Zane Grey (17 page)

The feeling of comradeship which Wetzel had for Joe was something
altogether new in the hunter's life. True he had hunted with
Jonathan Zane, and accompanied expeditions where he was forced to
sleep with another scout; but a companion, not to say friend, he had
never known. Joe was a boy, wilder than an eagle, yet he was a man.
He was happy and enthusiastic, still his good spirits never jarred
on the hunter; they were restrained. He never asked questions, as
would seem the case in any eager lad; he waited until he was spoken
to. He was apt; he never forgot anything; he had the eye of a born
woodsman, and lastly, perhaps what went far with Wetzel, he was as
strong and supple as a young lynx, and absolutely fearless.

On this evening Wetzel and Joe followed their usual custom; they
smoked a while before lying down to sleep. Tonight the hunter was
even more silent than usual, and the lad, tired out with his day's
tramp, lay down on a bed of fragrant boughs.

Wetzel sat there in the gathering gloom while he pulled slowly on
his pipe. The evening was very quiet; the birds had ceased their
twittering; the wind had died away; it was too early for the bay of
a wolf, the wail of a panther, or hoot of an owl; there was simply
perfect silence.

The lad's deep, even breathing caught Wetzel's ear, and he found
himself meditating, as he had often of late, on this new something
that had crept into his life. For Joe loved him; he could not fail
to see that. The lad had preferred to roam with the lonely
Indian-hunter through the forests, to encounter the perils and
hardships of a wild life, rather than accept the smile of fortune
and of love. Wetzel knew that Colonel Zane had taken a liking to the
boy, and had offered him work and a home; and, also, the hunter
remembered the warm light he had seen in Nell's hazel eyes. Musing
thus, the man felt stir in his heart an emotion so long absent that
it was unfamiliar. The Avenger forgot, for a moment his brooding
plans. He felt strangely softened. When he laid his head on the rude
pillow it was with some sense of gladness that, although he had
always desired a lonely life, and wanted to pass it in the
fulfillment of his vow, his loneliness was now shared by a lad who
loved him.

Joe was awakened by the merry chirp of a chipmunk that every morning
ran along the seamy side of the opposite wall of the gorge. Getting
up, he went to the back of the cave, where he found Wetzel combing
out his long hair. The lad thrust his hands into the cold pool, and
bathed his face. The water was icy cold, and sent an invigorating
thrill through him. Then he laughed as he took a rude comb Wetzel
handed to him.

"My scalp is nothing to make an Indian very covetous, is it?" said
he, eyeing in admiration the magnificent black hair that fell over
the hunter's shoulders.

"It'll grow," answered Wetzel.

Joe did not wonder at the care Wetzel took of his hair, nor did he
misunderstand the hunter's simple pride. Wetzel was very careful of
his rifle, he was neat and clean about his person, he brushed his
buckskin costume, he polished his knife and tomahawk; but his hair
received more attention than all else. It required much care. When
combed out it reached fully to his knees. Joe had seen him, after he
returned from a long hunt, work patiently for an hour with his
wooden comb, and not stop until every little burr was gone, or
tangle smoothed out. Then he would comb it again in the
morning—this, of course, when time permitted—and twist and tie it
up so as to offer small resistance to his slipping through the
underbush. Joe knew the hunter's simplicity was such, that if he cut
off his hair it would seem he feared the Indians—for that streaming
black hair the Indians had long coveted and sworn to take. It would
make any brave a famous chief, and was the theme of many a savage
war tale.

After breakfast Wetzel said to Joe:

"You stay here, an' I'll look round some; mebbe I'll come back soon,
and we'll go out an' kill a buffalo. Injuns sometimes foller up a
buffalo trail, an' I want to be sure none of the varlets are chasin'
that herd we saw to-day."

Wetzel left the cave by the rear. It took him fifteen minutes to
crawl to the head of the tortuous, stony passage. Lifting the stone
which closed up the aperture, he looked out and listened. Then,
rising, he replaced the stone, and passed down the wooded hillside.

It was a beautiful morning; the dew glistened on the green leaves,
the sun shone bright and warm, the birds warbled in the trees. The
hunter's moccasins pressed so gently on the moss and leaves that
they made no more sound than the soft foot of a panther. His trained
ear was alert to catch any unfamiliar noise; his keen eyes sought
first the remoter open glades and glens, then bent their gaze on the
mossy bluff beneath his feet. Fox squirrels dashed from before him
into bushy retreats; grouse whirred away into the thickets; startled
deer whistled, and loped off with their white-flags upraised. Wetzel
knew from the action of these denizens of the woods that he was the
only creature, not native to these haunts, who had disturbed them
this morning. Otherwise the deer would not have been grazing, but
lying low in some close thicket; fox squirrels seldom or never were
disturbed by a hunter twice in one day, for after being frightened
these little animals, wilder and shyer than gray squirrels, remained
hidden for hours, and grouse that have been flushed a little while
before, always get up unusually quick, and fly very far before
alighting.

Wetzel circled back over the hill, took a long survey from a rocky
eminence, and then reconnoitered the lowland for several miles. He
located the herd of buffalo, and satisfying himself there were no
Indians near—for the bison were grazing quietly—he returned to the
cave. A soft whistle into the back door of the rocky home told Joe
that the hunter was waiting.

"Coast clear?" whispered the lad, thrusting his head out of the
entrance. His gray eyes gleamed brightly, showing his eager spirit.

The hunter nodded, and, throwing his rifle in the hollow of his arm,
proceeded down the hill. Joe followed closely, endeavoring, as
Wetzel had trained him, to make each step precisely in the hunter's
footprints. The lad had soon learned to step nimbly and softly as a
cat. When half way down the bill Wetzel paused.

"See anythin'?" he whispered.

Joe glanced on all sides. Many mistakes had taught him to be
cautious. He had learned from experience that for every woodland
creature he saw, there were ten watching his every move. Just now he
could not see even a little red squirrel. Everywhere were sturdy
hickory and oak trees, thickets and hazelnuts, slender ash saplings,
and, in the open glades, patches of sumach. Rotting trees lay on the
ground, while ferns nodded long, slender heads over the fallen
monarchs. Joe could make out nothing but the colors of the woods,
the gray of the tree trunks, and, in the openings through the
forest-green, the dead purple haze of forests farther on. He smiled,
and, shaking his head at the hunter, by his action admitted failure.

"Try again. Dead ahead," whispered Wetzel.

Joe bent a direct gaze on the clump of sassafras one hundred feet
ahead. He searched the open places, the shadows—even the branches.
Then he turned his eyes slowly to the right. Whatever was
discernible to human vision he studied intently. Suddenly his eye
became fixed on a small object protruding from behind a beech tree.
It was pointed, and in color darker than the gray bark of the beech.
It had been a very easy matter to pass over this little thing; but
now that the lad saw it, he knew to what it belonged.

"That's a buck's ear," he replied.

Hardly had he finished speaking when Wetzel intentionally snapped a
twig. There was a crash and commotion in the thicket; branches moved
and small saplings waved; then out into the open glade bounded a
large buck with a whistle of alarm. Throwing his rifle to a level,
Joe was trying to cover the bounding deer, when the hunter struck up
his piece.

"Lad, don't kill fer the sake of killin," he said, quietly. "We have
plenty of venison. We'll go arter a buffalo. I hev a hankerin' fer a
good rump steak."

Half an hour later, the hunters emerged from the forest into a wide
plain of waving grass. It was a kind of oval valley, encircled by
hills, and had been at one time, perhaps, covered with water. Joe
saw a herd of large animals browsing, like cattle, in a meadow. His
heart beat high, for until that moment the only buffalo he had seen
were the few which stood on the river banks as the raft passed down
the Ohio. He would surely get a shot at one of these huge fellows.

Wetzel bade Joe do exactly as he did, whereupon he dropped on his
hands and knees and began to crawl through the long grass. This was
easy for the hunter, but very bard for the lad to accomplish. Still,
he managed to keep his comrade in sight, which was a matter for
congratulation, because the man crawled as fast as he walked. At
length, after what to Joe seemed a very long time, the hunter
paused.

"Are we near enough?" whispered Joe, breathlessly.

"Nope. We're just circlin' on 'em. The wind's not right, an' I'm
afeered they'll get our scent."

Wetzel rose carefully and peeped over the top of the grass; then,
dropping on all fours, he resumed the advance.

He paused again, presently and waited for Joe to come up.

"See here, young fellar, remember, never hurry unless the bizness
calls fer speed, an' then act like lightnin'."

Thus admonishing the eager lad, Wetzel continued to crawl. It was
easy for him. Joe wondered how those wide shoulders got between the
weeds and grasses without breaking, or, at least, shaking them. But
so it was.

"Flat now," whispered Wetzel, putting his broad hand on Joe's back
and pressing him down. "Now's yer time fer good practice. Trail yer
rifle over yer back—if yer careful it won't slide off—an' reach
out far with one arm an' dig yer fingers in deep. Then pull yerself
forrard."

Wetzel slipped through the grass like a huge buckskin snake. His
long, lithe body wormed its way among the reeds. But for Joe, even
with the advantage of having the hunter's trail to follow, it was
difficult work. The dry reeds broke under him, and the stalks of
saw-grass shook. He worked persistently at it, learning all the
while, and improving with every rod. He was surprised to hear a
swish, followed by a dull blow on the ground. Raising his head, he
looked forward. He saw the hunter wipe his tomahawk on the grass.

"Snake," whispered Wetzel.

Joe saw a huge blacksnake squirming in the grass. Its head had been
severed. He caught glimpses of other snakes gliding away, and glossy
round moles darting into their holes. A gray rabbit started off with
a leap.

"We're near enough," whispered Wetzel, stopping behind a bush. He
rose and surveyed the plain; then motioned Joe to look.

Joe raised himself on his knees. As his gaze reached the level of
the grassy plain his heart leaped. Not fifty yards away was a great,
shaggy, black buffalo. He was the king of the herd; but ill at ease,
for he pawed the grass and shook his huge head. Near him were
several cows and a half-grown calf. Beyond was the main herd,
extending as far as Joe could see—a great sea of black humps! The
lad breathed hard as he took in the grand sight.

"Pick out the little fellar—the reddish-brown one—an' plug him
behind the shoulder. Shoot close now, fer if we miss, mebbe I can't
hit one, because I'm not used to shootin' at sich small marks."

Wetzel's rare smile lighted up his dark face. Probably he could have
shot a fly off the horn of the bull, if one of the big flies or
bees, plainly visible as they swirled around the huge head, had
alighted there.

Joe slowly raised his rifle. He had covered the calf, and was about
to pull the trigger, when, with a sagacity far beyond his experience
as hunter, he whispered to Wetzel:

"If I fire they may run toward us."

"Nope; they'll run away," answered Wetzel, thinking the lad was as
keen as an Indian.

Joe quickly covered the calf again, and pulled the trigger.
Bellowing loud the big bull dashed off. The herd swung around toward
the west, and soon were galloping off with a lumbering roar. The
shaggy humps bobbed up and down like hot, angry waves on a
storm-blackened sea.

Upon going forward, Wetzel and Joe found the calf lying dead in the
grass.

"You might hev did better'n that," remarked the hunter, as he saw
where the bullet had struck. "You went a little too fer back, but
mebbe thet was 'cause the calf stepped as you shot."

So the days passed swiftly, dreamily, each one bringing Joe a keener
delight. In a single month he was as good a woodsman as many
pioneers who had passed years on the border, for he had the
advantage of a teacher whose woodcraft was incomparable. Besides, he
was naturally quick in learning, and with all his interest centered
upon forest lore, it was no wonder he assimilated much of Wetzel's
knowledge. He was ever willing to undertake anything whereby he
might learn. Often when they were miles away in the dense forest,
far from their cave, he asked Wetzel to let him try to lead the way
back to camp. And he never failed once, though many times he got off
a straight course, thereby missing the easy travelling.

Joe did wonderfully well, but he lacked, as nearly all white men do,
the subtler, intuitive forest-instinct, which makes the Indian as
much at home in the woods as in his teepee. Wetzel had this
developed to a high degree. It was born in him. Years of training,
years of passionate, unrelenting search for Indians, had given him a
knowledge of the wilds that was incomprehensible to white men, and
appalling to his red foes.

Joe saw how Wetzel used this ability, but what it really was baffled
him. He realized that words were not adequate to explain fully this
great art. Its possession required a marvelously keen vision, an eye
perfectly familiar with every creature, tree, rock, shrub and thing
belonging in the forest; an eye so quick in flight as to detect
instantly the slightest change in nature, or anything unnatural to
that environment. The hearing must be delicate, like that of a deer,
and the finer it is, the keener will be the woodsman. Lastly, there
is the feeling that prompts the old hunter to say: "No game to-day."
It is something in him that speaks when, as he sees a night-hawk
circling low near the ground, he says: "A storm to-morrow." It is
what makes an Indian at home in any wilderness. The clouds may hide
the guiding star; the northing may be lost; there may be no moss on
the trees, or difference in their bark; the ridges may be flat or
lost altogether, and there may be no water-courses; yet the Indian
brave always goes for his teepee, straight as a crow flies. It was
this voice which rightly bade Wetzel, when he was baffled by an
Indian's trail fading among the rocks, to cross, or circle, or
advance in the direction taken by his wily foe.