnings he thought of the wonderful precaution and eternal vigilance of Jonathan and Wetzel men of all men who most understood Indian craft and cunning it might well be possible that these good missionaries wrapped up in saving the souls of these children of the forest so full of God's teachings as to have little mind for ought else had no knowledge of the Indian nature beyond what the narrow scope of their work invited if what these frontiers men asserted was true then the minister's zeal had struck them blind Jim had a growing idea of the way in which the savages could be best taught he resolved to go slowly to study the red men's natures not to preach one word of the gospel to them until he had mastered their language and could convey to their simple minds the real truth he would make Christianity as clear to them as were the deer trails on the moss and leaves of the forest ah here you are I hope you have vested well said Mr. Zeitsberger when at the conclusion of this long recital Mel and Kate came into the room thank you we feel much better answered Kate the girls certainly looked refreshed the substitution of clean gowns for their former travel stained garments made a change that called forth the minister's surprise and admiration my my won't Edwards and young beg me to keep them here now he exclaimed his pleased eyes resting on Nells picket beauty and Tate's noble proportions and rich coloring come I will show you always a village of peace are all these Indians Christians asked Jim no indeed these engines you see here and out yonder under the shade though they are friendlies they are not Christians our converts employs themselves in the fields or shops come take a peep in here this is where we preach in the evenings and during inclement weather on pleasant days we use some April growth longer Jim and the others looked in at the door of the large log structure they saw an immense room the floor covered with benches and a raised platform at one end a few windows led in the light spacious and barn like was this apartment but undoubtedly seen through the beaming eyes of the missionary it was a grand amphitheater for worship the hard packed clay floor was velvet carpet the rude seats soft as iderdown the platform with a slight hook across an altar of marble and gold this is one of our shops said Mr. Seisberger leading them to a cabin here we make bones harness for the horses farming implements everything useful that we can we have a forge here behold an Indian blacksmith the interior of the large cabin presented a scene of bustling activity 20 or more Indians spent their backs in earnest employment in one corner a savage stood holding a piece of red hot iron on an anvil while a brawny brave wielded a sledgehammer the sparks flew the anvil rang in another corner a circle of brave sat around a pile of dried grass and flags they were twisting and fashioning these materials into baskets at a bench three Indian carpenters were pounding and sawing young braves ran back and forth carrying pails rough humor boards and blocks of wood instantly struck by two things Jim voiced his curiosity why do these Indians all wear long hair smooth and shiny without adornment they are Christians they wear neither headdress nor bonnet nor scalp lock replied Mr. Seisberger with unconscious pride I did not expect to see a blacksmith's anvil out here in the wilderness where did you procure these tools we have been years gathering them here some came by the way of the Ohio River others overland from Detroit that anvil has a history it was lost once and lay for years in the woods until some Indians found it again it is called a ringing stone and Indians come from miles around to see and hear it the mystery pointed out wide fields of corn now growing yellow and hillside started with browsing cattle broves of sturdy limbed horses and pins of fat granting pigs all of which attested to the growing prosperity of the village apiece on the way back to the cabin while the others listened to and questioned Mr. Seisberger Jim was silent and thoughtful for his thoughts reverted to his brother later as he walked with Nell by the golden fringed stream he spoke of Joe Joe wanted so much to hunt with Wetzel he will come back surely he will return to us when he has satisfied his wild craving for adventure do you not think so there was an eagerness that was almost pleading in Jim's voice what he so much hoped for that no harm had befallen Joe and that he would return he doubted he needed the encouragement of his hope never answered Nell solemnly oh why do you say that I saw him look at you a strange intent glance he gazed long at me as we separated oh I can feel his eyes no he will never come back Nell you do not mean he went away deliberately because oh I cannot say it for no reason except that the wilderness called him more than love for you or me no no return Jim his face white you do not understand he really loved you I know it he loved me too ah how well he has gone because I can't tell you oh Jim I hope he loved me sob now bursting into tears his coldness his neglect those last few days hurt me so if he cared as you say I won't be so miserable we are both right you when you say he will never return and I when I say he loved us both said Jim sadly as the bitter certainty forced itself into his mind as she sobbed softly and he gazed with set stern face into the darkening forest the deep mellow notes of the church bell peeled out so thrilled so startled were they by this melody wondrously breaking the twilight stillness that they gazed mutely at each other then they remembered it was the missionaries bell summoning the Christian Indians to the evening service and of chapter 10 of the spirit of the border by Zepter of the spirit of the border by Zane Gray recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio chapter 11 of the spirit of the border by Zane Gray this labor box recording is in the public domain recording by Leonard Wilson chapter 11 the sultry drowsy summer days passed with no untoward event to mar their slumbering tranquillity life for the newcomers to the village of peace brought a content the like of which they had never dreamed of Mr. Wells at once began active work among the Indians preaching to them through an interpreter Mel and Kate and hours apart from household duties visit themselves brightening their new abode and Jim entered upon the task of equating himself with the modes and habits of the red bin truly the young people might have found perfect happiness if only Joe had returned his disappearance and subsequent absence furnished a theme for many talks and many a quiet hour of dreamy sadness the fascination of his personality had been so impelling that long after it was withdrawn a charm lingered around everything which reminded them of him a subtle and sweet memory with perverse and half bitter persistence returned hauntingly no trace of Joe had been seen by any of the friendly Indian runners he was gone into the mazes of deep shattered forests where to hunt for him would be like striving to trail the flight of a swallow two of those he had left behind always remembered him and in their thoughts followed him in his wanderings Jim settled down to his study of Indians with single-heartedness a purpose he spent part of every morning with the interpreters with whose assistance he rapidly acquired the Delaware language he went freely among the Indians endeavoring to win their goodwill there were always 50 to 100 visiting Indians at the village sometimes when the missionaries had advertised a special meeting there were assembled in the shading maple grove as many as 500 savages Jim had therefore opportunities to practice his offices of friendliness fortunately for him he at once succeeded in establishing himself in the good graces of Glikikon the converted Delaware chief the wise old Indian was of an estimable value to Jim early in their acquaintance he evenced an earnest regard for the young minister and talked with him for hours from Glikikon Jim learned the real nature the Indians' love of freedom and honor his hatred of subjection and deceit as explained by the good old man recalled to Jim Colonel Zane's estimate of the savage character surely as the colonel had said the Indians had reason for their hatred of the pioneers truly they were a blighted race seldom had the rights of the red men been thought of the settler pushed onward applauding as it were behind his plow with a rifle he regarded the Indian as little better than a beast he was easier to kill than to tame how little the settler knew the proud independence the wisdom, the stainless chastity of honor which belongs so truly to many Indian chiefs the red men were driven like hounded deer into the untrodden wilds from free men of the forests from owners of the great boundless plains they passed to stern enduring fugitives on their own lands small wonder that they became cruel were once they had been gentle stratagem and cunning the night assault the daylight ambush took the place of their one-time open warfare their chivalrous courage that sublime inheritance from ancestors who had never known the pale face foe was generated into a savage ferocity interesting as was this history to Jim he cared more for Glickicon's rich portrayal of the red men's domestic life for the beautiful poetry of his tradition and legends he heard with delight the exquisite fanciful Indian lore from these romantic legends beautiful poems and marvelous myths he hoped to get ideas of the Indians religion sweet and simple as childless dreams were these quaint tales tales of how the woodland fairies dwelt in fern-carpeted dels how at sunrise they came out to kiss open the flowers how the forest walks were spirit-haunted paths how the leaves whispered poetry to the winds how the rocks harbored Indian gods and masters who watched over their chosen ones Glickicon wound up in his courses by declaring he had never lied and the whole course of his 70 years had never stolen never betrayed never murdered never killed save and self-defense gazing at the chief's fine features now calm yet showing traces of past storms Jim believed he spoke the truth when the young minister came however to study the hostile Indians that flocked to the village any conclusive delineation of character or any satisfactory analysis of their mental state in regard to the pale-faced religion eluded him their passive silent Sphinx-like secretiveness was baffling Glickicon had taught him how to propitiate the friendly braves and with these he was successful little he learned, however from the unfriendly ones when making gifts to these red men he could never be certain that his offerings were appreciated the jewels and gold he had brought west with him went to the French traders who in exchange gave him trinkets, baubles, bracelets, and weapons Jim made hundreds of presents boldly going up to be feathered and befringed at chieftains he offered them knives, hatchets or strings of silvery beads sometimes his kindly offerings were repelled with a haughty stare at other times they would be accepted coldly, suspiciously as if the gifts brought some unknown obligation for a white man it was a never-to-be-forgotten experience to see eight or ten of these grim slowly stepping forest kings arrayed in all the rich splendor of their costume stalking among the tepees of the village of peace somehow such a procession always made Jim shiver the singing, praying, and preaching they heard unmoved no emotion was visible on their bronzed faces nothing changed their unalterable mean had they not moved or gazed with burning eyes they would have been statues when these chieftains looked at the converted Indians some of whom were braves of their nations the contempt in their glances betrayed that they now regarded these Christian Indians as belonging to an alien race among the chiefs Glickacon pointed out to Jim were Winganund, the Delaware Telhane, the Half-King Shingus, and Catoxon all of the wolf tribe of the Delaware's Glickacon was careful to explain that the Delaware nation had been divided into the wolf and turtle tribes the former war-like people and the latter peaceable few of the wolf tribe had gone over to the new faith Winganund, the great power of the Delaware's indeed the greatest of all the western tribes maintained a neutral attitude toward the villager peace but it was well known that his right-hand war chiefs Pipe and Rustona remained coldly opposed Jim turned all he had learned over and over in his mind trying to construct part of it to fit into a sermon that would be different he did not want to preach far over their heads if possible he desired to keep to their ideals for he deemed them more beautiful on his own and to conduct his teaching along the simple lines of their belief so that when he stimulated and developed their minds he could pass from what they knew to the unknown Christianity of the white man his first address to the Indians was made one day during overworking himself and the absence of the other missionaries he did not consider himself at all ready for preaching and confined his efforts to simple earnest talk a recital of the thoughts he had assimilated while living here among the Indians amazement would not have described the state of his feelings when he learned that he had made a powerful impression the converts were loud in his praise the unbelievers in spite of himself long before he had been prepared he was launched on his teaching every day he was called upon to speak every day one savage at least was convinced every day the throng of interested Indians was augmented the elder missionaries were quite overcome with joy they pressed him day after day to speak until at length he alone preached during the afternoon service the news flew a pace the village of peace entertained more red men than ever before day by day the faith gained a stronger foothold a kind of religious trance affected some of the converted Indians and this greatly influenced the doubting ones many of them half believed the great Manitou had come Hecowelder the acknowledged leader of the western Moravian mission the village at this time and struck by the young missionary success arranged a three days religious festival Indian runners were employed to carry invitations to all the tribes the Wyandots in the west the Shaunis in the south and the Delaware's in the north were especially requested to come no deception was practiced to lure the distant savages to the village of peace they were asked to come partake of the feasts of the man's teaching end of chapter 11 of the spirit of the border by Zane Gray recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio


From the studios of books in motion. This is Chris Faulkner reading Wallaby track book for in the Outback saga by Aaron Fletcher Now let's begin with chapter one Like she usually did after attending to a childbirth through the night Stephanie Thorpe had fallen asleep while returning home Her horse accustomed to finding its own way to the house drew her buggy down the road at a slow walk a Wheel jolted through a deep rut waking her Stephanie sat up and yawned and then glancing around in the thin light of dawn. She saw splatters of dried blood at the edge of the road Jerking the reins to stop her horse Stephanie scrambled out of the buggy The lily-pilly brush and kangaroo grass beside the road were crushed down Someone had fallen into it bleeding profusely and then crawled into the thick trees and undergrowth back from the road Darkness lingered under the eucalyptus trees Cockatoos and other birds had roosed in them just starting to stir But Stephanie could see well enough to follow the trail of broken foliage as she stepped through the undergrowth Glimpsing a man on the ground ahead she rushed toward him He was on his stomach either dead or unconscious In the tradition of generations of women in her family Stephanie was trained in medicine as well as midwifery Kneeling beside the man she felt his pulse He was alive, but only barely his pulse weak and irregular She carefully turned him on to his back About 40 he was stalky and had craggy features that were ashen from blood loss His coat and shirt were soaked with blood two bullet holes in the right side of his coat Stephanie ran back to the buggy grabbed cotton compresses and bandage rolls out of her bag on the seat and returned to the man One wound was in his right shoulder and the other high in his chest She placed compresses over the wounds and hastily wrapped bandages around the man's chest in shoulder to hold him tightly in place And then she began dragging the man toward the buggy to take him home to her father who was a physician 23 years old Stephanie was tall and slender the man weighed over 50 pounds more than she But she had wiry strength and was accustomed to moving heavy patients about She backed slowly through the underbrush being as gentle as possible while pulling the man along the ground At her buggy Stephanie hoisted the man across the floor of the small vehicle Squeezing into the buggy with the man she grabbed the whip out of its socket on the splashboard She cracked the whip above the horse's back and it leapt into a brisk trot down the road Stephanie and her father lived in Wallaby track a rural district with a village as its civic center In a region once inhabited by large numbers of wallabies The district was named for the ancient animal path that ran through it The widespread community lay in a long broad valley flanking the Hawkesbury River With farms and sheep runs and cattle pastures covering the fertile land back from the river to the tree-crested hills Overlooking the valley dawn Brightened into daylight But the Sun was behind thick clouds on the cold winter day in June of 1845 Raw gusty wind shredded smoke rising from chimneys at farmhouses where people moved about at morning chores Stephanie's house was on the right side of the road that led up a slope to the village With the forest farther up the road in the village at the top of the hill When she turned in at her house a large half-timbered structure that had been a farmhouse Stephanie saw smoke rising from the kitchen chimney She and her father shared household tasks Dispensing with a maid or a cook and he was preparing breakfast Stephanie tethered her horse at the side of the house and dashed into the surgery formerly a parlor Father she called down the hall Father I found a wounded man and he's in my buggy. He's been shot Her father rushed up the hall from the kitchen following her outside to the buggy Stephen Thorpe a ranger man of 52 was the origin for Stephanie's tall slender form blue eyes and finally modeled features Along with their close physical resemblance They shared devoted love for each other and a total unstinting dedication to their profession Stephen leaned into the buggy checking the man's pulse I believe I know how this man was shot.