 CHAPTER XXII. In Leggett's rude log cabin of fire-burned love. Lighting the forms of the two border outlaws, and showing in the background the dark forms of Indians sitting motionless on the floor, their dusky eyes emitted a baleful glint, seemingly a reflection of their savage souls caught by the fire-light. Leggett wore a look of ferocity and sullen fear, strangely blended. Brant's face was hard and haggard, his lips set as gray eyes smoldering. Safe, he hissed. Safe, you say. You'll see that it's the same now as on the other night. When those border-tigers jumped us and we ran like cowards. I'd have fought it out here, but for you. That man, Wintzel, is raven mad to tell you, growled Leggett. I reckon I've stood my ground enough to know I ain't no coward. But this fella's crazy. He had the engines slashing each other like a pack of wolves around a buck. He's no more mad than you or I, declared Brant. I know all about him. His moaning in the woods and wild yells are only tricks. He knows the Indian nature and he makes the very superstition and religion aid him in his fighting. I told you what he'd do, didn't I beg you to kill Zane when we had the chance? Wintzel would never have taken our trail alone. Now they've beat me out of the girl and assures death will round us up here. You don't believe they'll rush us here, ask, Leggett. They're too keen to take foolish chances, but something will be done we don't expect. Zane was a prisoner here. He had a good look at this place. And you can gamble, he'll remember. Zane must have gone back to Fort Henry with the girl. Mark what I say. He'll come back. Well, we can hold this place as against all the men Ebzane may put out. He didn't send a man, snapped Brant passionately. Remember this. Leggett, we're not to fight against soldiers, settlers, or hunters. But borderman, understand, borderman, such as have been developed right here on this bloody frontier and nowhere else on earth. They haven't fear in them. Both their fleet is dear in the woods. They can't be seen or trailed. They can snuff a candle with a rifle ball in the dark. I've seen Zane do it three times in a hundred yards. And Wetzel? He wouldn't waste powder on practicing. They can't be ambushed or shaken off a track. They take this scent like buzzards and have eyes like eagles. We can slip out of here under cover of night, suggested, Leggett. Well, what then? That's all they want. They'd be on us again by sunset. No. We've got to stand our ground and fight. We'll stay as long as we can. But they'll rot us out somehow, be sure of that. And if one of us pokes his nose out to the daylight, it'll be shot off. You're sore. You've lost your nerve, said Leggett harshly. Soared me because I got sweet on a girl. Oh! Brant shot a glance at Leggett, which boated no good. His strong hands clenched in an action betraying the reckless rage in his heart. Then he carefully removed his hunting-coat and examined his wound. He retired the bandage muttering gloomily. So weakest to be lightheaded. If this cut opens again, it's all day for me. After that the inmates of the hut were quiet. A huge outlaw bowed his shaggy head for a while and then threw himself on a pile of hemlock bows. Brant was not long in seeking rest. Soon both were fast asleep. Two of the savages passed out with cat-like step, leaving the door open. The fire had burned low, leaving a bed of dead coals. Outside in the dark a waterfall splashed softly. The darkest hour came and passed, and pale slowly to gray. Birds began to twitter. Through the door of the cabin the light of day streamed in. The two Indian sentinels were building a fire on the stone hearth. One by one the other savages got up, stretched and yawned, and began the business of the day by cooking their breakfast. It was, apparently, everyone for himself. Leggett arose shook himself like a shaggy dog and was starting for the door when one of the sentinels stopped him. Brant, who was now awake, saw the action and smiled. In a few moments Indians and outlaws were eating breakfast roasted strips of venison with cornmeal baked brown, which served as bread. It was a somber, silent group. Presently the shrill nape of a horse startled them. Following with the whip-like crack of a rifle stung and split the morning air. Hard on this came an Indians-long wailing death cry. Ah! exclaimed Brant. Leggett remained immovable. One of the savages peered out through a little porthole at the rear of the hut. The others continued their meal. Waslerle come in presently to tell us who's doing that shooting? said Leggett. He's a keen engine. He's not very keen now, replied Brant with bitter certainty. He's what the settlers call a good Indian, which is to say dead. Leggett scowled at his lieutenant. I'll go and see, he replied, and seized his rifle. He opened the door when another rifle shot rang out, a bullet whistled in the air, grazing the outlaw's shoulder and embedded itself in the heavy door frame. Leggett leapt back with a curse. Close shave, said Brant Cooley. That bullet came close probably straight down from the top of the cliff. Jack Zane's there. Wetzel is lower down, watching the outlet. We're trapped. Trapped, shouted Leggett, with an angry lure. We can live here longer in the borderman can. We've meat on hand and a good spring in the back of the hut. How are we trapped? We won't live twenty-four hours, declared Brant. Why? Because we'll be rotted out. They'll find some way to do it, and we'll never have another chance to fight in the open, as we had the other night when they came after the girl. From now on there'll be no sleep, no time to eat, the nameless fear of an unseen foe who can't be shaken off, marching by night, hiding and starving by day, until— I'd rather be back at Fort Henry at Colonel Zane's Mercy. Leggett turned a ghastly face towards Brant. Look here, you're taking a lot of glee in saying these things. I believe you've lost your nerve, or the letting out of a little blood has made you wobbly. We've engines here, and ought to be a match for two men. Brant gazed at him with a derisive smile. We can go out and fight these fellers, continued Leggett. We might try their own game, hiding and crawling through the woods. We too would have to go it alone if you still had your trusty, trained band of experienced Indians. I'd say that would be just the thing. But Ashbow and the Chippewa are dead. So are the others. This bunch of redskins here may do to steal a few horses. They don't amount to much against Zane and Wetzel. Besides, they'll cut and run presently, for they're scared and suspicious. Look at the Chief ask him. The savage Brant indicated was a big Indian just coming into manhood. His swarthy face still retains some of the frankness and simplicity of youth. Chief, said Leggett in the Indian tongue, the great pale face under death-wind lies hid in the woods. Last night the Shawnee heard the wind of death mourn through the trees, replied the Chief, gloomily. Say, what did I say, cried Brant? The superstitious fool. He would begin his death-chant almost without a fight. We can't count on the redskins. What's to be done? The outlaw threw himself upon the bed of bows and Leggett sat down with his rifle across his knees. The Indians maintained the same historical composure. The moments dragged by into hours. Ugh! Suddenly exclaimed the Indian at the end of the hut. Leggett ran to him, and acting upon a motion of the Indians' hand, looked out through the little porthole. The sun was high. He saw four of the horses grazing by the brook, then gazed scrutinously from the steep waterfall along the green stained cliff to the dark narrow cleft in the rocks. Here was the only outlet from the enclosure. He failed to discover anything unusual. The Indian grunted again and pointed upward. Smoke! There's smoke rising above the trees, cried the Leggett. Brant, come here! What's that mean? Brant hurried, looked out, his face paled, his large opportunity quivered, and then was shot hard. He walked away, put his foot on a bench, and began to lace his leggings. Well, demanded Leggett. Games up! Get ready to run and be shot at, cried Brant with a hiss of passion. Almost as he spoke, the roof of the hut shook under a heavy blow. What's that? No one replied. Leggett glanced from Brant's cold determined face to the uneasy savages. They were restless in handling their weapons. The chief strode across the floor with stealthy steps. Thud! A repetition of the first blow caused the Indians to jump, and drew a fierce implication from the outlaw leader. Brant eyed him narrowly. It's coming to you, Leggett. They are shooting arrows of fire into the roof from the cliff. Zane is doing that. He can make a bow and draw one, too. Were to be burned out. Now, damn you! Take your medicine. I wanted you to kill him when you had the chance. If you had done so, we'd never have come to this. Burned out. Do you get that? Burned out. Fire! exclaimed Leggett. He sat down as if the strength had left his legs. The Indians circled around the room like caged tigers. The chief suddenly reached up and touched the birch bark roof of the hut. His action brought the attention of all to a faint crackling of burning wood. It's caught all right, cried Brant in a voice which cut the air like a blow from a knife. I'll not be smoked like a ham. For all these tricky borderman roared Leggett. Drawing his knife, he hacked at the heavy buckskin hinges of the root door. When it dropped free, he measured against the open space. Sheathing the blade, he grasped his rifle in his right hand and swung the door on his left arm. Heavy though it was, he carried it easily. The roughly hewn planks afforded a capital shield for all except the lower portion of his legs and feet. He went out of the hut with the screen of wood between himself and the cliff, calling for the Indians to follow. They gathered behind him, breathing hard, clutching their weapons and seemingly almost crazed by excitement. Brant, with no thought of joining this foolhardy attempt to escape from the enclosure, ran to the little porthole that he might see the outcome. Leggett and his five redskins were running toward the narrow outlet in the gorge. The awkward and futile efforts of the Indians to remain behind the shield were almost pitiful. They crowded each other for favorable positions but struggle as they might. One or two were always exposed to the cliff. Suddenly one, push to the rear, stopped simultaneously with the crack of a rifle, threw up his arms and fell. Another report, differing from the first rang out. A savage staggered from behind the speeding group with his hand at his side, then he dropped into the brook. Evidently Leggett grasped at his golden opportunity, for he threw aside the heavy shield sprang forward, closely followed by his red-skinned allies. Immediately they came near the cliff where the trail ran into the gorge. A violent shaking of the dry ferns overhead made manifest the activity of some heavy body. Next instant a huge yellow figure, not unlike a leaping catamount, plunged down with a roar so terrible as to sound inhuman. Leggett Indians and newcomer rolled along the declivity towards the brook in an indistinguishable mass. Two of the savages shook themselves free and bounded to their feet, nimbly as cats, but Leggett and the other red-skinned became entangled in a terrific combat. It was a wrestling whirl, so fierce and rapid as to render blows ineffectual. The leaves scattered as in a whirlwind. Leggett's fury must have been awful, to judge from his hoarse screams. The Indians fear maddening as could be told by their shrieks. The two savages ran wildly about the combatants, one trying to level a rifle, the other to get in a blow with a tomahawk, but the movements of the trio, locked in deadly embrace, were too swift. Above all the noise of the contest rose that strange, thrilling roar. Wetzel muttered brant with a chill, creeping shutter as he gazed upon the strife with fascinated eyes. Bang! Again from the cliff came that heavy bellow. The savage with the rifle shrunk back as if stung, and without a cry fell limply in a heap. His companion, uttering a frightened cry, fled from the glen. The struggles seemed too deadly, too terrible, to last long. The Indian and the outlaw were at a disadvantage. They could not strike freely, though whirling conflict grew more fearful. During one second the huge, brown, bearish figure of Legget appeared on top, thinned a dark-bodied, half-naked savage spotted like a hyena, and finally the life-powerful tiger-shape of the borderman. Finally Legget reached himself free at the same instant that the bloody stained Indian rolled, writhing in convulsions away from Wetzel. The outlaw dashed with desperate speed up the trail, and disappeared in the gorge. The borderman sped toward the cliff, leapt onto a projecting ledge, grasped an overhanging branch, and pulled himself up. He was out of sight, almost as quickly as Legget. After his rifle, brant muttered, then realized that he had watched the encounter without any idea of aiding his comrade. He consoled himself with the knowledge that such an attempt would have been useless. From the moment the borderman sprang upon Legget, until he scaled the cliff his movements had been incredibly swift. It would have been hardly possible to cover him with a rifle, and the outlaw grimly understood that he needed to be careful of that charge in his weapon. By Heaven Wetzel's all wonder cried brant in unwilling admiration. Now he'll go after Legget and the Redskin, while Zane stays here to get me. Well, he'll succeed, most likely, but I'll never quit. What's this? He felt something slippery and warm in his hand. It was blood running from the inside of his sleeve. A slight pain made itself felt in his side. Upon examination he found to his dismay that his wound had reopened. With a desperate curse he pulled a Lindsay jacket off a pig, toward into strips, and bound up the injury as tightly as possible. Then he grasped his rifle, and watched the cliff and the gorge with flaring eyes. Suddenly he found it difficult to breathe as throat was parched as eyes smarted. Then the order of wood smoke brought him to a realization that the cabin was burning. It was only now he understood that the room was full of blue clouds he sank into the corner of Wolford Bay. Not many moments passed before the outlaw understood that he could not withstand the increasing heat and stifling vapor of the room. Pieces of burning birch dropped from the roof. The crinkling above grew into a steady roar. I've gotta run for it, he gasped. Death awaited him outside the door. But that was more acceptable than death by fire. Yet to face the final moment, when he desired with all his soul to live, required almost superhuman courage. Sweating, panting, he glared around. God! Is there no other way he cried in agony? At this moment he saw an axe on the floor. Ceasingly he attacked the wall of the cabin. Beyond this partition was a hut which had been used for a stable. Half a dozen strokes of the axe opened a hole large enough for him to pass through. With his rifle and a piece of venison which hung near, he literally fell through the hole, where he lay choking, almost fainting. After a time he crawled across the floor to a door. Outside was a dense, laurel thicket into which he crawled. The crackling and roaring of the fire grew louder. He could see the column of yellow and black smoke. Once fairly underway the flames rapidly consumed the pitch pine logs. In an hour Leggett's cabins were a heap of ashes. The afternoon wane. Brant lay watchful, slowly recovering his strength. He felt secure under this cover and only prayed for night to come. As the shadows began to creep down the sides of the cliff, he indulged in hope. If he could slip out in the dark, he had a good chance to elude the bordermen. In the passionate desire to escape he had forgotten his fatalistic words to Leggett. He reasoned that he could not be trailed until daylight, that a long night's march would put him far in the lead. And there was just the possibility of Zanes having gone away with Wetzel. When darkness had set in, he slipped out of the cupboard and began his journey for life. Within a few yards he reached to Brook. He had only to follow its course in order to find the outlet to the glen. Moreover its rush and gurgle over the stones would drown any slight noise he might make. Slowly, patiently, he crawled, stopping every moment to listen. What a long time he was in coming to the mossy stones over which the brook dashed through the gorge. But he reached them at last, here, if anywhere, Zane would wait for him. With teeth clenched desperately, and an inward tightening of his chest. For at any moment he expected to see the red flame of a rifle. He slipped cautiously over the mossy stones. Finally his hands touched the dewy grass and a breath of cool wind fanned his hot cheek. He had succeeded in reaching the open. Crawling some rods further on, he lay still awhile and listened. The solemn wilderness calm was unbroken. Rising he peered about. Behind loomed the black hill with its narrow cleft just discernible. Facing the North Star he went silently out into the darkness. At daylight Jonathan Zane rolled from his snug bed of leaves under the side of a log, and with the flint, steel, and punk he always carried began building a fire. His actions were far from being hurried. They were deliberate, and seemed strange on the part of a man whose stern face suggested some dark business to be done. When his little fire had been made, he warmed some slices of venison which had already been cooked, and thus satisfied his hunger. Carefully extinguishing the fire and looking to the priming of his rifle he was ready for the trail. He stood near the edge of the cliff, from which he could command a view of the glen. The black, smoldering ruins of the burned cabins defaced a picturesque scene. Brant must have lit out last night, for I could have seen even a rabbit hiding in that laurel patch. He's gone, and it's what I wanted, thought the borderman. He made his way slowly around the edge of the enclosure and clambered down on the splintered cliff at the end of the gorge. A wide, well-trodden trail extended into the forest below. Jonathan gave scarcely a glance to the beaten path before him, but bent keen eyes to the North, and carefully scrutinized the mossy stones along the brook. Upon a little sandbar running out for the bank he found the light imprint of a hand. It was a black night. He'd have to travel by the stars, and North the only safe direction for him muttered the borderman. On the bank above he found oblong indentations in the grass, barely perceptible, but owing to the particular position of the blades of grass easy for him to follow. He'd better have learned to walk light as an engine, before he took to outlaw, said the borderman, in disdain. Then he returned to the gorge and entered the enclosure. At the foot of the low rise of ground where Wetzel had leaped upon his quarry was one of the dead Indians, another lay partly submerged in the brown water. Jonathan carried the weapons of the savages to a dry place under a projecting ledge in the cliff. Passing on down the glen, he stopped a moment where the cabins had stood. Not a log remained. The horses with the exception of two were tethered in the culps of Laurel. He recognized Colonel Zane's thoroughbred and Betty's pony. He cut them loose, positive they would not stray from the glen, and might easily be secured at another time. He set out upon the trail of Brant with a long, swinging stride. To him the outcome of the pursuit was but a question of time. The consciousness of superior year endurance, speed and craft, spoke in his every movement. The consciousness of being in right, a factor so powerfully potent for victory, spoke in the intrepid front with which he faced the north. It was a gloomy November day, gray, steely clouds drifted overhead, the wind wailed through the bare trees, sending dead leaves scurrying and rustling over the brown earth. The borderman advanced with a step that covered glade and glen, forest and field, with astonishing swiftness, long since he had seen that Brant was holding to the low land. This did not strike him as singular until, for the third time he found a trail led a short distance up the side of a ridge, then descended, seeking a level. With this discovery came the certainty that Brant's pace was lessening. He had set out with a hunter-stride, but it had begun to shorten. The outlaw had shirked the hills and shifted from his northern course. Why? The man was weakening, he could not climb, he was favouring a wound. What seemed more serious for the outlaw was the fact that he had left a good trail and entered the low, wild land north of the Ohio. Even the Indians seldom penetrated this tangled belt of laurel and thorn. Owing to the dry season the swamps were shallow. Which was another factor against Brant. No doubt he had hoped to hide his trail by waiting. And here it showed up, like the track of a bison. Jonathan kept steadily on, knowing the further Brant penetrated into this wilderness, the worse off he would be. The outlaw dared not take to the river until below Fort Henry, which was distant, many a weary mile. The trail grew more ragged as the afternoon wore away. When twilight rendered further tracking impossible the boardermans built a fire in a sheltered place eighty supper and went to sleep. In the dim gray morning light he awoke, fancying he had been startled by a distant rifle-shot. He roasted his trips of venison carefully and ate with a hungry hunter's appreciation, yet sparingly as benefited a boarderman, who knew how to keep up his strength upon a long trail. Hardly had he travelled a mile when Brant's footprints covered in others. Nothing surprised the boarderman, but he had expected this least of all. A hasty examination convinced him that Leggett and his Indian ally had fled this way with what so in pursuit. The morning passed slowly. The boarderman kept to the trail like a hound. The afternoon wore on. Over sandy reaches thick with willows and, through long-mannered dried-out cranberry marshes and copses of prickly thorn, the boarderman hung to his purpose. His legs seemed never to lose their spring, but his chest began to heave, his head bent and his face shown with sweat. At dusk he tired. Crawling into a dry thicket he ate his scanty meal and fell asleep. When he awoke it was gray daylight. He was wet and chilled. Again he kindled a fire and sat over it while cooking breakfast. Suddenly he was brought to his feet by the sound of a rifle shot, then to others followed in rapid succession. Though they were faint and far away to the West, Jonathan recognized the first, which could have come only from Wetzel's weapon, and he felt reasonably certain of the third, which was Brant's. There might have been, he reflected grimly, a good reason for Leggett's not shooting. However, he knew that Wetzel had rounded up the fugitives, and again he set out. It was another dismal day, such as one would be fitting for a dark deed of border justice. A cold, drizzly rain blew from the northwest. Jonathan wrapped a piece of oil skin around his rifle breech and faced the downfall. Soon he was wet to the skin, he kept on, but his free stride had shortened, even upon his iron muscles the soggy, sticky ground had begun to tell. The morning passed, but the storm did not. The air grew colder and darker. The short afternoon would afford him little time, especially as the rain and running rills of water were obliterating the trail. In the midst of a dense forest of great cotton woods and sycamores he came upon a little pond, hidden among the bushes, and shrouded in a windy, wet gloom. Jonathan recognized the place. He'd been there in winter hunting bears, when all the swamp land was locked by ice. The borderman searched along the banks for a time, then went back to the trail, patiently following it. Around the pond it led to the side of a great shelving rock. He saw an Indian leaning against this and was about to throw forward his rifle when the strange, fixed position of the savage told of the tragedy. A wound extended from his shoulder to his waist. Nearby on the ground lay Ligget. He too was dead. His gigantic frame weltered in blood. His big feet were wide apart, his arms spread, and from the middle of his chest protruded the hip of a knife. The level space surrounding the body showed evidence of a desperate struggle. A bush had been rolled upon and crushed by heavy bodies, on the ground with blood as on the stones and leaves. The blade Ligget still clutched was red, and the wrist of the hand which held it showed a dark, discolored band, where it had felt the relentless grasp of Wetzel's steel grip. The dead man's buckskin coat was cut into ribbons on his broad face. A demonical expression had set in eternal rigidity. The animal terror of death was frozen in his wide, staring eyes. The outlaw chief had died as he lived, desperately. Jonathan found Wetzel's trail leading directly toward the river, and soon understood that the borderman was on the track of Brant. The borderman had surprised the worn starved, sleepy fugitives in the gray misty dawn. The Indian doubtless was the sentinel, and had fallen asleep at his post never to awaken. Ligget and Brant must have discharged their weapons ineffectively. Zane could not understand why his comrade had missed Brant at a few rods' distance. Perhaps he had wounded the younger outlaw, but certainly he had escaped while Wetzel had closed in on Ligget to meet the hardest battle of his career. While going over his version of the attack, Jonathan followed Brant's trail as had Wetzel, to where it ended in the river. The old borderman had continued on downstream along the sandy shore. The outlaw remained in the water to hide his trail. At one point Wetzel turned north. This moved puzzle, Jonathan, as did also the peculiar tracks. It was more perplexing because not far below, Zane discovered where the fugitive had left the water to go around a ledge of rock. The trail was approaching Fort Henry. Jonathan kept on down the river until arriving at the head of the island which lay opposite the settlement. Still no traces of Wetzel. Here Zane lost Brant's trail completely. He waited the first channel which was shallow and narrow and hurried across the island. Walking out upon a sandbar, he signaled with his well-known engine cry. Almost immediately came an answering shout. While waiting he glanced at the sand and there pointing straight toward the fort. He found Brant's straggling trail. End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 of the Last Trail This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mike Vendetti, mikevendetti.com. The Last Trail by Zane Gray, Chapter 24 Colonel Zane paced to and fro on the porch. His genial smile had not returned. He was grave and somber. Information had just reached him that Jonathan had hailed from the island and that one of the settlers had started across the river in a boat. Betty came out accompanied by Mrs. Zane. What's as I hear ask Betty, flashing an anxious glance toward the river, as Jack really come in? Yes, replied Colonel, pointing to a throng of men on the river bank. Now there be trouble, said Mrs. Zane nervously. I wish with all my heart Brant had not thrown himself, as he called it, on your mercy. So do I, declared Colonel Zane. What will be done, she asked. There, that's Jack, Silas has hold of his arm. He's lame, he's been hurt, replied her husband. A little procession of men and boys followed the boarderman from the river and from the cabins appeared the settlers and their wives. But there was no excitement except among the children. The crowd filed into the Colonel's yard behind Jonathan and Silas. Colonel Zane silently greeted his brother with an iron grip of the hand, which was more expressive than words. No unusual sight was it to see the boarderman wet, ragged, bloody, worn with long marches hollow-eyed and gloomy. Yet he had never before presented such an appearance at Fort Henry. Betty ran forward and though she clasped his arm, shrank back. There was that in the boarderman's presence to cause fear. Wetzel, Jonathan cried sharply. The Colonel raised both hands, palms open, and returned to his brother's keen glance. Then he spoke. Lou hasn't come in. They chased Brant across the river, that's all I know. Brant's here, then? His to the boarderman? The Colonel nodded gloomily. Where? In the long room over the fort I locked him in there. Why did he come here? Colonel Zane shrugged his shoulders. It's beyond me. He said he'd rather place himself in my hands than be run down by Wetzel or you. He didn't crawl. I'll say that for him. He just said, I'm your prisoner. He's in pretty bad shape. Barked over the temple, lame in one foot, conduct her the arm. Starved and worn out. Take me to him, said the boarderman, and he threw his rifle on a bench. Very well. Come along, replied the Colonel. He frowned at those following them. Here, you women clear out. But they did not obey him. It was a sober-faced group that marched in through the big stockade gate, under the huge bulging front of the fort and up the rough stairway. Colonel Zane removed a heavy bar from before a door and thrust it open with his foot. The long guard room brilliantly lighted by sunshine coming through the portals was empty, save for a ragged man lying on a bench. The noise suroused him, he sat up, and then slowly labored to his feet. It was the same flaring wild-eyed rant, only fiercer and more haggard. He wore a bloody bandage round his head. When he saw the boarderman, he backed with involuntary instinctive action against the wall, yet showed no fear. In the dark glance, Jonathan shot at Brant, shown a pitiless implacability, no scorn, nor hate, nor passion, but something which had it not been so terrible might have been justice. I think Wetzel was hurt in the fight with Leggett, said Jonathan deliberately, and ask if you know. I believe he was, replied Brant readily. I was asleep when he jumped us, and was awakened by the Indian gel. Wetzel must have taken a snapshot at me as I was getting up, which accounts probably for my being a lie. I fell, but did not lose consciousness. I heard Wetzel and Leggett fighting, and at last struggled to my feet. Although dizzy and bewildered, I could see to shoot but missed. For a long time it seemed to me I watched that terrible fight, and then ran finally reaching the river, where I recovered somewhat. Did you see Wetzel again? What's about a quarter of a mile behind me? He was staggering along on my trail. At this juncture there was a commotion among the settlers crowding behind Colonel Zane and Jonathan, and Helen Shepard appeared, white with their big eyes, grangely dilated. Oh, she cried breathlessly, clasping both hands around Jonathan's arm. I'm not too late. You're not going to... Helen, this is no place for you, said Colonel Zane Sterling. This is business for men, you must not interfere. Helen gazed at him at Brant, and then up at the borderman. She did not lose his arm. Outside someone told me you intended to shoot him. Is it true? Colonel Zane evaded the searching gaze of those strained, brilliant eyes. Nor did he answer. As Helen stepped slowly back a hush fell upon the crowd, the whispering, the nervous coughing and shuffling of feet ceased. In those around her Helen saw the spirit of the border. Colonel Zane and Silas wore the same look, cold, hard, almost brutal. The women were strangely grave. Nellie Downe's sweet face seemed changed. There was pity, even suffering on it, but no relenting. Even Betty's face, always so warm, pickwent, and wholesome, had taken on a shade of doubt, of gloom, of something almost sullen, which blighted its dark beauty. What hurt Helen most, cruelly, was the borderman's glittering eyes. She fought against a shuddering weakness which threatened to overcome her. Who's prisoner is Brant? she asked Colonel Zane. He gave himself up to me, naturally, as I am in authority, here replied the Colonel. But that signifies little. I can do no less than abide by Jonathan's decree, which, after all, is the decree of the border. And that is. Death to outlaws and renegades. But cannot you spare him, and Lord Helen? I know he is a bad man, but he might become a better one. It seems like murder to me to kill him in cold blood, wounded, suffering as he is, when he claimed your mercy. Oh, it is dreadful. The usually kind-hearted Colonel soft as wax in the hands of a girl was now colder and harder than flint. It is useless, he replied curtly. I am sorry for you. We all understand your feelings that yours are not the principles of the border. If you had lived long here you could appreciate what these outlaws and renegades have done to us. This man is a hardened criminal. He's a thief, a murderer. He did not kill Mordant, replied Helen quickly. I saw him draw first and attack Brant. No matter. Come, Helen ceased. No more of this. Colonel Zane cried with impatience. But I will not, exclaimed Helen, with ringing voice and flashing eye. She turned to her girlfriends and besought them to intercede for the outlaw. But Nell only looked sorrowfully on while Betty met her appealing glance with a fire in her eyes that was no dim reflection of her brothers. Then I must make my appeal to you, said Helen, facing the boarderman. There could be no mistaking how she regarded him. Respect, honor, and love. Breathe from every line of her beautiful face. Why do you want him to go free? demanded Jonathan. You told me to kill him. Oh, I know, but I was not in my right mind. Listen to me please. He must have been very different once, perhaps had sisters. For their sake, give him another chance. I know he has a better nature. I feared him, hated him, scorned him, as if he were a snake, yet he saved me from the monster-legged. For himself. Well, yes, I can't deny that. But he could have ruined me, wrecked me, yet he did not. At least he met marriage by me. He said if I would marry him, he would flee over the boarder and be an honest man. Do you know other reason? Yes. Helen's bosom swelled and a glory shone in her splendid eyes. The other reason is, my own happiness. Blame to all, if not through her words, from the light in her eyes, that she could not love a man who was a party to what she considered injustice. The boarderman's wife's face became flaming red. It was difficult to refuse this glorious girl any sacrifice she demanded for the sake of the love so openly abound. Sweetly and pittingly she turned to Brandt. Well, not you help me. Lass, if it were for me, you were asking my life, I'd swear at yours for always. And I'd be a man, he replied with bitterness. But not to save my soul when I ask anything of him. The giant passion's hate and jealousy flamed in his gray eyes. If I persuade them to release you, will you go away, leave this country, and never come back? I'll promise that, Lass, and honestly, he replied. She wheeled toward Jonathan and now the rosy color chased the power from her cheeks. Jack, do you remember when we parted at my home, when you left on this terrible trail, now ended, thank God? Do you remember what an ordeal that was for me? Must I go through it again? Bewitchingly sweet she was then, with the girlish charm of coquetry, almost lost in the deeper, stranger power of the woman. The borderman drew his breath sharply, then he wrapped his long arms closely around her. She, understanding that victory was hers, sank weeping upon his breast. For a moment he bowed his face over her, and, when he lifted it, the dark and terrible gloom had gone. Let him go, and at once, ordered Jonathan, give him a rifle, some meat, and a canoe, for he can't travel and turn him loose. Only be quick about it, because if Wetzel comes in, God himself couldn't save the outlaw. It was an indescribable glance that Brant cast upon the tearful face of the girl who had saved his life, but without a word he followed Colonel Zane from the room. The crowd slowly filed down the steps, but he and Nell lingered behind, their eyes beaming through happy tears. Jonathan, long so cold, showed evidence of becoming as quick and passionate a lover as he had been an orderman. At least, Helen had to release herself from his embrace, and it was a blushing, tear-stained face she turned to her friends. When they reached the stockade gate, Colonel Zane was hurrying toward the river with a bag in one hand and a rifle and a paddle in the other. Brant limped along after him, the two disappearing over the river bank. Betty, Nell, and their lovers went to the edge of the bluff. They saw Colonel Zane choose a canoe from among a number on the beach. He launched it, deposited the bag in the bottom, handed the rifle and a paddle to Brant and wheeled about. The outlaw stepped aboard and, pushing off slowly, drifted down and out toward midstream. On about fifty yards from shore, he gave a quick glance round, and ceased paddling. His face gleamed white, and his eyes glinted like bits of steel in the sun. Suddenly he grasped the rifle and levelling it with the swiftness of thought, fired at Jonathan. The boarderman saw the act, even from the beginning, and must have read the outlaw's motive, for as the weapon flashed, he dropped flat on the bank the bullet sang harmlessly over him, embedding itself in the stockade fence with a distinct thud. The girls were so numb with horror that they could not even scream. Colonel Zane swore lustily, Where's my gun? Get me a gun! Oh, what did I tell you? Look, cried Jonathan as he rose to his feet. Upon the sandbar opposite stood a tall, dark, familiar figure. By all its holy wetzel, exclaimed Colonel Zane, they saw the giant boarderman raise a long black rifle, which wavered and fell and rose again. A little puff of white smoke leaped out, accompanied by a clear stinging report. Brant dropped the paddle. He had hurriedly bung young, plying after his traitors' act. His white face was turned towards the shore as it sank forward to rest at last upon the gunnel of the canoe. When his body slowly settled as if seeking repose, his hand trailed outside in the water, drooping inert and lifeless. The little craft drifted downstream. You see, Helen, it had to be, said Colonel Zane gently. What a dastard, a long shot, Jack. Fade itself must have glanced down the sights of wetzel's rifle. CHAPTER XXV A year rolled round. Once again Indian summer veiled the golden fields and forests in a soft, smoky haze. Once more, from the opal blue sky of autumn nights, shone the great white stars and nature seemed wrapped in a melancholy hush. November the third was the anniversary of a memorable event on the frontier, the marriage of the younger boarderman. Colonel Zane gave it the name of Independence Day and arranged a holiday of feast and dance where all the settlement might meet in joyful thankfulness with the first year of freedom on the border. With the wiping out of Leggett's fierce band, the yoke of the renegades and outlaws were thrown off forever. Simon Gertie migrated to Canada and lived with a few Indians who remained true to him. His Confederates slowly sank into oblivion. The Shawnee tribe suddenly retreated westward, far into the interior of Ohio. The Delaware's buried the war hatchet and smoked the pipe of peace. They had ever before refused. For them the dark, mysterious fatal wind had ceased to moan among the trails or sigh through treetops over lonely Indian campfires. The beautiful Ohio Valley had been rested from the savages and from those parasites who for years had hung around the necks of the Redmen. This day was the happiest of Colonel Zane's life. The task he had set himself and which he had hardly ever hoped to see completed was ended. The West had been won. What Boone achieved in Kentucky he had accomplished in Ohio and West Virginia. The feast was spread on the Colonel's lawn. Every man, woman, and child in the settlement was there. Isaac Zane, with his Indian wife and child, had come from the far off Huron town. Pioneers from Yellow Creek and eastward to Fort Pitt attended. The spirit of the occasion manifested itself in such joyousness as had never before been experienced in Fort Henry. The great feast was equal to the event. Choice cuts of beef and venison. Savory vines. Wonderful loaves of bread and great plump pies, sweet cider and old wine, delighted the merry party. Friends, neighbors, dear ones, said Colonel Zane, my heart is almost too full for speech. This occasion, commemorating the day of our freedom on the border, is the beginning of the reward for stern labor, hardship, silenced hearths of long relentless years. I did not think I'd live to see it. The seed we have sown has taken root. In years to come, perhaps, the great people will grow up on these farms we call our homes. And as we hope those coming afterward will remember us, we should stop a moment to think of the heroes who have gone before. Many there are whose names will never be written on the role of fame, whose graves will be unmarked in history. But we who worked, fought, fled beside them, who saw them die for those they left behind, will render them all justice, honor and love. To them we give the victory. They were true. Then let us who begin to enjoy the freedom, happiness and prosperity they won with their lives. Likewise, be true in memory of them, indeed to ourselves, and in grace to God. By no means the least of the pleasant features of this pleasant day was the fact that three couples blushingly presented themselves before the Colonel, and confided to him their sudden conclusions in regard to the felicitous of the moment. The happy Colonel raced around until he discovered Jim Downes, the minister, and there amid the merry throng he gave the brides away, being the first to kiss them. It was late in the afternoon when the villagers dispersed to their homes and left the Colonel to his own circle. With his strong, dark face beaming, he mounted the old porch-step. Where are my Zane babies? He asked. Ah, here you are. Did anybody ever see anything to beat that? Four wonderful babies. Mother, here's your Daniel. If you'd only named him Ibb. Silas? Come for Silas, Junior Bat. Boy that he is. Isaac, take your Indian Princess. Ah, little Maria. With the dusky face. Woe be it to him who looks into those eyes when you come to age. Jack? Here's little Jonathan, the last of the bordermen. He too has beautiful eyes like his mother's. Ah, well, I don't believe I have left a wish. Unless? Unless? Suggested Betty with a sweet smile. It might be, he said and looked at her. Betty's warm cheek was close to his as she whispered, dear Ibb, the rest only the Colonel heard. Well, by all this glorious he exclaimed and attempted to seize her. But with burning face Betty fled. Jack dear, how the leaves are falling exclaimed Helen. See them floating and whirling reminds me the day I lay a prisoner in the forest-glade praying, waiting for you. The borderman was silent. They passed down the sandy lane under the colored maple trees to a new cottage on the hillside. I am perfectly happy today, continued Helen. Everybody seems to be content, except you, for the first time in weeks I see that shade on your face, that look in your eyes. Jack, you do not regret the new life. My love? No, a thousand times no, he answered, smiling down into her eyes. They were changing, shadowing with thought, bright as in other days, and with an added beauty, the willful spirit had been softened by love. Ah, I know you missed the old friend. The yellow thicket on the slope opened to let out a tall, dark man who came down with life and springy stride. Jack, it's Wetzel, said Helen softly. No words were spoken as the comrades gripped hands. Let me see the boy, asked Wetzel, turning to Helen. Little Jonathan blinked up at the grave-borderman, with great round eyes and pulled with friendly chubby fingers at the fringe to puck-skin-coat. When you're a man, the forest trails will be cornfields, muttered Wetzel. The borderman strolled together up the brown hillside and wandered along the river bluff. The air was cool. In the west the ruddy light darkened behind bold hills, a blue mist streaming in the valley shaded into gray as twilight fell.