 16 The longest day in Jonathan Zane's life, the oddest, the most terrible and complex with unintelligible emotions was that one in which he learned that the wilderness no longer sufficed for him. He wandered through the forest like a man lost, searching for he knew not what, rambling along the shady trails he looked for that contentment which had always been his, but found it not. He plunged into the depth of deep, gloomy ravines, into the fastness of heavy-timbered hollows where the trees hid the light of day. He sought the open grassy hillsides, and roamed far over meadow and plain, yet something always eluded him. The invisible and beautiful life of all inanimate things sang no more to his heart. The springy moss, the quavering leap, the tell-tale bark of the trees, the limpid, misty, edding pools under green banks, the mirids of natural objects from which he had learned so much, and the manifold joyous life around him no longer spoke with soul-satisfying faithfulness. The environment of his boyish days, of his youth and manhood, rendered not as sweetness as of old. His intelligence sharpened by the pain of new experience, told him he had been vain to imagine that he, because he was a boarderman, could escape the universal destiny of human life. Unfortunately he could feel the broadening, the awakening into a fuller existence, but he did not welcome this new light. He realized that men had always turned at some time in their lives to women even as the cypress leans toward the sun. This weakening of the sterner stuff in him, this softening of his heart, and especially the inequity and lack of joy and harmony in his old pursuits of the forest trails bewildered him, and troubled him some. Thousands of times his boarderman trail had been crossed yet never to his sorrow until now, when it had been crossed by a woman. Sick at heart, heard in his pride, darkly savage, sad, remorseful, and thrilling with awakened passion, all in turn he roamed the woodland unconsciously, visiting the scenes where he had formerly found contentment. He paused by many a shady glen, an imputable quiet glade, by gray cliffs and mossy banks, searching with moody eyes for the spirit which evaded him. Here in the green and golden woods rose before him a rugged giant rock, moss-stained, and gleaming with trickling water, tangled ferns dressed in autumn's russet hue lay at the base of the green gray cliff, and circled a dark deep pool dotted with yellow leaves. Halfway up the perpendicular scent was broken by a protruding ledge upon which waved broad-leave plants in rusty ferns, above the cliff, sheared out with many cracks and seams in its weather-beaten front. The forest grew to the verge of the precipice. A full-folded oak and a luxuriant maple, the former still fresh with its dark green leaves, the latter making a vivid contrast with its pale yellow, purple-red and orange hues, lean far out over the bluff, a mighty chestnut grasped with gnarled roots deep into the broken cliff. Dandy plumes of golden rots weighed on the brink, red berries amber moss, and green trailing vines peeped over the edge and every little niche in cranny, sported fragile ferns and pale-faced asters, a second cliff higher than the first, and more heavily wooded, loomed above, and over it sprayed a transparent film of water, thin as smoke, and iridescent in the sunshine. Far above were the glancing rill caressed the mossy cliff, and shone like gleaming gold against the dark branches with their green and red purple leaves lay the faint blue of the sky. Jonathan pulled on down the stream with humbler heart, his favorite waterfall had denied him. The gold that had gleamed there was his sweetheart's tear, the red was her lips, the dark pool with its light and shades, its unfathomable mystery was like her eyes. He came at length to another scene of milder aspect, an open glade where the dancing dimpling brook raced under dark hemlocks and where blood-red sumac leaves and peach leaves like flashes of sunshine lay up against the green. Under a leaning birch he found a patch of purple asters, and a little apart from them, by a mossy stone, a lonely, fringed gentian. Its deep color brought him the dark blue eyes that haunted him, and, once again, like one possessed of an evil spirit, he wandered along the merry water course. But finally pain and unrest left him. When he surrendered to his love, peace returned. Though he said in his heart that Helen was not for him, he felt he did not need to torture himself by fighting against resistless power. He could love her without being a coward. He would take up his life where it had been changed and live it, carrying this bittersweet burden always. Memory now that he admitted himself conquered, made a toy of him, bringing the sweetness of fragrant hair and eloquent eyes and clinging arms and dewy lips a thousandfold harder to fight than pain, was the seductive thought that he had but to go back to Helen to feel again the charm of her presence, to see the grace of her person, to hear the music of her voice, to have again her lips on his. Jonathan knew then that his trial had but begun, that the pain and suffering of a boarderman's broken pride and conquered spirit was nothing, that to steal his heart against the joy, the sweetness, the longing of love was everything. So a tumult raged within his heart. No bitterness nor wretchedness stabbed him as before. But a passionate yearning, born of memory and unquenchable as the fires of the sun burned there. Helen's reply to his pale excuses, to his duty, to his life, was that she loved him. The wonder of it made him weak. Was not her answer enough? I love you. Three words only, but they changed the world. A beautiful girl loved him. She had kissed him. And his life could never again be the same. She had held out her arms to him. And he, cold, curly, unfeeling brute, had let her shame herself. Fighting for her happiness, for the joy that is a woman's divine right. He had been blind. He had not understood the significance of her gracious action. He had never realized until too late what it must have cost her. What heartbreaking shame and scorn his refusal brought upon her. If she ever looked tenderly at him again with those great eyes or leaned toward him with her beautiful arms outstretched, he would fall at her feet and throw his duty to the winds, swearing his love was hers always and his life forever. So love stormed in the borderman's heart. Slowly the melancholy Indian summer day waned as Jonathan strewed out of the woods into a plain beyond where he was to meet Wetzel at sunset. A smoky haze like a purple cloud lay upon the gently waving grass. He could not see across the stretch of prairie land, though at this point he knew it was hardly a mile wide. With the trilling of the grass-oppers alone disturbing the serene quiet of this autumn afternoon, all nature seemed in harmony with the declining season. He stood a while, his thoughts becoming the calmer for the silence and loneliness of this breathing meadow. When the shadows of the trees began to lengthen and to steal far out over the yellow grass, he knew the time had come and glided out upon the plain. He crossed it and sat down upon a huge stone which lay with one shelving in overhanging the river. Far to the west the gold red sun, too fiery for his direct gaze, lost the brilliance of its under-circle behind the fringe of the wooded hill. Slowly the red ball sank. When the last bright gleam had vanished in the dark horizon, Jonathan turned to search the wood in plain. Wetzel was to meet him at sunset. Even as his first glance swept around, the light steps sounded behind him. He did not move, for that step was familiar. In another moment the tall form of Wetzel stood beside him. I'm about as much behind as you was ahead of time, said Wetzel. We'll stay here for the night and be off early in the morning. Under the shelving side of the rock, and in the shade of the thicket, the boarderman built a little fire and roasted strips of deer meat. Then, puffing at their long pipes, they sat for a long time in silence. While twilight let fall a dark, gray cloak over river and plain. Leggads move up the river was uplined, as I suspected. He said Wetzel presently. He's not far back in the woods from here and seems to be waiting for something, or somebody. Brant and seven red skins are with him. We'd have a good chance at them in the morning. Now we've got them a long ways from their camp. So we'll wait and see what devil tree they're up to. Maybe he's waiting for some engine band, suggested Jonathan. I heard red skins in the valley and close to him, but I reckon he's barking up another tree. Supposedly run into some of these engines. I'll have to take what comes, replied Wetzel, lying down on a bed of leaves. When darkness enveloped the spot, Wetzel lay wrapped in deep slumber while Jonathan sat against the rock, watching the last flickerings of the campfire. Beguiled by the soft beauty of the autumn morning, they ventured further from the Forth than ever before, and had been suddenly brought to a realization of the fact by a crackling in the underbrush. Instantly their minds reverted to bears and panthers, such as they had heard invested the thickets round the settlement. Oh, well! I saw a dark form stealing along the woods from tree to tree, exclaimed Helen in a starved whisper. So did I. It was an Indian or I never saw one. Walk faster, once we round the bend in the road, we'll be within sight of the Forth, then we'll run, replied Will. He had turned pale, but maintained his composure. The increased speed then almost had come up to the curve in the road marked by dense undergrowth on both sides, when the branches in the thickets swayed violently. A sturdy little man armed with a musket appeared from among them. A vast eve-ho! he commanded in a lull fierce voice, leveling his weapon. One breeze from ye, and I'll let sail is broadside. What do you want? We have no valuables, said Will, speaking low. Helen stared at the little man. She was speechless with terror. It flashed into her mind as soon as she recognized the red evil face of the sailor, that he was the accomplice upon Hood and Brandt, had told Metser he could rely. Shut up! It's not ye I want, no valuables. But this wench, growled case, he pushed Will around with the muzzle of the musket, which action caused the young man to turn as sickly white and shrink involuntarily with fear. The hammer of the musket was raised and might fall at the slightest jar. For God's sake, Will, do as he says, cried Helen, who saw murder in Case's eyes. Capture or anything was better than sacrifice of life. March, ordered Case, with the musket against Will's back. Will hurriedly started forward. Jocelyn Helen, who had preceded him. He was forced to hurry because every few moments Case pressed the gun to his back nor side. Without another word the sailor marched them swiftly along the road, which now narrowed down to a trail. His intention, no doubt, was to put as much distance between him and the fort as was possible. No more than a mile had been thus traversed when two Indians stepped into view. My God, my God! cried Will as the savages preceded first to bind Helen's arms behind her, and then his in the same manner. After this the journey was continued in silence, the Indians walking beside the prisoners and Case in the rear. Helen was so terrified that for a long time she could not think coherently. It seemed as if she had walked miles yet did not feel tired. Always