 CHAPTER 17 of THE SPIRIT OF THE BORDER by SANE GRAY This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Leonard Wilson. CHAPTER 17 Joe awoke as from a fearsome nightmare. Returning consciousness brought a vague idea that he had been dreaming of clashing weapons, of yelling savages, of a conflict in which he had been clutched by sinewy fingers, and acute pain pulsed through his temples. A bloody mist glazed his eyes. A sore pressure cramped his arms and legs. Surely he dreamed this distress as well as the fight. The red film cleared from his eyes. His wandering gaze showed the stern reality. The bright sun, making the dewdrops glisten on the leaves, lighted up a tragedy. Under him lay an Indian whose vacant sightless eyes were fixed in death. Beyond lay four more savages, the peculiar inert position of whose limbs, the formlessness as it were, as if they had been thrown from a great height and never moved again, attested that here too life had been extinguished. Joe took in only one detail, a cloven skull of the nearest, when he turned away, sickened. He remembered it all now. The advance, the rush, the fight, all returned. He saw again Wetzel's shadowy form darting like a demon into the whirl of conflict. He heard again that hoarse booming roar with which the Avenger accompanied his blows. Joe's gaze swept the glade, but found no trace of the hunter. He saw a silver tip and another Indian bathing a wound on Gertie's head. The renegade groaned and writhed in pain. Near him lay Kate, with white face and closed eyes. She was unconscious, or dead. Gemma sat crouched under a tree to which she was tied. Joe, are you badly hurt to ask the latter in deep solicitude? No, I guess not. I don't know, Wetzel, Joe. Is poor Kate dead? No, she has fainted. Where's Nell? Gone replied Gem, lowering his voice and glancing at the Indians. They were too busy trying to bandage Gertie's head to pay any attention to their prisoners. That whirlwind was Wetzel, wasn't it? Yes, how'd you know? I was awake last night. I had an oppressive feeling perhaps I'd presentiment. Anyway, I couldn't sleep. I heard that wind blow through the forest and thought my blood would freeze. The moan is the same as the night wind, the same soft sigh, only louder and somehow pregnant with superhuman power. To speak of it in broad daylight one seems superstitious, but to hear it in the darkness of this lonely forest it is fearful. I hope I am not a coward. I certainly know I was deathly frightened. No wonder I was scared. Look at these dead Indians all killed in a moment. I heard the moan, I saw silver tip disappear, and the other two savages rise. Then something huge dropped from the rock. A bright object seemed to circle round the savages. They uttered one short yell and sank to rise no more. Somehow at once I suspected that this shadowy form, with this lightning-like movements, its glittering hatchet, was Wetzel. When he plunged into the midst of the other savages I distinctly recognized him and saw that he had a bundle, possibly his coat wrapped round his left arm, and his right hand held the glittering tomahawk. I saw him strike that big Indian there, the one lying with split skull. His wonderful daring and quickness seemed to make the savages turn at random. He broke through the circle, swung nail under his arm, slashed at my bonds as he passed by, and then was gone as he had come. Not till after you were struck, and silver tip came up to me, was I aware my bonds were cut. Wetzel's hatchet had severed them. It even cut my side, which was bleeding. I was free to help to fight, and I did not know it, fool that I am. I made an awful mess of my part of the rescue, grown Joe. I wonder if the savages know it was Wetzel. Do they? Well, I rather think so. Did you not hear them scream that French name? As far as I am able to judge, only two Indians were killed instantly. The others died during the night. I had to sit here, tired and helpless, listening as they groaned and called the name of their slayer, even in their death-hose, death-wind. They have named him well. I guess he nearly killed Gertie. Evidently, but surely the evil one protects the renegade. I am Gertie's doomed, whispered Joe earnestly. He's as good as dead already. I've lived with Wetzel and know him. He told me Gertie had murdered a settler, a feeble old man who lived nearer Fort Henry with his son. The hunter has sworn to kill the renegade. But mind you, he did not tell me that. I saw it in his eyes. It when surprised me to see him jump out of these bushes at any moment. I'm looking for it. If he knows there are only three left, he'll be after them like a hound on a trail. Gertie must hurry. Where's he taking you? To the Delaware town. I don't suppose the chiefs will let any harm before you, but Kate and I would be better off dead. If we can only delay the march, Wetzel will surely return. Hush, Gertie's up. The renegade staggered to an upright position and leaned on the Shawnee's arm. Evidently he had not been seriously injured, only stunned. Covered with blood from a swollen, gashed lump on his temple, he certainly presented a savage appearance. Where the yellow hair of lash he demanded, pushing away Silverton's friendly arm, he glared around the glade. The Shawnee addressed him briefly, whereupon he raged to and fro under the tree, cursing with foam-flexed lips and actually hollowing with baffled rage. His fury was so great that he became sudden weak and was compelled to sit down. "'She's safe, you villainous renegade,' cried Joe. Hush, Joe, do not anger him. It can do no good,' interposed Jim. "'Why not? We couldn't be worse off,' answered Joe. "'I'll get her. I'll get her again,' tanked Gertie. "'I'll keep her, and she'll love me.'" The spectacle of this perverted wretch speaking as if he had been cheated out of love was so remarkable, so pitiful, so monstrous, that for a moment Joe was unfounded. "'Bah, you white-livered murderer, Joe Hiss!' He well knew it was not wise to give way to his passion. But he could not help it. This beast and human guys whining for love maddened him. Any white woman on earth would die a thousand deaths and burn for a million years afterwards, rather than love you. "'I'll see you kill at the stake, begging for mercy, and be feed for buzzards,' croaked the renegade. "'Then kill me now, or you may slip up on one of your cherished buzzard-feast,' cried Joe, with glinting eye and taunting voice. Then go sneaking back to your hole like a hyena, and stay there. Wetzel is on your trail. He missed you last night, but it was because of the girl. He's after you, Gertie. He'll get you one of these days. When he does, my God!' Nothing could be more revolting than that smartly evil face turned pale with fear. Gertie's visage was a ghastly-livered white. So earnest, so intense was Joe's voice, that it seemed to all as if Wetzel was about to dart into the glade, with his avenging tomahawk uplifted, to wreak an awful vengeance on the abductor. The renegade's white-craven heart contained no such thing as courage. If he ever fought, it was like a wolf backed by numbers. The resemblance ceased here, for even a cornered wolf will show his teeth, and Gertie, driven to bay, would have cringed and cowered. Even now, at the mention of Wetzel's enmity, he trembled. "'Outshet your wind,' he cried, catching up his tomahawk and making for Joe.' Silver-tip intervened and prevented the assault. He led Gertie back to his seat and spoke low, evidently trying to soothe the renegade's feelings. "'Silvertip, give me a tomahawk, and let me fight him,' implored Joe. Bare-faced, gray, black, ancient chief, pale-faced, Shawnee's prisoner, no-speak-more," answered Silver-tip, with respect in his voice. "'Oh, where's Nellie?' a grief-stricken whisper caught Jim's ear. He turned to see Kate's wide-questioning eyes fixed upon him. Nell was rescued. "'Thank God,' murmured the girl. "'Come along,' shouted Gertie in his harsh voice. As grasping Kate's arm, he pulled the girl violently to her feet. Then picking up his rifle, he led her into the forest. Silver-tip followed with Joe, while the remaining Indian guarded Jim. The great council lodge of the Delaware's rang with savage and fiery eloquence. Winganund paced slowly before the orators. Wise as he was, he wanted advice before deciding what was to be done with the missionary. The brothers had been taken to the chief, who immediately called a council. The Indians sat in a half-circle around the lodge. The prisoners, with hands bound, guarded by two brawny braves, stood in one corner, gazing with curiosity and apprehension at this formidable array. Jim knew some of the braves, but the majority of those who spoke bitterly against the palefaces had never frequented the village apiece. Nearly all were of the wolf tribe of Delaware's. Jim whispered to Joe, interpreting that part of the speeches bearing upon the disposal to be made of them. Two white men, dressed in Indian garb, held prominent positions before Winganund. The boys saw a resemblance between one of these men and Jim Gertie, and accordingly concluded he was the famous renegade, or so-called white Indian, Simon Gertie. The other man was probably Elliot, the Tory, with whom Gertie had deserted from Fort Pitt. Jim Gertie was not present. Upon nearing the encampment, he had taken his captive, and disappeared in a ravine. Shingis seldom in favor of drastic measures with prisoners, eloquently urged initiating the brothers into the tribe. Several other chiefs were favorably inclined, though not so positive as Shingis. Kotakson was for the death penalty, the implacable pipe for nothing less than burning at the stake. Kotakson was for returning the missionary to his Christian Indians. Gertie and Elliot, though requested to speak, maintained an ominous silence. Winganund strode with thoughtful mean before his council. He had heard all his wise chiefs and his fiery warriors. Supreme was his power. Freedom or death for the captives awaited the wave of his hand. His impassive face gave not the slightest inkling of what to expect. Therefore the prisoners were forced to stand there with robbing hearts while the chieftain waited the customary dignified interval before addressing the council. Winganund has heard the Delaware wise men and warriors. The white Indian opens not his lips. His silence moods evil through the pale faces. It wants the blood of the white men. The Shawnee chief demands the stake. Winganund says, free the white father who harms no Indian. Winganund hears no evil in the music of his voice. The white father's brother should die to the companion of death with him. A plaintiff murmur, remarkable when coming from an assembly of stern-browed chiefs, ran round the circle at the mention of the dread appellation. The white father is free, continued Winganund. Let one of my runners conduct him to the village of peace. They brave entered and touched him on the shoulder. Jim shook his head and pointed to Joe. The runner touched Joe. No, no, I'm not the missionary, cried Joe, staring aghast at his brother. Jim, have you lost your senses? Jim sadly shook his head and turning to Winganund, made known in a broken Indian dialect that his brother was the missionary and would sacrifice himself, taking this opportunity to practice the Christianity he had taught. The white father is brave, but he is known, broke in Winganund's deep voice, while he pointed to the door of the lodge. Let him go back to his Christian Indians. The Indian runner cut Joe's bonds and once more attempted to lead him from the lodge. Rage and misery shone in the lad's face. He pushed the runner aside. He exhausted himself, trying to explain to think of Indian words enough to show he was not the missionary. He even implored Gertie to speak for him. When the renegades sat there, stolidly silent, Joe's rage burst out. Curse you all for a lot of ignorant redskins. I am not a missionary. I am Deathwind's friend. I killed a Delaware. I was the companion of Levant de la More. Joe's passionate vehemence and the truth that spoke from his flashing eyes compelled the respect, if not the absolute belief of the Indians. The savages slowly shook their heads. They beheld the spectacle of two brothers, one a friend, the other an enemy of all Indians, each willing to go to the stake to suffer an awful agony for love of the other. Chivalrous deeds always stir an Indian's heart. It was like a red man to die for his brother. The indifference, the contempt for death, won their admiration. Let the white father's darned forth, sternly called Winganan. A hundred somber eyes turned on the prisoners, except that one wore a buckskin coat, the other a lensey one. There was no difference. The strong figures were the same. The white faces alike, the stern resolve in the gray eyes identical. They were twin brothers. Winganan once more paced before his silent chiefs, to deal rightly with the situation perplexed him. To kill both pale faces did not suit him. Only he thought of a way to decide. Let Winganan's daughter come, he ordered. A slight girlish figure entered. It was whispering winds. Her beautiful face glowed while she listened to her father. Winganan's daughter has her mother's eyes that were beautiful as a dose, thin as a hawk's, far-seeing as an eagle's. Let the Delaware maiden show her blood. Let her point out the white father. Shily but unhesitatingly, whispering winds slayed her hand on Jem's arm. Miserary, be gone, came the chief's command. Thank Winganan's daughter for your life, not the god of your Christians. He waved his hand as to the runner, the brave grasped Jem's arm. Good-bye, Joe, brokenly said Jem. Oh, fellow, good-bye, came the answer. They took one last long look into each other's eyes. Jem's glance betrayed his fear. He would never see his brother again. The light in Joe's eyes was the old steely flash, the indomitable spirit. While there was life, there was hope. Let the Shawnee chief paint his prison or black, commanded Winganan. When the missionary left the lodge with the runner, whispering winds and smile, for she had saved him whom she loved to hear speak. But the dread command that followed paled her cheek. Black paint meant hideous death. She saw this man so like the white father. Her piteous days tried to turn from that white face. But the cold, steely eyes fascinated her. She had saved one, only to be the other's doom. She had always been drawn toward white men. Many prisoners had she rescued. She had even befriended her nation's bitter foe, Deathwind. She had listened to the young missionary with rapture. She had been his savior. And now, when she looked into the eyes of this young giant, whose fate had rested on her all unwitting words, she resolved to save him. She had been a shy, shrinking creature, fearing to lift her eyes to a pale faces. But now they were raised clear and steadfast. As she stepped toward the captive and took his hand, her whole person radiated with conscious pride in her power. It was the knowledge that she could save. When she kissed his hand and knelt before him, she expressed a tender humility. She had claimed the unquestionable right of an Indian maiden. She had asked what no Indian dared refuse a chief's daughter. She took the pale face for her husband. Her action was followed by an impressive silence. She remained kneeling. When none resumed a slow march to and fro, silver-tipped retired to his corner with gloomy face. The others bowed their heads, as if the maiden's decree was irrevocable. Once more the chieftain's sonorous command rang out. An old Indian wrinkled and worn, weird of aspect, fanciful of attire, entered the lodge and waved his wampum wand. He mumbled strange words and departed, chanting a long song. Whispering winds arose, a soft radiant smile playing over her face, and still holding Joe's hand, she led him out of the lodge, through long rows of silent Indians, down a lane bordered by teepees, he following like one in a dream. He expected to awaken at any minute to see the stars shining through the leaves, yet he felt the warm, soft pressure of a little hand. Surely this slender, graceful figure was real. She bade him enter a lodge of imposing proportions, still silent, an amazement and gratitude he obeyed. The maiden turned to Joe, though traces of pride still lingered, all her fire had vanished, her bosom rose with each quick panting breath, her lips quivered, she trembled like a trapped doe. But at last the fluttering lashes rose, Joe saw two velvety eyes dark with timid fear, yet veiling in their lustrous depths, an unuttered hope and love. Whispering winds, save pale face, she said in a voice low and tremors, Fear Father, fear Tell Wiganan, she Christian. Indian summer, that enchanted time unfolded its golden dreamy haze over the Delaware village. The forest blazed with autumn fire, the meadows boomed in rich luxuriance. All day low down in the valleys hung a purple smoke which changed as the cool evening shade scrapped out of the woodland into a cloud of white mist. All day the asters along the brooks lifted golden brown faces to the sun, as if to catch the warning warmth of his smile. All day the plains and forests lay at melancholy repose. The sad swish of the west wind over the tall grass told that he was slowly dying away before his enemy, the north wind. The sound of dropping nuts was heard under the motionless trees. For Joe the days were days of enchantment. His wild heart had found its mate, a willing captive he was now. All his fancy for other women, all his memories faded into love for his Indian bride. Whispering winds charmed the eye, mind, and heart. Every day her beauty seemed renewed. She was as apt to learn as she was quick to turn her black crown head. But her supreme beauty was her loving, innocent soul. Untainted as the clearest spring, it mirrored the purity and simplicity of her life. Indian she might be, one of a race whose morals and manners were alien to the man she loved. Yet she would have added honor to the proudest name. When whispering winds raised her dark eyes, they showed radiant as a lone star. When she spoke low, her voice made music. Beloved, she whispered one day to him, Teach the Indian maiden more love for you and truth and God. Whispering winds yearns to go to the Christians, but she fears her stern father. When an hand would burn the village of peace, the Indian tribes tremble before the thunder of his wrath. Be patient, my chief. Time changes the leaves, so it will the anger of the warriors. His spring winds will set you free and be free herself to go far with you toward the rising sun with well your people. She will love and be constant as the northern star. Her love will be an eternal spring where blossoms bloom ever on you and fresh and sweet. She will love your people and raise Christian children and sit ever in the door of your home, praying for the west wind to blow. Or, if my chief wills, we shall live the Indian life free as two eagles under lonely crack. Although Joe gave himself up completely to his love for his ride, he did not forget that Kate was in the power of the renegade and that he must rescue her. Knowing Gertie had the unfortunate girl somewhere near the Delaware encampment, he resolved to find the place. Plans of all kinds he resolved in his mind. The best one, he believed, lay through whispering winds, first to find the whereabouts of Gertie, kill him if possible, or at least free Kate, and then get away with her and his Indian bride. Sanguine as he invariably was, he could not but realize the peril of this undertaking. If whispering winds betrayed her people, it meant death to her as well as to him. He would far rather spend the remaining days of his life in the Indian village than doom the maiden whose love had saved him. Yet he thought he might succeed in getting away with her and planned to that end. His natural spirit, daring, reckless, had gained while he was associated with Wetzel. Meanwhile he mingled freely with the Indians, and here, as elsewhere, his winning personality, combined with his athletic prowess, soon made him well liked. He was even on friendly terms with Pipe. The Swarthi Warchief liked Joe because, despite the animosity he had aroused in some former lovers of whispering winds, he actually played jokes on them. In fact, Joe's pranks raised many a storm. But the young braves who had been suitors for Winganon's lovely daughter feared the muscular pale face and the tribe's ridicule more. So he continued his trickery unmolested. Joe's idea was to lead the savages to believe he was thoroughly happy in his new life, and so he was, but it suited him better to be free. He succeeded in misleading the savages. At first he was closely watched, then the vigilance relaxed, and finally ceased. This last circumstance was owing no doubt to a ferment of excitement that had suddenly possessed the Delaware's. Council after council was held in the Big Lodge. The encampment was visited by runner after runner. Some important crisis was pending. Joe could not learn what it all meant, and the fact that whispering winds suddenly lost her gladsome spirit and became sad caused him further anxiety. When he asked her the reason for her unhappiness, she was silent. Moreover, he was surprised to learn when he questioned her upon the subject of their fleeing together that she was eager to go immediately. While all this mystery puzzled Joe, it did not make any difference to him or in his plans. It rather favored the latter. He understood that the presence of Simon Gertie and Elliot, with several other renegades unknown to him, was significant of unrest among the Indians. These procedures of evil were accustomed to go from village to village, exciting the savages to acts of war. Peace met the downfall and death of these men. They were busy all day and far into the night. Often Joe heard Gertie's hoarse voice lifted in the Council Lodge. Pipe thundered incessantly for war. But Joe could not learn against whom. Elliot's suave, oily oratory exhorted the Indians to vengeance. But Joe could not guess upon whom. He was, however, destined to learn. The third day of the Council's horsemen stopped before whispering winds lodge and called out. Stepping to the door, Joe saw a white man whose dark, keen, handsome face seemed familiar. Yet Joe knew he had never seen this stolen man. A word with you, said the stranger, his tone was curt, authoritative, as out of a man used to power. As many as you like, who are you? I'm Isaac Zane. Are you Wetzel's companion or the renegade Dearing? I'm not a renegade any more than you are. I was rescued by the Indian girl who took me as her husband, said Joe Colby. He was surprised and did not know what to make of Zane's manner. Good. I'm glad to meet you. Estimately replied Zane, his tone and expression changing. He extended his hand to Joe. I wanted to be sure. I never saw the renegade, Dearing. He's here now. I'm on my way to the Wyandotte town. I've been to Fort Henry, where my brother told me of you and the missionaries. When I arrived here, I heard your story from Simon Gertie. If you can, you must get away from here. If I dared, I'd take you to the Huron village. But it's impossible. Go, while you have a chance. Zane, I thank you. I've suspected something was wrong. What is it? Could it be worse, whispered Zane, glancing round to see if he were overheard. Gertie and Elliot, backed by this Dearing, are growing jealous of the influence of Christianity on the Indians. They are plotting against the village of Peace. Tare, the Huron chief, has been approached and asked to join in a concerted movement against religion. Seemingly it is not so much the missionaries as the converted Indians that the renegades are fuming over. They know if the Christian savages are killed, the strength of the missionaries whole will be forever broken. Pipe is wild for blood. These renegades are slowly poisoning the minds of the few chiefs who are favorably disposed. The outlook is bad. Bad. Well, what can I do? Cut out for yourself. Get away, if you can, with the gun. Take the creek below, follow the current down to the Ohio, and then make east for Fort Henry. But I want to rescue the white girl Jim Gertie has concealed here somewhere. Impossible. Don't attempt it, unless you want to throw your life away. Buzzard Jim, as we call Gertie, is a butcher. He has probably murdered the girl. I won't leave without trying. And there's my wife, the Indian girl, who saved me. Zane? She's a Christian. She wants to go with me. I can't leave her. I'm warning you that's all. If I were you, I'd never leave without a try to find the white girl, and I'd never forsake my Indian bride. I've been through the same thing. You must be a good whizman, or what so wouldn't have let you stay with him. Pick out a favorable time and make the attempt. I suggest you make your Indian girl show you where Gertie is. She knows. But is afraid to tell you, for she fears Gertie. Get your dog and horse from the Shawnee. That's a fine horse. He can carry you both to safety. Take him away from Silver Tip. Wow. Grow right up and demand your horse and dog. Most of these Delaware's are honest, for all their bloodshedding and cruelty. With them, might is right. The Delaware's won't try to get your horse for you. But they'll stick to you when you assert your rights. They don't like the Shawnee anyhow. If Silver Tip refuses to give you the horse, grab him before he can draw a weapon and beat him good. You're big enough to do it. The Delaware's will be tickled to see you pound him. He's thick with Gertie. That's why he lays around here. Take my word. It's the best way. Do it openly, and no one will interfere. By heaven's sake, I'll give him a drubbin. I owe him one, and itching to get hold of him. I must go now. I shall send a Wyandotte runner to your brother at the village. They shall be warned. Goodbye. Good luck. May we meet again. Joe watched Zane ride swiftly down the lane and disappear in the shrubbery. Whispering winds came to the door of the lodge. She looked anxiously at him. He went within, drawing her along with him, and quickly informed her that he had learned the cause of the council, that he had resolved to get away, and she must find out Gertie's hiding place. Whispering winds threw herself into his arms, declaring with an energy and passion unusual to her that she would risk anything for him. She informed Joe that she knew the direction from which Gertie always returned to the village. No doubt she could find his retreat. With the cunning that showed her Indian nature, she suggested a plan which Joe at once saw was excellent. After Joe got his horse, she would ride around the village, then off into the woods, where she could leave the horse, and return to say he had run away from her. As was their custom during afternoons, they would walk leisurely along the brook, and trusting to the excitement created by the councils, get away unobserved, find the horse, if possible, rescue the prisoner, and then travel east with all speed. Joe left the lodge at once to begin the working-out of the plan. Luck favored him at the outset, for he met Silver-Tip before the council lodge. The Shawnee was leading Lance, and the dog followed at his heels. The spirit of Moe's had been broken. Poor dog Joe thought he had been beaten until he was afraid to wag his tail at his old master. Joe's resentment glazed into fury, but he kept cool outwardly. Right before a crowd of Indians waiting for the council to begin, Joe planted himself in front of the Shawnee, barring his way. Silver-Tip passed the palefaces' horse and dog, said Joe in a loud voice. The chief stared hotly, while the other Indians centered nearer. They all knew how the Shawnee had got the animals, and now awaited the outcome of the white man's challenge. Pity-faced, heap liar! growled the Indian. His dark eyes glowed craftily while his hand dropped, apparently in tearless habit, to the half of his tomahawk. Joe swung his long arm, his big fist caught the Shawnee on the jaw, sending him to the ground. Uttering a frightful yell, Silver-Tip drew his weapon and attempted to rise, but the moment's delay in seizing the hatchet was fatal to his design. Joe was upon him with tiger-like suddenness. One kick set the tomahawk spinning, another landed the Shawnee again on the ground. Blind with rage, Silver-Tip leaped up, and without a weapon rushed at his antagonist. But the Indian was not a boxer, and he failed to get his hands on Joe. Shifty and elusive, the lad dodged around the struggling savage. One, two, three hard blows staggered Silver-Tip, and a fourth, delivered with a force of Joe's powerful arm, caught the Indian when he was off balance, and felled him battered and bloody on the grass. The surrounding Indians looked down at the vanquished Shawnee, expressing their approval in characteristic grunts. With Lance prancing proudly and Moe's leaping lovingly beside him, Joe walked back to his lodge. Whispering winds sprang to beat him with joyful face. She had feared the outcome of trouble with the Shawnee, but no queen ever bestowed upon returning victorious lord, in loftier look of pride, a sweeter glance of love than the Indian maiden bent upon her lover. Whispering winds informed Joe that an important council was to be held that afternoon. It would be wise for them to make the attempt to get away immediately after the convening of the chiefs. Accordingly she got upon Lance and rode him up and down the village lane, much to the pleasure of the watching Indians. She scattered the idle crowds on the grass plots, she dashed through the side streets, and let everyone in the entampment see her clinging to the black stallion. Then she rode him out along the creek, accustomed to her imperious will. The Indians thought nothing unusual. When she returned an hour later with flying hair and disheveled costume, no one paid particular attention to her. That afternoon Joe and his bride were the favored of fortune. With Moes running before them, they got clear of the entampment and into the woods. Once in the forest, Whispering winds rapidly led the way east. When they climbed to the top of a rocky ridge, she pointed down into a thicket before her, saying that somewhere in this dense hollow was Gertie's hut. Joe hesitated about taking Moes. He wanted the dog, but in case he had to run, it was necessary Whispering winds should find his trail, and for this he left the dog with her. He started down the ridge and had not gone a hundred paces, when over some gray boulders he saw the thatched roof of a hut. So wild and secluded was the spot that he would never have discovered the cabin from any other point than this, which he had been so fortunate as to find. His study and practice under Wetzel now stood him in good stead. He picked out the best path over the rough stones and through the brambles, always keeping under cover. He stepped as carefully as if the hunter was behind him. Soon he reached level ground, a dense laurel thicket hid the cabin, but he knew the direction in which it lay, throwing himself flat on the ground. He wormed his way through the thicket carefully, yet swiftly, because he knew there was no time to lose. Finally the rear of the cabin stood in front of him. It was made of logs, rudely hewn, and as rudely thrown together. In several places Clay had fallen from chinks between the timbers, leaving small holes. Like a snake, Joe slipped close to the hut, raising his head. He looked through one of the cracks. Instantly he shrank back into the grass, shivering with horror. He almost choked in his attempt to prevent an outcry. End of Chapter 17 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Chapter 18 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. Chapter 18 The sight which Joe had seen horrified him for several moments into helpless inaction. He lay breathing heavily, impotent in an awful rage. As he remained there stunned by the shock, he gazed up through the open space in the leaves, trying to still his fury to realize the situation to make no hasty move. The soft blue of the sky, the fleecy clouds drifting eastward, the fluttering leaves and the twittering birds. All assured him he was wide awake. He had found Gertie Sten, where so many white women had been hidden, to see friends and home no more. He had seen the renegades sleeping, calmly sleeping like any other man. How could the wretch sleep? He had seen Kate. It had been the sight of her, that had paralyzed him. To make a certainty of his fears, he again raised himself to peep into the hole. As he did so, a faint cry came from within. Gertie lay on a buffalo robe near a barred door. Behind him sat Kate, huddled in one corner of the cabin. A long buckskin thong was knotted around her waist and tied to a log. Her hair was matted and tangled. And on her face and arms were many discolored bruises. Worse still, in her plaintive moaning, in the meaningless movement of her head, in her vacant expression, was proof that her mind had gone. She was mad. Even as an agonizing pit he came over Joe to be followed by the surging fire of rage blazing up in his breast, he could not but thank God that she was mad. It was merciful that Kate was no longer conscious of her suffering. Like leaves in a storm wavered Joe's hands as he clenched them until the nails brought blood. Be calm, be cool, whispered his monitor wetsul, ever with him in spirit. But God, could he be cool? Bounding with lion-spring, he hurled his heavy frame against the door. Crash, the door was burst from its fastenings. Gertie leaped up with startled yell, drawing his knife as he rose. It had not time to descend before Joe's second spring, more fierce than the other, carried him directly on top of the renegade. As the two went down, Joe caught the villain's wrist with a grip that literally cracked the bones. The knife fell and rolled away from the struggling men. For an instant they tumbled about on the floor, clasped in a crushing embrace. The renegade was strong, supple, slippery as an eel. Twice he wriggled from his foe. Nashing his teeth he fought like a hyena. He was fighting for life, life, which is never so dear as to a coward and a murderer. Doom glared from Joe's big eyes at scream after scream issued from the renegade's white lips. Terrible was his struggle, but brief. Joe seemingly had the strength of ten men. Twice he pulled Gertie down, as a wolf brags a deer. He dashed him against the wall, throwing him nearer and nearer the knife. Once within reach of the blade, Joe struck the renegade a severe blow on the temple, and the villain's wrestling became weaker. Planting his heavy knee on Gertie's breast, Joe reached for the knife and swung it high. Exultantly he cried, mad with lust, for the brute's blood. But the slight delay saved Gertie's life. The knife was knocked from Joe's hand, and he leaped direct to find himself confronted by silver tip. The chief held a tomahawk with which he had struck the weapon from the young man's grasp, and to judge from his burning eyes and malignant smile he meant to brain the now defenseless pale face. In a single fleeting instant Joe saw that Gertie was helpless for the moment, that silver tip was confident of his revenge, and that the situation called for Wetzel's characteristic advice, act like lightning. Swifter than the thought was the leap he made past silver tip. It carried him to a wooden bar which lay on the floor. Escape was easy, for the door was before him and the shawney behind. But Joe did not flee. He seized the bar and rushed at the Indian. Then began a duel in which the savage's quickness and cunning matched the white man's strength and fury. Silver tip dodged the vicious swings Joe aimed at him. He parried many blows, any one of which would have crushed his skull. Nimble as a cat he avoid every rush, while his dark eyes watched for an opening. He fought wholly on the defensive, craftily reserving his strength, until his opponent should tire. At last, catching the bar on his hatchet, he broke the force of the blow, and then with agile movement dropped to the ground and grappled Joe's legs. Long before this he had drawn his knife, and now he used it, plunging the blade into the young man's side. Cunning and successful as was the savage's ruse. It failed signally, for to get hold of the shawney was all Joe wanted. Feeling the sharp pain as they fell together, he reached his hand behind him and caught Silver Tip's wrist. Exerting all his power he wrenched the Indian's arm so that it was not only dislocated, but the bones cracked. Silver Tip saw his fatal mistake. But he uttered no sound. Crippled though he was, he yet made a supreme effort. But it was as if he had been in the hands of a giant. The lad handled him with remorseless and resistless fury. Suddenly he grasped the knife which Silver Tip had been unable to hold with his crippled hand, and thrust it deeply into the Indian's side. All Silver Tip's muscles relaxed, as if a strong tension had been removed. Slowly his legs straightened, his arms dropped, and from his side gushed a dark flood. A shadow crept over his face, not dark nor white, but just a shadow. His eyes lost their hate. They no longer saw the foe. They looked beyond with gloomy question, and then were fixed cold in death. Silver Tip died as he had lived, a chief. Joe glared round for Gertie. He was gone, having slipped away during the fight. The lad turned to release the poor prisoner when he started back with a cry of fear. Kate lay bathed in a pool of blood, dead. The renegade, fearing she might be rescued, had murdered her, and then fled from the cabin. Almost blinded by horror and staggering with weakness, Joe turned to leave the cabin. Realizing that he was seriously, perhaps dangerously wounded, he wisely thought he must not leave the place without weapons. He had marked the pegs where the renegade's rifle hung, and had been careful to keep between that and his enemies. He took down the gun and horns which were attached to it, and with one lash shuddering glance at poor Kate left the place. He was conscious of a queer lightness in his head, but he suffered no pain. His garments were gripping with blood. He did not know how much of it was his, or the Indians. Instinct, rather than sight, was his guide. He grew weaker and weaker. His head began to whirl, yet he kept on, knowing that life and freedom were his if he found whispering winds. He gained the top of the ridge. His eyes were blurred, his strength gone. He called aloud, and then plunged forward on his face. He heard dimly, as though the sound were far off, the whine of a dog. He felt something soft and wet on his face. Then consciousness left him. When he regained his senses, he was lying on a bed of ferns under a projecting rock. He heard the gurgle of running water mingling with the song of birds. Near him lay mose, and beyond rose a wall of green thicket. Neither whispering winds nor his horse was visible. He felt a dreamy lassitude. He was tired, but had no pain. Finding he could move without difficulty, he concluded his weakness was more from loss of blood than a dangerous wound. He put his hand on the place where he had been stabbed, and felt a soft, warm compress, such as might had been made by a bunch of wet leaves. Someone had unlaced his hunting shirt, for he saw the strings were not as he usually tied them, and had dressed the wound. Joe decided, after some deliberation, that whispering winds had found him, made him as comfortable as possible, and leaving mose on guard had gone out to hunt for food, or perhaps back to the Indian encampment. The rifle and horns he had taken from Gertie's hut, together with Silver Tip's knife, lay beside him. As Joe lay there, hoping for whispering winds return, his reflections were not pleasant. Fortunate indeed he was to be alive, but he had no hope he could continue to be favored by fortune. Odds were now against his escape. Gertie would have the Delaware's on his trail like a pack of hungry wolves. He could not understand the absence of whispering winds. She would have died sooner than desert him. Gertie had perhaps captured her, and was now scouring the woods for him. I'll get him next time, or you'll get me, muttered, Joe, in a bitter wrath. He could never forgive himself for his failure to kill the renegade. The recollection of how nearly he had forever ended Gertie's brutal career, brought before Joe's mind the scene of the fight. He saw again buzzered Jim's face, revolting unlike anything human. There stretched Silver Tip's dark figure, lying still and stark, and there was Kate's white form in its winding crimson wreath of blood. Hauntingly her face returned, sad, stern in its cold-rich entity. Poor girl, better for her to be dead, he murmured. Not long will she be unavenged. His thoughts drifted to the future. He had no fear of starvation, for Moes could catch a rabbit or witch up at any time. When the strips of meat he had hidden in his coat were gone, he could start a fire and roast more. What concerned him most was pursuit. His trail from the cabin had been a bloody one, which would render it easily followed. He dared not risk exertion until he had given his wound time to heal. Then if he did escape from Gertie and the Delaware's, his future was not bright. His experiences of the last few days had not only sobered, but brought home to him this real border life. With all his fire and airing, he knew he was no fool. He had eagerly embraced the career which, at the present stage of his training, was beyond his scope. Not that he did not know how to act in sudden crises, but because he had not had the necessary practice to quickly and surely use his knowledge. Bitter indeed was his self-scorn, when he recalled that of the several critical positions he had been in since his acquaintance with Wetzel, he had failed in all but one. The exception was the killing of Silvertip. Here his fury had made him fight as Wetzel fought with only his everyday incentive. He realized that the border was no place for any, save the boldest and most experienced hunters, men who had become inured to hardship, callous as to death, keen as Indians. Fear was not in Joe, nor lack of confidence. But he had good sense, and realized he would have done a wiser thing had he stayed at Fort Henry. Colonel Zane was right. The Indians were tigers, the vinegates, vultures, the vast untrammeled forests and plains they're covered. Ten years of war had rendered this wilderness a place where those few white men who had survived were hardened to the spilling of blood, stern even in those few quiet hours which peril allowed them, strong in their sacrifice of all for future generations. A low growl from Moes broke into Joe's reflections. The dog had raised his nose from his paws and sniffed suspiciously at the air. The lad heard a slight rustling outside, and in another moment was overjoyed at seeing whispering winds. She came swiftly, with a lithe graceful motion, and flying to him like a rush of wind, knelt beside him. She kissed him and murmured words of interment. Wins, where have you been? he asked her in the mixed English and Indian dialect in which they conversed. She told him the dog had let her to him two evenings before. He was insensible. She had bathed and bandaged his wound, and remained with him all that night. The next day, finding he was ill and delirious, she decided to risk returning to the village. If any questions arose, she could say he had left her. Then she would find a way to get back to him, bringing healing herbs for his wound and a soothing drink. As it turned out, Gertie had returned to the camp. He was battered and bruised, and in a white heat of passion. Going at once to Winganund, the renegade openly accused whispering winds of aiding her pale-faced lover to escape. Winganund called his daughter before him and questioned her. She confessed all to her father. Why is the daughter of Winganund the tighter to her race? demanded the chief. Whispering winds is a Christian. Winganund received this intelligence as a blow. He dismissed Gertie and sent his brave from his lodge, facing his daughter alone. Gloomy and stern he paced before her. Winganund's blood might change, but would never betray. Winganund is the Delaware chief, he said. Go, darken no more the door of Winganund's sweet wamp. Let the flower of the Delaware's fade in alien pastures. Go, whispering winds is free. Tears shone brightly in the Indian girl's eyes while she told her story. She loved her father, and she would see him no more. Winds is free, she whispered. When strength returns to her master, she could follow him to the white villages. Winds will live her life for him. When we have no one to fear, asked Joe, no dead man, now that the Shawnee chief is dead. Will Gertie follow us? He is a coward. He will fear to come alone. The white savage is a snake in the grass. Two long days followed, during which the lovers lay quietly and hiding. On the morning of the third day Joe felt that he might risk the start for the village apiece. Whispering winds led the horse below a stone upon which the invalid stood, thus enabling him to mount. Then she got on behind him. The sun was just gilding the horizon when they rode out of the woods into a wide plain. No living thing could be seen. Along the edge of the forest the ground was level, and the horse traveled easily. Several times during the morning Joe dismounted beside a pile of stones, or a fallen tree. The miles were traversed without serious inconvenience to the invalid, except that he grew tired. Toward the middle of the afternoon, when they had ridden perhaps twenty-five miles, they crossed a swift, narrow brook. The water was a beautiful, clear brown. Joe made note of this, as it was an unusual circumstance. Nearly all the streams, when not flooded, were green in color. He remembered that during his wanderings with Wetzel, they had found one stream of this brown, copper-colored water. The lad knew he must take a roundabout way to the village, so that he might avoid Indian runners or scouts, and he hoped this stream would prove to be the one he had once capped upon. As they were riding toward a gentle swell or knoll, covered with trees and shrubbery, whispering winds felt something warm on her hand, and looking was horrified to find it covered with blood. Joe's wound had opened. She told him they must dismount here and remain until he was stronger. The invalid himself thought this conclusion was wise. They would be practically safe now, since they must be out of the Indian path, and many miles from the encampment. Accordingly, he got off the horse and sat down on a log, while whispering winds searched for a suitable place in which to erect a temporary shelter. Joe's wandering gaze was arrested by a tree with a huge, knotty formation near the ground. It was like many trees, but this peculiarity was not what struck Joe. He had seen it before. He never forgot anything in the woods that once attracted his attention. He looked around on all sides, just behind him was an opening in the clump of trees. Within this was a perpendicular stone covered with moss and lachens. Above it a beech tree spread long graceful branches. He thrilled with the remembrance these familiar marks brought. This was Beautiful Spring, the place where Wetzel rescued Nell, where he had killed the Indians in that night attack he would never forget. End of Chapter 18 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray, recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Chapter 19 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, reading by Leonard Wilson. Chapter 19. One evening, a week or more after the disappearance of Jim and the girls, George