Zane Grey (28 page)

"Jim said he'd be here to-day, didn't he?"

"To-day is as long as we allowed to wait."

"He'll come. Where's Jake and Mac?"

"They're here somewhere, drinkin' like fish, an' raisin' hell."

Two more renegades appeared at the door, and, entering the teepee,
squatted down in Indian fashion. The little wiry man with the
wizened face was McKee; the other was the latest acquisition to the
renegade force, Jake Deering, deserter, thief, murderer—everything
that is bad. In appearance he was of medium height, but very
heavily, compactly built, and evidently as strong as an ox. He had a
tangled shock of red hair, a broad, bloated face; big, dull eyes,
like the openings of empty furnaces, and an expression of
beastliness.

Deering and McKee were intoxicated.

"Bad time fer drinkin'," said Girty, with disapproval in his glance.

"What's that ter you?" growled Deering. "I'm here ter do your work,
an' I reckon it'll be done better if I'm drunk."

"Don't git careless," replied Girty, with that cool tone and dark
look such as dangerous men use. "I'm only sayin' it's a bad time fer
you, because if this bunch of frontiersmen happen to git onto you
bein' the renegade that was with the Chippewas an' got thet young
feller's girl, there's liable to be trouble."

"They ain't agoin' ter find out."

"Where is she?"

"Back there in the woods."

"Mebbe it's as well. Now, don't git so drunk you'll blab all you
know. We've lots of work to do without havin' to clean up
Williamson's bunch," rejoined Girty. "Bill, tie up the tent flaps
an' we'll git to council."

Elliott arose to carry out the order, and had pulled in the
deer-hide flaps, when one of them was jerked outward to disclose the
befrilled person of Jim Girty. Except for a discoloration over his
eye, he appeared as usual.

"Ugh!" grunted Pipe, who was glad to see his renegade friend.

Half King evinced the same feeling.

"Hullo," was Simon Girty's greeting.

"'Pears I'm on time fer the picnic," said Jim Girty, with his
ghastly leer.

Bill Elliott closed the flaps, after giving orders to the guard to
prevent any Indians from loitering near the teepee.

"Listen," said Simon Girty, speaking low in the Delaware language.
"The time is ripe. We have come here to break forever the influence
of the white man's religion. Our councils have been held; we shall
drive away the missionaries, and burn the Village of Peace."

He paused, leaning forward in his exceeding earnestness, with his
bronzed face lined by swelling veins, his whole person made rigid by
the murderous thought. Then he hissed between his teeth: "What shall
we do with these Christian Indians?"

Pipe raised his war-club, struck it upon the ground; then handed it
to Half King.

Half King took the club and repeated the action.

Both chiefs favored the death penalty.

"Feed 'em to ther buzzards," croaked Jim Girty.

Simon Girty knitted his brow in thought. The question of what to do
with the converted Indians had long perplexed him.

"No," said he; "let us drive away the missionaries, burn the
village, and take the Indians back to camp. We'll keep them there;
they'll soon forget."

"Pipe does not want them," declared the Delaware.

"Christian Indians shall never sit round Half King's fire," cried
the Huron.

Simon Girty knew the crisis had come; that but few moments were left
him to decide as to the disposition of the Christians; and he
thought seriously. Certainly he did not want the Christians
murdered. However cruel his life, and great his misdeeds, he was
still a man. If possible, he desired to burn the village and ruin
the religious influence, but without shedding blood. Yet, with all
his power, he was handicapped, and that by the very chiefs most
nearly under his control. He could not subdue this growing Christian
influence without the help of Pipe and Half King. To these savages a
thing was either right or wrong. He had sown the seed of unrest and
jealousy in the savage breasts, and the fruit was the decree of
death. As far as these Indians were concerned, this decision was
unalterable.

On the other hand, if he did not spread ruin over the Village of
Peace, the missionaries would soon get such a grasp on the tribes
that their hold would never be broken. He could not allow that, even
if he was forced to sacrifice the missionaries along with their
converts, for he saw in the growth of this religion his own
downfall. The border must be hostile to the whites, or it could no
longer be his home. To be sure, he had aided the British in the
Revolution, and could find a refuge among them; but this did not
suit him.

He became an outcast because of failure to win the military
promotion which he had so much coveted. He had failed among his own
people. He had won a great position in an alien race, and he loved
his power. To sway men—Indians, if not others—to his will; to
avenge himself for the fancied wrong done him; to be great, had been
his unrelenting purpose.

He knew he must sacrifice the Christians, or eventually lose his own
power. He had no false ideas about the converted Indians. He knew
they were innocent; that they were a thousand times better off than
the pagan Indians; that they had never harmed him, nor would they
ever do so; but if he allowed them to spread their religion there
was an end of Simon Girty.

His decision was characteristic of the man. He would sacrifice any
one, or all, to retain his supremacy. He knew the fulfillment of the
decree as laid down by Pipe and Half King would be known as his
work. His name, infamous now, would have an additional horror, and
ever be remembered by posterity in unspeakable loathing, in
unsoftening wrath. He knew this, and deep down in his heart awoke a
numbed chord of humanity that twinged with strange pain. What awful
work he must sanction to keep his vaunted power! More bitter than
all was the knowledge that to retain this hold over the indians he
must commit a deed which, so far as the whites were concerned, would
take away his great name, and brand him a coward.

He briefly reviewed his stirring life. Singularly fitted for a
leader, in a few years he had risen to the most powerful position on
the border. He wielded more influence than any chief. He had been
opposed to the invasion of the pioneers, and this alone, without his
sagacity or his generalship, would have given him control of many
tribes. But hatred for his own people, coupled with unerring
judgment, a remarkable ability to lead expeditions, and his
invariable success, had raised him higher and higher until he stood
alone. He was the most powerful man west of the Alleghenies. His
fame was such that the British had importuned him to help them, and
had actually, in more than one instance, given him command over
British subjects.

All of which meant that he had a great, even though an infamous
name. No matter what he was blamed for; no matter how many dastardly
deeds had been committed by his depraved brothers and laid to his
door, he knew he had never done a cowardly act. That which he had
committed while he was drunk he considered as having been done by
the liquor, and not by the man. He loved his power, and he loved his
name.

In all Girty's eventful, ignoble life, neither the alienation from
his people, the horror they ascribed to his power, nor the sacrifice
of his life to stand high among the savage races, nor any of the
cruel deeds committed while at war, hurt him a tithe as much as did
this sanctioning the massacre of the Christians.

Although he was a vengeful, unscrupulous, evil man, he had never
acted the coward.

Half King waited long for Girty to speak; since he remained silent,
the wily Huron suggested they take a vote on the question.

"Let us burn the Village of Peace, drive away the missionaries, and
take the Christians back to the Delaware towns—all without spilling
blood," said Girty, determined to carry his point, if possible.

"I say the same," added Elliott, refusing the war-club held out to
him by Half King.

"Me, too," voted McKee, not so drunk but that he understood the
lightninglike glance Girty shot at him.

"Kill 'em all; kill everybody," cried Deering in drunken glee. He
took the club and pounded with it on the ground.

Pipe repeated his former performance, as also did Half King, after
which he handed the black, knotted symbol of death to Jim Girty.

Three had declared for saving the Christians, and three for the
death penalty.

Six pairs of burning eyes were fastened on the Deaths-head.

Pipe and Half King were coldly relentless; Deering awoke to a brutal
earnestness; McKee and Elliott watched with bated breath. These men
had formed themselves into a tribunal to decide on the life or death
of many, and the situation, if not the greatest in their lives,
certainly was one of vital importance.

Simon Girty cursed all the fates. He dared not openly oppose the
voting, and he could not, before those cruel but just chiefs, try to
influence his brother's vote.

As Jim Girty took the war-club, Simon read in his brother's face the
doom of the converted Indians and he muttered to himself:

"Now tremble an' shrink, all you Christians!"

Jim was not in a hurry. Slowly he poised the war-club. He was
playing as a cat plays with a mouse; he was glorying in his power.
The silence was that of death. It signified the silence of death.
The war-club descended with violence.

"Feed the Christians to ther buzzards!"

"I have been here before," said Joe to Whispering Winds. "I remember
that vine-covered stone. We crawled over it to get at Girty and
Silvertip. There's the little knoll; here's the very spot where I
was hit by a flying tomahawk. Yes, and there's the spring. Let me
see, what did Wetzel call this spot?"

"Beautiful Spring," answered the Indian girl.

"That's it, and it's well named. What a lovely place!"

Nature had been lavish in the beautifying of this inclosed dell. It
was about fifty yards wide, and nestled among little, wooded knolls
and walls of gray, lichen-covered stone. Though the sun shone
brightly into the opening, and the rain had free access to the mossy
ground, no stormy winds ever entered this well protected glade.

Joe reveled in the beauty of the scene, even while he was too weak
to stand erect. He suffered no pain from his wound, although he had
gradually grown dizzy, and felt as if the ground was rising before
him. He was glad to lie upon the mossy ground in the little cavern
under the cliff.

Upon examination his wound was found to have opened, and was
bleeding. His hunting coat was saturated with blood. Whispering
Winds washed the cut, and dressed it with cooling leaves. Then she
rebandaged it tightly with Joe's linsey handkerchiefs, and while he
rested comfortable she gathered bundles of ferns, carrying them to
the little cavern. When she had a large quantity of these she sat
down near Joe, and began to weave the long stems into a kind of
screen. The fern stalks were four feet long and half a foot wide;
these she deftly laced together, making broad screens which would
serve to ward off the night dews. This done, she next built a
fireplace with flat stones. She found wild apples, plums and turnips
on the knoll above the glade. Then she cooked strips of meat which
had been brought with them. Lance grazed on the long grass just
without the glade, and Mose caught two rabbits. When darkness
settled down Whispering Winds called the dog within the cavern, and
hung the screens before the opening.

Several days passed. Joe rested quietly, and began to recover
strength. Besides the work of preparing their meals, Whispering
Winds had nothing to do save sit near the invalid and amuse or
interest him so that he would not fret or grow impatient, while his
wound was healing.

They talked about their future prospects. After visiting the Village
of Peace, they would go to Fort Henry, where Joe could find
employment. They dwelt upon the cabin they would build, and passed
many happy moments planning a new home. Joe's love of the wilderness
had in no wise diminished; but a blow on his head from a heavy
tomahawk, and a vicious stab in the back, had lessened his zeal so
far that he understood it was not wise to sacrifice life for the
pleasures of the pathless woods. He could have the last without the
danger of being shot at from behind every tree. He reasoned that it
would be best for him to take his wife to Fort Henry, there find
employment, and devote his leisure time to roaming in the forest.

"Will the palefaces be kind to an Indian who has learned to love
them?" Whispering Winds asked wistfully of Joe.

"Indeed they will," answered Joe, and he told her the story of Isaac
Zane; how he took his Indian bride home; how her beauty and
sweetness soon won all the white people's love. "It will be so with
you, my wife."

"Whispering Winds knows so little," she murmured.

"Why, you are learning every day, and even if such was not the case,
you know enough for me."

"Whispering Winds will be afraid; she fears a little to go."

"I'll be glad when we can be on the move," said Joe, with his old
impatient desire for action. "How soon, Winds, can we set off?"

"As many days," answered the Indian girl, holding up five fingers.

"So long? I want to leave this place."

"Leave Beautiful Spring?"

"Yes, even this sweet place. It has a horror for me. I'll never
forget the night I first saw that spring shining in the moonlight.
It was right above the rock that I looked into the glade. The moon
was reflected in the dark pool, and as I gazed into the shadowy
depths of the dark water I suddenly felt an unaccountable terror;
but I oughtn't to have the same feeling now. We are safe, are we
not?"