 Chapter 6 Apure Days Than She Had Hope For Dawned Upon Helen After The First Touch Of Border Sorrow Mabel Lane did not die. Helen and Betty nursed the stricken girl tenderly, weeping for every joy when signs of improvement appeared. She had remained silent for several days, always with that haunting fear in her eyes. And then gradually came a change. Tender care and nursing had due effect in banishing the dark shadow. One morning, after long sleep, she awakened with a bright smile and, from that time, her improvement was rapid. Helen wanted Mabel to live with her. The girl's position was pitiable, homeless, fatherless, with not a relative on the border, yet so brave, so patient, that she aroused all the sympathy in Helen's breast. Village gossip was in substance that Mabel had given her love to a young frontiersman by name Alex Bennett, who had an affection for her, so it was said. But as yet had made no choice between her and the other lasses of the settlement. What effect Mabel's terrible experience might have on this lukewarm lover, Helen, could not even guess. But she was not hopeful as to the future. Colonel Zane and Betty approved of Helen's plan to persuade Mabel to live with her, but the latter's faint protestations, they silenced by claiming she could be of great assistance in the management of the house. Therefore it was settled. Finally the day came when Mabel was ready to go with Helen. Betty had given her a generous supply of clothing for all her belongings had been destroyed when the cabin was burned. With Helen's strong young arm around her, she voiced her gratitude to Betty and Mrs. Zane, and started toward the shepherd home. From the green square where the ground was highest an unobstructed view could be had of the valley. Mabel gazed down the river to where her home formerly stood. Only a faint dark spot, like a blur on the green landscape, could be seen. Her soft eyes filled with tears, but she spoke no word. She's game and that's why she didn't go under Colonel Zane said to himself, as he mused on the strength and spirit of border women. To their heroism more than any other thing he attributed the establishing of home in this wilderness. In the days that ensued as Mabel grew stronger the girls became very fond of each other. Helen would have been happy at any time with such a sweet companion, but just then, when the poor girl's mind was so sorely disturbed, she was doubly glad. For several days after Mabel was out of danger, Helen's thoughts had dwelt on a subject which caused extreme vexation. She had begun to suspect that she encouraged too many admirers for whom she did not care, and thought too much of a man who did not reciprocate. She was gay and moody in turn. During the moody hours she suspected herself, and in her gay ones scorned the idea that she might ever care for a man who was indifferent. But that thought, once admitted, had a trick of returning at odd moments, clouding her cheerful moods. One sunshiney morning while the Mayflower smiled under the hedge, when dew sparkled on the leaves, and a locust blossom shone creamy white amid the soft green of the trees, the girls said about their much-planned flower gardening. Helen was passionately fond of plants, and had brought a jar of seeds of her favorites all the way from her eastern home. We'll plant the morning glories so they'll run up the porch, and the dollias in this long row in the nostritariums in the round bed, Helen said. You will have some trailing arbitas, added Mabel, and must have clementus, wild honeysuckle, and golden glow, for they are all sweet flowers. This arbitras is so fresh, so dewy, so fragrant, said Helen, bending aside a lot like boys to see the pale creeping flowers. I never saw anything so beautiful. I grow more and more in love with my new home and friends. I have such a pretty garden to look into, and I never tire of the view beyond. Helen gazed with pleasure and pride at the garden, with its fresh green and lavender-crested lilacs, at the white blossom trees, and the vine-covered log cabins, with blue smoke curling from their stone chimneys. Beyond the great bulk of the fort stood guard above the willow-skirted river, and, far away over the winding stream, the dark hills defiant kept their secrets. If it weren't for that threatening fort one could imagine this little hamlet nestling under the great bluff, as quiet and secure as it is, beautiful, said Helen. But that charred stockade fence, with its scarred bastions and these lowering portholes, always keep me alive to reality. It wasn't very quiet when Gertie was here, Mabel, replied thoughtfully. Were you in the fort then, asked Helen breathlessly? Oh yes. I cooled the rifles for the men, replied Mabel calmly. Tell me all about it. Helen listened again to a story she had heard many times, but told by new lips it always gained in vivid interest. She never tired of hearing how the notorious renegade Gertie rode around the fort on his white horse, giving the defenders an hour in which to surrender. She learned again of the attack when the British soldiers remained silent on an adjoining hillside while the Indians yelled exultantly, and ran about in fiendish glee. When Wetzel began the battle by shooting an Indian chieftain who had ventured within range of his ever-fatal rifle. And when it came to the heroic deeds of the memorable siege, Helen could not contain her enthusiasm. She shed tears over little Harry Bennett's death at the south bastion where, though riddled with bullets, he stuck to his post until relieved. Clark's race across the roof of the fort to extinguish a burning arrow. She applauded with clapping hands, her great eyes glowed and burned. But she was silent when hearing how Wetzel ran alone to a break in the stockade and there was an axe, the terrible boarderman held at bay the whole infuriated Indian mob until the breach was closed. Lastly, Betty Zanes, never to be forgotten, run with the powder to the relief of the garrison, and the saving of the fort was something not to cry over or applaud, but to dream of and to glorify. Down the slope from Colonel Zanes' cabin is where Betty ran with the powder said Mabel pointing. Did you see her, ask Helen? Yes, I looked out of a porthole, the Indians stopped firing at the fort, in their eagerness to shoot Betty. Oh, the banging of guns and yelling of savages was one fearful, dreadful roar. Through all that hail of bullets, Betty ran swift as the wind. I almost wish Gertie would come again, said Helen. Don't he might. How long has Betty's husband, Mr. Clark, been dead, inquired Helen? I don't remember exactly. He didn't live long after the siege. Some say he inhaled the flames while fighting fire inside the stockade. How sad! Yes, it was, it nearly killed Betty. But we border girls do not give up easily. We must not, replied Mabel. An unquenchable spirit showing through the sadness of her eyes. Merry voices interrupted them, and they turned to see Betty and Nell entering the gate. With Nell's bright chatter and Betty's wit, the conversation became indeed the vicious, running from gossip to gowns and then to that old and ever-new theme, love. Shortly afterward the Colonel entered the gate with swinging step and genial smile. Well, now, if here aren't four handsome lasses, he said with an admiring glance, Ebb, I believe if you were single any girl might well suspect you of being a flirt, said Betty. No girl ever did. I tell you I was a lady-killer in my day, replied Colonel Zane, straightening his fine form. He was indeed handsome, with his stalwart frame, dark bronzed face, and rugged manly bearing. Best said you were. But that it didn't last long after you saw her, cried Betty. Missed you, gleaming in her dark eye. Well, that's so, replied the Colonel, looking at trifle crest fawn. But you know every dog has his day. Then, advancing to the porch, he looked at Mabel with a more serious gaze as he asked, How are you today? Thank you, Colonel Zane. I'm getting quite strong. Look up the valley. There is a raft coming down the rivers. Said he softly. Far up the broad Ohio a score patch showed dark against the green water. Colonel Zane saw Mabel start, and a dark red flesh came over her pale face. For an instant she gazed with an expression of appeal, almost fear. He knew the reason. Alex Bennett was on the raft. I came over to ask if I can be of any service. Tell him. She answered simply. I said, Betz. Colonel Zane cried. Has Helen's cousin cast any more such sheep-eyes on you? Oh, am what nonsense! exclaimed Betty, blushing furiously. Well, if he didn't look sweet at you, I'm an old fool. You're one anyway. And you're horrid, said Betty, tears of anger glistening in her eyes. Colonel Zane whistled softly as he walked down the lane. He went into the wheel-right shop to see about some repairs he was having made on a wagon, and then strolled on down to the river. Two Indians were sitting on the rude long wharf, together with several frontiersmen and rivermen, all waiting for the raft. He conversed with the Indians who were friendly Chippewas until the raft was tied up. The first person to leap on shore was a sturdy young fellow with a shock of yellow hair and a warm, ruddy skin. Hello, Alex. Did you have a good trip? asked Colonel Zane of the youth. How are you, Colonel Zane? Yes, first-rate trip, replied young Bennett. Say I have a word for you. Come aside. And drawing Colonel Zane out of earshot of the others, he continued, I heard this by accident, not that I didn't spy a bit when I got interested, for I did. But the way it came about was all chance. Briefly, there's a man evidently an Englishman at Fort Pitt whom I overheard say he was out on the border after a shepherd girl. I happened to hear from one of Brent's men, who rode into Pitts just before we left, that you had new friends here by that name. This fellow was a handsome chap, no common-sword, but lordly. Disappated and reckless, as the devil. He had a servant traveling with him a sailor by his gab, who was about the toughest customer I've met in many a day. He cut a fellow in bad shape at Pitt. Those two will be on the next boat, due here in a day or so, according to river and weather conditions, and, I thought, considering how unusual the thing was. I better tell you. Well, well, said Carl Zane reflectively. He recalled Shepherd's talk about an Englishman. Alex, you did well to tell me. Was the man drunk when he said he came west after a woman? Sure he was, replied Alex, but not when he spoke the name. You see, I got suspicious in asking him. It's this way. Jake Wentz, the trader, told me the fellow asked for the Shepherd's when he caught off the wagon train. When I first seen him, he was drunk, and I heard Jeff Lin say as how the border was a bad place to come after a woman. That's what made me prick up my ears. Then the Englishman said, It is, eh? By God. I'd go to hell after a woman I wanted. And Colonel, he looked at two. Colonel Zane remained thoughtful, while Alex made up a bundle and forced the heft of an axe under the string. But as the young man started to weigh the Colonel suddenly remembered his errand down to the wharf. Alex, come back here, he said, and wondered if the lad had good stuff in him. The boatman's face was plain but not evil, and a close scrutiny of it rather prepossessed the Colonel. Alex, I have some bad news for you. And then bluntly, with his keen gaze fastened on the young man's face, he told of old Lane's murder, of Mabel's abduction, and of her rescue by Wetzel. Alex began to curse and swear vengeance. Still all that said the Colonel sharply. Wetzel followed four Indians who had Mabel and some stolen horses. The Redskins quarreled over the girl and two took the horses, leaving Mabel to the others. Wetzel went after these last, tomahawk them, and brought Mabel home. She was in a bad way, but is now getting over the shock. Say what we do here without Wetzel, Alex asked huskily, unmindful of the tears that streamed from his eyes and ran over his brown cheeks. Oral Jake! Poor Mabel! Damn me! It's my fault. If I had done right and married her as I should, as I wanted to, she wouldn't have had to suffer. But I'll marry her yet, if she'll have me. It was only because I had no farm, no stock. And only that little cabin is as full now that I waited. Alex, you know me, said Colonel Zane in kindly tones. Look there, down the clearing half a mile, to that green strip of land along the river, with a big chestnut in the middle and a cabin beyond. There's as fine farming land as can be found on the border, eighty acres. Well watered. The day you marry Mabel, that farm is yours. Alex grew red stammered and vainly tried to express his gratitude. Come along. The sooner you tell Mabel the better, said the Colonel. With glowing face, he was a good matchmaker. He'd arrive more pleasure from a little charity bestowed upon a deserving person than from a season's crops. When they arrived to Shepherd House the girls were still on the porch. Mabel rose when she saw Alex, standing white and still. He, poor fellow, was embarrassed by the others who regarded him with steady eyes. Colonel Zane pushed Alex up on the porch, and said in a low voice, Mabel, I've just arranged something you're to give to Alex. It's a nice little farm, and it'll be wedding present. Mabel looked in a bewildered manner from Colonel Zane's happy face to the girls, and then at the red joyous features of her lover. Only then did she understand, and uttering a strange little cry, put her trembling hands to her bosom as she swayed to and fro. But she did not fall, for Alex, quick at the last lep forward and caught her in his arms. That evening Helen denied herself to Mr. Brant and several other collars. She sat on the porch with her father while he smoked his pipe. Where's Will, she asked. Gone after Snipe, so he said, replied her father. Snipe! How funny! Imagine Will hunting! He's surely catching the wild fever Colonel Zane told us about. He surely is. Then came a time of silence. Mr. Shepherd, accustomed to Helen's Gladstone spirit and prosperity to gay chatter, noted how quiet she was, and wondered, Are you so still? I'm a little homesick. Helen replied reluctantly. No. Well, I declare this is a glorious country, but not for such as you, dear, who love music and gaiety. I often fear you'll not be happy here, and then I long for the old home which reminds me of your mother. Dearest, forget what I said, cried Helen earnestly. I'm only a little blue today, perhaps not at all homesick. Indeed, you always seemed happy. Father, I am happy. It's only... only a girl's fully sediment. I've got something to tell you, Helen, and it has bothered me since Colonel Zane spoke of it tonight. Mordant is coming to Fort Henry. Mordant, oh, impossible! Who said so? How did you learn? A fair just true, my dear, Colonel Zane told me he had heard of an Englishman at Fort Pitt, who asked after us moreover the feller answers the description of Mordant. I am afraid it is he, and come after you. Suppose he has cares. We owe him nothing. He cannot hurt us. But Helen, he's a desperate man. Aren't you afraid of him? Not I, cried Helen, laughing and scorn. He'd better have a care. He can't run things with a high hand out here on the border. I told him I would have none of him, and that he did it. I'm much relieved. I didn't want to tell you, but it seemed necessary. Well, child, good night. I'll go to bed. Long after Mr. Shepherd had retired, Helen sat thinking. Memories of the past and of the unwelcome suitor Mordant, thronged upon her thick and fast, she could see him now with his pale, handsome face and distinguished bearing. She had liked him as she had other men, until he involved her father with himself in financial ruin, and had made his attention to her unpleasantly persistent. Then he had followed the fall of fortune with wild dissipation, and became a gambler and a drunkard. But he did not desist in his mad wooing. He became like her shadow. And life grew to be unendurable, until her father planned to emigrate west. When she hailed the news with joy, and now Mordant had tracked her to her new home. She was sick with disgust. Then her spirit, always strong and now freer for this new wildlife of the frontier, rose within her. And she dismissed all thoughts of this man and his passion. The old life was dead and buried. She was going to be happy here. As for the present, it was enough to think of the little border village, now her home, of her girlfriends, of the quiet borderman, and for the moment that the twilight was somber and beautiful. High, up on the wooded bluff, rising so gloomily over the village, she saw among the trees something silver bright. She watched it rise slowly from behind the trees. Now hidden, now white through rifts in the forage, until it soared lovely and grand above the black horizon. The ebony shadows of night seemed to lift, as might a sable mantle move by invisible hands. But dark shadows, safe from the moon rays, lay under the trees, and a pale, misty vapor hung below the brow of the bluff. Mysterious as had grown the night before darkness yielded to the moon. This pale, white light, flooding the still valley, was even more soft and strange. To one of Helen's temperament, no thought was needed. To see was enough. Yet her mind was active. She felt, with haunting power, the beauty of all before her, in fancy transporting herself far to those silver-tipped clouds, and peepling the dells and shady nooks under the hills with spirits and fairies, maidens and valiant knights. To her the day was as a far-off dream. The great watch stars grew on before the radiant moon. It rained alone. The immensity of the world with its glimmering rivers, pensive valleys, and deep, gloomy forests, lay revealed under the glory of the clear light. Absorbed in this contemplation, Helen remained a long time gazing with dreamy ecstasy at the moonlit valley until a slight chill disturbed her happy thoughts. She knew she was not alone. Trembling, she stood up to see, easily recognizable in the moonlight, the tall, buckskin-garb figure of Jonathan Zane. Well, sir, she called sharply, yet with a tremor in her voice. The boarderman came forward and stood in front of her. Somehow he appeared changed. The long black rifle, the dull, glinting weapons, made her shudder. Wilder and more untameable he looked than ever. The very silence of the forest clung to him. The fragrance of the grassy plains came faintly from his buckskin garments. Evening last, he said, in his slow, cool manner. How did you get here? asked Helen presently, because he made no effort to explain his presence at such a late hour. I was able to walk. Helen observed with a vaulting spirit, one ever ready to rise in arms that Master Zane was disposed to add humour to his penetrating mysteriousness. She flushed hot and then paled. This boarderman certainly possessed the power to vex her, and reluctantly, she admitted, to chill her soul and rouse her fear. She strove to keep back sharp words because she had learned that this singular individual always gave good reason for his odd actions. I think in kindness to me, she said, choosing her words carefully. You might tell me why you appear so suddenly, as if you had sprung out of the ground. Are you alone? Yes, father's in bed, so is Mabel, and Will has not yet come home. Why? Has no one else been here? Mr. Brant came as did some others, but wishing to be alone, I did not see them, replied Helen in perplexity. Have you seen Brant since? Since when? The night I watched by the london bush. Yes, several times, replied Helen. Something in his tone made her ashamed. I couldn't very well escape when he called. Are you surprised, because after he insulted me, I'd see him again? Yes, Helen felt more ashamed. You don't love him, he continued. Helen was so surprised she could only look into the dark face above her. Then she dropped her gaze, abashed by his searching eyes. But thinking of his question, she subdued the vague stirrings of pleasure in her breast and answered coldly. No, I do not. But for the service you rendered me, I should never have answered such a question. I'm glad, and hope you care as little for the other five men who were here that night. I declare, Master Zane, you seem exceedingly interested in the affairs of a young woman who you won't visit, except as you have come to-night. He looked at her with his piercing eyes. You spied upon my guests, she said. In no wise abashed now that her temper was high. Did you care so very much? Care, he asked slowly? Yes. You were interested to know how many of my admirers were here, what they did, and what they said. You even hint despairingly of them. True, I wanted to know, he replied. But I don't hint about any man. You are so interested you wouldn't call on me when I invited you, said Helen, with poorly veiled sarcasm. It was this that made her bitter. She could never forget that she had asked this man to come to see her, and he had refused. I reckon you've mistook me, he said calmly. Why did you come? Why do you shadow my friends? This is twice you have done it. Good does knows how many times you've been here. Tell me. The boarderman remained silent. Answer me, commanded Helen, her eyes blazing. She actually stamped her foot. Boarderman or not, you have no right to pry into my affairs. If you are a gentleman, tell me why you came here. The eyes Jonathan turned on Helen stilled all the angry throbbing of her blood. I came here to learn which of your lovers is a dastard who plotted the abduction of Mabel Lane, and the thief who stole our hauses. When I find the villain I reckon Wetzel and I'll swing him to some tree. The boarderman's voice rang sharp and cold. And when he ceased speaking she sank back upon the step, shocked, speechless, to gaze up at him with staring eyes. Don't look so last, don't be frightened, he said, his voice gentle and kind as it had been hard. He took her hand in his. You nettle me into replying. And you have a sharp tongue last. And when I spoke I was thinking of him. I'm sorry. A horse thief and worse-than-murderer among my friends murmured Helen shuddering. Yet she never thought to doubt his word. I followed him here the night of your company. Do you know which one? No. He still held her hand unconsciously, but Helen knew it well. A sense of his strength came with the warm pressure and comfort her to her. She would need that powerful hand, surely, in the evil day which seemed to darken her horizon. What shall I do? She whispered, shuddering again. Keep this secret between you and me. How can I? How can I? You must, his voice was deep and low. If you tell your father or anyone, I might lose the chance to find this man. For last he's desperate cunning. Then he'd go free to rob others and maybe help make off with other poor girls last. Keep my secret. But he might try to carry me away, said Helen in fair-froped perplexity. Most likely he might, replied the boarderman with the smile that came so rarely. Oh, knowing all this, how can I meet any of these men again? I'd betray myself. No, you've got too much pluck. It so happens you are the one to help me and Wenzel rid the border of these hell hounds. And you won't fail. I know a woman when it comes to that. I help you and Wenzel? Exactly. Gracious cried Helen half laughing half crying. And poor me with more trouble coming on the next boat. Last the colonel told me about the Englishman. It'll be bad for him to annoy you. Helen thrilled with the depth of meaning in the low voice. Fate surely was weaving a bond between her and this boarderman. She felt it in a steady piercing gaze in her own tingling blood. Then as her natural courage dispelled all girly spheres she faced him, white, resolute with a look in her eyes that matched his own. I will do what I can, she said. End of Chapter 6 Chapter 7 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 7 Westward from Fort Henry, far above the Edding River, Jonathan Zane slowly climbed a narrow, hazel-boarded mountain trail. From time to time he stopped in an open patch along the thickets and breathed deep of the fresh wood-centered air, while his keen gaze slept over the glades nearby, along the wooded hillsides and above at the Timberstrund Woodland. This June morning in the wild forest was significant of nature's brightness and joy. Broadleaf populars, dense foliage dokes, and vine-covered maples shaded cool mossy banks, while between the trees the sunshine streamed in bright spots, its own silver on the glancing silver leaf and gold on the colored leaves of the butternut tree. Dew drops glistened on the ferns, ripples sparkled in the brooks, spider webs glowed with wondrous rainbow hues, and the flower of the forest, the sweet pale-faced daisy, rose above the green like a white star. Yellowbirds fluttered along the hazel bushes, caroling joyously, and cat-birds sang gaily. Robbins called blue-jays screeched in the tall white oaks, woodpeckers hammered on to dead hardwoods, and crows cawed overhead. Squirrels chattered everywhere, ruffled grouse rows with great bustle and a whir. Flittering like brown flakes through the leaves, from far above came the shrill cry of a hawk, followed by the wilder scream of an eagle. Wilderness music, such as all this fell harmoniously on the boarderman's ear, it betokened the gladsome spirit of his wild friends, happy in the warm sunshine above or in the cool depth beneath the fluttering leaves, and everywhere in those lonely haunts, unalarmed and free. Familiar to Jonathan almost as the footpath near his home was this winding trail. On the height above was a safe rendezvous, much frequented by him and Wenzel, every lichen-covered stone, mossy bank, noisy brook, and giant oak on the way up this mountainside, could have told, had they spoken their secrets, stories of the boarderman. The fragile ferns and slender bladed grasses peeping from the gray and amber mosses, and the flowers that hung from craggy ledges and wisdom to impart. A boarderman lived under the green treetops, and therefore, all the knotting branches of sassafras and laurel, the grassy slopes and rocky cliffs, the stately ash trees, kingly oaks and dark mystic pines, together with the creatures that dwelt among them, saved his deadly red-skinned foes, he loved. Other affection as close and true as this, he had not known. Harkening thus with single heart to nature's teachings, he learned her secrets. Certain it was therefore, that the many hours he passed in the woods, apart from savage pursuits, were happy and fruitful. Slowly he pressed up the ascent at length coming into open light upon a small plateau marked by huge rugged weather-chipped stones. On the eastern side was a rocky promontory and, close to the edge of this cliff, a hundred feet in sheer descent. Rose and gnarled, time and tempest twisted chestnut tree. Here the boarderman laid down his rifle and knapsack, and half reclining against a tree, settled himself to rest and wait. This craggy point was the lonely watchtower of eagles, here on the highest headland for miles around, where the boarderman were wont to meet. The outlook was far-reaching and grand. Below the gray splintered cliffs sheared down to meet the waving treetops, and then hill after hill, slope after slope, waved and rolled far, far down to the green river, open grassy patches, bright little islands in that ocean of dark green shown on the hillsides. The rounded ridges ran straight, curved or zigzag, but shaped their graceful lines in the descent to make the valley. Long, purple-hued, shadowy depressions in the wide expanse of forage marked deep cleft between ridges where dark, cool streams bounded on to meet the river. Lower, where the land was level, in open spaces could be seen a broad trail, yellow in the sunlight, winding along with the curves of the water-course. On a swampy meadow blue in the distance, a herd of buffalo browsed, beyond the river high over the green island, Fort Henry lay peaceful and solitary, the only token of the works of man in all that vast panorama. Jonathan Zane was as much as lone as, if one thousand miles instead of five, intervened between him and the settlement. Loneliness was to him a passion. Other men loved home, the light of woman's eyes, the rattle of dice or the lust of hoarding, but to him, this wild, remote promontory, with its limitless view stretching away to the dim, hazy horizon, was more than all the aching joys of civilization. Hours here, or in the shady valley, recompensed him for the loss of home comforts, the soft touch of woman's hands, the kiss of baby lips, and also, for all he suffered in a pitiless pursuit, the hard fare, the steel and blood of a boarderman's life. Soon the sun shone straight overhead, dwarfing the shadow of the chestnut on the rock. During such a time it was rare that any connected thought came into the boarderman's mind. His dark eyes, now strange luminous, strayed lingeringly over those purple, undulating slopes. This intense watchfulness had no object. Neither had his listening. He watched nothing. He harkened to the silence. Undoubtedly in this state of rapt absorption his perceptions were acutely alert, but without thought, as were those of the savage in the valley below, or the eagle in the sky above. Yet so perfectly trained were these perceptions, that the least unnatural sound or sight brought him wary and watchful from his dreamy trance. The slight snapping of a twig in the thicket caused him to sit erect and reach out towards his rifle. His eyes moved along the dark openings in the thicket. In another moment a tall figure pressed the bushes apart. Jonathan let fall his rifle, and sank back against a tree once more. Wetzel stepped over the rocks toward him. Come from Blubond asked Jonathan as the newcomer took a seat beside him. Wetzel nodded as he carefully laid aside his long black rifle. An engine sign continued Jonathan, pushing towards his companion the knapsack of venibals he had brought from the settlement. Nary Shawney tracked west of this divide, answered Wetzel, helping himself to bread and cheese. Lou, we must go eastward over Bing Leggetts way to find the trail of the stolen horses. Likely, and it'll be a long hard tramp. Who's in Leggetts gang now besides old horse the Chippewa and his Shawney part wildfire? I don't know Bing, but I've seen some of his engines and they remember me. Never seen Leggett but once, replied Wetzel. In that time I shot half his face off. I'd been told by them as I've seen him since that he's got a nasty scar on his temple and cheek. He's a big man and knows the woods. I don't know who all's in his gang nor does anybody. He works in the dark and for Cunning he's got some on Jim Gertie, Darren, and several more renegades we know of lying quiet back here in the woods. We never tracked as bad a gang as his in. They're all experienced woodsmen, old fighters and desperate. Outlawed as they be by engines and whites. It wouldn't surprise me to find that it's him and his gang who are running this horse-leaving. But bad or no, we're going after him. Jonathan told of his movement since he had last seen his companion. And the last Helen is going to help us, said Wetzel, much interested. It's a good move. Women are keen. Bet he put Miller's scheming in my eye long before I noticed it. But girls have chances we men never get. Yes, and she's like bets quicker and lighter. She'll find out this horse-leave in Fort Henry. But Lou, when we do get him, we won't be much better off. Where do them horses go? Who's disposing of them for this feller? Where's Brant from? asked Wetzel. Detroit, he's a French Canadian. Wetzel swung sharply around his eyes blowing like wakening furnaces. Banging the legates of French Canadian and from Detroit, Metzer was once thick with him down Fort Pineyway before he murdered a man and became an outlaw. We're on the trail, Jack. Brant and Metzer with leg it back in them, and the horses go overland to Detroit. I calculate you hit the mark. What'll we do? asked Jonathan. Wait, that's best. We've no call to hurry. We must know the truth before making a move. And as yet, we're only suspicious. This lass'll find out more in a week than a week in a year. But, Jack, have a care if she don't fall into any snare. Brant ain't any too honest to look and chap. And them renegades is hell for women. The scars you wear prove that well enough. She's a rare sweet bloomin' lass, too. I never seen her equal. I remember how her eyes flashed when she said she knew I'd avenged Mabel. Jack, their wonderful eyes and that girl, however sweet and good as she must be, is chain-lightin' and wrapped up in a beautiful form. Aren't the boys at the fort runnin' after her? Like mad, it'd make you laugh to see'em, replied Jonathan calmly. There'll be some fights before she's settled for, and maybe art of that. Have a care for her, Jack, and see that she don't catch you. No more danger than for you. I was catched once, replied Wetzel. Jonathan Zane looked up at his companion. Wetzel's head was bowed, but there was no merriment in the serious face exposed to the borderman's scrutiny. Louie, you're jokin'. Not me. Someday when you're catched good and I have to go back to the lonely trail, as I did afore you and me became friends, maybe then. When I'm the last borderman, I'll tell you. Louie, according to the way settlers are comin' in a few more years, there won't be any need for a borderman. When the engines are all gone, where'll be our work? Tain't likely either us that'll ever see them time, said Wetzel. And I don't want to. Well, Jack, I'm off now, and I'll meet you here every other day. Wetzel shouldered his long rifle, and passed out of sight down the mountainside. Jonathan arose, shook himself as a big dog might've done, and went down into the valley. Only once did he pause in his descent, and that was when a creaking twig warned him some heavy body was moving near. Silently sank into the bushes bordering the trail. He listened with his ear close to the ground. Presently he heard a noise as of two hard substances striking together. He resumed his walk, having recognized the grating noise of a deer-hove, striking a rock. Farther down he aspired a pair grazing. The buck ran into the thicket, but the doe eyed him curiously. Less than an hour's rapid walking brought him to the river. Here he plunged into a thicket of willows, and emerged on a sandy strip of shore. He carefully surveyed the riverbank, and then pulled a small birch bark canoe from among the forage. He launched the frail craft, paddled across the river, and beached it under a greedy, overhanging bank. The distance from this point in a straight line to his destination was only a mile. But a rocky bluff and ravine necessitated his making a wide detour. While lightly leaping over a brook, his keen eye fell on an imprint in the sandy loam. Instantly he was on his knees. The footprint was small, evidently a woman's, and what was more unusual instead of the flat round moccasin track, it was pointed with a sharp square heel. Such shoes were not worn by border girls. True, Betty and Nell had them, but they never went into the woods without moccasins. Jonathan's experienced eyes saw that this imprint was not an hour old. He gazed up at the light. The day was growing short. Already shadows lay in the glens. He would not long have light enough to follow the trail, but he hurried on hoping to find the person who made it before darkness came. He had not traveled many paces before learning that the one who made it was lost. The uncertainty in those hasty steps was as plain to the borderman's eyes, as if it had been written in words on the sand. The course led along the brook, avoiding the rough places, and leading into the open glades and glens. But it drew no nearer to the settlement. A quarter of an hour of rapid trailing enabled Jonathan to discern a dark figure, moving among the trees. Abandoning the trail, he cut across a ridge to head off the lost woman. Stepping out of a sassafras thicket, he came face to face, with Helen Shepard. Oh! she cried in alarm. And then the expression of terror gave place to one of extreme relief and gladness. Oh, thank goodness you found me am lost! I reckon, answered Jonathan grimly, the settlement's only five hundred yards over that hill. I was going the wrong way. Oh, suppose you hadn't come? explained Helen, sinking on a log and looking up at him with warm, glad eyes. How did you lose your weight? Jonathan asked. He saw neither the warmth in her eyes nor the gladness. Went up the hillside only a little way, after flowers keeping the fort in sight all the time. Then I saw some lovely violets down a little hill, and thought I might venture I found such loads of them I forgot everything else. And I must have walked on a little way. On turning to go back, I couldn't find a little hill. I have haunted in vain for the clearing. It seems as if I have been wandering about for hours. I'm so glad you found me. Weren't you told to stay in a settlement inside the clearing? Demanded Jonathan. Yes, replied Helen, with her head up. Why didn't you? Because I didn't choose. You ought to have better sense. It seems I hadn't, Helen said quietly, but her eyes belined that calm voice. You're a headstrong child, added Jonathan curtly. Mr. Zane! cried Helen with pale face. I suppose you've always had your own sweet will, but out here on the border you ought to think a little more of others, if not yourself. Helen maintained a proud silence. You might have run right in to prowling Shawnees. That dreadful disaster would have not have caused you any sorrow, she flashed out. Of course it would. I might have lost my scalp crying to get you back home, said Jonathan, beginning to hesitate. Plainly he did not know what to make of this remarkable young woman. Such a pity to have lost all your fine hair, she answered with a touch of scorn. Jonathan flashed perhaps for the first time in his life. If there was anything he was proud of it was his long, glossy hair. Miss Helen? I'm a poor hand at words, he said, with a pale grave face. I was only speaking for your own good. You are exceedingly kind, but need not trouble yourself. Say, Jonathan hesitated, looking half vexed at the lovely angry face. Then an idea occurred to him. Well, I won't trouble. Find your way home yourself. Abruptly she turned and walked slowly away. He had no idea of allowing her to go home alone, but believed it might be well for her to think so. If she did not call him back, he would remain near at hand and, when she showed signs of anxiety or fear, he could go to her. Helen determined she would die in the woods, or be captured by Shawnees before calling him back. But she watched him. Slowly the tall, strong figure with its graceful, springy stride went down the glade. He would be lost to view in a moment, and then she would be alone. How dark it had suddenly become. The gray cloak of twilight was spread over the forest and in the hollows. Night already had settled down. A breathless silence pervaded the woods. How lonely, thought Helen with a shiver. Surely it would be dark before she could find the settlement. What hill had the settlement from view? She did not know, could not remember. Which he had pointed out. Suddenly she began to tremble. She had been so frightened before he had found her and so relieved afterward. And now he was going away. Mr. Zane! She cried with a great effort. Come back. Jonathan kept slowly on. Come back. Jonathan, please. The boarderman retraced his drip. Please take me home. She said, lifting her face all fleshed, tear-stained and marked with traces of storm. I was foolish and silly to come into the woods and so glad to see you. But you spoke to me in a way no one ever used before. I'm sure I deserved it. Please take me home. Papa will be worried. Softer eyes and voice than hers never in-treated man. Come, he said gently. And, taking her by the hand, he littered up the ridge. Thus they passed through the darkening forest, hand in hand, like a dusky Redmond and his bride. He helped her over stones and logs, but still held her hand when there was no need of it. She looked up to see him walking, so dark and calm beside her. His eyes ever rolling among the trees. Deepest remorse came upon her because of what she had said. There was no sediment for him in this walk under the dark canopy of the leaves. He realized the responsibility. Any tree might hide a treacherous foe. She would atone for her sarcasm, she promised herself, while walking ever conscious of her hand in his, her bosom heaving the sweet, undeniable emotion which came knocking at her heart. Soon they were out of the thicket and on the dusty lane. A few moments of rapid walking brought them within sight of the twinkling lights of the village, and a moment later they were at the lane leading to Helen's home. Releasing her hand, she stopped him with a tight touch and said, Please don't tell Papa, or Colonel Zane. Child, I ought. Someone should make you stay at home. I'll stay. Please don't tell and it'll worry Papa. Jonathan Zane looked down into her great dark, wonderful eyes with an unaccountable feeling. He really did not hear what she asked. Something about that upturned face brought to his mind a rare and perfect flower, which grew in far-off rocky fastness. The feeling he had was intangible, like no more than a breath of fragrant western wind, faint with tidings of some beautiful field. Promise me you won't tell? Well, lass, have it your own way, replied Jonathan, wonderingly, conscious that it was the first pledge ever asked of him by a woman. Thank you. Now we have two secrets, haven't we? She laughed with eyes like stars. Run home now, lass. Be careful, hereafter. I do fear for you with such spirit and temper. I'd rather be scalped by Shawnees than have Binglegged so much as said eyes on you. You would, why? Her voice was like low, soft music. Why, he mused? It had seemed like a buzzard about to light on a doe. Good night, said Helen, abruptly and willingly she hurried down the lane. End of Chapter 7 Chapter 8 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 8 Jack said Colonel Zane to his brother next morning. Today is Saturday, and all the men will be in. There was high jinks over at Metzor's Place yesterday, and I'm looking for more today. The two fellows Alex Burnett told me about, came on day before yesterday's boat. Shawnees, one's a lordly Englishman and the other, the cussidest looking little chap I ever saw. They started trouble immediately. The Englishman, his name is Mordant, hunted up the shepherds and as near as I can make out from George's story, Helen spoke her mind very plainly. Mordant and Case, that's his servant, little cuss, got drunk and raised held on in Metzor's where they're staying. Rant and Williams are drinking hard too, which is something unusual for Rant. They got chummy at once with the Englishman, who seems to have plenty of gold in his fond of gambling. This Mordant is a gentleman, or I never saw one. I feel sorry for him. He appears to be a ruined man. If he lasts a week out here I'll be surprised. Case looks ugly, as if he were spoiling to cut somebody. I want you to keep your eye peeled. The day may pass off as many other days of drinking bouts have, without anything serious. And on the other hand there's libel to be trouble. Jonathan's preparations were characteristic of the bordermen. He laid aside his rifle and, removing his short coat, buckled on the second belt containing a heavier tomahawk and knife than those he had been wearing. Then he put on his hunting frock or shirt and wore it loose with the belts underneath, instead of on the outside. Unfastened the frock was rather full and gave him the appearance of a man unarmed and careless. Jonathan Zane was not so reckless as to court danger, nor like many frontiersmen fond of fighting for its own sake. Colonel Zane was commandant of the fort. And in a land where there was no law, tried to maintain semblance of it. For years he had kept thieves, renegades, and outlaws away from his little settlement. By dealing out stern justice his word was law, and his bordermen executed it as such. Therefore Jonathan and Wetzel made a third duty to have a keen eye on all that was happening. They kept a colonel posted and never interfered in any case without orders. The morning passed quietly. Jonathan strolled here or loitered there, but saw none of the roasters. He believed they were sleeping off the effects of their orgy, though in the previous evening. After dinner he smoked his pipe. Betty and Helen passed and Helen smiled. Struck him suddenly that she had never looked at him in such a way before. There was meaning in that warm, radiant flash. A little sense of vexation, the source of which he did not understand, stirred in him against this girl. But with it came the realization that her white face and big dark eyes had risen before him often since the night before. He wased for the first time that he could understand women better. Everything quiet? asked Colonel Zane, coming out on the steps. All quiet? answered Jonathan. They'll open up later, I suspect. I'm going over to Shepherds for a while and later we'll drop into Metzers. I'll make him haul in a yard or two. I don't like things I hear about his selling the youngsters rum. I'd like you to be within call. The boarderman strolled down the bluff and along the path which overhung the river. He disliked Metzers, more than his brother suspected. And with more weighty reason than that of selling rum to minors, Jonathan threw himself at length on the ground and mused over the situation. We never had any peace in this settlement, and never will in our day ebb is hopeful and looks at the bright side, always expecting tomorrow we'll be different. What if the past sixteen years been one long bloody fight, and the next sixteen won't be any better, I make out, that we'll have a mix up soon. Metzers and Brant, with their allies, whoever they are, will be in it. And if Bing Leggett's in the gang, we've got, as Wetzel said, a long hard trail, which may be our last. More than that, there'll be trouble about this chain-lighting, girl. As Wetzel predicted, women make trouble, anyways, and when they're winsome and pretty, they cause more. But if they're beautiful and fiery, bent on having their way, as this new lass is, all hell couldn't hold a candle to them. We don't need the Shaunees and gritties and Haas thieves around this hair settlement to stir up exciting times. Now we've got this dark-eyed lass. And yet any fool could see. She's sweet and good, and true as gold. Toward the middle of the afternoon, Jonathan sauntered in the direction of Metzers Inn. It lay on the front of the bluff, with its main doors looking into the road. A long one-story log structure with two doors answered as a bar room. The improper was a building more pretentious, and it joined the smaller one at its western end. Several horses were hitched outside, and two great oxen yoke to a cumbersome mud-crusted wagon stood patiently by. Jonathan bent his tall head as he entered the noisy bar room. The dingy place reeked with tobacco smoke and the fumes of vile liquor. It was crowded with men. The lawlessness of the time and place was evident. Gaunt red-faced frontiersmen, riddled to and fro across the sawdust floor, hunters and fur traders, raftmen and farmers, swelled the motley crew, young men on his face but flushed and wild with drink, hung over the bar. A group of sullen, viscid, serpent-eyed Indians held one corner. The black bearded proprietor dealt out the rum. From beyond the bar room through a door entering upon the back porch came the rattling of dice. Jonathan crossed the bar room apparently oblivious to the king-glance Metzers shot at him, and went out upon the porch. This also was crowded, but there was more room because of greater space. At one table sat some pioneers drinking and lapping. At another were three men playing with dice. Colonel Zane, Silas and Shepherd were among the lookers on at the game. Jonathan joined them and gazed at the gangsters. Brant he knew well enough. He had seen that set, wolfish expression in the riverman's face before. He observed, however, that the man had flushed cheeks and trembling hands, indications of hard drinking. The player sitting next to Brant was Williams, one of the garrison and a good-natured fellow. But garrulous and wickedly disposed when drunk, the remaining player, Jonathan at once saw, was the Englishman. Mordont. He was a handsome man with fair skin and long, silk and blonde mustache. Heavy lines and purple shades under his blue eyes were dye unmistakable stance of participation. Wreckless, disillute, bad as he looked. There yet clung something favorable about the man. Perhaps it was his cool devil-may-care way as he pushed over gold-piece after gold-piece from the fast diminishing pile before him. His velvet frock and silk and doublet had once been elegant, but were now, sadly, the worst for, border-ruffing. Behind the Englishman's chair Jonathan saw a short man with a face resembling that of a jackal. The grizzled, stubbly beard, the protruding, vicious mouth, the broad, flat nose, and deep-set small glittering eyes made a bad impression on the observer. This man, Jonathan concluded, was the servant-case, who was so eager with his knife, the boarderman made the reflection that, if knife play was the little man's pastime, he was not likely to go short of sport in that vicinity. Colonel Zane attracted Jonathan's attention at this moment. The pioneers had vacated the other table, and Silas and Shepard now sat by it. The Colonel wanted his brother to join them. Here, Johnny, bring drinks, he said to the serving boy. Tell Metser who they're for, then turning to Shepard he continued. He keeps good whiskey, but few of these poor devils ever see it. At the same time Colonel Zane pressed his foot upon that of Jonathan's. The boarderman understood that the signal was intended to call attention to Brant. The latter had leaned forward as Jonathan passed by to take a seat with his brother, and set something in a low tone to marant and case. Jonathan knew by the way the Englishman and his man quickly glanced up at him, that he had been the subject of the remark. Suddenly Williams jumped to his feet with an oath. I'm cleaned out, he cried. Shall we play alone, asked Brant of Mordant. As you like, replied the Englishman in tone which showed he cared not a whit whether he played or not. I've got work to do, let's have some more drinks and play another time, said Brant. The liquor was served and drank. Brant pocketed his pile of Spanish and English gold and rose to his feet. He was a trifle and steady, but not drunk. Will you gentlemen have a glass with me, Mordant, to ask of Colonel Zane's party? Thank you, some other time with pleasure. We have our drink now, Colonel Zane said courteously. Meantime Brant had been whispering in case's ear. The little man laughed at something the riverman said. Then he shuffled from behind the table. He was short. His compact build gave promise of unusual strength and agility. What are you going to do now, asked Brant? Rising also, he looked hard at Case. Heh, shiver me sides, Cap'n, if I don't need another drink, replied the sailor. You've had enough. Come upstairs with me, said Mordant. Easy with your hatch, Cap'n, went Case. I want to drink with that there engine-killer. I've had drinks with buccaneers and bad men all over the world, and I'm not going to miss this chance. Come on, you will get in trouble. You must not annoy these gentlemen, said Mordant. Troubled is the name of my ship, and she's a trim, fast craft, replied the man. His loud voice had put an end to the conversation. Men began to crowd in from the bar room. Metzer himself came to see what had caused the excitement. The old man threw up his cap, whooped, and addressed himself to Jonathan. Engine-killer, bad man of the border, will you drink with a jolly old tar from England? Suddenly a silence reigned, like that in the depth of the forest. To those who knew the borderman and few did not know him, the invitation was nothing less than an insult, but it did not appear to them as to him, like a prearranged plot to provoke a fight. I'll help you drink, Red-Scan Hunter, called the sailor. No, said Jonathan in his quiet voice. Maybe you mean that against old England, demanded case fiercely. The borderman eyed him steadily, inscrutable as to feeling or intent and was silent. Go out there, and I'll see the color of your insides quicker than I'd take a drink, hissed the sailor. With his brick-red face distorted and hideous to look upon, he pointed with a long bladed knife that no one had seen him draw to the green sword beyond the porch. The borderman neither spoke, nor relaxed the muscle. Oh, oh, my brave pirate of little planes, cried case, and he leered with braggart sneer into the faces of Jonathan and his companion. It so happened that Shepard sat nearest to him, and got full effect of the sailor's hot, rum-soaked breath. He arose with a pale face. Colonel, I can't stand this, he said hastily. Let's get away from that drunken ruffian. Who's a drunken ruffian? yelled a case more angry than ever. I'm not drunk, but I'm going to be and cut some of you white- livid bordermates, ere you old masthead. Drink this to my health, damn you! The ruffian had seized a tumbler of liquor from the table, and held it towards Shepard while he brandished his long knife. White as snow, Shepard backed against the wall, but did not take the drink. The sailor had the floor. No one save him spoke a word. The action had been so rapid that there had hardly been time. Colonel Zane and Silas were as quiet and tense as the borderman. Drink! Horsely cried the sailor, advancing his knife towards Shepard's body. On the sharp point, all but pressed against the old man. A bright object twinkled through the air. It struck Kase's wrist, knocked the knife from his fingers, and, bounding against the wall, fell upon the floor. It was a tomahawk. The borderman sprang over the table like a huge catamont, and with movement equally quick, not Kase with a crash against the wall, closed on him before he could move a hand, and flung him like a sack of meal over the bluff. The tension relieved, some of the crowd laughed. Others looked over the embankment to see how Kase had fared, and others remarked for some reason he had gotten off better than they expected. The borderman remained silent. He leaned against the post with broad breast, gently heaving. But his eyes sparkled as they watched Brant, Williams, Marant, and Metzor. The Englishman alone spoke. Handily done, he said, cool and suave. Sir, yours is an iron hand. I apologize for this unpleasant affair. My man is quarrelsome when under the influence of liquor. Metzor, a word with you, cried Colonel Zane Curtley. Come inside, Colonel, said the innkeeper, plainly ill at ease. No, listen here. I'll speak to the point. You've got to stop running this kind of a place. No words now. You've got to stop. Understand? You know as well as I, perhaps better, the character of your so-called inn. You'll get but one more chance. Well, Colonel, this is a free country, growled Metzor. I can't help these fellers coming here looking for blood. I run an honest place. The men want to drink and gamble. What's law here? What can you do? You know me, Metzor, Colonel Zane said grimly. I don't waste words. To hell with law, so you say. I can say that, too. Remember the next drunken boy I see, or shady deal, or gambling spree. Out you go, for good. Metzor lowered his shaggy head and left the porch. Brant and his friends, with serious faces, withdrew into the bar room. The boardermen walked around the corner of the inn, and up the lane. The Colonel, with Silas and Shepard, followed in more leisurely fashion. At a shout from someone, they turned to see a dusty, bloody figure with ragged clothes stagger up from the bluff. There's that blame to sailor now, said Shepard. He's a tough nut. What a knock on the head Jonathan gave him. Strikes me, too, that Tomahawk came almost at the right time to save me a whole skin. I was furious, but not all that alarmed, rejoined Colonel Zane. I wondered what made you so quiet. I was waiting. Jonathan never acts until the right moment, and then, well, you saw him. The little villain deserved killing. I could have shot him with pleasure. Do you know, Shepard, Jonathan's aversion to shedding blood is a singular thing. He'd never kill the worst kind of a white man until driven to it. That's commendable. How about Wetzel? Well, Lou is different, replied Colonel Zane with a shudder. If I told him to take an axe and clean out Netser's place. God, what a wreck he'd make of it. Maybe I'll have to tell him, and if I do, you'll see something you can never forget. End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 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 9 On Sunday morning under the bright warm sun, the little hamlet of Fort Henry lay peacefully quiet, as if no storms had ever rolled and thundered overhead, no roistering ever disturbed its stillness, and no Indian gel ever horribly broke the quiet. "'Tis a fine morning,' said Colonel Zane, joining his sister on the porch. Well, how nice you look, all in white for the first time, since, well, you do look charming. You're going to church, of course?' "'Yes, I invited Helen and her cousin to go. I have persuaded her to teach my Sunday school class, and I'll take another of older children,' replied Betty. "'That's well. The youngsters don't have much chance to learn out here. But we've made one great stride. A church and a preacher means very much to young people. Next shall come the village school. Helen and I might teach our classes an hour or two every afternoon. It would be a grand thing if you did. Fancy those tauts growing up unable to read or write. I hate to think of it. But the Lord knows I've done my best. I've had my troubles in keeping them alive.' Helen suggested the day school. She takes the greatest interest in everything and everybody. Her energy is remarkable. She simply must move, must do something. She overflows with kindness and sympathy. Yesterday she cried with happiness when Mabel told her Alex was eager to be married very soon. "'I tell you, Eb. Helen is a fine character.' "'Yes. Good as she is pretty. Which is saying some,' mused the Colonel. "'I wonder who'll be the lucky fellow to win her.' It's hard to say. Not that Englishman, surely. She hates him. Jonathan might. You should see her eyes when he is mentioned. "'Say, Betts. You don't mean it,' eagerly asked her brother. "'Yes, I do,' returned Betty, nodding her head positively. "'I am not easily deceived about those things. Helen is completely fascinated with Jack. She might be only a sixteen-year- old girl, for the way she betrays herself to me. "'Betty, I have a beautiful plan. No doubt you're full of them.' "'We can do it, Betty. We can. You and I,' he said as he squeezed her arm. "'My dear old matchmaking brother,' returned Betty, laughing, "'it takes two to make a bargain. Jack must be considered.' "'Bah!' she exclaimed the Colonel, snapping his fingers. "'You needn't tell me any young man, any man, could resist that glorious girl. Perhaps not, I couldn't, if I were a man. But Jack's not like other people. He'd never realize that she cared for him. Besides, he's a porterman.' "'I know, and that's the only serious obstacle.' "'But he could scout around the fort, even if he was married. "'These long, lonely, terrible journeys taken by him and Whitzel "'are mostly unnecessary. A sweet wife could soon make him see that. "'The border will be civilized in a few years, and because of that "'he'd better give overhunting for Indians. I'd like to see him "'married and settled down, like all the rest of us, even Isaac. "'You know, Jack's the last of the Zanes, that is, the old Zanes. The difficulty arising from his extreme modesty and bashfulness can easily be overcome. How most wonderful, brother! Easy as pie! Tell Jack that Helen is dying of love for him, and tell her that Jack loves. But, dear Ev, that latter part is not true, in her post-beddy. True, of course, it's true, or would be in any man who wasn't as blind as a bat. We'll tell her Jack cares for her, but he is a boarderman with stern ideas of duty, and so slow and backward he'd never tell his love even if he had overcome his tricks of ranging. That would settle it with any girl worth her salt, and this one will fetch Jack in ten days or less." "'Em, you're a devil,' said Betty Gailey. And then she added in a more silver vein. Understand, Ev, your idea is prompted by the love of Jack, and it's all right. I never see him go out of the clearing, but I think it may be for the last time, even as on that day so long ago when Brother Andrew waved his cap to us, and never came back. Jack is the best man in the world, and I, too, want to see him happy, with a wife and babies, and a subtle occupation in life. I think we might weave a pretty little romance. Shall we try?" "'Try, I will do it. Now, Betz, you explain it to both. You can do it smoother than I. And telling them is really the finest point of our little plot. I'll help the good work along afterwards. You'll be out presently. Nail him at once.'" Jonathan, all unconscious of the deep-blade scheme to make him happy, soon came out on the porch and stretched his long arms as he breathed freely of the morning air. "'Hello, Jack. Where you bound?' asked Betty, clasping one of his powerful buckskin-clad knees with her arm. "'Reckon I'll go over to the spring,' he replied, patting her dark glossy head. "'Do you know I want to tell you something, Jack, and it's quite serious?' she said, blushing a little at her guilt. "'But resolute to carry out her part of the plot.' "'Well, dear,' he asked, as she hesitated. "'Do you like Helen?' "'That is a question,' Jonathan replied after a moment. "'Never mind. Tell me,' she persisted. He made no answer. "'Well, Jack, she's wildly in love with you.' The boarderman stood very still for several moments. Then, with one step, he gained the lawn and turned to confront her. "'What that you say?' Betty trembled a little. He spoke so sharply, his eyes were bent on her so keenly, and he looked so strong, so forceful that she was almost afraid. But remembering that she had said only what, to her mind was absolutely true, she raised her eyes and repeated the words. "'Helen is wildly in love with you.' "'Betty, you wouldn't joke about such a thing. You wouldn't lie to me. I know you wouldn't.' "'No, Jack, dear?' She saw his powerful frame tremble, even as she had seen more than one man tremble during the siege under the impact of a bullet. Without speaking, he walked rapidly down the path toward the spring. Colonel Zane came out of his hiding place behind the porch and with a face positively electrifying in his glorying pleasure. Beamed upon his sister. "'Gee, didn't he stalk off like an Indian chief,' he said, chuckling with satisfaction. "'Find George Betts. You must have got in a great piece of work.' "'I never in my life saw Jack look like that.' Colonel Zane sat down by Betty's side and laughed softly but heartily. "'We'll fix him all right, the lonely hill-climber. Why, he hasn't a ghost of a chance. Wait until she sees him after hearing your story. I tell you, Betty, why, damn, you're crying.' He had turned to find her head lowered while she shaded her face with her hand. "'Now, Betty, just a little innocent to seat like that? What harm?' He said, taking her hand. He was as tender as a woman. Oh, and it wasn't that. I didn't mind telling him. Only the flash in his eyes reminded me of—of—Alfred.' "'Surely it did. Why not? Almost everything brings up a tender memory for someone we've loved and lost. Don't cry, Betty.' She laughed a little and raised her face with a stark cheese flushed and tear-stained. "'I'm silly, I suppose, but I can't help it. I cry at least once every day.' "'Brace up. Here comes Helen and Will. Don't let them see you grieved. My Helen and pure white, too. This is a conspiracy to ruin the peace of the masculine portion of Fort Henry.' Betty went forward to meet her friends while Colonel Zane continued talking. But now to himself. What a fatal beauty she has! His eyes swept over Helen with the pleasure of an artist, the fair richness of her skin, the perfect lips, the wavy, shiny hair, the wondrous dark blue changing eyes, the tall figure slender but strong, and swelling with gracious womanhood, made a picture he delighted in and loved to have near him. The girl did not possess for him any of that magnetism, so commonly felt by most of her admirers. But he did feel how subtly full she was of something, which for one of a better term he described in Wenzel's characteristic expression as chain lightning. He reflected that, as he was so much older, that she, although always winsome and earnest, showed nothing of the tormenting, bewildering coquetry of her nature. Colonel Zane prided himself on his discernment, and he had already observed that Helen had different sides of character for different persons. To Betty, Mabel, Nell, and the children, she was frank, girly, full of fun and always lovable, to her elders quiet and earnestly solicitous to please, to the young men, cold but with a penetrating mocking promise haunting that coldness, and sometimes sweetly agreeable, often willful, and changeable as April wins. At last the Colonel concluded that she needed, as did all other spirited young women, the taming influence of a man whom she loved, a home to care for, and children to soften and temper her spirit. Well, young friends, I see you count on keeping the sabbath, he said, girly. For my part? Well, I don't see how Jim Dunn's can preach this morning, before this laurel blossom and that damask rose. How poetical, which is which, asked Betty. Flatterer laughed Helen, shaking her finger, and a married man, too, continued Betty. Well, being married has not affected my poetical sentiment, nor impaired my eyesight. But it has seriously inconvenienced your old propensity of making love to the girls. Not that you wouldn't, if you dared, replied Betty, with mischief in her eye. Now, well, what do you think of that? Isn't it real sisterly regard? Come, we'll go and look at my thoroughbred, said Colonel Zane. Where's Jonathan, though I'm asked presently? Something happened at Metzrich yesterday, Papa wouldn't tell me, and I didn't want to ask Jonathan. Back as down by the spring, he spends a great deal of his time there. It's shady and cool, and the water babbles over the stones. How much alone is he, said Helen? Betty took her form of position on the steps, but did not raise her eyes while she continued speaking. Yes, she's more alone than ever lately, and quieter, too. He hardly ever speaks now. There must be something on his mind more serious than horse thieves. What, Helen asked quickly? I'd better not tell you. A long moment passed before Helen spoke. Please tell me. Well, Helen, we think, Eb and I, that Jack is in love for the first time in his life, and with you, you adorable creature. But Jack's a boarderman. He is stern in his principle, thinks he is wedded to his border life, and he knows that he has both red and white blood on his hands. He'd die before he'd speak of his love, because he cannot understand that would do any good, even if you loved him, which is, of course, preposterous. Loves me? Breathe Helen softly? She sat down rather beside Betty, and turned her face away. She still held the young woman's hand, which she squeezed so tightly as to make its owner wince. Betty stole a look at her, and saw the rich red blood mantling her cheeks and her full bosom heave. Helen turned presently with no trace of emotion except a singular brilliance of the eyes. She was so slow to speak again that Colonel Zane and Will returned from the corral before she found her voice. Colonel Zane, please tell me about last night when Papa came home to supper, he was pale and very nervous. I knew something had happened, but he would not explain which made me all the more anxious. Would you please tell me? Colonel Zane glanced at the janitor, and knew what happened. Despite her self-possession, those tell-tale eyes told her secret. Ever changing and shadowing with abounding and rapturous light, they were indeed the windows of her soul. All the emotion of a woman's heart shone there, fear, beauty, wandering appeal, trembling joy, and timid hope. Tell you? Indeed I will. Replied Colonel Zane softened and a little remorseful under those wonderful eyes. No one liked to tell a story better than Colonel Zane. Briefly and graphically, he related to circumstances of the affair leading to the attack on Helen's father, and as the tale progressed he became quite excited, speaking with animated face and forceful gestures. Just as the knife-point touched your father, a swiftly flying object knocked a weapon to the floor. It was Jonathan's tomahawk. What followed was so sudden I hardly saw it. Like lightning and flexible as steel, Jonathan jumped over the table, smashed case against the wall, pulled him up, and threw him over the bank. I tell you, Helen, it was a beautiful piece of action. But not, of course, her woman's eyes. Now that's all. Your father was not even hurt. He saved Papa's life? Remembered Helen, standing like a statue? She wheeled suddenly with that swift bird-like motion habitual to her, and went quickly down the path, leading to the spring. Jonathan Zane's solitary dreamer of dreams, as he was, had never been in as strange and beautiful a rubbery as that which possessed him on this Sabbath morning. Deep into his heart had sunk Betty's words, the wonder of it, the sweetness. That alone was all he felt. The glory of this girl had begun, days past, through spread its glamour round him. Swept irresistibly away now, he soared aloft in a dream castle of fantasy, with its painted windows and golden walls. For the first time in his life on the border he had entered the little glade, and had no eye for the crystal water flowing over the pebbles and mossy stones, or the plot of grassy ground enclosed by tall dark trees and shaded by a canopy of fresh green and azure blue. Nor did he hear the music of the soft rushing water, the warbling birds, or the gentle sighing breeze moving the leaves. Gone, vanished, lost today was that sweet companionship of nature, that indefinable and unutterable spirit which flowed so peacefully to him from his beloved woods, that something more than merely affecting his senses, which existed for him in the stony cliffs, and breathed with life through the lonely aisles of the forest, had fled before the fateful power of a woman's love and beauty. A long time that seemed only a moment past while he leaned against the stone, a light step sounded on the path. A vision in pure white entered the glade. Two little hands pressed his and two dark blue eyes of misty beauty shed their light on him. Jonathan, I am come to thank you. Sweet and tremulous the voice sounded far away. Thank me? For what? Save Papa's life. Well, how can I thank you? No voice answered for him. I have nothing to give but this. A flower-like face was held up to him, hands light as thisled down, touched his shoulders. Dark blue eyes glowed upon him, with all tenderness. May I thank you? So soft lips at his, full and lingeringly. Then came a rush as of wind, a flash of white, and the patter of flying feet. He was alone in the glade. CHAPTER X June past. July opened with unusually warm weather. The Fort Henry had no visits from Indians or horse thieves, nor any inconvenience except the hot sun. It was the warmest weather for many years and seriously dwarfed the settler's growing corn. Nearly all the springs were dry, and a drought menaced the farmers. The weather gave Helen an excuse which she was not slow to adopt. Her pale face and languid air perplexed and worried her father and her friends. She explained to them that the heat affected her disagreeably. Long days had passed since that Sunday morning when she kissed the bordermen. What transports of sweet hope and fear were hers then? How shame had scorched her happiness. Yet still, she gloried in the act. By that kiss had she awakened to a full consciousness of her love. With insidious stealth and ever-increasing power this flood had increased to full tide, and bursting its bonds surged over her with irresistible strength. During the first days after the dawning of her passion, she lived in its sweetness, hearing only melodious sounds chiming in her soul. The hours following that Sunday were like long dreams. But as all things reached fruition, so this girlish period passed. Leaving her a thoughtful woman, she began to gather up the threads of her life where love had broken them, to plan nobly and to hope and wait. Weeks passed, however, and her lover did not come. But he told her that Jonathan made flying trips at break of day to hold counsel with Colonel Zane. That he and Wetzel were on the trail of Shawnee with stolen horses, and both bordermen were in their dark, vengeful, terrible moods. In these later days Helen passed through many stages of feeling. After the exalting mood of hot, young love came reaction. She fell into the depths of despair. Sorrow paled her face, thinned her cheeks, and lent another shadow, a mournful one. To her great eyes, the constant repression of emotion, the strain of trying to seem cheerful when she was miserable, threatened even her magnificent health. She answered the solicitude of her friends by evasion. And then, by that innocent falsehood in which a sensitive soul hides its secrets, shame was only natural, because since the bordermen came not, nor sent her a word, pride whispered that she wooed him for getting modesty. Pride, anger, shame, despair, however, finally fled before affection. She loved this wild borderman, and knew he loved her in return, although he might not understand it himself. His simplicity, his lack of experience with women, his hazardous life and stern duty regarding it, pleaded for him and her love. For the lack of a little understanding, she would never live unhappy, and alone while she was loved, better give a thousand times more than she had sacrificed. He would return to the village some day, when the Indians and the thieves were run down, and would be his own calm, gentle self. Then she would win him, break down his allegiance to this fearful border life, and make him happy in her love. While Helen was going through one of the fires of life to come out sweeter and purer, if a little pensive and sad, time, which waits not for love, nor life, nor death, was hastening onward, and soon the golden fields of grain restored, came with its fruitful promise fulfilled. Helen entered once more into the quiet social life of the little settlement, taught her class on Sundays, did all her own work, and even found time to bring a ray of sunshine to more than one sick child's bed. Yet she did not forget her compact with Jonathan, and bent all her intelligence to find some clue that might aid in the capture of the horse-thief. She was still groping in the darkness. She could not, however, banish the belief that the trader was brant. She blamed herself for this because of having no good reason for suspicion, but the conviction was there, fixed by intuition. Because a man's eyes were steely gray, sharp like those of a cat's, and capable of the same contraction and enlargement, there was no reason to believe their owner was a criminal. But that Helen acknowledged with a smile was the only argument she had. To be sure, Brant had looked capable of anything. The night Jonathan knocked him down, she knew he had incited Case to begin the trouble at Metzers, and had seemed worried since that time. He had not left the settlement on short journeys, as had been his custom before the affair in the bar-room, and not a horse had disappeared from Fort Henry since that time. Brant had not discontinued his attentions to her. If they were less ardent, it was because she had given him absolutely to understand, that she could be his friend only, and she would not have allowed even so much except for Jonathan's plan. She fancied it possible to see behind Brant's courtesy, the real subtle threatening man. Stripped of his kindness, an assumed virtue, the iron man stood revealed, cold, calculating, cruel. For Dott, she never saw but once, and then, shocking and pitiful, he lay dead drunk in the grass by the side of the road, his pale, weary, handsome face exposed to the pitiless rays of the sun, she ran home, weeping over this wreck of what had once been so fine a gentleman. Ah, the curse of rum! He had learned his soft speech and country-bearing in the refinement of a home where a proud mother adored and gentle sisters loved him, and now, far from the kindred he had disgraced, he lay in the road like a log. How it hurt her! She almost wished she could have loved him, if love might have redeemed. She was more kind to her other admirers, more tolerant of Brant, and could forgive the Englishman, because the pangs she had suffered through love had softened her spirit. During this long period, the growing friendship of her cousin for Betty had been a source of infinite pleasure to Helen. She hoped and believed a romance would develop between the young widow and Will, and did all in her power, slyly abetted by the matchmaking Colonel, to bring the two together. One afternoon when the sky was clear with that intense blue peculiar to bright days in early autumn, Helen started out toward Betty's. Intending to remind that young lady, she had promised to hunt for Clometis and other fall flowers. About half way to Betty's home she met Brant. He came swinging round a corner with his quick firm step. She had not seen him for several days, and somehow he seemed different. A brightness, a flash, as of daring expectation was in his face. The boys, too, of the man had changed. Well, I am fortunate. I was just going to your home, he said surely. Won't you come for a walk with me? You may walk with me to Betty's, Helen answered. No, not that. Come up the hillside. We'll get some golden rod. I'd like to have a chat with you. I may go away. I mean, I'm thinking of making a short trip, he added hurriedly. Please come. I promised to go to Betty's. You won't come? His voice trembled with mingle disappointment and resentment. No, Helen replied in slight surprise. You have gone with other fellows. Why not with me? He was white now, and evidently laboring under powerful feelings that must have had their origin in some thought or plan which hinged on the acceptance of his invitation. Because I choose not to, Helen replied coldly, meeting his glance fully. A dark red flesh swelled Brent's face and neck. His gray eyes gleamed balefully with wolfish glare. His teeth were clenched. He breathed hard and trembled with anger. Then, by a powerful effort, he conquered himself. The villainous expression left his face. The storm of rage subsided. Great incentive there must have been for him thus to repress his emotions so quickly. He looked long at her with sinister intent regard. Then, with the laugh of a desperado, a laugh which might have indicated contempt for the failure of his suit, and which was fraught with a word of meaning of minutes, he left her without so much as a salute. Helen pondered over this sudden change and felt relieved because she need make no further pretense of friendship. He had shown himself to be what she had instinctively believed. She'd hurried on toward Betty's, hoping to find Colonel Zane at home and with Jonathan for Brent's hint of leaving Fort Henry. And his evident chagrin at such a slip of speech had made her suspicious. She was informed by Mrs. Zane that Colonel had gone to a log-raising. Jonathan had not been in for several days, and Betty went away with Will. Where'd they go, ask Helen? I'm not sure, I think down to the spring. Helen followed the familiar path through the Grove of Oaks into the Glade. It was quite deserted. Sitting on the stone against which Jonathan had leaned the day she kissed him, she gave way to tender reflection. Suddenly she was disturbed by the sound of rapid footsteps, and looking up saw the hulking form of Metzer, the innkeeper coming down the path. He carried a bucket and meant evidently to get water. Helen did not desire to be seen, and thinking he would stay only a moment slipped into a thicket of willows behind the stone. She could see plainly through the foliage. Metzer came into the Glade, peered around in a manner of a man expecting to see someone, and then, filling his bucket at the spring, sat down on the stone. Not a minute elapsed before a soft rapid footsteps sounded in the distance. The bushes parted, disclosing the white-set face and gray eyes of Roger Brent. With a light spring he cleared the brook and approached Metzer. Before speaking he glanced around the Glade with the fugitive distressful glance of a man who suspects even the trees. Then, satisfied by the scrutiny, he opened his hunting-proc, taking forth a long object which he thrust towards Metzer. It was an Indian arrow. Metzer's dull gaze traveled from this to the ominous face of Brent. Say, there you, look at this arrow, shot by the best Indian on the border into the window of my room. I hadn't been there a minute when it came from the island. God, but it was a great shot. Hell, gasped Metzer, his dull face quickening with some awful thought. I guess it is hell, reprimanded Brent, his face growing whiter and wilder. Our game's up. Question, Metzer, with haggard cheek. Up, man! We haven't a day, maybe less, to shake Fort Henry. What does it mean? asked Metzer. He was the calmer of the two. It's a signal. The Shanese who were in hiding with the horses over by Blueberry Swamp have been flushed by those bordermen. Some of them have escaped, at least one, for no one but Ashbow could shoot that arrow across the river. Suppose he hadn't come? whispered Metzer hoarsely. Brent answered him with a dark, shuddering gaze. A twig snapped in a thicket, like foxes at the clip of a trap. These men whirled with fearsome glances. Uh! came a low guttural voice from the bushes. And an Indian of magnificent proportions and somber, swarthy features entered the glade. End of Chapter 10