 Chapter 22 of The Spirit of the Border by Zayn Gray Simon Gertie lulled on a blanket and half-kings teepee. He was alone, awaiting his allies. Rings of white smoke curled lazily from his lips as he puffed on a long Indian pipe and gazed out over the clearing that contained the village apiece. Still water has something in its placent surface, significant, deep channels of hidden depths, that him outline of the forest is dark with meaning, suggestive of its wild internal character. So Simon Gertie's hard-bronst face betrayed the man. His degenerate brother's features were revolting, but his own were striking and fell short of being handsome, only because of their craggy hardness. Years of revolt, of bitterness, of consciousness, of wasted life, had graven their stern lines on that copper-mask-like face. Yet despite the cruelty there, the forbidding shade on it as if a reflection from a dark soul, it was not wholly a bad countenance. Traces still lingered faintly of a man in whom kindlier feelings had once predominated. In a moment of peak Gertie had deserted his military post at Fort Pitt and become an outlaw of his own volition. Previous to that time he had been an able soldier and a good fellow. When he realized that his step was irrevocable and that even his best friends condemned him, he plunged with anger and despair in his heart into a war upon his own race. Both of his brothers had long been border ruffians whose only protection from the outraged pioneers lay in the faraway camps of hostile tribes. George Gertie had so sunk his individuality into the savages that he was no longer a white man. Jim Gertie stalked over the borderland with a bloody tomahawk, his long arm outstretched to clutch some unfortunate white woman, and with his hideous smile of death. Both of these men were far lower than the worst savages, and it was almost wholly to their deeds of darkness that Simon Gertie owed his infamous name. Today, white chief, as Gertie was called, awaited his men. A slight tremor of the ground caused him to turn his gaze. The Huron chief, half-king, resplendent in his magnificent array, had entered the teepee. He squatted in a corner, rested the bowl of his great pipe on his knee, and smoked in silence. The habitual frown of his black brow, like a shaded overhanging cliff, the fire flashing from his eyes as a shining light is reflected from a dark pool, his closely shut bulging jaw, all bespoken nature lofty in its Indian pride and arrogance, but more cruel than death. Another chief stopped into the teepee and seated himself. It was pipe. His countenance denoted none of the intelligence that made Winganons face so noble. It was even coarser than half-kings, and his eyes resembling live coals in the dark, the long, cruel lines of his jaw, the thin, tightly closed lips, which looked as if they could relax only to utter a savage command, expressed fierce cunning and brutality. White chief is idle today, said half-king, speaking in the Indian town. King, I am waiting, Gertie is slow, but sure, answered the Medicaid. The eagle sails slowly round and round, up and up, replied half-king with majestic gestures. Until his eye sees all, until he knows his time, then he folds his wings and swoops down from the blue sky like the frooked fire. So does White chief. But half-king is impatient. Today decides the fate of the village apiece and Gertie in perturbably grunted pipe. Half-king vented his approval in the same meaning exclamation. An hour passed. The renegades smoked in silence. The chiefs did likewise. A horseman rode up to the door of the teepee. He dismounted and came in. It was Elliot. He had been absent twenty hours. His buckskin suit showed the effect of hard riding through the thickets. Hello, Bill, any sign of Jim? Was Gertie screaming to his lieutenant? Mary's not been seen near the Delaware camp. He was after that chap who married the winds. I thought so. Jim's round and up at Tenderfoot will be a bad man to handle if he has half a chance. I saw as much the day he took his horse away from Silver. He finally did for the Shawnee and almost put Jim out. My brother oughtn't to give rain to personal revenge at a time like this. Gertie's face did not change, but his tongue was one of annoyance. Well, Jim said he'd be here today, indeed. Today is as long as we allowed to wait. He'll come. Where's Jake and Mack? They're here somewhere drinking like fish and raising hell. Two more renegades appeared at the door, and entering the T.P. squatted down in Indian fashion. The little wiry man with a wiseened face was McKee. The other was the latest acquisition to the renegade force, Jake Deering, deserter, thief, murderer, everything that is bad. In appearance he was of medium height, but very heavily compactly built, and evidently as strong as a nox. He had a tangled shock of red hair, a broad, bloated face, big dull eyes like the openings of empty furnaces, and an expression of beastliness. Deering and McKee were intoxicated. Bad time for drinking, said Gertie, with disapproval in his glass. Well, I'll snap to you, growl, Deering. I'm here to do your work, and I reckon it'll be done better if I'm drunk. Don't get careless, replied Gertie, with that cool tone and dark look, such as dangerous men use. I'm only saying it's a bad time for you, because if this bunch of frontiersmen happen to get onto you and be in the renegade that was with the Chippewas, and got that young fellow's girl, there's libel to be trouble. I'm going to find out. Where is she? About there in the woods. Maybe it says, well, now don't get so drunk you blab all you know. We've lots of work to do without having to clean up Williamson's bunch, rejoin Gertie. Built, tie up the tent flaps, and we'll get to council. Elliot arose to carry out the order, and had pulled in the deer-hide flaps, when one of them was dripped outward to disclose the befriiled person of Jim Gertie. Except for a discoloration over his eye, he appeared as usual. Ah, grunted pipe, who was glad to see his renegade friend. Half-king events the same feeling. Hello, was Simon Gertie's greeting. Peers, I'm on time for the picnic, said Jim Gertie, with his ghastly leer. Bill Elliot closed the flaps after giving orders to the guard to prevent any Indians from loitering near the teepee. Listen, said Simon Gertie, speaking low in the Delaware language. The time is ripe. We've come here to break forever the influence of the white man's religion. Our councils have been held. We shall drive away the missionaries, and burn the village apiece. He paused, leaning forward in his exceeding earnestness, with his bronzed face lined by swelling veins, his whole person made rigid by the murderous thought. Then he hissed between his teeth. What shall we do with these Christian Indians? Pipe raised his war-club, struck it upon the ground, then handed it to Half-King. Half-King took the club, and repeated the action. Both chiefs favored the death penalty. Feed them to their buzzards, croaked Jim Gertie. Simon Gertie knitted his brow and thought. The question of what to do with the converted Indians had long perplexed him. No, said he. Let us drive away the missionaries, burn the village, and take the Indians back to camp. We'll keep them there. They'll soon forget. Pipe does not want them, declared the Delaware. Where strung Indians shall never sit around Half-King's fire, cried the Huron. Simon Gertie knew the crisis had come. That but few moments were left him to decide as to the disposition of the Christians. And he thought seriously. Certainly he did not want the Christians murdered. However cruel his life and greatest misdeeds, he was still a man. If possible, he desired to burn the village and ruin the religious influence. But without shedding blood. Yet with all his power he was handicapped, and that by the very chiefs most nearly under his control. He could not subdue this growing Christian influence without the help of Pipe and Half-King. To these savages a thing was either right or wrong. He had sown the seed of unrest and jealousy in the savage press, and the fruit was the decree of death. As far as these Indians were concerned, this decision was unalterable. On the other hand, if he did not spread ruin over the village apiece, the missionaries would soon get such a grasp on the tribes that their hold would never be broken. He could not allow that, even if he was forced to sacrifice the missionaries along with their converts, for he saw in the growth of this religion his own downfall. The border must be hostile to the whites, or it could no longer be his home. To be sure he had aided the British in the revolution, and could find a refuge among them. But this did not suit him. He became an outcast because of failure to win the military promotion, which he had so much coveted. He had failed among his own people. He had won a great position in an alien race, and he loved his power. To sway men, Indians, if not others, to his will, to avenge himself for the fancy wrong done to him. To be great had been his unrelenting purpose. He knew he must sacrifice the Christians, or eventually lose his own power. He had no false ideas about the converted Indians. He knew they were innocent, that they were a thousand times better off than the pagan Indians, that they had never harmed him, nor would they ever do so. But if he allowed them to spread their religion, there was an end of Simon Gertie. His decision was characteristic of the man. He would sacrifice anyone, or all, to retain his supremacy. He knew the fulfillment of the decree, as laid down by Pipe and Half-King, would be known as his work. His name, infamous now, would have an additional horror, and ever be remembered by posterity, in unspeakable loathing, in unsuffering wrath. He knew this, and deep down in his heart awoke a numb decor of humanity that twinged with strange pain. What awful work he must sanction to keep his wanted power. More bitter than all was the knowledge that to retain this hold over the Indians, he must commit a deed which so far as the whites were concerned, would take away his great name and brand him a coward. He briefly reviewed his stirring life, singularly fitted for a leader. In a few years he had risen to the most powerful position on the border. He wielded more influence than any chief. He had been opposed to the invasion of the pioneers, and this alone, without his sagacity or his generalship, would have given him control of many tribes. But hatred for his own people, coupled with unerring judgment, a remarkable ability to lead expeditions, and his invariable success, had raised him higher and higher, until he stood alone. He was the most powerful man west of the Alganes. His fame was such that the British had him cartooned him to help them, and had actually, in more than one instance, given him command over British subjects. All of which meant that he had a great, even though an infamous name. No matter what he was blamed for, no matter how many dastardly deeds had been committed by his depraved brothers and laid to his door, he knew he had never done a cowardly act, that which he had committed while he was drunk, he considered as having been done by the liquor, and not by the man. He loved his power, and he loved his name. In all Goethe's eventful, ignoble life, neither the alienation from his people, the horror they ascribe to his power, nor the sacrifice of his life to stand high among the savage races, nor any of the cruel deeds committed while at war, hurt him a tithe as much as did this sanctioning the massacre of the Christians. Although he was a vengeful unscrupulous evil man, he had never acted the coward. Half-King waited long for Goethe to speak. Since he remained silent, the Wiley Hurons suggested they take a vote on the question. Let us burn the village apiece, drive away the missionaries, and take the Christians back to the Delaware towns, all without spilling blood, said Goethe, determined to carry his point if possible. I say the same had Adelaide refusing the war club held out to him by Half-King. May, too, voted McKee not so drunk that he understood the lightning-like glance Goethe shot at him. Tell him all, kill everybody, cried during drunk and glee. He took the club and pounded with it on the ground. Pipe repeated his former performance, as also did Half-King, after which he handed the black knotted symbol of death to Jim Goethe. Three had declared for saving the Christians, and three for the death penalty. Six pairs of burning eyes were fastened on the death's head. Pipe and Half-King were coldly relentless, dearing awoke to a brutal earnestness. McKee and Elliot watched with baited breath. These men had formed themselves into a tribunal to decide on the life or death of many, and the situation, if not the greatest in their lives, certainly was one of vital importance. Simon Goethe cursed all the fates. He dared not openly oppose the voting, and he could not, before those cruel but just chiefs, try to influence his brother's vote. As Jim Goethe took the war club, Simon read in his brother's face the doom of the converted Indians, and he muttered to himself, not tremble and shrink all you Christians. Jim was not in a hurry. Slowly he poised the war club. He was playing as a cat plays with a mouse. He was glorying in his power. The silence was that of death. It signified the silence of death. The war club descended with violence. Fade the Christians to the buzzards. End of chapter 22 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Chapter 23 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. I've been here before, said Joe, to whispering winds. I remember that vine-covered stone. We crawled over it to get at dirty and silver tip. There's the little knoll. Here's the very spot where I was hit by a flying tomahawk. Yes, and there's the spring. Let me see. What did what so-called this spot? Beautiful spring, answered the Indian girl. That's it, and it's well-named. What a lovely place. Nature had been lavish in the beautifying of this enclosed dell. It was about fifty yards wide, and nestled among little wooded knolls and walls of gray, lichen-colored stone. Though the sun shone brightly into the opening, and the rain had free access to the mossy ground, no stormy winds ever entered this well-protected glade. Joe reveled in the beauty of the scene, even while he was too weak to stand erect. He suffered no pain from his wound, although he had gradually grown dizzy, and felt as if the ground was rising before him. He was glad to lie upon the mossy ground in the little cavern under the cliff. Upon examination his wound was found to have opened, and was bleeding. His hunting-coat was saturated with blood. Whispering winds washed the cut, and dressed it with cooling leaves. Then she rebandaged it tightly with Joe's Lindsay handkerchiefs, and while he rested comfortably, she gathered bundles of ferns, carrying them to the little cavern. When she had a large quantity of these, she sat down near Joe, and began to weave the long stems into a kind of screen. The fern stalks were four feet long, and half a foot wide. These she deftly laced together, making broad screens which would serve to ward off the night dues. This done she next built a fireplace with flat stones. She found wild apples, plums, and turnips on the knoll above the glade. Then she cooked strips of meat which had been brought with them. Lats grazed on the long grass just without the glade, and lows caught two rabbits. When darkness settled down, Whispering winds called the dog within the cavern, and hung the screens before the opening. Several days passed. Joe rested quietly and began to recover strength. Besides the work of preparing the meals, Whispering winds had nothing to do save sit near the invalid, and amuse or interest him so that he would not fret or grow impatient while his wound was healing. They talked about their future prospects. After visiting the village apiece, they would go to Fort Henry, where Joe could find employment. They dwelt upon the cabin they would build, and passed many happy moments planning a new home. Joe's love of the wilderness had in no wise diminished. But a blow on his head from a heavy tomahawk, and a vicious stab in the back, had lessened his zeal so far that he understood it was not wise to sacrifice life for the pleasures of the pathless woods. He could have the last without the danger of being shot at from behind every tree. He reasoned that it would be best for him to take his wife to Fort Henry, verified employment, and he vote his leisure time to roaming in the forest. Will the pedophices be kind to an Indian who has learned to love them? Whispering winds asked whistfully of Joe. Indeed they will, answered Joe, and he told her the story of Isaac Zane, how he took his Indian bride home, how her beauty and sweetness soon won all the white people's love. There will be so with you, my wife. Whispering winds knows so little, she remembered. While you are learning every day, and even if such was not the case, you know enough for me. Whispering winds will be afraid. She fears a little to go. I'll be glad when we can be on the move, said Joe, with his old impatient desire for action. How soon winds can we set off? As many days, answered the Indian girl, holding up fine fingers. So long I want to leave this place. Leave, beautiful spring? Yes, even this sweet place. It has a horror for me. I'll never forget that I first saw that spring shining in the moonlight. It was right above the rock that I looked into the glade. The moon was reflected in the dark pool, and as I gazed into the shadowy depths of the dark water, I suddenly felt an unaccountable terror. But I ought to have the same feeling now. We are safe, are we not? We are safe, remembered whispering winds. Yet I have the same chill of fear whenever I look at the beautiful spring, and at night as I awake to hear the soft babble of running water, I freeze until my heart feels like cold lead. Winds, I'm not a coward, but I can't help this feeling. Perhaps it's only the memory of that awful night with Wetzel. An Indian feels so when he passes to his unmarked grave, answered winds gazing solemnly at him. Whispering winds does not like this fancy of yours. Let us leave, beautiful spring. You are almost well. Ah, if whispering winds should lose you, I love you. And I love you, my beautiful wildflower, answered Joe, stroking the dark head so near his own. A tender smile shone on his face. He heard a slight noise without the cave, and looking up saw that which caused a smile to fade quickly. Those, he called sharply. The dog was away chasing rabbits. Whispering winds glanced over her shoulder with a startled cry, which ended in a scream. Not two yards behind her stood Jim Gertie. Hideous was his face and its triumphant ferocity. He held a long knife in his hand, and snarling like a mad wolf, he made a forward lunge. Joe raised himself quickly, but almost before he could lift his hand in defense, the long blade was sheathed in his breast. Slowly he sank back, his gray eyes contracting with the old steely flesh. The will to do was there, but the power was gone forever. Ray Bember Gertie, murderer, I am Wetzel's friend, he cried, teasing at his slayer with unutterable scorn. Then the gray eyes softened and sawp the blanched face of the stricken maiden. Winds, he whispered faintly. She was as one frozen with horror. The gray eyes gazed into hers with lingering tenderness. Then the film of death came upon them. The renegade raised his bloody knife and bent over the prostrate form. Whispering winds threw herself upon Gertie with the blind fury of a maddened lioness, cursing fiercely he stabbed her once, twice, three times. She fell across the body of her lover and clasped it convulsively. Gertie gave one glance at his victims, deliberately wiped the gory knife on Wend's leggings, and with another glance, hurried and fearful around the glade, he plunged into the thicket. An hour passed. A dark stream crept from the quiet figures toward the spring. It nighed the moss and the green violet leaves. Slowly it wound its way to the clear water, dripping between the pale blue flowers. The little fall below the spring was no longer snowy white. Blood had tinged it red. A dog came bounding into the glade. He leaped the brook, hesitated on the bank, and lowered his nose to sniff at the water. He bounded up the bank to the cavern. A long, mournful howl broke the wilderness's quiet. Another hour passed. The birds were silent. The insects still. The sun sank behind the trees, and the shades of evening gathered. The ferns on the other side of the glade trembled. A slight rustle of dead leaves disturbed the stillness. The dog whined, then barked. The tall form of the hunter rose out of the thicket, and stepped into the glade, with his eyes bent upon mucks and tracks in the soft moss. The trail he had been following led him to this bloody spring. I might have noted, he muttered. Wethsel, for it was he, leaned upon his long rifle, while his keen eyes took in the details of the tragedy. The whining dog, the bloody water, the motionless figures lying in a last embrace, told the sad story. Joe at wins, he muttered. Only a moment did he remain lost in sad reflection. A familiar moxison print in the sand on the bank pointed westward. He examined it carefully. Two hours gone, he muttered. I might overtake him. Then his motions became swift. With two blows of his tomahawk, he secured a long piece of grapevine. He took a heavy stone from the bed of the brook. He carried Joe to the spring, and returning for wins placed her beside her lover. This done, he tied one end of the grapevine around the stone, and wound the other about the dead bodies. He pushed them off the bank into the spring. As the lovers sank into the deep pool, they turned, exposing first wins' sad face, and then Joe's. Then they sank out of sight. Little waves splashed on the shore of the pool. The ripple disappeared, and the surface of the spring became tranquil. Wetzel stood one moment over the watery grave of the maiden who had saved him, and the boy who had loved him. In the gathering gloom his stalwart form assumed gigantic proportions, and when he raised his long arm and shook his clenched fist toward the west, he resembled a magnificent statue of dark menace. With a single bound he cleared the pool, and then sped out of the glade. He urged the dog on Gertie's trail, and followed the eager beast toward the west. As he disappeared, a long, low sound like the sigh of the night wind swelled and moaned through the gloom. End of chapter 23 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Chapter 24 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. Chapter 24. When the first ready rays of the rising sun crimsoned the eastern sky, Wetzel slowly wound his way down a rugged hill far west of beautiful spring. A white dog, weary and foot sore, limped by his side. Both man and beast showed evidence of severe exertion. The hunter stopped in a little cave under a projecting stone, and laying aside his rifle began to gather twigs and sticks. He was particular about selecting the wood, and threw aside many pieces which would have burned well. But when he did candle a flame, it blazed hotly, yet made no smoke. He sharpened a green stick, and taking some strips of meat from his pocket, roasted them over the hot flame. He fed the dog first. Mose had crouched close on the ground with his head on his paws, and his brown eyes fastened upon the hunter. He had too big a start for rush, and Wetzel, speaking as if the dog were human, it seemed that Wetzel's words were a protest against the meaning in those large, sad eyes. Then the hunter put out the fire, and searching for a more secluded spot, finally found one on top of the ledge where he commanded a good view of his surroundings. The weary dog was asleep. Wetzel settled himself to rest, and was soon wrapped in slumber. About noon he awoke. He arose, stretched his limbs, and then took an easy position on the front of the ledge where he could look below. Evidently the hunter was waiting for something. The dog slept on. It was the noonday hour when the stillness of the forest almost matched that of midnight. The birds were more quiet than at any other time during daylight. Wetzel reclined there with his head against the stone, and his rifle resting across his knees. He listened now to the sounds of the forest, the soft breeze fluttering among the leaves, the rain call of the tree frog, the caw of crows from distant hilltops, the sweet songs of the thrush and oriole were blended together naturally, harmoniously. But suddenly the hunter raised his head. A note deeper than the others, a little too strong, came from far down the shaded hollow. To Wetzel's trained ear it was a discord. He manifested no more than this attention, for the bird call was the signal he had been awaiting. He whistled a note in answer that was as deep and clear as the one which had roused him. Moments passed. There was no repetition of the sound. The songs of the other birds had ceased. Besides Wetzel there was another intruder in the woods. Moes lifted his shaggy head and growled. The hunter patted the dog. In a few minutes the figure of a tall man appeared among the laurels down the slope. He stopped while gazing up at the ledge. Then with noiseless step he ascended the ridge, climbed the rocky ledge, and turned the corner of the stone to face Wetzel. The newcomer was Jonathan Zane. Jack, I expected you afore this, was Wetzel's greeting. I couldn't make it sooner, answered Zane. After we left Williamson and separated, I got turned around by a band of several hundred redskins making for the village a piece. I went back again but couldn't find any sign of the trail we're hunting that I make for this meeting place. I've been going for some ten hours, and I'm hungry. I've got some bar already cooked and Wetzel handing Zane several strips of meat. What luck did you have? I found Gertie's trail in Oldwyn over here some eighteen or twenty miles and followed it until I went almost into the Delaware town. It led to a hut in a deep ravine. I ain't often surprised, but I was then. I found the dead body of that girl Kate Wells we fetched over from Fort Henry. That's sad, but it ain't the surprising part. I also found Silver Tip, the shawnee I've been looking for. He was all knocked and cut up, dead or to stone. There'd been something of a scrap in the hut. I calculate Gertie murdered Kate, but I couldn't think then who did for Silver, though I allowed the renegade might have done that too. I watched round and seen Gertie come back to the hut. He had ten engines with him, and presently they all made for the West. I trailed him, but didn't calculate it'd be wise to tackle the bunch single-handed, so laid back. A mile or so from the hut I came across Hoss Tracks, mingling with the moccasin prints. About fifteen miles or so from the Delaware town, Gertie left his buckskins and they went West, while he stepped to the Hoss Tracks. I was on to his game in a minute. I cut a cross-country for a beautiful spring, but I got there too late. I found the warm bodies of Joe, and that engine girl wins. The snake had murdered them. I allowed Joe one over wins, got away from the Delaware town with her, tried to rescue Kate and kill Silver in the fight. Gertie probably was surprised and run after he had knifed the girl. Peer so to me. Joe had two knife-cuts, and one was an old wound. You say it was a bad fight? Must have been. The hut was all knocked in and stuff scattered about. Well, Joe could go some if he once got started. I'll bet he could. He was the likeliest lad I've seen for many a day. If he'd lasted, he'd been something of a hunter and fighter. Too bad. But, Lord, you can't keep him down. No more than you can. Lots of these wild young chaps that drift out here. I'll allow he had the fever bad. Did you have time to bury them? I hadn't time for much. I sunk them in the spring. It's a pretty deep hole, said Sane reflectively. Then you and the dog took Gertie's trail, but couldn't catch up with him. He's now with the renegade cutthroats and hundreds of riled Indians over there in the village apiece. I reckon you're right. The long silence ensued. Jonathan finished his simple repast, drank from the little spring that trickled under this stone, and sitting down by the dog, smoothed out his long, silken hair. Lou, we're pretty good friends, ain't we? He asked thoughtfully. Jack, you and the Colonel are all the friends I ever had, except in that boy lion quiet back there in the woods. I know you pretty well, and I ain't sayin' a word about you runnin' off from me on many a hut, but I want to speak plain about this fellow Gertie. Well, said Wetzel, as Sane hesitated. Twice in the last few years you and I have had it in for the same men, both white-livered traitors. You remember? First it was Miller, who tried to ruin my sister Betty, and next it was Jim Gertie, who murdered our old friend, as good an old man as ever wore moccasins. Well, after Miller ran off from the fort, we trailed him down to the river, and I points across and says, you or me, and you says, me. You was Betty's friend, and I knew she'd be avenged. Miller is land quiet in the woods, and violets have blossomed twice over his grave, though you never said a word, but I know it's true because I know you. Zane looked eagerly into the dark face of his friend, hoping perhaps to get some verbal assurance there that his belief was true, but Wetzel did not speak, and he continued. Another day, not so long ago, we both looked down at an old friend and saw his white hair matted with blood. He'd been murdered for nothing. Again, you and me trailed the coward and found him to be Jim Gertie. I knew you'd been hunting him for years, and so I says, Lou, you or me, and you says, me. I give in to you for I knew you were a better man than me, and because I wanted you to have the satisfaction. Well, the mutts have gone by, and Jim Gertie's still living and carrying on. Now he's over there after them poor preachers. I ain't saying, Lou, that you haven't more again him than me, but I do say, let me in on it with you. He always has a gang of redskins with him. He's afraid to travel alone, else you'd had him long ago. Two of us will have more chance to get him. Let me go with you. When it comes to a finish, I'll stand aside while you give it to him. I'd enjoy seeing you cut him from shoulder to hip. After he leaves the village of peace, we'll hit his trail, camp on it, stick to it till it ends in his grave. The earnest voice of the back wisdomen ceased. Both men rose and stood facing each other. Zane's bronzed face was hard and tense, expressive of an indomitable will. Wetzel's was coldly dark, with fateful resolve, as if his decree of vengeance once given was as immutable as destiny. The big horny hands gripped in a vice-like clasp, born of fierce passion, but no word was spoken. Far to the west somewhere, a befriiled and bedicened renegade pursued the wild tenor of his ways. Perhaps even now, steeping his soul in more crime, were staining his hands a deeper red. But sleeping or wicking, he dreamed not of this deadly compact that meant his doom. The two hunters turned their sternfaces toward the west, and passed silently down the ridge into the depths of the forest. Darkness found them within rifle-shot of the village of peace. With the dog creeping between them, they crawled to a position which swood in daylight, command a view of the clearing. Then, while one stood guard, the other slept. When morning dawned, they shifted their position to the top of a low, fern-covered cliff, from which they could see every movement in the village. All the morning they watched with that wonderful patience of men who knew how to wait. The visiting savages were quiet. The missionaries moved about in and out of the shops and cabins. The Christian Indians worked industriously in the fields, while the renegades lulled before a prominent teepee. This quiet looks bad, whispered Jonathan to Wetzel. No shouts were heard, not a hostile Indian was seen to move. They'd come to a decision, whispered Jonathan, and Wetzel answered him. If they have, the Christians don't know it. An hour later, the deep peeling of the church bell broke the silence. The entire band of Christian Indians gathered near the large log structure, and then marched in orderly form toward the Maple Grove, where the service was always held in pleasant weather. This movement brought the Indians within several hundred yards of the cliff, where Zayn and Wetzel lay concealed. There's Hecwelder walking with Old Man Welles, whispered Jonathan. There's Young and Edwards, and yes, there's the young missionary, Brother Joe. Appears to be, they're foolish to hold service in the face of all those riled Indians. Wesson foolish, answered Wetzel. Look, bygum, as I'm a living sinner, there comes the whole crowd of hostile redskins. They've got their guns, and bygum, they're painted. Looks bad, bad. Not much friendliness about that much. They ain't intended to be peaceable. Bygum, you're right. There ain't one of them sitting down. Appears to be, I know some of them redskins. There's Pipe, sure enough, and Catoxon. Bygum, if there ain't Chingus, he was friendly once. None of them's friendly. Look, Lou, look, right behind Pipe. See that long warm on it? As I'm a born sinner, that's your old friend, Wingenand. Appears to be, we've rounded up all our acquaintances. The two bordermen lay close under the tall ferns, and watched the proceedings with sharp eyes. They saw the converted Indians seat themselves before the platform. The crowd of hostile Indians surrounded the glade on all sides, except one, which, singularly, enough, was next to the woods. Look, Dar, exclaimed Wetzel under his breath. He pointed off to the right of the maple blade. Jonathan gazed in the direction, indicated, and saw two savages stealthily slipping through the bushes and behind trees. Presently, these suspicious acting spies, or scouts, stopped on a little knoll, perhaps at a hundred yards from the glade. Wetzel groaned. This ain't comfortable, ground zane and a low whisper, that red devils are up to something bad. They'd better not move round over here. The hunters satisfied that the two isolated savages meant mischief, turned their gaze once more toward the maple grove. Ah, Simon, you white traitor. See him, Lou, coming with his precious gang, said Jonathan. He's got the whole thing fixed. You could plainly see that. Bill Elliott, McKee, and who's that renegade with? Jim Gurney. Alala, he must be the fellow we heard was with the Chippewas. Tough-looking customer, a good mate for Jim Gurney. A fine lot of border hawks. Something coming off, whispered Wetzel, his zane-slow growl grew unintelligible. Jonathan felt, rather than saw, Wetzel tremble. The missionaries are consulting. Ah, there comes one. Which, I guess it's Edwards. By gum, who's that engines talking over from the hostile bunch? Big chief, whoever he is. Lest if it ain't half-king. The watchers saw the chief wave his arm and speak with evident arrogance to Edwards, who, however, advanced to the platform and raised his hand to address the Christians. Crack! A shot rang out from the thicket, clutching while at his breast the missionary reeled back, staggered, and fell. One of those skulking wretzkins has killed Wetzel since then. But no, he's not dead. He's getting up. Maybe he ain't hurt bad. By gum, there's young coming forward of all the fools. It was indeed true that young had faced the Indians. Half-king addressed him as he had the other, but young raised his hand and began speaking. Crack! Another shot rang out. Young threw up his hands and fell heavily. The missionaries rushed toward him. Mr. Wells ran round the group, ringing his hands as if distracted. He's hard hit, yes, saying, between his teeth. You can tell that by the way he fell. Wetzel did not answer. He lay silent and motionless, his long body rigid, and his face like marble. There comes the other young fellow, Joe's brother. He'll get plugged, too, continued, saying, whispering rather to himself than to his companion. Oh, I hope they'd show some sense. It's normal for them to die for Christianity, but he won't do no good. My gun, heckwilder, has pulled him back. Now that's good judgment. Half-king stepped before the Christians and addressed them. He held in his hand a black war-club, which he wheeled in as he spoke. Jonathan's attention was now directed from the maple grove to the hunter beside him. He had heard a slight metallic click, as Wetzel cocked his rifle. Then he saw the black barrel slowly rise. Listen, Lou, maybe it ain't good sense. We're after Gertie, you remember, and it's a long shot from here, full 300 yards. You're right, Jack. You're right, answered Wetzel, breathing hard. Let's wait and see what comes off. Jack, I can't do it. It'll make our job harder, but I can't help it. I can put a bullet just over the Hurons left by, and I'm going to do it. You can't do it, Lou. You can't. It's too far for any gun. Wait, wait, whispered Jonathan, laying his hand on Wetzel's shoulder. Wait! Man, can't you see what that unnameable villain is doing? What, best saying, turning his eyes again to the glade, the converted Indian sat with bowed heads. Half-King raised his war-club and threw it on the ground in front of them. He's announcing the death decree, hissed Wetzel. Well, if he ain't. Jonathan looked at Wetzel's face, then he rose to his knees as had Wetzel, and tightened his belt. He knew that in another instant they would be speeding away through the forest. Lou, my rifle's no good for that distance, but maybe yours is. You ought to know. It's not sense, because there's Simon Gertie and there's Jim. The men were after. If you can hit one, you can another. But go ahead, Lou, plug that cowardly red skin. Wetzel knelt on one knee and thrust the black barrel forward through the fern leaves. Slowly the fatal barrel rose to a level and became as motionless as the immovable stones. Jonathan fixed his keen gaze on the haughty countenance of Half-King, as he stood with folded arms and scornful mean in front of the Christians he had just condemned. Even as the short-stinging crack of Wetzel's rifle broke the silence, Jonathan saw the fierce expression of Half-King's dark face change to one of vacant wildness. His arms never relaxed from their folded position. He fell, as falls a monarch of the forest trees, a dead weight. End of Chapter 24 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Chapter 25 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recorded by Leonard Wilson. Chapter 25. Please do not preach today, said Nell, raising her eyes imploringly to Jem's face. Nellie, I must conduct the services as usual. I cannot shirk by duty nor let these renegades see I fear to face them. I have such a queer feeling. I am afraid. I don't want to be left alone. Please do not leave me. Jem strode nervously up and down the length of the room. Nell's worn face, her besieging eyes, and trembling hands touched his heart. Rather than almost anything else, he desired to please her, to strengthen her. Yet how could he shirk his duty? Nellie, what is it you fear, he asked, holding her hands tightly. Oh, I don't know what. Everything. Uncle is growing weaker every day. Look at Mr. Young. He is only a shadow of his former self, and this anxiety is wearing Mr. Heckwielder out. He is more concerned that he dares admit. You needn't shake your head, for I know it. Then those Indians who are waiting, waiting, for God only knows what. Worse than all to me, I saw that renegade, that fearful beast who made away with poor dear Kate. Nell burst into tears and leaned sobbing on Jem's shoulder. Nell, I've kept my courage only because of you, replied Jem, his voice trembling slightly. She looked up quickly, something in the pale face which was bent over her, told that now, if ever, was the time for a woman to forget herself, and to cheer, to inspire those around her. I am a silly baby and selfish, she cried, freeing herself from his hold, always thinking of myself. She turned away and wiped the tears from her eyes. Go, Jem, do your duty. I'll stand by and help you all a woman can. The missionaries were consulting at Heckwielder's cabin. Zeissberger had returned that morning, and his aggressive dominating spirit was just what they needed in an hour like this. He raised the downcast spirits of the ministers. Oldest service? I should say we will, he declared, waving his hands. What have we to be free enough? I do not know, answered Heckwielder, shaking his hand awfully. I do not know what to fear. Gertie himself told me he bore us no ill will, but I hardly believe him. All this silence, this ominous waiting perplexes, bewilders me. Gentlemen, our duty at least is plain, said Jem impressively. The faith of these Christian Indians is, us, is so absolute that they have no fear. They believe in God and in us. These threatening savages have failed signally to impress our Christians. If we do not hold the service, they will think we fear Gertie, and that might have a bad influence. I am in favor of postponing the preaching for a few days. I tell you I am afraid of Gertie's Indians, not for myself, but for these Christians whom we love so well. I am afraid, Heckwielder's face more testimony to his anxious dread. You are our leader, we have but to obey, said Edwards. Yet I think we owe it to our converse to stick to our work until we are forced by violence to desist. Ah, but formal let violence take, cried Heckwielder, his face swight. You cannot tell what these savages mean. I fear, I fear. Listen, Heckwielder, you must remember we had this to go through once before, put in Zeisberger earnestly. In seventy-eighth country came down as a slight wolf on the fold. He had not so many Indians at his beck and call us now, but he harangued for days, trying to scar us and our handful of Christians. He set his drunken fiends to frighten us, and he failed. We stuck it out and won. He's trying the same game. Let us stand against him and hold our services as usual. We should trust in God. Never give up, cried Jim. Gentlemen, you are right. You shame me, even though I feel that I understand the situation and its dread possibilities better than any one of you. Whatever befalls, we'll stick to our post. I thank you for reviving this spirit in my cowardly heart. We will hold the service today as usual, and to make it more impressive, each shall address the congregation in turn. And if need be, we will give our lives for our Christians, said Young, raising his pale face. The deep mellow peals of the church bell awoke the slumbering echoes. Scarcely had its melody died away in the forest when a line of Indians issued from the church and marched toward the maple grove. Men, women, youths, maidens, and children. Glikikon, the old Delaware chief, headed the line. His step was firm, his head erect, his face calm in its noble austerity. His followers likewise expressed in their countenances the steadfastness of their belief. The maidens' heads were bowed, but with shyness, not fear. The children were happy, their bright faces expressive of the joy they felt in the anticipation of listening to their beloved teachers. This procession passed between rows of painted savages, standing immovable, with folded arms and somber eyes. No sooner had the Christians reached the maple grove, when from all over the clearing appeared hostile Indians who took positions near the knoll where the missionary stood. Echo Welder's faithful little band awaited him on the platform. The converted Indians seated themselves as usual at the foot of the knoll. The other savages crowded closely on both sides. They carried their weapons and maintained the same silence that had so singularly marked their mood of the last 24 hours. No human skill could have defined their intention. This coldness might be only habitual reserve, and it might be anything else. Echo Welder approached at the same time that Simon Gertie and his band of renegades appeared. With the renegades were Pipe and Half-King. These two came slowly across the clearing, passed through the opening in the crowd, and stopped close to the platform. Echo Welder went hurriedly up to his missionaries. He seemed beside himself with excitement and spoke with difficulty. "'Do not preach today. I have been warned again,' he said, in a low voice. "'Do you forbid it?' inquired Edwards. "'No, no, I have not that authority, but I implore it. Wait, wait until the Indians are in a better mood.' Edwards left the group and, stepping upon the platform, faced the Christians. At the same moment Half-King stalked majestically from before his party. The carry no weapon save a black knotted war-club. A surging forward of the crowd of savages behind him showed the intense interest which his action had aroused. He walked forward until he stood halfway between the platform and the converts. He ran his evil glance slowly over the Christians and then rested it upon Edwards. "'Half-King's orders ought to be obeyed. Let the pale face keep his mouth closed.' He cried in the Indian tongue. The Imperious Command came as a thunderbolt from a clear sky. The missionaries behind Edwards stood bewildered, awaiting the outcome. But Edwards, without a moment's hesitation, calmly lifted his hand and spoke. "'Reload, Christians. We meet today as we have met before, as we hope to meet in Spain.' The whistling of a bullet over the heads of the Christians accompanied the loud report of a rifle. All present plainly heard the leaden missile strike. Edwards wheeled, clutching his side, breathed hard, and then fell heavily without uttering a cry. He had been shot by an Indian concealed in the thicket. For a moment no one moved nor spoke. The missionaries were stricken with horror. The converts seemed turned to stone, and the hostile throng waited silently, as they had for hours. "'He's shot! He's shot! Oh, I feared this,' cried Heckelwalder, running forward. The missionaries followed him. Edwards was lying on his back, with the bloody hand pressed to his side. "'Dave, Dave, how is it with you?' asked Heckelwalder, in a voice low with fear. "'Not bad. It's too far out to be bad. But it knocked me over,' answered Edwards weakly. "'Give me water.' They carried him from the platform and laid him on the grass under a tree. Young pressed Edwards' hand. He murmured something that sounded like a prayer, and then walked straight upon the platform as he raised his face which was sublime, with white light. "'Pale face! Back!' warned Half-King as he waved his war-club. "'You Indian dog! Be silent!' Young's clear voice rolled out on the quiet air, so imperiously, so powerful in his wonderful scorn and passion, that the hostile savages were overcome by awe, and the Christians thrilled anew with reverential love. Young spoke again in a voice which had lost its passion, and was singularly sweet in its richness. "'Beloved Christians, if it is God's will that we must die to prove our faith, then as we have taught you how to live, so we can show you how to die, span!' Again a whistling sound came with the bellow of an overcharged rifle, again the sickening third of a bullet striking flesh. Young fell backwards from the platform. The missionaries laid him beside Edwards, and then stood in shuttering silence. A smile shown on Young's pale face, a stream of dark blood welled from his breast. His lips moved. He whispered. "'I ask no more. God's will!' Jim looked down once at his brother-missionaries, then with blanched face, but resolute and stern he marched toward the platform. Heckwolder ran after him and dragged him back. "'No, no, no, my God, would you be killed?' "'Oh, I tried to prevent this,' cried Heckwolder, rigging his hands. One long, fierce exultant yell peeled throughout the grove. It came from those silent breaths in which was pent up hatred. It greeted the action which proclaimed victory over the missionaries. All eyes turned on Half-King. With measured stride he paced to and fro before the Christian Indian. Neither cowering nor shrinking marked their manner. To a man, to a child, they rose with proud mean, heads erect and eyes flashing. The Spidey-Chief with his bloodthirsty crew could burn the village apiece, could annihilate the Christians, but he could never change their hope and trust in God. "'Blind and fooled,' cried Half-King. "'The Joran is wise. He tells no lies. Many moons ago he told the Christians they were sitting halfway between two angry gods, who stood with mouths open wide and looking ferociously at each other. If they did not move back out of the road, they would be grounded to powder by the teeth of one or the other, or both.' Half-King urged them to leave the Peaceful Village, to forget the Paleface God, to take their horses and flocks, and return to their homes. The Christians scorned the Joran King's council. The sun has set for the village apiece. The time has come. Pipe and Hurran are powerful. They will not listen to the Paleface God. They will burn the village apiece. Death to the Christians! Half-King threw the Black War Club with a passionate energy on the grass before the Indians. They heard this decree of death with unflinching front. Even the children were quiet. Not a face paled. Not an eye was lowered. Half-King cast their doom in their teeth. The Christians eyed him with unspoken scorn. My God! My God! It is worse than I thought, moaned heckwilder. Utter ruin! Murder! Murder! In the momentary silence which followed his outburst, a tiny cloud of blue-white smoke came from the ferns overhanging a cliff. Crack! All heard the shot of a rifle. All noticed the difference between its clear ringing intonation and the loud reports of the other two. All distinctly heard the zip of a bullet as it whistled over their heads. All? No, not all. One did not hear that speeding bullet. He who was the central figure in this tragic scene, he who had doomed to the Christians, might have seen that tiny puff of smoke which heralded his own doom. But before the ringing report could reach his ears, a small blue hole appeared as zipped by magic over his left eye. And pulse and sense and life had fled forever. Half-King, great cruel chieftain, stood still for an instant as if he had been an image of stone. His haughty head lost its erect poise. The fierceness seemed to fade from his dark face. His proud plume waved gracefully as he swayed to and fro, and then fell before the Christians, inert and lifeless. No one moved. It was as if no one breathed. The superstitious savages awaited fearfully another rifle shot, another lightning stroke, another visitation from the pale-faces god. But Jim Gertie, with a cunning born of his terrible fear, had recognized the ring of that rifle. He had felt the zip of the bullet which could just as readily have found his brain as Half-Kings. He had stood there as fair a mark as the cruel Huron. Yet the Avenger had not chosen him. Was he reserved for a different fate? Was not such a death too merciful for the frontier death's head? He yelled in his craven fear, La Van Dullam War! A well-known dreaded appellation aroused the savages from a fearful stupor into a fierce manifestation of hatred. A tremendous yell rent the air. Instantly the scene changed. End of Chapter 25 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio Chapter 26 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson Chapter 26 In the confusion the missionaries carried Young and Edward sent to Mr. Wells' cabin. Nils' calm white face showed that she had expected some such catastrophe as this, but she, of all, was the least excited. Heckwalder left them at the cabin and hurried away to consult Captain Williamson. Whilst Iceburger, who was skilled in surgery, attended to the wounded men, Jim barred the heavy door, shut the rude swinging windows, and made the cabin temporarily a refuge from prowling savages. Outside the climber increased, shrill yells rent the air, long rolling war cries sounded above all the den, the measured stamp of mocks and feet, the rush of Indians past the cabin, the dull thud of hatchets struck hard into the trees, all attested to the excitement of the savages, and the eminence of terrible danger. In the front room of Mr. Wells' cabin, Edward slay on a bed, his face turned to the wall, and his side exposed. There was a bloody hole in his white skin. Iceburger was probing for the bullet. He had no instruments, save those of his own manufacture, and they were darning needles with bent points and a long knife blade round thin. There I have it, said Iceburger. Hold still, Dave, there! As Edwards moaned, Iceburger drew forth the bloody bullet. Jim washed and dressed this wound. It isn't bad. Dave would be all right in a couple of days. Now I look at George. Iceburger hurried into the other room. Young lay with quiet face and closed eyes, breathing faintly. Iceburger opened the wounded man's shirt and exposed the wound, which was on the right side, rather high up. Nell, who had followed Iceburger, that she might be of some assistance if needed, saw him look at the wound and then turn a pale face away for a second. That hurried, shattering movement of the sober, practical missionary was most significant. Then he bent over Young and inserted one of the probes into the wound. He pushed the steel an inch, two, three, four inches into Young's breast, but the latter neither moved nor moaned. Iceburger shook his head and finally removed the instrument. He raised the sufferer's shoulder to find the bed saturated with blood. The bullet wound extended completely through the missionary's body and was bleeding from the back. Iceburger folded strips of Lindsay cloth into small pads and bound them tightly over both apertures of the wound. How is he asked Jim, when the amateur surgeon returned to the other room, and proceeded to wash the blood from his hands? Iceburger shook his head gloomily. How is George, whispered Edward, who had heard Jim's question. Shot to the right long, human skill cannot aid him. Only God can see. Did I hear a third shot, whispered Dave, dazing round with sad, questioning eyes? Hackwilder? He's safe. He has gone to see Williamson. You did hear a third shot. Half king fell dead with the bullet over his left eye. He had just folded his arms in a grand pose after his death decreed to the Christians. Judgement of God. He does seem so, but it came in the form of leaden death from vetzels and erring rifle. Do you hear all that yelling? Half king's death has set the Indians vile. There was a gentle knock at the door and then the word open in Hackwilder's voice. Jim unbarred the door. Hackwilder came in, carrying over his shoulder but apparently was a sack of meal. He was accompanied by young Christie. Hackwilder put the bag down, opened it, and lifted out a little Indian boy. The child gazed round with fearful eyes. Say binny, say binny! He cried running to Nell, and she clasped him closely in her arms. Hackwilder's face was like marble as he asked concerning Edward's condition. I'm not badly off, said the missionary with a smile. How's George? whispered Hackwilder. No one answered him. Zeissberger raised his hands. All followed Hackwilder into the other room, where young lay in the same position as when first brought in. Hackwilder stood gazing down into the wan face with its terribly significant smile. I brought him out here. I persuaded him to come, whispered Hackwilder. Oh, mighty God! he cried. His voice broke, and his prayer ended with the mute eloquence of clasped hands and uplifted, appealing face. Come out, said Zeissberger, leading him into the larger room. The others followed, and Jim closed the door. What's to be done, said Zeissberger, with his practical common sense? What did William sense say? Tell us what you learned. Wait! directly, answered Hackwilder, sitting down and covering his face with his hands. There was the long silence. At length he raised his white face and spoke calmly. Gentlemen, the village of peace is doomed. I entreated Captain Williamson to help us, but he refused, said he dared not interfere. I prayed that he would speak at least a word to Gertie, but he denied my request. Where are the converts? He imprisoned in the church, every one of them except Benny. Mr. Christie and I hid the child in the meal sack, and were thus able to get him here. We must save him. Save him, asked now, looking from Hackwilder to the trembling Indian boy. Nearly the savages have driven all our Christians into the church and shut them up there, until Gertie and his men shall give the word to complete their fiendish design. The converts asked by one favor, an hour in which to pray. It was granted. The savages intend to murder them all. Oh, horrible monstrous crime now. How can they be so inhuman? She lifted Benny up in her arms. They'll never get you, my boy. We'll save you. I'll save you. The child moaned and clung to her neck. We are scouring the clearing now for Christians, and we'll search all the cabins. I'm positive. Will they come here as now, turning her blazing eyes on Hackwilder? Undoubtedly. We must try to hide Benny. Let me think, or it would be a good place. We'll try a dark corner of the loft. No, no, cried Nell. What Benny and Youngspin suggested, Jim. No, no, cried Nell. Put him in a bucket, and let him down in the well, whispered Edwards, who had listened intently to the conversation. That's a capital place, said Hackwilder. But might he not fall out and drown? Tie him in the bucket, said Jim. No, no, no, cried Nell. But Nellie, we must decide upon a hiding place and in a hurry. I'll save Benny. You. Will you stay here to face those bastards? Men, Jim Gertie and Dearing are searching the cabins. Could you bear it to see them? You couldn't. Oh, no, I believe it would kill me. That man, that beast. Will he come here? Nell grew ghastly pale, and looked as if about to faint. She shrunk in horror at the thought of again facing Gertie. For God's sake, Hackwilder won't. Don't let him see me. Don't let him come in. Don't. Even as the imploring voice ceased, a heavy thump sounded on the door. Who's there, demanded, Hackwilder? Thump, thump. The heavy blows shook the cabin. The pans rattled on the shelves. No answer came from without. Quick, hide, Benny. It's as much as our lives are worth to have him found here, cried Hackwilder in a fierce whisper, as he darted toward the door. All right, all right, in a moment, he called out, fumbling over the bar. He opened the door a moment later. And when Jim Gertie and Deering entered, he turned to his friends with a dread uncertainty in his haggard face. Edward's lay on the bed with wide open eyes, staring at the intruders. Mr. Well sat with bowed head. Zeissberger calmly whittled a stick, and Jim stood, boat upright, with a hard light in his eyes. Nell leans against the side of a heavy table. Wonderful was the change that had transformed her from a timid, appealing, fear-agonized girl to a woman whose only evidences of unusual excitement were the flame in her eyes, and the peculiar whiteness of her face. Benny was gone. Hackwilder's glance returned to the visitors. He thought he had never seen such brutal, hideous men. Well, I reckon a preacher ain't going to lie. Have you seen any ancient Christians round here? Ask Gertie, waving a heavy sledgehammer. Gertie, we have hidden no Indians here, answered Hackwilder calmly. Well, we'll have a look anyway, answered the renegade. Gertie surveyed the room with wolfish eyes. Dearing was so drunk that he staggered. Both men, in fact, reeked with the vile fumes of rum. Without another word, they proceeded to examine the room by looking into every box, behind a stone oven, and in the cupboard. They drew the bedclothes from the bed, and, with a kick, demolished a pile of stovewood. Then the ruffians passed into the other apartments, where they could be heard making thorough search. At length both returned to the large room, where Gertie directed Dearing to climb a ladder leading to the loft. But because Dearing was too much under the influence of Lecker to do so, he had to go himself. He rummaged around up there for a few minutes, and then came down. Well, I reckon he wasn't lying about it, said Gertie, with his ghastly lure. He and his companions started to go out. Dearing had stood with bloodshot eyes fixed on Nell, while Gertie searched the loft, and as they passed the girl on their way to the open air, the renegade looked at Gertie as he motioned with his head toward her. His besotted face expressed some terrible meaning. Gertie had looked at Nell when he first entered, but had not glanced twice at her. As he turned now before going out of the door, he fixed on her his baleful glance. His aspect was more full of meaning than could have been any words, a horrible power of which he was most fully conscious, shown from his little pointed eyes. His mere presence was deadly. Plainly, as if he had spoken, was the significance of his long gaze. Anyone could have translated that look. Once before Nell had faced it and fainted when its red meaning grew clear to her, but now she returned his gaze with one in which flashed lightning scorn and repulsion, in which glowed a wonderful defiance. The cruel face of this man, the boastful barbarity of his manner, the long dark bloody history which his presence recalled, was indeed terrifying without the added horror of his intent toward her. But now the self-forgetfulness of a true woman sustained her. Gertie and Deering backed out of the door, heckle out her closed it, and dropped the bar in place. Nell fell over the table with a long, low gasp. Then with one hand she lifted her skirt. Benny walked from under it. His big eyes were bright. The young woman clasped him again in her arms. Then she released him and, laboring under intense excitement, ran to the window. There he goes, oh, the horrible beast, if I only had a gun and could shoot. Oh, if only I were a man, I'd kill him to think of poor Kate. He intends the same for me. Suddenly she fell upon the floor in a faint. Mr. Wells and Jim lifted her on the bed beside Edwards, where they endeavored to revive her. There were some moments before she opened her eyes. Jim sat holding Nell's hand. Mr. Wells again bowed his head. Zeisberger continued to whittle a stick, and Hackweller paced the floor. Christie stood by with every evidence of sympathy for this distracted group. Outside, the clamor increased. Just listen, quite Hackweller. Did you ever hear the lack? All drunk, crazy, fiendish. They drank every drop of liquor the French traders had. Curses on the vagabond dealers. Rum has made these renegades and savages wild. Oh, my poor, innocent Christians. Hackweller leaned his head against the mantle shelf. He had broken down at last. Racking sobs shook his frame. Are you all right again, asked Jim of Nell? Yes. I'm going out, first to see Williamson, and then the Christians, he said, rising very pale but calm. Don't go, quite Hackweller. I've tried everything. It was all of no use. I will go, answered Jim. Yes, Jim, go, whispered Nell, looking up into his eyes. It was an earnest gaze, in which a faint hope shone. Jim unbarred the door and went out. Wait, I'll go along, cried Zeisberger, suddenly dropping his knife and stick. As the two men went out, a fearful spectacle met their eyes. The clearing was alive with Indians. But such Indians, they were painted demons maddened by rum. Yesterday they had been silent. If they moved at all, it had been with deliberation and dignity. Today they were a yelling, running, blood-seeking mob. Awful, did you ever see human beings like these, asked Zeisberger? No, no. I saw such a frenzy once before, but of course only in a small band of savages. Many times have I seen Indians preparing for the war path, in search of both white men and redskins. They were fierce then, but nothing like this. Every one of these frenzied fiends is honest. Think of that. Every man feels it is duty to murder these Christians. Gertie has led up to this by cunning, and now the time has come to let them loose. It means death for all. I have given up any thought of escaping, said Zeisberger, with the calmness that had characterized his manner since he returned to the village. I shall try to get into the church. I will join you there as soon as I see Williamson. Jim walked rapidly across the clearing to the cabin where Captain Williamson had quarters. The frontiersmen stood in groups, watching the savages, with an interest which showed little or no concern. I want to see Captain Williamson, said Jim, to a frontiersman on guard at the cabin door. Well, he's inside, to all the man. Jim thought the voice familiar, and he turned sharply to see the sunburnt features of Jeff Linn, the old riverman who had taken Mr. Wells' party to Fort Henry. Why, Linn, I'm glad to see you, exclaimed Jim. Pretty fair to Midland, answered Jeff, extending his big hand. Say, how's the other one your brother, as was called Joe? I don't know. He ran off with Wetzel, was captured by Indians, and when I last heard of him, he had married Wingon and his daughter. Well, I'll be dog-gone, Jeff shook his grizzled head and slapped his leg. I just know he'd raise up them. I'm in a hurry. Do you think Captain Williamson will stand still and let all this go on? I'm a feared soul. Evidently, the Captain heard the conversation, for he appeared at the cabin door, smoking a long pipe. Captain Williamson, I've come to entreat you to save the Christians from this impending massacre. I can't do nothing, Aschard Williamson, removing his pipe to puff forth the great cloud of smoke. But you have eighty men here. If we interfered, pipe would eat us alive in three minutes. You preacher fellows don't understand this, same. You've got pipe and gurney to deal with. If you don't owe them, you'll be better acquainted by sundown. I don't care who they are, drunken ruffians and savages. That's enough. Will you help us? We're men of your own race, and we come to you for help. Can you withhold it? I won't have nothing to do with this, Mrs. The Chiefs have condemned the village, and it'll have to go. If your fellows had been careful, no white mud would have been spilled. I advise you all to lay low till it's over. Will you let me speak to your men to try and get them to follow me? Heck, Weller asked that same thing. He was persistent, and I took a vote for him, just to show how my men stood. Eighteen of them said they'd follow him. The rest wouldn't interfere. Eighteen, my God, cried Jim, voicing the passion which consumed him. You are white men, yet you will stand by and see these innocent people murdered. Man wears your humanity, your manhood. These converted Indians are savages no longer. They are Christians. Their children are as good, pure, innocent as your own. Can you remain idle and see these little ones murdered? Williams had made no answer. The men who had crowded round were equally silent. Not one lowered his head. Many looked at the impassioned missionary. Others gazed at the savages who were circling around the trees, brandishing their weapons. If any pitted the unfortunate Christians, none showed it. They were indifferent, with the indifference of men hardened to cruel scenes. Jim understood at last, as he turned from face to face to find everywhere that same imperturbability. These bordermen were like Wetzel and Jonathan Zane. The only good Indian was a dead Indian. Years of war and bloodshed of merciless cruelty at the hands of red men of the hard border life had rendered these frontiersmen incapable of compassion for any savage. Jim no longer restrained himself. Bordermen, you may be, but from my standpoint, from any man's, from God's, you are a lot of coldly indifferent cowards, exclaimed Jim, with white quivering lips. I understand now, few of you will risk anything for Indians. You will not believe a savage can be a Christian. You don't care if they are all murdered. Any man among you, any man, I say, would step out before those howling fiends and boldly demand that there be no bloodshed. A courageous leader with a band of determined followers could avert this tragedy. You might readily intimidate yonder horde of drunken demons. Captain Williamson, I am only a minister, far removed from a man of war and leader, as you claim to be. But sir, I curse you as a miserable coward. If I ever get back to civilization, I'll brand this inhuman coldness of yours as the most infamous and dastardly cowardice that ever disgraced a white man. You are worse than dirty. Williamson turned a sickly yellow. He fumbled a second with the handle of his tomahawk, but made no answer. The other bordermen maintained the same careless composure. What to them was the raving of a mad preacher? Jim saw it and turned baffled, fiercely angry, and hopeless. As he walked away, Jeff Lynn took his arm. And after they were clear of the crowd of frontiersmen, he said, young fellow, you give him pepper, no mistake. And maybe you're right from your side of the fence, but you can't see the engines from our side. We hunters haven't much humanity, I reckon that's what you called it. But we've lost so many friends and relatives, and herned of so many murderers by the ready, he said, we look on all of them as wild varmints that should be killed on sight. Now, maybe it interested to know I was the feller who took the vote Williamson told you about, and I did it because I had an interest in you. I was watching you when Edwards and the other missionary got shot. I like grit in a man, and I seen you had it clear through. So when heckwilder comes over, I talk to the fellers, and all I could get interested was eighteen, but they wanted to fight simply for fight and sake. Now, old Jeff Lynn is your friend, you just lay low until this is over. Jim thanked the old river man that left him. He hardly knew which way to turn. He would make one more effort. He crossed the clearing to where the renegades teepee stood, but Key and Elliot were sitting on a log. Simon Gertie stood beside them, his hard, keen, roving eyes on the same. The missionary was impressed by the white leader. There was a difference in his aspect. A wilder looked on the other's war, as if the man had suddenly awakened to the fury of his Indians. Nevertheless, the young man went straight toward him. Gertie, I come. Get out, you meddling preacher, yelled her in a gate, shaking his fist at Jim. Simon Gertie was drunk. Jim turned from the white fiends. He knew his life to them was not worth a pinch of powder. Lost, lost, all lost, he exclaimed in despair. As he went toward the church, he saw hundreds of savages bounding over the grass, brandishing weapons and whooping fiendishly. They were concentrating around Gertie's teepee, were already a great throng and congregated. Of all the Indians to be seen, not one walked. They leaped by Jim and ran over the grass, nimble as deer. He saw the eager fire in their dusky eyes, and the cruelly clenched teeth like those of wolves when they snarl. He felt the hissing breath of many savages as they raced by him. More than one hurled at Omaha close to Jim's head and uttered horrible yells in his ear. They were like tigers lusting for blend. Jim hurried to the church. Not an Indian was visible near the log structure. Even the savage guards had gone. He entered the open door to be instantly struck with reverence and awe. The Christians were singing. Miserable and full of sickening dread, though Jim was, he could not but realize that the scene before him was one of extraordinary beauty and pathos. The doomed Indians lifted up their voices in song. Never had they sung so feelingly, so harmoniously. When the song ended, Seisberger, who stood upon a platform, opened his Bible and read, In a little wrath I hid my face from thee for a moment, but with everlasting kindness, will I have mercy on thee, saith the Lord, thy Redeemer. In a voice low and tremulous, the venerable missionary began his sermon. The shadow of death hovered over these Christian martyrs. It was reflected in their somber eyes. Yet not one was sullen or sad. The children who were too young to understand, but instinctively feeling the tragedy soon to be enacted there, cowered close to their mothers. Seisberger preached a touching and impressive, though short, sermon. At his conclusion the whole congregation rose and surrounded the missionary. The man shook his hands. The women kissed them. The children clung to his legs. There was a wonderful manifestation of affection. Suddenly Glickakan, the old Delaware chief, stepped on the platform, raised his hand, and shouted one Indian word. A long, low wail went up from the children and youths. The women slowly, meekly, bowed their heads. The men, due to the stoicism of their nature, and the Christianity they had learned, stood proudly erect, awaiting the death that had been decreed. Glickakan pulled a bell rope. A deep mellow tone peeled out. The sound transfixed all the Christians. No one moved. Glickakan had given the signal, which told the murderers the Christians were ready. Come, man, my God, we can't stay here, cried Jim to Seisberger. As they went out, both men turned to look their last on the martyrs. The death knell which had rung in the ears of the Christians was to them the voice of God. Stern dark visages of men and the sweet submissive faces of women were uplifted with rapt attention. A light seemed to shine from these faces, as if the contemplation of God had illumined them. As Seisberger and Jim left the church and hurried toward the cabins, they saw the crowd of savages in a black mass round Gertys Tipi, the yelling and leaping had ceased. Heckwelder opened the door. Evidently he had watched for them. Jim, Jim cried now when he entered the cabin. Oh, I was afraid. Oh, I'm glad you're back safe. See, this noble Indian has come to help us. Winganan stood calm and erect by the door. Chief, what will you do? Winganan will show you the way to the big river, answered the chieftain in his deep face. Run away? No, never. That would be cowardly. Heckwelder, you would not go. No, you, Seisberger. We may yet be abused. We may yet save some of the Christians. Save the yellow hair, sternly said Winganan. Oh, Jim, you don't understand. The chief has come to warn me of Gertys. He intends to take me as he has other things to do. Others, as he did poor Kate, did you not see the meaning in his eyes today? How they scorched me. Oh, Jim, take me away. Save me. Do not meet me here to that horrible fate. Oh, Jim, take me away. No, I will take you, cried Jim, grasping her hands. Hurry, there's a blanket full of things I packed for you, said Heckwelder. Lose no time. Ah, hear that. My heavens, what a yell. Heckwelder rushed to the door and looked out. There they go. A black mob of ips, a pack of hungry wolves. Jim Gertys is in the lead. How he leaps. How he waves his sledge. He leads the savages toward the church. Oh, it's the end. Benny, where's Benny, cried Jim? Hurriedly lacing the hunting coat he had flung about him. Benny's safe. I've hidden him. I'll get him away from here, asked you, Jim Christie. Go, now's your time. God speed you. I'm ready, declared Mr. Wells. I have finished. There goes Winganon. He's running. Follow him quick. Good-bye. Good-bye. God be with you, cried Heckwelder. Good-bye. Good-bye. Jim hurried now toward the bushes where Winganon's tall form could dimly be seen. Mr. Wells followed them. On the edge of the clearing, Jim and Nell turned to look back. They saw a black mass of yelling, struggling, fighting savages, crowding around the church. Oh, Jim, look back. Look back, cried Nell, holding hard to his hand. Look back. See if Gertie is coming. And of Chapter 26 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Chapter 27 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Leonard Wilson. Chapter 27. At last the fugitives breathed free under the gold and red cover of the woods. Never speaking, never looking back, the guide hurried eastward with long strides. His followers were almost forced to run in order to keep him in sight. He had waited at the edge of the clearing for them, and relieving Jim of the heavy pack, which he swung lightly over his shoulder, he set a pace that was most difficult to maintain. The young missionary half led, half carried Nell over the stones and rough places. Mr. Wells labored in the rear. Oh, Jim, look back. Look back. See if we are pursued, cried Nell, frequently, with many a fearful glance into the dense thickets. The Indian took a straight course through the woods. He leaped the brooks, climbed the rough bridges, and swiftly trod the glades that were free of windfalls. His hurry and utter disregard for the plain trail left behind proved his belief and the necessity of placing many miles between the fugitives and the village apiece. Evidently they would be followed, and it would be a waste of valuable time to try to conceal their trail. Gradually the ground began to rise. The way became more difficult, but Winganund never slackened his pace. Nell was strong, supple, and light of foot. She held her own with Jim, but time and time again they were obliged to wait for her uncle. Once he was far behind. Winganund halted for them at the height of a ridge where the forest was open. Rrng, exclaimed the chief, as they finished the ascent. He stretched a long arm toward the sun. His falcon eye gleamed. Far in the west, a great black and yellow cloud of smoke rolled heavenward. It seemed to rise for out the forest, and to hang low over the trees. Then it soared aloft and grew thinner, until it lost its distinct line far in the clouds. The setting sun stood yet an hour high over a distant hill, and burned dark red through the great pall of smoke. Is it a forest fire, as Nell fearfully? Fire, of course, but Jim did not voice his fear. He looked closely at Winganund. The chieftain stood silent a moment, as was his watt when addressed. The dull glow of the sun was reflected in the dark eyes that gazed far away over forest and field. Fire, said Winganund, and it seemed that as he spoke, a sterner shadow flitted across his bronzed face. The sun sets to night over the ashes of the village of peace. He resumed his rapid march eastward, with never a backward glance the saddened party followed. Nell kept close beside Jim, and the old man tramped after them with bowed head. The sun set, but Winganund never slackened his stride. Twilight deepened, yet he kept on. Ending, we can go no further tonight. We must rest, cried Jim, as Nell stumbled against him, and Mr. Wells panted wearily in the rear. Rest soon, replied the chief, and kept on. Darkness had settled down when Winganund at last halted. The fugitives could see little in the gloom, but they heard the music of running water, and felt soft moss beneath their feet. They sank wearily down upon a projecting stone. The moss was restful to their tired limbs. Opening the pack, they found food with which to satisfy the demands of hunger. Then, close under the stone, the fugitives sank into slumber, while a watchful Indian stood silent and motionless. Jim thought he had but just closed his eyes when he felt the gentle pressure on his arm. Day is here, said the Indian. Jim opened his eyes to see the bright red sun crimsoning the eastern hills, and streaming gloriously over the colored forests. He raised himself on his elbow to look around. Nell was still asleep. The blanket was tucked close to her chin. Her chestnut hair was tumbled like a schoolgirl's. She looked as fresh and sweet as the morning. Nell, Nell, wake up, said Jim, thinking the while how he would love to kiss those white eyelids. Nell's eyes opened wide, a smile lay deep in their hazel shadows. Where am I? Oh, I remember she cried sitting up. Oh, Jim, I had such a sweet dream. I was at home with Mother and Kate. Oh, to wake and find it all a dream. I am fleeing for life. But, Jim, we are safe, are we not? Another day and we'll be safe. Let us fly, she cried, leaping up and shaking out her crumpled skirt. Uncle, come! Mr. Wells lay quietly, with his mild blue eyes smiling up at her. He neither moved nor spoke. Eat, drink, said the chief, opening the pack. What a beautiful place, exclaimed Nell, taking the bread and meat handed to her. This is a lovely little glade. Look at those golden flowers, the red and purple leaves, the brown shining moss, and those lacken-covered stones. Why, someone has camped here. See the little cave, the screens of planted ferns, and the stone fireplace? It seems to me this dark spring and those gracefully spreading branches are familiar, said Jim. Beautiful spring, enterposed wing and und. Yes, I know this place, cried Nell excitedly. I remember this glade, though it was boon-like when I saw it. Here, what so rescued me from Gertie? Nell, you're right, replied Jim. How strange we should run across this place again. Strange fate indeed, which I brought them again to beautiful spring. It was destined that the great scenes of their lives were to be enacted in this mossy glade. Come, uncle, you're lazy, cried Nell, a touch of her old roguishness making playful her voice. Mr. Wells lay still and smiled up at them. You are not ill, cried Nell, seeing for the first time how pallid was his face. Dear Nellie, I am not ill. I do not suffer. But I am dying. He answered again with that strange sweet smile. Oh, breathed Nell, falling on her knees. No, no, Mr. Wells, you're only weak. You will be all right again soon, cried Jim. Jim, Nellie, I have known all night. I have lain here wakeful. My heart never was strong. It gave out yesterday. And now it is slowly growing weaker. Put your hand on my breast. Feel. Ah, you see, my life is flickering. God's will be done. I am content. My work is finished. My only regret is that I brought you out to this terrible borderland. But I did not know if only I could see you safe from the peril of this wilderness at home, happy, married. Nell bent over him blinded by her tears, unable to see or speak, crushed by this last overwhelming blow. Jim sat on the other side of the old missionary holding his hand. For many moments, neither spoke. They glanced at the pale face, watching with eager, wistful eyes for a smile or listening for a word. Come, said the Indian. Nell slowly pointed toward her uncle. He is dying, whispered Jim to the Indian. Go, leave me, murmured Mr. Wells. You are still in danger. We'll not leave you, cried Jim. No, no, no, sobbed Nell, bending over to kiss him. Nellie, may I marry you to Jim? Jim, whispered Mr. Wells into her ear. He has told me how it is with him. He loves you, Nellie. I'd die happier knowing I'd left you with him. Even at that moment, with her heart almost breaking, Nell's fair face flushed. Nell, will you marry me? asked Jim softly. Lo, though it was, he had heard Mr. Wells' whisper. Nell stretched a little trembling hand over her uncle to Jim, who enclosed it in his own. Her eyes met his. Through her tears shone faintly a light, which but for the agony that made it dim would have beamed radiant. Find the place, said Mr. Wells, handing Jim a Bible. It was the one he always carried in his pocket. With trembling hand, Jim turned the leaves. At last he found the lines and handed the book back to the old man. Simple, sweet, and sad was that marriage service. Nell and Jim knelt with hands clasped over Mr. Wells. The old missionary's voice was faint. Nell's responses were low, and Jim answered with deep and tender feeling. Beside them stood Wingenund, a dark, magnificent figure. There, may God bless you, remember Mr. Wells with a happy smile, closing the Bible. Nell, my wife, whispered Jim, kissing her hand. Come, broken Wingenund's voice, deep, strong, like that of a bell. Not one of them had observed the chief as he stood erect, motionless, poised like a stag, senting the air. His dark eyes seemed to pierce the purple, golden forest. His keen ears seemed to drink in the singing of the birds and the gentle rustling of leaves. Native to these haunts, as were the wild creatures, they were no quicker than the Indian to feel the approach of foes. The breeze had borne faint, suspicious sounds. Keep, the Bible, said Mr. Wells, remember its word. His hand closely clasped Nell's, and then suddenly loosened. His pallid face was lighted by a meaning, tender smile, which slowly faded, faded and was gone. The venerable head fell back. The old missionary was dead. Nell kissed the pale, cold brow, and then rose, half dazed and shuddering. Jim was vainly trying to close the dead man's eyes. She could no longer look. On rising she found herself near the Indian chief. He took her fingers in his great hand, and held them with a strong warm pressure. Strangely thrilled, she looked up at Winganund. His somber eyes, fixed piercingly on the forest, and his dark, stern face were, as always, inscrutable. No compassion shown there, no emotion unbefitting a chieftain, would ever find expression in that cold face. But Nell felt a certain tenderness in this Indian, a response in his great heart. Felt it so surely, so powerfully, that she leaned her head against him. She knew he was her friend. Come, said the chief once more, he gently put Nell aside before Jim rose from his sad task. We cannot leave him unburied, expostulated Jim. Winganund dragged aside a large stone which formed one wall of the cavern. Then he grasped a log which was half-covered by dirt, and, exerting his great strength, pulled it from its place. There was a crash, a rumble, the jar of a heavy weight striking the earth, then the rattling of gravel. And before Nell and Jim realized what had happened, the great rock forming the roof of the cavern slipped down the bank, followed by a small avalanche. The cavern was completely covered. Mr. Wells was buried. A mossy stone marked the old missionary's grave. Nell and Jim were lost in wonder and awe. Ah! cried the chief, looking toward the opening and the glade. Fearfully Nell and Jim turned to be appalled by four naked painted savages standing with leveled rifles. Behind them stood Deering and Jim Gertie. Oh, God, we are lost, lost, lost, exclaimed Jim, unable to command himself. Hope died in his heart. No cry issued from Nell's white lips. She was dazed by this final blow. Having endured so much, this last misfortune, apparently the ruin of her life, brought no added suffering, only a strange, numb feeling. Ah! thought you'd give me you the slip, eh? croaked Gertie, striding forward. And as he looked at Winganon, his little yellow eyes flared like flint. Does a wolf befriend Gertie's captives? Chief, you have led me a hard chase. Winganon danned no reply. He stood as he did so often, still and silent, with folded arms, and a look that was haughty, unresponsive. The Indians came forward into the glade, and one of them quickly bound Jim's hands behind his back. The savages wore a wild, brutish look, a feverish ferocity, very near akin to insanity possessed them. They were not quiet a moment, but ran here and there for no apparent reason, except possibly to keep in action with a raging fire in their hearts. The cleanliness which characterized the normal Indian was absent in them. Their scant, buckskin dress was bedraggled and stained. They were still drunk with rum and the lust for blood. Murder gleamed from the glance of their eyes. Jake, come over here, said Gertie to his renegade friend. Ain't she a prize? Gertie and Deering stood before the poor, stricken girl, and gloated over her fair beauty. She stood as when first transfixed by the horror from which she had been fleeing. Her pale face was lowered, her hands clenched tightly in the folds of her skirt. Never before had two such coarse, cruel fiends as Deering and Gertie encumbered the earth. Even on the border where the best men were bad, they were the worst. Deering was yet drunk, but Gertie had recovered somewhat from the effects of the rum he had absorbed. The former rolled his big eyes and nodded his shaggy head. He was passing judgment from his point of view on the fine points of the girl. She certainly, as she declared with a grin, she is the little beauty beats any eye ever seen. Jim Gertie stroked his sharp chin with dirty fingers, his yellow eyes, his burnt saffron skin, his hooked nose, his thin lips. All his evil face seemed to shine with an evil triumph. To look at him was painful. To have him gaze at her was enough to drive any woman mad. Dark stains spotted the bright frills of his gaudy dress, his buckskin coat and leggings, and dotted his white ego plumes. Dark stains, horribly suggestive, covered him from head to foot. Blood stains. The innocent blood of Christians crimsoned his renegades body. And every dark red blotch cried murder. Girl, I burned that village apiece to get you, Groud Gertie. Come here! With a rude grasp that tore open her dress, exposing her beautiful white shoulder and bosom, the ruffian pulled her toward him. His face was transfixed with the fierce joy of brutal passion. Dearing looked on with a drunken grin, while his renegade friend hugged the almost dying girl. The Indians paced the glade with short strides like leashed tigers. The young missionary lay on the moss with closed eyes. He could not endure the sight of Mel in Gertie's arms. No one noticed Winganond. He stood back a little, half-screened by drooping branches. Once again the chief's dark eyes gleamed. His head turned a trifle aside, and standing in the statue-esque position habitual with him one resting, he listened, as one who hears mysterious sounds. Suddenly his keen glance was riveted on the ferns above the low cliff. He had seen their graceful heads quivering. Then two blinding sheets of flame burst from the ferns. Spang! Spang! The two rifle reports thundered through the glade. Two Indians staggered and fell in their tracks, dead without a cry. A huge yellow body spread out like a panther in his spring, descended with a crash upon Deering and Gertie. The girl fell away from the ridding aid, as he went down with a shrill screech, dragging Deering with him. Instantly began a terrific whirling, wrestling struggle. A few feet farther down the cliff, another yellow body came crashing down, to a light with a thud, to bound direct, to rush forward swift as a leaping deer. The two remaining Indians had only time to draw their weapons, before this lithe, threatening form whirled upon them. Shrill cries, horse yells, the clash of steel and dull blows mingled together. One savage went down, twisted over, writhed, and lay still. The other staggered, warded off lightning-like blows until one passed under his guard, and crashed dullly on his head. Then he reeled, rose again, but only to have his skull cloven by a bloody tomahawk. The victor darted toward the whirling mass. Loose, shake him loose, let him go, yelled Jonathan Zane, swinging his bloody weapon. High above Zane's cry, Deering shouts and purses, Gertie shrieks of fear and fury, above the noise of wrestling bodies, and dull blows rose a deep-booming roar. It was Wetzel's awful cry of vengeance. Shake him loose, yelled Jonathan. Baffled he ran wildly around the wrestlers, time and time again his scory tomahawk was raised, only to be lowered. He found no opportunity to strike. Gertie's ghastly countenance gleamed at him from the whirl of legs and arms and bodies. Then Wetzel's dark face, lighted by merciless eyes, took its place, and that gave way to Deering's broad features. The men being clad a-like at buckskin, and their motion so rapid, prevented Zane from lending a helping hand. Suddenly Deering was propelled from the mass as if by a catapult, his body straightened as it came down with a heavy thud. Zane pounced upon it with cat-like quickness. Once more he swung aloft the bloody hatchet. Then once more he lowered it, for there was no need to strike. The renegade's side was torn open from shoulder to hip. A deluge of blood poured out upon the moss. Deering choked, a bloody froth formed on his lips. His fingers clutched at nothing. His eyes rolled violently, and then were fixed in an awful stare. The girl lying so quiet in the woods near the old hut was avenged. Jonathan turned again to Wetzel and Gertie, not with any intention to aid the hunter, but simply to witness the end of the struggle. Without the help of the powerful Deering, how pitifully weak was the death's head of the frontier in the hands of the Avenger. Jim Gertie's tomahawk was thrown in one direction and his knife in another. He struggled vainly in the iron grip that held him. Wetzel rose to his feet, clutching the renegade. With his left arm which had been buried in the fight, he held Gertie by the front of his buckskin shirt, and dragged him to that tree which stood alone in the glade. He pushed him against it and held him there. The white dog leaped and snarled around the prisoner. Gertie's hands pulled and tore at the powerful arm which forced him hard against the beach. It was a brown arm and huge with its bulging knotted region muscles, a mighty arm, strong as the justice which ruled it. Gertie, thy raciest run! Wetzel's voice cut the silence like a steel whip. The terrible ruthless smile, the glittering eyes of doom, seemed literally to petrify the renegade. The hunter's right arm rose slowly. The knife in his hand quivered as if with eagerness. The long blade, dripping with dearing's blood, pointed toward the hilltop. Look there! See them! Thar's your friend, cried Wetzel. On the dead branches of trees standing far above the hilltop were many great dark birds. They sat motionless as if waiting. Buzzards! Buzzards! hissed Wetzel. Gertie's ghastly face became an awful thing to look upon. No living countenance ever before expressed such fear, such horror, such agony. He foamed at the mouth, he struggled, he writhed. With a terrible fascination he watched that quivering, dripping blade now poised high. Wetzel's arm swung with the speed of a shooting star. He drove the blade into Gertie's groin, through flesh and bone, hard and fast, into the tree. He nailed the renegade to the beach, there to await his lingering doom. Shrieked Gertie in cries of agony, he fumbled and pulled at the half of the knife, but could not loosen it. He beat his breast, he tore his hair, his screams record from the hilltop as if in mockery. The white dog stood near, his hair bristling, his teeth snapping. The dark birds sat on the dead branches above the hilltop, as if waiting for their feast. End of Chapter 27 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray, recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio.