 CHAPTER XI. The savage had just emerged from the river, where his graceful copper-colored body and scanty clothing were dripping with water. He carried a long bow and a quiver of arrows. Brant uttered an exclamation of surprise, and metzara curse. As the lithe Indian leaped the brook, he was not young. His worthy face was lined, seemed, and terrible with dark impassiveness. Real face, brother, get arrow! He said in halting English, as his eyes flashed upon Brant. Chief, want big sure. The white man leaned forward, grasped the Indian's arm, and addressed him in an Indian language. This questioning was evidently in regard to his signal, the whereabouts of the others of the party, and why he took such fearful risks almost in the village. The Indian answered with one English word. DEATHWIND Brant drew back with drawn white face, while a whistling breath escaped him. I knew it, metz, metzal. He exclaimed in a husky voice. The blood slowly receded from metzara's evil, murky face, living in haggard. DEATHWIND ON CHIEF'S TRAIL UP EGLE ROCK, CONTINUED THE INDIAN. DEATHWIND FOOLED NOT FOR LONG. BELFACE BROTHERS AT TOILANDS. THE INDIAN STEPPED INTO THE BROOK, PART OF THE WILLOWS, AND WAS GONE AS HE HAD COME SINELY. WE KNOW WHAT TO EXPECT, SAID BRANT IN COMMERTONE, AS THE DERING CAST OF CONTINENCE RETURN TO HIM. THERE'S AN INDIAN FOR YOU. HE GOT AWAY, DOUBLED LIKE AN OLD FOX ON HIS TRAIL, AND RAN HIN HERE TO GIVE US A CHANCE AT ESCAPE. NOW YOU KNOW WHY BINGLEGAT CAN'T BE COUGH. Just dig it once," replied Metser, with no show of returning courage as characterized by his companion. Brent walked to and fro with bent brows. Like one in deep thought, suddenly he turned upon Metser's eyes which were brightly hard and reckless with resolve. By him, and I'll do it, listen. Wetzel has gone to the top of Eagle Mountain, where he and Zane have a rendezvous. Even he won't suspect a cunning of this Indian. Anyway, it'll be after daylight tomorrow before he strikes the trail. I've got twenty-four hours and more to get this girl, and I'll do it. Bad move to have weight like her on a march, said Metser. Bah! The thing's easy. As for you, go on. Push ahead. After we're started, all I ask is that you stay by me until the time to cut loose. I ain't a go into crawfage now, growled Metser. Strikes me too. I'm losing more in you. You won't be a loser if you can get back to Detroit with your scalp. I'll pay you and horses in gold. Once we reach Leggett's place, we're safe. What's your plan by getting the gal, ask Metser. Brent leaned forward and spoke eagerly, but in a low tone. Get away on horseback, questioned Metser. Visibly brightening. While at some sense, can you trust the other party? I'm sure I can, rejoin' Brent. It'll be a good job, a good job. And all done in daylight, too. Bing Linget couldn't plan better, Metser said, rubbing his hands. We fooled these Zanes and their fruit-raising farmers for about a year. And our time is about up, Brent muttered. One more job, and we're done. Once with Leggett we're safe, and we'll work slowly back towards Detroit. Let's get outta here now, for someone may come at any moment. The plotters separated, Brent going through the grove and Metser down the path by which he had come. Ellen, trembling with horror of what she had heard, raised herself cautiously from the willows, where she had lain and watched the innkeeper's retreating figure. When it had disappeared, she gave a little gasp of relief. Free now to run home. There to plan what course must be pursued, she conquered her fear and weakness, and hurried from the glade. Luckily so far, as she was able to tell no one saw her return, she resolved that she would be cool, deliberate, clever, worthy of the Borderman's confidence. First she tried to determine the purport of this interview between Brent and Metser. She recalled to mind all that was said and supplied, what she thought had been suggested. Brent and Metser were horse thieves. Aids of Bing Linget. They had repaired to the glade to plan. The Indian had been a surprise. Wetzel had rotted the Shaunis and was now on the trail of this chieftain. The Indian warned them to leave Fort Henry and to meet him at a place called Two Islands. Brent's plan, presumably somewhat changed by the advent of the Red Man, was to steal horses, abduct a girl in broad daylight, and before tomorrow's sunset escape to join the Ruffian Liget. I am that girl! Remembered Helen shudderingly, as she relapsed momentarily into girly spheres that at once she rose above selfish feelings. Secondly, while it was easy to determine what the outlaws meant, the wisest course was difficult to conceive. She had promised the Borderman to help him, and not speak of anything she learned to anybody himself. She could not be true to him if she asked advice. The point was clear. Either she must remain in the settlement hoping for Jonathan's return in time to frustrate Brent's, bid on the scheme, or find the Borderman. Suddenly she remembered. Metser's allusion to a second person whom Brent felt certain he could trust. This met another traitor in Fort Henry. Another horse thief. Another desperado willing to make up with helpless women. Helen's spirit rose in arms. She had their secret. She could ruin him. She would find the Borderman. Wetzel was on a trail at Eagle Rock. What for? Trailing in Indian, who was then five miles east of that rock. Not Wetzel. He was on that track to meet Jonathan. Otherwise, with the Redskins near the river, he would have been closer to them. He would meet Jonathan there at sunset to-day, Helen decided. She paced the room, trying to still her throbbing heart, and trembling hands. I must be calm, she said sternly. Time is precious. I have not a moment to lose. I will find him. I've watched that mountain many a time, and can find the trail and the rock. I am in more danger here than out there in the forest. With Wetzel and Jonathan on the mountain side, the Indians have fled it. But what about the savage who warned Brent, let me think. Yes, he'll avoid the river. He'll go round south of the settlement, and therefore can't see me cross. How fortunate that I have paddled a canoe many times across the river. How glad that I made Colonel Zane describe the course up the mountains. For resolution fixed, Helen changed her skirt for one of Buckskin, putting on leggings and moccasins of the same serviceable material. She filled the pockets of a short rain-proof jacket with biscuits, and thus equipped Sally forth with a spirit of an exultation she could not subdue. Only one thing she feared, which was that Brant or Metzer might see her cross the river. She launched her canoe and paddled downstream under cover of the bluff to a point opposite the end of the island, then straight across, keeping the island between her and the settlement. Gaining the other shore, Helen pulled the canoe into the willows and mounted the bank. A thicket of willow and alder made progress up the steep incline difficult, but once out of it she faced a long stretch of grassy meadowland. A mile beyond began the green billowy rise of that mountain she intended to climb. Helen's whole soul was thrown into the adventure. She felt her strong young limbs in accord with her heart. Now, Mr. Brant, horse-thief and girl-snatcher will see, she said, with scornful lips. If I can't beat you now, I'm not fit to be Betty Zane's friend, and I am unworthy of a boarderman's trust. She traversed the whole length of the meadowland close under the shadow of the fringed bank, and gained the forest. Here she hesitated. All was so wild and still. No definite course through the woods seemed to invite, and yet all was open, trees, trees, dark and movable trees everywhere. The violent trembling of poplar and aspen leaves, when all others were so calm, struck her strangely. And the fearful stillness awed her. Drawing a deep breath, she started forward up the gently rising ground. As she advanced the open forest became darker, and of wilder aspect, the trees were larger and closer together. Still she made fair progress without deviating from the course she had determined upon. Before her rose a ridge, with a ravine on either side, reaching nearly to the summit of the mountain. Here the underbrush was scanty. The fallen trees had slipped down the side, and the rocks were not so numerous, all of which gave her reason to be proud, so far of her judgment. Helling pressing onward and upward forgot time and danger. While she reveled in the wonder of the forest land, birds and squirrels fled before her, whistling and wheezing of alarm, or heavy crashings in the brushes, told a frightened wild beast. A dull faint roar, like a distant wind, suggested tumbling waters, a single birch tree, gleaming white among the back trees, enlivened the gloomy forest, patches of sunlight brightened the shade, giant ferns just tingling with autumn colors, waved tips of sculptured perfection. Most wonderful of all were the colored leaves, as they floated downward with a sad, gentle rustle. Helling was brought to a realization of her hazardous undertaking by a sudden roar of water, and the abrupt termination of the ridge in a deep gorge. Grasping a tree she leaned over to look down. It was fully a hundred feet deep, with impassable walls green-stained and damp at the bottom of which a brawling brown brook rushed on its way, fully twenty feet wide. It presented an insurmountable barrier to further progress in that direction. But Helling looked upon it merely as a difficulty to be overcome. She studied the situation, and decided to go to the left, because higher ground was to be seen that way. Abandoning the ridge, she pressed on, keeping as close to the gorge as she dared, and came presently to a fallen tree lying across the dark cleft, without a second's hesitation. For she knew which would be fatal, she stepped upon the tree and started to cross, looking at nothing but the log under her feet, while she tried to imagine herself walking across the Watergate, at home in Virginia. She accomplished the venture without a misstep. When safely on the ground once more she felt her knees tremble and a queer, light feeling came into her head. She laughed, however, as she rested a moment. It would take more than a gorge to discourage her. She resolved with set blips. As once again she made her way along the rising ground. Perilous, if not desperate, work was ahead of her. Broken rocky ground, matted thicket, and seemingly impenetrable forest rose darkly in advance, but she was not even tired and climbed, crawled, twisted, and turned on her way upward. She surrounded a rocky ledge to face a higher ridge covered with splintered, uneven stones, with the fallen trees of many storms. Once she slipped and fell, spraining her wrist. At length this uphill labor began to weary her. To breathe caused a pain in her side, and she was compelled to rest. Already the gray light of coming night shrouded the forest. She was surprised at seeing the trees become indistinct, because the shadows hovered over the thickets, and noted that the dark, dim outline of the ridges was fading into obscurity. She struggled up on the uneven slope with a tightening at her heart, which was not all exhaustion. For the first time she doubted herself, but it was too late. She could not turn back. Suddenly she felt that she was on a smoother, easier course. Not to strike a stone or break a quig seemed unusual. It might be a path worn by deer going to a spring. Then into her troubled mind flashed the joyful thought. She had found a trail. Soft wiry grass, bringing from a wet soil, rose under her feet. A little rill trickled alongside the trail. Mossy, soft cushioned stones lay embedded here and there. Young maples and hickories grew breast high on either side, and the way wound in and out under the lowering shade of forest monarchs. Finally ascending this path, she came at length to a point where it was possible to see some distance ahead. The ascent became hardly noticeable. Then as she turned a bend of the trail, the light grew brighter and brighter until presently all was open and clear. An awful space covered with stones lay before her. A big blasted chestnut stood nearby. Beyond was the dim purple haze of distance. Above, the pale blue sky just faintly rose tinted by the setting sun. Far to her left, the scraggly trees of a low hill were tipped with orange and russet shades. She had reached the summit. Desolate and lonely was this little plateau. Helen felt immeasurably far away from home, yet she could see in the blue distance the glancing river, the dark fort, and that cluster of cabins which marked the location of Fort Henry. Sitting upon the roots of the big chestnut tree she gazed around. There were the remains of a small campfire beyond a hollow under a shelving rock. A bed of dry leaves lay packed in this shelter. Someone had been here, and she doubted not that it was the boarderman. She was so tired and at risk to pain so severely that she lay back against the tree trunk. Closed her eyes and rested. Awareness, the apathy of utter exhaustion came over her. She wished the boarderman would hurry and come before she went to sleep. Drowsily she was sinking into slumber when a long, low rumble aroused her. How dark it had suddenly become! A sheet of pale light flared across silver-cast heavens. A storm! exclaimed Helen. Alone on this mountaintop with a storm coming? Am I frightened? I don't believe it. At least I'm safe from that ruffian brant. Oh, if my boarderman would only come. Helen changed her position from beside the tree to the hollow under the stone. It was high enough to permit of her standing upright and offered a safe retreat from the storm. The bed of leaves was soft and comfortable. She sat there, peering out at the darkening heavens. All beneath her, southward and westward, was great twilight. The settlement faded from sight. The river grew on and shadowy. The ruddy light in the west was fast succumbing to the rolling clouds. Darker and darker it became, until only one break in the overspreading vapors admitted the last crimson gleam of sunshine over hills and valley, brightening the river until it resembled a stream of fire. Then the light veiled, the glow faded. The intense blackness of night prevailed. Out of the even west came presently another flare of light, a quick spreading flash like a flicker from a monster candle. It was followed by a long, low rumbling roll. Helen fell to those intervals of utterly vast silence. That she must shriek aloud. The thunder was a friend. She prayed for the storm to break. She had withstood danger and toilsome effort with fortitude, but could not brave this awful, boating wilderness stillness. Flashes of lightning now revealed the rolling, pushing, turbulent clouds, and peals of thunder sounded nearer and louder. A long, swelling moan, sad, low, like the uneasy sigh of the sea breathed far in the west. That was the wind, the ominous warning of the storm. Sheets of light were now mingled with long, straggling ropes of fire and the rumblings were often broken by louder, quicker detonations. Then a period, longer than usual of inky blackness, succeeded the sharp flurring of light. A faint breeze ruffled the leaves of the thicket, and fan Helen's hot cheek. The moan of the wind became more distinct than louder, and in another instant, like the far-off roar of a rushing river, the storm was upon her. Helen shrank closer against the stone, and pulled her jacket tighter around her trembling form. A sudden, intense, dazzling, blinding white light enveloped her. The rocky promontory, the weird giant chestnut tree, the open plateau, and beyond the stormy heavens, were all luredly clear in the flash of lightning. She fancied it was possible to see a tall, dark figure emerging from the thicket. As the thunderclap rolled and peeled overhead, she strained her eyes into the blackness, waiting for the next lightning flash. It came with brilliant, dazzling splendor. The whole plateau and thicket were as light as the day, close by the stone where she lay, crept a tall, dark figure. But Indian, with staring eyes, she saw the fringe clothing, the long flying hair and supple body, peculiar to the savage, he was creeping up on her. Helen's blood ran cold. Terror held her voiceless. She felt herself sinking slowly, down upon the leaves. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of the last trail. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Mike Vendetti, mikevendetti.com. The last trail by Zane Gray, Chapter 12. The sun had begun to cast long shadows the afternoon of Helen's hunt for Jonathan. When the bordermen accompanied by a wetzel, let a string of horses along the base of the very mountain she had ascended. Last night's job was a good one. I ain't against saying, but the red skin I wanted got away. Wetzel said gloomily. He's safe now as a squirrel in a hole. I saw him darting among the trees, with its white eagle feathers sticking up like a buck's flag, replied Jonathan. He can run. If I'd only had my rifle loaded. But I'm not sure he was that arrow-shooting Shawnee. It was him. I saw his bow. We ought to have taken more time and picked him out, Wetzel replied, shaking his head gravely. Though maybe that had been useless. I think he was hiding. He's precious shy of his red skin. I've been after him these ten years and never catched him napping yet. We'd have done much towards snuffin' outlegged in his gang if we'd winged that Shawnee. He left a plain trail. One of his tricks, he's slicker on a trail than any other engine on the border. Unless maybe it's old wingin' and the Huron, this Shawnee'd lead us many a mile for nothing. If we'd stick to his trail. I'm longer ago used to him. He's doubled like an old fox, run harder than a skeered fawn. And if he needs me, he'll lay low as a cunning buck. I calculate once over the mountain. He's made a beeline east. We'll go on with the Hausses and then strike across country to find his trail. It appears to me, Lou, that we've been takin' a long time in makin' a show against these Hauss leaves, said Jonathan. I ain't sayin' much. But I've felt it, said Whitzel. All summer and nothin' done. It was more luck than sense that we run into these engines with the Hausses. We only got three out of four and let the best redskin give us the slip. Here fall is nigh on us with winter comin' soon. And we still don't know who's the white trader in the settlement. I said it's be a long and maybe our last trail. Why? Because those fellers, red or white, are in with the picked gang of the best woodsmen as ever outlawed the border. We'll get the Fort Henry Hauss leaf. I'll back the bright-eyed last for that. I haven't seen her lately, and allow she left word if she learned anything. Well, maybe it's as well you ain't seen so much of her. In silence they traveled, and arriving at the edge of the middle. We're about to mount two of the Hausses when Whitzel said in a sharp tone. Look! He pointed to a small, well-defined moccasin track in the black earth on the margin of a rill. Lou? It's a woman. Sure you're born, declared Jonathan. Whitzel knelt and closely examined the footprint. Yes, a woman's and no engine. What? Jonathan exclaimed as he knelt to scrutinize the imprint. This ain't half a day old, added Whitzel, and not a Redskins moccasin near. What do you reckon? A white girl alone replied Jonathan as he followed the trail a short distance along the brook. See, she's making upland. Whitzel, these tracks could hardly be my sisters, and there's only one other girl on the border whose feet will match him. Helen Shepard his past here, on her way up the mountain to find you or me. I like your reckoning. She's suddenly discovered something, engines, Hausses leaves the Fort Henry Trader, or maybe, and most likely some plottin', being bound to secrecy by me. She's not told my brother, and it must be called for a hurry. She knows we frequent this mountaintop, said Ebb told her about the way we get here. I'd calculate about the same. What'll you do? Go with me after I ask Jonathan? I'll take the Hausses and be at the Fort inside an hour. If Helen's gone, I'll tell her father you're close on her trail. Now listen, it'll be dark soon and a storm's coming. Don't waste time on her trail. Hurry up to the rock. She'll be there if any lass can climb there. If not, come back in the morning. Hunt her trail out and find her. I'm thinking, Jack, we'll find the Shawnee had something to do with this. Whatever happens after I get back to the Fort, I'll expect you hard on my trail. Jonathan bounded across the brook, with an easy lope, began the gradual accent. Soon he came upon a winding path. He ran along this for perhaps a quarter of an hour until it became too steep for rapid travelling, when he settled down to a rapid walk. The forest was already dark. A slight rustling of the leaves beneath his feet was the only sound except at long intervals the distant rumbling of thunder. The mere possibility of Helen's being alone on that mountain, seeking him, made Jonathan's heart beat as it never had before. For weeks he had avoided her, almost forgot her. He had conquered the strange yearning weakness which sailed him after that memorable Sunday, and once more the silent shaded glens the mystery of the woods, the breath of his wild, free life had claimed him. But now as this evidence of her spirit, her recklessness, was before him, and he remembered Betty's avowal of pain, which was almost physical, sore at his heart. How terrible it would be if she came to her death, through him. He pictured the big, alluring eyes, the perfect lips, the haunting face, cold in death, and he shuddered. The dim gloom of the woods soon darkened into blackness. The flashes of lightning momentarily streaking the foliage, or sweeping overhead in pale yellow sheets, aided Jonathan in keeping the trail. He gained the plateau just as a great flash illuminated it, and distinctly saw the dark hollow where he had taken refuge in many a storm, and where he now hoped to find the girl. Picking his way carefully over the sharp blue stones, he at last put his hand on the huge rock, another blue-white, dazzling flash enveloped the scene. Under the rock he saw a dark form huddled, and a face as white as snow with wide, horrified eyes. Once he said, when the thunder had rumbled away, he received no answer and called again. Kneeling, he groped about until touching Helen's dress. He spoke again, but she did not reply. Jonathan crawled under the ledge beside the quiet figure. He touched her hands. They were very cold. Fending over, he was relieved to hear her heart beating. He called her name. But still she made no reply. Dipping his hand into a little rill that ran beside the stone, he bathed their face. Soon she stirred uneasily, moaned, and suddenly sat up. "'Tis Jonathan,' he said quickly. "'Don't be scared.' Another illuminating flare of lightning brightened the plateau. "'Oh, thank heaven,' cried Helen. "'I thought you were an Indian.' Helen sank, trembling against the boarderman, who unfolded her in his long arms. Her relief and thankfulness were so great that she could not speak. Her hands clasped and unclasped, round his strong fingers, her tears flowed freely. The storm broke with terrific fury. A seething torrent of rain and hail came with the rushing wind. Great heaven-broad sheets of lightning played across the black dome overhead. Zigzag ropes, steel blue in color, shot downward. Crash and crack and boom, the thunder split and rolled the clouds above. The lightning flashes showed the fall of rain in columns like white waterfalls, born on the irresistible wind. The grandeur of the storm awed and stilled Helen's emotion. She sat there watching the lightning, listening to the peals of thunder, and thrilling with the wonder of this situation. Gradually, the roar abated. The flashes became less frequent, the thunder decreased. As the storm wore out its strength and passing, the wind and rain ceased on the mountaintop almost as quickly as they had begun, and the roar died away in the distance. Far to the eastward flashes of light illuminated scowling clouds and brightened many a dark, wooded hill and valley. Last, how is it? I find you here, ask, Jonathan Gravely. With many a pause and a broken phrase Helen told the story of what she had seen and heard at the spring. Child, why didn't you go to my brother, ask, Jonathan? You don't know what you undertook. I thought of everything, but I wanted to find you myself. Besides, I was just as safe alone on this mountain as in the village. I don't know, but you're right, replied Jonathan thoughtfully, so Brant planned to make off with you to-morrow. Yes, and when I heard it I wanted to run away from the village. You've done a wondrous, clever thing, lass. This Brant is a bad man and hard to match. But if he hasn't shaken Fort Henry by now, his career will end by the sudden, and his bad trail stops short on the hillside among the graves, for Ebb will always give outlaws or engine, decent burial. What will the Colonel or anyone think has become of me? What's on those, lass, for he found your trail below? Then he'll tell Papa you came after me? Oh, poor Papa, I forgot him. Shall we stay here till daylight? We'd gain nothing by starting now. The brooks are full, and in the dark we'd make little distance. You're dry here and comfortable. What's more, lass? You're safe. I feel perfectly safe with you, Helen said softly. Aren't you tired, lass? Tired? I'm nearly dead. My feet are cut and bruised, my wrist is sprained, and I ache all over. But, Jonathan, I don't care. I am so happy to have my wild venture turned out successfully. You can lie here and sleep while I keep watch. Jonathan made a move to withdraw his arm, which was still between Helen and the rock, but had dropped from her waist. I am very comfortable, I'll sit here with you watching for daybreak. My how dark it is. I cannot see my hand before my eyes. Helen settled herself back into the stone, leaned a little very little against his shoulder, and tried to think over her adventure, but her mind refused to entertain any ideas except those of the present. Mingled with the dreamy lassitude that grew stronger every moment was a sense of delight in her situation. She was alone on a wild mountain in the night with this borderman. The one she loved. By chance and her own foolheartedness this had come about, yet she was fortunate to have a tend to some good beyond her own happiness. All she would suffer from her perilous climb would be aching bones and perhaps a scolding from her father. What she might gain was more than she had dared hope. Breaking up of the horse-thief gang would be a boon to the heiress's settlement. How proudly Colonel Zane would smile. Her name would go on that long roll of border honour and heroism. That was not, however, one-thousandth part so pleasing as to be alone with her borderman. With a sigh of mingled weariness and content, Helen leaned her head on Jonathan's shoulder and fell asleep. The borderman trembled. The sudden nestling of her head against him, the light caress of her fragrant hair across his cheek, revived a sweet, almost conquered, almost forgotten emotion. He felt an inexplicable thrill vibrate through him. No untrodden, ambushed wild, no perilous trail, no dark and bloody encounter had ever made him feel fear as had the kiss of this maiden. He had sternly silenced faint, unfamiliar, yet tender voices whispering in his heart. And now his rigorous discipline was as if it were not, for at her touch he trembled. Still he did not move away. He knew she had succumbed to weariness and was fast asleep. He could, gently without awaking her, have leaned her head upon the pillow-bleaves. Indeed, he thought of doing it, but made no effort. A woman's head lying softly against him was a thing, novel, strange, wonderful. For all the power he had then, each tumbling lock of her hair, might as well have been a chain, linking him fast to the mountain. With the memory of his former yearning, unsatisfied moods, and the unrest and pain his awakening tenderness had caused him, came he to determination to look things fairly in the face, to be just in thought towards this innocent, impulsive girl, and be honest with himself. Duty commanded that he resist all charm other than that pertaining to his life in the woods. Years ago he had accepted Abortamen's destiny, well content to be recompensed by its untamed freedom from restraint, to be always under the trees he loved so well, to lend his cunning and woodcraft in the pioneer's cause, to haunt the savage trails, to live from day to day a menace to the foes of civilization, that was the life he had chosen. It was all he could ever have. In view of this, Justice demanded that he allow no friendship to spring up between himself and this girl. If his sister's belief was really true, if Helen really was interested in him, it must be a romantic infatuation which, not encouraged, would wear itself out. What was he, to win the love of any girl? An unlettered borderman who knew only the woods, whose life was hard and cruel, whose hands were red with Indian blood, whose vengeance had not spared men, even of his own race. He could not believe she really loved him. Wildly impulsive as girls were at times, she had kissed him. She had had been grateful, carried away by a generous feeling for him as the protector of her father. When she did not seem for a long time, as he vowed should be the case after he had carried her safely home, she would forget. Then Honesty demanded that he probe his own feelings. Sternly, as if judging a renegade, he searched out in his simple way the truth. This big-eyed lass with her nameless charm would be which even a borderman unless he avoided her. So much he had not admitted until now. Love he had never believed could be possible for him. When she fell asleep, her hand had slipped from his arm to his fingers, and now rested there lightly as a leap. The contact was delight. The gentle night breeze blew a tress of her hair across his lips. He trembled. The rounded shoulder pressed against him until he could feel her slow, deep breathing. He almost held his own breath lest he disturb her rest. No, he was no longer indifferent, as surely as those pale stars blinked far above. He knew the delight of a woman's presence. It moved him to study the emotion as he studied all things, which was the habit of his borderman's life. Did it come from knowledge of her beauty, matchless as that of the mountain laurel? He recalled the dark glance of her challenging eyes, her tall, supple figure, and the bewiltering excitation and magnetism of her presence. Beauty was wonderful, but not everything. Beauty belonged to her. But she would have been irresistible without it. Was it not because she was a woman? That was the secret. She was a woman with all a woman's charm to bewitch, to twine round the strength of men as the ivy encircles the oak, with all a woman's weakness to pity and to guard, with all a woman's willful, burning love, and with all a woman's mystery. At last so much of life was intelligible to him. The renegade committed his worst crimes because even in his outlawed, homeless state he could not exist without the companionship, if not the love of a woman. The pioneer's toil and privation were for a woman, and the joy of loving her and living for her, the Indian brave, and not on the warpath walked hand in hand with a dusky, soft-eyed maiden, and sang to her of moonlit lakes and western winds. Even the birds and beasts mated. The robins returned to their old nests, the eagles paired once, and were constant in life and death. The buck followed the doe through the forest. All nature sang that love made life worth living. Love then was everything. The boarder men sat out the long vigil of the night, watching the stars and trying to decide that love was not for him. If Wetzel had locked a secret within his breast and never in all those years spoke of it to his companion, then surely that companion could as well live without love, stern, dark. Deadly work must stain unblock all tenderness from his life, else it would be unutterably barren. The joy of living, of unharessed freedom, he had always known if a fair face and dark, mournful eyes were to haunt him on every lonely trail, than it were better an Indian should end his existence. The darkest hour before dawn, as well as the darkest of doubt and longing in Jonathan's life, passed away. A gray gloom obscured the pale, winking stars. The east slowly whitened, then brightened, and at length they broke, misty and fresh. The boarder men rose to stretch his cramped limbs. When he turned to the little cavern, the girl's eyes were wide open. All the darkness, the shadow, the beauty, and the thought of the past night lay in their blue depths. He looked away across the valley, where the sky was reddening and a pale rim of gold appeared above the hill-tops. Well, if I haven't been asleep, exclaimed Helen with a low, soft laugh. You're rested, I hope, said Jonathan, with averted eyes. He dared not look at her. Oh, yes, indeed, I am ready to start at once. How gray, how beautiful the morning is. Shall we be long? I hope Papa knows. In silence the boarder men led the way across the rocky plateau, and into the winding, narrow trail. His pale, slightly drawn and stern face did not invite conversation. Therefore Helen balled silently in his footsteps. The way was steep, and at times he was forced to lend her aid. She put her hand in his and jumped lightly as a fawn, presently a brawling brook overcrowding its banks impeded further progress. I'll have to carry you across, said Jonathan. I'm very heavy, replied Helen, with a smile in her eyes. She flushed as the boarder men put his right arm around her waist. Then a clasp as of steel enclosed her. She felt herself swinging easily into the air and over the muddy brook. Further down the mountain this troublesome brook again crossed a trail, this time much wider and more formidable. Helen looked with some vexation and embarrassment into the boarder men's face. It was always the same stern, almost cold. Perhaps I'd better wade, she said hesitantly. Why, the water's deep and cold. You'd better not get wet. Helen flushed but did not answer. With downcast eyes she let herself be carried on his powerful arm. The wading was difficult this time. The water foamed furiously around his knees. Once he slipped on a stone and nearly lost his balance. Uttering a little scream, Helen grasped at him wildly, and her arm encircled his neck. What was still more trying when he put her on her feet again? It was found that her hair had become entangled in the porcupine quills on his hunting-coat. She stood before him while with clumsy fingers he endeavored to entangle the shimmering strands. But in vain Helen unwound the snarl of wavy hair. Most alluring she was then with a certain softness on her face and light and laughter and something warm in her eyes. The boarder men felt that he breathed a subtle exhilaration which emanated from her glowing, gracious beauty. She radiated with the gladness of life, with an uncontrollable sweetness and joy, but giving no token of his feeling he turned to march on down through the woods. From this point the trail broadened, descending at an easier angle. Jonathan stride lengthened until Helen was forced to walk rapidly and sometimes run in order to keep close behind him. A quick journey home was expedient, and in order to accomplish this she would gladly have exerted herself to a greater extent. When they reached the end of the trail where the forest opened clear of brush, finally to merge into the broad, verdant plain, the sun had chased the mist clouds from the eastern hill-tops and was gloriously brightening the valley. With a touch of sentiment natural to her, Helen gazed backward for one more view of the mountaintop, the wall of rugged rock she had so often admired from a window at home, which henceforth would ever hold a tender place of remembrance in her heart. Rose out of a gray, blue bank of mist, the long, swelling slope lay clear to the sunshine, with the rays of sun gleaming and glistening upon the variegated foliage, and upon the shiny, rolling haze above a beautiful picture of Autumn Splendor was before her. Tall pines here and there, towered high and lonely over the surrounding trees. Their dark green, graceful heads stood in bold relief above the golden yellow crest beneath. Maples tinged from faintest pink to deepest rose, added warm color to the scene, and chestnuts, with their brown-white burrs, let fresher beauty to the underlating slope. The remaining distance to the settlement was short. Jonathan spoke only once to Helen, then questioning her as to where she had left her canoe. They traversed the meadow, found the boat in the thicket of woolows, and were soon under the frowning bluff of Fort Henry, ascending the steep path they followed the road leading to Colonel Zane's cabin. A crowd of boys, men, and women, laudering near the bluff, arrested Helen's attention. Struck by this unusual occurrence, she wondered what was the cause of such idleness among the busy pioneer people. They were standing in little groups. Some made vehement gestures, others conversed earnestly, and yet more were silent. On seeing Jonathan a number shouted and pointed toward the inn. The boardermen hurried, Helen along the path, giving no heed to the throng. But Helen had seen the cause of all this excitement. At first glance she thought Metser's Inn had been burned. But a second later it could be seen that the smoke came from a smoldering heap of rubbish in the road. The inn, nevertheless, had been wrecked. Windows stared with that vacantness peculiar to deserted houses. The doors were broken from their hinges, a pile of furniture, rude tables, chairs, beds, and other articles, were heaped beside the smoking rubbish. Scattered round laid barrels and kegs all with gaping sides and broken heads. Liquor had stained the road, where it had been soaked up by the thirsty dust. Upon a shattered cellar door lay a figure covered with a piece of rag carpet. When Helen's quick eyes took in this last, she turned away in horror. That motionless form might be Brant's. Remorse and womanly sympathy surged over her. For bad as the man had shown himself, he had loved her. She followed the boardermen, trying to compose herself. As they neared Colonel Zane's cabin she saw her father, Will, the Colonel, Betty, Nell, Mrs. Zane, Silas Zane, and others whom she did not recognize. They were all looking at her. Helen's throat swelled and her eyes filled, when she got near enough to see her father's haggard, eager face. The others were grave. She wondered guiltily if she had done much wrong. In another moment she was among them. Tears fell as her father extended his trembling hands to clasp her, and as she hid her burning face in his breast he cried, my dear, dear child. Then Betty gave her a great hug and Nell flew about them like a happy bird. Colonel Zane's face was pale and wore a clouded stern expression. She smiled timidly at him through her tears. Well, well, well, he mused while his gaze softened. That was all he said, but he took her hand and held it while he turned to Jonathan. The boardermen leaned on his long rifle regarding him with expected eyes. Well, Jack, you missed a little scrimmage this morning. What so got in at daybreak? The storm and horses held him up on the other side of the river until daylight. He told me of your suspicions with the additional news that he'd found a fresh Indian trail on the island just across from the inn. We went down not expecting to find any one awake, but Metser was hurriedly packing some of his traps. Half a dozen men were there, having probably stayed all night. That little English cuss was one of them, and another, an ugly fellow, a stranger to us, but evidently a woodsman. Things looked bad. Metser told a decidedly conflicting story. Wetzel and I went outside to talk over the situation, with the result that I ordered him to clean out the place. Here Colonel Zane paused to indulge in a grim meaning laugh. Well, he cleaned out the place all right. The ugly stranger got rattlesnake mad and yanked out a big knife. Sam is hitching up the team now to haul what's left of him up on the hillside. Metser resisted arrest and got badly hurt. He's in the guardhouse. Case, who has been drunk for a week, got on Wetzel's way and was kicked into the middle of next week. He's been spitting blood for the last hour, but I guess he's not much hurt. Brant flew the coop last night. Wetzel found this hidden in his room. Colonel Zane took a long feathered arrow from where it lay on a bench and held it out to Jonathan. The Shawnee signal. Wetzel had it right, muttered the boarderman. Exactly. Lou found where the arrow stuck in the wall of Brant's room. It was shot from the island at the exact spot where Lou came to an end of the Indian's trail in the water. That Shawnee got away from us. So Lou said. Well, he's gone now. So has Brant. We're rid of the gang if only we never hear from them again. The boarderman shook his head. During the Colonel's recital his face changed. The dark eyes had become deadly. The square jaw was shut. The lines of the cheek had grown tense, and over his hugely expressive countenance had settled a chill, lowering shade. Lou thanks Brant's in with Binglegged. His black traitor heart. He's a good man for the worst and strongest gang that ever tracked the border. The boarderman was silent, but the futility restless shifting of his eyes over the river and island, hill and valley, sporked more plainly than words. Here to take his trail at once, added Colonel Zane. I had best put you up some bread, meat, and parched corn. No doubt you'll have a long, hard tramp. Good luck. The boarderman went into the cabin, presently emerging with a buckskin knapsack strapped to his shoulder. He set off eastward with a long, swaying stride. The women had taken Helen within the house, where no doubt they could discuss, with greater freedom, the events of the previous day. Shepherd, said Colonel Zane, turning with the sparkle in his eyes, Brant was after Helen sure as the bad weed grows fast, and certain his death, Jonathan and Wetzel, will see him cold and quiet back in the woods. That's a border saying, and it means a good deal. I never saw Wetzel so implacable nor Jonathan so fatally cold at once. And that was when Miller, another trader much like Brant, tried to make away with Betty. It would have chilled your blood to see Wetzel go at that fool this morning. Why did he want to pull a knife on the boarderman? It was a sad sight. Well, these things are justifiable. We must protect ourselves and above all our women. We've had bad men, and a bad man out here is something you cannot yet appreciate. Come here and slip into the life of the settlement. Because on the border you can never tell what a man is until he proves himself. There have been scores of criminals spread over the frontier, and some better men like Simon Gertie, who were driven to outlaw life. Simon must not be confounded with Jim Gertie, absolutely the most fiendish, desperado who ever lived. Why even the Indians feared Jim so much that after his death his skeleton remained unmolested and glade where he was killed. The places believed to be haunted now, by all Indians and many white hunters, and I believe the bones stand there yet. Stand, asked Shepard, deeply interested. Yes, it stands where Gertie stood and died. Upright against a tree, pinned. Pinned there by a big knife. Heavens, man, who did it? Shepard cried in horror. Again Colonel Zane's laugh, almost metallic, broke grimly from his lips. Who? Why, Wetzel, of course, lew hunted Jim Gertie five long years. When he caught him? God, I'll tell you some other time. Jonathan saw a Wetzel handle Jim and his pal, daring, as they were mere boys. Well, as I said, the border has had, and still has, its bad men. Simon Gertie took McKee and Elliot, the Tories from Fort Pitt, when he deserted and ten men beside. They're all except those who are dead outlaws of the worst type. The other bad men drifted out here from Lord, only knows where. They're scattered all over. Simon Gertie, since his crowning black deed, the massacre of the Christian Indians, is in hiding. Bing Leggett now has the field. He's a hard nut, a cunning woodsman, and capable leader who surrounds himself with only the most desperate Indians and renegades. Brant is an agent of Leggett's, and I'll bet we'll hear from him again. CHAPTER XIII Jonathan travelled towards the east, straight as a crow flies. Wetzel's trail, as he pursued Brant, had been left designingly plain. Branches of young maples had been broken by the bordermen. They were glaring evidences of his passage. On open ground or through swampy meadows, he had contrived to leave other means to facilitate his comrade's progress. Bits of sumac laced run along the way, every red leafy branch, a bright marker of the course, crimson maple leaves, served their turn, and even long bladed ferns were scattered at intervals. Ten miles east of Fort Henry, at a point where two islands lay opposite each other, Wetzel had crossed the Ohio. Jonathan removed his clothing and, tying these together to his knapsack, to the rifle held them above the water while he swam the three narrow channels. He took up the trail again, finding here, as he expected, where Brant had joined the waiting Shawnee sheaf. The bordermen pressed on harder to the eastward. About the middle of the afternoon signs betokened that Wetzel and his quarry were not far in advance. Fresh imprints in the grass crushed asters and moss, broken branches with unwhithered leaves and plots of grassy ground where Jonathan saw the templates of grass, where yet springing back to the original position, proved to the bordermen's practiced eye that he was close upon Wetzel. In time he came to a grove of yellow birch trees. The ground was nearly free from brush, beautifully carpeted with flowers and ferns, and except where brushy windfalls obstructed the way, was singularly open to the gaze for several hundred yards ahead. Upon entering this wood, Wetzel's plain intentional markings became manifest, then wavered, and finally disappeared. Jonathan pondered a moment. He concluded that the way was so open and clear with nothing but grass and moss to mark a trail, that Wetzel had simply considered it a waste of time, for perhaps the short length of this grove. Jonathan knew he was wrong after taking a dozen steps more. Wetzel's trail, known so well to him, as never to be mistaken, sheared abruptly off to the left, and after a few yards the distance between the footsteps widened perceptibly. Then came a point where they were so far apart that they could have only been made by long leaps. On the instant the bordermen knew that some unforeseen peril or urgent cause had put Wetzel to flight, and he now bent piercing eyes around the grove. Retracing his steps to where he had found the break in the trail, he followed up branch tracks for several rides, not one hundred paces beyond where Wetzel had quit the pursuit, where there remains a campfire, the embers still smoldering, and among us in tracks of a small band of Indians, the trail of Brant and his Shawnee guide, met the others at almost right angles. The Indian, either by accident or design, had guided Brant to a band of his fellows, and thus led Wetzel almost into an ambush. Evidence was not clear, however, that the Indians had discovered the keen tracker who had run almost into their midst. While studying the forest ahead, Jonathan's mind was running over the possibilities. How close was Wetzel? Was he still in flight? Had the savages an inkling of his pursuit? Or was he now working out one of his cunning tricks of woodcraft? The bordermen had no other idea than had a following the trail to learn all this. Taking the desperate chances warranted under the circumstances, he walked boldly forward in his comrade's footsteps. Deep and gloomly was the forest adjoining the birch grove. It was a heavy growth of hardwood trees, interspersed with slender ash and maples, which with their scanty foliage resembled a labyrinth of green and yellow network, like filmy dotted lace hung on the taller darker rocks. Jonathan felt safer in this deep wood. He could still see several rods in advance. Following the trail, he was relieved to see that Wetzel's leaps had become shorter and shorter, until they once again were about the length of a long stride. The bordermen was, moreover, swinging in a curve to the northeast. This was proof that the bordermen had not been pursued, but was making a wide detour to get ahead of the enemy. Five hundred yards further on, the trail turned sharply towards the birch grove in the rear. The trail was fresh. Wetzel was possibly within signal call, surely within sound of a rifle shot. But even more stirring was a certainty that Brent and his Indians were inside the circle Wetzel had made, once again in sight of the more open woodland. Jonathan crawled on his hands and knees, keeping close to the cluster of ferns until well within the eastern end of the grove. He lay for some minutes listening. A threatening silence, like the hush before a storm, permeated the wilderness. He peered out from his covert, but owing to its location in a little hollow, he could not see far. Crawling to the nearest tree, he rose to his feet slowly, cautiously. No unnatural sight or sound arrested his attention. Repeatedly with the acute, unsatisfied gaze of the boardman who knew that every tree, every patch of fern, every tangled brush heap might harbor a foe, he searched the grove with his eyes. But the curly, barked birches, the clumps of colored ferns, the bushy windfalls, kept their secrets. For the boarderman, however, the whole aspect of the birch grove had changed. Over the forest was a deep calm, a gentle, barely perceptible wind sighed among the leaves, like rustling silk. The far-off drowsy drum of a grouse intruded on the vast stillness. The silence of the birds betokened a message. That mysterious breathing, that beautiful life of the woods lay hushed. Locked in a waiting, brooding silence. Far away among the somber trees, where the shade deepened into him, pentiful gloom lay immense, invisible and indefinable. A wind, a breath, a chill, terribly potent, seemed to pass over the boardman. Long experience had given him intuition of danger. As he moved slightly with Link's eyes fixed on the grove before him, a sharp, clear, perfect bird note broke the ominous quiet. It was like the melancholy cry of an oil, short, deep, suggestive of lonely forest dells. By a slight variation in the short call, Jonathan recognized it as a signal from Wetzel. The boarderman smiled as he realized that with all his stealth Wetzel had heard or seen him re-enter the grove. The signal was a warning to stand still or retreat. Jonathan's gaze narrowed down to the particular point Wetz had come the signal. Some two hundred yards ahead in this direction were several large trees standing in group. With one exception, they all had straight trunks. This deviated from the others in that it possessed an irregular bulging trunk, where else half shielded the form of Wetzel. So indistinct and immovable was this irregularity that the watcher could not be certain. Out of blind somewhat, with this tree which he suspected screened as comrade, lay a large windfall, large enough to conceal and ambush a whole band of savages. Even as he gazed, a sheet of flame flashed over the cover, crack! A loud sound followed. Then the whistle and zip of a bullet as it whizzed close by his head. Johnny led, muttered Jonathan. Unfortunately the tree he had selected did not hide him sufficiently. His shoulders were so wide that either one or the other was exposed affording a fine target for a marksman. A quick glance showed him a change in the naughty tree trunk. The seeming bulge was now the well-known figure of Wetzel. Jonathan dodged to some object glance slantingly before his eyes. Twang was thud! Three familiar and distinct sounds caused him to press hard against the tree. A tufted arrow quittered in the bark, not a foot from his head. Close shave! Damn that arrow-shootin' Johnny, muttered Jonathan. And he ain't in the windfall, either. His eyes searched to the left for the source of this new peril. Another sheet of flame. Another report from the windfall. A bullet sang close overhead, and glancing on a branch went harmlessly into the forest. Engines all around, I guess I better be makin' tracks, Jonathan said to himself, peering out to learn if Wetzel was still under cover. He saw the tall figure straighten up along. Black rifle rise to a level and become rigid. A red fire belched forth, followed by a puff of white smoke. In Indians horrible, strangely, breathtaking death yell, rent the silence. Then a chorus of plenty of howls, followed by angry shouts rang through the forest. Naked, painted savages darted out of the windfall toward the tree that had sheltered Wetzel. Quickest thought, Jonathan covered the foremost Indian, and with the crack of his rifles saw the red skin drop his gun, stop in his mad run, stagger sideways and fall. Then the boarderman looked to see what had become of his ally. The cracking of the Indian's rifle told him that Wetzel had been seen by his foes. With almost incredible fleetness, a brown figure with long black hair streaming behind darted in and out among the trees, flashed through the sunlit glade, and vanished in the dark depth of the forest. Jonathan turned to flee also. When he heard again the twang of an Indian's bow, a wind smote his cheek. A shock blinded him. An excruciating pain seized upon his breast. A feathered arrow had pinned his shoulder to the tree. He raised his hand to pull it out, but slippery with blood it afforded a poor hold for his fingers. Finally exerting himself, with both hands he wretched away the weapon. The flint head lacerating his flesh and scraping his shoulder bones caused sharpest agony. The pain gave way to sudden sense of giddiness. He tried to run. A dark mist veiled his sight. He stumbled and fell. Then he seemed to sink into a great darkness and knew no more. When consciousness returned to Jonathan it was night. He lay on his back, and knew because of his cramped limbs that he had been securely bound. He saw the glimmer of a fire but could not raise his head. A rustling of leaves in the wind told him he was yet in the woods, and the distant rumble of a waterfall sounded familiar. He felt drowsy. His wound smarted slightly, still he did not suffer any pain. Presently he fell asleep. Broad daylight had come when again he opened his eyes. The blue sky was directly above, and before him he saw a ledge covered with dwarfed pine trees. He turned his head and saw that he was in a sort of amphitheater. About two acres in extent closed by low cliffs. A cleft in the stony wall led out a brawling brook and served no doubt as entrance to the place. Several rude log cabins stood on that side of the enclosure. Jonathan knew. He had been brought to Bing Leggett's retreat. Voices attracted his attention and turning his head to the other side. He saw a big Indian pacing near him, and beyond, seven savages and three white men. Reclining in the shade. The powerful dark-visaged savage near him he had once recognized as Ashbow, the Shawnee Cheap, and noted emissary of Bing Leggett. Of the other Indians, three were Delaware's and four Shawnees. All veterans was swarthy, somber faces and glistening heads on which the scalp locks were trimmed and tupted. Their naked muscular bodies were painted for the warpath with their strange emblems of death. A trio of white men, nearly as bronze to the savage comrades, completed the group. One a desperate looking outlaw, Jonathan did not know. The blonde bearded giant in the center with Leggett, steel-blue and humanized, with the expression of a free but hunted animal. A set mast of like-jaw, brutal and coarse individualized him. The last man was the haggard-faced Brant. I tell you, Brant, I ain't going against his engine, Leggett was saying positively. He's the best ready on the border, and has saved me scores of time. This fellow's aim belongs to him, and while I'd much rather see the scout-knifed right here or now, I won't do nothing to interfere with the Shawnee's plans. Why does the Redskin want to take him away to his village, Brant Groud? All engine vanity and pride? It's engine ways, and we can do nothing to change him. But, your boss here, you can make him put this borderman out of the way. Well, I ain't going to interfere. Anyways, Brant, the Shawnee'll make short work of the scout when he gets him among the tribe. Engines is engines. It's a great honor for him to get Zane, and he wants his own people to figure in the finish. Quite natural, I reckon. I understand all that, but it's not safe for us. And it's courting death for Ashbow. Why don't he keep Zane here until you can spare more than three Indians to go with him? These bordermen can't be stopped. You don't know them because you're new in this part of the country. I've been here long as you, and a goonsome, too, I reckon, replied Ligget complacently. But you've not been hunted until lately by these bordermen, and you've had little opportunity to hear of them, except from Indians. What can you learn from these silent Redskins? I tell you, letting this fellow get out of here alive even for an hour is a fatal mistake. It's two full days' tramp to the Shawnee village. He don't suppose Wetzel will be afraid of four savages. Why, he sneaked right into eight of us, when we were ambushed waiting for him. He killed one and then was gone like a streak. It was only a piece of pure luck we got Zane. I've reasoned to know this Wetzel, this deathwind, as a Delaware's calling. I've never seen him, though, and always I reckon I can handle him if ever I get the chance. Man, you're crazy, cried Brent. He'd cut you to pieces before you'd have time to draw. He could give you a tomahawk, then take it away and split your head. I tell you, I know, you remember Jake Deering? He came from up your way. Wetzel fought Deering and Jim Gertie together and killed them. You know how I left Gertie? I'll allow he must be a fighter, but I ain't afraid of him. That's not the question. I'm talking sense. You've got a chance now to put one of these boardermen out of the way. Do it quick. That's my advice. Brent spoke so vehemently that Legget seemed impressed. He stroked his yellow beard and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. Presently he addressed the Shawnee chief in the native tongue. Will Ashbro take five horses for his prisoner? The Indian shook his head. How many will he take? The chief strode with dignity to and fro before his captive. His dark and passing face gave no clue to his thoughts. But his lofty bearing, his measured stately walk, were indicative of great pride. Then he spoke in a deep base. The Shawnee knows the woods from the great lakes where the sun sets, to the blue hills where it rises. He has met the great pale-face hunters. Only for death wind will Ashbro trade his captive. Seein' it, you'll use said Leggett spreading his hands. Let him go. He'll out with the Borderman. If any reskin's able to, the sooner he goes, the quicker he'll get back. And we can go to work. You ought to be satisfied to get the girl. Shut up. Interrupted Brent sharply. Beers to me, Brent. Being in love has kind of worked on your nerves. You used to be game. Now you're feared of a bound and tied man who ain't got long to live. I fear no man, answered Brent, scowling darkly. But I know what you don't seem to have sense enough to see. If this Zane gets away, which is probable, he and Wetzel will clean up your gang. Oh-ho-ho-ho, roared Leggett, slapping his knees. Then you'd have a little chance to get in the last, huh? All right. I have no more to say, snap Brent. Raising and turning on his heel, as he passed Jonathan he paused, saying if I could, I'd get even with you for that punch you once gave me. As it is, I'll stop at the Shawnee village on my way west. With a pretty lass, interposed Leggett, where I hope to see your scalp drying in the chief's lodge. The Porterman eyed him steadily. But in silence, words could not so well have conveyed his thought as did the cold glance of dark scorn and merciless meaning. Brent shuffled on with a curse. No coward was he. No man ever saw him flinch. But his intelligence was against him as a desperado. While such as these Porterman lived, an outlaw should never sleep. For he was a marked and doomed man. The deadly, cold pointed plain, withsittilated in the prisoner's eyes, was only a gleam of what the border felt towards outlaws. While Jonathan was considering all he had heard, three more Shawnees entered the retreat, and were at once called aside in consultation by Angebow. At the conclusion of this brief conference the chief advanced to Jonathan, cut the bonds around his feet, and motion for him to rise. The prisoner complied to find himself weak and sore, but able to walk. He concluded that his wound, while very painful, was not of a serious nature, and that he would be taken once on the march toward the Shawnee village. He was correct for the chief led him, with the three Shawnees following, toward the outlet of the enclosure. Jonathan's sharp eye took in every detail of Leggett's rendezvous. In a corral near the entrance he saw a number of fine horses, and among them his sister's pony. A more inaccessible natural refuge than Leggett's could hardly have been found in that country. The entrance was a narrow opening in the wall, and could be held by half a dozen against an army of besiegers. It opened, moreover on the side of a barren hill, from which could be had good survey of the surrounding forests and plains. As Jonathan went with his captors down the hill his hopes, which, while ever alive, had been flagging. Now rose. The long journey to the Shawnee town led to an untracked wilderness. The Delaware villages lay far to the north. The Wyandotte to the west. No likelihood was there of falling in with a band of Indians hunting because this region, Stony, Barren, and poorly watered, afforded sparse pasture for deer or bison. From the prisoner's point of view this enterprise of ashbows was reckless and vanglorious. Cunning as the chief was he erred in one point. A great warrior's only weakness, love of Shawnee, of pride, of his achievement, in Indian nature this desire for fame was as strong as love of life. The brave risked everything to win his eagle feathers, and the matured warrior found death while keeping bright the glory of the plumes he had won. What so was in the woods? Bleed as a deer, fierce and fearless as a lion. Somewhere among those glades he trod, deftly, with the ears of a doe and the eyes of a hawk, strained for sound or sight of his comrades' captors. When he found their trail he would stick to it as the wolf to that of a bleeding bucks. The rescue would not be attempted until the right moment, even though that came within rifle-shot. The Shawnee encampment. Wonderful as his other gifts was the boarderman's patience. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 of the Lost Trail This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mike Bendetti, MikeBendetti.com The Last Trail by Zane Gray Chapter 14 Good morning, Colonel Zane, said Helen Turley, coming into the yard where the Colonel was at work. Did Will come over this way? I reckon you'll find him if you find Betty, replied Colonel Zane dryly. Come to think of it, that's true, Helen said, laughing. I have a suspicion Will ran off from me this morning. He and Betty have gone nutting. I declare, it's mean of Will, Helen said, peturantly. I have been wanting to go so much, and both he and Betty promised to take me. Say, Helen, let me tell you something, said the Colonel, resting on his spade and looking at her quizzically. I told them we hadn't had enough frost yet to ripen hickory nuts and chest nuts, but they went anyhow. Will did remember to say if you came along to tell you he'd bring the colored leaves you wanted. How extremely kind of him! I have a mind to follow them. Now see here, Helen, it might be a right good idea for you not to, returned the Colonel, with a twinkle and a meaning in his eye. Oh, I understand how singularly the life been. It's this way. We're mighty glad to have a fine young fellow like Will come along and interest Betty. Lord knows we had a time with her after Alfred died. She's just beginning to brighten up now, and Helen, the point is that young people on the border must get married. No, my dear, you needn't laugh. You'll have to find a husband same as the other girls. It's not here as it was back east, where last might have her fling, so to speak, and take her time choosing. An unmarried girl on the border is a positive menace. I saw, not many years ago, two first-rate youngsters, wild with border fire and spirit, fight and kill each other over alas. Who wouldn't choose? Like is not if she had done so the three would have been good friends. For out here, we're like one big family. Remember this, Helen, and as far as Betty and Will are concerned you will be wise to follow our example. Leave them to themselves. Nothing else will so quickly strike fire between a boy and a girl. Betty and Will, I'm sure I'd love to see them care for each other. Then, with big bright eyes, bent gravely on him, she continued, my ass, Colonel Zane, who you have picked out for me. There now you've said it, and that's the problem. I've looked over every marriageable young man in the settlement except Jack. Of course, you couldn't care for him, a boarderman, a fighter, and all that. But I can't find a fellow I think quite up to you. Colonel Zane. Is not a boarderman such as Jonathan worthy of women's regard? Helen asked a little wistfully. Bless your heart last, yes, replied Colonel Zane hardly. People out here are not as they are back east, an educated man polished and all that, but incapable of hard labor or shrinking from dirt and sweat on his hands, or even blood would not help us in the winning of the West. Plain as Jonathan is and with his lack of schooling, he is greatly superior to the majority of young men on the frontier. But, unlettered or not, he is a fine a man as ever stepped in moccasins or any other kind of foot gear. Then why did you say that what you did? Well, it's this way, replied Colonel Zane, stealing a glance at her pensive, downcast face. Girls all like to be wooed, almost every one I ever knew wanted the young man of her choice to outstrip all her admirers, and then, for a spell, nearly die of love for her after which she'd give in. Now Jack, being a boarderman, a man with no occupation except scouting, will never look at a girl, let alone make up to her. I imagine, my dear, it'd take some mighty tall courting to fetch home Helen Shepard a bride. On the other hand, if some pretty and spirited lass like, say, for instance, Helen Shepard would come along and just make Jack forget Indians in fighting, she'd get the finest husband in the world. True, he's wild, but only in the woods. A simpler, kinder, cleaner man cannot be found. I believe that, Colonel Zane, but where is the girl who would interest him? Helen asked with spirit. These boardermen are unapproachable, imagine a girl interesting that great cold stern wetsel, all her flatteries, her wiles, the little coqueteries that might attract an ordinary man, would not be noticed by him or Jonathan either. I grand, it'd not be easy, but woman was made to subjugate man, and always, everlastingly, until the end of life here on this beautiful earth, she will do it. Do you think Jonathan and Wetzel will catch Brant? Ask Helen, changing the subject abruptly. I'd stake my all that this year's autumn leaves will fall on Brant's grave. Colonel Zane's calm matter-of-fact coldness made Helen shiver. While the leaves have already begun to fall, Papa told me Brant had gone to join the most powerful outlaw band on the border. How can these two men alone cope with savages, as I've heard they do, and break up such an outlaw band as Leggetts? That's a question I've heard Daniel Boone ask about Wetzel and Boone, though not a boarderman in all the name implies, was a great Indian fighter. I've heard old frontiersmen groan grizzled on the frontier, used the same words. I've been twenty years with that man, yet I can't answer it. Jonathan, of course, is only a shadow of him. Wetzel is the type of these men who have held the frontier for us. He was the first boarderman, and no doubt he'll be the last. What if Jonathan and Wetzel that other men do not possess? In them is united a marvellously developed woodcraft, with wonderful physical powers. Imagine a man having a sense, almost an animal instinct, for what is going on in the woods. Take, for instance, the fleetness of foot. That is one of the greatest factors. It is absolutely necessary to run, to get away when to hold ground would be death. Whether at home or in the woods, the boarderman retreat every day. You wouldn't think they practiced anything of the kind, would you? Well, a man can't be great in anything without keeping at it. Jonathan says he exercises to keep his feet light. Wetzel would just as soon run as walk. Think of the magnificent condition of these men, when a dash of speed is called for, when, to be fleet of foot is to elude vengeance-seeking Indians, they must travel as swiftly as the deer. The Zanes were all sprinters. I could do something of the kind. Betty was fast on her feet, as that old fort will testify until the logs rot. Isaac was fleet, too, and Jonathan can get over the ground like a scared buck. But, even so, Wetzel can beat him. Good-ness me, Helen! Explained the Colonel's buxom life from the window. Don't you ever get tired of hearing ebb talk of Wetzel and Jack and Indians? Come in with me. I venture to say my gossip will do you more good than his stories. Therefore, Helen went into chat with Mrs. Zane, where she was always glad to listen to the Colonel's wife, who was so bright and pleasant, so helpful and kindly in her womanly way. In the course of their conversation, which drifted from weaving Lindsay, Mrs. Zane's occupation at the time to the costly silks and satins of remembered days, and then to manage of more present interest, Helen spoke of Colonel Zane's hint about Will and Betty. He said to have a terror. He's the worst matchmaker you ever saw, declared the Colonel's good spouse. There's no harm in that. No indeed, it's a good thing, but he makes me laugh, and, Betty, he sets her furious. The Colonel said he had designs on me. Of course he has. Do you're old ebb? How'd he love to see you happily married? His heart is as big as that mountain yonder. He has given this settlement his whole life. I believe you. He has such interest, such zeal for everybody. Only the other day he was speaking to me of Mr. Mordant, telling how sorry he was for the Englishman, and how much he'd like to help him. It does seem a pity a man of Mordant's blood and attainments should sink to utter worthlessness. Yes, tis a pity for any man, blood or no, and the world's full of such wrecks. I always liked that man's looks. I never had a word with him, of course, but I've seen him often and something about him appealed to me. I don't believe it was just his handsome face. Still, I know women are susceptible that way. I, too, liked him once as a friend, said Helen feelingly. Well, I'm glad he's gone. Gone? Yes. He left Fort Henry yesterday. He came to say goodbye to me and, except for his pale face and trembling hands, was much as he used to be in Virginia. Said he was going home to England and wanted to tell me he was sorry for—for all he'd done to make Papa and me suffer. Drink had broken him. He said, and surely he looked a broken man. I shook hands with him and then slipped upstairs and cried. Poor fellow! sighed Mrs. Zane. Papa said he left Fort Pitt with one of Metzger's men as a guide. Then he didn't take the little cuss, as Zib calls his man-case. No, if I remember rightly, Papa said the case wouldn't go. I wish he had. He's no addition to our village. Voices outside attracted their attention. Mrs. Zane glanced from the window and said, There, come Betty and Will. Helen went on the porch to see her cousin and Betty entering the yard, and Colonel Zane once again leaning on his spade. Gather any hickory nuts from Birch or any other kind of trees? asked the Colonel Grimly. No, replied Will cheerily. The shells haven't opened yet. Too bad, the frost is so backward, said Colonel Zane with a laugh. But I can't see it makes any difference. Where are my leaves? asked Helen, with a smile and a nod to Betty. What leaves? inquired the young woman, plainly mystified. Why, the autumn leaves Will promised to gather with me, then changed his mind and said he'd bring them. I forgot. Will replied a little awkwardly. Colonel Zane coughed, and then, catching Betty's glance, which had begun to flush, he plied his spade vigorously. Betty's face had colored warmly at her brother's first question. It toned down slightly once she understood that he was not going to tease her as usual, and suddenly, as she looked over his head, it paled white as snow. Ebb looked down the lane, she cried. Two tall men were approaching with labored tread, one half supporting his companion. Petzl, Jack, and Jack's Mert, cried Betty. My dear be calm, said Colonel Zane. In that quiet tone he always used during moments of excitement, he turned toward the waterman and helped Wetzel lead Jonathan up the walk into the yard. From Wetzel's clothing water ran, his long hair was disheveled, his aspect frightful. Jonathan's face was white and drawn, his buckskin honey coat was covered with blood, and the hand which he held tightly against his left breast showed dark red stains. Helen shuddered, almost fainting. She leaned against the porch, too horrified to cry out, with contracting heart and a chill stealing through her veins. Jack, Jack! cried Betty, in agonized appeal. Betty, it's nothing, said Wetzel. Now, Betts, don't be scared of a little blood, Jonathan said, with a faint smile flirting across his haggard face. Bring water, shears, and some Lindsay cloth, added Wetzel, as Mrs. Zane came running out. Come inside, cried the Colonel's wife, as she disappeared again immediately. No, replied the waterman, removing his coat, and, with the assistance of his brother, he unlaced his hunting-shirt, pulling it down from a wounded shoulder. A great gory hole gaped just beneath his left collar bone. Although stricken with fear when Helen saw the bronze massive shoulder, the long powerful arm with its cords of muscles playing under the brown skin, she felt a thrill of admiration. Justness to long, said Mrs. Zane. Eb, no bullet ever made that hole. Wetzel washed the bloody wound and, placing on it a wad of leaves, he took from his pocket, bound up the shoulder tightly. What made that hole, asked Colonel Zane. Wetzel lifted the quiver of arrows Jonathan had laid on the porch, and selecting one handed it to the Colonel. The flint head and a portion of the shaft were stained with blood. The Shawnee, exclaimed Colonel Zane. Then he led Wetzel aside and began conversing in low tones while Jonathan, with Betty holding his arm, ascended the steps and went within the dwelling. Helen ran home and, once in her room, gave vent to her emotions. She cried because of fright, nervousness, relief, and joy. Then she bathed her face, tried to rub some color into her pale cheeks, and set about getting dinner as one in a trance. She could not forget that broad shoulder with its frightful wound. What a man Jonathan must be to receive a blow like that and live! Exhausted. Almost spent had been his strength when he reached home. Yet how calm and cool he was! What would she not have given for the faint smile that shone in his eyes? For Betty? That afternoon was long for Helen. When at last supper was over she changed her gown and asked him well to accompany her, went down the lane toward Colonel Zane's cabin. At this hour the Colonel almost invariably could be found sitting on his doorstep, puffing a long Indian pipe, and gazing with dreamy eyes over the valley. Well, well, how sweet you look, he said to Helen. Then with a wink of his eyelid. Hello, Willie! You'll find Elizabeth inside with Jack. How is he, asked Helen yearly, as will with a laugh and a retort, and mounted the steps. Jack's doing splendidly. He slept all day. I don't think his injury amounts to much, at least not for such as him or Wetzel. It would have finished ordinary men. Best says if complications don't sit in blood poison or something to start a fever, he'll be up shortly. Wetzel believes the two of them will be on the trail inside of a week. The Defined Brant, asked Helen in a low voice. Yes, they ran him to his hole, and, as might have been expected, it was Bing Leggett's camp. The Indians took Jonathan there. Then Jack was captured. Colonel Zane related the events as told briefly by Wetzel, that had taken place during the preceding three days. The Indian I saw the spring carried that bow Jonathan brought back. He must have shot the arrow. He was a magnificent savage. He was indeed a great and bad Indian. One of the craftiest spies who ever stepped in Monkesson's, but he lies quiet now on the moss and the leaves. Ben Leggett will never find another runner like that, Shawnee. Let's us go indoors. He led Helen into the large living room where Jonathan lay on a couch, with Betty and Will sitting beside him. The Colonel's wife and children, Sila Zane, and several neighbors were present. Here, Jack, is the lady inquiring after your health. Betz? This reminds me of the time Isaac came home wounded, after his escape from the Hurons. Strikes me he and his Indian bride should be about due here on a visit. Don't forget everyone except the wounded man lying so quiet and pale upon the couch. She looked down upon him with eyes strangely dilated and darkly bright. How are you? She asked softly. I'm all right. Thank you, lass. Answered Jonathan. Colonel Zane contrived with an inevitable skill to get Betty, Will, Silas, Bessie, and the others interested in some remarkable news he had just heard or made up. And this left Jonathan and Helen comparatively alone for the moment. The wise old Colonel thought perhaps this might be the right time. He saw Helen's face as she leaned over Jonathan. And that was enough for him. He would have taxed his ingenuity to the utmost to keep the others away from the young couple. I was so frightened, murmured Helen. Why, asked Jonathan. Oh, you look so deathly the blood in that awful wound. It's nothing last. Helen smiled down upon him. Whether or not the hurt amounted to anything in the Borderman's opinion, she knew from his weakness and his white-drawn face that the strain of the March home had been fearful. His dark eyes held now nothing of the coldness and glitters so natural to them. They were weary, almost sad. She did not feel afraid of him now. He lay there so helpless, his long, powerful frame as quiet as a sleeping child. Hitherto an almost indefinable antagonism in him had made itself felt. Now there was only gentleness as of a man too weary to fight longer. Helen's heart swelled with pity and tenderness and love. His weakness affected her as had never his strength. With an involuntary gesture of sympathy she placed her hand softly on his. Jonathan looked up at her with eyes no longer blind. Pain had softened him. For the moment he felt carried out of himself as it were and saw things differently. The melting tenderness of her gaze, the glowing softness of her face, the beauty bewitched him. And beyond that his sweet impelling gladness stirred within him and would not be denied. He thrilled as her fingers lightly, timidly touched his, and opened his broad hand to press hers closely and warmly. Lass he whispered with a huskiness and unsteadiness unnatural to his deep voice. Helen bent her head closer to him. She saw his lips tremble and his nostrils dilate, but an unaudible sadness shaded the brightness in his eyes. I love you. The low whisper reached Helen's ears. She seemed to float dreamily away to some beautiful world, with the music of those words ringing in her ears. She looked at him again. Had she been dreaming? No, his dark eyes met hers with the love that he could no longer deny. An exquisite emotion, keen, strangely sweet and strong, yet terrible with sharp pain, pulsated through her being. The revelation had been too abrupt. It was so wonderfully different from what she had ever dared hope. She lowered her head, trembling. The next moment she felt Colonel Zane's hand on her chair, and heard him saying a cheery voice. Well, well, see here, Lass. You mustn't make Jack talk too much. See how white and tired he looks! In 48 hours Jonathan Zane was up and about the cabin as though he had never been wounded. The third day he walked to the spring, in a week he was waiting for Wetzel, ready to go on the trail. On the eighth day of his enforced idleness, as he sat with Betty and the Colonel in the yard, Wetzel appeared on the ridge east of the fort. Soon he rounded the stockade fence and came straight toward them. To Colonel Zane and Betty Wetzel's expression was terrible. The stern, kindliness, the calm, tough, cold gravity of his continents, as they usually saw it had disappeared, yet it showed no trace of his unnatural passion to pursue and slay. No doubt that terrible instinct, or lust, was at white heat, but it were a mask of impenetrable stone-grey gloom. Wetzel spoke briefly after telling Jonathan to meet him at sunset on the following day at a point five miles up the river. He reported to the Colonel that Leggett with his band had left the retreat, moving southward apparently on a marauding expedition. Then he shook hands with Colonel Zane and turned to Betty. Good-bye, Betty, he said, in his deep, sonorous voice. Good-bye, Lou, answered Betty slowly, as if surprised. God save you, she added. He shouldered his rifle and hurried down the lane, halting before entering the thicket it bounded the clearing. To look back at the settlement, in another moment his dark figure had disappeared among the bushes. Betts? I've seen Wetzel go like that hundreds of times, though he never shook hands before. But I feel sort of queer about it now. Wasn't he strange? Betty did not answer until Jonathan, which started to go within, was out of hearing. Lou looked and acted the same the morning he struck Miller's trail. Betty replied in a low voice. I believed, despite his indifference to danger, he realizes that the chances are greatly against him, as they were when he began the trailing of Miller. Certain it would lead him into Gertie's camp. Then I know Lou has an affection for all of us, though it is never shown in ordinary ways. I pray he and Jack will come home safe. This is a bad trail they're taking up, the worst, perhaps in border warfare, said Colonel Zane gloomily. Did you notice how Jack's face darkened when his comrade came? Much of this borderman's life of his is due to Wetzel's influence. Eb, I'll tell you one thing, return, Betty, with a flash of her old spirit. This is Jack's last trail. What do you think so? If he doesn't return, he'll be gone the way of all borderman. But if he comes back, once more he'll never get away from Helen. Ugh! exclaimed Zane, fending his pleasure in characteristic Indian way. That night after Jack came home wounded, continued Betty. I saw him as he lay on the couch, gaze at Helen. Such a look! Eb, she has won. I hope so, but I fear, I fear, replied her brother gloomily. If only he returns. That's the thing, that's—be sure he sees Helen before he goes away. I shall try. Here he comes now, said Betty. Hello, Jack! cried the colonel, as his brother came out in somewhat of a hurry. What have you got, by George? It's that blamed earl, the Shawnee shot into you. Where are you going with it? What the deuce? Say, bets, eh? Betty had given him a sharp little kick. The borderman looked embarrassed. He hesitated and flushed. Evidently he would have liked to avoid his brother's question. But the inquiry came direct. The simulation with him was impossible. Helen wanted this, and I reckon that's where I'm going with it. He said finally and walked away. Eb, you're stupid! exclaimed Betty. Hang at! Who'd have thought he was going to give her that blamed bloody earl? As Helen ushered Jonathan for the first time into her cozy little sitting-room, her heart began to thump so hard she could hear it. She had not seen him since the night he whispered the words which gave such happiness. She had stayed at home, thankful beyond expression to learn every day of his rapid improvement, living in the sweetness of her joy and waiting for him, and now as he had come so dark, so grave, so unlike a lover to woo, that she felt a chill steal over her. I'm so glad you've brought the earl, she faltered. For, of course, coming so far means that you're well once more. You ask me for it, and I've fetched it over. Tomorrow I'm off on a trail. I may never return from, he answered simply, and his voice seemed cold. An immeasurable distance stretched once more between them. Helen's happiness slowly died. Thank you. She said with a voice that was tremulous despite all her efforts. It's not much of a keepsake. I did not ask for it as a keepsake, but because, because I wanted it, I need nothing tangible to keep alive my memory. A few words whispered to me not many days ago was suffice for remembrance. Or, or did I dream them? Bitter disappointment almost choked Helen. This was not the gentle, soft-voiced man who had said he loved her. It was the indifferent Borderman. Again he was the embodiment of his strange, quiet woods. Once more he seemed the comrade of the cold, inscrutable wetzel. No alas! I reckon you didn't dream, he replied. Helen swayed from sick bitterness and a suffocating sense of pain back to her old, sweet, joyous, tumultuous heart throbbing. Tell me, if I didn't dream, she said softly, her face flashing warm again. She came close to him and looked up with all her heart in her great dark eyes, and loved trembling on her red lips. Calmness deserted the Borderman after one glance at her. He paced the floor, twisted and clasped his hands while his eyes gleamed. Last, I'm only human. He cried hoarsely, facing her again. But only for a moment did he stand before her. But it was long enough for him to see her shrink a little. The gladness in her eyes giving way to uncertainty and a fugitive hope. Suddenly he began to pace the room again and to talk incoherently. With the flow of words he gradually grew calmer, and with something of his natural dignity spoke more rationally. I said I loved you, and it's true. But I didn't mean to speak. I oughtn't have done it. Something made it so easy, so natural, like I'd have died before letting you know. If any idea had come to me of what I was saying. I'd fought this feeling for months. I allowed myself to think of you at first. And there's the wrong. I went on a trail with your big eyes pictured in my mind, and before I dreamed of it, you'd crept into my heart. Life has never been the same since, that kiss. Betty said was how you cared for me, and that made me worse. Only I never really believed. Today I came over here to say goodbye, expecting to hold myself well in hand. But the first glance of your eyes unmans me. Nothing could come of it last. Nothing but trouble. Even if you cared, and I don't dare believe you do, nothing can come of it. I've my own life to live, and there's no sweetheart in it. Maybe, as Lou says, there's one in heaven. Oh, girl, this has been hard on me. I see you always on my lonely traps. I see your glorious eyes in the sunny fields and in the woods, at great twilight and when the stars shine brightest. They haunt me. You're the sweetest lass who's ever tormented a man. I love you. I love you. He turned to the window only to hear a soft, broken cry, and a flurry of skirts. A rush of wind seemed to envelop him. Then two soft, rounded arms encircled his neck, and a golden head lay on his breast. My borderman, my hero, my love. Jonathan clasped the beautiful, quivering girl to his heart. Last, for God's sake, don't say you love me, he implored, thrilling with the contact of her warm arms. Oh, she breathed and raised her head, her radiant eyes, darkly wonderful, with unutterful love, burned into his. He had almost pressed his lips to the sweet red ones so near his, when he drew back with a start in his frame straightened. Am I a man, or only a coward he muttered? Last, let me think. Don't believe I'm harsh, and cold or nothing, except that I want to do what's right. He leaned out of the window while Helen stood near him with a hand on his quivering shoulder. When at last he turned his face was colorless, white as marble and sad and set and stern. Last, it mustn't be. I'll not ruin your life. But you will if you give me up. No, no, last. I cannot live without you. You must. My life is not mine to give. But you love me. I'm a borderman. I will not live without you. Hush, last. Hush. I love you. Jonathan breathed hard, once more the tremor which seemed pitiful and such a strong man came upon him. His face was gray. I love you. She repeated her rich voice, indescribably deep and full. She opened wide her arms and stood before him with heaving bosom, with great eyes dark with woman sadness, passionate with woman's promise perfect in her beauty, glorious in her abandonment. The borderman bowed and bent like a broken reed. Listen, she whispered coming closer to him. Go if you must. Leave me. But let this be your last trail. Come back to me. Jack, come back to me. You've had enough of this terrible life. You have won a name that will never be forgotten. You have done your duty to the border. The Indians and outlaws will be gone soon. Take the farm your brother wants you to have and live for me. We will be happy. I shall learn to keep your home. Oh, my dear, I will recompense you for the loss of all this wild hunting and fighting. Let me persuade you as much for your sake as for mine. For you are my heart and soul and life. Go out upon your last trail, Jack. Come back to me. And let what's all go always alone. He is different. He lives only for revenge. What are these poor savages to you? You have a nobler life opening. Yes, I can't give him up. He ain't not. But give up this useless seeking of adventure that you know is half a borderman's life. Give it up, Jack. It's not for your own, then for my sake. No. No, never. I can't. I won't be a coward. After all these years, I won't desert him. No, no. Do not say more. She pleaded, stealing closer to him until she was against his breast. She slipped her arms around his neck. For love and more than life, she was fighting now. Goodbye my love. She kissed him. A long lingering pressure oversaw full lips on his. Dearest, do not shame me further. Dearest Jack, come back to me, for I love you. She released him, a man sobbing from the room. Unsteady as a blind man, he groped for the door, found it, and went out.