in front wound the narrow leaf-gird trail, and to the left the broad river gleamed at intervals through open spaces. In the thickets flocks of birds rose in the line of March. They seemed tame and uttered plenty of notes as if in sympathy. About noon the trail led to the river bank. One of the savages disappeared in a corpse of willows and presently reappeared carrying a birch bark canoe. Case ordered Helen and Will into the boat, got in himself, and the savages, taking stations at Bow and Stern paddled out into the stream. They shot over under the lee of an island, around a rocky point, and across a straight to another island. Beyond this they gained the Ohio shore, and beached the canoe. Oh, there a Gavin! cried Case, pushing Helen up the bank before him, and she gazing upward was more than amazed to see Mordaunt leaning against the tree. Mordaunt had you anything to do with this? cried Helen breathlessly. I had all to do with it, answered the Englishman. What do you mean? He did not meet her gaze nor make reply, but turned to address a few words in a low tone to a white man sitting on a log. Helen knew she had seen this person before, and doubted not he was one of Metzor's men. She saw a rude bark lean to the remains of campfires and a packed tide in blankets. Evidently Mordaunt and his men had terried here awaiting such developments as had come to pass. You white-faced hound, hissed Will beside himself with rage when he realized the situation found as he was, he leapt up and tried to get at Mordaunt. Case knocked him on my head with the handle of his knife. Will fell with blood streaming from a cut over the temple. The dastardly act aroused all Helen's fiery courage. She turned to the Englishman with eyes ablaze. So you've at last found your level border outlaw kill me at once. I'd rather be dead than breathe the same air with such a coward. I swore I'd have you, if not by fair means, than by foul, he answered. With dark and haggard face. What do you intend to do with me now, then I'm tired, she demanded scornfully. Keep you a prisoner in the woods till you consent to marry me? Helen laughed and scorn. Desperate as was the blight. Her natural courage had arisen at that cruel blow dealt her cousin, and she faced the Englishman with flashing eyes and undaunted maine. She saw he was again, unsteady, and had the cough and catching breath habitual to certain men under the influence of liquor. She turned her attention to Will. He lay as he had fallen with blood streaming over his pale face and fair hair. While she gazed at him, Case whipped out his long knife and looked up at Mordant. Captain, we'd better loosen a hatch for him. He said brutally, he's dead cargo for us and in the way. He lowered the gleaming point upon Will's chest. Oh, breathe, Helen, in horror. She tried to close her eyes, but was so fascinated she could not. Get up, I'll have no murder, ordered Mordant. Leave him here. He's not bad cut, said the man sitting on a log he'll come to after his bell. Go back to the fort and give an alarm. What's that to me? asked Mordant sharply. We shall be safe. I won't have him with us because some Indian or another will kill him. It's not my purpose to murder any one. Uh, grunted one of the savages, and pointed eastward with his hand. Hurry, long way go, he said in English. With the Indians in the lead, the party turned from the river to into the forest. Helen looked back into the sandy glade and saw Will lying as they had left him unconscious, with his hand still bound tightly behind him and blood running over his face. Painful as was the thought of leaving him thus, it afforded her relief. She assured herself he had not been badly hurt, would recover consciousness before long and, even bound as he was, could make his way back to the settlement. Her own situation, now that she knew Mordant, had instigated the abduction, did not seem hopeless. Although dreading Brant with unspeakable horror, she did not in the least fear the Englishman. He was mad to carry her off like this into the wilderness, but would force her to do nothing. He could not keep her prisoner long while Jonathan Zane and Wetzel were free to take his trail. What were his intentions? Where was he taking her? Such questions as these, however, troubled Helen more than little. They brought her thoughts back to the Indians, leading the way with life and stealthy step. How had Mordant associated himself with these savages, then? Suddenly it dawned upon her that Brant also might be in this game to carry her off. She scouted the idea, but it returned. Perhaps Mordant was only a tool. Perhaps he himself was being deceived. Helen turned pale at the very thought. She had never forgotten the strange, unreadable yet threatening expression which Brant had warned the day she had refused to walk with him. Meanwhile the party made rapid progress through the forest. Not a word was spoken, nor did any noise of rustling leaves or crackling twigs follow their footsteps. The savage in the lead chose the open and less difficult ground. He took advantage of glades, mossy places, and rocky ridges. This careful choosing was, evidently, to avoid noise and make the trail as difficult to follow as possible. Once he stopped suddenly and listened. Helen had a good look at the savage while he was in this position. His lean, athletic figure resembled, in its half cloth condition, a bronze statue. His powerful visage was set. Changeless like iron, his dark eyes seemed to take in all points of the forest before him. Whatever had caused the halt was an enigma to all save his red-skinned companion. The silence of the wood was the silence of the desert. No bird chirped, no breath of wind sighed in the tree-tops. Even the aspens remained unagitated. Pale yellow leaves sailed slowly, reluctantly, down from above. But some faint sound, something unusual, had jarred upon the exquisitely sensitive ears of the leader. For with a meaning shake over the head to his followers, he resumed the march in a direction at right angles with the original course. This caution and evident distrust of the forest ahead made Helen think again of Jonathan Witzel. Those great boardermen might already be on the trail of her captors. The thought thrilled her presently she realized, from another long silent march to the forest that could slay its aisles and groves over rock-strewn ridges and down mossy stone ravines, that her strength was beginning to fail. I can go no further with my arms tight this way. She declared stopping suddenly. Oog uttered the savage before her turning sharply. He brandished a tomahawk before her eyes. Ordaunt hurriedly set free her wrists, his pale face flushed a dark flaming red, when she shrank from his touch as he were a viper. After they had traveled what seemed to Helen many miles, the vigilance of the leaders relaxed. On the banks of the willow skirted stream the Indian guide halted them, and proceeded on alone to disappear in a green thicket presently he reappeared, and motion for them to come on. He led the way over smooth sandy path between clumps of willows into a heavy growth of alder bushes and prickly thorns, had length to emerge upon a beautiful grassy plot enclosed by green and yellow shrubbery. Above the stream, which cut the edge of the glade, rose a sloping wooded ridge, with huge rocks projecting here and there out of the brown forest. Several birch bark huts could be seen. Then two rough bearded men lolling upon the grass, and beyond them a group of painted Indians. A whoop so shrill, so savage, so exultant, that it seemingly froze her blood, rent the silence. A man, unseen before, came crashing through the willows on the side of the ridge. He leapt to stream with a spring of a wild horse. He was big and broad, with disheveled hair, keen hard face and wild gray eyes. Helen's sight almost failed her, her head whirled dizzily. It was as if her heart had stopped beating and was become a cold, dead weight. She recognized in this man the one whom she feared most of all, Brant. He cast one glance full at her, the same threatening, cool, and evil meaning look she remembered so well, and then engaged the Indian guide in low conversation. Helen sank at the foot of a tree, leaning against it. Despite her weariness, she had maintained some spirit. Until this direful revelation broke her courage. What worse could have happened? More daunt had led her for some reason that she could not divine into the clutches of Brant, into the power of Liget and his outlaws. But Helen was not one to remain long dispirited or hopeless, as this plot thickened, as every added misfortune weighed upon her, when just ready to give up to disparishly remembered the Borgerman. Then Colonel Zane's tales of their fearless, implacable pursuit went bent on rescue or revenge recurred to her, and fortitude returned. While she had life, she would hope. The advent of the party with their prisoner enlivened Liget's gang, a great giant of a man blonde-bearded and handsome in a wild, rugged, uncouth way, a man Helen instinctively knew to be Liget, slapped Brant on the shoulder. Damn, Roach, if she ain't a regular little daisy, never cede such a pretty lass in my life! Brant spoke hurriedly and Liget laughed. All this time Case had been sitting on the grass, saying nothing but with his little eyes watchful. More daunts stirred near him, his head bowed, his face gloomy. Hey, Captain, I don't like this mess, whispered Case to his master. They ain't no crew for us. I'm no man, for I've sailed the seas, and you're gonna get what Mets calls the Double Cross. More daunts seemed to arouse from his gloomy reverie. He looked at Brant and Liget, who were now in earnest counsel. Then his eyes wandered toward Helen. She beckoned him to come to her. Why did you bring me here, she asked? Brant understood my case. He planned this thing, and seemed to be a good friend of mine. He said, if I once got you out of the settlement, he would give me protection until I crossed the border into Canada. There we could be married, replied more daunt, unsteadily. Then you meant marriage by me if I could be made to consent. Of course, I'm not utterly vile, he replied, with face lowered in shame. Have you any idea what you've done? Done? I don't understand. You have ruined yourself, lost your manhood, become an outlaw, a fugitive, made yourself the worst thing on the border, a girl-thief, and all for nothing. No, I have you. You are more to me than all. But can't you see you've brought me out here for Brant? My God! exclaimed more daunt. He rose slowly to his feet and gazed around, like a man suddenly awakened from a dream. I see it all now, miserable, drunken wretch that I am. Helen saw his face change and lighten as if a cloud of darkness had passed away from it. She understood that love of liquor had made him a part to this plot. Brant had cunningly worked upon his weakness, proposed a daring scheme, and filled his befogged mind with hopes that, in a moment of clear sightedness, he would have seen to be vain and impossible. And Helen understood also that the sudden shock of surprise, pain, possible fury, had sobered more daunt, possibly for the first time in weeks. The Englishman's face became exceedingly pale. Seating himself on a stone near Case, he bowed his head, remaining silent and motionless. The conference between Legget and Brant lasted for some time. When it ended, the latter strode toward the motionless figure on the rock. More not? You in Case will do well to follow this Indian at once to the river. Where you can strike for Fort Pitt Trail, said Brant. He spoke arrogantly and authoritatively. His keen hard face as steely eyes bespoke the iron will and purpose of the man. More not rose with cold dignity. If he had been a dupe, he was one no longer. As could be plainly red in his calm pale face. The old, listless, unsteadyness had vanished. He wore a manner of extreme quietude. But his eyes were like balls of blazing blue steel. Mr. Brant. I seem to have done you a service and I am no longer required, you said in a courteous tone. Brant eyed this man but judged him wrongly, and English gentleman was new to the border outlaw. I swore the girl should be mine, he asked. Doomed man cannot be choosers, cried Helen, who had heard him. Her dark eyes burned with scorn and hatred. All the party heard her passion a doubt burst. Case arose as if unconcernedly, and stood by the side of his master. Legate and the other two outlaws came up. The Indians turned their swarthy faces. Ah, ain't she sassy, cried Legate. Brant looked at Helen, understood the meaning of her words, and laughed. But his face paled and involuntarily, his shifty glance sought the rocks and trees upon the ridge. You blayed me from the first, asked Mudron quietly. I did, replied Brant. You meant nothing of your promise to help me across the border. No. You intended for me to shift from myself out here in the wilderness. Yes, after this Indian guide you to the river trail, said Brant, indicating with his finger the nearest savage. I get what you front-tier men call a double-cross. That's it, replied Brant, with a hard laugh, in which Legate joined a short pause ensued. What will you do with the girl? That's my affair. Marry her? Or Don's voice was low and quiet. No, cried Brant. She flutted my love and my face scorned me. She saw that borderman strike me, and by God I'll get even. I'll keep her here in the woods until I'm tired of her. And when her beauty fades, I'll turn her over to Legate. Scarcely had the word strapped from his vile lips. When Mordant moved with tigerish agility, he seized a knife from the belt of one of the Indians. He screamed. Brant grasped his tomahawk. At the same instant the man who had acted as Mordant's guide grasped the Englishman from behind. Brant struck ineffectively at the struggling man. Fair play, roared Case, leaping at Mordant's second assailant. His long knife sheathed this glaring length in the man's breast. Without even a groan he dropped. Clear the decks! Case yelled. Sweeping round in a circle, all fell back before that whirling knife. Several of the Indians started as if to raise the rifles, but Legate's stern command caused them to desist. The Englishman and the outlaw now engaged in a fearful encounter. The practised, rugged, frontier desperado apparently had found his match in his pale-faced slender man. His border skill with the hatchet seemed offset by Mordant's terrible rage. Brant whirled and swung the weapon as he leaped around his antagonist. With his left arm the Englishman sought only to protect his head. While with his right he brandished the knife. Whirling here and there they struggled across the cleared space, plunging out of sight among the willows. During a moment there was a sound as of breaking branches, then a dull blow, horrible to hear. Followed by a low moan, and then deep silence. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 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 18 A black weight was seemingly lifted from Helen's weary eyelids. The sun shone, the golden forest surrounded her. The brook babbled merrily. But where were the struggling panting men? She noticed presently when her vision had grown more clear that the scene differed entirely from the willow-glade where she had closed her eyes and upon the fight then came the knowledge that she had fainted. And during the time of unconsciousness, Ben moved. She lay upon a mossy mound a few feet higher than a swiftly running brook. A magnificent chestnut tree spread its leafy branches above her. Directly opposite, about a hundred feet away. Loomed a gray, ragged moss-dained cliff. She noted this particularly because the dense forest, encroaching to its very edge, excited her. Admiration. Such wonderful coloring seemed unreal. Dead gold and bright red foliage, flamed everywhere. Two Indians stood nearby, silent and movable. No other obligate band was visible. Helen watched the red men. Sin you a muscular warriors they were, with bodies partially painted and long straight hair. Black as burnt wood. Hit a woven with bits of white bone, and plated round waving eagle-blooms. At first glance their dark faces and dark eyes were expressive of craft, cunning, cruelty, courage. All attributes of the savage. Yet wild as these savages appeared, Helen did not fear them as she did the outlaws. Brant's eyes and leg its two, when turned on her, emitted a flame that seemed to scorch and shrivel her soul. When the savages met her gaze, which was but seldom, she imagined she saw intelligence, even pity in their dusky eyes. Certain it was she did not shrink from them as from Brant. Suddenly with a sensation of relief and joy, she remembered Mordant's terrible onslaught upon Brant. Although she could not recollect the termination of that furious struggle, she did recall Brant's scream of mortal agony, and the death of the other at Case's hands. This meant, whether Brant was dead or not, that the fighting strength of her captors had been diminished. Surely, as the sun had risen that morning, Helen believed Jonathan and Wetzel, lurked on the trail of these renegades. She prayed that her courage, hope, strength might be continued. Oh! it claimed one of the savages, pointing across the open space. A slight swaying of the bushes told that some living thing was moving among them, and an instant later the huge frame of the leader came into view. The other outlaw and Case followed closely, further down the margin of the thicket the Indians appeared, but without the slightest noise or disturbance of the shrubbery. It required but a glance to show Helen that Case was in high spirits. His repulsive face glowed with satisfaction. He carried a bundle which Helen saw with a sickening sense of horror was made up of Mordant's clothing. Brant had killed the Englishman. Legget also had a package under his arm, which he threw down when he reached the chestnut tree, to draw from his pocket a long leather belt, such as travelers used for the carrying of valuables. It was evidently heavy, and the musical clink which accompanied his motion proclaimed the contents to be gold. Brant appeared next. He was white and held his hand to his breast. There were dark stains on his hunting coat, which he removed to expose his shirt blanched with red. He ain't much hurt, I reckon, inquired Legget solicitly. No, but I'm bleeding bad, replied Brant Cooley. He then called an Indian and went among the willows skirting the stream. So I'm to be in this border-crew, asked Case, looking up at Legget. Sure, replied the big outlaw. You're a handy-feller, Case. And after I break you into border ways, you will fit in here tip-top. Nah, you'd better stick by me. When Eb Zane, his brother Jack and Winslow find out, this here day's work, hell will be a cool place compared with their whereabouts. You'll be safe with me. And this is the only place on the border, I reckon, where you can say your life is your own. I'm your mate, Captain. I've sailed with soldiers, pirates, sailors, and I guess I can navigate this borderland. Do we miss here? You didn't come far. Well, I ain't particular, but I don't like eating with buzzards, said Legget with a grin. That's why we moved a bit. What's buzzards? Oh, maybe you'll have them closer and you'd like some day. If you'd only know it, buzzards are fine birds, most particular birds, as won't eat nothing but flesh, and white man or engine is pie for them. Captain, I've seeded birds, as wouldn't wait till a man was dead, said Case. Oh, can't come no sailor yarns on this, fellow. Well, now we've got their Englishmen's gold. One or the other of us might just as well have it all. Right here, Captain. Dice, cards, anyways, so long as I knows the game. Here, jank. I hand over your clickers and bring us a flat stone, said Legget, sitting on the moss and emptying the belt in front of him. Case took a small bag from the dark blue jacket that had so lately covered Mordant's shoulders and poured out its bright contents. Escalade ain't worth keeping, he said, holding it up. The garment was rent and slashed and under the left sleeve was a small blood-stained hole where one of Brant's blows had fallen. Oh, what's this, muttered the sailor, feeling in the pocket of the jacket. Blast my timber, hooray! He held up a small, silver-mounted whiskey flask, unscrewed the lid and lifted the vessel to his mouth. I'm kind of thirsty myself, suggested Legget. Captain, a nip and no more! Case replied, holding the flask to Legget's lips. The outlaw called Janks now returned with a flat stone which he placed between the two men. The Indians gathered around with greedy eyes they bent their heads over the gamblers and watched every movement with breathless interest. At each click of the dice or a clink of gold they uttered deep exclamations. Looks again, ya, Captain, said Case skillfully shaking the ivory cubes. Ain't I got eyes, called the outlaw. Steadily his pile of gold diminished and darker grew his face. Captain, I'm a bad wind to draw, Case rejoined, drinking again from the flask. His naturally red face had become livid. His skin moist and his eyes wild with excitement. Hello. If them dice wasn't Janks and I hadn't played a four with them, I'd swear they's loaded. You ain't insinuating nothin', Captain, inquired Case softly, hesitating with the dice in his hand. His evil eyes glinting at Legget. Nah, you're fair enough, ground leader. My tough luck. The game progressed with infrequent runs of fortune for the outlaw and presently every piece of gold lay in a shining heap before the sailor. Clean busted, exclaimed Legget in disgust. Can't you find nothin' more? asked Case. The outlaw's blold eyes wandered here and there until they rested upon the prisoner. I'll play their last against your pile of gold, he growled. Best two throws out in three? See here? She's as much mine as Brant's. Me can have my pile, I'll now go ya. All right, time. Better give me back what you win, replied Legget gruffly. Say the trim little craft, no mistake, said Case critically surveying Helen. All right, Captain, ah, sportin' blood, and I'll bet your throw first. Legget won the first cast and Case with second. With deliberation the outlaw shook the dice in his huge fist and rattled them out upon the stone. Oh, he cried in delight. He had come within one of the highest score possible. Case nonchalantly flipped the little white blocks. The Indians crowded forward, their dusky eyes shining. Legget swore in a terrible voice which re-echoed from the stony cliff. The sailor was victorious. The outlaw got up, kicked the stone, and diced in the brook. And walked away from the group. He strode to and fro under one of the trees. Gruffly he gave an order to the Indians. Several of them began at once to kindle a fire. Presently he called Jinx, who was fishing the dice out of the brook, and began to converse earnlessly with him, making fierce gestures and casting lowering glances at the sailor. Case was too drunk now to see that he had incurred the enmity of the outlaw leader. He drank the last of the rum and tossed the silver flask to an Indian, who received the present with every show of delight. Case then, with this low, uncertain movements of a man whose mind is befogged, began to count his gold, but only to gather up a few pieces when they slipped out of his trembling hands to roll on the moss. Leboriously, seriously, he kept at it with the doggedness of a drunken man. Apparently he had forgotten the others, failing to learn the value of the coins by ticking up each in turn. He arranged them in several piles, and began to estimate his wealth in sections. In the meanwhile, Helen, who had not failed to take in the slightest detail of what was going on, saw that a plot was hatching, which boated ill to the sailor. Moreover, she heard Lingott and Jinx whispering. I can take him from right here, twicked his eyes, said Jinx softly, and tapped his rifle significantly. Well, go ahead, only I'd rather have it done quieter, answered Ligott. We're yet a long ways nearer thirty miles from my camp, and there no tellin' who's in their woods. But we've got to get rid of their fresh sailor, and there's no sure way. Consciously cocking his rifle, Jinx deliberately raised it to his shoulder. One of the Indian sentals who stood near at hand sprang forward and struck up the weapon. He spoke a single word to Ligott, pointed to the woods above the cliff, and then resumed his statue-like attitude. I told you, Jinx, that wouldn't do it. The red skin sent something in the woods, and there's an engine I never seed fooled. We mustn't make a noise. Take your knife and tomahawk, crawl down below the edge of the bank, and slip up on him. I'll give half their gold for their job. Jinx buckled his belt more tightly, gave one threatening glance at the sailor, and slipped over the bank. The bed of the brook lay about six feet below the level of the ground. This afforded an opportunity for the outlaw to get behind case without being observed. A moment pass. Jinx disappeared round a bend in the stream. Presently his grizzled head appeared above the bank. He was immediately behind the sailor. But still some thirty feet away. This ground must be covered quickly and noiselessly. The outlaw began to crawl. In his right hand he grasped the tomahawk, and between his teeth was a long knife. He looked like a huge, yellow bear. The savages, with the exception of the sentinel who seemed absorbed in the dense thicket on the cliff, sat with their knees between their hands, watching the impending tragedy. Nothing but the mirror's chance or some extraordinary intervention could avert case's doom. He was gloating over his gold. The creeping outlaw made no more noise than a snake. Nearer and nearer he came, his sweaty face shining in the sun, his eyes tigerish, his long body slipping silently over the grass. At length he was within five feet of the sailor. His naughty hands were dug into the sword as he gathered energy for a sudden spring. At that very moment case with his hand on his knife rose quickly and turned around. The outlaw, discovered in the active leaping, had no alternative, and springy did, like a panther. The little sailor stepped out of line with remarkable quickness, and as the yellow body whirled past him his knife flashed blue bright in the sunshine. Janks fell forward, his knife buried in the grass beneath him and his outstretched hand, still holding the tomahawk. Ah, trying to double-cross me for my gold, muttered to sailor, sheathing his weapon. He never looked to see, rather or no his blow had been fatal. They'd bore their feloners, might think a man as sails the seas, can't handle a knife. He calmly began gathering up his gold, evidently indifferent to further attack. Helen saw Ligget raise his own rifle, but only to have it struck aside as had Janks. This time the savage whispered earnestly to Ligget, who called the other Indians around him. The sentinels' low, thorny tones mingled with the soft babbling of the stream. No sooner had he ceased speaking than the effect of his words showed how serious had been the information, warning or advice. The Indians cast futile glances towards the woods. Two of them melted like shadows into the red and gold thicket. Another stealthily slipped from tree to tree until he reached the open ground, then dropped into the grass and was seen no more until his dark body rose under the cliff. He stole along the green stained wall, climbed a rugged corner, and vanished amid the dense foliage. Helen felt that she was almost past discernment or thought. The events of the day, succeeding one another so swiftly and fraught with panic had, despite her hope and fortitude, reduced her to a helpless condition of piteous fear. She understood that the savages sent a danger or had in their mysterious way received intelligence such as rendered them wary and watchful. Come on now and make no noise, said Ligget the case. Bring the girl and see that she steps light. Ah, Captain! replied the sailor. Where's Brandt? He'll be coming soon as his cut-stop bleeding. I reckon he's weak yet. Case gathered up his goods and, tucking it under his arm, brass Helen's arm. She was leaning against a tree and when he pulled her, she wrenched herself free, raising with difficulty. His disgusting touch and revolting face had revived her sensibilities. Harrier can begin duty by carrying that, said Case, thrusting the package into Helen's arms. She let it drop without moving a hand. I'm running this ship. You belong to me, hissed Case. And then he struck her on the head. Helen uttered a low cry of distress and a half staggered against a tree. The sailor picked up the package. This time she took it, trembling with horror. That's right now. Give her a kiss. He leered and jostled against her. Helen pushed him violently with agonized eyes she appealed to the Indians. They were engaged, tying up their packs, leg it looked on with a lazy grin. Uh-oh. Breathe, Helen, as Case seized her again. She tried to scream, but could not make a sound. The evil eyes, the beastly face, transfixed her with terror. Case struck her twice and roughly pulled her toward him. Half fainting, unable to move, Helen gazed at the heated, bloated face approaching hers. When his coarse lips were within a few inches of her lips, something hot hissed across her brow. Following so closely as to be an accompaniment rang out with singular clearness to the sharp crack of a rifle. Case's face changed. The hot, surging flesh faded. The expression became shaded. Dulled into vacant emptiness, his eyes rolled wildly, then remained fixed, with a look of dark surprise. He stood upright an instant, swayed with the regular poise of a falling oak, and then plunged backward to the ground. His face, ghastly and livid, took on the awful calm of death. A very small hole, ready blue round the edges, taught at the center of his temple. Legget stared aghast at the dead sailor. Then he possessed himself of the bag of gold. Say, may there trouble! he muttered, giving Case a kick. The Indians glanced at the little figure. Then out into the flaming thickets, each savage sprang behind a tree with incredible quickness. Legget saw this, and grasping Helen, he quickly led her within cover of the chestnut. Brant appeared with his Indian companion, and both leaped to shelter behind a clump of birches near where Legget stood. Brant's hawk eyes flashed upon the dead jinx and Case. Without asking a question, he seemed to take in the situation. He stepped over and grasped Helen by the arm. Who killed Case? he asked in a whisper. Staring at the little blue hole in the sailor's temple. No one answered. The two Indians who had gone into the woods to the right of the stream now returned. Hardly were the end of the trees with their party, when a savage who had gone off alone arose out of the grass. In the left of the brook, took it with a flying leap, and darted into their midst. He was the sentinel who had knocked up the weapons, thereby saving Case's life twice. He was life and supple, but not young. His grave, shadowy-lined iron visage showed the traces of time and experience, all gazed at him at once, whose wisdom was greater than theirs. Old horse, said Brant in English. Have an eye seen bullet holes like this? The Chippewa bent over Case, and then slowly straightened his tall form. Deathwind, he replied, answering in the white man's language. His Indian companions uttered low, plentative murmurs, not signifying fear so much as respect. Brant turned as pale as the clean birch bark on the tree near him. The gray flare of his eyes gave out a terrible light of certainty and terror. Leg it, you needn't try to hide your trail, he hissed. And it seemed as if there was a bitter, reckless pleasure in these words. The Chippewa glided into the low bushes bordering the creek. Leg it followed him, with Brant leading Helen. Any other Indians brought up the rear, each one sending wild, savage glances into the dark surrounding forest. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 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 Venditti, mikevenditti.com. The Last Trail, by Zane Gray, Chapter 19 A dense white fog rose from the river obscuring all objects, when the borderman rolled out of their snug bed of leaves. The air was cool and bracing, faintly fragrant with drying foliage and the damp, dewy luxuriance of the ripened season. Wetzel pulled from under the protecting ledge a bundle of bark and sticks he had put there to keep dry and built the fire, while Jonathan, fashioning a cup from a green fruit resembling a gourd, filling it at a spring nearby. Lou, there's a frosty nip in the water this morning, said Jonathan. I reckon it's getting along into fall now, any clear. Still, night'll fetch all the leaves and strip the tree's bearer's burn timber, answered Wetzel. Rushing the ashes off the strip of meat he had roasted. Get a stick and help me cook the rest of this chunk of bison. The sun'll be an hour breaking up that mist, and we can't clear out till then. Maybe he won't have no chance to light another fire soon. With these borderman, everything pertaining to their only lives, from the lighting of a fire to the trailing of a red skin, was singularly serious. No glad some song ever came from their lips. There was no jollity around their campfire. Hunters had their moments of rapturous delight. Borderman knew the peace, the content of the wilderness, but the pursuits racked nerve and heart. Wetzel had his moments of frenzy joy, but they passed with the echo of his vengeful yell. Jonathan's happiness, such as it was, had been to roam the forests, that before a woman's eyes had dispelled it, had been enough, and compensated him for the gloomy, bloody phantoms which haunted him. The borderman having partaken of the frugal breakfast, stowed in their spacious pockets all the meat that was left, and were ready for the day's march. They sat silent for a time waiting for the mist to lift. It broke in places, rolled in huge bills, sailed aloft like great white clouds, and again hung tenaciously to the river and the plain. Away in the west blue patches of sky shone through the rifts, and eastward banks of misty vapor reddened beneath the rising sun. Suddenly from beneath the silver edge of the rising pall, the sun burst, gleaming gold, disclosing the winding valley with its steaming river. We'll make upstream for two islands and cross there if so be we've reasoned. Wetzel had said, Through the dewy dells avoiding the wet grass and bushes along the dark, damp glades with their yellow carpets under the thinning arches of the trees, down the gentle slopes of the ridges, rich with green moss, the borderman glided like gray shadows. The forest was yet asleep. A squirrel frisked up an oak and barked quarrelsonly, at these strange noiseless visitors, a cruel cod from somewhere overhead. These were the only sounds disturbing the quiet early hour. As the borderman advanced the woods lightened and woke, to life and joy, birds sang, trilled, warbled, and whistled. There are plenty of songs peculiar to the dying season and man harmony with the glory of the earth. Birds that in earlier seasons would have screeched and fought, now sang, and fluttered side by side in fraternal parade on their slow pilgrimage to the far south. Bad time for us when the birds are so tame and chipper. We can't put faith in them these days, says Wetzel. Seems like there never was wild, I can tell, except at this season. By the way they whistle and act in the woods. There's been any engines along the trails. The greater part of the morning passed thus, with the borderman steadily traversing the forest, here through a spare and gloomy wood blasted by fire, worn by age, with many a dethroned monarch of bygone times rotting to punk, and duff under the ferns, with many a dark, seemed and ragged king still standing, but gray and bald of head and almost ready to take its place in the forest of the past. There, through a maze of young samplings, were each ash, maple, hickory, and oak added some new beautiful hue to the riot of color. I just had a glimpse of the lower island as we passed an opening in the thicket, said Jonathan. We ain't far away, replied Wetzel. The borderman walked less rapidly in order to proceed with more watchfulness. Every rod or two they stopped to listen. You think Leggetts across the river asks Jonathan? He was two days back and had his gang with him. He's up to some bad work, but I can't make out what. One thing, I've never seen his trail so near Fort Henry. They merged at length into a more open forest which skirted the river, at a point still some distance ahead but plainly in sight. Two small islands rose out of the water. What's that, whispered Wetzel? Slipping his hand in Jonathan's arm. A hundred yards beyond lay a long, dark figure stretched at full length under one of the trees close to the bank. Looks like a man, said Jonathan. You've hit the mark. Take a good peep round now, Jack, for we're coming somewhere near the trail we want. Minutes passed while the patient borderman searched the forest with their eyes, seeking out every tree within rifle range, or surveyed the level glades, scrutinized the hollows, and bent piercing eyes upon the patches of ferns. If there's a red skin around he ain't big enough to hold a gun, said Wetzel, moving forward again, yet still with that same stealthy step and keen caution. Finally they were gazing down upon the object which had attracted Wetzel's attention. Will Shepherd! cried Jonathan. Is he dead? What's this mean? Wetzel leaned over the prostrate lad and then quickly turned to his companion. Get some water. Take his cap. No. He ain't even hurt bad unless he's got some wound as don't show. Jonathan returned with the water. Wetzel bathed the bloody face. When the gash on Will's forehead was clean, it told the borderman much. Not at our old that blow, muttered Wetzel. He's coming too, said Jonathan, as the lad stirred uneasily and moaned. Presently the lad opened his eyes and sat bolt upright. He looked bewildered for a moment and fell to his head while gazing vaguely at the borderman. Suddenly he cried, I remember we were captured, brought here, and I was struck down by that villain case. We, who was with you, asked Jonathan slowly. Helen, we came after flowers and leaves. While in full sight of the fort I saw an Indian, we hurried back. He cried and proceeded with broken, panning voice to tell his story. Jonathan Zane leapt to his feet with face deadly white and eyes blue-black like burning stars. Jack studied the trail while I get the lad across the river and steered for home, said Wetzel, and then he asked Will if he could swim. Yes, but you will find a canoe there in those willows. Come lad, we've no time to spare, added Wetzel, sliding down the bank and entering the willows. He came out almost immediately with the canoe which he launched. We'll turn that he might make a parting appeal to Jonathan to save Helen, but could not speak. The expression on the borderman's face brightened him. Motionless and erect, Jonathan stood, his arms folded, and his white stern face distorted with the agony of remorse, fear and anguish, which, even as Will gazed, froze into an awful, deadly look of fateful purpose. Wetzel pushed the canoe off and paddled with powerful strokes. He left Will on the opposite bank and returned as swiftly as he could, propelled the light craft. The borderman met each other's glance and had little need of words. Wetzel's great shoulders began to sag slightly in his head lowered as his eyes sought the grass. A dark and gloomy shade overcast his features. Thus he passed from borderman to deathwind. The saw of the wind overhead among the almost naked branches might well have warned Indians and renegades. That deathwind was on the trail. Brant's had a hand in this, and the Englishman's a fool, says Wetzel. An hour ahead can we come up with them before they join Brant and Leggett? We can drive, but Leggett is not Will fail. Leggett's gang is thirteen strong by now. I said it. Something told me a long trail, a hard trail, and our last trail. It's over thirty miles to Leggett's camp. We know the woods in every stream and every cover, yes, Jonathan Zane. With no further words Wetzel took the trail on the run, and so plain was it to his keen eyes that he did not relax a steady loop except to stop and listen at regular intervals. Jonathan followed with easy swing through the forest and meadow, over hill and valley that ran fleet and tireless. Once with unerring instinct they abruptly left the broad trail and cut far across a wide rugged ridge to come upon the tracks of the marching band. Then in open country they reduced their speed to a walk. Ahead in a narrow valley rose a thicket of willows, yellow in the sunlight, and impenetrable to human vision. Like huge snakes the borderman crept into this cope over the sand until the low branches hard on a trail finally in a light open space where the sun shone through the network of yellow branches and foliage. Wetzel's hand was laid upon Jonathan's shoulder. Listen, hear that, he whispered. Jonathan heard the flapping of wings and a low hissing sound, not unlike that made by a goose. Buzzards, he said, with a dark grim smile, maybe Brandt has begun her work. Come. Out into the open they crawled to put to flight a flock of huge black birds with grizzly-naked necks, hooked beaks and long yellow claws. Upon the green grass lay three half-naked men, ghastly, bloody, and terrible limp, and lifeless positions. Munchers, man's smith jinxed the outlaw and ordaunt. Jonathan Zane gazed darkly into the steely, sightless eyes of the traitor. Death's awful calm had set the expression that the man's whole life was there. It's better part sadly shining forth among the cruel shadows. His body was mutilated in a frightful manner. Cuts, stabs, and slashes told the tale of a long encounter. Brought to an end by one clean stroke. Come here, Lou. You've seen men chopped up. But look at this dead Englishman called Zane. Mordant lay weltering in a crimson tide. Strangely, though, his face was uningered. A black bruise shoaled under his fair hair. The ghost of a smile seemed to hover around his set lips. Yet almost intangible, though it was, it showed that at last he had died a man. His left shoulder, side, and arm, short with a brunt of Brant's attack had fallen. How'd he ever fight so, mused Jonathan. You never can tell, replied Wetzel. Maybe he killed this other feller, too, but I reckon not. Come, we must go slow now, for Legget is near at hand. Jonathan brought huge, flat stones from the brook, and laid them over Mordant. Then, cautiously, he left the glade on Wetzel's trail. Five hundred yards further on, Wetzel had ceased following the outlaw's tracks to cross the creek and climb a ridge. He was beginning his favorite trick of making a wide detour. Jonathan hurried forward, feeling he was safe from observation. Soon he distinguished the tall brown figure of his comrade, climbing ahead from tree to tree, from bush to bush. See them maples, chestnuts down there, set Wetzel, when Jonathan had come up, pointing through an opening in the forage. They've stopped for some reason. Arm through the forest, the boardermen glided. They kept near the summit, on the ridge, under the best cover they could find, and passed swiftly over the half-circle. Then, beginning once more to draw toward the open grove in the valley, they saw a long, irregular cliff, densely wooded. They swerved a little and made for this excellent cover. They crawled the last hundred yards and never shook a fern. Moved a leaf or broke a twig. Having rinsed the break of the low precipice, they saw the grassy meadow below, the straggling trees, the brook, the group of Indians crowding around the white men. See that point of rock there? That's better cover, whispered Wetzel. Patiently, with no hurry or excitement, they slowly made their difficult way among the rocks and ferns to the vantage point desired. Taking a position like this one, the boardermen strongly favored they could see everywhere in front and had the thick woods at their back. What are they up to, whispered Jonathan? As he and Wetzel lay close together under a mass of grapevine, still tenacious of its broad leaves. Dyson, answered Wetzel, I can see him throw. Anyways, nothing but bettin' ever makes redskins act like that. Who's playing? Where's Brandt? I can make out legged, see shaggy head. The other must be Case. Brandt ain't in sight. Dyson are hurt, perhaps. Ah, see there? Over under the big creus stands dark like again the thicket. That's an engine. And he looks too quiet and keen to suit me. We'll have a care of him. Must be playin' for Mordant's gold. Like is not, for where'd them rough ends get any set, they stole it. Ah, they're gettin' up. See Leggett walk away shakin' his big head? He's mad. Maybe he'll be madder presently, growled Jonathan. Case is left alone. He's countin' his winnins. Jack, look out for more work, took off our hands. Bygnam, see that engine knock up a level rifle? I told you, and that redskin has his suspicions. He's seen us down along their ridge. There's Helen sittin' behind the biggest tree. That engine guard, before he moved, kept us from seein' her. Jonathan made no answer to this. But his breath literally hissed through his clenched teeth. There goes the other outlaw, whispered Wetzel, as if his comrade could not see. It's all up with Case, see that sneak bendin' down the bank? Now that's a poor way. It'd better be done from the front, walkin' up natural-like instead of trying to cover that wide stretch. Case, see him, hear him sure. There, he's up now, and crawlin'. He's too slow, too slow. I knew it! Case turns, look at that outlaw spring. Did you see that little cuss whoop his knife? One more or less further us to quiet. That makes four. Jack, and maybe soon it'll be five. They're holdin' the council, said Jonathan. I see two engines naked off into the woods, and here comes that guard. He's a keen red-skinned Jack, but we did come, light through the brush. Maybe it'd be well to stop his scoutin'. Lou, that villain Case, is bullyin' Helen, cried Jonathan. Whispered Wetzel. See, he's pulled her to her feet. Oh, he struck her! Oh, Jonathan leveled his rifle, and would've fired, but for the iron grasp on his wrists. If you lost your senses, it's full two hundred paces and too far for your peace, said Wetzel and Whisper. And it ain't sense to try from here. Let me your gun, let me your gun. Soundly, Wetzel handled him the long black rifle. Jonathan raised it, but trembled so violently that the barrel wavered like a leaf in a breeze. Take it. I can't cover him, grown Jonathan. This is new to me. I ain't myself. God, Lou, he struck her again. Again, he's tryin' to kiss her. Wetzel, if you're my friend, kill him. Jack, it'd be better to wait and… I love her, breeze, Jonathan. The long black barrel swept up to a level and stopped. White smoke belched from among the green leaves. The report rang throughout the forest. Ah, I saw him stop and pause, yes, Jonathan. He stands. He sways. He falls. Death for your, you sailor beast. End of Chapter 19 Chapter 20 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 20 The boarderman watched Leggett and his band disappear into the thicket adjoining the grove. When the last dark live form glided out of sight among the yellowing crops, Jonathan leapt from the low cliff and had hardly reached the ground before Wetzel dashed down to the grassy turf. Again they followed the outlaw's trail, darker-faced, fiercer visage than ever, with cocked, tightly gripped rifles thrust well before them, and light feet that scarcely brushed the leaves. Wetzel halted after a long cramp up and down the ridges, and surveyed with keen intent the lay of the land ahead. Sooner or later we'll hear from that Redskine as discovered us a ways back, whispered he. I wish we might get a crack at him before he hinders us bad. I ain't seen many Keener engines. It's lucky we've fixed their arrow-shooting Shawnee. We'd never have beat that combination, and for all that, I'm worrying some about the going ahead. Ambush? Jonathan asked. Like it's not. Leggett'll send that engine back, and maybe more on him, Jack. See them little footprints? They're Helens. Look how she's dragging along, almost tuckered out. Leggett can't travel many more miles today. He'll make a stand somewheres, and lose all his Redskins before he gives up the last. I'll never live through tonight with her and that gang. She'll be saved or dead before the stars pale in the light of the moon. I reckon we're nigh the end for some of us. It'll be moonlight in an hour after dusk, and now it's only the middle of the afternoon. We've time enough for anything. Now, Jack, let's not tackle the trail straight. We'll split and go round and head them off. See that dead white oak standing high over there? Jonathan looked out between the spreading branches of a beach, and saw far over a low meadow, luxuriant with grasses and rushes and bright with sparkling ponds and streams, the dense wood out of which towered a bare, bleached treetop. He'll slip round along the right side of this meadow, and I'll take the left side, go slow, and have your eyes open. We'll meet under that big dead tree. I'll allow we can see it from anywhere round. We'll leave the trail here, and take it up further on. Leggett's going straight for his camp. He ain't losing an inch. He wants to get in that rocky hole he isn't. Wetzel stepped off the trail, glided into the woods, and vanished. Jonathan turned to the right, traversed the summit of the ridge, softly traveled down the slope, and after crossing a slow, eddying, quiet stream, gained the edge of the forest on that side of the swamp. A fringe of briars and prickly thorns bordered this wood, affording an excellent cover. On the right the land rose rather abruptly. He saw that by walking up a few paces he could command a view of the entire swamp, as well as the ridge beyond, which contained Wetzel, and probably the outlaw, and his band. Remembering his comrades' admonition, Jonathan curbed his unusual impatience and moved slowly. The wind swayed the treetops and rustled the fallen leaves. Birds sang as if thinking the warm, soft weather was summer come again. Squirrels dropped heavy nuts that cracked on the limbs, or fell with a thud to the ground. And they scampered over the dry earth, scratching up the leaves as they barked and scolded. Grows cawed clamorously after a hawk that had darted under the treetops to escape them. Dear lopped swiftly up the hill and a lordly elk rose from a wallow in a grassy swamp, crashing into the thicket. Went two-thirds around his oval plain, which was a while long, and perhaps one-fourth as wide. Jonathan ascended the hill to make a survey. The grass waved bright brown and golden in the sunshine, swished in the wind, and swept like a choppy sea to the opposite ridge. The hill was not densely wooded. In many places the red-brown foliage opened upon irregular patches, some black, as if having been burned over, other showing the yellow and purple colors of the low thickets, and the gray barren stones. Suddenly Jonathan saw something dark in one of those sunlit plots. Might have been a deer. He studied the rolling rounded treetops, the narrow strips between the black trunks, and the open places that were clear in the sunshine. He had nearly come to believe he had seen a small animal or bird, flit across the white of the sky, far in the background. When he distinctly saw a dark figure stealing along past a green-grey rock, only to disappear under colored banks of foliage. Presently lower down they reappeared and crossed an open patch of yellow fern. Jonathan countered them. Two were rather yellow in color. The hue of buckskin, another slight of stature, is compared with the first, and light gray by contrast. Then six black, slender, gliding forms crossed the space. Jonathan then lost sight of them and did not get another glimpse. He knew them to be legged in his band. This light figure was Helen. Jonathan broke into a run, completed the circle around the swamp, and slowed into a walk when approaching the big, dead cree where he was to wait for Wetzel. Silver rods beyond the lowland he came to a wood of white oaks, all giants rugged and old, with scarcely a sapling intermingled with them. Although he could not see the objective point, he knew from his accurate sense of distance that he was near it. As he entered the wood he swept its whole length and width with his eyes. He darted forward twenty paces to halt suddenly behind a tree. He knew full well that a sharply moving object was more difficult to see in the woods than one stationary. Again he ran, fleet and light, a few paces ahead to take up a position as before behind a tree. Thus he traversed the forest. On the other side he found the dead oak, of which Wetzel had spoken. His drunk was hollow, Jonathan squeezed himself into the blackened space, with his head in a favorable position behind a projecting knot, where he could see what might occur near at hand. He waited for what seemed to him a long while, during which he neither saw nor heard anything, and then suddenly the report of a rifle rang out. A single, piercing scream followed, hardly had the echo seized, when three hollow reports distinctly different in tone from the first could be heard from the same direction. In quick succession short fierce yells attended rather than succeeded the reports. Jonathan stepped out of the hiding place, cocked his rifle, and fixed a sharp eye on the ridge before him, whence those darling cries had come. The first rifle shot, unlike any other in its short spiteful stinging quality, was unmistakingly Wetzel's. Zane had heard it followed many times as now by the wild death cry of a savage. The other reports were of Indian guns, and the yells were the clamoring, exultant cries of Indians in pursuit. Far down where the open forest met the gloom of the thickets, a brown figure flashed across the yellow ground, darting among the trees across the glades. It moved so swiftly that Jonathan knew it was Wetzel. In another instant a chorus of yells resounded from the foliage, and three savages burst through the thicket, almost at right angles with a fling boarderman. Running to intercept him the boarderman did not swerve from his course but came on straight toward the dead tree, with the wonderful fleetness that so often had served him well. Even in that moment Jonathan thought of what desperate chances his comrade had taken. The trick was plain. Wetzel had most likely shot the dangerous scout, and, taking to his heels, raced past the others, trusting to his speed and their poor marksmanship to escape for the whole skin. When within a hundred yards of the oak, Wetzel's strength apparently gave out. His speed deserted him. He ran awkwardly and limped. The savages burst out into full cry like a pack of hungry wolves. They had already emptied the rifles at him, and now, supposing one of the shots had taken effect, redoubled their efforts, making the forest ring with their short savage yells. One gone dark-bodied Indian with the long, powerful springy stride, easily distanced his companions, and evidently sure of gaining the coveted scalp of the boarderman, rapidly closed the gap between them as he swung aloft his tomahawk yelling the war cry. The sight on Jonathan's rifle had several times covered this savage's dark face. But when he was about to press the trigger, Wetzel's fleeting form, also in line with the savage, made it extremely hazardous to take a shot. Jonathan stepped from his place of concealment, and let out a yell that peeled high over the cries of the savages. Wetzel suddenly dropped flat on the ground, with a whooping crack of Jonathan's rifle, the big Indian, plunged forward on his face. The other Indians, not fifty yards away, stopped aghast at the fate of their comrade, and were about to seek the shelter of trees when, with his terrible yell, Wetzel sprang up and charged upon them. He had left his rifle where he fell, but his tomahawk glittered as he ran. The lameness had been a trek, for now he covered ground with a swiftness which caused his former progress to seem slow. The Indians matured and seasoned warriors, though they were, gave but one glance at his huge brown figure bearing down upon them like a fiend, and uttering the Indian name of Deathwind, wavered, broke, and ran. One not so fleet as his companion, Wetzel overtook and cut down with a single stroke. The other gained an hundred yards straight in the slight interval of Wetzel's attack, and spurred on by a peeling awful cry in the rear, sped swiftly in and out among the trees until he was lost to view. Wetzel scalped the two dead savages, and after returning to regain his rifle, joined Jonathan at the dead oak. Jack, you can never tell how things is coming out. That redskin I allowed might worry us a bit, fooled me as slick as you ever saw, and I had to shoot him. No one, it was a case of runnin'. I just cut for this oak, drew the redskins fire, and had him after me quicker, you'd say, Jack Robinson. I was hopin' you'd be here, but wasn't sure till I seen your rifle. Then I kind of got a kink in my leg just to coax the brutes on. Three more quiet, said Jonathan Zane. What now? We've headed Leggett and we'll keep nosin' him off his course. Already he's lookin' for a safe campin' place for the night. There is none in these woods for him. We didn't plan this gettin' between him and his camp, but couldn't be better fixed. A mile further along the ridge is a campin' place, with a spring and a little dell close under a big stone, and well wooded, Leggett's headin' straight for it. With a couple of engines guarding that spot, he'll think he's safe. But I know the place, and can crawl to that rock, the darkest night that ever was, and never crack a stick. In the gray of the deepening twilight, Jonathan Zane sat alone, an owl hooted dismally in the dark woods beyond the thicket, where the boarderman crouched waiting for Wetzel. His listening ear detected a soft, rustling sound like the play of a mole under the leaves. A branch trembled and swung back. A soft footstep followed, and Wetzel came into the retreat. Well, asked Jonathan impatiently, as Wetzel deliberately sat down and laid his rifle across his knee. He's a jack, easy. We've an hour to wait. The time I've already waited has been long for me. They're there, said Wetzel grimly. How far from here? A half hour slow crawl. Close by hissed Jonathan. Too near for you to get excited. Let's us go. It's as light now as in the gray of morning. Mormon would be best. Engines get sleepy along towards day. I've ever found the time the best. But we'll be lucky if we catch these red skins asleep. Lou, I can't wait here all night. I won't leave her longer with that renegade. I've got to free or kill her. Most likely it'll be the last, said Wetzel simply. Well, so be it then, and the borderman hugged his head. You didn't worry none about Helen. I just had a good look at her, not half an hour back. She's fagged out, but full of spunk yet. I've seen that when Brant went near her, Leggett got his hands full just now with the red skins. He's having trouble keeping them on this slow trail. I ain't sayin' they're scared. But they're mighty restless. Well, you take the chance now? I reckon you needn't have asked that. Tell me the lay of the land. Well, if we get to this rock I spoke about, we'll be right over them. It's ten feet high, and we can jump straight amongst them. Most likely two or three will be garden-opening, which is a little ways to the right. But there's a big tree, the only one low down by the spring, Helen's under it, half sittin', half leanin' against the roots. When I first looked, her hands were free, but I saw Brant by under feet, and he had to get an engine to help him. For she kicked a spirited little filly. There's moss under the tree, and there's where the red skins will lay down to rest. I've got that now out with your plan. Well, I calculate it's this. The moon will be up in about an hour. We'll crawl as we've never crawled before, because Helen's life depends as much on our not makin' a noise as it does on fightin'. When the time comes, if they hear us afore we're ready to shoot, though last'll be tomahawk quicker and lightnin'. If they don't suspicion us when the right moment comes, you shoot Brant yell louder than you ever did before, lip amongst them, and cut down the first engine that's near you on your way to Helen. Swing her over your arm and dig into the woods. Well, asked Jonathan when what so finished. That's all, replied the boardman grimly, and leave you all alone to fight Leggett and the rest of him? I reckon. Not to be thought of? There no other way. Well, there must be. Let me think. I can't. I'm not myself. No other way, replied Wetzel curtly. Jonathan's broad hand fastened on Wetzel's shoulder and wheeled him around. Have I ever left you alone? That's a different. And Wetzel turned away again. His voice was cold and hard. How is it different? We've had the same thing to do almost more than once. We've never had a bad bunch to handle as Leggett's. They're looking for us and will be hard to beat. That's no reason. We never had to save a girl one of us loved. Jonathan was silent. I said this would be my last trail, continued Wetzel. I felt it, and I know it'll be yours. Why? If he get away with the girls, she'll keep you at home, and it'll be well. If he don't succeed, you'll die trying. So it's your last trail. Wetzel's deep, cold voice rang with truth. Well, I can't run away and leave you to fight these devils alone. After all these years we've been together, I can't. No other chance to save the lass. Jonathan quivered with the force of his emotion. His black eyes glittered. His hands grasped at nothing. Once more he was between love and duty. Again he fought over the old battle, but this time it left him weak. You love that big-eyed lass, don't you, ask Wetzel, turning with softened face and voice. I've gone mad, cried Jonathan, tortured by the simple question of his friend. Those big, dear, wonderful eyes he loved so well, looked at him now from the gloom of the thicket. The old beautiful soft glow, the tender light, was there and more, a beseeching prayer to save her. Jonathan bowed his head, ashamed to let his friend see the tears that dimmed his eyes. Jack, we've followed the trail for years together. Always you've been true and staunch. This is our last. But whatever binds will break up Legget's band tonight, and the border'll be cleared. Maybe for always. At least his race has run. Let that content you. Our time have to come sooner or later, so why not now? I know how it is that you want to stick by me, but the last draws you to her. I understand and want you to save her. Maybe you never dreamed it, but I can tell you just how you feel. All the trembling and softness and sweetness and delight you got for that girl is no mystery to Lou Wetzel. You loved her last? Wetzel bowed his head as perhaps he had never before in all his life. Betty, always, me answered softly. My sister? They claimed Jonathan, and then his hand closed hard on his comrades? His mind going back to many things strange in the past, but now explained. Wetzel had revealed his secret. And it's been all my life, since she wasn't hiring my knee. There was a time when I might have been closer to you than I am now. But I was a mad and bloody engine-hater, so I never let her know till I seen it was too late. Well, well, no more of me. I only told it for you. Jonathan was silent. And now to come back where we left off, continued Wetzel. Let's take a more hopeful look at this coming fight. Sure, I said it was my last trail, but maybe it's not. You can never tell. Feeling as we do, I imagine they've no odds on us. Never in my life did I say to you, list of all, to anyone else. What I was going to do. But I'll tell it now. If I land uninjured amongst that bunch, I'll kill them all. The giant boarderman's low-voiced hissed and stung. His eyes glittered with unearthly fire. His face was cold and gray. He spread out his brawny arms and clenched his huge fist, making the muscles of his broad shoulders roll and bulge. I hate the thought, Lou. I hate the thought. Ain't there no other way? No other way? I'll do it, Lou, because I'd do the same for you. Because I have to, because I love her, but God, it hurts. That's right, answered Wetzel, his deep voice softening until it was singularly low and rich. I'm glad you've come to it. And sure, it hurts. I want you to feel so at leaving me to go it alone. If we both get out alive, I'll come many times to see you and Helen. If you live, and I don't, think of me sometimes. Think of the trails we've crossed together. When the fall comes with its soft cool air and smoky morning and starry nights, when the wind's sad among the bare branches and our leaves drop down, remember they're falling on my grave. Twilight darkened into gloom. The red tinge in the west changed to opalite through the trees over a dark ridge, a rim of silver glinted and moved. The moon had risen, the hour was come. The borderman tightened their belts, replaced their leggings, tied their hunting-coats, loosened their hatchets, looked to the priming of the rifles, and were ready. Wetzel walked twenty paces and turned. His face was white in the moonlight. His dark eyes softened into a look of love as he gripped his comrades' outstretched hand. Then he dropped flat on the ground, carefully saw to the position of his rifle, and began to creep. Jonathan kept close at his heels. Slowly but steadily they crawled, minute after minute. The hazelnut brushes above them had not yet shed their leaves, the ground was clean and hard, and the course fainfully perfect for their deadly purpose. A slight rustling of their buckskin garment sounded like the rustling of leaves in the faint breeze. The moon came out above the trees, and still Wetzel advanced softly, steadily, surely. The owl, lonely sentinel of that wood hooded dismally. Even his night-eyes, which made the darkness seem clear as day, missed those gliding figures. Even he, sure guardian of the wilderness, failed the savages. Jonathan felt soft moss beneath him. He was now into the woods under the trees the thicket had been passed. Wetzel's moccasin pressed softly against Jonathan's head, the first signal. Jonathan crawled forward and slightly raised himself. He was on a rock. The trees were thick and gloomy. Below, the little hollow was almost in the one moonbeams. Dark figures lay close together. Two savages paced noiselessly to and fro. A slight form rolled in a blanket lay against a tree. Jonathan felt his arm gently squeezed, the second signal. Slowly he thrust forward his rifle and raised it in unison with Wetzel's. Slowly he rose to his feet as if the same muscle guided them both. Over his head a twig snapped. In the darkness he had not seen a low branch. The Indian guard stopped suddenly and became motionless as stone. They had heard, but too late. With the blended roar of the rifles both dropped lifeless. Almost under the spouting flame and white cloud of smoke, Jonathan leaped behind Wetzel. Over the bank his yells were mingled with Wetzel's vengeful cry. Like leaping shadows the borderman were upon their foes. An Indian sprang up, raised a weapon, and fell beneath Jonathan's savage blow to rise no more. Over his prostrate body the borderman bounded. A dark nimble form darted upon the captive. He swung high a blade that shone like silver in the moonlight. His shrill war cry of death rang out with hell and scream of despair, even as he swung back her head with one hand in her long hair. His arm descended, but it fell upon the borderman's body. Jonathan and the Indian rolled upon the moss. There was a terrific struggle, a whirling blade, a dull blow which silenced the yell, and the borderman rose alone. He lifted Helen as if she were a child, leaped the brook, and plunged into the thicket. The noise of the fearful conflict he left behind swelled high and hit easily on the night air. Above the shrill cries of the Indians and their furious yells of legate rose the mad booming roar of Wetzel. No rifle cracked, but sodden blows, a clash of steel, the thrashing of struggling men, told of the dreadful strife. Jonathan gained the woods, sped through the moonlight glades, and far on, under light and shadow, the shrill cries ceased. Only the hoarse yells and the mad roar could be heard. Gradually these all died away, and the forest was still. End of Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Of The Lost Trail This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Mike Venditti MikeVenditti.com The Last Trail by Zane Gray Chapter 21 Next morning when the mist was breaking and rolling away under the warm rays of the Indian summer sun, Jonathan Zane beached his canoe on the steep bank before Fort Henry, a pioneer attracted by the boarderman's halo, ran to the bluff and sounded the alarm with shrill whoops, among the hurrying brown-clad figures that answered this summons was Colonel Zane. It's Jack, Colonel, and he's got her, cried one. The Daughty Colonel gained the bluff to see his brother climbing the bank with a white-faced girl in his arms. Well, he asked, looking darkly at Jonathan. Nothing kindly or genial was visible in his manner now, rather grim and foreboding he seemed, thus showing he had the same blood in his veins as the boarderman. Let me hand, said Jonathan. As far as I know she's not hurt. They carried Helen towards Colonel Zane's cabin. Many women of the settlement saw them as they passed and looked gravely at one another, but none spoke. This return of an abducted girl was by no means a strange event. Somebody run for Shepherd, ordered Colonel Zane as they entered his cabin. Betty, who was in the sitting-room, sprang up and cried, Oh, Eb, Eb! Don't say she's— No, no, Betz, she's all right. Where's my wife? Ah, Betz. Here, get to work. The Colonel left Helen in the tender, skillful hands of his wife and sister and followed Jonathan into the kitchen. I was just ready for breakfast when I heard someone yell, said he. Come, Jack, eat something. The eight in silence, from the sitting-room came excited whispers, a joyous cry from Betty, and a faint voice, then heavy hurrying footsteps, followed by Shepherd's words of Thanksgiving. Where's Wetzel? began Colonel Zane. The Borderman shook his head gloomily. Where did you leave him? I jumped Leggett's bunch last night, when the moon was about an hour high. Wrecking about fifteen miles northeast, I got away with the last. Ah, left Lou fighting? The Borderman answered the question with bowed head. You got off well, not a hurt that I can see and more than lucky to save Helen. Well, Jack, what do you think about Lou? Going back, replied Jonathan. No, no. The door opened to admit Mrs. Zane, she looked bright and cheerful. Hello, Jack. Glad you're home. Helen's all right, only faint from hunger and overexertion. I want something for her to eat. Well, you men didn't leave much. Colonel Zane went into the sitting-room. Shepherd sat beside the couch where Helen lay, white and wan. Betty and Nell were looking on with their hearts in their eyes. Silas Zane was there and his wife, with several women neighbors. Betty, go fetch Jack in here, whispered to Colonel and his sister's ear. Drag him, if you have to, he added fiercely. The young woman left the room to reappear directly with her brother. He came in reluctantly. As the stern-faced borderman crossed the threshold, a smile, beautiful to see, dawned in Helen's eyes. I'm glad to see you're coming round, said Jonathan. But he spoke dully as if his mind was on other things. She's a little flighty, but a night's sleep will cure that, cried Mrs. Zane from the kitchen. What do you think, interrupted the Colonel? Jack's not satisfied to get back with Helen unharmed and a whole skin himself, but he's going on the trail again. No, Jack, no, no, cried Betty. What's that I hear? Ask Mrs. Zane as she came in. Jack's going out again. Well, all I want to say is that he's as mad as a March Hare. Jonathan, look here, said Silas seriously. Can't you stay home now? Jack, listen, whispered Betty, going close to him. Not one of us ever expected to see either you or Helen again. Oh, we are so happy. Do not go away again. You're a man you do not know. You cannot understand all a woman feels. She must sit and wait and hope and pray for the safe return of husband or brother or sweetheart. The long days. Oh, the long sleepless nights with the wail of the wind and the pines and the rain on the roof. It is maddening. Do not leave us. Do not leave me. Do not leave Helen. Say you will not, Jack. To these entreaties the borderman remained silent. He stood leaning on his rifle, a tall, dark, strangely sad and stern man. Helen, beg him to stay, implored Betty. Colonel Zane took Helen's hand and stroked it. Yes, he said. You ask him less. I'm sure you can persuade him to stay. Helen raised her head. Is Brent dead? She whispered faintly. Still the borderman failed to speak, but his silence was not an infirmative. You said you love me, she cried wildly. You said you love me, yet you didn't kill that monster? The borderman moving quickly like a startled Indian went out of the door. Once more Jonathan Zane entered the gloomy, quiet aisles of the forest with his soft, tireless tread, hardly stirring the leaves. It was late in the afternoon, when he had long left two islands behind and arrived at the scene of Mordant's death. Satisfied with the distance he had traversed, he crawled into a thicket to rest. Daybreak found him again on the trail. He made a shortcut over the ridges, and by the time the mist had lifted from the valley, he was within stalking distance of the glade. He approached this in the familiar, slow, cautious manner, and halted behind the big rock from which he and Wenzel had leapt. The wood was solemnly quiet. No twittering of birds could be heard. The only sign of life was a gaunt timber-wolf slinking away amid the foliage. Under the big tree, the savage who had been killed as he would have murdered Helen lay a crumpled mass where he had fallen. Two dead Indians were in the center of the glade, and on the other side were three more bloody, lifeless forms. Wenzel was not there, nor Leggett nor Brant. I reckon so, muttered Jonathan as he studied the scene. The grass had been trampled, the trees barked, the bushes crushed aside. Jonathan went out of the glade a short distance, and circling it began to look for Wenzel's trail. He found it, and near the light footprints of his comrade were the great broad moccasin tracks of the outlaw. Further searching disclosed the fact that Brant must have traveled in line with the others. With the certainty that Wenzel had killed three of the Indians and in some wonderful manner characteristic of him, rotted the outlaws of whom he was now in pursuit. Jonathan's smothering emotion birthed forth into full flame, love for his old comrade, deadly hate of the outlaws, and passionate thirst for their blood rioted in his heart. Like a lynx senting its quarry, the border man started on the trail tireless and unswervable. The traces left by the fleeting outlaws and their pursuer were plain to Jonathan. It was not necessary for him to stop. Legate and Brant, seeking to escape the implacable, nemesis were traveling with all possible speed, regardless of the broad trail. Such hurried movements left behind. They knew full well it would be difficult to throw this wolf off the scent, understood that if any attempt was made to ambush the trail they must cope with woodcraft keener than an Indians. Flying in desperation they hoped to reach the rocky retreat where, like foxes in their burrows, they believed themselves safe, when the sun sloped low toward the western horizon. Lengthening Jonathan's shadow he slackened pace. He was entering the rocky rugged country which marked the approach to the distant Alleghenies. From the top of a ridge he took his bearings, deciding that he was within a few miles of Legate's hiding place. At the foot of this ridge where a murmuring brook sped swiftly over its bed he halted. Here a number of horses had forded the brook. They were iron-shod, which indicated almost to a certainty that they were stolen horses and in the hands of Indians. Jonathan saw where the trail of the steeds was merged into that of the outlaws. He suspected that the Indians and Legate had held a short council. As he advanced the boardermen found only the faintest impression of Wetzel's trail. Legate and Brant no longer left any token of their course. They were riding the horses. All the boardermen cared to know was if Wetzel still pursued. He passed on swiftly up a hill through a wood of birches where the trail showed on a line of broken ferns. Then out upon a low ridge where patches of grass grew sparsely. Here he saw, in this last ground, no indication of his comrade's trail. Nothing was to be seen save the imprints of the horses-hoofs. Jonathan halted behind the nearest underbrush. This sudden move on the part of Wetzel was token that suspecting an ambush he had made a detour somewhere, probably in the grove of birches. All the while his eyes searched the long barren reach ahead. No thicket, voluntary, or splintered rocks, such as Indians utilized for an ambush, could be seen. Indians always sought the densely matted underbrush, a windfall, or rocky retreat, and there awaited a pursuer. It was one of the boardermen's tricks of woodcraft that he could recognize such places. Far beyond the sandy ridge Jonathan came to a sloping wooded hillside, upon which were scattered big rocks, some mossy and lichen-covered, and one a giant boulder with a crown of ferns and laurel gracing its flat surface. It was such a place as the savages would select for ambush, he knew, however, that if an Indian had hidden himself there Wetzel would have discovered him when, opposite the rock, Jonathan saw a broken fern hanging over the edge. The heavy trail of the horses ran close beside it. Then, with that thoroughness of search which made the boarderman what he was, Jonathan leapt upon the rock. There, lying in the midst of a fern, laying Indian, with sullen, somber face, said in repose of death. In his side was a small bullet hole. Jonathan examined the savages' rifle. It had been discharged. The rock, the broken fern, the dead Indian, the discharged rifle, told the story of that woodland tragedy. Wetzel had discovered the ambush, leaving the trail. He had tricked the red skin into firing, then getting a glimpse of the Indian's red body through the sights of his fatal weapon. The deed was done. With greater caution, Jonathan advanced once more. Not far beyond the rock he found Wetzel's trail. The afternoon was drawing to a close. He could not travel much further. Yet he kept on, hoping to overtake his comrade before darkness set in. From time to time he whistled, but got no answering signal. When the tracks of the horses were nearly hidden by the gathering dusk, Jonathan decided to halt for the night. He whistled one more note, louder and clearer, and awaited the result with strained ears. The deep silence of the wilderness prevailed. Suddenly to be broken by a faint far away melancholy call of the hermit thrush. It was the answering signal the boarderman had hoped to hear. Not many moments elapsed before he heard another call. Low and near at hand, to which he replied, the bushes parted noiselessly on his left, and a tall form of Wetzel appeared silently out of the gloom. The two gripped hands in silence. Have you any meat? Wetzel asked, and as Jonathan handed him his knapsack. He continued, I was kind of looking for you. Did you get out all right with the last? Nary a scratch. The giant boarderman grunted his satisfaction. How'd Legget and Brant get away? asked Jonathan. Cut and run like scared bucks. Never got a hand on either of them. How many redskins did they meet back here, a spell? They were seven, but now there are only six in all snug in Legget's place by this time. I reckon we're near as den, or not far off. Night soon closing down upon the boarderman found them wrapped in slumber, as if no deadly foes were near at hand. The soft night wind sighed dismally along the bare trees. A few bright stars twinkled overhead. In the darkness of the forest, the boarderman were at home.