Young and David Edwards, the missionaries, sat on the cabin steps, gazing disconsolently upon the forest scenery. Hard as had been the ten years of their labor among the Indians, nothing had shaken them as the loss of their young friends. Dave, I tell you your theory about seeing them again is absurd, I certainly, George. I'll never forget that rich Gurney as he spoke to Nell, why she just wilted like a flower blasted by fire. I can't understand why he let me go and kept Jim unless the Shownie had something to do with it. I never wished until now that I was a hunter. I'd go after Gurney. You've heard as well as I of his many atrocities. I'd rather have seen Kate and Nell dead than have them fall into his power. I'd rather have killed them myself. Young had aged perceptively in these last few days. The blue veins showed at his temples. His face had become thinner and paler, and his eyes had a look of pain. The former expression of patience, which had set so well on him, was gone. George, I can't account for my fancies or feelings. Else perhaps I'd be easier in mind, answered Dave. His face too showed the ravages of grief. I've had queer thoughts lately and dreams such as I never had before. Perhaps it's this trouble which has made me so nervous. I don't seem able to pull myself together. I can neither preach nor work. Neither can I. This trouble is at you as hard as it has me. But Dave, we still are duty to endure, to endure. That is our life. Because a beam of sunshine brightened for a brief time, the gray of our lives, and then faded away, we must not shirk nor go sour and discontented. But how cruel is this mortal life? Nature itself is brutal. Yes, I know, and we have elected to spend our lives here in the midst of this ceaseless strife, to fare poorly, to have no pleasure, never to feel the comfort of a woman's smile, nor the joy of a child's caress. All because out in the woods are ten or twenty or a hundred savages we may convert. That is why, and it is enough, it is hard to give up the women you love to a black-sold renegade. But that is not for my thought. What kills me is the horror for her. For her. I too suffer with that thought. More than that, I'm morbid and depressed. I feel as if some calamity awaited us here. I've never been superstitious, nor have I had resentments, but of late there are strange fears in my mind. At this juncture, Mr. Wells and Heckelweller came out of the adjoining cabin. I have had word of a trustworthy runner today. Gritty and his captives have not been seen in the Delaware towns, said Heckelweller. It is most unlikely that he will take them to the towns, replied Edwards. What do you make of his capturing jam? For pipe, perhaps, the Delaware's wolf is snapping his teeth. Pipe is particularly opposed to Christianity. And what's that? A low whistle from the bushes near the creek back attracted the attention of all. The younger men got up to investigate, but Heckelweller detained them. Wait, he added. There is no telling what that signal may mean. They waited with breathless interest. Presently the whistle was repeated. And an instant later, the tall figure of a man stepped from behind the thicket. He was a white man, but not recognizable at that distance, even if a friend. The stranger waved his hand, as if asking them to be cautious and come to him. They went toward the thicket. And when, within a few paces of the man, Mr. Wells exclaimed, It's the man who guided my party to the village. It is Wetzel. The other missionaries had never seen the hunter, though of course they were familiar with his name, and looked at him with great curiosity. The hunter's buckskin garments were wet, torn, and covered with burrs. Dark spots, evidently blood stains, showed on his hunting shirt. Wetzel interrogated Heckelweller. The hunter nodded and took a step behind the bush. Bending over, he lifted something from the ground. It was a girl. It was Nell. She was very white, but alive. A faint, glad smile lighted up her features. Not a word was spoken. With an expression of tender compassion, Mr. Wells received her into his arms. The four missionaries turned fearful, questioning eyes upon the hunter, but they could not speak. She is well and unharmed, said Wetzel, reading their thoughts. Only worn out. Dr. Heard these ten miles. God bless you, Wetzel, exclaimed the old missionary. Nellie, Nellie, can you speak? Uncle, dear, I'm all right, came the faint whisperer. Kate, what if her whispered George Young, with lips as dry as corn husks? I did my best, said the hunter, with a simple dignity. Nothing but the agonized appeal in the young man's eyes could have made Wetzel speak of his achievement. Tell his broken neck welder, seeing that fear had stricken George down. We trailed him, and got away with the golden-haired lass. Last I saw Joe, he was braced up against a rock, fighting like a wildcat. I tried to cut Jim loose as I was going by. I specked the west for the brothers, said the other lass. Can we do nothing, asked Mr. Wells? Nothing, but Wetzel has the capturing of James Downey's any significance to you, inquired heck-loader. I reckon so. What? Pipe and his white bread-stained allies are again Christianity. Do you think we are in danger? I reckon so. What do you advise? Pack up a few of your traps, take the lass, and come with me. I'll see you back in Fort Henry. That welder nervously walked up to the tree and back again. Young and Edwards looked blankly at one another. They both remembered Edwards' presentiment. Mr. Wells uttered an angry exclamation. You ask us to fail in our duty? No, never, to go back to the white settlements and acknowledge we were afraid to continue teaching the gospel to the Indians. You cannot understand Christianity if you advise that. You have no religion. You are a killer of Indians. A shadow that might have been one of pain flitted over the hunter's face. No, I ain't a Christian, and I am a killer of Indians, and Wetzel and his deep voice had a strange tremor. I don't know nothing much except the woods and fields, and if there's a God for me, he's out there under the trees and grass. Mr. Wells, who the first man has ever called me a coward, and I overlook it because of your calling. I advise you to go back to Fort Henry, because if you don't go now, the chances are against your ever going. Christianity or no Christianity, such men as you have no business in these woods. I thank you for your advice, and bless you for your rescue of this child, but I cannot leave my work, nor can I understand why all this good work we have done should be called useless. We have converted Indians, saved their souls, is that not being of some use, of some good here? It's according to how you look at it. Now, I know the bark of an oak is different according to the side we see from. I'll allow hating Indians as I do. It's no reason you ought to try and convert them, but you're bringing on a war. These engines won't allow this village a piece here with its big fields of corn and shops and work and redskins. It's again their nature. You're only sacrificing your Christian Indians. What do you mean, asked Mr. Wells, startled by Wetzel's words. Enough. I'm ready to guide you to Fort Henry. I'll never go. Wetzel looked at the other men. No one would have doubted him. No one could have failed to see he knew some terrible danger hovered over the village piece. I believe you, Wetzel, but I cannot go, said Heckelowder with white face. I will stay, said George steadily, and I, said Dave. Wetzel dotted and turned to depart when George grasped his arm. The young missionary's face was drawn and haggard. He fixed an intense gaze upon the hunter. Wetzel, listen. His voice was low and shaken with deep feeling. I am a teacher of God's word, and I am as earnest in that purpose says you are in your life work. I shall die here. I shall fill an unmarked grave, but I shall have done the best I could. This is the life destiny has marked out for me, and I will live it as best I may. But in this moment, preacher, as I am, I would give all I have or hope to have all the little good I may have done all my life to be such a man as you, for I would avenge the woman I loved to torture to kill Gertie. I am only a poor weak fellow who would be lost a mile from this village, and if not, would fall before the youngest brave. But you, with your glorious strength, your incomparable woodcraft, you are the man to kill Gertie. Rip the frontier of this fiend. Kill him. Wetzel, kill him. I beseech you for the sake of some sweet girl who even now may be on her way to this terrible country, and who may fall into Gertie's power. For her sake, Wetzel, kill him. Trail him like a bloodhound, and when you find him, remember my broken heart. Remember Nell. Remember, oh God, remember poor Kate. Young's voice broken to dry sobs. He had completely exhausted himself so that he was forced to lean against the tree for support. Wetzel never spoke a word. He stretched out his long-brown arm and ripped the young missionary shoulder. His fingers clasped hard, simple without words as the action was. He could out have been more potent. And then, as he stood, the softer look faded slowly from his face. A ripple seemed to run over his features, which froze as it subsided into a cold stone rigidity. His arm dropped. He stepped past the tree, and, bounding lightly as a deer, cleared the creek and disappeared in the bushes. Mr. Wells tarried Nell to his cabin, where she lay for hours with one face and listless slanger. She swallowed the nourishing drink an old Indian nurse sporsed between her teeth. She even smiled weakly when the missionaries spoke to her. But she said nothing nor seemed to rally from her terrible shock. A dark shadow lay always before her, conscious of nothing present, living over again her frightful experience. Again she seemed sunk in dull apathy. Dave were going to lose Nell. She's fading slowly, said George, one evening, several days after the girl's return. Wetzel said she was unharmed, yet she seems to have received a hurt more fatal than a physical one. It's her mind, her mind. If we cannot brighten her up to make her forget, she'll die. We've done all within our power if she could only be brought out of this trance. She lies there all day long with those staring eyes. I can't look into them. They're the eyes of a child who has seen murder. We must try in some way to get her out of this stupor. And I have an idea. Have you noticed that Mr. Wells has failed very much in the last few weeks? Indeed I have, and I'm afraid he's breaking down. He has grown so thin he eats very little and doesn't sleep. He's old, you know, and despite his zeal, this border life is telling on him. Dave, I believe he knows it. Poor, earnest old man. He never says a word about himself, yet he must know that he is going downhill. Well, we all begin sooner or later that descent which ends in the grave. I believe we might stir Nellie by telling her Mr. Wells' health is breaking. Let us try. A hurried knock on the door interrupted their conversation. Come in, said Edwards. The door opened to admit a man who entered eagerly. Jem, Jem exclaimed both missionaries throwing themselves upon the newcomer. It was indeed Jem, but no asterisk smile lighted his worn, distressed face while he wrung his friend's hands. You're not hurt, asked Dave. No, I'm uninjured. Tell us all, did you escape? Did you see your brother? Did you know Wetzel rescued Nell? Winging unset be free in spite of many demands for my death. He kept Joe a prisoner and intends to kill him, for the lad was Wetzel's companion. I saw the hunter come into the glade where we camped, break through the line of fighting Indians, and carry Nell off. Tate, faltered young, with ashen face. George, I wish to God I could tell you she just did, answered Jem, nervously pacing the room. But she was well when I last saw her. She endured the hard journey better than either Nell or I. Journey did not carry her into the encampment, as silver tip did Joe and me. But the renegade left us on the outskirts of the Delaware town. There was a rocky ravine with dense undergrowth, where he disappeared with his captive. I suppose he has his den somewhere in that ravine. George sank down and buried his face in his arms, neither movement nor sound betook in consciousness. As Wetzel come in with Nell, Joe said he had a cave, for he might have taken her in case of illness or accident. I guess he brought her back, answered Edward slowly. I want to see her, said Jem, his haggard face expressing a keen anxiety. She's not wounded, hurt, ill. No, nothing like that. It's a shock which she can't get over, can't forget. I must see her, cried Jem, moving toward the door. But don't go, replied Dave, detaining him. Wait. We must see what's best to be done. Wait till heck welled her cross. He'll be here soon. Nell thinks you're dead, and the surprise might be bad for her. Heck welled her came in at that moment and shook hands warmly with Jem. The Delaware runner told me you were here. I'm overjoyed that wing and unfreed you, said the missionary. It is a most favorable sign. I have heard rumors from Goshocting and Sandusky that have worried me. This good news more than offsets the bad. I'm sorry about your brother. Are you well? Well, but visible. I want to see Nell. Dave tells me she is not exactly ill, but something is wrong with her. Perhaps I ought not to see her just yet. It'll be exactly the tonic for her, replied Heck welled her. She'll be surprised out of herself. She is morbid, apathetic, and, try as we may, we can't interest her. Come at once. Heck welled her, had taken Jem's arm and started for the door when he caught sight of Young sitting bowed and motionless. Turning to Jem, he whispered, Kate, rudely did not take her into the encampment, answered Jem in a low voice. I hoped he would, because the Indians are kind. But he didn't. He took her to his den. Just then Young raised his face. The despair in it would have melted a heart of stone. It had become the face of an old man. If only you'd told me she had died, he said to Jem. I'd have been man enough to stand it. But this, this kills me. I can't breathe. He staggered into the adjoining room where he flung himself upon a bed. It's hard and he won't be able to stand up under it, for he's not strong, whispered Jem. Heck welled her with a mild pious span, in whom no one would ever expect strong passion. But thou depths were stirred within his heart that had ever been tranquil. He became livid, and his face was distorted with rage. It's bad enough to have these renegades plotting and working against our religion. To have them so discontent, spread lies, make the Indians think we have access to grind, to plant the only obstacle in our path. All this is bad. But to doom an innocent white woman to worse than death. What can I call it? What can we do, asked Jem? Do, that's the worst of it. We can do nothing, nothing. We dare not move. Is there no hope of getting Kate back? Hope? None. That villain is surrounded by his savages. He'll lie low now for a while. I've heard of such deeds many a time, but it never before came so close home. Kate Wells was a pure, loving Christian woman. She'll live an hour a day, a week, perhaps, and that snicks clutches. And then she'll die. Like Wetzel has won on Gertie's trail. I know that from his manner when he left us, said Edwards. Wetzel may venture, but he can never save her. It's too late. Hello? The exclamation was called forth by the parents of young, who entered with a rifle in his hands. George, where are you going with that gun? asked Edwards, grasping his friend by the arm. I'm going after her, answered George wildly. He'd huddered as he spoke, but wrenched himself free from they. Come, George, listen, listen to reason, interposed tech welder, playing hold of young. You're frantic with grief now. So are all of us, but calm yourself. Why, man, you're a preacher, not a hunter. You'd be lost. You'd starve in the woods before getting halfway to the Indian town. This is terrible enough. Don't make it worse by throwing your life away. Think of us, your friends. Think of your Indian pupils who rely so much on you. Think of the village of peace. We can pray, but we can't prevent these border crimes. With civilization, with the spread of Christianity, they will pass away. Bear up under this blow for the sake of your work. Remember, we alone can check such barbarity, but we must not fight. We must sacrifice all that men hold dear for the sake of the future. He took the rival away from George and led him back into the little dark room, closing the door he turned to Jim and Dave. He's on a bad way, and we must carefully watch him for a few days. Think of George starting out to kill dirty, exclaimed Dave. I never fired a gun, but yet I'd go too. So would we all, if we did as our hearts dictate, retort a tech welder, turning fiercely upon Dave as if stung. Man, we have a village full of Christians to look after. What would become of them? I tell you, we've all we can do here to outwit those border ruffians. Simon Goethe is plotting our ruin. I heard it today from the Delaware Runner, who is my friend. He is jealous of our influence when all we desire is to save these poor Indians. And Jim Goethe has killed our happiness. Can we ever recover from the misery brought upon us by poor Keith's fate? The missionary raised his hand as if to exhort some power above. Curse the Goethe's, he exclaimed, in a sudden burst of uncontrollable passion. Having conquered all other obstacles, must we fail because of what did men of our own race? Oh, curse them! Come, he said presently, in a voice which trembled with the effort he made to be calm. We'll go in to Nellie. The three men entered Mr. Wells' cabin. The old missionary with bowed head and hands clasped behind his back was pacing to and fro. He greeted Jim with glad surprise. We want Nellie to see him, whispered like a welder. We think that surprise will do her good. I trust it may, said Mr. Wells. Believe it to me. They followed heck a welder into an adjoining room. A torch flickered over the rude mantle shelf, lighting up the room with fitful flair. It was a warm night, and the soft breeze coming in the window, alternately paled and brightened with the flame. Jim saw Nell lying on the bed. Her eyes were closed, and her long dark lashes seemed black against the marble paleness of her skin. Stand behind me, whispered heck a welder to Jim. Nellie, he called softly, but only a faint flickering of her lashes answered him. Nellie? Nellie, repeated heck a welder, his deep, strong voice thrilling. Her eyes opened. They gazed at Mr. Wells on one side, and Edwards standing at the foot of the bed, at heck a welder leaning over her. But there was no recognition or interest in her look. Nellie, can you understand me, asked heck a welder, putting into his voice all the power and intensity of feeling of which he was capable. An almost imperceptible shadow of understanding shone in her eyes. Listen, you have had a terrible shock, and it has affected your mind. You are mistaken in what you think, what you dream of all the time. Do you understand? You are wrong. Nellie's eyes quickened with a puzzled questioning doubt. The minister's magnetic penetrating voice had pierced her dull brain. See, I have brought you, Jim. The welder stepped aside, as Jim fell on his knees by the bed. He took her cold hands in his, and bent over her. For the moment his voice failed. The doubt in Nellie's eyes changed to a wondrous gladness. It was like the rekindling of a smoldering fire. Jim, she whispered. Yes, Nellie, it's Jim, alive and well. It's Jim, come back to you. The soft flush stained her white face. She slipped her arm tenderly around his neck, and held her cheek close to his. Jim, she murmured. Nellie, don't you know me? asked Mr. Wells, trembling, excited. This was the first word she had spoken in four days. Uncle, she exclaimed, suddenly loosening her hold on Jim, and setting up in bed, then gazing wildly at the others. Was it all a horrible dream? Mr. Wells took her hand soothingly, but he did not attempt to answer her question. He looked helplessly a heck-wilderer, but that missionary was intently studying the expression on Nell's face. Part of it was a dream, he answered impressively. Then that horrible man did take us away. Yes. Oh, but we're free now. This is my room. Oh, tell me. Yes, Nellie, you're safe at home now. Tell me she cried shudderingly as she leaned close to Jim, and raised a white imploring face to his. Where is Kate? Oh, Jim, say she wasn't left with Gertie. Kate is dead, answered Jim quickly. He could not endure the horror in her eyes. He deliberately intended to lie, as had heck-wilder. It was as if the tension of Nell's nerves was suddenly relaxed. The relief from her worst fear was so great that her mind took in only the one impression. Then, presently, a choking cry escaped her to be followed by a paroxysm of sobs. End of Chapter 19 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Chapter 20 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson Chapter 20 Early on the following day, heck-wilder, astride his horse, appeared at the door of Edward's cabin. Always George, he inquired of Dave, when the ladder had opened the door. He had a bad night, but he's sleeping now. I think he'll be all right after a time, answered Dave. That's well. Nevertheless, keep a watch on him for a few days. I'll do so. Dave, I leave matters here to your good judgment. I'm off to a shocking to join Zeisberger. Affairs there demand our immediate attention, and we must make haste. How long do you intend to be absent? A few days, possibly a week. In case of any unusual disturbance among the Indians, the appearance of Pipe and his tribe, or any of the opposing factions, send a fleet-runner at once to warn me. Most of my fears have been allayed by Winganan's attitude toward us. His freeing gem in face of the opposition of his chiefs is a sure sign of friendliness. More than once I have suspected that he was interested in Christianity. His daughter, Whispering Winds, exhibited the same intense fervor in religion as has been manifested by all our converts. It may be that we have not appealed in vain to Winganan and his daughter, but their high position in the Delaware tribe makes it impolitic for them to reveal a change of heart. If we could win over those two, we'd have every chance to convert the whole tribe. Well, as it is, we must be thankful for Winganan's friendship. We have two powerful allies now. Tarhei the Wyandotte chieftain remains neutral to be sure, but that's almost as helpful as friendship. I, too, take a hopeful view of the situation, replied Edwards. Real trust in Providence and do our best, said Hacker Welder, as he turned his horse. Goodbye. Godspeed, called Edwards, as his chief rode away. The missionary resumed his work of getting breakfast. He remained indoors all that day, except for the few moments when he ran over to Mr. Wells' cabin to inquire regarding Nell's condition. He was relieved to learn she was so much better that she had declared her intention of moving about the house. Dave kept a close watch on Young. He himself was suffering from the same blow which had prostrated his friend, but his physical strength and fortitude were such that he did not weaken. He was overjoyed to see that George rallied. And showed no further indications of breaking down. True it was, perhaps, the Hacker Welder's earnest prayer on behalf of the converted Indians had sunk deeply into George's heart, and thus kept it from breaking. No stronger plea could have been made than the allusion to those gentle dependent Christians. No one but a missionary could realize the sweetness, the simplicity, the faith, the eager hope for a good true life which had been implanted in the hearts of these Indians. To bear it in mind, to think of what he, as a missionary and teacher, was to them, relieved him of half his burden. And for strength to bear the remainder, he went to God. For all worry there is a sovereign cure. For all suffering there is a healing balm. It is religious faith. Happiness had suddenly flashed with a meteor-like radiance into young's life, only to be snuffed out like a candle in a windy gloom. But his work, his duty, remained. So in his trial he learned the necessity of resignation. He chaffed no more at the mysterious, seemingly brutal methods of nature. He questioned no more. He wondered no more at the apparent indifference of providence. He had one hope, which was to be true to his faith, and teach it to the end. Nell mastered her grief by an astonishing reserve of strength. Undoubtedly it was that marvelously merciful power which enables a person, for the love of others, to bear up under a cross, or even to fight death himself. As young had his bright-eyed Indian boys and girls, who had learned Christianity from him, and whose future depended on him, so Nell had her aged and weakening uncle to care for and cherish. Jem's attentions to her before the deep affliction had not been slight, but now they were so marked as to be unmistakable. In some way Jem seemed changed, since he had returned from the Delaware encampment. Although he went back to the work with his old aggressiveness, he was not nearly so successful as he had been before. Whether or not this was his fault, he took his failure deeply to heart. There was that in his tenderness which caused Nell to regard him in one sense as she did her uncle. Jem too leaned upon her, and she accepted his devotion, where once she had repelled it. She had unconsciously betrayed a great deal when she had turned so tenderly to him in the first moments after her recognition, and he remembered it. He did not speak of love to her. He led a thousand little acts of kindness, a constant thoughtfulness of her pleaded his cause. The days succeeding Hecweller's departure were remarkable for several reasons. Although the weather was enticing, the number of visiting Indians gradually decreased. Not a runner from any tribe came into the village, and finally the day dawned when not a single Indian from the outlying towns was present to hear the preaching. Jem spoke as usual. After several days had passed and none but converted Indians made up the congregation, the young man began to be uneasy in mind. Young and Edwards were unable to account for the unusual absence from worship, yet they did not see in it anything to cause a special concern. Often there had been days without visitation to the village apiece. Finally Jem went to consult Glikikon. He found the Delaware at work and the potato patch. The old Indian dropped his hoe and bowed to the missionary. A reverential and stately courtesy always characterized the attitude of the Indians toward the young white father. Glikikon, can you tell me why no Indians have come here lately? The old chief shook his head. Does their absence signify ill to the village apiece? Glikikon saw a blackbird fritting in the shadow of the moon. The bird hovered above the village apiece, but sang no song. The old Delaware vouchsafe no other than this strange reply. Jem returned to his cabin, decidedly worried. He did not at all like Glikikon's answer. The purport of it seemed to be that a cloud was rising on the bright horizon of the Christian village. He confided his fears to young and Edwards. After discussing the situation, the three missionaries decided to send for Heckwilder. He was the leader of the mission. He knew more of Indian craft than any of them, and how to meet it. If this calm and the heretofore busy life of the mission was the lull before a storm, Heckwilder should be there with his experience and influence. For nearly ten years Heckwilder has anticipated trouble from hostile savages, said Edwards, but so far he has always averted it. As you know he has confined himself mostly to propitiating the Indians and persuading them to be friendly and listen to us. We'll send for him. Accordingly they dispatched a runner to Gashaking. In due time the Indian returned with the startling news that Heckwilder had left the Indian village days before, as had in fact all the savages except a few converted ones. The same held true in the case of Sandusky, the adjoining town. Moreover it had been impossible to obtain any news in regard to Seisberger. The missionaries were now thoroughly alarmed and knew not what to do. They concealed a real state of affairs from Nell and her uncle, desiring to keep them from anxiety as long as possible. That night the three teachers went to bed with heavy hearts. The following morning at daybreak, Jem was awakened from a sound sleep by someone calling at his window. He got up to learn who it was and in the gray light saw Edwards standing outside. What's the matter, questioned Jem hurriedly? Matter enough, hurry, get into your clothes, replied Edwards. As soon as you are dressed, quietly awaken Mr. Wells and Nellie, but do not frighten them. But what's the trouble, queried Jem, as he began to dress? The Indians are pouring into the village as thickly as flying leaves in autumn. Edwards' exaggerated assertion proved to be almost literally true. No sooner had the rising sun dispelled the mist than it's shown on long lines of marching braves, mounted warriors, hundreds of pack horses approaching from the forest. The orderly procession was proof of a concerted plan on the part of the invaders. From their windows the missionaries watched with bated breath. With wonder and fear they saw the long lines of dusky forms. When they were in the clearing the savages busied themselves with their packs. Long rows of tepees sprung up as if by magic. The savages had come to stay. The number of incoming visitors did not lessen until noon when a few straggling groups marked the end of the invading host. Most significant of all was the fact that neither child, maiden, nor squaw accompanied this army. Jem appraised the number at six or seven hundred, more than had ever before visited the village at one time. They were mostly Delaware's, with many Shawnees, and a few Hurons among them. It was soon evident, however, that for the present at least the Indians did not intend any hostile demonstration. They were quiet in manner and busy about their tepees and campfires, but there was an absence of the curiosity that had characterized the former sojourns of Indians at the peaceful village. After a brief consultation with his brother missionaries, who all were opposed to his preaching that afternoon, Jem decided he would not deviate from his usual custom. He held the afternoon service and spoke to the largest congregation that had ever sat before him. He was surprised to find that the sermon, which heretofore so strongly impressed the savages, did not now arouse the slightest enthusiasm. It was followed by a brooding silence of a boating, ominous import. Four white men dressed in Indian garb had been the most attentive listeners to Jem's sermon. He recognized three as Simon Gertie, Elliot, and Deering, the renegades, and he learned from Edwards that the other was the notorious McKee. These men went through the village stalking into the shops and cabins, and acting as do men who are on a tour of inspection. So intrusive was their curiosity that Jem hurried back to Mr. Wells' cabin and remained there in seclusion. Of course, by this time, Mel and her uncle knew of the presence of the hostile savages. They were frightened and barely regained their composure when the young man assured them he was certain they had no real cause for fear. Jem was sitting at the doorstep with Mr. Wells and Edwards when Gertie with his comrades came toward them. The renegade leader was a tall, athletic man with a dark, strong face. There was in it none of the brutality and ferocity which marked his brother's visage. Simon Gertie appeared keen, forceful, authoritative, as indeed he must have been to have attained the power he held in the confederated tribes. His companions presented wide contrasts. Elliot was a small, spare man of cunning, vindictive aspect. McKee looked as, by to been supposed, from his reputation. And Deering was a fit mate for the absent Gertie. Simon appeared to be a man of some intelligence, who had used all his power to make that position a great one. The other renegades were desperados. Where's Heckwilder, asked Gertie, tortly as he stopped before the missionaries? He started out for the Indian towns on the Muskingong, answered Edwards, but we have had no word from either him or Zeisberger. When do you expect him? I can't say, perhaps tomorrow and then again, maybe not for a week. He's in authority here, Rainy. Yes, but he left me in charge of the mission. Can I serve you in any way? I reckon not, said the renegade, turning to his companions. They conversed in low tones for a moment. Presently McKee, Elliot, and Deering went toward the newly erected TPs. Gertie, do you mean us any ill-will, earnestly asked Edwards? He had met the man on more than one occasion, and had no hesitation about questioning him. I can't say as I do, answer the renegade, and those who heard him believed him. But I am again this red-skinned preaching, and have been all along. The engines are mad clear through, and I ain't saying I've tried to quiet him any. This missionary work has got to be stopped, one way or another. Now, what I waited here to say is this. I ain't quite forgot I was white once, and I believe you fellow-riders are honest. I'm willing to go out of my way to help you get away from here. Go away, echoed Edwards. That's it, answered Gertie, showering his rifle. But why, we are perfectly harmless, we are only doing good and hurt no one. Why should we go? Because there's liable to be trouble, said the renegade, significantly. Edwards turned slowly to Mr. Wells and Jim. The old missionary was trembling visibly. Jim was pale, but more with anger than fear. Thank you, Gertie, but we'll stay, and Jim's voice rang clear. End of Chapter 20 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Chapter 21 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson Chapter 21 Jim, come out here, called Edwards, set the window of Mr. Wells' cabin. The young man arose from the breakfast table, and went outside, found Edwards standing by the door, with an Indian brave. He was a Wyandot, lightly built, lithe and wiry, easily recognizable as an Indian runner. When Jim appeared, the man handed him a small packet. He unwound a few folds of some oily skin to find a square piece of birch bark, upon which were scratched the following words. Rev J. Downs, greeting. Your brother is alive and safe. Whispering winds rescued him by taking him as your husband. Leave the village of peace. Pipe and half-king have been influenced by Gertie. Zane. Now, what do you think of that, exclaimed Jim, handing the message to Edwards? Thank heaven Joe was saved. Zane, that must be the Zane who married Tarhe's daughter, answered Edwards, when he had read the note. I'm rejoiced to hear of your brother. Joe married to that beautiful Indian maiden. Well, of all wonderful things, smooth Jim, what will Nell say? We're getting warnings enough. You appreciate that, asked Edwards. Pipe and half-king have been influenced by Gertie. Evidently, the writer deemed that brief sentence of sufficient meaning. Edwards, we're preachers. We can't understand such things. I am learning at least something every day. Colonel Zane advised us not to come here. Wetzel said, go back to Fort Henry. Gertie warned us. And now comes this peremptory order from Isaac Zane. Well, it means that these border men see what we will not admit. We ministers have such hope and trust in God that we cannot realize the dangers of this life. I fear that our work has been in vain. Never. We have already saved many souls. Do not be discouraged. All this time the runner had stood near at hand, straight as an arrow. Presently Edwards suggested that the wind-out was waiting to be questioned, and accordingly he asked the Indian if he had anything further to communicate. Well, you're wrong, go buy pave face. Here he held up both hands and shut his fists several times, evidently enumerating how many white men he had seen. Here, when high sun. With that he bounded lightly past them and loped off with an even swinging stride. What did he mean? asked Jim. Almost sure he had not heard the runner aright. He meant that a party of white men are approaching and will be here by noon. I never knew an Indian runner to carry unreliable information. We had joyful news, both in regard to your brother and the village of peace. Let us go in to tell the others. The Huron runners report proved to be correct. Shortly before noon, signals from Indian scouts proclaimed the approach of a band of white men. Evidently, Gertys forces had knowledge beforehand of the proximity of this band, for the signals created no excitement. The Indians expressed only a lazy curiosity. Soon several Delaware scouts appeared, escorting a large party of frontiersmen. These men turned out to be Captain Williamson's force, which had been out on an expedition after a marauding tribe of Chippewas. This last named tribe had recently harried the remote settlers and committed depredations on the outskirts of the white settlements eastward. The company was composed of men who had served in the garrison at Fort Pitt, and hunters and back windsmen from Yellow Creek and Fort Henry. The captain himself was a typical border man, rough and bluff, hardened by long years of border life, and like most pioneers, having no more use for an Indian than for a snake. He had let his party after the marauders, and surprised and slaughtered nearly all of them. Returning eastward, he had passed through Gashatting, where he learned of the muttering storm rising over the village of peace, and had come more out of curiosity than hope to avert misfortune. The advent of so many frontiersmen seemed a godsend to the perplexed and worried missionaries. They welcomed the newcomers most heartily. Beds were made in several of the newly erected cabins. The village was given over for the comfort of the frontiersmen. Bedswards conducted Captain Williamson through the shops and schools, and the old border man's weatherbeaten face expressed a comical surprise, while I'll be adjourned if I ever expected to see a red-skinned work, was his only comment on the industries. We are greatly alarmed by the presence of Gertie and his followers, said Edwards. We have been warned to leave, but have not been actually threatened. What do you infer from the appearance here of these hostile savages? That hardly appears to be the above you preachers. There again the Christian redskins, that's plain. Why have you been warned to go? Well, that's natural, see, and there again the preaching. Well, what will they do with the converted Indians? Mighty young sartan. They might let them go back to the tribes, but appears to be these good engines won't go. Another thing, Gertie is a feared of the spread of Christianity. When you think our Christians will be made prisoners, appears likely. And you also think we'd do well to leave here? I do, sartan. We're sartan for Fort Henry soon. You'd better come along with us. Captain Williamson, we're going to stick it out, Gertie or no Gertie. You can't do no good staying here. Pipe and half-king won't stand for the singin', prayin', redskins, especially when they've got all these cattle and fields of grain. Wetzel said the same. Have you seen Wetzel? Yes, he rescued a girl from Jim Gertie and returned her to us. That's so. I met Wetzel and Jack Sane back a few miles in the woods. They're layin' for somebody, because when I asked them to come along, they refused, sayin' they had work as must be done. They look like it too. I never heard tell of Wetzel advice in any one before, but I'll say if he told me to do a thing, my gosh, I'd do it. As men, we might very well take the advice givin' us, but as preachers, we must stay here to do all we can for these Christian Indians. One more thing. Will you help us? I reckon I'll stay here to see the thing out, answered Williamson. Edwards made a mental note of the frontiersman's evasive answer. Jim had meanwhile made the acquaintance of a young minister, John Christie, by name, who had lost his sweetheart in one of the Chippewaul raids and had accompanied the Williamson expedition in the hope he might rescue her. How long have you been out, asked Jim. About four weeks now, answered Christie. My betrothed was captured five weeks ago yesterday. I joined Williamson's band, which made up at Short Creek, to take the trail of the flying Chippewaulies in the hope I might find her, but not a trace. The expedition fell upon a band of Redskins over on the wall haunting, and killed nearly all of them. I learned from a wounded Indian that a renegade had made off with a white girl about a week previous. Perhaps it was poor Lucy. Jim related the circumstances of his own capture by Jim Gertie, the rescue of Nell, and Kate's sad fate. Could Jim Gertie have gotten your girl, inquired Jim, in conclusion? It's hardly probable, the description doesn't tally with Gertie's. This renegade was short and heavy, and noted especially for his strength. Of course, an Indian would first speak of some such distinguishing feature. There are, however, ten or twelve renegades on the border, and, excepting Jim Gertie, one's as bad as another. When it's a common occurrence they're abducting girls from the settlements. Yes, and the strange thing is that one never hears of such doings until he gets out on the frontier. For that matter you don't hear much of anything except of the wonderful richness and promise of the Western country. You're right, rumors of fat, fertile lands induce the colonists to become a pioneer. He comes west with his family, two out of every ten lose their scalps, and in some places the average is much greater. The wives, daughters, and children are carried off into captivity. I have been on the border two years, and know that the rescue of any captive, as what's all rescued your friend, is a remarkable exception. If you have so little hope of recovering your sweetheart, what then is your motive for accompanying this band of hunters? Revenge. And you are a preacher? Jim's voice did not disguise his astonishment. I was a preacher, and now I am thirsting for vengeance, answered Christie, his face clouding darkly. Wait until you learn what frontier life means. You are young here yet, you are flushed with the success of your teaching. You have lived a short time in this quiet village, where until the last few days, all has been serene. You know nothing of the strife, of the necessity of fighting, of the cruelty which makes up this border existence. Only two years have hardened me so that I actually pant for the blood of the renegade who has robbed me. A frontiersman must take his choice of succumbing, or cutting his way through flesh and bone. Blood will be spilled. If not yours, then your foes. The pioneers run from the plow to the fight. They halt in the cutting of corn to defend themselves. And in winter must battle against cold hardship, which would be less cruel if there was time in summer to prepare for winter, for the savages leave them hardly an opportunity to plant crops. How many pioneers have given up and gone back east? Find me any who would not return home tomorrow if they could. All that brings them out here is a chance for a home, and all that keeps them out here is the poor hope of finally attaining their object. Always there is a possibility of future prosperity. But this generation, if it survives, will never see prosperity and happiness. What does this border life engender in a pioneer who holds his own in it? Of all things, not Christianity. He becomes a fighter, keen as the red skin who steals through the coverts. The serene days of the village apiece had passed into history. Soon that depraved vagabond the French trader, with cheap trinkets and vile whisky, made his appearance. This was all that was needed to inflame the visitors. Where they had been only bold and impudent, they became insulting and abusive. They executed the Christian Indians for their neutrality, scorned them for worshiping this unknown God, and denounced a religion which made women of strong men. The slaughtering of cattle commenced, the despoiling of maize fields and robbing of corn-gribs began with the drunkenness. All this time it was seen that Gertie and Elliot consulted often with Pipe and Half-King. The latter was the only Huron chief opposed to neutrality toward the village apiece, and he was, if possible, more fierce in his hatred than Pipe. The future of the Christian settlement rested with these two chiefs. Gertie and Elliot evidently were the designing schemers, and they worked diligently on the passions of the simple-minded but fierce warlike chiefs. Greatly to the relief of the distracted missionaries, Heckwelder returned to the village. Jaded and haggard, he presented a travel-worn appearance. He made the astonishing assertions that he had been thrice way-laid and assaulted on his way to Goshocking, then detained by a roving band of Chippewas, and soon after his arrival at their camping-ground, a renegade had run off with a white woman captive, while the Indians' west of the village were in an uproar. Zeissberger, however, was safe in the Moravian town of Salem, some miles west of Goshocking. Heckwelder had expected to find the same condition of affairs as existed in the village apiece, but he was bewildered by the great array of hostile Indians. Chiefs who had once extended friendly hands to him now drew back coldly, as they said, Washington is dead, the American armies are cut to pieces, the few thousands who had escaped the British are collecting at Fort Pitt to steal the Indians' land. Heckwelder vigorously denied all these assertions, knowing they had been invented by Gertie and Elliot. He exhausted all his skill and patience in the vain endeavor to show pipe where he was wrong. Half-king had been so well-coached by the renegades that he refused to listen. The other chiefs maintained a cold reserve that was baffling and exasperating. Winganons took no active part in the consuls, but his presence apparently denoted that he had sided with the others. The outlook was altogether discouraging. Arm completely fagged out, declared Heckwelder that night, when he returned to Edwards' cabin. He dropped into a chair as one who strength is entirely spent, whose indomitable spirit has at last been broken. Lie down to rest, Edwards. Oh, I can't. Matters look so black. You're tired out in discourage. You'll feel better tomorrow. The situation is not, perhaps, so hopeless. The presence of these frontiersmen should encourage us. What will they do? What can they do, cried Heckwelder bitterly? I tell you, never before have I encountered such gloomy, stony Indians. It seems to me that they are in no vacillating state. They act like men whose course is already decided upon, and who are only waiting. For what, asked Jim, after a long silence, broad only knows, perhaps for a time, possibly for a final decision, and it may be for a reason, the very thought of which makes me faint. Tell us, said Edwards, speaking quietly, for he had ever been the calmest of the missionaries. Never mind. Perhaps it's only my nerves. I'm all unstrung, and could suspect anything tonight. Heckwelder, tell us, Jim, asked earnestly. My friends, I pray I am wrong. God help us if my fears are correct. I believe the Indians are waiting for Jim Gertie. End of Chapter 21 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray, recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio.