The Spirit of the Border by Zane Grey (free children's ebooks pdf .TXT) đ
- Author: Zane Grey
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Joe noted, however, that the larger raft had been prepared with some thought for the comfort of the girls. The floor of the little hut was raised so that the waves which broke over the logs could not reach it. Taking a peep into the structure, Joe was pleased to see that Nell and Kate would be comfortable, even during a storm. A buffalo robe and two red blankets gave to the interior a cozy, warm look. He observed that some of the girlsâ luggage was already on board.
âWhenâll we be off?â he inquired.
âSun-up,â answered Lynn, briefly.
âIâm glad of that. I like to be on the go in the early morning,â said Joe, cheerfully.
âMost folks from over Eastways ainât in a hurry to tackle the river,â replied Lynn, eyeing Joe sharply.
âItâs a beautiful river, and Iâd like to sail on it from here to where it ends, and then come back to go again,â Joe replied, warmly.
âIn a hurry to be a-goinâ? Iâll allow youâll see some slim red devils, with feathers in their hair, slipping among the trees along the bank, and mebbe youâll hear the ping whichâs made when whistlinâ lead hits. Perhaps youâll want to be back here by termorrer sundown.â
âNot I,â said Joe, with his short, cool laugh.
The old frontiersman slowly finished his task of coiling up a rope of wet cowhide, and then, producing a dirty pipe, he took a live ember from the fire and placed it on the bowl. He sucked slowly at the pipe-stem, and soon puffed out a great cloud of smoke. Sitting on a log, he deliberately surveyed the robust shoulders and long, heavy limbs of the young man, with a keen appreciation of their symmetry and strength. Agility, endurance and courage were more to a borderman than all else; a newcomer on the frontier was always âsized-upâ with reference to these âpoints,â and respected in proportion to the measure in which he possessed them.
Old Jeff Lynn, riverman, hunter, frontiersman, puffed slowly at his pipe while he mused thus to himself: âMebbe Iâm wrong in takinâ a likinâ to this youngster so sudden. Mebbe itâs because Iâm fond of his sunny-haired lass, anâ agâin mebbe itâs because Iâm gettinâ old anâ likes young folks betterân I onct did. Anyway, Iâm kinder thinkin, if this young feller gits worked out, say fer about twenty pounds less, heâll lick a whole raft-load of wildcats.â
Joe walked to and fro on the logs, ascertained how the raft was put together, and took a pull on the long, clumsy steering-oar. At length he seated himself beside Lynn. He was eager to ask questions; to know about the rafts, the river, the forest, the Indiansâeverything in connection with this wild life; but already he had learned that questioning these frontiersmen is a sure means of closing their lips.
âEver handle the long rifle?â asked Lynn, after a silence.
âYes,â answered Joe, simply.
âEver shoot anythinâ?â the frontiersman questioned, when he had taken four or five puffs at his pipe.
âSquirrels.â
âGood practice, shootinâ squirrels,â observed Jeff, after another silence, long enough to allow Joe to talk if he was so inclined. âKin ye hit oneâsay, a hundred yards?â
âYes, but not every time in the head,â returned Joe. There was an apologetic tone in his answer.
Another interval followed in which neither spoke. Jeff was slowly pursuing his line of thought. After Joeâs last remark he returned his pipe to his pocket and brought out a tobacco-pouch. He tore off a large portion of the weed and thrust it into his mouth. Then he held out the little buckskin sack to Joe.
âHevâ a chaw,â he said.
To offer tobacco to anyone was absolutely a bordermanâs guarantee of friendliness toward that person.
Jeff expectorated half a dozen times, each time coming a little nearer the stone he was aiming at, some five yards distant. Possibly this was the bordermanâs way of oiling up his conversational machinery. At all events, he commenced to talk.
âYer brotherâs goinâ to preach out here, ainât he? Preachinâ is all right, Iâll allow; but Iâm kinder doubtful about preachinâ to redskins. Howsumever, Iâve knowed Injuns who are good fellows, and thereâs no tellinâ. What are ye goinâ in ferâfarminâ?â
âNo, I wouldnât make a good farmer.â
âJest cum out kinder wild like, eh?â rejoined Jeff, knowingly.
âI wanted to come West because I was tired of tame life. I love the forest; I want to fish and hunt; and I think Iâd like toâto see Indians.â
âI kinder thought so,â said the old frontiersman, nodding his head as though he perfectly understood Joeâs case. âWell, lad, where youâre goinâ seeinâ Injuns ainât a matter of choice. You has to see âem, and fight âem, too. Weâve had bad times for years out here on the border, and Iâm thinkinâ wuss is cominâ. Did ye ever hear the name Girty?â
âYes; heâs a renegade.â
âHeâs a traitor, and Jim and George Girty, his brothers, are pâisin rattlesnake Injuns. Simon Girtyâs bad enough; but Jimâs the wust. Heâs now wusserân a full-blooded Delaware. Heâs all the time on the lookout to capture white wimen to take to his Injun teepee. Simon Girty and his pals, McKee and Elliott, deserted from that thar fort right afore yer eyes. Theyâre now livinâ among the redskins down Fort Henry way, raisinâ as much hell fer the settlers as they kin.â
âIs Fort Henry near the Indian towns?â asked Joe.
âThereâs Delawares, Shawnees and Hurons all along the Ohio below Fort Henry.â
âWhere is the Moravian Mission located?â
âWhy, lad, the Village of Peace, as the Injuns call it, is right in the midst of that Injun country. I âspect itâs a matter of a hundred miles below and cross-country a little from Fort Henry.â
âThe fort must be an important point, is it not?â
âWal, I guess so. Itâs the last place on the river,â answered Lynn, with a grim smile. âThereâs only a stockade there, anâ a handful of men. The Injuns hev swarmed down on it time and agâin, but they hev never burned it. Only such men as Colonel Zane, his brother Jack, and Wetzel could hev kept that fort standinâ all these bloody years. Eb Zaneâs got but a few men, yet he kin handle âem some, anâ with such scouts as Jack Zane and Wetzel, he allus knows whatâs goinâ on among the Injuns.â
âIâve heard of Colonel Zane. He was an officer under Lord Dunmore. The hunters here speak often of Jack Zane and Wetzel. What are they?â
âJack Zane is a hunter anâ guide. I knowed him well a few years back. Heâs a quiet, mild chap; but a streak of chain-lightninâ when heâs riled. Wetzel is an Injun-killer. Some people say as how heâs crazy over scalp-huntinâ; but I reckon thatâs not so. Iâve seen him a few times. He donât hang round the settlement âcept when the Injuns are up, anâ nobody sees him much. At home he sets round silent-like, anâ then mebbe next morninâ heâll be gone, anâ wonât show up fer days or weeks. But all the frontier knows of his deeds. Fer instance, Iâve hearn of settlers gettinâ up in the morninâ anâ findinâ a couple of dead and scalped Injuns right in front of their cabins. No one knowed who killed âem, but everybody says âWetzel.â Heâs allus warninâ the settlers when they need to flee to the fort, and sure heâs right every time, because when these men go back to their cabins they find nothinâ but ashes. There couldnât be any farminâ done out there but fer Wetzel.â
âWhat does he look like?â questioned Joe, much interested.
âWetzel stands straight as the oak over thar. Heâd hevâ to go sideways to git his shoulders in that door, but heâs as light of foot anâ fast as a deer. Anâ his eyesâwhy, lad, ye kin hardly look into âem. If you ever see Wetzel youâll know him to onct.â
âI want to see him,â Joe spoke quickly, his eyes lighting with an eager flash. âHe must be a great fighter.â
âIs he? Lew Wetzel is the heftiest of âem all, anâ we hev some as kin fight out here. I was down the river a few years ago and joined a party to go out anâ hunt up some redskins as had been reported. Wetzel was with us. We soon struck Injun sign, and then come on to a lot of the pesky varmints. We was all fer goinâ home, because we had a small force. When we started to go we finds Wetzel sittinâ calm-like on a log. We said: âAinât ye goinâ home?â and he replied, âI cum out to find redskins, anâ now as weâve found âem, Iâm not goinâ to run away.â Anâ we left him settinâ thar. Oh, Wetzel is a fighter!â
âI hope I shall see him,â said Joe once more, the warm light, which made him look so boyish, still glowing in his face.
âMebbe yeâll git to; and sure yeâll see redskins, anâ not tame ones, nuther.â
At this moment the sound of excited voices near the cabins broke in on the conversation. Joe saw several persons run toward the large cabin and disappear behind it. He smiled as he thought perhaps the commotion had been caused by the awakening of the Indian brave.
Rising to his feet, Joe went toward the cabin, and soon saw the cause of the excitement. A small crowd of men and women, all laughing and talking, surrounded the Indian brave and the little stout fellow. Joe heard some one groan, and then a deep, guttural voice:
âPalefaceâbig stealâugh! Injun madâheap madâkill paleface.â
After elbowing his way into the group, Joe saw the Indian holding Loorey with one hand, while he poked him on the ribs with the other. The captiveâs face was the picture of dismay; even the streaks of paint did not hide his look of fear and bewilderment. The poor half-witted fellow was so badly frightened that he could only groan.
âSilvertip scalp paleface. Ugh!â growled the savage, giving Loorey another blow on the side. This time he bent over in pain. The bystanders were divided in feeling; the men laughed, while the women murmured sympathetically.
âThisâs not a bit funny,â muttered Joe, as he pushed his way nearly to the middle of the crowd. Then he stretched out a long arm that, bare and brawny, looked as though it might have been a blacksmithâs, and grasped the Indianâs sinewy wrist with a force that made him loosen his hold on Loorey instantly.
âI stole the shirtâfunâjoke,â said Joe. âScalp me if you want to scalp anyone.â
The Indian looked quickly at the powerful form before him. With a twist he slipped his arm from Joeâs grasp.
âBig paleface heap funâall squaw play,â he said, scornfully. There was a menace in his somber eyes as he turned abruptly and left the group.
âIâm afraid youâve made an enemy,â said Jake Wentz to Joe. âAn Indian never forgets an insult, and thatâs how he regarded your joke. Silvertip has been friendly here because he sells us his pelts. Heâs a Shawnee chief. There he goes through the willows!â
By this time Jim and Mr. Wells, Mrs. Wentz and the girls had joined the group. They all watched Silvertip get into his canoe and paddle away.
âA bad sign,â said Wentz, and then, turning to Jeff Lynn, who joined the party at that moment, he briefly explained the circumstances.
âNever did like Silver. Heâs a crafty redskin, anâ not to be trusted,â replied Jeff.
âHe has turned round and is looking back,â Nell said quickly.
âSo he has,â observed the fur-trader.
The Indian was now several hundred yards down the swift river, and for an instant had ceased paddling. The sun shone brightly
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