 Chapter 28 of The Spirit of the Border by Zayn Gray. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Leonard Wilson. Chapter 28 Zayn turned and cut the young missionary's bonds. Jim ran to where Nell was lying on the ground, and tenderly raised her head, calling to her that they were saved. Zayn bathed the girl's pale face. Presently she sighed and opened her eyes. Then Zayn looked from the statue-like form of Winganund to the motionless figure of Wetzel. The chief stood erect with his eyes on the distant hills. Wetzel remained with folded arms, his cold eyes fixed upon the writhing, moaning renegade. "'Lew, look here,' said Zayn, unhesitatingly, and pointed toward the chief. Wetzel quivered as if sharply stung. The cold glitter in his eyes changed to lurid fire, with upraised tomahawk he bounded across the brook. "'Lew, wait a minute,' yelled Zayn. "'Wetzel, wait, wait,' cried Jim, grasping the hunter's arm. But the latter flung him off as the wind tosses a straw. "'Wetzel, wait, for God's sake, wait!' screamed Nell. She had risen at Zayn's call, and now saw the deadly resolve in the hunter's eyes. Firstly she flung herself in front of him. Bravely she risked her life before his mad rush. Frantically she threw her arms around him, and clung to his hands desperately. Wetzel halted, frenzied as he was at the sight of his foe. He could not hurt a woman. "'Girl, let go,' he panted, and his broad breast teed. "'No, no, no, listen, Wetzel, you must not kill the chief. He is a friend.' "'He is my great foe.' "'Listen, oh, please, listen,' pleaded Nell. He warned me to flee from Gertie. He offered to guide us to Fort Henry. He has saved my life. For my sake, Wetzel, do not kill him. Don't let me be the cause of his murder. Wetzel, Wetzel, lower your arm, drop your hatchet. For pity's sake, do not spill more blood. Wing and und is a Christian.' Wetzel stepped back, breathing heavily. His white face resembled a chiseled marble. With those little hands at his breast he hesitated in front of the chief. He had hunted for so many long years. "'Would you kill a Christian?' pleaded Nell. Her voice sweet and earnest. "'I reckon not. But this engine ain't one,' replied Wetzel slowly. "'Put away your hatchet. Let me have it. Listen, and I will tell you after thanking you for this rescue. Do you know of my marriage? Come, please listen. Forget for a moment your enmity. Oh, you must be merciful. Brave men are always merciful.' "'Engine, are you a Christian?' hissed Wetzel. "'Oh, I know he is. I know he is,' cried Nell, still standing between Wetzel and the chief. Wing and unspoked no word. He did not move. His falcon eyes gazed tranquilly at his white foe. Even or pagan he would not speak one word to save his life. "'Oh, tell him you are a Christian,' cried Nell, running to the chief. Yellow hair the Delaware is through to his race.' As he spoke gently to Nell, a noble dignity shone upon his dark face. "'Engine, my back bears the scars of your brave swipes,' hissed Wetzel, once more advancing. "'Dead wind, your scars are deep. But the Delaware's are deeper,' came the calm reply. Wing and unsheartened bears two scars. His son lies under the moss and firms. Dead wind killed him. Dead wind alone knows his grave. Wing and unsdaughter, the delight of his waning years, freed the Delaware's great foe and betrayed her father. And the Christian god tell Wing and und of his child. Wetzel shook like a tree in a storm, just as cried out in the Indian's deep voice. Wetzel fought for mastery of himself. "'Dalloware, your daughter lays there with her lover,' said Wetzel, firmly, and pointed into the spring. "'Burr!' exclaimed the Indian, bending over the dark pool. She looked long into its murky depths. Then he thrust his arm down into the brown water. "'Dead wind tells no lie,' said the chief calmly, and pointed toward Gertie. The renegade had ceased struggling. His head was bowed upon his breast. The white serpent has stung the Delaware. "'What does it mean?' cried Jim. "'Your brother Joe and Whispering Winds lie in the spring,' answered Jonathan Zane. Gertie murdered them, and Wetzel buried the two there. "'Oh, is it true, Crannell?' True last whispered Jim brokenly, holding out his arms to her. Indeed he needed her strength as much as she needed his. The girl gave one shuddering glance at the spring, and then hid her face on her husband's shoulder. "'Delaware, we are sworn foes,' cried Wetzel. Wingenund asks, no mercy. Are you a Christian?' Wingenund is true to his race. Delaware, be gone. Take these weapons and go. When your shadow falls short on the ground, death wind starts on your trail. Gertwind is the great white chief. He is the great Indian foe. He is as sure as the panther in his sleep, as swift as the wild goose in his northern flight. Wingenund never felt fear. The chieftain's sonorous reply rolled through the quiet glade. "'If that wind bursts for Wingenund's flood, let him spill it now, for when the Delaware goes into the forest, his trail will fade. Be gone,' roared Wetzel. The fever for blood was once more rising within him. The chief picked up some weapons of the dead Indians, and with haughty stride stalked from the glade. "'Oh, Wetzel, thank you. I knew.' Nell's voice broke as she faced the hunter. She recoiled from this changed man. "'Come, we'll go,' said Jonathan Zane. I'll guide you to Fort Henry.' He lifted the pack and led Nell and Jim out of the glade. They looked back once, to picture forever in their minds the lovely spot with its ghastly quiet bodies, the dark haunting spring, the renegade nailed to the tree, and the tall figure of Wetzel as he watched his shadow on the ground. When Wetzel also had gone, only two living creatures remained in the glade, the doomed renegade and the white dog. The gaunt-beast watched the man with hungry, mad eyes. A long moan wailed through the forest, it swelled mournfully on the air, and died away. The doomed man heard it. He raised his ghastly face, his dull senses seemed to revive. He gazed at the stiffening bodies of the Indians, at the gory corpse of Deering, at the savage eyes of the dog. Every life seems to surge strong within him. Hellfire! I am not done for yet, he gasped. The damned knife can't kill me. I'm pulling out!" He worked at the heavy knife-hilt. Awful curses passed his lips. But the blade did not move. Retribution had spoken his doom. Suddenly he saw a dark shadow moving along the sunlit ground. It swept past him. He looked up to see a great bird with wide wings sailing far above. He saw another still higher, and then a third. He looked at the hilltop. The quiet black birds had taken wing. They were floating slowly, majestically upward. He watched their graceful flight. How easily they swooped in wide circles. He remembered that they had fascinated him when a boy long, long ago, when he had a home. Where was that home? He had one once. Ah, the long, cruel years have rolled back. A youth blotted out by evil returned. He saw a little cottage. He saw the old Virginia homestead. He saw his brothers. And his mother. The cruel agony tore his heart. He leaned hard against the knife. With the pain the present returned, but the past remained. All his youth, all his manhood flashed before him. The long, bloody, merciless years faced him. And his crimes crushed upon him with awful might. Suddenly a rushing sound startled him. He saw a great bird swoop down and graze the treetops. One year followed, and another, and then a flock of them. He saw their gray-spotted breasts and hooked beaks. Bussards, he muttered, darkly eyeing the dead savages. The carrion birds were swooping to their feast. My God, he nailed me fast for buzzards! He screamed, and son, awful frenzy, nailed fast. Ah! Ah! Ah! He died by buzzards! Ah! Ah! He shrieked until his voice failed. And then he gasped. Again the buzzards swooped overhead, this time brushing the leaves. One a great grizzled the bird, settled upon a limb of the giant oak, and stretched his long neck, and another alighted beside him. Others sailed round and round the dead treetop. The leader arched his wings, and with a dive swooped into the glade. He alighted near Dearing's dead body. He was a dark, uncanny bird, with long, scraggie bare neck, a wreath of white grizzled feathers, a cruel, hooked beak, and cold eyes. The carrion bird looked around the glade and put a great claw on the dead man's breast. Ah! Ah! Ah! Gertie, his agonized yell of terror and horror echoed mockingly from the wooded bluff. The huge buzzard flapped his wings and flew away. But soon returned to his gruesome feast. His followers, made bold by their leader, floated down into the glade. Their black feathers shone in the sun. They hopped over the moss. They stretched their grizzled necks, and turned their heads sideways. Gertie was sweating blood. It trickled from his ghastly face. All the suffering and horror he had caused in all his long career was as nothing to that which then rendered him. He, the renegade, the white Indian, the death's head of the frontier, panted and prayed for a merciful breath. He was exquisitely alive. He was human. Presently the huge buzzard, the leader, raised his hoary head. He saw the man nail to the tree. The bird bent his head wisely to one side, and then lightly lifted himself into the air. He sailed round the glade, over the fighting buzzards, over the spring, and over the doomed renegade. He flew out of the glade and in again. He swooped close to Gertie, his broad wings scarcely moved as he sailed along. Gertie tried to strike the buzzard as he sailed close by, but his arm fell useless. He tried to scream, but his voice failed. Slowly the buzzard king sailed by and returned. Every time he swooped a little nearer and bent his long, scraggy neck. Suddenly he swooped down light and swift as a hawk, his wide wings fanned the air. He poised under the tree and then fastened sharp talons in the doomed man's breast. End of chapter 28 of The Spirit of the Border by Zane Gray. Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. Chapter 29. The fleeting human instinct of Wetzel had given way to the habit of years. His merciless quest for many days had been to kill the frontier fiend. Now that it had been accomplished he turned his vengeance into its accustomed channel and once more became the ruthless Indian slayer. A fierce, tingling joy surged through him as he struck the Delaware's trail. Wingenund had made little or no effort to conceal his tracks. He had gone northwest, straight as a crow flies, toward the Indian entampment. He had a start of sixty minutes and it would require six hours of rapid traveling to gain the Delaware town. Where I can heal make for home, muttered Wetzel, following the trail with all possible speed, the hunter's method of trailing an Indian was singular. Intuition played as great a part as sight. He seemed always to divine his victim's intention. Once on the trail he was as hard to shake off as a bloodhound. Yet he did not by any means always stick to the Indian's footsteps. With Wetzel the direction was of the greatest importance. For half a mile he closely followed the Delaware's plainly marked trail. Then he stopped to take a quick survey of the forest before him. He abruptly left the trail and, breaking into a run, went through the woods as fleetly and noiselessly as a deer, running for a quarter of a mile when he stopped to listen. Wetzel seemed well, for he lured his head and walked slowly along, examining the moss and leaves. Presently he came upon a little open space where the soil was a sandy loam. He bent over then rose quickly. He had come upon the Indian's trail. Cautiously he moved forward, stopping every moment to listen. In all the close pursuits of his mature years he had never been a victim of that most cunning of Indian tricks, an ambush. He relied solely on his ear to learn if foes were close by. The wild creatures of the forest were his informants. As soon as he heard any change in their twittering, humming, or playing, whichever way they manifested their joy or fear of life, he became as hard to see, as difficult to hear, as a creeping snake. The Delaware's trail led to a rocky ridge, and there disappeared. Wetzel made no effort to find the chief's footprints on the flinty ground, but halted a moment and studied the ridge, the lay of the land around, a ravine on one side, and a dark and penetrable forest on the other. He was calculating his chances of finding the Delaware's trail far on the other side. Indian woodcraft, subtle, wonderful as it may be, is limited to each Indian's ability. Savages as well as other men were born unequal. One might leave a faint trail through the forest, while another could be readily traced, and a third, more cunning and skilful than his fellows, have flown under the shady trees for all the trail he left. But Redmond followed the same methods of woodcraft from tradition, as Wetzel had learned after long years of study and experience, and now satisfied that he had divineed the Delaware's intention. He slipped down the bank of the ravine, and once more broke into a run. He leaped lightly sure-footed as a goat, from stone to stone, overfallen logs, and the brawling brook. At every turn of the ravine, at every open place, he stopped to listen. Arriving on the other side of the ridge, he left the ravine, and passed along the edge of the rising ground. He listened to the birds, and searched the grass and leaves. He found not the slightest indication of a trail where he had expected to find one. He retraced his steps patiently, carefully, scrutinizing every inch of the ground. But it was all in vain. Winganund had begun to show his savage cunning. In his warrior days, for long years, no chief could rival him. His boast had always been that when Winganund sought to elude his pursuers, his trail faded among the moss and the ferns. Wetzel, calm, patient, resourceful, deliberated a moment. The Delaware had not crossed this rocky ridge. He had been cunning enough to make his pursuer think such was his intention. The hunter hurried to the eastern end of the ridge, for no other reason than apparently that course was the one the savage had the least reason to take. He advanced hurriedly, because every moment was precious. But a crushed blade of grass, a brushed leaf, an overturned pebble, nor a snapped twig did he find. He saw that he was getting near to the side of the ridge where the Delaware's trail had abruptly ended. Ah, what was there? A twisted bit of fern, with the drops of dew brushed off. Bending beside the fern, Wetzel examined the grass. It was not crushed. A small plant with triangular leaves of dark green lay under the fern. Breaking off one of these leaves he exposed its lower side to the light. The fine silvery hair of fuzz that grew upon the leaf had been crushed. Wetzel knew that an Indian could tread so softly as not to break the springy grass blades. But the underside of one of these leaves, if a man steps on it, always betrays his passage through the woods. To Kean eyes this leaf showed that it had been bruised by a soft moccasin. Wetzel had located the trail, but was still ignorant of its direction. Slowly he traced the chicken ferns and bruised leaves down over the side of the ridge, and at last near a stone he found a moccasin print in the moss. It pointed east. The Delaware was traveling in exactly the opposite direction to that which he should be going. He was more over-exercising wonderful sagacity in hiding his trail. This however did not trouble Wetzel, for if it took him a long time to find the trail, certainly the Delaware had expended as much or more in choosing hard ground, logs, or rocks on which to tread. Wetzel soon realized that his own cunning was matched. He trusted no more to his intuitive knowledge, but stuck close to the trail as a hungry wolf holds to the scent of its quarry. The Delaware trail led over logs, stones, and hard-baked ground, up stony ravines and over cliffs. The wily chief used all of his old skill. He walked backward over moss and sand where his footprints showed plainly. He leaped wide fissures and stony ravines, and then jumped back again. He let himself down over ledges by branches. He crossed creeks and gorges by swinging himself into trees and climbing from one to another. He waited brooks where he found hard bottom and avoided swampy, soft ground. With dogged persistence and tenacity of purpose Wetzel stuck to this gradually fading trail. Every additional rod he was forced to go more slowly and take more time in order to find any sign of his enemy's passage through the forest. When things struck him forcibly, Winganond was gradually circling to the south-west, a course that took him farther and farther from the Delaware entampment. Slowly it dawned upon Wetzel that the chief could hardly have any reason for taking this circling course, save that of pride and savage joy, in misleading, in fooling the foe of the Delaware's, in deliberately showing death-wind that there was one Indian who could laugh at and lose him in the forest. To Wetzel this was bitter as gall, to be led a wild goose chase, his fierce heart boiled with fury, his dark, keen eyes sought the grass and moss with terrible earnestness. Yet in spite of the anger that increased to the white heat of passion, he became aware of some strange sensation creeping upon him. He remembered that the Delaware had offered his life. Slowly like a shadow, Wetzel passed up and down the ridges through the brown and yellow aisles of the forest over the babbling brooks out upon the gold-inflected fields, always close on the trail. At last in an open part of the forest, where a fire had once swept away the brush and smaller timber, Wetzel came upon the spot where the Delaware's trail ended. Near in the soft black ground was a moccasin print. The forest was not dense, there was plenty of light, no logs, stones or trees were near, and yet over all that glade no further evidence of the Indian's trail was visible. It faded there as the great chief had boasted it would. Wetzel searched the burnt ground, he crawled on his hands and knees, again and again he went over the surroundings. The fact that one moccasin print pointed west and the other east, showing that the Delaware had turned in his tracks, was the most baffling thing that had ever crossed the hunter in all his wild wanderings. For the first time in many years he had failed. He took his defeat hard because he had been successful for so long he thought himself almost infallible, and because the failure lost him the opportunity to kill his great foe. In his passion he cursed himself for being so weak as to let the prayer of a woman turn him from his life's purpose. With bowed head and slow dragging steps he made his way westward. The land was strange to him, but he knew he was going toward familiar ground. For a time he walked quietly, all the time the fierce fever in his veins slowly abating. Calm he always was, except when that unnatural lust for Indian's blood overcame him. On the summit of a high ridge he looked around to ascertain his bearings. He was surprised to find he had traveled in a circle. A mile or so below him arose the great oak tree, which he recognized as the landmark of beautiful spring. He found himself standing on the hill under the very dead tree to which he had directed Gertie's attention a few hours previous. With the idea that he would return to the spring to scalp the dead Indians, he went directly toward the big oak tree. Once out of the forest a wide plain lay between him and the wooden knoll which marked the glade of beautiful spring. He crossed this stretch of verdant, better land and entered the cops. Suddenly he halted, his keen sense of the unusual harmony of the forest with its innumerable quiet sounds had received a severe shock. He sank into the tall weeds and listened. Then he crawled a little farther. Doubt became certainty. A single note of an oriole warned him, and it needed not the quick notes of a catbird to tell him that near at hand, somewhere, was human life. Once more a wetso became a tiger, the hot blood bleeped from his heart firing all his veins and nerves, but calmly noiseless, certain, cold, deadly as a snake. He began the familiar crawling method of stalking his game. On, on, under the briars and thickets, across the hollows full of yellow leaves, up over stony patches of ground, to the fern-covered cliff, overhanging the glade, he glided. Lithe, sinuous, a tiger in movement and in heart. He parted the long graceful ferns, and dazed with glittering eyes down into the beautiful glade. He saw not the shining spring nor the purple moss, nor the ghastly white bones, all that the buzzards had left of the dead, nor anything save a solitary Indian standing erect in the glade. There, within range of his rifle, was his great Indian foe, Winganund. Wetzel sank back into the ferns to steal the furious exultations which almost consumed him during the moment when he marked his victim. He lay there breathing hard, gripping tightly his rifle, slowly mastering the passion that alone of all things might render his aim futile. For him it was the third great moment of his life, the last of three moments in which the Indian's life had belonged to him. Once before he had seen that dark, powerful face over the sights of his rifle, and he could not shoot because his one shot must be for another. Again had that lofty, haughty figure stood before him, calm, disdainful, arrogant, and he yielded to a woman's prayer. The Delaware's life was his to take, and he swore he would have it. He trembled in the ecstasy of his triumphant passion, his great muscles rippled and quivered for the moment entirely beyond his control. Then his passion calmed. Such power for vengeance had he that he could almost steal the very beats of his heart to make sure and deadly his fatal aim. Slowly he raised himself. His eyes of cold fire glittered. Slowly he raised the black rifle. Wingan understood erect in his old grand pose with folded arms. But his eyes, instead of being fixed on the distant hills, were lowered to the ground. An Indian girl, cold as marble, lay at his feet. Her garments were wet and clung to her slender form. Her sad face was frozen into an eternal rigidity. By her side was a newly dug grave. The bead on the front side of the rifle had hardly covered the chief's dark face when Wetzel's eye took in these other details. He had been so absorbed in his purpose that he did not dream of the Delaware's reason for returning to the beautiful spring. Slowly Wetzel's forefinger stiffened. Slowly he lowered the black rifle. Winganand had returned to bury whispering winds. Wetzel's teeth clenched and awful struggle tore his heart. Slowly the rifle rose, wavered, and fell. Something terrible was wrong with him. Something awful was awakening in his soul. Winganand had not made a fool of him. The Delaware had led him a long chase, had given him the slip in the forest, not to most of it, but to hurry back to give his daughter Christian burial. Winganand was a Christian. Had he not been, once having cast his sword, he would have never looked upon her face again. Winganand was true to his race, but he was a Christian. Suddenly Wetzel's terrible temptation, his heart-wracking struggle ceased. He lowered the long black rifle. He took one last look at the chief's dark, powerful face. Then the Avenger fled like a shadow through the forest. CHAPTER 30 It was late afternoon at Fort Henry. The ruddy sun had already sunk behind the wooded hill, and the long shadows of the trees lengthened on the green square in front of the fort. Colonel Zane stood in his doorway, watching the river with eager eyes. A few minutes before, a man had appeared on the bank of the island and hailed. The Colonel had sent his brother Jonathan to learn what was wanted. The latter had already reached the other shore in his flatboat, and presently the little boat put out again, with the strangers seated at the stern. I thought perhaps it might be Wetzel abused the Colonel, though I never knew of Luz wanting a boat. Jonathan brought the man across the river and up the winding path to where Colonel Zane was waiting. Hello, it's young Christie, exclaimed the Colonel, jumping off the steps and cordially extending his hand. Glad to see you. Where's Williamson? How did you happen over here? Captain Williamson and his men will make the river eight or ten miles above, answered Christie. I came across to inquire about the young people who left the village of peace. Was glad to learn from Jonathan they got out all right. Yes, indeed, we're all glad. Come and sit down. Of course, you'll stay overnight. You look tired and worn. Well, no wonder when you saw that Moravian massacre. You must tell me about it. I saw Sam Brady yesterday, and he spoke of seeing you over there. Sam told me a good deal. Ah, here's Jim now. A young missionary came out of the open door, and the two young men greeted each other warmly. I wish, yes, Christie, when the first greetings had been exchanged. Well, it's just beginning to get over the shocks. You'll be glad to see you. Jonathan tells me you got married just before a girly came up with you at beautiful spring. Yes, it is true. In fact, the whole wonderful story is true. Yet I cannot believe as yet. You look thin and haggard. When we last met, you were well. So that awful time pulled me down. I was an unwilling spectator of all that horrible massacre, and shall never get over it. I can still see the fiendish savages running about with the reeking scalps of their own people. I actually counted the bodies of forty-nine grown Christians and twenty-seven children. An hour after you left us, the church was in ashes, and the next day I saw them burned bodies. Oh, the sickening horror of the scene. It haunts me. That monster Jim Gertie killed fourteen Indians with his sledgehammer. Did you hear of his death, that's Colonel Zane? Yeah, a fitting end it was to the frontiers, skull, and crossbones. It was like Wetzel to think of such a vengeance. Has Wetzel come in since? Oh, no. Jonathan says he went after Wingenand, and there's no telling when he'll return. I hoped he would spare the Delaware. Wetzel, spare an Indian. But the chief was a friend. He surely saved the girl. I am sorry, too, because Wingenand was a fine Indian. But Wetzel is implacable. Here's Nell and Mrs. Clark, too, come out, both of you, cry, Jim. Nell appeared in the doorway with Colonel Zane's sister. The two girls came down the steps and greeted the young man. The bride's sweet face was white and thin. And there was a shadow in her eyes. I'm so glad you got safely away from there, said Christie earnestly. Tell me if Benny asks Nell, speaking softly. Oh, yes, I forgot why Benny is safe and well. He was the only Christian Indian to escape the Christian massacre. Heckweller hid him until it was all over. He's going to have the lad educated. Thank heaven, murmured Nell. And the missionaries inquired gem earnestly. We're all well when I left, except, of course, young. He was dying. The others will remain out there and try to get another hold. But I fear it's impossible. It is impossible, not because the Indian does not want Christianity, but because such white men as the Gerties rule. The beautiful village of peace owes its ruins to the renegades, said Colonel Zane impressively. Even Williamson could have prevented the massacre, remarked Jim. Possibly. It was a bad place for him, and I think he was wrong not to try, declared the Colonel. Hello! cried Jonathan Zane, getting up from the steps where he sat, listening to the conversation. A familiar softbox and footfall sounded on the path. All turned to see Wetzel coming slowly toward them. His buckskin-hunting costume was ragged and worn. He looked tired and weary, but the dark eyes were calm. It was the Wetzel whom they all loved. They greeted him warmly. Nell gave him her hands and smiled up at him. I'm so glad you've come home safe, she said. Safe and sound, lass, and glad to find you well, answered the hunter, as he leaned on his long rifle, looking from Nell to Colonel Zane's sister. Betty, I always gave you first place among broader lasses, but here's one as could run you most any kind of a race," he said, with a rare smile which so warmly lighted his dark, stern face. Lou Wetzel making compliments, well, of all things, exclaimed the Colonel's sister. Jonathan Zane stood closely scanning Wetzel's features. Colonel Zane, observing his brother's close scrutiny of the hunter, pressed the cause and said, Lou, tell us, did you see Wingedon over the sights of your rifle? Yes, answered the hunter simply. A chill seemed to strike the hearts of the listeners. That simple answer coming from Wetzel meant so much. Nell bowed her head sadly. Gem turned away, biting his lip. Christy looked across the valley. Colonel Zane bent over and picked up some pebbles, which he threw hard at the cabin wall. Jonathan Zane abruptly left the group and went into the house. But the Colonel's sister fixed her large black eyes on Wetzel's face. Well, she asked, and her voice rang. Wetzel was silent for a moment. He met her eyes with that old, inscrutable smile in his own. A slight shade flooded across his face. Mary? I missed him, he said calmly, and shouldering his long rifle he strode away. Nell and Gem walked along the bluff above the river. Twilight was deepening, the red glow in the west was slowly darkening behind the boldly defined hills. So it all settles, Gem, that we stay here, said Nell. Yes, dear, Colonel Zane has offered me work and a church besides. We are very fortunate and should be contented. I am happy because you're my wife. And yet I am sad when I think of him, poor Joe. Don't you ever think we wronged him, whispered Nell? No, he wished it. I think he knew how he would end. No, we did not wrong him. We loved him. Yes, I loved him. I loved you both, said Nell, softly. Then let us always think of him as he would have wished. Think of him. Think of Joe. I shall never forget. In winter, spring, and summer I shall remember him, but always most in autumn, for I shall see that beautiful glade with its gorgeous color and the dark shaded spring where he lies asleep. The years rolled by with their changing seasons. Every autumn the golden flowers bloomed richly and the colored leaves fell softly upon the amber moss in the glade of beautiful spring. The Indians camped there no more. They shunned the glade and called it the Haunted Spring. They said the spirit of a white dog ran there at night and the wind of death mourned over the lonely spot. At long intervals an Indian chief of lofty frame and dark, powerful face stalked into the glade to stand for many moments silent and motionless. And sometimes at twilight, when the red glow of the sun had faded to gray, a stalwart hunter slipped like a shadow out of the thicket and leaned upon a long black rifle while he gazed sadly into the dark spring and listened to the sad murmur of the waterfall. The twilight deepened while he stood motionless. The leaves fell into the water with a soft splash. A whipper will caroled his melancholy song. From the gloom of the forest came a low sigh which swelled thrillingly upon the quiet air and then died away like the wailing of the night wind. Quiet reigned once more over the dark murky grave of the boy who gave his love and his life to the wilderness. End of Chapter 30 Also End of the Book The Spirit of the Border by Sane Gray Recording by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio