Etext prepared by Bill Brewer, billbrewer@ttu.edu





BETTY ZANE
BY
ZANE GREY




TO THE BETTY ZANE CHAPTER OF
THE DAUGHTERS OF THE REVOLUTION
THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
BY THE AUTHOR



NOTE


In a quiet corner of the stately little city of Wheeling, West Va.,
stands a monument on which is inscribed:

"By authority of the State of West Virginia to commemorate the siege
of Fort Henry, Sept 11, 1782, the last battle of the American
Revolution, this tablet is here placed."

Had it not been for the heroism of a girl the foregoing inscription
would never have been written, and the city of Wheeling would never
have existed. From time to time I have read short stories and
magazine articles which have been published about Elizabeth Zane and
her famous exploit; but they are unreliable in some particulars,
which is owing, no doubt, to the singularly meagre details available
in histories of our western border.

For a hundred years the stories of Betty and Isaac Zane have been
familiar, oft-repeated tales in my family--tales told with that
pardonable ancestral pride which seems inherent in every one. My
grandmother loved to cluster the children round her and tell them
that when she was a little girl she had knelt at the feet of Betty
Zane, and listened to the old lady as she told of her brother's
capture by the Indian Princess, of the burning of the Fort, and of
her own race for life. I knew these stories by heart when a child.

Two years ago my mother came to me with an old note book which had
been discovered in some rubbish that had been placed in the yard to
burn. The book had probably been hidden in an old picture frame for
many years. It belonged to my great-grandfather, Col. Ebenezer Zane.
From its faded and time-worn pages I have taken the main facts of my
story. My regret is that a worthier pen than mine has not had this
wealth of material.

In this busy progressive age there are no heroes of the kind so dear
to all lovers of chivalry and romance. There are heroes, perhaps,
but they are the patient sad-faced kind, of whom few take cognizance
as they hurry onward. But cannot we all remember some one who
suffered greatly, who accomplished great deeds, who died on the
battlefield--some one around whose name lingers a halo of glory? Few
of us are so unfortunate that we cannot look backward on kith or kin
and thrill with love and reverence as we dream of an act of heroism
or martyrdom which rings down the annals of time like the melody of
the huntsman's horn, as it peals out on a frosty October morn purer
and sweeter with each succeeding note.

If to any of those who have such remembrances, as well as those who
have not, my story gives an hour of pleasure I shall be rewarded.



PROLOGUE


On June 16, 1716, Alexander Spotswood, Governor of the Colony of
Virginia, and a gallant soldier who had served under Marlborough in
the English wars, rode, at the head of a dauntless band of
cavaliers, down the quiet street of quaint old Williamsburg.

The adventurous spirits of this party of men urged them toward the
land of the setting sun, that unknown west far beyond the blue
crested mountains rising so grandly before them.

Months afterward they stood on the western range of the Great North
mountains towering above the picturesque Shenandoah Valley, and from
the summit of one of the loftiest peaks, where, until then, the foot
of a white man had never trod, they viewed the vast expanse of plain
and forest with glistening eyes. Returning to Williamsburg they told
of the wonderful richness of the newly discovered country and thus
opened the way for the venturesome pioneer who was destined to
overcome all difficulties and make a home in the western world.

But fifty years and more passed before a white man penetrated far
beyond the purple spires of those majestic mountains.

One bright morning in June, 1769, the figure of a stalwart, broad
shouldered man could have been seen standing on the wild and rugged
promontory which rears its rocky bluff high above the Ohio river, at
a point near the mouth of Wheeling Creek. He was alone save for the
companionship of a deerhound that crouched at his feet. As he leaned
on a long rifle, contemplating the glorious scene that stretched
before him, a smile flashed across his bronzed cheek, and his heart
bounded as he forecast the future of that spot. In the river below
him lay an island so round and green that it resembled a huge lily
pad floating placidly on the water. The fresh green foliage of the
trees sparkled with glittering dewdrops. Back of him rose the high
ridges, and, in front, as far as eye could reach, extended an
unbroken forest.

Beneath him to the left and across a deep ravine he saw a wide level
clearing. The few scattered and blackened tree stumps showed the
ravages made by a forest fire in the years gone by. The field was
now overgrown with hazel and laurel bushes, and intermingling with
them were the trailing arbutus, the honeysuckle, and the wild rose.
A fragrant perfume was wafted upward to him. A rushing creek
bordered one edge of the clearing. After a long quiet reach of
water, which could be seen winding back in the hills, the stream
tumbled madly over a rocky ledge, and white with foam, it hurried
onward as if impatient of long restraint, and lost its individuality
in the broad Ohio.

This solitary hunter was Colonel Ebenezer Zane. He was one of those
daring men, who, as the tide of emigration started westward, had
left his friends and family and had struck out alone into the
wilderness. Departing from his home in Eastern Virginia he had
plunged into the woods, and after many days of hunting and
exploring, he reached the then far Western Ohio valley.

The scene so impressed Colonel Zane that he concluded to found a
settlement there. Taking "tomahawk possession" of the locality
(which consisted of blazing a few trees with his tomahawk), he built
himself a rude shack and remained that summer on the Ohio.

In the autumn he set out for Berkeley County, Virginia, to tell his
people of the magnificent country he had discovered. The following
spring he persuaded a number of settlers, of a like spirit with
himself, to accompany him to the wilderness. Believing it unsafe to
take their families with them at once, they left them at Red Stone
on the Monongahela river, while the men, including Colonel Zane, his
brothers Silas, Andrew, Jonathan and Isaac, the Wetzels, McCollochs,
Bennets, Metzars and others, pushed on ahead.

The country through which they passed was one tangled, most
impenetrable forest; the axe of the pioneer had never sounded in
this region, where every rod of the way might harbor some unknown
danger.

These reckless bordermen knew not the meaning of fear; to all,
daring adventure was welcome, and the screech of a redskin and the
ping of a bullet were familiar sounds; to the Wetzels, McCollochs
and Jonathan Zane the hunting of Indians was the most thrilling
passion of their lives; indeed, the Wetzels, particularly, knew no
other occupation. They had attained a wonderful skill with the
rifle; long practice had rendered their senses as acute as those of
the fox. Skilled in every variety of woodcraft, with lynx eyes ever
on the alert for detecting a trail, or the curling smoke of some
camp fire, or the minutest sign of an enemy, these men stole onward
through the forest with the cautious but dogged and persistent
determination that was characteristic of the settler.

They at length climbed the commanding bluff overlooking the majestic
river, and as they gazed out on the undulating and uninterrupted
area of green, their hearts beat high with hope.

The keen axe, wielded by strong arms, soon opened the clearing and
reared stout log cabins on the river bluff. Then Ebenezer Zane and
his followers moved their families and soon the settlement began to
grow and flourish. As the little village commenced to prosper the
redmen became troublesome. Settlers were shot while plowing the
fields or gathering the harvests. Bands of hostile Indians prowled
around and made it dangerous for anyone to leave the clearing.
Frequently the first person to appear in the early morning would be
shot at by an Indian concealed in the woods.

General George Rodgers Clark, commandant of the Western Military
Department, arrived at the village in 1774. As an attack from the
savages was apprehended during the year the settlers determined to
erect a fort as a defense for the infant settlement. It was planned
by General Clark and built by the people themselves. At first they
called it Fort Fincastle, in honor of Lord Dunmore, who, at the time
of its erection, was Governor of the Colony of Virginia. In 1776 its
name was changed to Fort Henry, in honor of Patrick Henry.

For many years it remained the most famous fort on the frontier,
having withstood numberless Indian attacks and two memorable sieges,
one in 1777, which year is called the year of the "Bloody Sevens,"
and again in 1782. In this last siege the British Rangers under
Hamilton took part with the Indians, making the attack practically
the last battle of the Revolution.



BETTY ZANE

CHAPTER I.

The Zane family was a remarkable one in early days, and most of its
members are historical characters.

The first Zane of whom any trace can be found was a Dane of
aristocratic lineage, who was exiled from his country and came to
America with William Penn. He was prominent for several years in the
new settlement founded by Penn, and Zane street, Philadelphia, bears
his name. Being a proud and arrogant man, he soon became obnoxious
to his Quaker brethren. He therefore cut loose from them and
emigrated to Virginia, settling on the Potomac river, in what was
then known as Berkeley county. There his five sons, and one
daughter, the heroine of this story, were born.

Ebenezer Zane, the eldest, was born October 7, 1747, and grew to
manhood in the Potomac valley. There he married Elizabeth McColloch,
a sister of the famous McColloch brothers so well known in frontier
history.

Ebenezer was fortunate in having such a wife and no pioneer could
have been better blessed. She was not only a handsome woman, but one
of remarkable force of character as well as kindness of heart. She
was particularly noted for a rare skill in the treatment of illness,
and her deftness in handling the surgeon's knife and extracting a
poisoned bullet or arrow from a wound had restored to health many a
settler when all had despaired.

The Zane brothers were best known on the border for their athletic
prowess, and for their knowledge of Indian warfare and cunning. They
were all powerful men, exceedingly active and as fleet as deer. In
appearance they were singularly pleasing and bore a marked
resemblance to one another, all having smooth faces, clear cut,
regular features, dark eyes and long black hair.

When they were as yet boys they had been captured by Indians, soon
after their arrival on the Virginia border, and had been taken far
into the interior, and held as captives for two years. Ebenezer,
Silas, and Jonathan Zane were then taken to Detroit and ransomed.
While attempting to swim the Scioto river in an effort to escape,
Andrew Zane had been shot and killed by his pursuers.

But the bonds that held Isaac Zane, the remaining and youngest
brother, were stronger than those of interest or revenge such as had
caused the captivity of his brothers. He was loved by an Indian
princess, the daughter of Tarhe, the chief of the puissant Huron
race. Isaac had escaped on various occasions, but had always been
retaken, and at the time of the opening of our story nothing had
been heard of him for several years, and it was believed he had been
killed.

At the period of the settling of the little colony in the
wilderness, Elizabeth Zane, the only sister, was living with an aunt
in Philadelphia, where she was being educated.

Colonel Zane's house, a two story structure built of rough hewn
logs, was the most comfortable one in the settlement, and occupied a
prominent site on the hillside about one hundred yards from the
fort. It was constructed of heavy timber and presented rather a
forbidding appearance with its square corners, its ominous looking
portholes, and strongly barred doors and windows. There were three
rooms on the ground floor, a kitchen, a magazine room for military
supplies, and a large room for general use. The several sleeping
rooms were on the second floor, which was reached by a steep
stairway.

The interior of a pioneer's rude dwelling did not reveal, as a rule,
more than bare walls, a bed or two, a table and a few chairs--in
fact, no more than the necessities of life. But Colonel Zane's house
proved an exception to this. Most interesting was the large room.
The chinks between the logs had been plastered up with clay and then
the walls covered with white birch bark; trophies of the chase,
Indian bows and arrows, pipes and tomahawks hung upon them; the wide
spreading antlers of a noble buck adorned the space above the mantel
piece; buffalo robes covered the couches; bearskin rugs lay
scattered about on the hardwood floor. The wall on the western side
had been built over a huge stone, into which had been cut an open
fireplace.

This blackened recess, which had seen two houses burned over it,
when full of blazing logs had cheered many noted men with its
warmth. Lord Dunmore, General Clark, Simon Kenton, and Daniel Boone
had sat beside that fire. There Cornplanter, the Seneca chief, had
made his famous deal with Colonel Zane, trading the island in the
river opposite the settlement for a barrel of whiskey. Logan, the
Mingo chief and friend of the whites, had smoked many pipes of peace
there with Colonel Zane. At a later period, when King Louis
Phillippe, who had been exiled from France by Napoleon, had come to
America, during the course of his melancholy wanderings he had
stopped at Fort Henry a few days. His stay there was marked by a
fierce blizzard and the royal guest passed most of his time at
Colonel Zane's fireside. Musing by those roaring logs perhaps he saw
the radiant star of the Man of Destiny rise to its magnificent
zenith.

One cold, raw night in early spring the Colonel had just returned
from one of his hunting trips and the tramping of horses mingled
with the rough voices of the negro slaves sounded without. When
Colonel Zane entered the house he was greeted affectionately by his
wife and sister. The latter, at the death of her aunt in
Philadelphia, had come west to live with her brother, and had been
there since late in the preceding autumn. It was a welcome sight for
the eyes of a tired and weary hunter. The tender kiss of his comely
wife, the cries of the delighted children, and the crackling of the
fire warmed his heart and made him feel how good it was to be home
again after a three days' march in the woods. Placing his rifle in a
corner and throwing aside his wet hunting coat, he turned and stood
with his back to the bright blaze. Still young and vigorous, Colonel
Zane was a handsome man. Tall, though not heavy, his frame denoted
great strength and endurance. His face was smooth, his heavy
eyebrows met in a straight line; his eyes were dark and now beamed
with a kindly light; his jaw was square and massive; his mouth
resolute; in fact, his whole face was strikingly expressive of
courage and geniality. A great wolf dog had followed him in and,
tired from travel, had stretched himself out before the fireplace,
laying his noble head on the paws he had extended toward the warm
blaze.

"Well! Well! I am nearly starved and mighty glad to get back," said
the Colonel, with a smile of satisfaction at the steaming dishes a
negro servant was bringing from the kitchen.

"We are glad you have returned," answered his wife, whose glowing
face testified to the pleasure she felt. "Supper is ready--Annie,
bring in some cream--yes, indeed, I am happy that you are home. I
never have a moment's peace when you are away, especially when you
are accompanied by Lewis Wetzel."

"Our hunt was a failure," said the Colonel, after he had helped
himself to a plate full of roast wild turkey. "The bears have just
come out of their winter's sleep and are unusually wary at this
time. We saw many signs of their work, tearing rotten logs to pieces
in search of grubs and bees' nests. Wetzel killed a deer and we
baited a likely place where we had discovered many bear tracks. We
stayed up all night in a drizzling rain, hoping to get a shot. I am
tired out. So is Tige. Wetzel did not mind the weather or the ill
luck, and when we ran across some Indian sign he went off on one of
his lonely tramps, leaving me to come home alone."

"He is such a reckless man," remarked Mrs. Zane.

"Wetzel is reckless, or rather, daring. His incomparable nerve
carries him safely through many dangers, where an ordinary man would
have no show whatever. Well, Betty, how are you?"

"Quite well," said the slender, dark-eyed girl who had just taken
the seat opposite the Colonel.

"Bessie, has my sister indulged in any shocking escapade in my
absence? I think that last trick of hers, when she gave a bucket of
hard cider to that poor tame bear, should last her a spell."

"No, for a wonder Elizabeth has been very good. However, I do not
attribute it to any unusual change of temperament; simply the cold,
wet weather. I anticipate a catastrophe very shortly if she is kept
indoors much longer."

"I have not had much opportunity to be anything but well behaved. If
it rains a few days more I shall become desperate. I want to ride my
pony, roam the woods, paddle my canoe, and enjoy myself," said
Elizabeth.

"Well! Well! Betts, I knew it would be dull here for you, but you
must not get discouraged. You know you got here late last fall, and
have not had any pleasant weather yet. It is perfectly delightful in
May and June. I can take you to fields of wild white honeysuckle and
May flowers and wild roses. I know you love the woods, so be patient
a little longer."

Elizabeth had been spoiled by her brothers--what girl would not have
been by five great big worshippers?--and any trivial thing gone
wrong with her was a serious matter to them. They were proud of her,
and of her beauty and accomplishments were never tired of talking.
She had the dark hair and eyes so characteristic of the Zanes; the
same oval face and fine features: and added to this was a certain
softness of contour and a sweetness of expression which made her
face bewitching. But, in spite of that demure and innocent face, she
possessed a decided will of her own, and one very apt to be
asserted; she was mischievous; inclined to coquettishness, and more
terrible than all she had a fiery temper which could be aroused with
the most surprising ease.

Colonel Zane was wont to say that his sister's accomplishments were
innumerable. After only a few months on the border she could prepare
the flax and weave a linsey dresscloth with admirable skill.
Sometimes to humor Betty the Colonel's wife would allow her to get
the dinner, and she would do it in a manner that pleased her
brothers, and called forth golden praises from the cook, old Sam's
wife who had been with the family twenty years. Betty sang in the
little church on Sundays; she organized and taught a Sunday school
class; she often beat Colonel Zane and Major McColloch at their
favorite game of checkers, which they had played together since they
were knee high; in fact, Betty did nearly everything well, from
baking pies to painting the birch bark walls of her room. But these
things were insignificant in Colonel Zane's eyes. If the Colonel
were ever guilty of bragging it was about his sister's ability in
those acquirements demanding a true eye, a fleet foot, a strong arm
and a daring spirit. He had told all the people in the settlement,
to many of whom Betty was unknown, that she could ride like an
Indian and shoot with undoubted skill; that she had a generous share
of the Zanes' fleetness of foot, and that she would send a canoe
over as bad a place as she could find. The boasts of the Colonel
remained as yet unproven, but, be that as it may, Betty had,
notwithstanding her many faults, endeared herself to all. She made
sunshine and happiness everywhere; the old people loved her; the
children adored her, and the broad shouldered, heavy footed young
settlers were shy and silent, yet blissfully happy in her presence.

"Betty, will you fill my pipe?" asked the Colonel, when he had
finished his supper and had pulled his big chair nearer the fire.
His oldest child, Noah, a sturdy lad of six, climbed upon his knee
and plied him with questions.

"Did you see any bars and bufflers?" he asked, his eyes large and
round.

"No, my lad, not one."

"How long will it be until I am big enough to go?"

"Not for a very long time, Noah."

"But I am not afraid of Betty's bar. He growls at me when I throw
sticks at him, and snaps his teeth. Can I go with you next time?"

"My brother came over from Short Creek to-day. He has been to Fort
Pitt," interposed Mrs. Zane. As she was speaking a tap sounded on
the door, which, being opened by Betty, disclosed Captain Boggs his
daughter Lydia, and Major Samuel McColloch, the brother of Mrs.
Zane.

"Ah, Colonel! I expected to find you at home to-night. The weather
has been miserable for hunting and it is not getting any better. The
wind is blowing from the northwest and a storm is coming," said
Captain Boggs, a fine, soldierly looking man.

"Hello, Captain! How are you? Sam, I have not had the pleasure of
seeing you for a long time," replied Colonel Zane, as he shook hands
with his guests.

Major McColloch was the eldest of the brothers of that name. As an
Indian killer he ranked next to the intrepid Wetzel; but while
Wetzel preferred to take his chances alone and track the Indians
through the untrodden wilds, McColloch was a leader of expeditions
against the savages. A giant in stature, massive in build, bronzed
and bearded, he looked the typical frontiersman. His blue eyes were
like those of his sister and his voice had the same pleasant ring.

"Major McColloch, do you remember me?" asked Betty.

"Indeed I do," he answered, with a smile. "You were a little girl,
running wild, on the Potomac when I last saw you!"

"Do you remember when you used to lift me on your horse and give me
lessons in riding?"

"I remember better than you. How you used to stick on the back of
that horse was a mystery to me."

"Well, I shall be ready soon to go on with those lessons in riding.
I have heard of your wonderful leap over the hill and I should like
to have you tell me all about it. Of all the stories I have heard
since I arrived at Fort Henry, the one of your ride and leap for
life is the most wonderful."

"Yes, Sam, she will bother you to death about that ride, and will
try to give you lessons in leaping down precipices. I should not be
at all surprised to find her trying to duplicate your feat. You know
the Indian pony I got from that fur trader last summer. Well, he is
as wild as a deer and she has been riding him without his being
broken," said Colonel Zane.

"Some other time I shall tell you about my jump over the hill. Just
now I have important matters to discuss," answered the Major to
Betty.

It was evident that something unusual had occurred, for after
chatting a few moments the three men withdrew into the magazine room
and conversed in low, earnest tones.

Lydia Boggs was eighteen, fair haired and blue eyed. Like Betty she
had received a good education, and, in that respect, was superior to
the border girls, who seldom knew more than to keep house and to
make linen. At the outbreak of the Indian wars General Clark had
stationed Captain Boggs at Fort Henry and Lydia had lived there with
him two years. After Betty's arrival, which she hailed with delight,
the girls had become fast friends.

Lydia slipped her arm affectionately around Betty's neck and said,
"Why did you not come over to the Fort to-day?"

"It has been such an ugly day, so disagreeable altogether, that I
have remained indoors."

"You missed something," said Lydia, knowingly.

"What do you mean? What did I miss?"

"Oh, perhaps, after all, it will not interest you."

"How provoking! Of course it will. Anything or anybody would
interest me to-night. Do tell me, please."

"It isn't much. Only a young soldier came over with Major
McColloch."

"A soldier? From Fort Pitt? Do I know him? I have met most of the
officers."

"No, you have never seen him. He is a stranger to all of us."

"There does not seem to be so much in your news," said Betty, in a
disappointed tone. "To be sure, strangers are a rarity in our little
village, but, judging from the strangers who have visited us in the
past, I imagine this one cannot be much different."

"Wait until you see him," said Lydia, with a serious little nod of
her head.

"Come, tell me all about him," said Betty, now much interested.

"Major McColloch brought him in to see papa, and he was introduced
to me. He is a southerner and from one of those old families. I
could tell by his cool, easy, almost reckless air. He is handsome,
tall and fair, and his face is frank and open. He has such beautiful
manners. He bowed low to me and really I felt so embarrassed that I
hardly spoke. You know I am used to these big hunters seizing your
hand and giving it a squeeze which makes you want to scream. Well,
this young man is different. He is a cavalier. All the girls are in
love with him already. So will you be."

"I? Indeed not. But how refreshing. You must have been strongly
impressed to see and remember all you have told me."

"Betty Zane, I remember so well because he is just the man you
described one day when we were building castles and telling each
other what kind of a hero we wanted."

"Girls, do not talk such nonsense," interrupted the Colonel's wife
who was perturbed by the colloquy in the other room. She had seen
those ominous signs before. "Can you find nothing better to talk
about?"

Meanwhile Colonel Zane and his companions were earnestly discussing
certain information which had arrived that day. A friendly Indian
runner had brought news to Short Creek, a settlement on the river
between Fort Henry and Fort Pitt of an intended raid by the Indians
all along the Ohio valley. Major McColloch, who had been warned by
Wetzel of the fever of unrest among the Indians--a fever which broke
out every spring--had gone to Fort Pitt with the hope of bringing
back reinforcements, but, excepting the young soldier, who had
volunteered to return with him, no help could he enlist, so he
journeyed back post-haste to Fort Henry.

The information he brought disturbed Captain Boggs, who commanded
the garrison, as a number of men were away on a logging expedition
up the river, and were not expected to raft down to the Fort for two
weeks.

Jonathan Zane, who had been sent for, joined the trio at this
moment, and was acquainted with the particulars. The Zane brothers
were always consulted where any question concerning Indian craft and
cunning was to be decided. Colonel Zane had a strong friendly
influence with certain tribes, and his advice was invaluable.
Jonathan Zane hated the sight of an Indian and except for his
knowledge as a scout, or Indian tracker or fighter, he was of little
use in a council. Colonel Zane informed the men of the fact that
Wetzel and he had discovered Indian tracks within ten miles of the
Fort, and he dwelt particularly on the disappearance of Wetzel.

"Now, you can depend on what I say. There are Wyandots in force on
the war path. Wetzel told me to dig for the Fort and he left me in a
hurry. We were near that cranberry bog over at the foot of Bald
mountain. I do not believe we shall be attacked. In my opinion the
Indians would come up from the west and keep to the high ridges
along Yellow creek. They always come that way. But of course, it is
best to know surely, and I daresay Lew will come in to-night or
to-morrow with the facts. In the meantime put out some scouts back
in the woods and let Jonathan and the Major watch the river."

"I hope Wetzel will come in," said the Major. "We can trust him to
know more about the Indians than any one. It was a week before you
and he went hunting that I saw him. I went to Fort Pitt and tried to
bring over some men, but the garrison is short and they need men as
much as we do. A young soldier named Clarke volunteered to come and
I brought him along with me. He has not seen any Indian fighting,
but he is a likely looking chap, and I guess will do. Captain Boggs
will give him a place in the block house if you say so."

"By all means. We shall be glad to have him," said Colonel Zane.

"It would not be so serious if I had not sent the men up the river,"
said Captain Boggs, in anxious tones. "Do you think it possible they
might have fallen in with the Indians?"

"It is possible, of course, but not probable," answered Colonel
Zane. "The Indians are all across the Ohio. Wetzel is over there and
he will get here long before they do."

"I hope it may be as you say. I have much confidence in your
judgment," returned Captain Boggs. "I shall put out scouts and take
all the precaution possible. We must return now. Come, Lydia."

"Whew! What an awful night this is going to be," said Colonel Zane,
when he had closed the door after his guests' departure. "I should
not care to sleep out to-night."

"Eb, what will Lew Wetzel do on a night like this?" asked Betty,
curiously.

"Oh, Lew will be as snug as a rabbit in his burrow," said Colonel
Zane, laughing. "In a few moments he can build a birch bark shack,
start a fire inside and go to sleep comfortably."

"Ebenezer, what is all this confab about? What did my brother tell
you?" asked Mrs. Zane, anxiously.

"We are in for more trouble from the Wyandots and Shawnees. But,
Bessie, I don't believe it will come soon. We are too well protected
here for anything but a protracted siege."

Colonel Zane's light and rather evasive answer did not deceive his
wife. She knew her brother and her husband would not wear anxious
faces for nothing. Her usually bright face clouded with a look of
distress. She had seen enough of Indian warfare to make her shudder
with horror at the mere thought. Betty seemed unconcerned. She sat
down beside the dog and patted him on the head.

"Tige, Indians! Indians!" she said.

The dog growled and showed his teeth. It was only necessary to
mention Indians to arouse his ire.

"The dog has been uneasy of late," continued Colonel Zane "He found
the Indian tracks before Wetzel did. You know how Tige hates
Indians. Ever since he came home with Isaac four years ago he has
been of great service to the scouts, as he possesses so much
intelligence and sagacity. Tige followed Isaac home the last time he
escaped from the Wyandots. When Isaac was in captivity he nursed and
cared for the dog after he had been brutally beaten by the redskins.
Have you ever heard that long mournful howl Tige gives out sometimes
in the dead of night?"

"Yes I have, and it makes me cover up my head," said Betty.

"Well, it is Tige mourning for Isaac," said Colonel Zane

"Poor Isaac," murmured Betty.

"Do you remember him? It has been nine years since you saw him,"
said Mrs. Zane.

"Remember Isaac? Indeed I do. I shall never forget him. I wonder if
he is still living?"

"Probably not. It is now four years since he was recaptured. I think
it would have been impossible to keep him that length of time,
unless, of course, he has married that Indian girl. The simplicity
of the Indian nature is remarkable. He could easily have deceived
them and made them believe he was content in captivity. Probably, in
attempting to escape again, he has been killed as was poor Andrew."

Brother and sister gazed with dark, sad eyes into the fire, now
burned down to a glowing bed of coals. The silence remained unbroken
save for the moan of the rising wind outside, the rattle of hail,
and the patter of rain drops on the roof.



CHAPTER II.

Fort Henry stood on a bluff overlooking the river and commanded a
fine view of the surrounding country. In shape it was a
parallelogram, being about three hundred and fifty-six feet in
length, and one hundred and fifty in width. Surrounded by a stockade
fence twelve feet high, with a yard wide walk running around the
inside, and with bastions at each corner large enough to contain six
defenders, the fort presented an almost impregnable defense. The
blockhouse was two stories in height, the second story projecting
out several feet over the first. The thick white oak walls bristled
with portholes. Besides the blockhouse, there were a number of
cabins located within the stockade. Wells had been sunk inside the
inclosure, so that if the spring happened to go dry, an abundance of
good water could be had at all times.

In all the histories of frontier life mention is made of the forts
and the protection they offered in time of savage warfare. These
forts were used as homes for the settlers, who often lived for weeks
inside the walls.

Forts constructed entirely of wood without the aid of a nail or
spike (for the good reason that these things could not be had) may
seem insignificant in these days of great nasal and military
garrisons. However, they answered the purpose at that time and
served to protect many an infant settlement from the savage attacks
of Indian tribes. During a siege of Fort Henry, which had occurred
about a year previous, the settlers would have lost scarcely a man
had they kept to the fort. But Captain Ogle, at that time in charge
of the garrison, had led a company out in search of the Indians.
Nearly all of his men were killed, several only making their way to
the fort.

On the day following Major McColloch's arrival at Fort Henry, the
settlers had been called in from their spring plowing and other
labors, and were now busily engaged in moving their stock and the
things they wished to save from the destructive torch of the
redskin. The women had their hands full with the children, the
cleaning of rifles and moulding of bullets, and the thousand and one
things the sterner tasks of their husbands had left them. Major
McColloch, Jonathan and Silas Zane, early in the day, had taken
different directions along the river to keep a sharp lookout for
signs of the enemy. Colonel Zane intended to stay in his oven house
and defend it, so he had not moved anything to the fort excepting
his horses and cattle. Old Sam, the negro, was hauling loads of hay
inside the stockade. Captain Boggs had detailed several scouts to
watch the roads and one of these was the young man, Clarke, who had
accompanied the Major from Fort Pitt.

The appearance of Alfred Clarke, despite the fact that he wore the
regulation hunting garb, indicated a young man to whom the hard work
and privation of the settler were unaccustomed things. So thought
the pioneers who noticed his graceful walk, his fair skin and smooth
hands. Yet those who carefully studied his clearcut features were
favorably impressed; the women, by the direct, honest gaze of his
blue eyes and the absence of ungentle lines in his face; the men, by
the good nature, and that indefinable something by which a man marks
another as true steel.

He brought nothing with him from Fort Pitt except his horse, a
black-coated, fine limbed thoroughbred, which he frankly confessed
was all he could call his own. When asking Colonel Zane to give him
a position in the garrison he said he was a Virginian and had been
educated in Philadelphia; that after his father died his mother
married again, and this, together with a natural love of adventure,
had induced him to run away and seek his fortune with the hardy
pioneer and the cunning savage of the border. Beyond a few months'
service under General Clark he knew nothing of frontier life; but he
was tired of idleness; he was strong and not afraid of work, and he
could learn. Colonel Zane, who prided himself on his judgment of
character, took a liking to the young man at once, and giving him a
rifle and accoutrements, told him the border needed young men of
pluck and fire, and that if he brought a strong hand and a willing
heart he could surely find fortune. Possibly if Alfred Clarke could
have been told of the fate in store for him he might have mounted
his black steed and have placed miles between him and the frontier
village; but, as there were none to tell, he went cheerfully out to
meet that fate.

On this is bright spring morning he patrolled the road leading along
the edge of the clearing, which was distant a quarter of a mile from
the fort. He kept a keen eye on the opposite side of the river, as
he had been directed. From the upper end of the island, almost
straight across from where he stood, the river took a broad turn,
which could not be observed from the fort windows. The river was
high from the recent rains and brush heaps and logs and debris of
all descriptions were floating down with the swift current. Rabbits
and other small animals, which had probably been surrounded on some
island and compelled to take to the brush or drown, crouched on
floating logs and piles of driftwood. Happening to glance down the
road, Clarke saw a horse galloping in his direction. At first he
thought it was a messenger for himself, but as it neared him he saw
that the horse was an Indian pony and the rider a young girl, whose
long, black hair was flying in the wind.

"Hello! I wonder what the deuce this is? Looks like an Indian girl,"
said Clarke to himself. "She rides well, whoever she may be."

He stepped behind a clump of laurel bushes near the roadside and
waited. Rapidly the horse and rider approached him. When they were
but a few paces distant he sprang out and, as the pony shied and
reared at sight of him, he clutched the bridle and pulled the pony's
head down. Looking up he encountered the astonished and bewildered
gaze from a pair of the prettiest dark eyes it had ever been his
fortune, or misfortune, to look into.

Betty, for it was she, looked at the young man in amazement, while
Alfred was even more surprised and disconcerted. For a moment they
looked at each other in silence. But Betty, who was scarcely ever at
a loss for words, presently found her voice.

"Well, sir! What does this mean?" she asked indignantly.

"It means that you must turn around and go back to the fort,"
answered Alfred, also recovering himself.

Now Betty's favorite ride happened to be along this road. It lay
along the top of the bluff a mile or more and afforded a fine
unobstructed view of the river. Betty had either not heard of the
Captain's order, that no one was to leave the fort, or she had
disregarded it altogether; probably the latter, as she generally did
what suited her fancy.

"Release my pony's head!" she cried, her face flushing, as she gave
a jerk to the reins. "How dare you? What right have you to detain
me?"

The expression Betty saw on Clarke's face was not new to her, for
she remembered having seen it on the faces of young gentlemen whom
she had met at her aunt's house in Philadelphia. It was the slight,
provoking smile of the man familiar with the various moods of young
women, the expression of an amused contempt for their imperiousness.
But it was not that which angered Betty. It was the coolness with
which he still held her pony regardless of her commands.

"Pray do not get excited," he said. "I am sorry I cannot allow such
a pretty little girl to have her own way. I shall hold your pony
until you say you will go back to the fort."

"Sir!" exclaimed Betty, blushing a bright-red. "You--you are
impertinent!"

"Not at all," answered Alfred, with a pleasant laugh. "I am sure I
do not intend to be. Captain Boggs did not acquaint me with full
particulars or I might have declined my present occupation: not,
however, that it is not agreeable just at this moment. He should
have mentioned the danger of my being run down by Indian ponies and
imperious young ladies."

"Will you let go of that bridle, or shall I get off and walk back
for assistance?" said Betty, getting angrier every moment.

"Go back to the fort at once," ordered Alfred, authoritatively.
"Captain Boggs' orders are that no one shall be allowed to leave the
clearing."

"Oh! Why did you not say so? I thought you were Simon Girty, or a
highwayman. Was it necessary to keep me here all this time to
explain that you were on duty?"

"You know sometimes it is difficult to explain," said Alfred,
"besides, the situation had its charm. No, I am not a robber, and I
don't believe you thought so. I have only thwarted a young lady's
whim, which I am aware is a great crime. I am very sorry. Goodbye."

Betty gave him a withering glance from her black eyes, wheeled her
pony and galloped away. A mellow laugh was borne to her ears before
she got out of hearing, and again the red blood mantled her cheeks.

"Heavens! What a little beauty," said Alfred to himself, as he
watched the graceful rider disappear. "What spirit! Now, I wonder
who she can be. She had on moccasins and buckskin gloves and her
hair tumbled like a tomboy's, but she is no backwoods girl, I'll bet
on that. I'm afraid I was a little rude, but after taking such a
stand I could not weaken, especially before such a haughty and
disdainful little vixen. It was too great a temptation. What eyes
she had! Contrary to what I expected, this little frontier
settlement bids fair to become interesting."

The afternoon wore slowly away, and until late in the day nothing
further happened to disturb Alfred's meditations, which consisted
chiefly of different mental views and pictures of red lips and black
eyes. Just as he decided to return to the fort for his supper he
heard the barking of a dog that he had seen running along the road
some moments before. The sound came from some distance down the
river bank and nearer the fort. Walking a few paces up the bluff
Alfred caught sight of a large black dog running along the edge of
the water. He would run into the water a few paces and then come out
and dash along the shore. He barked furiously all the while. Alfred
concluded that he must have been excited by a fox or perhaps a wolf;
so he climbed down the steep bank and spoke to the dog. Thereupon
the dog barked louder and more fiercely than ever, ran to the water,
looked out into the river and then up at the man with almost human
intelligence.

Alfred understood. He glanced out over the muddy water, at first
making out nothing but driftwood. Then suddenly he saw a log with an
object clinging to it which he took to be a man, and an Indian at
that. Alfred raised his rifle to his shoulder and was in the act of
pressing the trigger when he thought he heard a faint halloo.
Looking closer, he found he was not covering the smooth polished
head adorned with the small tuft of hair, peculiar to a redskin on
the warpath, but a head from which streamed long black hair.

Alfred lowered his rifle and studied intently the log with its human
burden. Drifting with the current it gradually approached the bank,
and as it came nearer he saw that it bore a white man, who was
holding to the log with one hand and with the other was making
feeble strokes. He concluded the man was either wounded or nearly
drowned, for his movements were becoming slower and weaker every
moment. His white face lay against the log and barely above water.
Alfred shouted encouraging words to him.

At the bend of the river a little rocky point jutted out a few yards
into the water. As the current carried the log toward this point,
Alfred, after divesting himself of some of his clothing, plunged in
and pulled it to the shore. The pallid face of the man clinging to
the log showed that he was nearly exhausted, and that he had been
rescued in the nick of time. When Alfred reached shoal water he
slipped his arm around the man, who was unable to stand, and carried
him ashore.

The rescued man wore a buckskin hunting shirt and leggins and
moccasins of the same material, all very much the worse for wear.
The leggins were torn into tatters and the moccasins worn through.
His face was pinched with suffering and one arm was bleeding from a
gunshot wound near the shoulder.

"Can you not speak? Who are you?" asked Clarke, supporting the limp
figure.

The man made several efforts to answer, and finally said something
that to Alfred sounded like "Zane," then he fell to the ground
unconscious.

All this time the dog had acted in a most peculiar manner, and if
Alfred had not been so intent on the man he would have noticed the
animal's odd maneuvers. He ran to and fro on the sandy beach; he
scratched up the sand and pebbles, sending them flying in the air;
he made short, furious dashes; he jumped, whirled, and, at last,
crawled close to the motionless figure and licked its hand.

Clarke realized that he would not be able to carry the inanimate
figure, so he hurriedly put on his clothes and set out on a run for
Colonel Zane's house. The first person whom he saw was the old negro
slave, who was brushing one of the Colonel's horses.

Sam was deliberate and took his time about everything. He slowly
looked up and surveyed Clarke with his rolling eyes. He did not
recognize in him any one he had ever seen before, and being of a
sullen and taciturn nature, especially with strangers, he seemed in
no hurry to give the desired information as to Colonel Zane's
whereabouts.

"Don't stare at me that way, you damn nigger," said Clarke, who was
used to being obeyed by negroes. "Quick, you idiot. Where is the
Colonel?"

At that moment Colonel Zane came out of the barn and started to
speak, when Clarke interrupted him.

"Colonel, I have just pulled a man out of the river who says his
name is Zane, or if he did not mean that, he knows you, for he
surely said 'Zane.'"

"What!" ejaculated the Colonel, letting his pipe fall from his
mouth.

Clarke related the circumstances in a few hurried words. Calling Sam
they ran quickly down to the river, where they found the prostrate
figure as Clarke had left it, the dog still crouched close by.

"My God! It is Isaac!" exclaimed Colonel Zane, when he saw the white
face. "Poor boy, he looks as if he were dead. Are you sure he spoke?
Of course he must have spoken for you could not have known. Yes, his
heart is still beating."

Colonel Zane raised his head from the unconscious man's breast,
where he had laid it to listen for the beating heart.

"Clarke, God bless you for saving him," said he fervently. "It shall
never be forgotten. He is alive, and, I believe, only exhausted, for
that wound amounts to little. Let us hurry."

"I did not save him. It was the dog," Alfred made haste to answer.

They carried the dripping form to the house, where the door was
opened by Mrs. Zane.

"Oh, dear, another poor man," she said, pityingly. Then, as she saw
his face, "Great Heavens, it is Isaac! Oh! don't say he is dead!"

"Yes, it is Isaac, and he is worth any number of dead men yet," said
Colonel Zane, as they laid the insensible man on the couch. "Bessie,
there is work here for you. He has been shot."

"Is there any other wound beside this one in his arm?" asked Mrs.
Zane, examining it.

"I do not think so, and that injury is not serious. It is lose of
blood, exposure and starvation. Clarke, will you please run over to
Captain Boggs and tell Betty to hurry home! Sam, you get a blanket
and warm it by the fire. That's right, Bessie, bring the whiskey,"
and Colonel Zane went on giving orders.

Alfred did not know in the least who Betty was, but, as he thought
that unimportant, he started off on a run for the fort. He had a
vague idea that Betty was the servant, possibly Sam's wife, or some
one of the Colonel's several slaves.

Let us return to Betty. As she wheeled her pony and rode away from
the scene of her adventure on the river bluff, her state of mind can
be more readily imagined than described. Betty hated opposition of
any kind, whether justifiable or not; she wanted her own way, and
when prevented from doing as she pleased she invariably got angry.
To be ordered and compelled to give up her ride, and that by a
stranger, was intolerable. To make it all the worse this stranger
had been decidedly flippant. He had familiarly spoken to her as "a
pretty little girl." Not only that, which was a great offense, but
he had stared at her, and she had a confused recollection of a gaze
in which admiration had been ill disguised. Of course, it was that
soldier Lydia had been telling her about. Strangers were of so rare
an occurrence in the little village that it was not probable there
could be more than one.

Approaching the house she met her brother who told her she had
better go indoors and let Sam put up the pony. Accordingly, Betty
called the negro, and then went into the house. Bessie had gone to
the fort with the children. Betty found no one to talk to, so she
tried to read. Finding she could not become interested she threw the
book aside and took up her embroidery. This also turned out a
useless effort; she got the linen hopelessly twisted and tangled,
and presently she tossed this upon the table. Throwing her shawl
over her shoulders, for it was now late in the afternoon and growing
chilly, she walked downstairs and out into the Yard. She strolled
aimlessly to and fro awhile, and then went over to the fort and into
Captain Bogg's house, which adjoined the blockhouse. Here she found
Lydia preparing flax.

"I saw you racing by on your pony. Goodness, how you can ride! I
should be afraid of breaking my neck," exclaimed Lydia, as Betty
entered.

"My ride was spoiled," said Betty, petulantly.

"Spoiled? By what--whom?"

"By a man, of course," retorted Betty, whose temper still was high.
"It is always a man that spoils everything."

"Why, Betty, what in the world do you mean? I never heard you talk
that way," said Lydia, opening her blue eyes in astonishment.

"Well, Lyde, I'll tell you. I was riding down the river road and
just as I came to the end of the clearing a man jumped out from
behind some bushes and grasped Madcap's bridle. Imagine! For a
moment I was frightened out of my wits. I instantly thought of the
Girtys, who, I have heard, have evinced a fondness for kidnapping
little girls. Then the fellow said he was on guard and ordered me,
actually commanded me to go home."

"Oh, is that all?" said Lydia, laughing.

"No, that is not all. He--he said I was a pretty little girl and
that he was sorry I could not have my own way; that his present
occupation was pleasant, and that the situation had its charm. The
very idea. He was most impertinent," and Betty's telltale cheeks
reddened again at the recollection.

"Betty, I do not think your experience was so dreadful, certainly
nothing to put you out as it has," said Lydia, laughing merrily. "Be
serious. You know we are out in the backwoods now and must not
expect so much of the men. These rough border men know little of
refinement like that with which you have been familiar. Some of them
are quiet and never speak unless addressed; their simplicity is
remarkable; Lew Wetzel and your brother Jonathan, when they are not
fighting Indians, are examples. On the other hand, some of them are
boisterous and if they get anything to drink they will make trouble
for you. Why, I went to a party one night after I had been here only
a few weeks and they played a game in which every man in the place
kissed me."

"Gracious! Please tell me when any such games are likely to be
proposed and I'll stay home," said Betty.

"I have learned to get along very well by simply making the best of
it," continued Lydia. "And to tell the truth, I have learned to
respect these rugged fellows. They are uncouth; they have no
manners, but their hearts are honest and true, and that is of much
greater importance in frontiersmen than the little attentions and
courtesies upon which women are apt to lay too much stress."

"I think you speak sensibly and I shall try and be more reasonable
hereafter. But, to return to the man who spoiled my ride. He, at
least, is no frontiersman, notwithstanding his gun and his buckskin
suit. He is an educated man. His manner and accent showed that. Then
he looked at me so differently. I know it was that soldier from Fort
Pitt."

"Mr. Clarke? Why, of course!" exclaimed Lydia, clapping her hands in
glee. "How stupid of me!"

"You seem to be amused," said Betty, frowning.

"Oh, Betty, it is such a good joke."

"Is it? I fail to see it."

"But I can. I am very much amused. You see, I heard Mr. Clarke say,
after papa told him there were lots of pretty girls here, that he
usually succeeded in finding those things out and without any
assistance. And the very first day he has met you and made you
angry. It is delightful."

"Lyde, I never knew you could be so horrid."

"It is evident that Mr. Clarke is not only discerning, but not
backward in expressing his thoughts. Betty, I see a romance."

"Don't be ridiculous," retorted Betty, with an angry blush. "Of
course, he had a right to stop me, and perhaps he did me a good turn
by keeping me inside the clearing, though I cannot imagine why he
hid behind the bushes. But he might have been polite. He made me
angry. He was so cool and--and--"

"I see," interrupted Lydia, teasingly. "He failed to recognize your
importance."

"Nonsense, Lydia. I hope you do not think I am a silly little fool.
It is only that I have not been accustomed to that kind of
treatment, and I will not have it."

Lydia was rather pleased that some one had appeared on the scene who
did not at once bow down before Betty, and therefore she took the
young man's side of the argument.

"Do not be hard on poor Mr. Clarke. Maybe he mistook you for an
Indian girl. He is handsome. I am sure you saw that."

"Oh, I don't remember how he looked," said Betty. She did remember,
but would not admit it.

The conversation drifted into other channels after this, and soon
twilight came stealing down on them. As Betty rose to go there came
a hurried tap on the door.

"I wonder who would knock like that," said Lydia, rising "Betty,
wait a moment while I open the door."

On doing this she discovered Clarke standing on the step with his
cap in his hand.

"Why, Mr. Clarke! Will you come in?" exclaimed Lydia. "Thank you,
only for a moment," said Alfred. "I cannot stay. I came to find
Betty. Is she here?"

He had not observed Betty, who had stepped back into the shadow of
the darkening room. At his question Lydia became so embarrassed she
did not know what to say or do, and stood looking helplessly at him.

But Betty was equal to the occasion. At the mention of her first
name in such a familiar manner by this stranger, who had already
grievously offended her once before that day, Betty stood perfectly
still a moment, speechless with surprise, then she stepped quickly
out of the shadow.

Clarke turned as he heard her step and looked straight into a pair
of dark, scornful eyes and a face pale with anger.

"If it be necessary that you use my name, and I do not see how that
can be possible, will you please have courtesy enough to say Miss
Zane?" she cried haughtily.

Lydia recovered her composure sufficiently to falter out:

"Betty, allow me to introduce--"

"Do not trouble yourself, Lydia. I have met this person once before
to-day, and I do not care for an introduction."

When Alfred found himself gazing into the face that had haunted him
all the afternoon, he forgot for the moment all about his errand. He
was finally brought to a realization of the true state of affairs by
Lydia's words.

"Mr. Clarke, you are all wet. What has happened?" she exclaimed,
noticing the water dripping from his garments.

Suddenly a light broke in on Alfred. So the girl he had accosted on
the road and "Betty" were one and the same person. His face flushed.
He felt that his rudeness on that occasion may have merited censure,
but that it had not justified the humiliation she had put upon him.

These two persons, so strangely brought together, and on whom Fate
had made her inscrutable designs, looked steadily into each other's
eyes. What mysterious force thrilled through Alfred Clarke and made
Betty Zane tremble?

"Miss Boggs, I am twice unfortunate," said Alfred, tuning to Lydia,
and there was an earnest ring in his deep voice "This time I am
indeed blameless. I have just left Colonel Zane's house, where there
has been an accident, and I was dispatched to find 'Betty,' being
entirely ignorant as to who she might be. Colonel Zane did not stop
to explain. Miss Zane is needed at the house, that is all."

And without so much as a glance at Betty he bowed low to Lydia and
then strode out of the open door.

"What did he say?" asked Betty, in a small trembling voice, all her
anger and resentment vanished.

"There has been an accident. He did not say what or to whom. You
must hurry home. Oh, Betty, I hope no one has been hurt! And you
were very unkind to Mr. Clarke. I am sure he is a gentleman, and you
might have waited a moment to learn what he meant."

Betty did not answer, but flew out of the door and down the path to
the gate of the fort. She was almost breathless when she reached
Colonel Zane's house, and hesitated on the step before entering.
Summoning her courage she pushed open the door. The first thing that
struck her after the bright light was the pungent odor of strong
liniment. She saw several women neighbors whispering together. Major
McColloch and Jonathan Zane were standing by a couch over which Mrs.
Zane was bending. Colonel Zane sat at the foot of the couch. Betty
saw this in the first rapid glance, and then, as the Colonel's wife
moved aside, she saw a prostrate figure, a white face and dark eyes
that smiled at her.

"Betty," came in a low voice from those pale lips.

Her heart leaped and then seemed to cease beating. Many long years
had passed since she had heard that voice, but it had never been
forgotten. It was the best beloved voice of her childhood, and with
it came the sweet memories of her brother and playmate. With a cry
of joy she fell on her knees beside him and threw her arms around
his neck.

"Oh, Isaac, brother, brother!" she cried, as she kissed him again
and again. "Can it really be you? Oh, it is too good to be true!
Thank God! I have prayed and prayed that you would be restored to
us."

Then she began to cry and laugh at the same time in that strange way
in which a woman relieves a heart too full of joy. "Yes, Betty. It
is all that is left of me," he said, running his hand caressingly
over the dark head that lay on his breast.

"Betty, you must not excite him," said Colonel Zane.

"So you have not forgotten me?" whispered Isaac.

"No, indeed, Isaac. I have never forgotten," answered Betty, softly.
"Only last night I spoke of you and wondered if you were living. And
now you are here. Oh, I am so happy!" The quivering lips and the
dark eyes bright with tears spoke eloquently of her joy.

"Major will you tell Captain Boggs to come over after supper? Isaac
will be able to talk a little by then, and he has some news of the
Indians," said Colonel Zane.

"And ask the young man who saved my life to come that I may thank
him," said Isaac.

"Saved your life?" exclaimed Betty, turning to her brother, in
surprise, while a dark red flush spread over her face. A humiliating
thought had flashed into her mind.

"Saved his life, of course," said Colonel Zane, answering for Isaac.
"Young Clarke pulled him out of the river. Didn't he tell you?"

"No," said Betty, rather faintly.

"Well, he is a modest young fellow. He saved Isaac's life, there is
no doubt of that. You will hear all about it after supper. Don't
make Isaac talk any more at present."

Betty hid her face on Isaac's shoulder and remained quiet a few
moments; then, rising, she kissed his cheek and went quietly to her
room. Once there she threw herself on the bed and tried to think.
The events of the day, coming after a long string of monotonous,
wearying days, had been confusing; they had succeeded one another in
such rapid order as to leave no time for reflection. The meeting by
the river with the rude but interesting stranger; the shock to her
dignity; Lydia's kindly advice; the stranger again, this time
emerging from the dark depths of disgrace into the luminous light as
the hero of her brother's rescue--all these thoughts jumbled in her
mind making it difficult for her to think clearly. But after a time
one thing forced itself upon her. She could not help being conscious
that she had wronged some one to whom she would be forever indebted.
Nothing could alter that. She was under an eternal obligation to the
man who had saved the life she loved best on earth. She had unjustly
scorned and insulted the man to whom she owed the life of her
brother.

Betty was passionate and quick-tempered, but she was generous and
tender-hearted as well, and when she realized how unkind and cruel
she kind been she felt very miserable. Her position admitted of no
retreat. No matter how much pride rebelled; no matter how much she
disliked to retract anything she had said, she knew no other course
lay open to her. She would have to apologize to Mr. Clarke. How
could she? What would she say? She remembered how cold and stern his
face had been as he turned from her to Lydia. Perplexed and unhappy,
Betty did what any girl in her position would have done: she
resorted to the consoling and unfailing privilege of her sex--a good
cry.

When she became composed again she got up and bathed her hot cheeks,
brushed her hair, and changed her gown for a becoming one of white.
She tied a red ribbon about her throat and put a rosette in her
hair. She had forgotten all about the Indians. By the time Mrs. Zane
called her for supper she had her mind made up to ask Mr. Clarke's
pardon, tell him she was sorry, and that she hoped they might be
friends.

Isaac Zane's fame had spread from the Potomac to Detroit and
Louisville. Many an anxious mother on the border used the story of
his captivity as a means to frighten truant youngsters who had
evinced a love for running wild in the woods. The evening of Isaac's
return every one in the settlement called to welcome home the
wanderer. In spite of the troubled times and the dark cloud hanging
over them they made the occasion one of rejoicing.

Old John Bennet, the biggest and merriest man in the colony, came in
and roared his appreciation of Isaac's return. He was a huge man,
and when he stalked into the room he made the floor shake with his
heavy tread. His honest face expressed his pleasure as he stood over
Isaac and nearly crushed his hand.

"Glad to see you, Isaac. Always knew you would come back. Always
said so. There are not enough damn redskins on the river to keep you
prisoner."

"I think they managed to keep him long enough," remarked Silas Zane.

"Well, here comes the hero," said Colonel Zane, as Clarke entered,
accompanied by Captain Boggs, Major McColloch and Jonathan. "Any
sign of Wetzel or the Indians?"

Jonathan had not yet seen his brother, and he went over and seized
Isaac's hand and wrung it without speaking.

"There are no Indians on this side of the river," said Major
McColloch, in answer to the Colonel's question.

"Mr. Clarke, you do not seem impressed with your importance," said
Colonel Zane. "My sister said you did not tell her what part you
took in Isaac's rescue."

"I hardly deserve all the credit," answered Alfred. "Your big black
dog merits a great deal of it."

"Well, I consider your first day at the fort a very satisfactory
one, and an augury of that fortune you came west to find."

"How are you?" said Alfred, going up to the couch where Isaac lay.

"I am doing well, thanks to you," said Isaac, warmly shaking
Alfred's hand.

"It is good to see you pulling out all right," answered Alfred. "I
tell you, I feared you were in a bad way when I got you out of the
water."

Isaac reclined on the couch with his head and shoulder propped up by
pillows. He was the handsomest of the brothers. His face would have
been but for the marks of privation, singularly like Betty's; the
same low, level brows and dark eyes; the same mouth, though the lips
were stronger and without the soft curves which made his sister's
mouth so sweet.

Betty appeared at the door, and seeing the room filled with men she
hesitated a moment before coming forward. In her white dress she
made such a dainty picture that she seemed out of place among those
surroundings. Alfred Clarke, for one, thought such a charming vision
was wasted on the rough settlers, every one of whom wore a faded and
dirty buckskin suit and a belt containing a knife and a tomahawk.
Colonel Zane stepped up to Betty and placing his arm around her
turned toward Clarke with pride in his eyes.

"Betty, I want to make you acquainted with the hero of the hour, Mr.
Alfred Clarke. This is my sister."

Betty bowed to Alfred, but lowered her eyes instantly on
encountering the young man's gaze.

"I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Zane twice today," said
Alfred.

"Twice?" asked Colonel Zane, turning to Betty. She did not answer,
but disengaged herself from his arm and sat down by Isaac.

"It was on the river road that I first met Miss Zane, although I did
not know her then," answered Alfred. "I had some difficulty in
stopping her pony from going to Fort Pitt, or some other place down
the river."

"Ha! Ha! Well, I know she rides that pony pretty hard," said Colonel
Zane, with his hearty laugh. "I'll tell you, Clarke, we have some
riders here in the settlement. Have you heard of Major McColloch's
leap over the hill?"

"I have heard it mentioned, and I would like to hear the story,"
responded Alfred. "I am fond of horses, and think I can ride a
little myself. I am afraid I shall be compelled to change my mind."

"That is a fine animal you rode from Fort Pitt," remarked the Major.
"I would like to own him."

"Come, draw your chairs up and he'll listen to Isaac's story," said
Colonel Zane.

"I have not much of a story to tell," said Isaac, in a voice still
weak and low. "I have some bad news, I am sorry to say, but I shall
leave that for the last. This year, if it had been completed, would
have made my tenth year as a captive of the Wyandots. This last
period of captivity, which has been nearly four years, I have not
been ill-treated and have enjoyed more comfort than any of you can
imagine. Probably you are all familiar with the reason for my long
captivity. Because of the interest of Myeerah, the Indian Princess,
they have importuned me for years to be adopted into the tribe,
marry the White Crane, as they call Myeerah, and become a Wyandot
chief. To this I would never consent, though I have been careful not
to provoke the Indians. I was allowed the freedom of the camp, but
have always been closely watched. I should still be with the Indians
had I not suspected that Hamilton, the British Governor, had formed
a plan with the Hurons, Shawnees, Delawares, and other tribes, to
strike a terrible blow at the whites along, the river. For months I
have watched the Indians preparing for an expedition, the extent of
which they had never before undertaken. I finally learned from
Myeerah that my suspicions were well founded. A favorable chance to
escape presented and I took it and got away. I outran all the
braves, even Arrowswift, the Wyandot runner, who shot me through the
arm. I have had a hard time of it these last three or four days,
living on herbs and roots, and when I reached the river I was ready
to drop. I pushed a log into the water and started to drift over.
When the old dog saw me I knew I was safe if I could hold on. Once,
when the young man pointed his gun at me, I thought it was all over.
I could not shout very loud."

"Were you going to shoot?" asked Colonel Zane of Clarke.

"I took him for an Indian, but fortunately I discovered my mistake
in time," answered Alfred.

"Are the Indians on the way here?" asked Jonathan.

"That I cannot say. At present the Wyandots are at home. But I know
that the British and the Indians will make a combined attack on the
settlements. It may be a month, or a year, but it is coming."

"And Hamilton, the hair buyer, the scalp buyer, is behind the plan,"
said Colonel Zane, in disgust.

"The Indians have their wrongs. I sympathize with them in many ways.
We have robbed them, broken faith with them, and have not lived up
to the treaties. Pipe and Wingenund are particularly bitter toward
the whites. I understand Cornplanter is also. He would give anything
for Jonathan's scalp, and I believe any of the tribes would give a
hundred of their best warriors for 'Black Wind,' as they call Lew
Wetzel."

"Have you ever seen Red Fox?" asked Jonathan, who was sitting near
the fire and as usual saying but little. He was the wildest and most
untamable of all the Zanes. Most of the time he spent in the woods,
not so much to fight Indians, as Wetzel did, but for pure love of
outdoor life. At home he was thoughtful and silent.

"Yes, I have seen him," answered Isaac. "He is a Shawnee chief and
one of the fiercest warriors in that tribe of fighters. He was at
Indian-head, which is the name of one of the Wyandot villages, when
I visited there last, and he had two hundred of his best braves with
him."

"He is a bad Indian. Wetzel and I know him. He swore he would hang
our scalps up in his wigwam," said Jonathan.

"What has he in particular against you?" asked Colonel Zane. "Of
course, Wetzel is the enemy of all Indians."

"Several years ago Wetzel and I were on a hunt down the river at the
place called Girty's Point, where we fell in with the tracks of five
Shawnees. I was for coming home, but Wetzel would not hear of it. We
trailed the Indians and, coming up on them after dark, we tomahawked
them. One of them got away crippled, but we could not follow him
because we discovered that they had a white girl as captive, and one
of the red devils, thinking we were a rescuing party, had tomahawked
her. She was not quite dead. We did all we could to save her life.
She died and we buried her on the spot. They were Red Fox's braves
and were on their way to his camp with the prisoner. A year or so
afterwards I learned from a friendly Indian that the Shawnee chief
had sworn to kill us. No doubt he will be a leader in the coming
attack."

"We are living in the midst of terrible times," remarked Colonel
Zane. "Indeed, these are the times that try men's souls, but I
firmly believe the day is not far distant when the redmen will be
driven far over the border."

"Is the Indian Princess pretty?" asked Betty of Isaac.

"Indeed she is, Betty, almost as beautiful as you are," said Isaac.
"She is tall and very fair for an Indian. But I have something to
tell about her more interesting than that. Since I have been with
the Wyandots this last time I have discovered a little of the
jealously guarded secret of Myeerah's mother. When Tarhe and his
band of Hurons lived in Canada their home was in the Muskoka Lakes
region on the Moon river. The old warriors tell wonderful stories of
the beauty of that country. Tarhe took captive some French
travellers, among them a woman named La Durante. She had a beautiful
little girl. The prisoners, except this little girl, were released.
When she grew up Tarhe married her. Myeerah is her child. Once Tarhe
took his wife to Detroit and she was seen there by an old Frenchman
who went crazy over her and said she was his child. Tarhe never went
to the white settlements again. So you see, Myeerah is from a great
French family on her mother's side, as this is old Frenchman was
probably Chevalier La Durante, and Myeerah's grandfather."

"I would love to see her, and yet I hate her. What an odd name she
has," said Betty.

"It is the Indian name for the white crane, a rare and beautiful
bird. I never saw one. The name has been celebrated among the Hurons
as long as any one of them can remember. The Indians call her the
White Crane, or Walk-in-the-Water, because of her love for wading in
the stream."

"I think we have made Isaac talk enough for one night," said Colonel
Zane. "He is tired out. Major, tell Isaac and Betty, and Mr. Clarke,
too, of your jump over the cliff."

"I have heard of that leap from the Indians," said Isaac.

"Major, from what hill did you jump your horse?" asked Alfred.

"You know the bare rocky bluff that stands out prominently on the
hill across the creek. From that spot Colonel Zane first saw the
valley, and from there I leaped my horse. I can never convince
myself that it really happened. Often I look up at that cliff in
doubt. But the Indians and Colonel Zane, Jonathan, Wetzel and others
say they actually saw the deed done, so I must accept it," said
Major McColloch.

"It seems incredible!" said Alfred. "I cannot understand how a man
or horse could go over that precipice and live."

"That is what we all say," responded the Colonel. "I suppose I shall
have to tell the story. We have fighters and makers of history here,
but few talkers."

"I am anxious to hear it," answered Clarke, "and I am curious to see
this man Wetzel, whose fame has reached as far as my home, way down
in Virginia."

"You will have your wish gratified soon, I have no doubt," resumed
the Colonel. "Well, now for the story of McColloch's mad ride for
life and his wonderful leap down Wheeling hill. A year ago, when the
fort was besieged by the Indians, the Major got through the lines
and made off for Short Creek. He returned next morning with forty
mounted men. They marched boldly up to the gate, and all succeeded
in getting inside save the gallant Major, who had waited to be the
last man to go in. Finding it impossible to make the short distance
without going under the fire of the Indians, who had rushed up to
prevent the relief party from entering the fort, he wheeled his big
stallion, and, followed by the yelling band of savages, he took the
road leading around back of the fort to the top of the bluff. The
road lay along the edge of the cliff and I saw the Major turn and
wave his rifle at us, evidently with the desire of assuring us that
he was safe. Suddenly, on the very summit of the hill, he reined in
his horse as if undecided. I knew in an instant what had happened.
The Major had run right into the returning party of Indians, which
had been sent out to intercept our reinforcements. In a moment more
we heard the exultant yells of the savages, and saw them gliding
from tree to tree, slowly lengthening out their line and surrounding
the unfortunate Major. They did not fire a shot. We in the fort were
stupefied with horror, and stood helplessly with our useless guns,
watching and waiting for the seemingly inevitable doom of our
comrade. Not so with the Major! Knowing that he was a marked man by
the Indians and feeling that any death was preferable to the
gauntlet, the knife, the stake and torch of the merciless savage, he
had grasped at a desperate chance. He saw his enemies stealthily
darting from rock to tree, and tree to bush, creeping through the
brush, and slipping closer and closer every moment. On three sides
were his hated foes and on the remaining side--the abyss. Without a
moment's hesitation the intrepid Major spurred his horse at the
precipice. Never shall I forget that thrilling moment. The three
hundred savages were silent as they realized the Major's intention.
Those in the fort watched with staring eyes. A few bounds and the
noble steed reared high on his hind legs. Outlined by the clear blue
sky the magnificent animal stood for one brief instant, his black
mane flying in the wind, his head thrown up and his front hoofs
pawing the air like Marcus Curtius' mailed steed of old, and then
down with a crash, a cloud of dust, and the crackling of pine limbs.
A long yell went up from the Indians below, while those above ran to
the edge of the cliff. With cries of wonder and baffled vengeance
they gesticulated toward the dark ravine into which horse and rider
had plunged rather than wait to meet a more cruel death. The
precipice at this point is over three hundred feet in height, and in
places is almost perpendicular. We believed the Major to be lying
crushed and mangled on the rocks. Imagine our frenzy of joy when we
saw the daring soldier and his horse dash out of the bushes that
skirt the base of the cliff, cross the creek, and come galloping to
the fort in safety."

"It was wonderful! Wonderful!" exclaimed Isaac, his eyes glistening.
"No wonder the Indians call you the 'Flying Chief.'"

"Had the Major not jumped into the clump of pine trees which grow
thickly some thirty feet below the summit he would not now be
alive," said Colonel Zane. "I am certain of that. Nevertheless that
does not detract from the courage of his deed. He had no time to
pick out the best place to jump. He simply took his one chance, and
came out all right. That leap will live in the minds of men as long
as yonder bluff stands a monument to McColloch's ride for life."

Alfred had listened with intense interest to the Colonel's recital.
When it ended, although his pulses quickened and his soul expanded
with awe and reverence for the hero of that ride, he sat silent.
Alfred honored courage in a man more than any other quality. He
marvelled at the simplicity of these bordermen who, he thought, took
the most wonderful adventures and daring escapes as a matter of
course, a compulsory part of their daily lives. He had already, in
one day, had more excitement than had ever befallen him, and was
beginning to believe his thirst for a free life of stirring action
would be quenched long before he had learned to become useful in his
new sphere. During the remaining half hour of his call on his lately
acquired friends, he took little part in the conversation, but sat
quietly watching the changeful expressions on Betty's face, and
listening to Colonel Zane's jokes. When he rose to go he bade his
host good-night, and expressed a wish that Isaac, who had fallen
asleep, might have a speedy recovery. He turned toward the door to
find that Betty had intercepted him.

"Mr. Clarke," she said, extending a little hand that trembled
slightly. "I wish to say--that--I want to say that my feelings have
changed. I am sorry for what I said over at Lydia's. I spoke hastily
and rudely. You have saved my brother's life. I will be forever
grateful to you. It is useless to try to thank you. I--I hope we may
be friends."

Alfred found it desperately hard to resist that low voice, and those
dark eyes which were raised shyly, yet bravely, to his. But he had
been deeply hurt. He pretended not to see the friendly hand held out
to him, and his voice was cold when he answered her.

"I am glad to have been of some service," he said, "but I think you
overrate my action. Your brother would not have drowned, I am sure.
You owe me nothing. Good-night."

Betty stood still one moment staring at the door through which he
had gone before she realized that her overtures of friendship had
been politely, but coldly, ignored. She had actually been snubbed.
The impossible had happened to Elizabeth Zane. Her first sensation
after she recovered from her momentary bewilderment was one of
amusement, and she laughed in a constrained manner; but, presently,
two bright red spots appeared in her cheeks, and she looked quickly
around to see if any of the others had noticed the incident. None of
them had been paying any attention to her and she breathed a sigh of
relief. It was bad enough to be snubbed without having others see
it. That would have been too humiliating. Her eyes flashed fire as
she remembered the disdain in Clarke's face, and that she had not
been clever enough to see it in time.

"Tige, come here!" called Colonel Zane. "What ails the dog?"

The dog had jumped to his feet and ran to the door, where he sniffed
at the crack over the threshold. His aspect was fierce and
threatening. He uttered low growls and then two short barks. Those
in the room heard a soft moccasined footfall outside. The next
instant the door opened wide and a tall figure stood disclosed.

"Wetzel!" exclaimed Colonel Zane. A hush fell on the little company
after that exclamation, and all eyes were fastened on the new comer.

Well did the stranger merit close attention. He stalked into the
room, leaned his long rifle against the mantelpiece and spread out
his hands to the fire. He was clad from head to foot in fringed and
beaded buckskin, which showed evidence of a long and arduous tramp.
It was torn and wet and covered with mud. He was a magnificently
made man, six feet in height, and stood straight as an arrow. His
wide shoulders, and his muscular, though not heavy, limbs denoted
wonderful strength and activity. His long hair, black as a raven's
wing, hung far down his shoulders. Presently he turned and the light
shone on a remarkable face. So calm and cold and stern it was that
it seemed chiselled out of marble. The most striking features were
its unusual pallor, and the eyes, which were coal black, and
piercing as the dagger's point.

"If you have any bad news out with it," cried Colonel Zane,
impatiently.

"No need fer alarm," said Wetzel. He smiled slightly as he saw
Betty's apprehensive face. "Don't look scared, Betty. The redskins
are miles away and goin' fer the Kanawha settlement."



CHAPTER III.

Many weeks of quiet followed the events of the last chapter. The
settlers planted their corn, harvested their wheat and labored in
the fields during the whole of one spring and summer without hearing
the dreaded war cry of the Indians. Colonel Zane, who had been a
disbursing officer in the army of Lord Dunmore, where he had
attained the rank of Colonel, visited Fort Pitt during the summer in
the hope of increasing the number of soldiers in his garrison. His
efforts proved fruitless. He returned to Fort Henry by way of the
river with several pioneers, who with their families were bound for
Fort Henry. One of these pioneers was a minister who worked in the
fields every week day and on Sundays preached the Gospel to those
who gathered in the meeting house.

Alfred Clarke had taken up his permanent abode at the fort, where he
had been installed as one of the regular garrison. His duties, as
well as those of the nine other members of the garrison, were light.
For two hours out of the twenty-four he was on guard. Thus he had
ample time to acquaint himself with the settlers and their families.

Alfred and Isaac had now become firm friends. They spent many hours
fishing in the river, and roaming the woods in the vicinity, as
Colonel Zane would not allow Isaac to stray far from the fort.
Alfred became a regular visitor at Colonel Zane's house. He saw
Betty every day, but as yet, nothing had mended the breach between
them. They were civil to each other when chance threw them together,
but Betty usually left the room on some pretext soon after he
entered. Alfred regretted his hasty exhibition of resentment and
would have been glad to establish friendly relations with her. But
she would not give him an opportunity. She avoided him on all
possible occasions. Though Alfred was fast succumbing to the charm
of Betty's beautiful face, though his desire to be near her had
grown well nigh resistless, his pride had not yet broken down. Many
of the summer evenings found him on the Colonel's doorstep, smoking
a pipe, or playing with the children. He was that rare and best
company--a good listener. Although he laughed at Colonel Zane's
stories, and never tired of hearing of Isaac's experiences among the
Indians, it is probable he would not have partaken of the Colonel's
hospitality nearly so often had it not been that he usually saw
Betty, and if he got only a glimpse of her he went away satisfied.
On Sundays he attended the services at the little church and
listened to Betty's sweet voice as she led the singing.

There were a number of girls at the fort near Betty's age. With all
of these Alfred was popular. He appeared so entirely different from
the usual young man on the frontier that he was more than welcome
everywhere. Girls in the backwoods are much the same as girls in
thickly populated and civilized districts. They liked his manly
ways; his frank and pleasant manners; and when to these virtues he
added a certain deferential regard, a courtliness to which they were
unaccustomed, they were all the better pleased. He paid the young
women little attentions, such as calling on them, taking them to
parties and out driving, but there was not one of them who could
think that she, in particular, interested him.

The girls noticed, however, that he never approached Betty after
service, or on any occasion, and while it caused some wonder and
gossip among them, for Betty enjoyed the distinction of being the
belle of the border, they were secretly pleased. Little hints and
knowing smiles, with which girls are so skillful, made known to
Betty all of this, and, although she was apparently indifferent, it
hurt her sensitive feelings. It had the effect of making her believe
she hated the cause of it more than ever.

What would have happened had things gone on in this way, I am not
prepared to say; probably had not a meddling Fate decided to take a
hand in the game, Betty would have continued to think she hated
Alfred, and I would never have had occasion to write his story; but
Fate did interfere, and, one day in the early fall, brought about an
incident which changed the whole world for the two young people.

It was the afternoon of an Indian summer day--in that most beautiful
time of all the year--and Betty, accompanied by her dog, had
wandered up the hillside into the woods. From the hilltop the broad
river could be seen winding away in the distance, and a soft,
bluish, smoky haze hung over the water. The forest seemed to be on
fire. The yellow leaves of the poplars, the brown of the white and
black oaks, the red and purple of the maples, and the green of the
pines and hemlocks flamed in a glorious blaze of color. A stillness,
which was only broken now and then by the twittering of birds
uttering the plaintive notes peculiar to them in the autumn as they
band together before their pilgrimage to the far south, pervaded the
forest.

Betty loved the woods, and she knew all the trees. She could tell
their names by the bark or the shape of the leaves. The giant black
oak, with its smooth shiny bark and sturdy limbs, the chestnut with
its rugged, seamed sides and bristling burrs, the hickory with its
lofty height and curled shelling bark, were all well known and well
loved by Betty. Many times had she wondered at the trembling,
quivering leaves of the aspen, and the foliage of the silver-leaf as
it glinted in the sun. To-day, especially, as she walked through the
woods, did their beauty appeal to her. In the little sunny patches
of clearing which were scattered here and there in the grove, great
clusters of goldenrod grew profusely. The golden heads swayed
gracefully on the long stems Betty gathered a few sprigs and added
to them a bunch of warmly tinted maple leaves.

The chestnuts burrs were opening. As Betty mounted a little rocky
eminence and reached out for a limb of a chestnut tree, she lost her
footing and fell. Her right foot had twisted under her as she went
down, and when a sharp pain shot through it she was unable to
repress a cry. She got up, tenderly placed the foot on the ground
and tried her weight on it, which caused acute pain. She unlaced and
removed her moccasin to find that her ankle had commenced to swell.
Assured that she had sprained it, and aware of the serious
consequences of an injury of that nature, she felt greatly
distressed. Another effort to place her foot on the ground and bear
her weight on it caused such severe pain that she was compelled to
give up the attempt. Sinking down by the trunk of the tree and
leaning her head against it she tried to think of a way out of her
difficulty.

The fort, which she could plainly see, seemed a long distance off,
although it was only a little way down the grassy slope. She looked
and looked, but not a person was to be seen. She called to Tige. She
remembered that he had been chasing a squirrel a short while ago,
but now there was no sign of him. He did not come at her call. How
annoying! If Tige were only there she could have sent him for help.
She shouted several times, but the distance was too great for her
voice to carry to the fort. The mocking echo of her call came back
from the bluff that rose to her left. Betty now began to be alarmed
in earnest, and the tears started to roll down her cheeks. The
throbbing pain in her ankle, the dread of having to remain out in
that lonesome forest after dark, and the fear that she might not be
found for hours, caused Betty's usually brave spirit to falter; she
was weeping unreservedly.

In reality she had been there only a few minutes--although they
seemed hours to her--when she heard the light tread of moccasined
feet on the moss behind her. Starting up with a cry of joy she
turned and looked up into the astonished face of Alfred Clarke.

Returning from a hunt back in the woods he had walked up to her
before being aware of her presence. In a single glance he saw the
wildflowers scattered beside her, the little moccasin turned inside
out, the woebegone, tearstained face, and he knew Betty had come to
grief.

Confused and vexed, Betty sank back at the foot of the tree. It is
probable she would have encountered Girty or a member of his band of
redmen, rather than have this young man find her in this
predicament. It provoked her to think that of all the people at the
fort it should be the only one she could not welcome who should find
her in such a sad plight.

"Why, Miss Zane!" he exclaimed, after a moment of hesitation. "What
in the world has happened? Have you been hurt? May I help you?"

"It is nothing," said Betty, bravely, as she gathered up her flowers
and the moccasin and rose slowly to her feet. "Thank you, but you
need not wait."

The cold words nettled Alfred and he was in the act of turning away
from her when he caught, for the fleetest part of a second, the full
gaze of her eyes. He stopped short. A closer scrutiny of her face
convinced him that she was suffering and endeavoring with all her
strength to conceal it.

"But I will wait. I think you have hurt yourself. Lean upon my arm,"
he said, quietly.

"Please let me help you," he continued, going nearer to her.

But Betty refused his assistance. She would not even allow him to
take the goldenrod from her arms. After a few hesitating steps she
paused and lifted her foot from the ground.

"Here, you must not try to walk a step farther," he said,
resolutely, noting how white she had suddenly become. "You have
sprained your ankle and are needlessly torturing yourself. Please
let me carry you?"

"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Betty, in evident distress. "I will manage.
It is not so--very--far."

She resumed the slow and painful walking, but she had taken only a
few steps when she stopped again and this time a low moan issued
from her lips. She swayed slightly backward and if Alfred had not
dropped his rifle and caught her she would have fallen.

"Will you--please--for some one?" she whispered faintly, at the same
time pushing him away.

"How absurd!" burst out Alfred, indignantly. "Am I then, so
distasteful to you that you would rather wait here and suffer a half
hour longer while I go for assistance? It is only common courtesy on
my part. I do not want to carry you. I think you would be quite
heavy."

He said this in a hard, bitter tone, deeply hurt that she would not
accept even a little kindness from him. He looked away from her and
waited. Presently a soft, half-smothered sob came from Betty and it
expressed such utter wretchedness that his heart melted. After all
she was only a child. He turned to see the tears running down her
cheeks, and with a suppressed imprecation upon the wilfulness of
young women in general, and this one in particular, he stepped
forward and before she could offer any resistance, he had taken her
up in his arms, goldenrod and all, and had started off at a rapid
walk toward the fort.

Betty cried out in angry surprise, struggled violently for a moment,
and then, as suddenly, lay quietly in his arms. His anger changed to
self-reproach as he realized what a light burden she made. He looked
down at the dark head lying on his shoulder. Her face was hidden by
the dusky rippling hair, which tumbled over his breast, brushed
against his cheek, and blew across his lips. The touch of those
fragrant tresses was a soft caress. Almost unconsciously he pressed
her closer to his heart. And as a sweet mad longing grew upon him he
was blind to all save that he held her in his arms, that uncertainty
was gone forever, and that he loved her. With these thoughts running
riot in his brain he carried her down the hill to Colonel Zane's
house.

The negro, Sam, who came out of the kitchen, dropped the bucket he
had in his hand and ran into the house when he saw them. When Alfred
reached the gate Colonel Zane and Isaac were hurrying out to meet
him.

"For Heaven's sake! What has happened? Is she badly hurt? I have
always looked for this," said the Colonel, excitedly.

"You need not look so alarmed," answered Alfred. "She has only
sprained her ankle, and trying to walk afterward hurt her so badly
that she became faint and I had to carry her."

"Dear me, is that all?" said Mrs. Zane, who had also come out. "We
were terribly frightened. Sam came running into the house with some
kind of a wild story. Said he knew you would be the death of Betty."

"How ridiculous! Colonel Zane, that servant of yours never fails to
say something against me," said Alfred, as he carried Betty into the
house.

"He doesn't like you. But you need not mind Sam. He is getting old
and we humor him, perhaps too much. We are certainly indebted to
you," returned the Colonel.

Betty was laid on the couch and consigned to the skillful hands of
Mrs. Zane, who pronounced the injury a bad sprain.

"Well, Betty, this will keep you quiet for a few days," said she,
with a touch of humor, as she gently felt the swollen ankle.

"Alfred, you have been our good angel so often that I don't see how
we shall ever reward you," said Isaac to Alfred.

"Oh, that time will come. Don't worry about that," said Alfred,
jestingly, and then, turning to the others he continued, earnestly.
"I will apologize for the manner in which I disregarded Miss Zane's
wish not to help her. I am sure I could do no less. I believe my
rudeness has spared her considerable suffering."

"What did he mean, Betts?" asked Isaac, going back to his sister
after he had closed the door. "Didn't you want him to help you?"

Betty did not answer. She sat on the couch while Mrs. Zane held the
little bare foot and slowly poured the hot water over the swollen
and discolored ankle. Betty's lips were pale. She winced every time
Mrs. Zane touched her foot, but as yet she had not uttered even a
sigh.

"Betty, does it hurt much?" asked Isaac.

"Hurt? Do you think I am made of wood? Of course it hurts," retorted
Betty. "That water is so hot. Bessie, will not cold water do as
well?"

"I am sorry. I won't tease any more," said Isaac, taking his
sister's hand. "I'll tell you what, Betty, we owe Alfred Clarke a
great deal, you and I. I am going to tell you something so you will
know how much more you owe him. Do you remember last month when that
red heifer of yours got away. Well, Clarke chased her away and
finally caught her in the woods. He asked me to say I had caught
her. Somehow or other he seems to be afraid of you. I wish you and
he would be good friends. He is a mighty fine fellow."

In spite of the pain Betty was suffering a bright blush suffused her
face at the words of her brother, who, blind as brothers are in
regard to their own sisters, went on praising his friend.

Betty was confined to the house a week or more and during this
enforced idleness she had ample time for reflection and opportunity
to inquire into the perplexed state of her mind.

The small room, which Betty called her own, faced the river and
fort. Most of the day she lay by the window trying to read her
favorite books, but often she gazed out on the quiet scene, the
rolling river, the everchanging trees and the pastures in which the
red and white cows grazed peacefully; or she would watch with idle,
dreamy eyes the flight of the crows over the hills, and the graceful
motion of the hawk as he sailed around and around in the azure sky,
looking like a white sail far out on a summer sea.

But Betty's mind was at variance with this peaceful scene. The
consciousness of a change, which she could not readily define, in
her feelings toward Alfred Clarke, vexed and irritated her. Why did
she think of him so often? True, he had saved her brother's life.
Still she was compelled to admit to herself that this was not the
reason. Try as she would, she could not banish the thought of him.
Over and over again, a thousand times, came the recollection of that
moment when he had taken her up in his arms as though she were a
child. Some vague feeling stirred in her heart as she remembered the
strong yet gentle clasp of his arms.

Several times from her window she had seen him coming across the
square between the fort and her brother's house, and womanlike,
unseen herself, she had watched him. How erect was his carriage. How
pleasant his deep voice sounded as she heard him talking to her
brother. Day by day, as her ankle grew stronger and she knew she
could not remain much longer in her room, she dreaded more and more
the thought of meeting him. She could not understand herself; she
had strange dreams; she cried seemingly without the slightest cause
and she was restless and unhappy. Finally she grew angry and scolded
herself. She said she was silly and sentimental. This had the effect
of making her bolder, but it did not quiet her unrest. Betty did not
know that the little blind God, who steals unawares on his victim,
had marked her for his own, and that all this sweet perplexity was
the unconscious awakening of the heart.

One afternoon, near the end of Betty's siege indoors, two of her
friends, Lydia Boggs and Alice Reynolds, called to see her.

Alice had bright blue eyes, and her nut brown hair hung in
rebellious curls around her demure and pretty face. An adorable
dimple lay hidden in her rosy cheek and flashed into light with her
smiles.

"Betty, you are a lazy thing!" exclaimed Lydia. "Lying here all day
long doing nothing but gaze out of the window."

"Girls, I am glad you came over," said Betty. "I am blue. Perhaps
you will cheer me up."

"Betty needs some one of the sterner sex to cheer her," said Alice,
mischievously, her eyes twinkling. "Don't you think so, Lydia?"

"Of course," answered Lydia. "When I get blue--"

"Please spare me," interrupted Betty, holding up her hands in
protest. "I have not a single doubt that your masculine remedies are
sufficient for all your ills. Girls who have lost their interest in
the old pleasures, who spend their spare time in making linen and
quilts, and who have sunk their very personalities in a great big
tyrant of a man, are not liable to get blue. They are afraid he may
see a tear or a frown. But thank goodness, I have not yet reached
that stage."

"Oh, Betty Zane! Just you wait! Wait!" exclaimed Lydia, shaking her
finger at Betty. "Your turn is coming. When it does do not expect
any mercy from us, for you shalt never get it."

"Unfortunately, you and Alice have monopolized the attentions of the
only two eligible young men at the fort," said Betty, with a laugh.

"Nonsense there plenty of young men all eager for our favor, you
little coquette," answered Lydia. "Harry Martin, Will Metzer,
Captain Swearengen, of Short Creek, and others too numerous to
count. Look at Lew Wetzel and Billy Bennet."

"Lew cares for nothing except hunting Indians and Billy's only a
boy," said Betty.

"Well, have it your own way," said Lydia. "Only this, I know Billy
adores you, for he told me so, and a better lad never lived."

"Lyde, you forget to include one other among those prostrate before
Betty's charms," said Alice.

"Oh, yes, you mean Mr. Clarke. To be sure, I had forgotten him,"
answered Lydia. "How odd that he should be the one to find you the
day you hurt your foot. Was it an accident?"

"Of course. I slipped off the bank," said Betty.

"No, no. I don't mean that. Was his finding you an accident?"

"Do you imagine I waylaid Mr. Clarke, and then sprained my ankle on
purpose?" said Betty, who began to look dangerous.

"Certainly not that; only it seems so odd that he should be the one
to rescue all the damsels in distress. Day before yesterday he
stopped a runaway horse, and saved Nell Metzer who was in the wagon,
a severe shaking up, if not something more serious. She is
desperately in love with him. She told me Mr. Clarke--"

"I really do not care to hear about it," interrupted Betty.

"But, Betty, tell us. Wasn't it dreadful, his carrying you?" asked
Alice, with a sly glance at Betty. "You know you are so--so prudish,
one may say. Did he take you in his arms? It must have been very
embarrassing for you, considering your dislike of Mr. Clarke, and
he so much in love with--"

"You hateful girls," cried Betty, throwing a pillow at Alice, who
just managed to dodge it. "I wish you would go home."

"Never mind, Betty. We will not tease anymore," said Lydia, putting
her arm around Betty. "Come, Alice, we will tell Betty you have
named the day for your wedding. See! She is all eyes now."

           * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The young people of the frontier settlements were usually married
before they were twenty. This was owing to the fact that there was
little distinction of rank and family pride. The object of the
pioneers in moving West was, of course, to better their condition;
but, the realization of their dependence on one another, the common
cause of their labors, and the terrible dangers to which they were
continually exposed, brought them together as one large family.

Therefore, early love affairs were encouraged--not frowned upon as
they are to-day--and they usually resulted in early marriages.

However, do not let it be imagined that the path of the youthful
swain was strewn with flowers. Courting or "sparking" his sweetheart
had a painful as well as a joyous side. Many and varied were the
tricks played on the fortunate lover by the gallants who had vied
with him for the favor of the maid. Brave, indeed, he who won her.
If he marched up to her home in the early evening he was made the
object of innumerable jests, even the young lady's family indulging
in and enjoying the banter. Later, when he come out of the door, it
was more than likely that, if it were winter, he would be met by a
volley of water soaked snowballs, or big buckets of icewater, or a
mountain of snow shoved off the roof by some trickster, who had
waited patiently for such an opportunity. On summer nights his horse
would be stolen, led far into the woods and tied, or the wheels of
his wagon would be taken off and hidden, leaving him to walk home.
Usually the successful lover, and especially if he lived at a
distance, would make his way only once a week and then late at night
to the home of his betrothed. Silently, like a thief in the dark, he
would crawl through the grass and shrubs until beneath her window.
At a low signal, prearranged between them, she would slip to the
door and let him in without disturbing the parents. Fearing to make
a light, and perhaps welcoming that excuse to enjoy the darkness
beloved by sweethearts, they would sit quietly, whispering low,
until the brightening in the east betokened the break of day, and
then he was off, happy and lighthearted, to his labors.

A wedding was looked forward to with much pleasure by old and young.
Practically, it meant the only gathering of the settlers which was
not accompanied by the work of reaping the harvest, building a
cabin, planning an expedition to relieve some distant settlement, or
a defense for themselves. For all, it meant a rollicking good time;
to the old people a feast, and the looking on at the merriment of
their children--to the young folk, a pleasing break in the monotony
of their busy lives, a day given up to fun and gossip, a day of
romance, a wedding, and best of all, a dance. Therefore Alice
Reynold's wedding proved a great event to the inhabitants of Fort
Henry.

The day dawned bright and clear. The sun, rising like a ball of red
gold, cast its yellow beams over the bare, brown hills, shining on
the cabin roofs white with frost, and making the delicate weblike
coat of ice on the river sparkle as if it had been sprinkled with
powdered diamonds. William Martin, the groom, and his attendants,
met at an appointed time to celebrate an old time-honored custom
which always took place before the party started for the house of
the bride. This performance was called "the race for the bottle."

A number of young men, selected by the groom, were asked to take
part in this race, which was to be run over as rough and dangerous a
track as could be found. The worse the road, the more ditches, bogs,
trees, stumps, brush, in fact, the more obstacles of every kind, the
better, as all these afforded opportunity for daring and expert
horsemanship. The English fox race, now famous on three continents,
while it involves risk and is sometimes dangerous, cannot, in the
sense of hazard to life and limb, be compared to this race for the
bottle.

On this day the run was not less exciting than usual. The horses
were placed as nearly abreast as possible and the starter gave an
Indian yell. Then followed the cracking of whips, the furious
pounding of heavy hoofs, the commands of the contestants, and the
yells of the onlookers. Away they went at a mad pace down the road.
The course extended a mile straight away down the creek bottom. The
first hundred yards the horses were bunched. At the ditch beyond the
creek bridge a beautiful, clean limbed animal darted from among the
furiously galloping horses and sailed over the deep furrow like a
bird. All recognized the rider as Alfred Clarke on his black
thoroughbred. Close behind was George Martin mounted on a large roan
of powerful frame and long stride. Through the willows they dashed,
over logs and brush heaps, up the little ridges of rising ground,
and down the shallow gullies, unheeding the stinging branches and
the splashing water. Half the distance covered and Alfred turned, to
find the roan close behind. On a level road he would have laughed at
the attempt of that horse to keep up with his racer, but he was
beginning to fear that the strong limbed stallion deserved his
reputation. Directly before them rose a pile of logs and matted
brush, placed there by the daredevil settlers who had mapped out the
route. It was too high for any horse to be put at. With pale cheek
and clinched teeth Alfred touched the spurs to Roger and then threw
himself forward. The gallant beast responded nobly. Up, up, up he
rose, clearing all but the topmost branches. Alfred turned again and
saw the giant roan make the leap without touching a twig. The next
instant Roger went splash into a swamp. He sank to his knees in the
soft black soil. He could move but one foot at a time, and Alfred
saw at a glance he had won the race. The great weight of the roan
handicapped him here. When Alfred reached the other side of the bog,
where the bottle was swinging from a branch of a tree, his rival's
horse was floundering hopelessly in the middle of the treacherous
mire. The remaining three horsemen, who had come up by this time,
seeing that it would be useless to attempt further efforts, had
drawn up on the bank. With friendly shouts to Clarke, they
acknowledged themselves beaten. There were no judges required for
this race, because the man who reached the bottle first won it.

The five men returned to the starting point, where the victor was
greeted by loud whoops. The groom got the first drink from the
bottle, then came the attendants, and others in order, after which
the bottle was put away to be kept as a memento of the occasion.

The party now repaired to the village and marched to the home of the
bride. The hour for the observance of the marriage rites was just
before the midday meal. When the groom reached the bride's home he
found her in readiness. Sweet and pretty Alice looked in her gray
linsey gown, perfectly plain and simple though it was, without an
ornament or a ribbon. Proud indeed looked her lover as he took her
hand and led her up to the waiting minister. When the whisperings
had ceased the minister asked who gave this woman to be married.
Alice's father answered.

"Will you take this woman to be your wedded wife, to love, cherish
and protect her all the days of her life?" asked the minister.

"I will," answered a deep bass voice.

"Will you take this man to be your wedded husband, to love, honor
and obey him all the days of your life?"

"I will," said Alice, in a low tone.

"I pronounce you man and wife. Those whom God has joined together
let no man put asunder."

There was a brief prayer and the ceremony ended. Then followed the
congratulations of relatives and friends. The felicitations were apt
to be trying to the nerves of even the best tempered groom. The hand
shakes, the heavy slaps on the back, and the pommeling he received
at the hands of his intimate friends were as nothing compared to the
anguish of mind he endured while they were kissing his wife. The
young bucks would not have considered it a real wedding had they
been prevented from kissing the bride, and for that matter, every
girl within reach. So fast as the burly young settlers could push
themselves through the densely packed rooms they kissed the bride,
and then the first girl they came to.

Betty and Lydia had been Alice's maids of honor. This being Betty's
first experience at a frontier wedding, it developed that she was
much in need of Lydia's advice, which she had previously disdained.
She had rested secure in her dignity. Poor Betty! The first man to
kiss Alice was George Martin, a big, strong fellow, who gathered his
brother's bride into his arms and gave her a bearish hug and a
resounding kiss. Releasing her he turned toward Lydia and Betty.
Lydia eluded him, but one of his great hands clasped around Betty's
wrist. She tried to look haughty, but with everyone laughing, and
the young man's face expressive of honest fun and happiness she
found it impossible. She stood still and only turned her face a
little to one side while George kissed her. The young men now made a
rush for her. With blushing cheeks Betty, unable to stand her ground
any longer, ran to her brother, the Colonel. He pushed her away with
a laugh. She turned to Major McColloch, who held out his arms to
her. With an exclamation she wrenched herself free from a young man,
who had caught her hand, and flew to the Major. But alas for Betty!
The Major was not proof against the temptation and he kissed her
himself.

"Traitor!" cried Betty, breaking away from him.

Poor Betty was in despair. She had just made up her mind to submit
when she caught sight of Wetzel's familiar figure. She ran to him
and the hunter put one of his long arms around her.

"I reckon I kin take care of you, Betty," he said, a smile playing
over his usually stern face. "See here, you young bucks. Betty don't
want to be kissed, and if you keep on pesterin' her I'll have to
scalp a few of you."

The merriment grew as the day progressed. During the wedding feast
great hilarity prevailed. It culminated in the dance which followed
the dinner. The long room of the block-house had been decorated with
evergreens, autumn leaves and goldenrod, which were scattered
profusely about, hiding the blackened walls and bare rafters.
Numerous blazing pine knots, fastened on sticks which were stuck
into the walls, lighted up a scene, which for color and animation
could not have been surpassed.

Colonel Zane's old slave, Sam, who furnished the music, sat on a
raised platform at the upper end of the hall, and the way he sawed
away on his fiddle, accompanying the movements of his arm with a
swaying of his body and a stamping of his heavy foot, showed he had
a hearty appreciation of his own value.

Prominent among the men and women standing and sitting near the
platform could be distinguished the tall forms of Jonathan Zane,
Major McColloch and Wetzel, all, as usual, dressed in their hunting
costumes and carrying long rifles. The other men had made more or
less effort to improve their appearance. Bright homespun shirts and
scarfs had replaced the everyday buckskin garments. Major McColloch
was talking to Colonel Zane. The genial faces of both reflected the
pleasure they felt in the enjoyment of the younger people. Jonathan
Zane stood near the door. Moody and silent he watched the dance.
Wetzel leaned against the wall. The black barrel of his rifle lay in
the hollow of his arm. The hunter was gravely contemplating the
members of the bridal party who were dancing in front of him. When
the dance ended Lydia and Betty stopped before Wetzel and Betty
said: "Lew, aren't you going to ask us to dance?"

The hunter looked down into the happy, gleaming faces, and smiling
in his half sad way, answered: "Every man to his gifts."

"But you can dance. I want you to put aside your gun long enough to
dance with me. If I waited for you to ask me, I fear I should have
to wait a long time. Come, Lew, here I am asking you, and I know the
other men are dying to dance with me," said Betty, coaxingly, in a
roguish voice.

Wetzel never refused a request of Betty's, and so, laying aside his
weapons, he danced with her, to the wonder and admiration of all.
Colonel Zane clapped his hands, and everyone stared in amazement at
the unprecedented sight Wetzel danced not ungracefully. He was
wonderfully light on his feet. His striking figure, the long black
hair, and the fancifully embroidered costume he wore contrasted
strangely with Betty's slender, graceful form and pretty gray dress.

"Well, well, Lewis, I would not have believed anything but the
evidence of my own eyes," said Colonel Zane, with a laugh, as Betty
and Wetzel approached him.

"If all the men could dance as well as Lew, the girls would be
thankful, I can assure you," said Betty.

"Betty, I declare you grow prettier every day," said old John
Bennet, who was standing with the Colonel and the Major. "If I were
only a young man once more I should try my chances with you, and I
wouldn't give up very easily."

"I do not know, Uncle John, but I am inclined to think that if you
were a young man and should come a-wooing you would not get a rebuff
from me," answered Betty, smiling on the old man, of whom she was
very fond.

"Miss Zane, will you dance with me?"

The voice sounded close by Betty's side. She recognized it, and an
unaccountable sensation of shyness suddenly came over her. She had
firmly made up her mind, should Mr. Clarke ask her to dance, that
she would tell him she was tired, or engaged for that
number--anything so that she could avoid dancing with him. But, now
that the moment had come she either forgot her resolution or lacked
the courage to keep it, for as the music commenced, she turned and
without saying a word or looking at him, she placed her hand on his
arm. He whirled her away. She gave a start of surprise and delight
at the familiar step and then gave herself up to the charm of the
dance. Supported by his strong arm she floated around the room in a
sort of dream. Dancing as they did was new to the young people at
the Fort--it was a style then in vogue in the east--and everyone
looked on with great interest and curiosity. But all too soon the
dance ended and before Betty had recovered her composure she found
that her partner had led her to a secluded seat in the lower end of
the hall. The bench was partly obscured from the dancers by masses
of autumn leaves. "That was a very pleasant dance," said Alfred.
"Miss Boggs told me you danced the round dance."

"I was much surprised and pleased," said Betty, who had indeed
enjoyed it.

"It has been a delightful day," went on Alfred, seeing that Betty
was still confused. "I almost killed myself in that race for the
bottle this morning. I never saw such logs and brush heaps and
ditches in my life. I am sure that if the fever of recklessness
which seemed in the air had not suddenly seized me I would never
have put my horse at such leaps."

"I heard my brother say your horse was one of the best he had ever
seen, and that you rode superbly," murmured Betty.

"Well, to be honest, I would not care to take that ride again. It
certainly was not fair to the horse."

"How do you like the fort by this time?"

"Miss Zane, I am learning to love this free, wild life. I really
think I was made for the frontier. The odd customs and manners which
seemed strange at first have become very acceptable to me now. I
find everyone so honest and simple and brave. Here one must work to
live, which is right. Do you know, I never worked in my life until I
came to Fort Henry. My life was all uselessness, idleness."

"I can hardly believe that," answered Betty. "You have learned to
dance and ride and--"

"What?" asked Alfred, as Betty hesitated.

"Never mind. It was an accomplishment with which the girls credited
you," said Betty, with a little laugh.

"I suppose I did not deserve it. I heard I had a singular aptitude
for discovering young ladies in distress."

"Have you become well acquainted with the boys?" asked Betty,
hastening to change the subject.

"Oh, yes, particularly with your Indianized brother, Isaac. He is
the finest fellow, as well as the most interesting, I ever knew. I
like Colonel Zane immensely too. The dark, quiet fellow, Jack, or
John, they call him, is not like your other brothers. The hunter,
Wetzel, inspires me with awe. Everyone has been most kind to me and
I have almost forgotten that I was a wanderer."

"I am glad to hear that," said Betty.

"Miss Zane," continued Alfred, "doubtless you have heard that I came
West because I was compelled to leave my home. Please do not believe
everything you hear of me. Some day I may tell you my story if you
care to hear it. Suffice it to say now that I left my home of my own
free will and I could go back to-morrow."

"I did not mean to imply--" began Betty, coloring.

"Of course not. But tell me about yourself. Is it not rather dull
and lonesome here for you?"

"It was last winter. But I have been contented and happy this
summer. Of course, it is not Philadelphia life, and I miss the
excitement and gayety of my uncle's house. I knew my place was with
my brothers. My aunt pleaded with me to live with her and not go to
the wilderness. I had everything I wanted there--luxury, society,
parties, balls, dances, friends--all that the heart of a girl could
desire, but I preferred to come to this little frontier settlement.
Strange choice for a girl, was it not?"

"Unusual, yes," answered Alfred, gravely. "And I cannot but wonder
what motives actuated our coming to Fort Henry. I came to seek my
fortune. You came to bring sunshine into the home of your brother,
and left your fortune behind you. Well, your motive has the element
of nobility. Mine has nothing but that of recklessness. I would like
to read the future."

"I do not think it is right to have such a wish. With the veil
rolled away could you work as hard, accomplish as much? I do not
want to know the future. Perhaps some of it will be unhappy. I have
made my choice and will cheerfully abide by it. I rather envy your
being a man. You have the world to conquer. A woman--what can she
do? She can knead the dough, ply the distaff, and sit by the lattice
and watch and wait."

"Let us postpone such melancholy thoughts until some future day. I
have not as yet said anything that I intended. I wish to tell you
how sorry I am that I acted in such a rude way the night your
brother came home. I do not know what made me do so, but I know I
have regretted it ever since. Will you forgive me and may we not be
friends?"

"I--I do not know," said Betty, surprised and vaguely troubled by
the earnest light in his eyes.

"But why? Surely you will make some little allowance for a naturally
quick temper, and you know you did not--that you were--"

"Yes, I remember I was hasty and unkind. But I made amends, or at
least, I tried to do so."

"Try to overlook my stupidity. I will not give up until you forgive
me. Consider how much you can avoid by being generous."

"Very well, then, I will forgive you," said Betty, who had arrived
at the conclusion that this young man was one of determination.

"Thank you. I promise you shall never regret it. And the sprained
ankle? It must be well, as I noticed you danced beautifully."

"I am compelled to believe what the girls say--that you are inclined
to the language of compliment. My ankle is nearly well, thank you.
It hurts a little now and then."

"Speaking of your accident reminds me of the day it happened," said
Alfred, watching her closely. He desired to tease her a little, but
he was not sure of his ground. "I had been all day in the woods with
nothing but my thoughts--mostly unhappy ones--for company. When I
met you I pretended to be surprised. As a matter of fact I was not,
for I had followed your dog. He took a liking to me and I was
extremely pleased, I assure you. Well, I saw your face a moment
before you knew I was as near you. When you heard my footsteps you
turned with a relieved and joyous cry. When you saw whom it was your
glad expression changed, and if I had been a hostile Wyandot you
could not have looked more unfriendly. Such a woeful, tear-stained
face I never saw."

"Mr. Clarke, please do not speak any more of that," said Betty with
dignity. "I desire that you forget it."

"I will forget all except that it was I who had the happiness of
finding you and of helping you. I cannot forget that. I am sure we
should never have been friends but for that accident."

"There is Isaac. He is looking for me," answered Betty, rising.

"Wait a moment longer--please. He will find you," said Alfred,
detaining her. "Since you have been so kind I have grown bolder. May
I come over to see you to-morrow?"

He looked straight down into the dark eyes which wavered and fell
before he had completed his question.

"There is Isaac. He cannot see me here. I must go."

"But not before telling me. What is the good of your forgiving me if
I may not see you. Please say yes."

"You may come," answered Betty, half amused and half provoked at his
persistence. "I should think you would know that such permission
invariably goes with a young woman's forgiveness."

"Hello, here you are. What a time I have had in finding you," said
Isaac, coming up with flushed face and eyes bright with excitement.
"Alfred, what do you mean by hiding the belle of the dance away like
this? I want to dance with you, Betts. I am having a fine time. I
have not danced anything but Indian dances for ages. Sorry to take
her away, Alfred. I can see she doesn't want to go. Ha! Ha!" and
with a mischievous look at both of them he led Betty away.

Alfred kept his seat awhile lost in thought. Suddenly he remembered
that it would look strange if he did not make himself agreeable, so
he got up and found a partner. He danced with Alice, Lydia, and the
other young ladies. After an hour he slipped away to his room. He
wished to be alone. He wanted to think; to decide whether it would
be best for him to stay at the fort, or ride away in the darkness
and never return. With the friendly touch of Betty's hand the
madness with which he had been battling for weeks rushed over him
stronger than ever. The thrill of that soft little palm remained
with him, and he pressed the hand it had touched to his lips.

For a long hour he sat by his window. He could dimly see the broad
winding river, with its curtain of pale gray mist, and beyond, the
dark outline of the forest. A cool breeze from the water fanned his
heated brow, and the quiet and solitude soothed him.



CHAPTER IV.

"Good morning, Harry. Where are you going so early?" called Betty
from the doorway.

A lad was passing down the path in front of Colonel Zane's house as
Betty hailed him. He carried a rifle almost as long as himself.

"Mornin', Betty. I am goin' 'cross the crick fer that turkey I hear
gobblin'," he answered, stopping at the gate and smiling brightly at
Betty.

"Hello, Harry Bennet. Going after that turkey? I have heard him
several mornings and he must be a big, healthy gobbler," said
Colonel Zane, stepping to the door. "You are going to have company.
Here comes Wetzel."

"Good morning, Lew. Are you too off on a turkey hunt?" said Betty.

"Listen," said the hunter, as he stopped and leaned against the
gate. They listened. All was quiet save for the tinkle of a cow-bell
in the pasture adjoining the Colonel's barn. Presently the silence
was broken by a long, shrill, peculiar cry.

"Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug-chug."

"Well, it's a turkey, all right, and I'll bet a big gobbler,"
remarked Colonel Zane, as the cry ceased.

"Has Jonathan heard it?" asked Wetzel.

"Not that I know of. Why do you ask?" said the Colonel, in a low
tone. "Look here, Lew, is that not a genuine call?"

"Goodbye, Harry, be sure and bring me a turkey," called Betty, as
she disappeared.

"I calkilate it's a real turkey," answered the hunter, and motioning
the lad to stay behind, he shouldered his rifle and passed swiftly
down the path.

Of all the Wetzel family--a family noted from one end of the
frontier to the other--Lewis was as the most famous.

The early history of West Virginia and Ohio is replete with the
daring deeds of this wilderness roamer, this lone hunter and
insatiable Nemesis, justly called the greatest Indian slayer known
to men.

When Lewis was about twenty years old, and his brothers John and
Martin little older, they left their Virginia home for a protracted
hunt. On their return they found the smoking ruins of the home, the
mangled remains of father and mother, the naked and violated bodies
of their sisters, and the scalped and bleeding corpse of a baby
brother.

Lewis Wetzel swore sleepless and eternal vengeance on the whole
Indian race. Terribly did he carry out that resolution. From that
time forward he lived most of the time in the woods, and an Indian
who crossed his trail was a doomed man. The various Indian tribes
gave him different names. The Shawnees called him "Long Knife;" the
Hurons, "Destroyer;" the Delawares, "Death Wind," and any one of
these names would chill the heart of the stoutest warrior.

To most of the famed pioneer hunters of the border, Indian fighting
was only a side issue--generally a necessary one--but with Wetzel it
was the business of his life. He lived solely to kill Indians. He
plunged recklessly into the strife, and was never content unless
roaming the wilderness solitudes, trailing the savages to their very
homes and ambushing the village bridlepath like a panther waiting
for his prey. Often in the gray of the morning the Indians, sleeping
around their camp fire, were awakened by a horrible, screeching
yell. They started up in terror only to fall victims to the tomahawk
of their merciless foe, or to hear a rifle shot and get a glimpse of
a form with flying black hair disappearing with wonderful quickness
in the forest. Wetzel always left death behind him, and he was gone
before his demoniac yell ceased to echo throughout the woods.
Although often pursued, he invariably eluded the Indians, for he was
the fleetest runner on the border.

For many years he was considered the right hand of the defense of
the fort. The Indians held him in superstitious dread, and the fact
that he was known to be in the settlement had averted more than one
attack by the Indians.

Many regarded Wetzel as a savage, a man who was mad for the blood of
the red men, and without one redeeming quality. But this was an
unjust opinion. When that restless fever for revenge left him--it
was not always with him--he was quiet and peaceable. To those few
who knew him well he was even amiable. But Wetzel, although known to
everyone, cared for few. He spent little time in the settlements and
rarely spoke except when addressed.

Nature had singularly fitted him for his pre-eminent position among
scouts and hunters. He was tall and broad across the shoulders; his
strength, agility and endurance were marvelous; he had an eagle eye,
the sagacity of the bloodhound, and that intuitive knowledge which
plays such an important part in a hunter's life. He knew not fear.
He was daring where daring was the wiser part. Crafty, tireless and
implacable, Wetzel was incomparable in his vocation.

His long raven-black hair, of which he was vain, when combed out
reached to within a foot of the ground. He had a rare scalp, one for
which the Indians would have bartered anything.

A favorite Indian decoy, and the most fatal one, was the imitation
of the call of the wild turkey. It had often happened that men from
the settlements who had gone out for a turkey which had been
gobbling, had not returned.

For several mornings Wetzel had heard a turkey call, and becoming
suspicious of it, had determined to satisfy himself. On the east
side of the creek hill there was a cavern some fifty or sixty yards
above the water. The entrance to this cavern was concealed by vines
and foliage. Wetzel knew of it, and, crossing the stream some
distance above, he made a wide circuit and came up back of the cave.
Here he concealed himself in a clump of bushes and waited. He had
not been there long when directly below him sounded the cry,
"Chug-a-lug, Chug-a-lug, Chug-a-lug." At the same time the polished
head and brawny shoulders of an Indian warrior rose out of the
cavern. Peering cautiously around, the savage again gave the
peculiar cry, and then sank back out of sight. Wetzel screened
himself safely in his position and watched the savage repeat the
action at least ten times before he made up his mind that the Indian
was alone in the cave. When he had satisfied himself of this he took
a quick aim at the twisted tuft of hair and fired. Without waiting
to see the result of his shot--so well did he trust his unerring
aim--he climbed down the steep bank and brushing aside the vines
entered the cave. A stalwart Indian lay in the entrance with his
face pressed down on the vines. He still clutched in his sinewy
fingers the buckhorn mouthpiece with which he had made the calls
that had resulted in his death.

"Huron," muttered the hunter to himself as he ran the keen edge of
his knife around the twisted tuft of hair and tore off the
scalp-lock.

The cave showed evidence of having been inhabited for some time.
There was a cunningly contrived fireplace made of stones, against
which pieces of birch bark were placed in such a position that not a
ray of light could get out of the cavern. The bed of black coals
between the stones still smoked; a quantity of parched corn lay on a
little rocky shelf which jutted out from the wall; a piece of jerked
meat and a buckskin pouch hung from a peg.

Suddenly Wetzel dropped on his knees and began examining the
footprints in the sandy floor of the cavern. He measured the length
and width of the dead warrior's foot. He closely scrutinized every
moccasin print. He crawled to the opening of the cavern and
carefully surveyed the moss.

Then he rose to his feet. A remarkable transformation had come over
him during the last few moments. His face had changed; the calm
expression was replaced by one sullen and fierce: his lips were set
in a thin, cruel line, and a strange light glittered in his eyes.

He slowly pursued a course lending gradually down to the creek. At
intervals he would stop and listen. The strange voices of the woods
were not mysteries to him. They were more familiar to him than the
voices of men.

He recalled that, while on his circuit over the ridge to get behind
the cavern, he had heard the report of a rifle far off in the
direction of the chestnut grove, but, as that was a favorite place
of the settlers for shooting squirrels, he had not thought anything
of it at the time. Now it had a peculiar significance. He turned
abruptly from the trail he had been following and plunged down the
steep hill. Crossing the creek he took to the cover of the willows,
which grew profusely along the banks, and striking a sort of bridle
path he started on a run. He ran easily, as though accustomed to
that mode of travel, and his long strides covered a couple of miles
in short order. Coming to the rugged bluff, which marked the end of
the ridge, he stopped and walked slowly along the edge of the water.
He struck the trail of the Indians where it crossed the creek, just
where he expected. There were several moccasin tracks in the wet
sand and, in some of the depressions made by the heels the rounded
edges of the imprints were still smooth and intact. The little pools
of muddy water, which still lay in these hollows, were other
indications to his keen eyes that the Indians had passed this point
early that morning.

The trail led up the hill and far into the woods. Never in doubt the
hunter kept on his course; like a shadow he passed from tree to tree
and from bush to bush; silently, cautiously, but rapidly he followed
the tracks of the Indians. When he had penetrated the dark backwoods
of the Black Forest tangled underbrush, windfalls and gullies
crossed his path and rendered fast trailing impossible. Before these
almost impassible barriers he stopped and peered on all sides,
studying the lay of the land, the deadfalls, the gorges, and all the
time keeping in mind the probable route of the redskins. Then he
turned aside to avoid the roughest travelling. Sometimes these
detours were only a few hundred feet long; often they were miles;
but nearly always he struck the trail again. This almost superhuman
knowledge of the Indian's ways of traversing the forest, which
probably no man could have possessed without giving his life to the
hunting of Indians, was the one feature of Wetzel's woodcraft which
placed him so far above other hunters, and made him so dreaded by
the savages.

Descending a knoll he entered a glade where the trees grew farther
apart and the underbrush was only knee high. The black soil showed
that the tract of land had been burned over. On the banks of a
babbling brook which wound its way through this open space, the
hunter found tracks which brought an exclamation from him. Clearly
defined in the soft earth was the impress of a white man's moccasin.
The footprints of an Indian toe inward. Those of a white man are
just the opposite. A little farther on Wetzel came to a slight
crushing of the moss, where he concluded some heavy body had fallen.
As he had seen the tracks of a buck and doe all the way down the
brook he thought it probable one of them had been shot by the white
hunter. He found a pool of blood surrounded by moccasin prints; and
from that spot the trail led straight toward the west, showing that
for some reason the Indians had changed their direction.

This new move puzzled the hunter, and he leaned against the trunk of
a tree, while he revolved in his mind the reasons for this abrupt
departure--for such he believed it. The trail he had followed for
miles was the devious trail of hunting Indians, stealing slowly and
stealthily along watching for their prey, whether it be man or
beast. The trail toward the west was straight as the crow flies; the
moccasin prints that indented the soil were wide apart, and to an
inexperienced eye looked like the track of one Indian. To Wetzel
this indicated that the Indians had all stepped in the tracks of a
leader.

As was usually his way, Wetzel decided quickly. He had calculated
that there were eight Indians in all, not counting the chief whom he
had shot. This party of Indians had either killed or captured the
white man who had been hunting. Wetzel believed that a part of the
Indians would push on with all possible speed, leaving some of their
number to ambush the trail or double back on it to see if they were
pursued.

An hour of patient waiting, in which he never moved from his
position, proved the wisdom of his judgment. Suddenly, away at the
other end of the grove, he caught a flash of brown, of a living,
moving something, like the flitting of a bird behind a tree. Was it
a bird or a squirrel? Then again he saw it, almost lost in the shade
of the forest. Several minutes passed, in which Wetzel never moved
and hardly breathed. The shadow had disappeared behind a tree. He
fixed his keen eyes on that tree and presently a dark object glided
from it and darted stealthily forward to another tree. One, two,
three dark forms followed the first one. They were Indian warriors,
and they moved so quickly that only the eyes of a woodsman like
Wetzel could have discerned their movements at that distance.

Probably most hunters would have taken to their heels while there
was yet time. The thought did not occur to Wetzel. He slowly raised
the hammer of his rifle. As the Indians came into plain view he saw
they did not suspect his presence, but were returning on the trail
in their customary cautious manner.

When the first warrior reached a big oak tree some two hundred yards
distant, the long, black barrel of the hunter's rifle began slowly,
almost imperceptibly, to rise, and as it reached a level the savage
stepped forward from the tree. With the sharp report of the weapon
he staggered and fell.

Wetzel sprang up and knowing that his only escape was in rapid
flight, with his well known yell, he bounded off at the top of his
speed. The remaining Indians discharged their guns at the fleeing,
dodging figure, but without effect. So rapidly did he dart in and
out among the trees that an effectual aim was impossible. Then, with
loud yells, the Indians, drawing their tomahawks, started in
pursuit, expecting soon to overtake their victim.

In the early years of his Indian hunting, Wetzel had perfected
himself in a practice which had saved his life many tunes, and had
added much to his fame. He could reload his rifle while running at
topmost speed. His extraordinary fleetness enabled him to keep ahead
of his pursuers until his rifle was reloaded. This trick he now
employed. Keeping up his uneven pace until his gun was ready, he
turned quickly and shot the nearest Indian dead in his tracks. The
next Indian had by this time nearly come up with him and close
enough to throw his tomahawk, which whizzed dangerously near
Wetzel's head. But he leaped forward again and soon his rifle was
reloaded. Every time he looked around the Indians treed, afraid to
face his unerring weapon. After running a mile or more in this
manner, he reached an open space in the woods where he wheeled
suddenly on his pursuers. The foremost Indian jumped behind a tree,
but, as it did not entirely screen his body, he, too, fell a victim
to the hunter's aim. The Indian must have been desperately wounded,
for his companion now abandoned the chase and went to his
assistance. Together they disappeared in the forest.

Wetzel, seeing that he was no longer pursued, slackened his pace and
proceeded thoughtfully toward the settlement.

            * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

That same day, several hours after Wetzel's departure in quest of
the turkey, Alfred Clarke strolled over from the fort and found
Colonel Zane in the yard. The Colonel was industriously stirring the
contents of a huge copper kettle which swung over a brisk wood fire.
The honeyed fragrance of apple-butter mingled with the pungent odor
of burning hickory.

"Morning, Alfred, you see they have me at it," was the Colonel's
salute.

"So I observe," answered Alfred, as he seated himself on the
wood-pile. "What is it you are churning so vigorously?"

"Apple-butter, my boy, apple-butter. I don't allow even Bessie to
help when I am making apple-butter."

"Colonel Zane, I have come over to ask a favor. Ever since you
notified us that you intended sending an expedition up the river I
have been worried about my horse Roger. He is too light for a pack
horse, and I cannot take two horses."

"I'll let you have the bay. He is big and strong enough. That black
horse of yours is a beauty. You leave Roger with me and if you never
come back I'll be in a fine horse. Ha, Ha! But, seriously, Clarke,
this proposed trip is a hazardous undertaking, and if you would
rather stay--"

"You misunderstand me," quickly replied Alfred, who had flushed. "I
do not care about myself. I'll go and take my medicine. But I do
mind about my horse."

"That's right. Always think of your horses. I'll have Sam take the
best of care of Roger."

"What is the nature of this excursion, and how long shall we be
gone?"

"Jonathan will guide the party. He says it will take six weeks if
you have pleasant weather. You are to go by way of Short Creek,
where you will help put up a blockhouse. Then you go to Fort Pitt.
There you will embark on a raft with the supplies I need and make
the return journey by water. You will probably smell gunpowder
before you get back."

"What shall we do with the horses?"

"Bring them along with you on the raft, of course."

"That is a new way to travel with horses," said Alfred, looking
dubiously at the swift river. "Will there be any way to get news
from Fort Henry while we are away?"

"Yes, there will be several runners."

"Mr. Clarke, I am going to feed my pets. Would you like to see
them?" asked a voice which brought Alfred to his feet. He turned and
saw Betty. Her dog followed her, carrying a basket.

"I shall be delighted," answered Alfred. "Have you more pets than
Tige and Madcap?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. I have a bear, six squirrels, one of them white,
and some pigeons."

Betty led the way to an enclosure adjoining Colonel Zane's barn. It
was about twenty feet square, made of pine saplings which had been
split and driven firmly into the ground. As Betty took down a bar
and opened the small gate a number of white pigeons fluttered down
from the roof of the barn, several of them alighting on her
shoulders. A half-grown black bear came out of a kennel and shuffled
toward her. He was unmistakably glad to see her, but he avoided
going near Tige, and looked doubtfully at the young man. But after
Alfred had stroked his head and had spoken to him he seemed disposed
to be friendly, for he sniffed around Alfred's knees and then stood
up and put his paws against the young man's shoulders.

"Here, Caesar, get down," said Betty. "He always wants to wrestle,
especially with anyone of whom he is not suspicious. He is very tame
and will do almost anything. Indeed, you would marvel at his
intelligence. He never forgets an injury. If anyone plays a trick on
him you may be sure that person will not get a second opportunity.
The night we caught him Tige chased him up a tree and Jonathan
climbed the tree and lassoed him. Ever since he has evinced a hatred
of Jonathan, and if I should leave Tige alone with him there would
be a terrible fight. But for that I could allow Caesar to run free
about the yard."

"He looks bright and sagacious," remarked Alfred.

"He is, but sometimes he gets into mischief. I nearly died laughing
one day. Bessie, my brother's wife, you know, had the big kettle on
the fire, just as you saw it a moment ago, only this time she was
boiling down maple syrup. Tige was out with some of the men and I
let Caesar loose awhile. If there is anything he loves it is maple
sugar, so when he smelled the syrup he pulled down the kettle and
the hot syrup went all over his nose. Oh, his howls were dreadful to
hear. The funniest part about it was he seemed to think it was
intentional, for he remained sulky and cross with me for two weeks."

"I can understand your love for animals," said Alfred. "I think
there are many interesting things about wild creatures. There are
comparatively few animals down in Virginia where I used to live, and
my opportunities to study them have been limited."

"Here are my squirrels," said Betty, unfastening the door of a cage.
A number of squirrels ran out. Several jumped to the ground. One
perched on top of the box. Another sprang on Betty's shoulder. "I
fasten them up every night, for I'm afraid the weasels and foxes
will get them. The white squirrel is the only albino we have seen
around here. It took Jonathan weeks to trap him, but once captured
he soon grew tame. Is he not pretty?"

"He certainly is. I never saw one before; in fact, I did not know
such a beautiful little animal existed," answered Alfred, looking in
admiration at the graceful creature, as he leaped from the shelf to
Betty's arm and ate from her hand, his great, bushy white tail
arching over his back and his small pink eyes shining.

"There! Listen," said Betty. "Look at the fox squirrel, the big
brownish red one. I call him the Captain, because he always wants to
boss the others. I had another fox squirrel, older than this fellow,
and he ran things to suit himself, until one day the grays united
their forces and routed him. I think they would have killed him had
I not freed him. Well, this one is commencing the same way. Do you
hear that odd clicking noise? That comes from the Captain's teeth,
and he is angry and jealous because I show so much attention to this
one. He always does that, and he would fight too if I were not
careful. It is a singular fact, though, that the white squirrel has
not even a little pugnacity. He either cannot fight, or he is too
well behaved. Here, Mr. Clarke, show Snowball this nut, and then
hide it in your pocket, and see him find it."

Alfred did as he was told, except that while he pretended to put the
nut in his pocket he really kept it concealed in his hand.

The pet squirrel leaped lightly on Alfred's shoulder, ran over his
breast, peeped in all his pockets, and even pushed his cap to one
side of his head. Then he ran down Alfred's arm, sniffed in his coat
sleeve, and finally wedged a cold little nose between his closed
fingers.

"There, he has found it, even though you did not play fair," said
Betty, laughing gaily.

Alfred never forgot the picture Betty made standing there with the
red cap on her dusky hair, and the loving smile upon her face as she
talked to her pets. A white fan-tail pigeon had alighted on her
shoulder and was picking daintily at the piece of cracker she held
between her lips. The squirrels were all sitting up, each with a nut
in his little paws, and each with an alert and cunning look in the
corner of his eye, to prevent, no doubt, being surprised out of a
portion of his nut. Caesar was lying on all fours, growling and
tearing at his breakfast, while the dog looked on with a superior
air, as if he knew they would not have had any breakfast but for
him.

"Are you fond of canoeing and fishing?" asked Betty, as they
returned to the house.

"Indeed I am. Isaac has taken me out on the river often. Canoeing
may be pleasant for a girl, but I never knew one who cared for
fishing."

"Now you behold one. I love dear old Izaak Walton. Of course, you
have read his books?"

"I am ashamed to say I have not."

"And you say you are a fisherman? Well, you haste a great pleasure
in store, as well as an opportunity to learn something of the
'contemplative man's recreation.' I shall lend you the books."

"I have not seen a book since I came to Fort Henry."

"I have a fine little library, and you are welcome to any of my
books. But to return to fishing. I love it, and yet I nearly always
allow the fish to go free. Sometimes I bring home a pretty sunfish,
place him in a tub of water, watch him and try to tame him. But I
must admit failure. It is the association which makes fishing so
delightful. The canoe gliding down a swift stream, the open air, the
blue sky, the birds and trees and flowers--these are what I love.
Come and see my canoe."

Thus Betty rattled on as she led the way through the sitting-room
and kitchen to Colonel Zane's magazine and store-house which opened
into the kitchen. This little low-roofed hut contained a variety of
things. Boxes, barrels and farming implements filled one corner;
packs of dried skins were piled against the wall; some otter and fox
pelts were stretched on the wall, and a number of powder kegs lined
a shelf. A slender canoe swung from ropes thrown over the rafters.
Alfred slipped it out of the loops and carried it outside.

The canoe was a superb specimen of Indian handiwork. It had a length
of fourteen feet and was made of birch bark, stretched over a light
framework of basswood. The bow curved gracefully upward, ending in a
carved image representing a warrior's head. The sides were
beautifully ornamented and decorated in fanciful Indian designs.

"My brother's Indian guide, Tomepomehala, a Shawnee chief, made it
for me. You see this design on the bow. The arrow and the arm mean
in Indian language, 'The race is to the swift and the strong.' The
canoe is very light. See, I can easily carry it," said Betty,
lifting it from the grass.

She ran into the house and presently came out with two rods, a book
and a basket.

"These are Jack's rods. He cut them out of the heart of ten-year-old
basswood trees, so he says. We must be careful of them."

Alfred examined the rods with the eye of a connoisseur and
pronounced them perfect.

"These rods have been made by a lover of the art. Anyone with half
an eye could see that. What shall we use for bait?" he said.

"Sam got me some this morning."

"Did you expect to go?" asked Alfred, looking up in surprise.

"Yes, I intended going, and as you said you were coming over, I
meant to ask you to accompany me."

"That was kind of you."

"Where are you young people going?" called Colonel Zane, stopping in
his task.

"We are going down to the sycamore," answered Betty.

"Very well. But be certain and stay on this side of the creek and do
not go out on the river," said the Colonel.

"Why, Eb, what do you mean? One might think Mr. Clarke and I were
children," exclaimed Betty.

"You certainly aren't much more. But that is not my reason. Never
mind the reason. Do as I say or do not go," said Colonel Zane.

"All right, brother. I shall not forget," said Betty, soberly,
looking at the Colonel. He had not spoken in his usual teasing way,
and she was at a loss to understand him. "Come, Mr. Clarke, you
carry the canoe and follow me down this path and look sharp for
roots and stones or you may trip."

"Where is Isaac?" asked Alfred, as he lightly swung the canoe over
his shoulder.

"He took his rifle and went up to the chestnut grove an hour or more
ago."

A few minutes' walk down the willow skirted path and they reached
the creek. Here it was a narrow stream, hardly fifty feet wide,
shallow, and full of stones over which the clear brown water rushed
noisily.

"Is it not rather risky going down there?" asked Alfred as he
noticed the swift current and the numerous boulders poking
treacherous heads just above the water.

"Of course. That is the great pleasure in canoeing," said Betty,
calmly. "If you would rather walk--"

"No, I'll go if I drown. I was thinking of you."

"It is safe enough if you can handle a paddle," said Betty, with a
smile at his hesitation. "And, of course, if your partner in the
canoe sits trim."

"Perhaps you had better allow me to use the paddle. Where did you
learn to steer a canoe?"

"I believe you are actually afraid. Why, I was born on the Potomac,
and have used a paddle since I was old enough to lift one. Come,
place the canoe in here and we will keep to the near shore until we
reach the bend. There is a little fall just below this and I love to
shoot it."

He steadied the canoe with one hand while he held out the other to
help her, but she stepped nimbly aboard without his assistance.

"Wait a moment while I catch some crickets and grasshoppers."

"Gracious! What a fisherman. Don't you know we have had frost?"

"That's so," said Alfred, abashed by her simple remark.

"But you might find some crickets under those logs," said Betty. She
laughed merrily at the awkward spectacle made by Alfred crawling
over the ground, improvising a sort of trap out of his hat, and
pouncing down on a poor little insect.

"Now, get in carefully, and give the canoe a push. There, we are
off," she said, taking up the paddle.

The little bark glided slowly down stream at first hugging the bank
as though reluctant to trust itself to the deeper water, and then
gathering headway as a few gentle strokes of the paddle swerved it
into the current. Betty knelt on one knee and skillfully plied the
paddle, using the Indian stroke in which the paddle was not removed
from the water.

"This is great!" exclaimed Alfred, as he leaned back in the bow
facing her. "There is nothing more to be desired. This beautiful
clear stream, the air so fresh, the gold lined banks, the autumn
leaves, a guide who--"

"Look," said Betty. "There is the fall over which we must pass."

He looked ahead and saw that they were swiftly approaching two huge
stones that reared themselves high out of the water. They were only
a few yards apart and surrounded by smaller rocks, about high the
water rushed white with foam.

"Please do not move!" cried Betty, her eyes shining bright with
excitement.

Indeed, the situation was too novel for Alfred to do anything but
feel a keen enjoyment. He had made up his mind that he was sure to
get a ducking, but, as he watched Betty's easy, yet vigorous sweeps
with the paddle, and her smiling, yet resolute lips, he felt
reassured. He could see that the fall was not a great one, only a
few feet, but one of those glancing sheets of water like a mill
race, and he well knew that if they struck a stone disaster would be
theirs. Twenty feet above the white-capped wave which marked the
fall, Betty gave a strong forward pull on the paddle, a deep stroke
which momentarily retarded their progress even in that swift
current, and then, a short backward stroke, far under the stern of
the canoe, and the little vessel turned straight, almost in the
middle of the course between the two rocks. As she raised her paddle
into the canoe and smiled at the fascinated young man, the bow
dipped, and with that peculiar downward movement, that swift,
exhilarating rush so dearly loved by canoeists, they shot down the
smooth incline of water, were lost for a moment in a white cloud of
mist, and in another they coated into a placid pool.

"Was not that delightful?" she asked, with just a little conscious
pride glowing in her dark eyes.

"Miss Zane, it was more than that. I apologize for my suspicions.
You have admirable skill. I only wish that on my voyage down the
River of Life I could have such a sure eye and hand to guide me
through the dangerous reefs and rapids."

"You are poetical," said Betty, who laughed, and at the same time
blushed slightly. "But you are right about the guide. Jonathan says
'always get a good guide,' and as guiding is his work he ought to
know. But this has nothing in common with fishing, and here is my
favorite place under the old sycamore."

With a long sweep of the paddle she ran the canoe alongside a stone
beneath a great tree which spread its long branches over the creek
and shaded the pool. It was a grand old tree and must have guarded
that sylvan spot for centuries. The gnarled and knotted trunk was
scarred and seamed with the ravages of time. The upper part was
dead. Long limbs extended skyward, gaunt and bare, like the masts of
a storm beaten vessel. The lower branches were white and shining,
relieved here and there by brown patches of bark which curled up
like old parchment as they shelled away from the inner bark. The
ground beneath the tree was carpeted with a velvety moss with little
plots of grass and clusters of maiden-hair fern growing on it. From
under an overhanging rock on the bank a spring of crystal water
bubbled forth.

Alfred rigged up the rods, and baiting a hook directed Betty to
throw her line well out into the current and let it float down into
the eddy. She complied, and hardly had the line reached the circle
of the eddy, where bits of white foam floated round and round, when
there was a slight splash, a scream from Betty and she was standing
up in the canoe holding tightly to her rod.

"Be careful!" exclaimed Alfred. "Sit down. You will have the canoe
upset in a moment. Hold your rod steady and keep the line taut.
That's right. Now lead him round toward me. There," and grasping the
line he lifted a fine rock bass over the side of the canoe.

"Oh! I always get so intensely excited," breathlessly cried Betty.
"I can't help it. Jonathan always declares he will never take me
fishing again. Let me see the fish. It's a goggle-eye. Isn't he
pretty? Look how funny he bats his eyes," and she laughed gleefully
as she gingerly picked up the fish by the tail and dropped him into
the water. "Now, Mr. Goggle-eye, if you are wise, in future you will
beware of tempting looking bugs."

For an hour they had splendid sport. The pool teemed with sunfish.
The bait would scarcely touch the water when the little orange
colored fellows would rush for it. Now and then a black bass darted
wickedly through the school of sunfish and stole the morsel from
them. Or a sharp-nosed fiery-eyed pickerel--vulture of the
water--rising to the surface, and, supreme in his indifference to
man or fish, would swim lazily round until he had discovered the
cause of all this commotion among the smaller fishes, and then,
opening wide his jaws would take the bait with one voracious snap.

Presently something took hold of Betty's line and moved out toward
the middle of the pool. She struck and the next instant her rod was
bent double and the tip under water.

"Pull your rod up!" shouted Alfred. "Here, hand it to me."

But it was too late. A surge right and left, a vicious tug, and
Betty's line floated on the surface of the water.

"Now, isn't that too bad? He has broken my line. Goodness, I never
before felt such a strong fish. What shall I do?"

"You should be thankful you were not pulled in. I have been in a
state of fear ever since we commenced fishing. You move round in
this canoe as though it were a raft. Let me paddle out to that
little ripple and try once there; then we will stop. I know you are
tired."

Near the center of the pool a half submerged rock checked the
current and caused a little ripple of the water. Several times
Alfred had seen the dark shadow of a large fish followed by a swirl
of the water, and the frantic leaping of little bright-sided minnows
in all directions. As his hook, baited with a lively shiner, floated
over the spot, a long, yellow object shot from out that shaded lair.
There was a splash, not unlike that made by the sharp edge of a
paddle impelled by a short, powerful stroke, the minnow disappeared,
and the broad tail of the fish flapped on the water. The instant
Alfred struck, the water boiled and the big fish leaped clear into
the air, shaking himself convulsively to get rid of the hook. He
made mad rushes up and down the pool, under the canoe, into the
swift current and against the rocks, but all to no avail. Steadily
Alfred increased the strain on the line and gradually it began to
tell, for the plunges of the fish became shorter and less frequent.
Once again, in a last magnificent effort, he leaped straight into
the air, and failing to get loose, gave up the struggle and was
drawn gasping and exhausted to the side of the canoe.

"Are you afraid to touch him?" asked Alfred.

"Indeed I am not," answered Betty.

"Then run your hand gently down the line, slip your fingers in under
his gills and lift him over the side carefully."

"Five pounds," exclaimed Alfred, when the fish lay at his feet.
"This is the largest black bass I ever caught. It is pity to take
such a beautiful fish out of his element."

"Let him go, then. May I?" said Betty.

"No, you have allowed them all to go, even the pickerel which I
think ought to be killed. We will keep this fellow alive, and place
him in that nice clear pool over in the fort-yard."

"I like to watch you play a fish," said Betty. "Jonathan always
hauls them right out. You are so skillful. You let this fish run so
far and then you checked him. Then you gave him a line to go the
other way, and no doubt he felt free once more when you stopped him
again."

"You are expressing a sentiment which has been, is, and always will
be particularly pleasing to the fair sex, I believe," observed
Alfred, smiling rather grimly as he wound up his line.

"Would you mind being explicit?" she questioned.

Alfred had laughed and was about to answer when the whip-like crack
of a rifle came from the hillside. The echoes of the shot
reverberated from hill to hill and were finally lost far down the
valley.

"What can that be?" exclaimed Alfred anxiously, recalling Colonel
Zane's odd manner when they were about to leave the house.

"I am not sure, but I think that is my turkey, unless Lew Wetzel
happened to miss his aim," said Betty, laughing. "And that is such
an unprecedented thing that it can hardly be considered. Turkeys are
scarce this season. Jonathan says the foxes and wolves ate up the
broods. Lew heard this turkey calling and he made little Harry
Bennet, who had started out with his gun, stay at home and went
after Mr. Gobbler himself."

"Is that all? Well, that is nothing to get alarmed about, is it? I
actually had a feeling of fear, or a presentiment, we might say."

They beached the canoe and spread out the lunch in the shade near
the spring. Alfred threw himself at length upon the grass and Betty
sat leaning against the tree. She took a biscuit in one hand, a
pickle in the other, and began to chat volubly to Alfred of her
school life, and of Philadelphia, and the friends she had made
there. At length, remarking his abstraction, she said: "You are not
listening to me."

"I beg your pardon. My thoughts did wander. I was thinking of my
mother. Something about you reminds me of her. I do not know what,
unless it is that little mannerism you have of pursing up your lips
when you hesitate or stop to think."

"Tell me of her," said Betty, seeing his softened mood.

"My mother was very beautiful, and as good as she was lovely. I
never had a care until my father died. Then she married again, and
as I did not get on with my step-father I ran away from home. I have
not been in Virginia for four years."

"Do you get homesick?"

"Indeed I do. While at Fort Pitt I used to have spells of the blues
which lasted for days. For a time I felt more contented here. But I
fear the old fever of restlessness will come over me again. I can
speak freely to you because I know you will understand, and I feel
sure of your sympathy. My father wanted me to be a minister. He sent
me to the theological seminary at Princeton, where for two years I
tried to study. Then my father died. I went home and looked after
things until my mother married again. That changed everything for
me. I ran away and have since been a wanderer. I feel that I am not
lazy, that I am not afraid of work, but four years have drifted by
and I have nothing to show for it. I am discouraged. Perhaps that is
wrong, but tell me how I can help it. I have not the stoicism of the
hunter, Wetzel, nor have I the philosophy of your brother. I could
not be content to sit on my doorstep and smoke my pipe and watch the
wheat and corn grow. And then, this life of the borderman, environed
as it is by untold dangers, leads me, fascinates me, and yet appalls
me with the fear that here I shall fall a victim to an Indian's
bullet or spear, and find a nameless grave."

A long silence ensued. Alfred had spoken quietly, but with an
undercurrent of bitterness that saddened Betty. For the first time
she saw a shadow of pain in his eyes. She looked away down the
valley, not seeing the brown and gold hills boldly defined against
the blue sky, nor the beauty of the river as the setting sun cast a
ruddy glow on the water. Her companion's words had touched an
unknown chord in her heart. When finally she turned to answer him a
beautiful light shone in her eyes, a light that shines not on land
or sea--the light of woman's hope.

"Mr. Clarke," she said, and her voice was soft and low, "I am only a
girl, but I can understand. You are unhappy. Try to rise above it.
Who knows what will befall this little settlement? It may be swept
away by the savages, and it may grow to be a mighty city. It must
take that chance. So must you, so must we all take chances. You are
here. Find your work and do it cheerfully, honestly, and let the
future take care of itself. And let me say--do not be
offended--beware of idleness and drink. They are as great a
danger--nay, greater than the Indians."

"Miss Zane, if you were to ask me not to drink I would never touch a
drop again," said Alfred, earnestly.

"I did not ask that," answered Betty, flushing slightly. "But I
shall remember it as a promise and some day I may ask it of you."

He looked wonderingly at the girl beside him. He had spent most of
his life among educated and cultured people. He had passed several
years in the backwoods. But with all his experience with people he
had to confess that this young woman was as a revelation to him. She
could ride like an Indian and shoot like a hunter. He had heard that
she could run almost as swiftly as her brothers. Evidently she
feared nothing, for he had just seen an example of her courage in a
deed that had tried even his own nerve, and, withal, she was a
bright, happy girl, earnest and true, possessing all the softer
graces of his sisters, and that exquisite touch of feminine delicacy
and refinement which appeals more to men than any other virtue.

"Have you not met Mr. Miller before he came here from Fort Pitt?"
asked Betty.

"Why do you ask?"

"I think he mentioned something of the kind."

"What else did he say?"

"Why--Mr. Clarke, I hardly remember."

"I see," said Alfred, his face darkening. "He has talked about me. I
do not care what he said. I knew him at Fort Pitt, and we had
trouble there. I venture to say he has told no one about it. He
certainly would not shine in the story. But I am not a tattler."

"It is not very difficult to see that you do not like him. Jonathan
does not, either. He says Mr. Miller was friendly with McKee, and
the notorious Simon Girty, the soldiers who deserted from Fort Pitt
and went to the Indians. The girls like him however."

"Usually if a man is good looking and pleasant that is enough for
the girls. I noticed that he paid you a great deal of attention at
the dance. He danced three times with you."

"Did he? How observing you are," said Betty, giving him a little
sidelong glance. "Well, he is very agreeable, and he dances better
than many of the young men."

"I wonder if Wetzel got the turkey. I have heard no more shots,"
said Alfred, showing plainly that he wished to change the subject.

"Oh, look there! Quick!" exclaimed Betty, pointing toward the
hillside.

He looked in the direction indicated and saw a doe and a spotted
fawn wading into the shallow water. The mother stood motionless a
moment, with head erect and long ears extended. Then she drooped her
graceful head and drank thirstily of the cool water. The fawn
splashed playfully round while its mother was drinking. It would
dash a few paces into the stream and then look back to see if its
mother approved. Evidently she did not, for she would stop her
drinking and call the fawn back to her side with a soft, crooning
noise. Suddenly she raised her head, the long ears shot up, and she
seemed to sniff the air. She waded through the deeper water to get
round a rocky bluff which ran out into the creek. Then she turned
and called the little one. The fawn waded until the water reached
its knees, then stopped and uttered piteous little bleats.
Encouraged by the soft crooning it plunged into the deep water and
with great splashing and floundering managed to swim the short
distance. Its slender legs shook as it staggered up the bank.
Exhausted or frightened, it shrank close to its mother. Together
they disappeared in the willows which fringed the side of the hill.

"Was not that little fellow cute? I have had several fawns, but have
never had the heart to keep them," said Betty. Then, as Alfred made
no motion to speak, she continued:

"You do not seem very talkative."

"I have nothing to say. You will think me dull. The fact is when I
feel deepest I am least able to express myself."

"I will read to you." said Betty taking up the book. He lay back
against the grassy bank and gazed dreamily at the many hued trees on
the little hillside; at the bare rugged sides of McColloch's Rock
which frowned down upon them. A silver-breasted eagle sailed slowly
round and round in the blue sky, far above the bluff. Alfred
wondered what mysterious power sustained that solitary bird as he
floated high in the air without perceptible movement of his broad
wings. He envied the king of birds his reign over that illimitable
space, his far-reaching vision, and his freedom. Round and round the
eagle soared, higher and higher, with each perfect circle, and at
last, for an instant poising as lightly as if he were about to perch
on his lonely crag, he arched his wings and swooped down through the
air with the swiftness of a falling arrow.

Betty's low voice, the water rushing so musically over the falls,
the great yellow leaves falling into the pool, the gentle breeze
stirring the clusters of goldenrod--all came softly to Alfred as he
lay there with half closed eyes.

The time slipped swiftly by as only such time can.

"I fear the melancholy spirit of the day has prevailed upon you,"
said Betty, half wistfully. "You did not know I had stopped reading,
and I do not believe you heard my favorite poem. I have tried to
give you a pleasant afternoon and have failed."

"No, no," said Alfred, looking at her with a blue flame in his eyes.
"The afternoon has been perfect. I have forgotten my role, and have
allowed you to see my real self, something I have tried to hide from
all."

"And are you always sad when you are sincere?"

"Not always. But I am often sad. Is it any wonder? Is not all nature
sad? Listen! There is the song of the oriole. Breaking in on the
stillness it is mournful. The breeze is sad, the brook is sad, this
dying Indian summer day is sad. Life itself is sad."

"Oh, no. Life is beautiful."

"You are a child," said he, with a thrill in his deep voice "I hope
you may always be as you are to-day, in heart, at least."

"It grows late. See, the shadows are falling. We must go."

"You know I am going away to-morrow. I don't want to go. Perhaps
that is why I have been such poor company today. I have a
presentiment of evil I am afraid I may never come back."

"I am sorry you must go."

"Do you really mean that?" asked Alfred, earnestly, bending toward
her "You know it is a very dangerous undertaking. Would you care if
I never returned?"

She looked up and their eyes met. She had raised her head haughtily,
as if questioning his right to speak to her in that manner, but as
she saw the unspoken appeal in his eyes her own wavered and fell
while a warm color crept into her cheek.

"Yes, I would be sorry," she said, gravely. Then, after a moment:
"You must portage the canoe round the falls, and from there we can
paddle back to the path."

The return trip made, they approached the house. As they turned the
corner they saw Colonel Zane standing at the door talking to Wetzel.

They saw that the Colonel looked pale and distressed, and the face
of the hunter was dark and gloomy.

"Lew, did you get my turkey?" said Betty, after a moment of
hesitation. A nameless fear filled her breast.

For answer Wetzel threw back the flaps of his coat and there at his
belt hung a small tuft of black hair. Betty knew at once it was the
scalp-lock of an Indian. Her face turned white and she placed a hand
on the hunter's arm.

"What do you mean? That is an Indian's scalp. Lew, you look so
strange. Tell me, is it because we went off in the canoe and have
been in danger?"

"Betty, Isaac has been captured again," said the Colonel.

"Oh, no, no, no," cried Betty in agonized tones, and wringing her
hands. Then, excitedly, "Something can be done; you must pursue
them. Oh, Lew, Mr. Clarke, cannot you rescue him? They have not had
time to go far."

"Isaac went to the chestnut grove this morning. If he had stayed
there he would not have been captured. But he went far into the
Black Forest. The turkey call we heard across the creek was made by
a Wyandot concealed in the cave. Lewis tells me that a number of
Indians have camped there for days. He shot the one who was calling
and followed the others until he found where they had taken Isaac's
trail."

Betty turned to the younger man with tearful eyes, and with
beseeching voice implored them to save her brother.

"I am ready to follow you," said Clarke to Wetzel.

The hunter shook his head, but did not answer.

"It is that hateful White Crane," passionately burst out Betty, as
the Colonel's wife led her weeping into the house.

"Did you get more than one shot at them?" asked Clarke.

The hunter nodded, and the slight, inscrutable smile flitted across
his stern features. He never spoke of his deeds. For this reason
many of the thrilling adventures which he must have had will forever
remain unrevealed. That evening there was sadness at Colonel Zane's
supper table. They felt the absence of the Colonel's usual spirits,
his teasing of Betty, and his cheerful conversation. He had nothing
to say. Betty sat at the table a little while, and then got up and
left the room saying she could not eat. Jonathan, on hearing of his
brother's recapture, did not speak, but retired in gloomy silence.
Silas was the only one of the family who was not utterly depressed.
He said it could have been a great deal worse; that they must make
the best of it, and that the sooner Isaac married his Indian
Princess the better for his scalp and for the happiness of all
concerned.

"I remember Myeerah very well," he said. "It was eight years ago,
and she was only a child. Even then she was very proud and willful,
and the loveliest girl I ever laid eyes on."

Alfred Clarke staid late at Colonel Zane's that night. Before going
away for so many weeks he wished to have a few more moments alone
with Betty. But a favorable opportunity did not present itself
during the evening, so when he had bade them all goodbye and
goodnight, except Betty, who opened the door for him, he said softly
to her:

"It is bright moonlight outside. Come, please, and walk to the gate
with me."

A full moon shone serenely down on hill and dale, flooding the
valley with its pure white light and bathing the pastures in its
glory; at the foot of the bluff the waves of the river gleamed like
myriads of stars all twinkling and dancing on a bed of snowy clouds.
Thus illumined the river wound down the valley, its brilliance
growing fainter and fainter until at last, resembling the shimmering
of a silver thread which joined the earth to heaven, it disappeared
in the horizon.

"I must say goodbye," said Alfred, as they reached the gate.

"Friends must part. I am sorry you must go, Mr. Clarke, and I trust
you may return safe. It seems only yesterday that you saved my
brother's life, and I was so grateful and happy. Now he is gone."

"You should not think about it so much nor brood over it," answered
the young man. "Grieving will not bring him back nor do you any
good. It is not nearly so bad as if he had been captured by some
other tribe. Wetzel assures us that Isaac was taken alive. Please do
not grieve."

"I have cried until I cannot cry any more. I am so unhappy. We were
children together, and I have always loved him better than any one
since my mother died. To have him back again and then to lose him!
Oh! I cannot bear it."

She covered her face with her hands and a low sob escaped her.

"Don't, don't grieve," he said in an unsteady voice, as he took the
little hands in his and pulled them away from her face.

Betty trembled. Something in his voice, a tone she had never heard
before startled her. She looked up at him half unconscious that he
still held her hands in his. Never had she appeared so lovely.

"You cannot understand my feelings."

"I loved my mother."

"But you have not lost her. That makes all the difference."

"I want to comfort you and I am powerless. I am unable to say
what--I--"

He stopped short. As he stood gazing down into her sweet face,
burning, passionate words came to his lips; but he was dumb; he
could not speak. All day long he had been living in a dream. Now he
realized that but a moment remained for him to be near the girl he
loved so well. He was leaving her, perhaps never to see her again,
or to return to find her another's. A fierce pain tore his heart.

"You--you are holding my hands," faltered Betty, in a doubtful,
troubled voice. She looked up into his face and saw that it was pale
with suppressed emotion.

Alfred was mad indeed. He forgot everything. In that moment the
world held nothing for him save that fair face. Her eyes, uplifted
to his in the moonlight, beamed with a soft radiance. They were
honest eyes, just now filled with innocent sadness and regret, but
they drew him with irresistible power. Without realizing in the
least what he was doing he yielded to the impulse. Bending his head
he kissed the tremulous lips.

"Oh," whispered Betty, standing still as a statue and looking at him
with wonderful eyes. Then, as reason returned, a hot flush dyed her
face, and wrenching her hands free she struck him across the cheek.

"For God's sake, Betty, I did not mean to do that! Wait. I have
something to tell you. For pity's sake, let me explain," he cried,
as the full enormity of his offence dawned upon him.

Betty was deaf to the imploring voice, for she ran into the house
and slammed the door.

He called to her, but received no answer. He knocked on the door,
but it remained closed. He stood still awhile, trying to collect his
thoughts, and to find a way to undo the mischief he had wrought.
When the real significance of his act came to him he groaned in
spirit. What a fool he had been! Only a few short hours and he must
start on a perilous journey, leaving the girl he loved in ignorance
of his real intentions. Who was to tell her that he loved her? Who
was to tell her that it was because his whole heart and soul had
gone to her that he had kissed her?

With bowed head he slowly walked away toward the fort, totally
oblivious of the fact that a young girl, with hands pressed tightly
over her breast to try to still a madly beating heart, watched him
from her window until he disappeared into the shadow of the
block-house.

Alfred paced up and down his room the four remaining hours of that
eventful day. When the light was breaking in at the east and dawn
near at hand he heard the rough voices of men and the tramping of
iron-shod hoofs. The hour of his departure was at hand.

He sat down at his table and by the aid of the dim light from a pine
knot he wrote a hurried letter to Betty. A little hope revived in
his heart as he thought that perhaps all might yet be well. Surely
some one would be up to whom he could intrust the letter, and if no
one he would run over and slip it under the door of Colonel Zane's
house.

In the gray of the early morning Alfred rode out with the daring
band of heavily armed men, all grim and stern, each silent with the
thought of the man who knows he may never return. Soon the
settlement was left far behind.



CHAPTER V.

During the last few days, in which the frost had cracked open the
hickory nuts, and in which the squirrels had been busily collecting
and storing away their supply of nuts for winter use, it had been
Isaac's wont to shoulder his rifle, walk up the hill, and spend the
morning in the grove.

On this crisp autumn morning he had started off as usual, and had
been called back by Col. Zane, who advised him not to wander far
from the settlement. This admonition, kind and brotherly though it
was, annoyed Isaac. Like all the Zanes he had born in him an intense
love for the solitude of the wilderness. There were times when
nothing could satisfy him but the calm of the deep woods.

One of these moods possessed him now. Courageous to a fault and
daring where daring was not always the wiser part, Isaac lacked the
practical sense of the Colonel and the cool judgment of Jonathan.
Impatient of restraint, independent in spirit, and it must be
admitted, in his persistence in doing as he liked instead of what he
ought to do, he resembled Betty more than he did his brothers.

Feeling secure in his ability to take care of himself, for he knew
he was an experienced hunter and woodsman, he resolved to take a
long tramp in the forest. This resolution was strengthened by the
fact that he did not believe what the Colonel and Jonathan had told
him--that it was not improbable some of the Wyandot braves were
lurking in the vicinity, bent on killing or recapturing him. At any
rate he did not fear it.

Once in the shade of the great trees the fever of discontent left
him, and, forgetting all except the happiness of being surrounded by
the silent oaks, he penetrated deeper and deeper into the forest.
The brushing of a branch against a tree, the thud of a falling nut,
the dart of a squirrel, and the sight of a bushy tail disappearing
round a limb--all these things which indicated that the little gray
fellows were working in the tree-tops, and which would usually have
brought Isaac to a standstill, now did not seem to interest him. At
times he stooped to examine the tender shoots growing at the foot of
a sassafras tree. Then, again, he closely examined marks he found in
the soft banks of the streams.

He went on and on. Two hours of this still-hunting found him on the
bank of a shallow gully through which a brook went rippling and
babbling over the mossy green stones. The forest was dense here;
rugged oaks and tall poplars grew high over the tops of the first
growth of white oaks and beeches; the wild grapevines which coiled
round the trees like gigantic serpents, spread out in the upper
branches and obscured the sun; witch-hopples and laurel bushes grew
thickly; monarchs of the forest, felled by some bygone storm, lay
rotting on the ground; and in places the wind-falls were so thick
and high as to be impenetrable.

Isaac hesitated. He realized that he had plunged far into the Black
Forest. Here it was gloomy; a dreamy quiet prevailed, that deep calm
of the wilderness, unbroken save for the distant note of the
hermit-thrush, the strange bird whose lonely cry, given at long
intervals, pierced the stillness. Although Isaac had never seen one
of these birds, he was familiar with that cry which was never heard
except in the deepest woods, far from the haunts of man.

A black squirrel ran down a tree and seeing the hunter scampered
away in alarm. Isaac knew the habits of the black squirrel, that it
was a denizen of the wildest woods and frequented only places remote
from civilization. The song of the hermit and the sight of the black
squirrel caused Isaac to stop and reflect, with the result that he
concluded he had gone much farther from the fort than he had
intended. He turned to retrace his steps when a faint sound from
down the ravine came to his sharp ears.

There was no instinct to warn him that a hideously painted face was
raised a moment over the clump of laurel bushes to his left, and
that a pair of keen eyes watched every move he made.

Unconscious of impending evil Isaac stopped and looked around him.
Suddenly above the musical babble of the brook and the rustle of the
leaves by the breeze came a repetition of the sound. He crouched
close by the trunk of a tree and strained his ears. All was quiet
for some moments. Then he heard the patter, patter of little hoofs
coming down the stream. Nearer and nearer they came. Sometimes they
were almost inaudible and again he heard them clearly and
distinctly. Then there came a splashing and the faint hollow sound
caused by hard hoofs striking the stones in shallow water. Finally
the sounds ceased.

Cautiously peering from behind the tree Isaac saw a doe standing on
the bank fifty yards down the brook. Trembling she had stopped as if
in doubt or uncertainty. Her ears pointed straight upward, and she
lifted one front foot from the ground like a thoroughbred pointer.
Isaac knew a doe always led the way through the woods and if there
were other deer they would come up unless warned by the doe.
Presently the willows parted and a magnificent buck with wide
spreading antlers stepped out and stood motionless on the bank.
Although they were down the wind Isaac knew the deer suspected some
hidden danger. They looked steadily at the clump of laurels at
Isaac's left, a circumstance he remarked at the time, but did not
understand the real significance of until long afterward.

Following the ringing report of Isaac's rifle the buck sprang almost
across the stream, leaped convulsively up the bank, reached the top,
and then his strength failing, slid down into the stream, where, in
his dying struggles, his hoofs beat the water into white foam. The
doe had disappeared like a brown flash.

Isaac, congratulating himself on such a fortunate shot--for rarely
indeed does a deer fall dead in his tracks even when shot through
the heart--rose from his crouching position and commenced to reload
his rifle. With great care he poured the powder into the palm of his
hand, measuring the quantity with his eye--for it was an evidence of
a hunter's skill to be able to get the proper quantity for the ball.
Then he put the charge into the barrel. Placing a little greased
linsey rag, about half an inch square, over the muzzle, he laid a
small lead bullet on it, and with the ramrod began to push the ball
into the barrel.

A slight rustle behind him, which sounded to him like the gliding of
a rattlesnake over the leaves, caused him to start and turn round.
But he was too late. A crushing blow on the head from a club in the
hand of a brawny Indian laid him senseless on the ground.

When Isaac regained his senses he felt a throbbing pain in his head,
and then he opened his eyes he was so dizzy that he was unable to
discern objects clearly. After a few moments his sight returned.
When he had struggled to a sitting posture he discovered that his
hands were bound with buckskin thongs. By his side he saw two long
poles of basswood, with some strips of green bark and pieces of
grapevine laced across and tied fast to the poles. Evidently this
had served as a litter on which he had been carried. From his wet
clothes and the position of the sun, now low in the west, he
concluded he had been brought across the river and was now miles
from the fort. In front of him he saw three Indians sitting before a
fire. One of them was cutting thin slices from a haunch of deer
meat, another was drinking from a gourd, and the third was roasting
a piece of venison which he held on a sharpened stick. Isaac knew at
once the Indians were Wyandots, and he saw they were in full war
paint. They were not young braves, but middle aged warriors. One of
them Isaac recognized as Crow, a chief of one of the Wyandot tribes,
and a warrior renowned for his daring and for his ability to make
his way in a straight line through the wilderness. Crow was a short,
heavy Indian and his frame denoted great strength. He had a broad
forehead, high cheek bones, prominent nose and his face would have
been handsome and intelligent but for the scar which ran across his
cheek, giving him a sinister look.

"Hugh!" said Crow, as he looked up and saw Isaac staring at him. The
other Indians immediately gave vent to a like exclamation.

"Crow, you caught me again," said Isaac, in the Wyandot tongue,
which he spoke fluently.

"The white chief is sure of eye and swift of foot, but he cannot
escape the Huron. Crow has been five times on his trail since the
moon was bright. The white chief's eyes were shut and his ears were
deaf," answered the Indian loftily.

"How long have you been near the fort?"

"Two moons have the warriors of Myeerah hunted the pale face."

"Have you any more Indians with you?"

The chief nodded and said a party of nine Wyandots had been in the
vicinity of Wheeling for a month. He named some of the warriors.

Isaac was surprised to learn of the renowned chiefs who had been
sent to recapture him. Not to mention Crow, the Delaware chiefs
Son-of-Wingenund and Wapatomeka were among the most cunning and
sagacious Indians of the west. Isaac reflected that his year's
absence from Myeerah had not caused her to forget him.

Crow untied Isaac's hands and gave him water and venison. Then he
picked up his rifle and with a word to the Indians he stepped into
the underbrush that skirted the little dale, and was lost to view.

Isaac's head ached and throbbed so that after he had satisfied his
thirst and hunger he was glad to close his eyes and lean back
against the tree. Engrossed in thoughts of the home he might never
see again, he had lain there an hour without moving, when he was
aroused from his meditations by low guttural exclamations from the
Indians. Opening his eyes he saw Crow and another Indian enter the
glade, leading and half supporting a third savage.

They helped this Indian to the log, where he sat down slowly and
wearily, holding one hand over his breast. He was a magnificent
specimen of Indian manhood, almost a giant in stature, with broad
shoulders in proportion to his height. His head-dress and the gold
rings which encircled his bare muscular arms indicated that he was a
chief high in power. The seven eagle plumes in his scalp-lock
represented seven warriors that he had killed in battle. Little
sticks of wood plaited in his coal black hair and painted different
colors showed to an Indian eye how many times this chief had been
wounded by bullet, knife, or tomahawk.

His face was calm. If he suffered he allowed no sign of it to escape
him. He gazed thoughtfully into the fire, slowly the while untying
the belt which contained his knife and tomahawk. The weapons were
raised and held before him, one in each hand, and then waved on
high. The action was repeated three times. Then slowly and
reluctantly the Indian lowered them as if he knew their work on
earth was done.

It was growing dark and the bright blaze from the camp fire lighted
up the glade, thus enabling Isaac to see the drooping figure on the
log, and in the background Crow, holding a whispered consultation
with the other Indians. Isaac heard enough of the colloquy to guess
the facts. The chief had been desperately rounded; the palefaces
were on their trail, and a march must be commenced at once.

Isaac knew the wounded chief. He was the Delaware Son-of-Wingenund.
He married a Wyandot squaw, had spent much of his time in the
Wyandot village and on warring expeditions which the two friendly
nations made on other tribes. Isaac had hunted with him, slept under
the same blanket with him, and had grown to like him.

As Isaac moved slightly in his position the chief saw him. He
straightened up, threw back the hunting shirt and pointed to a small
hole in his broad breast. A slender stream of blood issued from the
wound and flowed down his chest.

"Wind-of-Death is a great white chief. His gun is always loaded," he
said calmly, and a look of pride gleamed across his dark face, as
though he gloried in the wound made by such a warrior.

"Deathwind" was one of the many names given to Wetzel by the
savages, and a thrill of hope shot through Isaac's heart when he saw
the Indians feared Wetzel was on their track. This hope was short
lived, however, for when he considered the probabilities of the
thing he knew that pursuit would only result in his death before the
settlers could come up with the Indians, and he concluded that
Wetzel, familiar with every trick of the redmen, would be the first
to think of the hopelessness of rescuing him and so would not
attempt it.

The four Indians now returned to the fire and stood beside the
chief. It was evident to them that his end was imminent. He sang in
a low, not unmusical tone the death-chant of the Hurons. His
companions silently bowed their heads. When he had finished singing
he slowly rose to his great height, showing a commanding figure.
Slowly his features lost their stern pride, his face softened, and
his dark eyes, gazing straight into the gloom of the forest, bespoke
a superhuman vision.

"Wingenund has been a great chief. He has crossed his last trail.
The deeds of Wingenund will be told in the wigwams of the Lenape,"
said the chief in a loud voice, and then sank back into the arms of
his comrades. They laid him gently down.

A convulsive shudder shook the stricken warrior's frame. Then,
starting up he straightened out his long arm and clutched wildly at
the air with his sinewy fingers as if to grasp and hold the life
that was escaping him.

Isaac could see the fixed, sombre light in the eyes, and the pallor
of death stealing over the face of the chief. He turned his eyes
away from the sad spectacle, and when he looked again the majestic
figure lay still.

The moon sailed out from behind a cloud and shed its mellow light
down on the little glade. It showed the four Indians digging a grave
beneath the oak tree. No word was spoken. They worked with their
tomahawks on the soft duff and soon their task was completed. A bed
of moss and ferns lined the last resting place of the chief. His
weapons were placed beside him, to go with him to the Happy Hunting
Ground, the eternal home of the redmen, where the redmen believe the
sun will always shine, and where they will be free from their cruel
white foes.

When the grave had been filled and the log rolled on it the Indians
stood by it a moment, each speaking a few words in a low tone, while
the night wind moaned the dead chief's requiem through the tree
tops.

Accustomed as Isaac was to the bloody conflicts common to the
Indians, and to the tragedy that surrounded the life of a borderman,
the ghastly sight had unnerved him. The last glimpse of that stern,
dark face, of that powerful form, as the moon brightened up the spot
in seeming pity, he felt he could never forget. His thoughts were
interrupted by the harsh voice of Crow bidding him get up. He was
told that the slightest inclination on his part to lag behind on the
march before them, or in any way to make their trail plainer, would
be the signal for his death. With that Crow cut the thongs which
bound Isaac's legs and placing him between two of the Indians, led
the way into the forest.

Moving like spectres in the moonlight they marched on and on for
hours. Crow was well named. He led them up the stony ridges where
their footsteps left no mark, and where even a dog could not find
their trail; down into the valleys and into the shallow streams
where the running water would soon wash away all trace of their
tracks; then out on the open plain, where the soft, springy grass
retained little impress of their moccasins.

Single file they marched in the leader's tracks as he led them
onward through the dark forests, out under the shining moon, never
slacking his rapid pace, ever in a straight line, and yet avoiding
the roughest going with that unerring instinct which was this
Indian's gift. Toward dawn the moon went down, leaving them in
darkness, but this made no difference, for, guided by the stars,
Crow kept straight on his course. Not till break of day did he come
to a halt.

Then, on the banks of a narrow stream, the Indians kindled a fire
and broiled some of the venison. Crow told Isaac he could rest, so
he made haste to avail himself of the permission, and almost
instantly was wrapped in the deep slumber of exhaustion. Three of
the Indians followed suit, and Crow stood guard. Sleepless,
tireless, he paced to and fro on the bank his keen eyes vigilant for
signs of pursuers.

The sun was high when the party resumed their flight toward the
west. Crow plunged into the brook and waded several miles before he
took to the woods on the other shore. Isaac suffered severely from
the sharp and slippery stones, which in no wise bothered the
Indians. His feet were cut and bruised; still he struggled on
without complaining. They rested part of the night, and the next day
the Indians, now deeming themselves practically safe from pursuit,
did not exercise unusual care to conceal their trail.

That evening about dusk they came to a rapidly flowing stream which
ran northwest. Crow and one of the other Indians parted the willows
on the bank at this point and dragged forth a long birch-bark canoe
which they ran into the stream. Isaac recognized the spot. It was
near the head of Mad River, the river which ran through the Wyandot
settlements.

Two of the Indians took the bow, the third Indian and Isaac sat in
the middle, back to back, and Crow knelt in the stern. Once launched
on that wild ride Isaac forgot his uneasiness and his bruises. The
night was beautiful; he loved the water, and was not lacking in
sentiment. He gave himself up to the charm of the silver moonlight,
of the changing scenery, and the musical gurgle of the water. Had it
not been for the cruel face of Crow, he could have imagined himself
on one of those enchanted canoes in fairyland, of which he had read
when a boy. Ever varying pictures presented themselves at the range,
impelled by vigorous arms, flew over the shining bosom of the
stream. Here, in a sharp bend, was a narrow place where the trees on
each bank interlaced their branches and hid the moon, making a dark
and dim retreat. Then came a short series of ripples, with merry,
bouncing waves and foamy currents; below lay a long, smooth reach of
water, deep and placid, mirroring the moon and the countless stars.
Noiseless as a shadow the canoe glided down this stretch, the paddle
dipping regularly, flashing brightly, and scattering diamond drops
in the clear moonlight.

Another turn in the stream and a sound like the roar of an
approaching storm as it is borne on a rising wind, broke the
silence. It was the roar of rapids or falls. The stream narrowed;
the water ran swifter; rocky ledges rose on both sides, gradually
getting higher and higher. Crow rose to his feet and looked ahead.
Then he dropped to his knees and turned the head of the canoe into
the middle of the stream. The roar became deafening. Looking forward
Isaac saw that they were entering a dark gorge. In another moment
the canoe pitched over a fall and shot between two high, rocky
bluffs. These walls ran up almost perpendicularly two hundred feet;
the space between was scarcely twenty feet wide, and the water
fairly screamed as it rushed madly through its narrow passage. In
the center it was like a glancing sheet of glass, weird and dark,
and was bordered on the sides by white, seething foam-capped waves
which tore and dashed and leaped at their stony confines.

Though the danger was great, though Death lurked in those jagged
stones and in those black waits Isaac felt no fear, he knew the
strength of that arm, now rigid and again moving with lightning
swiftness; he knew the power of the eye which guided them.

Once more out under the starry sky; rifts, shallows, narrows, and
lake-like basins were passed swiftly. At length as the sky was
becoming gray in the east, they passed into the shadow of what was
called the Standing Stone. This was a peculiarly shaped stone-faced
bluff, standing high over the river, and taking its name from Tarhe,
or Standing Stone, chief of all the Hurons.

At the first sight of that well known landmark, which stood by the
Wyandot village, there mingled with Isaac's despondency and
resentment some other feeling that was akin to pleasure; with a
quickening of the pulse came a confusion of expectancy and bitter
memories as he thought of the dark eyed maiden from whom he had fled
a year ago.

"Co-wee-Co-woe," called out one of the Indians in the bow of the
canoe. The signal was heard, for immediately an answering shout came
from the shore.

When a few moments later the canoe grated softly on a pebbly beach.
Isaac saw, indistinctly in the morning mist, the faint outlines of
tepees and wigwams, and he knew he was once more in the encampment
of the Wyandots.

        * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Late in the afternoon of that day Isaac was awakened from his heavy
slumber and told that the chief had summoned him. He got up from the
buffalo robes upon which he had flung himself that morning,
stretched his aching limbs, and walked to the door of the lodge.

The view before him was so familiar that it seemed as if he had
suddenly come home after being absent a long time. The last rays of
the setting sun shone ruddy and bright over the top of the Standing
Stone; they touched the scores of lodges and wigwams which dotted
the little valley; they crimsoned the swift, narrow river, rushing
noisily over its rocky bed. The banks of the stream were lined with
rows of canoes; here and there a bridge made of a single tree
spanned the stream. From the camp fires long, thin columns of blue
smoke curled lazily upward; giant maple trees, in them garb of
purple and gold, rose high above the wigwams, adding a further
beauty to this peaceful scene.

As Isaac was led down a lane between two long lines of tepees the
watching Indians did not make the demonstration that usually marked
the capture of a paleface. Some of the old squaws looked up from
their work round the campfires and steaming kettles and grinned as
the prisoner passed. The braves who were sitting upon their blankets
and smoking their long pipes, or lounging before the warm blazes
maintained a stolid indifference; the dusky maidens smiled shyly,
and the little Indian boys, with whom Isaac had always been a great
favorite, manifested their joy by yelling and running after him. One
youngster grasped Isaac round the leg and held on until he was
pulled away.

In the center of the village were several lodges connected with one
another and larger and more imposing than the surrounding tepees.
These were the wigwams of the chief, and thither Isaac was
conducted. The guards led him to a large and circular apartment and
left him there alone. This room was the council-room. It contained
nothing but a low seat and a knotted war-club.

Isaac heard the rattle of beads and bear claws, and as he turned a
tall and majestic Indian entered the room. It was Tarhe, the chief
of all the Wyandots. Though Tarhe was over seventy, he walked erect;
his calm face, dark as a bronze mask, showed no trace of his
advanced age. Every line and feature of his face had race in it; the
high forehead, the square, protruding jaw, the stern mouth, the
falcon eyes--all denoted the pride and unbending will of the last of
the Tarhes.

"The White Eagle is again in the power of Tarhe," said the chief in
his native tongue. "Though he had the swiftness of the bounding deer
or the flight of the eagle it would avail him not. The wild geese as
they fly northward are not swifter than the warriors of Tarhe.
Swifter than all is the vengeance of the Huron. The young paleface
has cost the lives of some great warriors. What has he to say?"

"It was not my fault," answered Isaac quickly. "I was struck down
from behind and had no chance to use a weapon. I have never raised
my hand against a Wyandot. Crow will tell you that. If my people and
friends kill your braves I am not to blame. Yet I have had good
cause to shed Huron blood. Your warriors have taken me from my home
and have wounded me many times."

"The White Chief speaks well. Tarhe believes his words," answered
Tarhe in his sonorous voice. "The Lenapee seek the death of the pale
face. Wingenund grieves for his son. He is Tarhe's friend. Tarhe is
old and wise and he is king here. He can save the White Chief from
Wingenund and Cornplanter. Listen. Tarhe is old and he has no son.
He will make you a great chief and give you lands and braves and
honors. He shall not ask you to raise your hand against your people,
but help to bring peace. Tarhe does not love this war. He wants only
justice. He wants only to keep his lands, his horses, and his
people. The White Chief is known to be brave; his step is light, his
eye is keen, and his bullet is true. For many long moons Tarhe's
daughter has been like the singing bird without its mate. She sings
no more. She shall be the White Chief's wife. She has the blood of
her mother and not that of the last of the Tarhes. Thus the mistakes
of Tarhe's youth come to disappoint his old age. He is the friend of
the young paleface. Tarhe has said. Now go and make your peace with
Myeerah."

The chief motioned toward the back of the lodge. Isaac stepped
forward and went through another large room, evidently the chief's,
as it was fitted up with a wild and barbaric splendor. Isaac
hesitated before a bearskin curtain at the farther end of the
chief's lodge. He had been there many times before, but never with
such conflicting emotions. What was it that made his heart beat
faster? With a quick movement he lifted the curtain and passed under
it.

The room which he entered was circular in shape and furnished with
all the bright colors and luxuriance known to the Indian. Buffalo
robes covered the smooth, hard-packed clay floor; animals,
allegorical pictures, and fanciful Indian designs had been painted
on the wall; bows and arrows, shields, strings of bright-colored
beads and Indian scarfs hung round the room. The wall was made of
dried deerskins sewed together and fastened over long poles which
were planted in the ground and bent until the ends met overhead. An
oval-shaped opening let in the light. Through a narrow aperture,
which served as a door leading to a smaller apartment, could be seen
a low couch covered with red blankets, and a glimpse of many hued
garments hanging on the wall.

As Isaac entered the room a slender maiden ran impulsively to him
and throwing her arms round his neck hid her face on his breast. A
few broken, incoherent words escaped her lips. Isaac disengaged
himself from the clinging arms and put her from him. The face raised
to his was strikingly beautiful. Oval in shape, it was as white as
his own, with a broad, low brow and regular features. The eyes were
large and dark and they dilated and quickened with a thousand
shadows of thought.

"Myeerah, I am taken again. This time there has been blood shed. The
Delaware chief was killed, and I do not know how many more Indians.
The chiefs are all for putting me to death. I am in great danger.
Why could you not leave me in peace?"

At his first words the maiden sighed and turned sorrowfully and
proudly away from the angry face of the young man. A short silence
ensued.

"Then you are not glad to see Myeerah?" she said, in English. Her
voice was music. It rang low, sweet, clear-toned as a bell.

"What has that to do with it? Under some circumstances I would be
glad to see you. But to be dragged back here and perhaps
murdered--no, I don't welcome it. Look at this mark where Crow hit
me," said Isaac, passionately, bowing his head to enable her to see
the bruise where the club had struck him.

"I am sorry," said Myeerah, gently.

"I know that I am in great danger from the Delawares."

"The daughter of Tarhe has saved your life before and will save it
again."

"They may kill me in spite of you."

"They will not dare. Do not forget that I saved you from the
Shawnees. What did my father say to you?"

"He assured me that he was my friend and that he would protect me
from Wingenund. But I must marry you and become one of the tribe. I
cannot do that. And that is why I am sure they will kill me."

"You are angry now. I will tell you. Myeerah tried hard to win your
love, and when you ran away from her she was proud for a long time.
But there was no singing of birds, no music of the waters, no beauty
in anything after you left her. Life became unbearable without you.
Then Myeerah remembered that she was a daughter of kings. She
summoned the bravest and greatest warriors of two tribes and said to
them. 'Go and bring to me the paleface, White Eagle. Bring him to me
alive or dead. If alive, Myeerah will smile once more upon her
warriors. If dead, she will look once upon his face and die. Ever
since Myeerah was old enough to remember she has thought of you.
Would you wish her to be inconstant, like the moon?'"

"It is not what I wish you to be. It is that I cannot live always
without seeing my people. I told you that a year ago."

"You told me other things in that past time before you ran away.
They were tender words that were sweet to the ear of the Indian
maiden. Have you forgotten them?"

"I have not forgotten them. I am not without feeling. You do not
understand. Since I have been home this last time, I have realized
more than ever that I could not live away from my home."

"Is there any maiden in your old home whom you have learned to love
more than Myeerah?"

He did not reply, but looked gloomily out of the opening in the
wall. Myeerah had placed her hold upon his arm, and as he did not
answer the hand tightened its grasp.

"She shall never have you."

The low tones vibrated with intense feeling, with a deathless
resolve. Isaac laughed bitterly and looked up at her. Myeerah's face
was pale and her eyes burned like fire.

"I should not be surprised if you gave me up to the Delawares," said
Isaac, coldly. "I am prepared for it, and I would not care very
much. I have despaired of your ever becoming civilized enough to
understand the misery of my sister and family. Why not let the
Indians kill me?"

He knew how to wound her. A quick, shuddery cry broke from her lips.
She stood before him with bowed head and wept. When she spoke again
her voice was broken and pleading.

"You are cruel and unjust. Though Myeerah has Indian blood she is a
white woman. She can feel as your people do. In your anger and
bitterness you forget that Myeerah saved you from the knife of the
Shawnees. You forget her tenderness; you forget that she nursed you
when you were wounded. Myeerah has a heart to break. Has she not
suffered? Is she not laughed at, scorned, called a 'paleface' by the
other tribes? She thanks the Great Spirit for the Indian blood that
keep her true. The white man changes his loves and his wives. That
is not an Indian gift."

"No, Myeerah, I did not say so. There is no other woman. It is that
I am wretched and sick at heart. Do you not see that this will end
in a tragedy some day? Can you not realize that we would be happier
if you would let me go? If you love me you would not want to see me
dead. If I do not marry you they will kill me; if I try to escape
again they win kill me. Let me go free."

"I cannot! I cannot!" she cried. "You have taught me many of the
ways of your people, but you cannot change my nature."

"Why cannot you free me?"

"I love you, and I will not live without you."

"Then come and go to my home and live there with me," said Isaac,
taking the weeping maiden in his arms. "I know that my people will
welcome you."

"Myeerah would be pitied and scorned," she said, sadly, shaking her
head.

Isaac tried hard to steel his heart against her, but he was only
mortal and he failed. The charm of her presence influenced him; her
love wrung tenderness from him. Those dark eyes, so proud to all
others, but which gazed wistfully and yearningly into his, stirred
his heart to its depths. He kissed the tear-wet cheeks and smiled
upon her.

"Well, since I am a prisoner once more, I must make the best of it.
Do not look so sad. We shall talk of this another day. Come, let us
go and find my little friend, Captain Jack. He remembered me, for he
ran out and grasped my knee and they pulled him away."



CHAPTER VI.

When the first French explorers invaded the northwest, about the
year 1615, the Wyandot Indians occupied the territory between
Georgian Bay and the Muskoka Lakes in Ontario. These Frenchmen named
the tribe Huron because of the manner in which they wore their hair.

At this period the Hurons were at war with the Iroquois, and the two
tribes kept up a bitter fight until in 1649, when the Hurons
suffered a decisive defeat. They then abandoned their villages and
sought other hunting grounds. They travelled south and settled in
Ohio along the south and west shores of Lake Erie. The present site
of Zanesfield, named from Isaac Zane, marks the spot where the
largest tribe of Hurons once lived.

In a grove of maples on the banks of a swift little river named Mad
River, the Hurons built their lodges and their wigwams. The stately
elk and graceful deer abounded in this fertile valley, and countless
herds of bison browsed upon the uplands.

There for many years the Hurons lived a peaceful and contented life.
The long war cry was not heard. They were at peace with the
neighboring tribes. Tarhe, the Huron chief, attained great influence
with the Delawares. He became a friend of Logan, the Mingo chief.

With the invasion of the valley of the Ohio by the whites, with the
march into the wilderness of that wild-turkey breed of heroes of
which Boone, Kenton, the Zanes, and the Wetzels were the first, the
Indian's nature gradually changed until he became a fierce and
relentless foe.

The Hurons had sided with the French in Pontiac's war, and in the
Revolution they aided the British. They allied themselves with the
Mingoes, Delawares and Shawnees and made a fierce war on the
Virginian pioneers. Some powerful influence must have engendered
this implacable hatred in these tribes, particularly in the Mingo
and the Wyandot.

The war between the Indians and the settlers along the Pennsylvania
and West Virginia borders was known as "Dunmore's War." The Hurons,
Mingoes, and Delawares living in the "hunter's paradise" west of the
Ohio River, seeing their land sold by the Iroquois and the
occupation of their possessions by a daring band of white men
naturally were filled with fierce anger and hate. But remembering
the past bloody war and British punishment they slowly moved
backward toward the setting sun and kept the peace. In 1774 a canoe
filled with friendly Wyandots was attacked by white men below Yellow
Creek and the Indians were killed. Later the same year a party of
men under Colonel Cresop made an unprovoked and dastardly massacre
of the family and relatives of Logan. This attack reflected the
deepest dishonor upon all the white men concerned, and was the
principal cause of the long and bloody war which followed. The
settlers on the border sent messengers to Governor Dunmore at
Williamsburg for immediate relief parties. Knowing well that the
Indians would not allow this massacre to go unavenged the
frontiersmen erected forts and blockhouses.

Logan, the famous Mingo chief, had been a noted friend of the white
men. After the murder of his people he made ceaseless war upon them.
He incited the wrath of the Hurons and the Delawares. He went on the
warpath, and when his lust for vengeance had been satisfied he sent
the following remarkable address to Lord Dunmore:

"I appeal to any white man to say if ever he entered Logan's cabin
and he gave him not meat: if ever he came cold and naked and he
clothed him not. During the course of the last long and bloody war
Logan remained idle in his cabin, an advocate of peace. Such was my
love for the whites that my countrymen pointed as they passed and
said: 'Logan is the friend of the white man.' I had even thought to
have lived with you but for the injuries of one man, Colonel Cresop,
who, last spring, in cold blood and unprovoked, murdered all the
relatives of Logan, not even sparing my women and children. There
runs not a drop of my blood in the veins of any living creature.
This called upon me for vengeance. I have sought it: I have killed
many; I have glutted my vengeance. For my country I will rejoice at
the beams of peace. But do not harbor a thought that mine is the joy
of fear. Logan never felt fear; he could not turn upon his heel to
save his life. Who is there to mourn for Logan? Not one."

The war between the Indians and the pioneers was waged for years.
The settlers pushed farther and farther into the wilderness. The
Indians, who at first sought only to save their farms and their
stock, now fought for revenge. That is why every ambitious pioneer
who went out upon those borders carried his life in his hands; why
there was always the danger of being shot or tomahawked from behind
every tree; why wife and children were constantly in fear of the
terrible enemy.

To creep unawares upon a foe and strike him in the dark was Indian
warfare; to an Indian it was not dishonorable; it was not cowardly.
He was taught to hide in the long grass like a snake, to shoot from
coverts, to worm his way stealthily through the dense woods and to
ambush the paleface's trail. Horrible cruelties, such as torturing
white prisoners and burning them at the stake were never heard of
before the war made upon the Indians by the whites.

Comparatively little is known of the real character of the Indian of
that time. We ourselves sit before our warm fires and talk of the
deeds of the redman. We while away an hour by reading Pontiac's
siege of Detroit, of the battle of Braddock's fields, and of
Custer's last charge. We lay the book down with a fervent expression
of thankfulness that the day of the horrible redman is past. Because
little has been written on the subject, no thought is given to the
long years of deceit and treachery practiced upon Pontiac; we are
ignorant of the causes which led to the slaughter of Braddock's
army, and we know little of the life of bitterness suffered by
Sitting Bull.

Many intelligent white men, who were acquainted with the true life
of the Indian before he was harassed and driven to desperation by
the pioneers, said that he had been cruelly wronged. Many white men
in those days loved the Indian life so well that they left the
settlements and lived with the Indians. Boone, who knew the Indian
nature, said the honesty and the simplicity of the Indian were
remarkable. Kenton said he had been happy among the Indians. Col.
Zane had many Indian friends. Isaac Zane, who lived most of his life
with the Wyandots, said the American redman had been wrongfully
judged a bloodthirsty savage, an ignorant, thieving wretch, capable
of not one virtue. He said the free picturesque life of the Indians
would have appealed to any white man; that it had a wonderful charm,
and that before the war with the whites the Indians were kind to
their prisoners, and sought only to make Indians of them. He told
tales of how easily white boys become Indianized, so attached to the
wild life and freedom of the redmen that it was impossible to get
the captives to return to civilized life. The boys had been
permitted to grow wild with the Indian lads; to fish and shoot and
swim with them; to play the Indian games--to live idle, joyous
lives. He said these white boys had been ransomed and taken from
captivity and returned to their homes and, although a close watch
has kept on them, they contrived to escape and return to the
Indians, and that while they were back among civilized people it was
difficult to keep the boys dressed. In summer time it was useless to
attempt it. The strongest hemp-linen shirts, made with the strongest
collar and wrist-band, would directly be torn off and the little
rascals found swimming in the river or rolling on the sand.

If we may believe what these men have said--and there seems no good
reason why we may not--the Indian was very different from the
impression given of him. There can be little doubt that the redman
once lived a noble and blameless life; that he was simple, honest
and brave, that he had a regard for honor and a respect for a
promise far exceeding that of most white men. Think of the beautiful
poetry and legends left by these silent men: men who were a part of
the woods; men whose music was the sighing of the wind, the rustling
of the leaf, the murmur of the brook; men whose simple joys were the
chase of the stag, and the light in the dark eye of a maiden.

If we wish to find the highest type of the American Indian we must
look for him before he was driven west by the land-seeking pioneer
and before he was degraded by the rum-selling French trader.

The French claimed all the land watered by the Mississippi River and
its tributaries. The French Canadian was a restless, roaming
adventurer and he found his vocation in the fur-trade. This
fur-trade engendered a strange class of men--bush-rangers they were
called--whose work was to paddle the canoe along the lakes and
streams and exchange their cheap rum for the valuable furs of the
Indians. To these men the Indians of the west owe their degradation.
These bush-rangers or coureurs-des-bois, perverted the Indians and
sank into barbarism with them.

The few travellers there in those days were often surprised to find
in the wigwams of the Indians men who acknowledged the blood of
France, yet who had lost all semblance to the white man. They lived
in their tepee with their Indian squaws and lolled on their blankets
while the squaws cooked their venison and did all the work. They let
their hair grow long and wore feathers in it; they painted their
faces hideously with ochre and vermilion.

These were the worthless traders and adventurers who, from the year
1748 to 1783, encroached on the hunting grounds of the Indians and
explored the wilderness, seeking out the remote tribes and trading
the villainous rum for the rare pelts. In 1784 the French
authorities, realizing that these vagrants were demoralizing the
Indians, warned them to get off the soil. Finding this course
ineffectual they arrested those that could be apprehended and sent
them to Canada. But it was too late: the harm had been done: the
poor, ignorant savage had tasted of the terrible "fire-water," as he
called the rum and his ruin was inevitable.

It was a singular fact that almost every Indian who had once tasted
strong drink, was unable to resist the desire for more. When a
trader came to one of the Indian hamlets the braves purchased a keg
of rum and then they held a council to see who was to get drunk and
who was to keep sober. It was necessary to have some sober Indians
in camp, otherwise the drunken braves would kill one another. The
weapons would have to be concealed. When the Indians had finished
one keg of rum they would buy another, and so on until not a
beaver-skin was left. Then the trader would move or when the Indians
sobered up they would be much dejected, for invariably they would
find that some had been wounded, others crippled, and often several
had been killed.

Logan, using all his eloquence, travelled from village to village
visiting the different tribes and making speeches. He urged the
Indians to shun the dreaded "fire-water." He exclaimed against the
whites for introducing liquor to the Indians and thus debasing them.
At the same time Logan admitted his own fondness for rum. This
intelligent and noble Indian was murdered in a drunken fight shortly
after sending his address to Lord Dunmore.

Thus it was that the poor Indians had no chance to avert their
downfall; the steadily increasing tide of land-stealing settlers
rolling westward, and the insidious, debasing, soul-destroying
liquor were the noble redman's doom.

        * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Isaac Zane dropped back not altogether unhappily into his old place
in the wigwam, in the hunting parties, and in the Indian games.

When the braves were in camp, the greatest part of the day was spent
in shooting and running matches, in canoe races, in wrestling, and
in the game of ball. The chiefs and the older braves who had won
their laurels and the maidens of the tribe looked on and applauded.

Isaac entered into all these pastimes, partly because he had a
natural love for them, and partly because he wished to win the
regard of the Indians. In wrestling, and in those sports which
required weight and endurance, he usually suffered defeat. In a foot
race there was not a brave in the entire tribe who could keep even
with him. But it was with the rifle that Isaac won his greatest
distinction. The Indians never learned the finer shooting with the
rifle. Some few of them could shoot well, but for the most part they
were poor marksmen.

Accordingly, Isaac was always taken on the fall hunt. Every autumn
there were three parties sent out to bring in the supply of meat for
the winter. Because of Isaac's fine marksmanship he was always taken
with the bear hunters. Bear hunting was exciting and dangerous work.
Before the weather got very cold and winter actually set in the
bears crawled into a hole in a tree or a cave in the rocks, where
they hibernated. A favorite place for them was in hollow trees. When
the Indians found a tree with the scratches of a bear on it and a
hole large enough to admit the body of a bear, an Indian climbed up
the tree and with a long pole tried to punch Bruin out of his den.
Often this was a hazardous undertaking, for the bear would get angry
on being disturbed in his winter sleep and would rush out before the
Indian could reach a place of safety. At times there were even two
or three bears in one den. Sometimes the bear would refuse to come
out, and on these occasions, which were rare, the hunters would
resort to fire. A piece of dry, rotten wood was fastened to a long
pole and was set on fire. When this was pushed in on the bear he
would give a sniff and a growl and come out in a hurry.

The buffalo and elk were hunted with the bow and arrow. This
effective weapon did not make a noise and frighten the game. The
wary Indian crawled through the high grass until within easy range
and sometimes killed several buffalo or elk before the herd became
alarmed. The meat was then jerked. This consisted in cutting it into
thin strips and drying it in the sun. Afterwards it was hung up in
the lodges. The skins were stretched on poles to dry, and when cured
they served as robes, clothing and wigwam-coverings.

The Indians were fond of honey and maple sugar. The finding of a
hive of bees, or a good run of maple syrup was an occasion for
general rejoicing. They found the honey in hollow trees, and they
obtained the maple sugar in two ways. When the sap came up in the
maple trees a hole was bored in the trees about a foot from the
ground and a small tube, usually made from a piece of alder, was
inserted in the hole. Through this the sap was carried into a vessel
which was placed under the tree. This sap was boiled down in
kettles. If the Indians had no kettles they made the frost take the
place of heat in preparing the sugar. They used shallow vessels made
of bark, and these were filled with water and the maple sap. It was
left to freeze over night and in the morning the ice was broken and
thrown away. The sugar did not freeze. When this process had been
repeated several times the residue was very good maple sugar.

Isaac did more than his share toward the work of provisioning the
village for the winter. But he enjoyed it. He was particularly fond
of fishing by moonlight. Early November was the best season for this
sport, and the Indians caught large numbers of fish. They placed a
torch in the bow of a canoe and paddled noiselessly over the stream.
In the clear water a bright light would so attract and fascinate the
fish that they would lie motionless near the bottom of the shallow
stream.

One cold night Isaac was in the bow of the canoe. Seeing a large
fish he whispered to the Indians with him to exercise caution. His
guides paddled noiselessly through the water. Isaac stood up and
raised the spear, ready to strike. In another second Isaac had cast
the iron, but in his eagerness he overbalanced himself and plunged
head first into the icy current, making a great splash and spoiling
any further fishing. Incidents like this were a source of infinite
amusement to the Indians.

Before the autumn evenings grew too cold the Indian held their
courting dances. All unmarried maidens and braves in the village
were expected to take part in these dances. In the bright light of
huge fires, and watched by the chiefs, the old men, the squaws, and
the children, the maidens and the braves, arrayed in their gaudiest
apparel, marched into the circle. They formed two lines a few paces
apart. Each held in the right hand a dry gourd which contained
pebbles. Advancing toward one another they sang the courting song,
keeping time to the tune with the rattling of the pebbles. When they
met in the center the braves bent forward and whispered a word to
the maidens. At a certain point in the song, which was indicated by
a louder note, the maidens would change their positions, and this
was continued until every brave had whispered to every maiden, when
the dance ended.

Isaac took part in all these pleasures; he entered into every phase
of the Indian's life; he hunted, worked, played, danced, and sang
with faithfulness. But when the long, dreary winter days came with
their ice-laden breezes, enforcing idleness on the Indians, he
became restless. Sometimes for days he would be morose and gloomy,
keeping beside his own tent and not mingling with the Indians. At
such times Myeerah did not question him.

Even in his happier hours his diversions were not many. He never
tired of watching and studying the Indian children. When he had an
opportunity without being observed, which was seldom, he amused
himself with the papooses. The Indian baby was strapped to a flat
piece of wood and covered with a broad flap of buckskin. The squaws
hung these primitive baby carriages up on the pole of a tepee, on a
branch of a tree, or threw them round anywhere. Isaac never heard a
papoose cry. He often pulled down the flap of buckskin and looked at
the solemn little fellow, who would stare up at him with big,
wondering eyes.

Isaac's most intimate friend was a six-year-old Indian boy, whom he
called Captain Jack. He was the son of Thundercloud, the war-chief
of the Hurons. Jack made a brave picture in his buckskin hunting
suit and his war bonnet. Already he could stick tenaciously on the
back of a racing mustang and with his little bow he could place
arrow after arrow in the center of the target. Knowing Captain Jack
would some day be a mighty chief, Isaac taught him to speak English.
He endeavored to make Jack love him, so that when the lad should
grow to be a man he would remember his white brother and show mercy
to the prisoners who fell into his power.

Another of Isaac's favorites was a half-breed Ottawa Indian, a
distant relative of Tarhe's. This Indian was very old; no one knew
how old; his face was seamed and scarred and wrinkled. Bent and
shrunken was his form. He slept most of the time, but at long
intervals he would brighten up and tell of his prowess when a
warrior.

One of his favorite stories was of the part he had taken in the
events of that fatal and memorable July 2, 1755, when Gen. Braddock
and his English army were massacred by the French and Indians near
Fort Duquesne.

The old chief told how Beaujeu with his Frenchmen and his five
hundred Indians ambushed Braddock's army, surrounded the soldiers,
fired from the ravines, the trees, the long grass, poured a pitiless
hail of bullets on the bewildered British soldiers, who,
unaccustomed to this deadly and unseen foe, huddled under the trees
like herds of frightened sheep, and were shot down with hardly an
effort to defend themselves.

The old chief related that fifteen years after that battle he went
to the Kanawha settlement to see the Big Chief, Gen. George
Washington, who was travelling on the Kanawha. He told Gen.
Washington how he had fought in the battle of Braddock's Fields; how
he had shot and killed Gen. Braddock; how he had fired repeatedly at
Washington, and had killed two horses under him, and how at last he
came to the conclusion that Washington was protected by the Great
Spirit who destined him for a great future.

      * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Myeerah was the Indian name for a rare and beautiful bird--the white
crane--commonly called by the Indians, Walk-in-the-Water. It had
been the name of Tarhe's mother and grandmother. The present Myeerah
was the daughter of a French woman, who had been taken captive at a
very early age, adopted into the Huron tribe, and married to Tarhe.
The only child of this union was Myeerah. She grew to be beautiful
woman and was known in Detroit and the Canadian forts as Tarhe's
white daughter. The old chief often visited the towns along the lake
shore, and so proud was he of Myeerah that he always had her
accompany him. White men travelled far to look at the Indian beauty.
Many French soldiers wooed her in vain. Once, while Tarhe was in
Detroit, a noted French family tried in every way to get possession
of Myeerah.

The head of this family believed he saw in Myeerah the child of his
long lost daughter. Tarhe hurried away from the city and never
returned to the white settlement.

Myeerah was only five years old at the time of the capture of the
Zane brothers and it was at this early age that she formed the
attachment for Isaac Zane which clung to her all her life. She was
seven when the men came from Detroit to ransom the brothers, and she
showed such grief when she learned that Isaac was to be returned to
his people that Tarhe refused to accept any ransom for Isaac. As
Myeerah grew older her childish fancy for the white boy deepened
into an intense love.

But while this love tendered her inexorable to Isaac on the question
of giving him his freedom, it undoubtedly saved his life as well as
the lives of other white prisoners, on more than one occasion.

To the white captives who fell into the hands of the Hurons, she was
kind and merciful; many of the wounded she had tended with her own
hands, and many poor wretches she had saved from the gauntlet and
the stake. When her efforts to persuade her father to save any one
were unavailing she would retire in sorrow to her lodge and remain
there.

Her infatuation for the White Eagle, the Huron name for Isaac, was
an old story; it was known to all the tribes and had long ceased to
be questioned. At first some of the Delawares and the Shawnee
braves, who had failed to win Myeerah's love, had openly scorned her
for her love for the pale face. The Wyandot warriors to a man
worshipped her; they would have marched straight into the jaws of
death at her command; they resented the insults which had been cast
on their princess, and they had wiped them out in blood: now none
dared taunt her.

In the spring following Isaac's recapture a very serious accident
befell him. He had become expert in the Indian game of ball, which
is a game resembling the Canadian lacrosse, and from which, in fact,
it had been adopted. Goals were placed at both ends of a level
plain. Each party of Indians chose a goal which they endeavored to
defend and at the same time would try to carry the ball over their
opponent's line.

A well contested game of Indian ball presented a scene of wonderful
effort and excitement. Hundreds of strong and supple braves could be
seen running over the plain, darting this way and that, or
struggling in a yelling, kicking, fighting mass, all in a mad
scramble to get the ball.

As Isaac had his share of the Zane swiftness of foot, at times his
really remarkable fleetness enabled him to get control of the ball.
In front of the band of yelling savages he would carry it down the
field, and evading the guards at the goal, would throw it between
the posts. This was a feat of which any brave could be proud.

During one of these games Red Fox, a Wyandot brave, who had long
been hopelessly in love with Myeerah, and who cordially hated Isaac,
used this opportunity for revenge. Red Fox, who was a swift runner,
had vied with Isaac for the honors, but being defeated in the end,
he had yielded to his jealous frenzy and had struck Isaac a terrible
blow on the head with his bat.

It happened to be a glancing blow or Isaac's life would have been
ended then and there. As it was he had a deep gash in his head. The
Indians carried him to his lodge and the medicine men of the tribe
were summoned.

When Isaac recovered consciousness he asked for Myeerah and
entreated her not to punish Red Fox. He knew that such a course
would only increase his difficulties, and, on the other hand, if he
saved the life of the Indian who had struck him in such a cowardly
manner such an act would appeal favorably to the Indians. His
entreaties had no effect on Myeerah, who was furious, and who said
that if Red Fox, who had escaped, ever returned he would pay for his
unprovoked assault with his life, even if she had to kill him
herself. Isaac knew that Myeerah would keep her word. He dreaded
every morning that the old squaw who prepared his meals would bring
him the news that his assailant had been slain. Red Fox was a
popular brave, and there were many Indians who believed the blow he
had struck Isaac was not intentional. Isaac worried needlessly,
however, for Red Fox never came back, and nothing could be learned
as to his whereabouts.

It was during his convalescence that Isaac learned really to love
the Indian maiden. She showed such distress in the first days after
his injury, and such happiness when he was out of danger and on the
road to recovery that Isaac wondered at her. She attended him with
anxious solicitude; when she bathed and bandaged his wound her every
touch was a tender caress; she sat by him for hours; her low voice
made soft melody as she sang the Huron love songs. The moments were
sweet to Isaac when in the gathering twilight she leaned her head on
his shoulder while they listened to the evening carol of the
whip-poor-will. Days passed and at length Isaac was entirely well.
One day when the air was laden with the warm breath of summer
Myeerah and Isaac walked by the river.

"You are sad again," said Myeerah.

"I am homesick. I want to see my people. Myeerah, you have named me
rightly. The Eagle can never be happy unless he is free."

"The Eagle can be happy with his mate. And what life could be freer
than a Huron's? I hope always that you will grow content."

"It has been a long time now, Myeerah, since I have spoken with you
of my freedom. Will you ever free me? Or must I take again those
awful chances of escape? I cannot always live here in this way. Some
day I shall be killed while trying to get away, and then, if you
truly love me, you will never forgive yourself."

"Does not Myeerah truly love you?" she asked, gazing straight into
his eyes, her own misty and sad.

"I do not doubt that, but I think sometimes that it is not the right
kind of love. It is too savage. No man should be made a prisoner for
no other reason than that he is loved by a woman. I have tried to
teach you many things; the language of my people, their ways and
thoughts, but I have failed to civilize you. I cannot make you
understand that it is unwomanly--do not turn away. I am not
indifferent. I have learned to care for you. Your beauty and
tenderness have made anything else impossible."

"Myeerah is proud of her beauty, if it pleases the Eagle. Her beauty
and her love are his. Yet the Eagle's words make Myeerah sad. She
cannot tell what she feels. The pale face's words flow swiftly and
smoothly like rippling waters, but Myeerah's heart is full and her
lips are dumb."

Myeerah and Isaac stopped under a spreading elm tree the branches of
which drooped over and shaded the river. The action of the high
water had worn away the earth round the roots of the old elm,
leaving them bare and dry when the stream was low. As though Nature
had been jealous in the interest of lovers, she had twisted and
curled the roots into a curiously shaped bench just above the water,
which was secluded enough to escape all eyes except those of the
beaver and the muskrat. The bank above was carpeted with fresh, dewy
grass; blue bells and violets hid modestly under their dark green
leaves; delicate ferns, like wonderful fairy lace, lifted their
dainty heads to sway in the summer breeze. In this quiet nook the
lovers passed many hours.

"Then, if my White Chief has learned to care for me, he must not try
to escape," whispered Myeerah, tenderly, as she crept into Isaac's
arms and laid her head on his breast. "I love you. I love you. What
will become of Myeerah if you leave her? Could she ever be happy?
Could she ever forget? No, no, I will keep my captive."

"I cannot persuade you to let me go?"

"If I free you I will come and lie here," cried Myeerah, pointing to
the dark pool.

"Then come with me to my home and live there."

"Go with you to the village of the pale faces, where Myeerah would
be scorned, pointed at as your captors laughed at and pitied? No!
No!"

"But you would not be," said Isaac, eagerly. "You would be my wife.
My sister and people will love you. Come, Myeerah save me from this
bondage; come home with me and I will make you happy."

"It can never be," she said, sadly, after a long pause. "How would
we ever reach the fort by the big river? Tarhe loves his daughter
and will not give her up. If we tried to get away the braves would
overtake us and then even Myeerah could not save your life. You
would be killed. I dare not try. No, no, Myeerah loves too well for
that."

"You might make the attempt," said Isaac, turning away in bitter
disappointment. "If you loved me you could not see me suffer."

"Never say that again," cried Myeerah, pain and scorn in her dark
eyes. "Can an Indian Princess who has the blood of great chiefs in
her veins prove her love in any way that she has not? Some day you
will know that you wrong me. I am Tarhe's daughter. A Huron does not
lie."

They slowly wended their way back to the camp, both miserable at
heart; Isaac longing to see his home and friends, and yet with
tenderness in his heart for the Indian maiden who would not free
him; Myeerah with pity and love for him and a fear that her long
cherished dream could never be realized.

One dark, stormy night, when the rain beat down in torrents and the
swollen river raged almost to its banks, Isaac slipped out of his
lodge unobserved and under cover of the pitchy darkness he got
safely between the lines of tepees to the river. He had just the
opportunity for which he had been praying. He plunged into the water
and floating down with the swift current he soon got out of sight of
the flickering camp fires. Half a mile below he left the water and
ran along the bank until he came to a large tree, a landmark he
remembered, when he turned abruptly to the east and struck out
through the dense woods. He travelled due east all that night and
the next day without resting, and with nothing to eat except a small
piece of jerked buffalo meat which he had taken the precaution to
hide in his hunting shirt. He rested part of the second night and
next morning pushed on toward the east. He had expected to reach the
Ohio that day, but he did not and he noticed that the ground seemed
to be gradually rising. He did not come across any swampy lands or
saw grass or vegetation characteristic of the lowlands. He stopped
and tried to get his bearings. The country was unknown to him, but
he believed he knew the general lay of the ridges and the
water-courses.

The fourth day found Isaac hopelessly lost in the woods. He was
famished, having eaten but a few herbs and berries in the last two
days; his buckskin garments were torn in tatters; his moccasins were
worn out and his feet lacerated by the sharp thorns.

Darkness was fast approaching when he first realized that he was
lost. He waited hopefully for the appearance of the north star--that
most faithful of hunter's guides--but the sky clouded over and no
stars appeared. Tired out and hopeless he dragged his weary body
into a dense laurel thicket end lay down to wait for dawn. The
dismal hoot of an owl nearby, the stealthy steps of some soft-footed
animal prowling round the thicket, and the mournful sough of the
wind in the treetops kept him awake for hours, but at last he fell
asleep.



CHAPTER VII.

The chilling rains of November and December's flurry of snow had
passed and mid-winter with its icy blasts had set in. The Black
Forest had changed autumn's gay crimson and yellow to the somber hue
of winter and now looked indescribably dreary. An ice gorge had
formed in the bend of the river at the head of the island and from
bank to bank logs, driftwood, broken ice and giant floes were packed
and jammed so tightly as to resist the action of the mighty current.
This natural bridge would remain solid until spring had loosened the
frozen grip of old winter. The hills surrounding Fort Henry were
white with snow. The huge drifts were on a level with Col. Zane's
fence and in some places the top rail had disappeared. The pine
trees in the yard were weighted down and drooped helplessly with
their white burden.

On this frosty January morning the only signs of life round the
settlement were a man and a dog walking up Wheeling hill. The man
carried a rifle, an axe, and several steel traps. His snow-shoes
sank into the drifts as he labored up the steep hill. All at once he
stopped. The big black dog had put his nose high in the air and had
sniffed at the cold wind.

"Well, Tige, old fellow, what is it?" said Jonathan Zane, for this
was he.

The dog answered with a low whine. Jonathan looked up and down the
creek valley and along the hillside, but he saw no living thing.
Snow, snow everywhere, its white monotony relieved here and there by
a black tree trunk. Tige sniffed again and then growled. Turning his
ear to the breeze Jonathan heard faint yelps from far over the
hilltop. He dropped his axe and the traps and ran the remaining
short distance up the hill. When he reached the summit the clear
baying of hunting wolves was borne to his ears.

The hill sloped gradually on the other side, ending in a white,
unbroken plain which extended to the edge of the laurel thicket a
quarter of a mile distant. Jonathan could not see the wolves, but he
heard distinctly their peculiar, broken howls. They were in pursuit
of something, whether quadruped or man he could not decide. Another
moment and he was no longer in doubt, for a deer dashed out of the
thicket. Jonathan saw that it was a buck and that he was well nigh
exhausted; his head swung low from side to side; he sank slowly to
his knees, and showed every indication of distress.

The next instant the baying of the wolves, which had ceased for a
moment, sounded close at hand. The buck staggered to his feet; he
turned this way and that. When he saw the man and the dog he started
toward them without a moment's hesitation.

At a warning word from Jonathan the dog sank on the snow. Jonathan
stepped behind a tree, which, however, was not large enough to
screen his body. He thought the buck would pass close by him and he
determined to shoot at the most favorable moment.

The buck, however, showed no intention of passing by; in his abject
terror he saw in the man and the dog foes less terrible than those
which were yelping on his trail. He came on in a lame uneven trot,
making straight for the tree. When he reached the tree he crouched,
or rather fell, on the ground within a yard of Jonathan and his dog.
He quivered and twitched; his nostrils flared; at every pant drops
of blood flecked the snow; his great dark eyes had a strained and
awful look, almost human in its agony.

Another yelp from the thicket and Jonathan looked up in time to see
five timber wolves, gaunt, hungry looking beasts, burst from the
bushes. With their noses close to the snow they followed the trail.
When they came to the spot where the deer had fallen a chorus of
angry, thirsty howls filled the air.

"Well, if this doesn't beat me! I thought I knew a little about
deer," said Jonathan. "Tige, we will save this buck from those gray
devils if it costs a leg. Steady now, old fellow, wait."

When the wolves were within fifty yards of the tree and coming
swiftly Jonathan threw his rifle forward and yelled with all the
power of his strong lungs:

"Hi! Hi! Hi! Take 'em, Tige!"

In trying to stop quickly on the slippery snowcrust the wolves fell
all over themselves. One dropped dead and another fell wounded at
the report of Jonathan's rifle. The others turned tail and loped
swiftly off into the thicket. Tige made short work of the wounded
one.

"Old White Tail, if you were the last buck in the valley, I would
not harm you," said Jonathan, looking at the panting deer. "You need
have no farther fear of that pack of cowards."

So saying Jonathan called to Tige and wended his way down the hill
toward the settlement.

An hour afterward he was sitting in Col. Zane's comfortable cabin,
where all was warmth and cheerfulness. Blazing hickory logs roared
and crackled in the stone fireplace.

"Hello, Jack, where did you come from?" said Col. Zane, who had just
come in. "Haven't seen you since we were snowed up. Come over to see
about the horses? If I were you I would not undertake that trip to
Fort Pitt until the weather breaks. You could go in the sled, of
course, but if you care anything for my advice you will stay home.
This weather will hold on for some time. Let Lord Dunmore wait."

"I guess we are in for some stiff weather."

"Haven't a doubt of it. I told Bessie last fall we might expect a
hard winter. Everything indicated it. Look at the thick corn-husks.
The hulls of the nuts from the shell-bark here in the yard were
larger and tougher than I ever saw them. Last October Tige killed a
raccoon that had the wooliest kind of a fur. I could have given you
a dozen signs of a hard winter. We shall still have a month or six
weeks of it. In a week will be ground-hog day and you had better
wait and decide after that."

"I tell you, Eb, I get tired chopping wood and hanging round the
house."

"Aha! another moody spell," said Col. Zane, glancing kindly at his
brother. "Jack, if you were married you would outgrow those
'blue-devils.' I used to have them. It runs in the family to be
moody. I have known our father to take his gun and go into the woods
and stay there until he had fought out the spell. I have done that
myself, but once I married Bessie I have had no return of the old
feeling. Get married, Jack, and then you will settle down and work.
You will not have time to roam around alone in the woods."

"I prefer the spells, as you call them, any day," answered Jonathan,
with a short laugh. "A man with my disposition has no right to get
married. This weather is trying, for it keeps me indoors. I cannot
hunt because we do not need the meat. And even if I did want to hunt
I should not have to go out of sight of the fort. There were three
deer in front of the barn this morning. They were nearly starved.
They ran off a little at sight of me, but in a few moments came back
for the hay I pitched out of the loft. This afternoon Tige and I
saved a big buck from a pack of wolves. The buck came right up to
me. I could have touched him. This storm is sending the deer down
from the hills."

"You are right. It is too bad. Severe weather like this will kill
more deer than an army could. Have you been doing anything with your
traps?"

"Yes, I have thirty traps out."

"If you are going, tell Sam to fetch down another load of fodder
before he unhitches."

"Eb, I have no patience with your brothers," said Col. Zane's wife
to him after he had closed the door. "They are all alike; forever
wanting to be on the go. If it isn't Indians it is something else.
The very idea of going up the river in this weather. If Jonathan
doesn't care for himself he should think of the horses."

"My dear, I was just as wild and discontented as Jack before I met
you," remarked Col. Zane. "You may not think so, but a home and
pretty little woman will do wonders for any man. My brothers have
nothing to keep them steady."

"Perhaps. I do not believe that Jonathan ever will get married.
Silas may; he certainly has been keeping company long enough with
Mary Bennet. You are the only Zane who has conquered that
adventurous spirit and the desire to be always roaming the woods in
search of something to kill. Your old boy, Noah, is growing up like
all the Zanes. He fights with all the children in the settlement. I
cannot break him of it. He is not a bully, for I have never known
him to do anything mean or cruel. It is just sheer love of
fighting."

"Ha! Ha! I fear you will not break him of that," answered Col. Zane.
"It is a good joke to say he gets it all from the Zanes. How about
the McCollochs? What have you to say of your father and the Major
and John McColloch? They are not anything if not the fighting kind.
It's the best trait the youngster could have, out here on the
border. He'll need it all. Don't worry about him. Where is Betty?"

"I told her to take the children out for a sled ride. Betty needs
exercise. She stays indoors too much, and of late she looks pale."

"What! Betty not looking well! She was never ill in her life. I have
noticed no change in her."

"No, I daresay you have not. You men can't see anything. But I can,
and I tell you, Betty is very different from the girl she used to
be. Most of the time she sits and gazes out of her window. She used
to be so bright, and when she was not romping with the children she
busied herself with her needle. Yesterday as I entered her room she
hurriedly picked up a book, and, I think, intentionally hid her face
behind it. I saw she had been crying."

"Come to think of it, I believe I have missed Betty," said Col.
Zane, gravely. "She seems more quiet. Is she unhappy? When did you
first see this change?"

"I think it a little while after Mr. Clarke left here last fall."

"Clarke! What has he to do with Betty? What are you driving at?"
exclaimed the Colonel, stopping in front of his wife. His faced had
paled slightly. "I had forgotten Clarke. Bess, you can't mean--"

"Now, Eb, do not get that look on your face. You always frighten
me," answered his wife, as she quietly placed her hand on his arm.
"I do not mean anything much, certainly nothing against Mr. Clarke.
He was a true gentleman. I really liked him."

"So did I," interrupted the Colonel.

"I believe Betty cared for Mr. Clarke. She was always different with
him. He has gone away and has forgotten her. That is strange to us,
because we cannot imagine any one indifferent to our beautiful
Betty. Nevertheless, no matter how attractive a woman may be men
sometimes love and ride away. I hear the children coming now. Do not
let Betty see that we have been talking about her. She is as quick
as a steel trap."

A peal of childish laughter came from without. The door opened and
Betty ran in, followed by the sturdy, rosy-checked youngsters. All
three were white with snow.

"We have had great fun," said Betty. "We went over the bank once and
tumbled off the sled into the snow. Then we had a snow-balling
contest, and the boys compelled me to strike my colors and fly for
the house."

Col. Zane looked closely at his sister. Her cheeks were flowing with
health; her eyes were sparkling with pleasure. Failing to observe
any indication of the change in Betty which his wife had spoken, he
concluded that women were better qualified to judge their own sex
than were men. He had to confess to himself that the only change he
could see in his sister was that she grew prettier every day of her
life.

"Oh, papa. I hit Sam right in the head with a big snow-ball, and I
made Betty run into the house, and I slid down to all by myself. Sam
was afraid," said Noah to his father.

"Noah, if Sammy saw the danger in sliding down the hill he was
braver than you. Now both of you run to Annie and have these wet
things taken off."

"I must go get on dry clothes myself," said Betty. "I am nearly
frozen. It is growing colder. I saw Jack come in. Is he going to
Fort Pitt?"

"No. He has decided to wait until good weather. I met Mr. Miller
over at the garrison this afternoon and he wants you to go on the
sled-ride to-night. There is to be a dance down at Watkins' place.
All the young people are going. It is a long ride, but I guess it
will be perfectly safe. Silas and Wetzel are going. Dress yourself
warmly and go with them. You have never seen old Grandma Watkins."

"I shall be pleased to go," said Betty.

Betty's room was very cozy, considering that it was in a pioneer's
cabin. It had two windows, the larger of which opened on the side
toward the river. The walls had been smoothly plastered and covered
with white birch-bark. They were adorned with a few pictures and
Indian ornaments. A bright homespun carpet covered the floor. A
small bookcase stood in the corner. The other furniture consisted of
two chairs, a small table, a bureau with a mirror, and a large
wardrobe. It was in this last that Betty kept the gowns which she
had brought from Philadelphia, and which were the wonder of all the
girls in the village.

"I wonder why Eb looked so closely at me," mused Betty, as she
slipped on her little moccasins. "Usually he is not anxious to have
me go so far from the fort; and now he seemed to think I would enjoy
this dance to-night. I wonder what Bessie has been telling him."

Betty threw some wood on the smouldering fire in the little stone
grate and sat down to think. Like every one who has a humiliating
secret, Betty was eternally suspicious and feared the very walls
would guess it. Swift as light came the thought that her brother and
his wife had suspected her secret and had been talking about her,
perhaps pitying her. With this thought came the fear that if she had
betrayed herself to the Colonel's wife she might have done so to
others. The consciousness that this might well be true and that even
now the girls might be talking and laughing at her caused her
exceeding shame and bitterness.

Many weeks had passed since that last night that Betty and Alfred
Clarke had been together.

In due time Col. Zane's men returned and Betty learned from Jonathan
that Alfred had left them at Ft. Pitt, saying he was going south to
his old home. At first she had expected some word from Alfred, a
letter, or if not that, surely an apology for his conduct on that
last evening they had been together. But Jonathan brought her no
word, and after hoping against hope and wearing away the long days
looking for a letter that never came, she ceased to hope and plunged
into despair.

The last few months had changed her life; changed it as only
constant thinking, and suffering that must be hidden from the world,
can change the life of a young girl. She had been so intent on her
own thoughts, so deep in her dreams that she had taken no heed of
other people. She did not know that those who loved her were always
thinking of her welfare and would naturally see even a slight change
in her. With a sudden shock of surprise and pain she realized that
to-day for the first time in a month she had played with the boys.
Sammy had asked her why she did not laugh any more. Now she
understood the mad antics of Tige that morning; Madcap's whinney of
delight; the chattering of the squirrels, and Caesar's pranks in the
snow. She had neglected her pets. She had neglected her work, her
friends, the boys' lessons; and her brother. For what? What would
her girl friends say? That she was pining for a lover who had
forgotten her. They would say that and it would be true. She did
think of him constantly.

With bitter pain she recalled the first days of the acquaintance
which now seemed so long past; how much she had disliked Alfred; how
angry she had been with him and how contemptuously she had spurned
his first proffer of friendship; how, little by little, her pride
had been subdued; then the struggle with her heart. And, at last,
after he had gone, came the realization that the moments spent with
him had been the sweetest of her life. She thought of him as she
used to see him stand before her; so good to look at; so strong and
masterful, and yet so gentle.

"Oh, I cannot bear it," whispered Betty with a half sob, giving up
to a rush of tender feeling. "I love him. I love him, and I cannot
forget him. Oh, I am so ashamed."

Betty bowed her head on her knees. Her slight form quivered a while
and then grew still. When a half hour later she raised her head her
face was pale and cold. It bore the look of a girl who had suddenly
become a woman; a woman who saw the battle of life before her and
who was ready to fight. Stern resolve gleamed from her flashing
eyes; there was no faltering in those set lips.

Betty was a Zane and the Zanes came of a fighting race. Their blood
had ever been hot and passionate; the blood of men quick to love and
quick to hate. It had flowed in the veins of daring, reckless men
who had fought and died for their country; men who had won their
sweethearts with the sword; men who had had unconquerable spirits.
It was this fighting instinct that now rose in Betty; it gave her
strength and pride to defend her secret; the resolve to fight
against the longing in her heart.

"I will forget him! I will tear him out of my heart!" she exclaimed
passionately. "He never deserved my love. He did not care. I was a
little fool to let him amuse himself with me. He went away and
forgot. I hate him."

At length Betty subdued her excitement, and when she went down to
supper a few minutes later she tried to maintain a cheerful
composure of manner and to chat with her old-time vivacity.

"Bessie, I am sure you have exaggerated things," remarked Col. Zane
after Betty had gone upstairs to dress for the dance. "Perhaps it is
only that Betty grows a little tired of this howling wilderness.
Small wonder if she does. You know she has always been used to
comfort and many young people, places to go and all that. This is
her first winter on the frontier. She'll come round all right."

"Have it your way, Ebenezer," answered his wife with a look of
amused contempt on her face. "I am sure I hope you are right. By the
way, what do you think of this Ralfe Miller? He has been much with
Betty of late."

"I do not know the fellow, Bessie. He seems agreeable. He is a
good-looking young man. Why do you ask?"

"The Major told me that Miller had a bad name at Pitt, and that he
had been a friend of Simon Girty before Girty became a renegade."

"Humph! I'll have to speak to Sam. As for knowing Girty, there is
nothing terrible in that. All the women seem to think that Simon is
the very prince of devils. I have known all the Girtys for years.
Simon was not a bad fellow before he went over to the Indians. It is
his brother James who has committed most of those deeds which have
made the name of Girty so infamous."

"I don't like Miller," continued Mrs. Zane in a hesitating way. "I
must admit that I have no sensible reason for my dislike. He is
pleasant and agreeable, yes, but behind it there is a certain
intensity. That man has something on his mind."

"If he is in love with Betty, as you seem to think, he has enough on
his mind. I'll vouch for that," said Col. Zane. "Betty is inclined
to be a coquette. If she liked Clarke pretty well, it may be a
lesson to her."

"I wish she were married and settled down. It may have been no great
harm for Betty to have had many admirers while in Philadelphia, but
out here on the border it will never do. These men will not have it.
There will be trouble come of Betty's coquettishness."

"Why, Bessie, she is only a child. What would you have her do? Marry
the first man who asked her?"

"The clod-hoppers are coming," said Mrs. Zane as the jingling of
sleigh bells broke the stillness.

Col. Zane sprang up and opened the door. A broad stream of light
flashed from the room and lighted up the road. Three powerful teams
stood before the door. They were hitched to sleds, or clod-hoppers,
which were nothing more than wagon-beds fastened on wooden runners.
A chorus of merry shouts greeted Col. Zane as he appeared in the
doorway.

"All right! all right! Here she is," he cried, as Betty ran down the
steps.

The Colonel bundled her in a buffalo robe in a corner of the
foremost sled. At her feet he placed a buckskin bag containing a hot
stone Mrs. Zane thoughtfully had provided.

"All ready here. Let them go," called the Colonel. "You will have
clear weather. Coming back look well to the traces and keep a watch
for the wolves."

The long whips cracked, the bells jingled, the impatient horses
plunged forward and away they went over the glistening snow. The
night was clear and cold; countless stars blinked in the black vault
overhead; the pale moon cast its wintry light down on a white and
frozen world. As the runners glided swiftly and smoothly onward
showers of dry snow like fine powder flew from under the horses'
hoofs and soon whitened the black-robed figures in the sleds. The
way led down the hill past the Fort, over the creek bridge and along
the road that skirted the Black Forest. The ride was long; it led up
and down hills, and through a lengthy stretch of gloomy forest.
Sometimes the drivers walked the horses up a steep climb and again
raced them along a level bottom. Making a turn in the road they saw
a bright light in the distance which marked their destination. In
five minutes the horses dashed into a wide clearing. An immense log
fire burned in front of a two-story structure. Streams of light
poured from the small windows; the squeaking of fiddles, the
shuffling of many feet, and gay laughter came through the open door.

The steaming horses were unhitched, covered carefully with robes and
led into sheltered places, while the merry party disappeared into
the house.

The occasion was the celebration of the birthday of old Dan Watkins'
daughter. Dan was one of the oldest settlers along the river; in
fact, he had located his farm several years after Col. Zane had
founded the settlement. He was noted for his open-handed dealing and
kindness of heart. He had loaned many a head of cattle which had
never been returned, and many a sack of flour had left his mill
unpaid for in grain. He was a good shot, he would lay a tree on the
ground as quickly as any man who ever swung an axe, and he could
drink more whiskey than any man in the valley.

Dan stood at the door with a smile of welcome upon his rugged
features and a handshake and a pleasant word for everyone. His
daughter Susan greeted the men with a little curtsy and kissed the
girls upon the cheek. Susan was not pretty, though she was strong
and healthy; her laughing blue eyes assured a sunny disposition, and
she numbered her suitors by the score.

The young people lost no time. Soon the floor was covered with their
whirling forms.

In one corner of the room sat a little dried-up old woman with white
hair and bright dark eyes. This was Grandma Watkins. She was very
old, so old that no one knew her age, but she was still vigorous
enough to do her day's work with more pleasure than many a younger
woman. Just now she was talking to Wetzel, who leaned upon his
inseparable rifle and listened to her chatter. The hunter liked the
old lady and would often stop at her cabin while on his way to the
settlement and leave at her door a fat turkey or a haunch of
venison.

"Lew Wetzel, I am ashamed of you." Grandmother Watkins was saying.
"Put that gun in the corner and get out there and dance. Enjoy
yourself. You are only a boy yet."

"I'd better look on, mother," answered the hunter.

"Pshaw! You can hop and skip around like any of then and laugh too
if you want. I hope that pretty sister of Eb Zane has caught your
fancy."

"She is not for the like of me," he said gently "I haven't the
gifts."

"Don't talk about gifts. Not to an old woman who has lived three
times and more your age," she said impatiently. "It is not gifts a
woman wants out here in the West. If she does 'twill do her no good.
She needs a strong arm to build cabins, a quick eye with a rifle,
and a fearless heart. What border-women want are houses and
children. They must bring up men, men to drive the redskins back,
men to till the soil, or else what is the good of our suffering
here."

"You are right," said Wetzel thoughtfully. "But I'd hate to see a
flower like Betty Zane in a rude hunter's cabin."

"I have known the Zanes for forty year' and I never saw one yet that
was afraid of work. And you might win her if you would give up
running mad after Indians. I'll allow no woman would put up with
that. You have killed many Indians. You ought to be satisfied."

"Fightin' redskins is somethin' I can't help," said the hunter,
slowly shaking his head. "If I got married the fever would come on
and I'd leave home. No, I'm no good for a woman. Fightin' is all I'm
good for."

"Why not fight for her, then? Don't let one of these boys walk off
with her. Look at her. She likes fun and admiration. I believe you
do care for her. Why not try to win her?"

"Who is that tall man with her?" continued the old lady as Wetzel
did not answer. "There, they have gone into the other room. Who is
he?"

"His name is Miller."

"Lewis, I don't like him. I have been watching him all evening. I'm
a contrary old woman, I know, but I have seen a good many men in my
time, and his face is not honest. He is in love with her. Does she
care for him?"

"No, Betty doesn't care for Miller. She's just full of life and
fun."

"You may be mistaken. All the Zanes are fire and brimstone and this
girl is a Zane clear through. Go and fetch her to me, Lewis. I'll
tell you if there's a chance for you."

"Dear mother, perhaps there's a wife in Heaven for me. There's none
on earth," said the hunter, a sad smile flitting over his calm face.

Ralfe Miller, whose actions had occasioned the remarks of the old
lady, would have been conspicuous in any assembly of men. There was
something in his dark face that compelled interest and yet left the
observer in doubt. His square chin, deep-set eyes and firm mouth
denoted a strong and indomitable will. He looked a man whom it would
be dangerous to cross.

Little was known of Miller's history. He hailed from Ft. Pitt, where
he had a reputation as a good soldier, but a man of morose and
quarrelsome disposition. It was whispered that he drank, and that he
had been friendly with the renegades McKee, Elliott, and Girty. He
had passed the fall and winter at Ft. Henry, serving on garrison
duty. Since he had made the acquaintance of Betty he had shown her
all the attention possible.

On this night a close observer would have seen that Miller was
laboring under some strong feeling. A half-subdued fire gleamed from
his dark eyes. A peculiar nervous twitching of his nostrils betrayed
a poorly suppressed excitement.

All evening he followed Betty like a shadow. Her kindness may have
encouraged him. She danced often with him and showed a certain
preference for his society. Alice and Lydia were puzzled by Betty's
manner. As they were intimate friends they believed they knew
something of her likes and dislikes. Had not Betty told them she did
not care for Mr. Miller? What was the meaning of the arch glances
she bestowed upon him, if she did not care for him? To be sure, it
was nothing wonderful for Betty to smile,--she was always prodigal
of her smiles--but she had never been known to encourage any man.
The truth was that Betty had put her new resolution into effect; to
be as merry and charming as any fancy-free maiden could possibly be,
and the farthest removed from a young lady pining for an absent and
indifferent sweetheart. To her sorrow Betty played her part too
well.

Except to Wetzel, whose keen eyes little escaped, there was no
significance in Miller's hilarity one moment and sudden
thoughtfulness the next. And if there had been, it would have
excited no comment. Most of the young men had sampled some of old
Dan's best rye and their flushed faces and unusual spirits did not
result altogether from the exercise of the dance.

After one of the reels Miller led Betty, with whom he had been
dancing, into one of the side rooms. Round the dimly lighted room
were benches upon which were seated some of the dancers. Betty was
uneasy in mind and now wished that she had remained at home. They
had exchanged several commonplace remarks when the music struck up
and Betty rose quickly to her feet.

"See, the others have gone. Let us return," she said.

"Wait," said Miller hurriedly. "Do not go just yet. I wish to speak
to you. I have asked you many times if you will marry me. Now I ask
you again."

"Mr. Miller, I thanked you and begged you not to cause us both pain
by again referring to that subject," answered Betty with dignity.
"If you will persist in bringing it up we cannot be friends any
longer."

"Wait, please wait. I have told you that I will not take 'No' for an
answer. I love you with all my heart and soul and I cannot give you
up."

His voice was low and hoarse and thrilled with a strong man's
passion. Betty looked up into his face and tears of compassion
filled her eyes. Her heart softened to this man, and her conscience
gave her a little twinge of remorse. Could she not have averted all
this? No doubt she had been much to blame, and this thought made her
voice very low and sweet as she answered him.

"I like you as a friend, Mr. Miller, but we can never be more than
friends. I am very sorry for you, and angry with myself that I did
not try to help you instead of making it worse. Please do not speak
of this again. Come, let us join the others."

They were quite alone in the room. As Betty finished speaking and
started for the door Miller intercepted her. She recoiled in alarm
from his white face.

"No, you don't go yet. I won't give you up so easily. No woman can
play fast and loose with me! Do you understand? What have you meant
all this winter? You encouraged me. You know you did," he cried
passionately.

"I thought you were a gentleman. I have really taken the trouble to
defend you against persons who evidently were not misled as to your
real nature. I will not listen to you," said Betty coldly. She
turned away from him, all her softened feeling changed to scorn.

"You shall listen to me," he whispered as he grasped her wrist and
pulled her backward. All the man's brutal passion had been aroused.
The fierce border blood boiled within his heart. Unmasked he showed
himself in his true colors a frontier desperado. His eyes gleamed
dark and lurid beneath his bent brows and a short, desperate laugh
passed his lips.

"I will make you love me, my proud beauty. I shall have you yet, one
way or another."

"Let me go. How dare you touch me!" cried Betty, the hot blood
coloring her face. She struck him a stinging blow with her free hand
and struggled with all her might to free herself; but she was
powerless in his iron grasp. Closer he drew her.

"If it costs me my life I will kiss you for that blow," he muttered
hoarsely.

"Oh, you coward! you ruffian! Release me or I will scream."

She had opened her lips to call for help when she saw a dark figure
cross the threshold. She recognized the tall form of Wetzel. The
hunter stood still in the doorway for a second and then with the
swiftness of light he sprang forward. The single straightening of
his arm sent Miller backward over a bench to the floor with a
crashing sound. Miller rose with some difficulty and stood with one
hand to his head.

"Lew, don't draw your knife," cried Betty as she saw Wetzel's hand
go inside his hunting shirt. She had thrown herself in front of him
as Miller got to his feet. With both little hands she clung to the
brawny arm of the hunter, but she could not stay it. Wetzel's hand
slipped to his belt.

"For God's sake, Lew, do not kill him," implored Betty, gazing
horror-stricken at the glittering eyes of the hunter. "You have
punished him enough. He only tried to kiss me. I was partly to
blame. Put your knife away. Do not shed blood. For my sake, Lew, for
my sake!"

When Betty found that she could not hold Wetzel's arm she threw her
arms round his neck and clung to him with all her young strength. No
doubt her action averted a tragedy. If Miller had been inclined to
draw a weapon then he might have had a good opportunity to use it.
He had the reputation of being quick with his knife, and many of his
past fights testified that he was not a coward. But he made no
effort to attack Wetzel. It was certain that he measured with his
eye the distance to the door. Wetzel was not like other men.
Irrespective of his wonderful strength and agility there was
something about the Indian hunter that terrified all men. Miller
shrank before those eyes. He knew that never in all his life of
adventure had he been as near death as at that moment. There was
nothing between him and eternity but the delicate arms of this frail
girl. At a slight wave of the hunter's hand towards the door he
turned and passed out.

"Oh, how dreadful!" cried Betty, dropping upon a bench with a sob of
relief. "I am glad you came when you did even though you frightened
me more than he did. Promise me that you will not do Miller any
further harm. If you had fought it would all have been on my
account; one or both of you might have been killed. Don't look at me
so. I do not care for him. I never did. Now that I know him I
despise him. He lost his senses and tried to kiss me. I could have
killed him myself."

Wetzel did not answer. Betty had been holding his hand in both her
own while she spoke impulsively.

"I understand how difficult it is for you to overlook an insult to
me," she continued earnestly. "But I ask it of you. You are my best
friend, almost my brother, and I promise you that if he ever speaks
a word to me again that is not what it should be I will tell you."

"I reckon I'll let him go, considerin' how set on it you are."

"But remember, Lew, that he is revengeful and you must be on the
lookout," said Betty gravely as she recalled the malignant gleam in
Miller's eyes.

"He's dangerous only like a moccasin snake that hides in the grass."

"Am I all right? Do I look mussed or--or excited--or anything?"
asked Betty.

Lewis smiled as she turned round for his benefit. Her hair was a
little awry and the lace at her neck disarranged. The natural bloom
had not quite returned to her cheeks. With a look in his eyes that
would have mystified Betty for many a day had she but seen it he ran
his gaze over the dainty figure. Then reassuring her that she looked
as well as ever, he led her into the dance-room.

"So this is Betty Zane. Dear child, kiss me," said Grandmother
Watkins when Wetzel had brought Betty up to her. "Now, let me get a
good look at you. Well, well, you are a true Zane. Black hair and
eyes; all fire and pride. Child, I knew your father and mother long
before you were born. Your father was a fine man but a proud one.
And how do you like the frontier? Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Oh, yes, indeed," said Betty, smiling brightly at the old lady.

"Well, dearie, have a good time while you can. Life is hard in a
pioneer's cabin. You will not always have the Colonel to look after
you. They tell me you have been to some grand school in
Philadelphia. Learning is very well, but it will not help you in the
cabin of one of these rough men."

"There is a great need of education in all the pioneers' homes. I
have persuaded brother Eb to have a schoolteacher at the Fort next
spring."

"First teach the boys to plow and the girls to make Johnny cake. How
much you favor your brother Isaac. He used to come and see me often.
So must you in summertime. Poor lad, I suppose he is dead by this
time. I have seen so many brave and good lads go. There now, I did
not mean to make you sad," and the old lady patted Betty's hand and
sighed.

"He often spoke of you and said that I must come with him to see
you. Now he is gone," said Betty.

"Yes, he is gone, Betty, but you must not be sad while you are so
young. Wait until you are old like I am. How long have you known Lew
Wetzel?"

"All my life. He used to carry me in his arm, when I was a baby. Of
course I do not remember that, but as far back as I can go in memory
I can see Lew. Oh, the many times he has saved me from disaster! But
why do you ask?"

"I think Lew Wetzel cares more for you than for all the world. He is
as silent as an Indian, but I am an old woman and I can read men's
hearts. If he could be made to give up his wandering life he would
be the best man on the border."

"Oh, indeed I think you are wrong. Lew does not care for me in that
way," said Betty, surprised and troubled by the old lady's
vehemence.

A loud blast from a hunting-horn directed the attention of all to
the platform at the upper end of the hall, where Dan Watkins stood.
The fiddlers ceased playing, the dancers stopped, and all looked
expectantly. The scene was simple strong, and earnest. The light in
the eyes of these maidens shone like the light from the pine cones
on the walls. It beamed soft and warm. These fearless sons of the
wilderness, these sturdy sons of progress, standing there clasping
the hands of their partners and with faces glowing with happiness,
forgetful of all save the enjoyment of the moment, were ready to go
out on the morrow and battle unto the death for the homes and the
lives of their loved ones.

"Friends," said Dan when the hum of voices had ceased "I never
thought as how I'd have to get up here and make a speech to-night or
I might have taken to the woods. Howsomever, mother and Susan says
as it's gettin' late it's about time we had some supper. Somewhere
in the big cake is hid a gold ring. If one of the girls gets it she
can keep it as a gift from Susan, and should one of the boys find it
he may make a present to his best girl. And in the bargain he gets
to kiss Susan. She made some objection about this and said that part
of the game didn't go, but I reckon the lucky young man will decide
that for hisself. And now to the festal board."

Ample justice was done to the turkey, the venison, and the bear
meat. Grandmother Watkins' delicious apple and pumpkin pies for
which she was renowned, disappeared as by magic. Likewise the cakes
and the sweet cider and the apple butter vanished.

When the big cake had been cut and divided among the guests, Wetzel
discovered the gold ring within his share. He presented the ring to
Betty, and gave his privilege of kissing Susan to George Reynolds,
with the remark: "George, I calkilate Susan would like it better if
you do the kissin' part." Now it was known to all that George had
long been an ardent admirer of Susan's, and it was suspected that
she was not indifferent to him. Nevertheless, she protested that it
was not fair. George acted like a man who had the opportunity of his
life. Amid uproarious laughter he ran Susan all over the room, and
when he caught her he pulled her hands away from her blushing face
and bestowed a right hearty kiss on her cheek. To everyone's
surprise and to Wetzel's discomfiture, Susan walked up to him and
saying that as he had taken such an easy way out of it she intended
to punish him by kissing him. And so she did. Poor Lewis' face
looked the picture of dismay. Probably he had never been kissed
before in his life.

Happy hours speed away on the wings of the wind. The feasting over,
the good-byes were spoken, the girls were wrapped in the warm robes,
for it was now intensely cold, and soon the horses, eager to start
on the long homeward journey, were pulling hard on their bits. On
the party's return trip there was an absence of the hilarity which
had prevailed on their coming. The bells were taken off before the
sleds left the blockhouse, and the traces and the harness examined
and tightened with the caution of men who were apprehensive of
danger and who would take no chances.

In winter time the foes most feared by the settlers were the timber
wolves. Thousands of these savage beasts infested the wild forest
regions which bounded the lonely roads, and their wonderful power of
scent and swift and tireless pursuit made a long night ride a thing
to be dreaded. While the horses moved swiftly danger from wolves was
not imminent; but carelessness or some mishap to a trace or a wheel
had been the cause of more than one tragedy.

Therefore it was not remarkable that the drivers of our party
breathed a sigh of relief when the top of the last steep hill had
been reached. The girls were quiet, and tired out and cold they
pressed close to one another; the men were silent and watchful.

When they were half way home and had just reached the outskirts of
the Black Forest the keen ear of Wetzel caught the cry of a wolf. It
came from the south and sounded so faint that Wetzel believed at
first that he had been mistaken. A few moments passed in which the
hunter turned his ear to the south. He had about made up his mind
that he had only imagined he had heard something when the
unmistakable yelp of a wolf came down on the wind. Then another,
this time clear and distinct, caused the driver to turn and whisper
to Wetzel. The hunter spoke in a low tone and the driver whipped up
his horses. From out the depths of the dark woods along which they
were riding came a long and mournful howl. It was a wolf answering
the call of his mate. This time the horses heard it, for they threw
back their ears and increased their speed. The girls heard it, for
they shrank closer to the men.

There is that which is frightful in the cry of a wolf. When one is
safe in camp before a roaring fire the short, sharp bark of a wolf
is startling, and the long howl will make one shudder. It is so
lonely and dismal. It makes no difference whether it be given while
the wolf is sitting on his haunches near some cabin waiting for the
remains of the settler's dinner, or while he is in full chase after
his prey--the cry is equally wild, savage and bloodcurdling.

Betty had never heard it and though she was brave, when the howl
from the forest had its answer in another howl from the creek
thicket, she slipped her little mittened hand under Wetzel's arm and
looked up at him with frightened eyes.

In half an hour the full chorus of yelps, barks and howls swelled
hideously on the air, and the ever increasing pack of wolves could
be seen scarcely a hundred yards behind the sleds. The patter of
their swiftly flying feet on the snow could be distinctly heard. The
slender, dark forms came nearer and nearer every moment. Presently
the wolves had approached close enough for the occupants of the
sleds to see their shining eyes looking like little balls of green
fire. A gaunt beast bolder than the others, and evidently the leader
of the pack, bounded forward until he was only a few yards from the
last sled. At every jump he opened his great jaws and uttered a
quick bark as if to embolden his followers.

Almost simultaneously with the red flame that burst from Wetzel's
rifle came a sharp yelp of agony from the leader. He rolled over and
over. Instantly followed a horrible mingling of snarls and barks,
and snapping of jaws as the band fought over the body of their
luckless comrade.

This short delay gave the advantage to the horses. When the wolves
again appeared they were a long way behind. The distance to the fort
was now short and the horses were urged to their utmost. The wolves
kept up the chase until they reached the creek bridge and the mill.
Then they slowed up: the howling became desultory, and finally the
dark forms disappeared in the thickets.



CHAPTER VIII.

Winter dragged by uneventfully for Betty. Unlike the other pioneer
girls, who were kept busy all the time with their mending, and
linsey weaving, and household duties, Betty had nothing to divert
her but her embroidery and her reading. These she found very
tiresome. Her maid was devoted to her and never left a thing undone.
Annie was old Sam's daughter, and she had waited on Betty since she
had been a baby. The cleaning or mending or darning--anything in the
shape of work that would have helped pass away the monotonous hours
for Betty, was always done before she could lift her hand.

During the day she passed hours in her little room, and most of them
were dreamed away by her window. Lydia and Alice came over sometimes
and whiled away the tedious moments with their bright chatter and
merry laughter, their castle-building, and their romancing on heroes
and love and marriage as girls always will until the end of time.
They had not forgotten Mr. Clarke, but as Betty had rebuked them
with a dignity which forbade any further teasing on that score, they
had transferred their fun-making to the use of Mr. Miller's name.

Fearing her brothers' wrath Betty had not told them of the scene
with Miller at the dance. She had learned enough of rough border
justice to dread the consequence of such a disclosure. She permitted
Miller to come to the house, although she never saw him alone.
Miller had accepted this favor gratefully. He said that on the night
of the dance he had been a little the worse for Dan Watkins' strong
liquor, and that, together with his bitter disappointment, made him
act in the mad way which had so grievously offended her. He exerted
himself to win her forgiveness. Betty was always tender-hearted, and
though she did not trust him, she said they might still be friends,
but that that depended on his respect for her forbearance. Miller
had promised he would never refer to the old subject and he had kept
his word.

Indeed Betty welcomed any diversion for the long winter evenings.
Occasionally some of the young people visited her, and they sang and
danced, roasted apples, popped chestnuts, and played games. Often
Wetzel and Major McColloch came in after supper. Betty would come
down and sing for them, and afterward would coax Indian lore and
woodcraft from Wetzel, or she would play checkers with the Major. If
she succeeded in winning from him, which in truth was not often, she
teased him unmercifully. When Col. Zane and the Major had settled
down to their series of games, from which nothing short of Indians
could have diverted them, Betty sat by Wetzel. The silent man of the
woods, an appellation the hunter had earned by his reticence, talked
for Betty as he would for no one else.

One night while Col. Zane, his wife and Betty were entertaining
Capt. Boggs and Major McColloch and several of Betty's girls
friends, after the usual music and singing, storytelling became the
order of the evening. Little Noah told of the time he had climbed
the apple-tree in the yard after a raccoon and got severely bitten.

"One day," said Noah, "I heard Tige barking out in the orchard and I
ran out there and saw a funny little fur ball up in the tree with a
black tail and white rings around it. It looked like a pretty cat
with a sharp nose. Every time Tige barked the little animal showed
his teeth and swelled up his back. I wanted him for a pet. I got Sam
to give me a sack and I climbed the tree and the nearer I got to him
the farther he backed down the limb. I followed him and put out the
sack to put it over his head and he bit me. I fell from the limb,
but he fell too and Tige killed him and Sam stuffed him for me."

"Noah, you are quite a valiant hunter," said Betty. "Now, Jonathan,
remember that you promised to tell me of your meeting with Daniel
Boone."

"It was over on the Muskingong near the mouth of the Sandusky. I was
hunting in the open woods along the bank when I saw an Indian. He
saw me at the same time and we both treed. There we stood a long
time each afraid to change position. Finally I began to act tired
and resorted to an old ruse. I put my coon-skin cap on my ramrod and
cautiously poked it from behind the tree, expecting every second to
hear the whistle of the redskin's bullet. Instead I heard a jolly
voice yell: 'Hey, young feller, you'll have to try something
better'n that.' I looked and saw a white man standing out in the
open and shaking all over with laughter. I went up to him and found
him to be a big strong fellow with an honest, merry face. He said:
'I'm Boone.' I was considerably taken aback, especially when I saw
he knew I was a white man all the time. We camped and hunted along
the river a week and at the Falls of the Muskingong he struck out
for his Kentucky home."

"Here is Wetzel," said Col. Zane, who had risen and gone to the
door. "Now, Betty, try and get Lew to tell us something."

"Come, Lewis, here is a seat by me," said Betty. "We have been
pleasantly passing the time. We have had bear stories, snake
stories, ghost stories--all kinds of tales. Will you tell us one?"

"Lewis, did you ever have a chance to kill a hostile Indian and not
take it?" asked Col. Zane.

"Never but once," answered Lewis.

"Tell us about it. I imagine it will be interesting."

"Well, I ain't good at tellin' things," began Lewis. "I reckon I've
seen some strange sights. I kin tell you about the only redskin I
ever let off. Three years ago I was takin' a fall hunt over on the
Big Sandy, and I run into a party of Shawnees. I plugged a chief and
started to run. There was some good runners and I couldn't shake 'em
in the open country. Comin' to the Ohio I jumped in and swum across,
keepin' my rifle and powder dry by holdin' 'em up. I hid in some
bulrushes and waited. Pretty soon along comes three Injuns, and when
they saw where I had taken to the water they stopped and held a
short pow-wow. Then they all took to the water. This was what I was
waitin' for. When they got nearly acrosst I shot the first redskin,
and loadin' quick got a bullet into the others. The last Injun did
not sink. I watched him go floatin' down stream expectin' every
minute to see him go under as he was hurt so bad he could hardly
keep his head above water. He floated down a long ways and the
current carried him to a pile of driftwood which had lodged against
a little island. I saw the Injun crawl up on the drift. I went down
stream and by keepin' the island between me and him I got out to
where he was. I pulled my tomahawk and went around the head of the
island and found the redskin leanin' against a big log. He was a
young brave and a fine lookin strong feller. He was tryin' to stop
the blood from my bullet-hole in his side. When he saw me he tried
to get up, but he was too weak. He smiled, pointed to the wound and
said: 'Deathwind not heap times bad shot.' Then he bowed his head
and waited for the tomahawk. Well, I picked him up and carried him
ashore and made a shack by a spring. I staid there with him. When he
got well enough to stand a few days' travel I got him across the
river and givin' him a hunk of deer meat I told him to go, and if I
ever saw him again I'd make a better shot.

"A year afterwards I trailed two Shawnees into Wingenund's camp and
got surrounded and captured. The Delaware chief is my great enemy.
They beat me, shot salt into my legs, made me run the gauntlet, tied
me on the back of a wild mustang. Then they got ready to burn me at
the stake. That night they painted my face black and held the usual
death dances. Some of the braves got drunk and worked themselves
into a frenzy. I allowed I'd never see daylight. I seen that one of
the braves left to guard me was the young feller I had wounded the
year before. He never took no notice of me. In the gray of the early
mornin' when all were asleep and the other watch dozin' I felt cold
steel between my wrists and my buckskin thongs dropped off. Then my
feet were cut loose. I looked round and in the dim light I seen my
young brave. He handed me my own rifle, knife and tomahawk, put his
finger on his lips and with a bright smile, as if to say he was
square with me, he pointed to the east. I was out of sight in a
minute."

"How noble of him!" exclaimed Betty, her eyes all aglow. "He paid
his debt to you, perhaps at the price of his life."

"I have never known an Indian to forget a promise, or a kind action,
or an injury," observed Col. Zane.

"Are the Indians half as bad as they are called?" asked Betty. "I
have heard as many stories of their nobility as of their cruelty."

"The Indians consider that they have been robbed and driven from
their homes. What we think hideously inhuman is war to them,"
answered Col. Zane.

"When I came here from Fort Pitt I expected to see and fight Indians
every day," said Capt. Boggs. "I have been here at Wheeling for
nearly two years and have never seen a hostile Indian. There have
been some Indians in the vicinity during that time but not one has
shown himself to me. I'm not up to Indian tricks, I know, but I
think the last siege must have been enough for them. I don't believe
we shall have any more trouble from them."

"Captain," called out Col. Zane, banging his hand on the table.
"I'll bet you my best horse to a keg of gunpowder that you see
enough Indians before you are a year older to make you wish you had
never seen or heard of the western border."

"And I'll go you the same bet," said Major McColloch.

"You see, Captain, you must understand a little of the nature of the
Indian," continued Col. Zane. "We have had proof that the Delawares
and the Shawnees have been preparing for an expedition for months.
We shall have another siege some day and to my thinking it will be a
longer and harder one than the last. What say you, Wetzel?"

"I ain't sayin' much, but I don't calkilate on goin' on any long
hunts this summer," answered the hunter.

"And do you think Tarhe, Wingenund, Pipe, Cornplanter, and all those
chiefs will unite their forces and attack us?" asked Betty of
Wetzel.

"Cornplanter won't. He has been paid for most of his land and he
ain't so bitter. Tarhe is not likely to bother us. But Pipe and
Wingenund and Red Fox--they all want blood."

"Have you seen these chiefs?" said Betty.

"Yes, I know 'em all and they all know me," answered the hunter.
"I've watched over many a trail waitin' for one of 'em. If I can
ever get a shot at any of 'em I'll give up Injuns and go farmin'.
Good night, Betty."

"What a strange man is Wetzel," mused Betty, after the visitors had
gone. "Do you know, Eb, he is not at all like any one else. I have
seen the girls shudder at the mention of his name and I have heard
them say they could not look in his eyes. He does not affect me that
way. It is not often I can get him to talk, but sometimes he tells
me beautiful thing about the woods; how he lives in the wilderness,
his home under the great trees; how every leaf on the trees and
every blade of grass has its joy for him as well as its knowledge;
how he curls up in his little bark shack and is lulled to sleep by
the sighing of the wind through the pine tops. He told me he has
often watched the stars for hours at a time. I know there is a
waterfall back in the Black Forest somewhere that Lewis goes to,
simply to sit and watch the water tumble over the precipice."

"Wetzel is a wonderful character, even to those who know him only as
an Indian slayer and a man who wants no other occupation. Some day
he will go off on one of these long jaunts and will never return.
That is certain. The day is fast approaching when a man like Wetzel
will be of no use in life. Now, he is a necessity. Like Tige he can
smell Indians. Betty, I believe Lewis tells you so much and is so
kind and gentle toward you because he cares for you."

"Of course Lew likes me. I know he does and I want him to," said
Betty. "But he does not care as you seem to think. Grandmother
Watkins said the same. I am sure both of you are wrong."

"Did Dan's mother tell you that? Well, she's pretty shrewd. It's
quite likely, Betty, quite likely. It seems to me you are not so
quick witted as you used to be."

"Why so?" asked Betty, quickly.

"Well, you used to be different somehow," said her brother, as he
patted her hand.

"Do you mean I am more thoughtful?"

"Yes, and sometimes you seem sad."

"I have tried to be brave and--and happy," said Betty, her voice
trembling slightly.

"Yes, yes, I know you have, Betty. You have done wonderfully well
here in this dead place. But tell me, don't be angry, don't you
think too much of some one?"

"You have no right to ask me that," said Betty, flushing and turning
away toward the stairway.

"Well, well, child, don't mind me. I did not mean anything. There,
good night, Betty."

Long after she had gone up-stairs Col. Zane sat by his fireside.
From time to time he sighed. He thought of the old Virginia home and
of the smile of his mother. It seemed only a few short years since
he had promised her that he would take care of the baby sister. How
had he kept that promise made when Betty was a little thing bouncing
on his knee? It seemed only yesterday. How swift the flight of time!
Already Betty was a woman; her sweet, gay girlhood had passed;
already a shadow had fallen on her face, the shadow of a secret
sorrow.

        * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

March with its blustering winds had departed, and now April's
showers and sunshine were gladdening the hearts of the settlers.
Patches of green freshened the slopes of the hills; the lilac bushes
showed tiny leaves, and the maple-buds were bursting. Yesterday a
blue-bird--surest harbinger of spring--had alighted on the
fence-post and had sung his plaintive song. A few more days and the
blossoms were out mingling their pink and white with the green; the
red-bud, the hawthorne, and the dog-wood were in bloom, checkering
the hillsides.

"Bessie, spring is here," said Col. Zane, as he stood in the
doorway. "The air is fresh, the sun shines warm, the birds are
singing; it makes me feel good."

"Yes, it is pleasant to have spring with us again," answered his
wife. "I think, though, that in winter I am happier. In summer I am
always worried. I am afraid for the children to be out of my sight,
and when you are away on a hunt I am distraught until you are home
safe."

"Well, if the redskins let us alone this summer it will be something
new," he said, laughing. "By the way, Bess, some new people came to
the fort last night. They rafted down from the Monongahela
settlements. Some of the women suffered considerably. I intend to
offer them the cabin on the hill until they can cut the timber and
run up a house. Sam said the cabin roof leaked and the chimney
smoked, but with a little work I think they can be made more
comfortable there than at the block-house."

"It is the only vacant cabin in the settlement. I can accommodate
the women folks here."

"Well, we'll see about it. I don't want you and Betty
inconvenienced. I'll send Sam up to the cabin and have him fix
things up a bit and make it more habitable."

The door opened, admitting Col. Zane's elder boy. The lad's face was
dirty, his nose was all bloody, and a big bruise showed over his
right eye.

"For the land's sake!" exclaimed his mother. "Look at the boy. Noah,
come here. What have you been doing?"

Noah crept close to his mother and grasping her apron with both
hands hid his face. Mrs. Zane turned the boy around and wiped his
discolored features with a wet towel. She gave him a little shake
and said: "Noah, have you been fighting again?"

"Let him go and I'll tell you about it," said the Colonel, and when
the youngster had disappeared he continued: "Right after breakfast
Noah went with me down to the mill. I noticed several children
playing in front of Reihart's blacksmith shop. I went in, leaving
Noah outside. I got a plow-share which I had left with Reihart to be
repaired. He came to the door with me and all at once he said: 'look
at the kids.' I looked and saw Noah walk up to a boy and say
something to him. The lad was a stranger, and I have no doubt
belongs to these new people I told you about. He was bigger than
Noah. At first the older boy appeared very friendly and evidently
wanted to join the others in their game. I guess Noah did not
approve of this, for after he had looked the stranger over he hauled
away and punched the lad soundly. To make it short the strange boy
gave Noah the worst beating he ever got in his life. I told Noah to
come straight to you and confess."

"Well, did you ever!" ejaculated Mrs. Zane. "Noah is a bad boy. And
you stood and watched him fight. You are laughing about it now.
Ebenezer Zane, I would not put it beneath you to set Noah to
fighting. I know you used to make the little niggers fight. Anyway,
it serves Noah right and I hope it will be a lesson to him."

"I'll make you a bet, Bessie," said the Colonel, with another laugh.
"I'll bet you that unless we lock him up, Noah will fight that boy
every day or every time he meets him."

"I won't bet," said Mrs. Zane, with a smile of resignation.

"Where's Betts? I haven't seen her this morning. I am going over to
Short Creek to-morrow or next day, and think I'll take her with me.
You know I am to get a commission to lay out several settlements
along the river, and I want to get some work finished at Short Creek
this spring. Mrs. Raymer'll be delighted to have Betty. Shall I take
her?"

"By all means. A visit there will brighten her up and do her good."

"Well, what on earth have you been doing?" cried the Colonel. His
remark had been called forth by a charming vision that had entered
by the open door. Betty--for it was she--wore a little red cap set
jauntily on her black hair. Her linsey dress was crumpled and
covered with hayseed.

"I've been in the hay-mow," said Betty, waving a small basket. "For
a week that old black hen has circumvented me, but at last I have
conquered. I found the nest in the farthest corner under the hay."

"How did you get up in the loft?" inquired Mrs. Zane.

"Bessie, I climbed up the ladder of course. I acknowledge being
unusually light-hearted and happy this morning, but I have not as
yet grown wings. Sam said I could not climb up that straight ladder,
but I found it easy enough."

"You should not climb up into the loft," said Mrs. Zane, in a severe
tone. "Only last fall Hugh Bennet's little boy slid off the hay down
into one of the stalls and the horse kicked him nearly to death."

"Oh, fiddlesticks, Bessie, I am not a baby," said Betty, with
vehemence. "There is not a horse in the barn but would stand on his
hind legs before he would step on me, let alone kick me."

"I don't know, Betty, but I think that black horse Mr. Clarke left
here would kick any one," remarked the Colonel.

"Oh, no, he would not hurt me."

"Betty, we have had pleasant weather for about three days," said the
Colonel, gravely. "In that time you have let out that crazy bear of
yours to turn everything topsy-turvy. Only yesterday I got my hands
in the paint you have put on your canoe. If you had asked my advice
I would have told you that painting your canoe should not have been
done for a month yet. Silas told me you fell down the creek hill;
Sam said you tried to drive his team over the bluff, and so on. We
are happy to see you get back your old time spirits, but could you
not be a little more careful? Your versatility is bewildering. We do
not know what to look for next. I fully expect to see you brought to
the house some day maimed for life, or all that beautiful black hair
gone to decorate some Huron's lodge."

"I tell you I am perfectly delighted that the weather is again so I
can go out. I am tired to death of staying indoors. This morning I
could have cried for very joy. Bessie will soon be lecturing me
about Madcap. I must not ride farther than the fort. Well, I don't
care. I intend to ride all over."

"Betty, I do not wish you to think I am lecturing you," said the
Colonel's wife. "But you are as wild as a March hare and some one
must tell you things. Now listen. My brother, the Major, told me
that Simon Girty, the renegade, had been heard to say that he had
seen Eb Zane's little sister and that if he ever got his hands on
her he would make a squaw of her. I am not teasing you. I am telling
you the truth. Girty saw you when you were at Fort Pitt two years
ago. Now what would you do if he caught you on one of your lonely
rides and carried you off to his wigwam? He has done things like
that before. James Girty carried off one of the Johnson girls. Her
brothers tried to rescue her and lost their lives. It is a common
trick of the Indians."

"What would I do if Mr. Simon Girty tried to make a squaw of me?"
exclaimed Betty, her eyes flashing fire. "Why, I'd kill him!"

"I believe it, Betts, on my word I do," spoke up the Colonel. "But
let us hope you may never see Girty. All I ask is that you be
careful. I am going over to Short Creek to-morrow. Will you go with
me? I know Mrs. Raymer will be pleased to see you."

"Oh, Eb, that will be delightful!"

"Very well, get ready and we shall start early in the morning."

Two weeks later Betty returned from Short Creek and seemed to have
profited much by her short visit. Col. Zane remarked with
satisfaction to his wife that Betty had regained all her former
cheerfulness.

The morning after Betty's return was a perfect spring morning--the
first in that month of May-days. The sun shone bright and warm; the
mayflowers blossomed; the trailing arbutus scented the air;
everywhere the grass and the leaves looked fresh and green; swallows
flitted in and out of the barn door; the blue-birds twittered; a
meadow-lark caroled forth his pure melody, and the busy hum of bees
came from the fragrant apple-blossoms.

"Mis' Betty, Madcap 'pears powerfo' skittenish," said old Sam, when
he had led the pony to where Betty stood on the hitching block.
"Whoa, dar, you rascal."

Betty laughed as she leaped lightly into the saddle, and soon she
was flying over the old familiar road, down across the creek bridge,
past the old grist-mill, around the fort and then out on the river
bluff. The Indian pony was fiery and mettlesome. He pranced and
side-stepped, galloped and trotted by turns. He seemed as glad to
get out again into the warm sunshine as was Betty herself. He tore
down the road a mile at his best speed. Coming back Betty pulled him
into a walk. Presently her musings were interrupted by a sharp
switch in the face from a twig of a tree. She stopped the pony and
broke off the offending branch. As she looked around the
recollection of what had happened to her in that very spot flashed
into her mind. It was here that she had been stopped by the man who
had passed almost as swiftly out of her life as he had crossed her
path that memorable afternoon. She fell to musing on the old
perplexing question. After all could there not have been some
mistake? Perhaps she might have misjudged him? And then the old
spirit, which resented her thinking of him in that softened mood,
rose and fought the old battle over again. But as often happened the
mood conquered, and Betty permitted herself to sink for the moment
into the sad thoughts which returned like a mournful strain of music
once sung by beloved voices, now forever silent.

She could not resist the desire to ride down to the old sycamore.
The pony turned into the bridle-path that led down the bluff and the
sure-footed beast picked his way carefully over the roots and
stones. Betty's heart beat quicker when she saw the noble tree under
whose spreading branches she had spent the happiest day of her life.
The old monarch of the forest was not one whit changed by the wild
winds of winter. The dew sparkled on the nearly full grown leaves;
the little sycamore balls were already as large as marbles.

Betty drew rein at the top of the bank and looked absently at the
tree and into the foam covered pool beneath. At that moment her eyes
saw nothing physical. They held the faraway light of the dreamer,
the look that sees so much of the past and nothing of the present.

Presently her reflections were broken by the actions of the pony.
Madcap had thrown up her head, laid back her ears and commenced to
paw the ground with her forefeet. Betty looked round to see the
cause of Madcap's excitement. What was that! She saw a tall figure
clad in brown leaning against the stone. She saw a long fishing-rod.
What was there so familiar in the poise of that figure? Madcap
dislodged a stone from the path and it went rattling down the rock,
slope and fell with a splash into the water. The man heard it,
turned and faced the hillside. Betty recognized Alfred Clarke. For a
moment she believed she must be dreaming. She had had many dreams of
the old sycamore. She looked again. Yes, it was he. Pale, worn, and
older he undoubtedly looked, but the features were surely those of
Alfred Clarke. Her heart gave a great bound and then seemed to stop
beating while a very agony of joy surged over her and made her
faint. So he still lived. That was her first thought, glad and
joyous, and then memory returning, her face went white as with
clenched teeth she wheeled Madcap and struck her with the switch.
Once on the level bluff she urged her toward the house at a furious
pace.

Col. Zane had just stepped out of the barn door and his face took on
an expression of amazement when he saw the pony come tearing up the
road, Betty's hair flying in the wind and with a face as white as if
she were pursued by a thousand yelling Indians.

"Say, Betts, what the deuce is wrong?" cried the Colonel, when Betty
reached the fence.

"Why did you not tell me that man was here again?" she demanded in
intense excitement.

"That man! What man?" asked Col. Zane, considerably taken back by
this angry apparition.

"Mr. Clarke, of course. Just as if you did not know. I suppose you
thought it a fine opportunity for one of your jokes."

"Oh, Clarke. Well, the fact is I just found it out myself. Haven't I
been away as well as you? I certainly cannot imagine how any man
could create such evident excitement in your mind. Poor Clarke, what
has he done now?"

"You might have told me. Somebody could have told me and saved me
from making a fool of myself," retorted Betty, who was plainly on
the verge of tears. "I rode down to the old sycamore tree and he saw
me in, of all the places in the world, the one place where I would
not want him to see me."

"Huh!" said the Colonel, who often gave vent to the Indian
exclamation. "Is that all? I thought something had happened."

"All! Is it not enough? I would rather have died. He is a man and he
will think I followed him down there, that I was thinking
of--that--Oh!" cried Betty, passionately, and then she strode into
the house, slammed the door, and left the Colonel, lost in wonder.

"Humph! These women beat me. I can't make them out, and the older I
grow the worse I get," he said, as he led the pony into the stable.

Betty ran up-stairs to her room, her head in a whirl stronger than
the surprise of Alfred's unexpected appearance in Fort Henry and
stronger than the mortification in having been discovered going to a
spot she should have been too proud to remember was the bitter sweet
consciousness that his mere presence had thrilled her through and
through. It hurt her and made her hate herself in that moment. She
hid her face in shame at the thought that she could not help being
glad to see the man who had only trifled with her, the man who had
considered the acquaintance of so little consequence that he had
never taken the trouble to write her a line or send her a message.
She wrung her trembling hands. She endeavored to still that
throbbing heart and to conquer that sweet vague feeling which had
crept over her and made her weak. The tears began to come and with a
sob she threw herself on the bed and buried her head in the pillow.

An hour after, when Betty had quieted herself and had seated herself
by the window a light knock sounded on the door and Col. Zane
entered. He hesitated and came in rather timidly, for Betty was not
to be taken liberties with, and seeing her by the window he crossed
the room and sat down by her side.

Betty did not remember her father or her mother. Long ago when she
was a child she had gone to her brother, laid her head on his
shoulder and told him all her troubles. The desire grew strong
within her now. There was comfort in the strong clasp of his hand.
She was not proof against it, and her dark head fell on his
shoulder.

        * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Alfred Clarke had indeed made his reappearance in Fort Henry. The
preceding October when he left the settlement to go on the
expedition up the Monongahela River his intention had been to return
to the fort as soon as he had finished his work, but what he did do
was only another illustration of that fatality which affects
everything. Man hopefully makes his plans and an inexorable destiny
works out what it has in store for him.

The men of the expedition returned to Fort Henry in due time, but
Alfred had been unable to accompany them. He had sustained a painful
injury and had been compelled to go to Fort Pitt for medical
assistance. While there he had received word that his mother was
lying very ill at his old home in Southern Virginia and if he wished
to see her alive he must not delay in reaching her bedside. He left
Fort Pitt at once and went to his home, where he remained until his
mother's death. She had been the only tie that bound him to the old
home, and now that she was gone he determined to leave the scene of
his boyhood forever.

Alfred was the rightful heir to all of the property, but an unjust
and selfish stepfather stood between him and any contentment he
might have found there. He decided he would be a soldier of fortune.
He loved the daring life of a ranger, and preferred to take his
chances with the hardy settlers on the border rather than live the
idle life of a gentleman farmer. He declared his intention to his
step-father, who ill-concealed his satisfaction at the turn affairs
had taken. Then Alfred packed his belongings, secured his mother's
jewels, and with one sad, backward glance rode away from the stately
old mansion.

It was Sunday morning and Clarke had been two days in Fort Henry.
From his little room in the block-house he surveyed the
well-remembered scene. The rolling hills, the broad river, the green
forests seemed like old friends.

"Here I am again," he mused. "What a fool a man can be. I have left
a fine old plantation, slaves, horses, a country noted for its
pretty women--for what? Here there can be nothing for me but
Indians, hard work, privation, and trouble. Yet I could not get here
quickly enough. Pshaw! What use to speak of the possibilities of a
new country. I cannot deceive myself. It is she. I would walk a
thousand miles and starve myself for months just for one glimpse of
her sweet face. Knowing this what care I for all the rest. How
strange she should ride down to the old sycamore tree yesterday the
moment I was there and thinking of her. Evidently she had just
returned from her visit. I wonder if she ever cared. I wonder if she
ever thinks of me. Shall I accept that incident as a happy augury?
Well, I am here to find out and find out I will. Aha! there goes the
church bell."

Laughing a little at his eagerness he brushed his coat, put on his
cap and went down stairs. The settlers with their families were
going into the meeting house. As Alfred started up the steps he met
Lydia Boggs.

"Why, Mr. Clarke, I heard you had returned," she said, smiling
pleasantly and extending her hand. "Welcome to the fort. I am very
glad to see you."

While they were chatting her father and Col. Zane came up and both
greeted the young man warmly.

"Well, well, back on the frontier," said the Colonel, in his hearty
way. "Glad to see you at the fort again. I tell you, Clarke, I have
taken a fancy to that black horse you left me last fall. I did not
know what to think when Jonathan brought back my horse. To tell you
the truth I always looked for you to come back. What have you been
doing all winter?"

"I have been at home. My mother was ill all winter and she died in
April."

"My lad, that's bad news. I am sorry," said Col. Zane putting his
hand kindly on the young man's shoulder. "I was wondering what gave
you that older and graver look. It's hard, lad, but it's the way of
life."

"I have come back to get my old place with you, Col. Zane, if you
will give it to me."

"I will, and can promise you more in the future. I am going to open
a road through to Maysville, Kentucky, and start several new
settlements along the river. I will need young men, and am more than
glad you have returned."

"Thank you, Col. Zane. That is more than I could have hoped for."

Alfred caught sight of a trim figure in a gray linsey gown coming
down the road. There were several young people approaching, but he
saw only Betty. By some evil chance Betty walked with Ralfe Miller,
and for some mysterious reason, which women always keep to
themselves, she smiled and looked up into his face at a time of all
times she should not have done so. Alfred's heart turned to lead.

When the young people reached the steps the eyes of the rivals met
for one brief second, but that was long enough for them to
understand each other. They did not speak. Lydia hesitated and
looked toward Betty.

"Betty, here is--" began Col. Zane, but Betty passed them with
flaming cheeks and with not so much as a glance at Alfred. It was an
awkward moment for him.

"Let us go in," he said composedly, and they filed into the church.

As long as he lived Alfred Clarke never forgot that hour. His pride
kept him chained in his seat. Outwardly he maintained his composure,
but inwardly his brain seemed throbbing, whirling, bursting. What an
idiot he had been! He understood now why his letter had never been
answered. Betty loved Miller, a man who hated him, a man who would
leave no stone unturned to destroy even a little liking which she
might have felt for him. Once again Miller had crossed his path and
worsted him. With a sudden sickening sense of despair he realized
that all his fond hopes had been but dreams, a fool's dreams. The
dream of that moment when he would give her his mother's jewels, the
dream of that charming face uplifted to his, the dream of the little
cottage to which he would hurry after his day's work and find her
waiting at the gate,--these dreams must be dispelled forever. He
could barely wait until the end of the service. He wanted to be
alone; to fight it out with himself; to crush out of his heart that
fair image. At length the hour ended and he got out before the
congregation and hurried to his room.

Betty had company all that afternoon and it was late in the day when
Col. Zane ascended the stairs and entered her room to find her
alone.

"Betty, I wish to know why you ignored Mr. Clarke this morning?"
said Col. Zane, looking down on his sister. There was a gleam in his
eye and an expression about his mouth seldom seen in the Colonel's
features.

"I do not know that it concerns any one but myself," answered Betty
quickly, as her head went higher and her eyes flashed with a gleam
not unlike that in her brother's.

"I beg your pardon. I do not agree with you," replied Col. Zane. "It
does concern others. You cannot do things like that in this little
place where every one knows all about you and expect it to pass
unnoticed. Martin's wife saw you cut Clarke and you know what a
gossip she is. Already every one is talking about you and Clarke."

"To that I am indifferent."

"But I care. I won't have people talking about you," replied the
Colonel, who began to lose patience. Usually he had the best temper
imaginable. "Last fall you allowed Clarke to pay you a good deal of
attention and apparently you were on good terms when he went away.
Now that he has returned you won't even speak to him. You let this
fellow Miller run after you. In my estimation Miller is not to be
compared to Clarke, and judging from the warm greetings I saw Clarke
receive this morning, there are a number of folk who agree with me.
Not that I am praising Clarke. I simply say this because to Bessie,
to Jack, to everyone, your act is incomprehensible. People are
calling you a flirt and saying that they would prefer some country
manners."

"I have not allowed Mr. Miller to run after me, as you are pleased
to term it," retorted Betty with indignation. "I do not like him. I
never see him any more unless you or Bessie or some one else is
present. You know that. I cannot prevent him from walking to church
with me."

"No, I suppose not, but are you entirely innocent of those sweet
glances which you gave him this morning?"

"I did not," cried Betty with an angry blush. "I won't be called a
flirt by you or by anyone else. The moment I am civil to some man
all these old maids and old women say I am flirting. It is
outrageous."

"Now, Betty, don't get excited. We are getting from the question.
Why are you not civil to Clarke?" asked Col. Zane. She did not
answer and after a moment he continued. "If there is anything about
Clarke that I do not know and that I should know I want you to tell
me. Personally I like the fellow. I am not saying that to make you
think you ought to like him because I do. You might not care for him
at all, but that would be no good reason for your actions. Betty, in
these frontier settlements a man is soon known for his real worth.
Every one at the Fort liked Clarke. The youngsters adored him.
Jessie liked him very much. You know he and Isaac became good
friends. I think he acted like a man to-day. I saw the look Miller
gave him. I don't like this fellow Miller, anyway. Now, I am taking
the trouble to tell you my side of the argument. It is not a
question of your liking Clarke--that is none of my affair. It is
simply that either he is not the man we all think him or you are
acting in a way unbecoming a Zane. I do not purpose to have this
state of affairs continue. Now, enough of this beating about the
bush."

Betty had seen the Colonel angry more than once, but never with her.
It was quite certain she had angered him and she forgot her own
resentment. Her heart had warmed with her brother's praise of
Clarke. Then as she remembered the past she felt a scorn for her
weakness and such a revulsion of feeling that she cried out
passionately:

"He is a trifler. He never cared for me. He insulted me."

Col. Zane reached for his hat, got up without saying another word
and went down stairs.

Betty had not intended to say quite what she had and instantly
regretted her hasty words. She called to the Colonel, but he did not
answer her, nor return.

"Betty, what in the world could you have said to my husband?" said
Mrs. Zane as she entered the room. She was breathless from running
up the stairs and her comely face wore a look of concern. "He was as
white as that sheet and he stalked off toward the Fort without a
word to me."

"I simply told him Mr. Clarke had insulted me," answered Betty
calmly.

"Great Heavens! Betty, what have you done?" exclaimed Mrs. Zane.
"You don't know Eb when he is angry. He is a big fool over you,
anyway. He is liable to kill Clarke."

Betty's blood was up now and she said that would not be a matter of
much importance.

"When did he insult you?" asked the elder woman, yielding to her
natural curiosity.

"It was last October."

"Pooh! It took you a long time to tell it. I don't believe it
amounted to much. Mr. Clarke did not appear to be the sort of a man
to insult anyone. All the girls were crazy about him last year. If
he was not all right they would not have been."

"I do not care if they were. The girls can have him and welcome. I
don't want him. I never did. I am tired of hearing everyone eulogize
him. I hate him. Do you hear? I hate him! And I wish you would go
away and leave me alone."

"Well, Betty, all I will say is that you are a remarkable young
woman," answered Mrs. Zane, who saw plainly that Betty's violent
outburst was a prelude to a storm of weeping. "I don't believe a
word you have said. I don't believe you hate him. There!"

Col. Zane walked straight to the Fort, entered the block-house and
knocked on the door of Clarke's room. A voice bade him come in. He
shoved open the door and went into the room. Clarke had evidently
just returned from a tramp in the hills, for his garments were
covered with burrs and his boots were dusty. He looked tired, but
his face was calm.

"Why, Col. Zane! Have a seat. What can I do for you?"

"I have come to ask you to explain a remark of my sister's."

"Very well, I am at your service," answered Alfred slowly lighting
his pipe, after which he looked straight into Col. Zane's face.

"My sister informs me that you insulted her last fall before you
left the Fort. I am sure you are neither a liar nor a coward, and I
expect you to answer as a man."

"Col. Zane, I am not a liar, and I hope I am not a coward," said
Alfred coolly. He took a long pull on his pipe and blew a puff of
white smoke toward the ceiling.

"I believe you, but I must have an explanation. There is something
wrong somewhere. I saw Betty pass you without speaking this morning.
I did not like it and I took her to task about it. She then said you
had insulted her. Betty is prone to exaggerate, especially when
angry, but she never told me a lie in her life. Ever since you
pulled Isaac out of the river I have taken an interest in you.
That's why I'd like to avoid any trouble. But this thing has gone
far enough. Now be sensible, swallow your pride and let me hear your
side of the story."

Alfred had turned pale at his visitor's first words. There was no
mistaking Col. Zane's manner. Alfred well knew that the Colonel, if
he found Betty had really been insulted, would call him out and kill
him. Col. Zane spoke quietly, ever kindly, but there was an
undercurrent of intense feeling in his voice, a certain deadly
intent which boded ill to anyone who might cross him at that moment.
Alfred's first impulse was a reckless desire to tell Col. Zane he
had nothing to explain and that he stood ready to give any
satisfaction in his power. But he wisely thought better of this. It
struck him that this would not be fair, for no matter what the girl
had done the Colonel had always been his friend. So Alfred pulled
himself together and resolved to make a clean breast of the whole
affair.

"Col. Zane, I do not feel that I owe your sister anything, and what
I am going to tell you is simply because you have always been my
friend, and I do not want you to have any wrong ideas about me. I'll
tell you the truth and you can be the judge as to whether or not I
insulted your sister. I fell in love with her, almost at first
sight. The night after the Indians recaptured your brother, Betty
and I stood out in the moonlight and she looked so bewitching and I
felt so sorry for her and so carried away by my love for her that I
yielded to a momentary impulse and kissed her. I simply could not
help it. There is no excuse for me. She struck me across the face
and ran into the house. I had intended that night to tell her of my
love and place my fate in her hands, but, of course, the unfortunate
occurrence made that impossible. As I was to leave at dawn next day,
I remained up all night, thinking what I ought to do. Finally I
decided to write. I wrote her a letter, telling her all and begging
her to become my wife. I gave the letter to your slave, Sam, and
told him it was a matter of life and death, and not to lose the
letter nor fail to give it to Betty. I have had no answer to that
letter. Today she coldly ignored me. That is my story, Col. Zane."

"Well, I don't believe she got the letter," said Col. Zane. "She has
not acted like a young lady who has had the privilege of saying
'yes' or 'no' to you. And Sam never had any use for you. He disliked
you from the first, and never failed to say something against you."

"I'll kill that d--n nigger if he did not deliver that letter," said
Clarke, jumping up in his excitement. "I never thought of that. Good
Heaven! What could she have thought of me? She would think I had
gone away without a word. If she knew I really loved her she could
not think so terribly of me."

"There is more to be explained, but I am satisfied with your side of
it," said Col. Zane. "Now I'll go to Sam and see what has become of
that letter. I am glad I am justified in thinking of you as I have.
I imagine this thing has hurt you and I don't wonder at it. Maybe we
can untangle the problem yet. My advice would be--but never mind
that now. Anyway, I'm your friend in this matter. I'll let you know
the result of my talk with Sam."

"I thought that young fellow was a gentleman," mused Col. Zane as he
crossed the green square and started up the hill toward the cabins.
He found the old negro seated on his doorstep.

"Sam, what did you do with a letter Mr. Clarke gave you last October
and instructed you to deliver to Betty?"

"I dun recollec' no lettah, sah," replied Sam.

"Now, Sam, don't lie about it. Clarke has just told me that he gave
you the letter. What did you do with it?"

"Masse Zane, I ain dun seen no lettah," answered the old darkey,
taking a dingy pipe from his mouth and rolling his eyes at his
master.

"If you lie again I will punish you," said Col. Zane sternly. "You
are getting old, Sam, and I would not like to whip you, but I will
if you do not find that letter."

Sam grumbled, and shuffled inside the cabin. Col. Zane heard him
rummaging around. Presently he came back to the door and handed a
very badly soiled paper to the Colonel.

"What possessed you to do this, Sam? You have always been honest.
Your act has caused great misunderstanding and it might have led to
worse."

"He's one of dem no good Southern white trash; he's good fer
nuttin'," said Sam. "I saw yo' sistah, Mis' Betty, wit him, and I
seen she was gittin' fond of him, and I says I ain't gwinter have
Mis' Betty runnin' off wif him. And I'se never gibbin de lettah to
her."

That was all the explanation Sam would vouchsafe, and Col. Zane,
knowing it would be useless to say more to the well-meaning but
ignorant and superstitious old negro, turned and wended his way back
to the house. He looked at the paper and saw that it was addressed
to Elizabeth Zane, and that the ink was faded until the letters were
scarcely visible.

"What have you there?" asked his wife, who had watched him go up the
hill to the negro's cabin. She breathed a sigh of relief when she
saw that her husband's face had recovered its usual placid
expression.

"It is a little letter for that young fire-brand up stairs, and, I
believe it will clear up the mystery. Clarke gave it to Sam last
fall and Sam never gave it to Betty."

"I hope with all my heart it may settle Betty. She worries me to
death with her love affairs."

Col. Zane went up stairs and found the young lady exactly as he had
left her. She gave an impatient toss of her head as he entered.

"Well, Madam, I have here something that may excite even your
interest." he said cheerily.

"What?" asked Betty with a start. She flushed crimson when she saw
the letter and at first refused to take it from her brother. She was
at a loss to understand his cheerful demeanor. He had been anything
but pleasant a few moments since.

"Here, take it. It is a letter from Mr. Clarke which you should have
received last fall. That last morning he gave this letter to Sam to
deliver to you, and the crazy old nigger kept it. However, it is too
late to talk of that, only it does seem a great pity. I feel sorry
for both of you. Clarke never will forgive you, even if you want him
to, which I am sure you do not. I don't know exactly what is in this
letter, but I know it will make you ashamed to think you did not
trust him."

With this parting reproof the Colonel walked out, leaving Betty
completely bewildered. The words "too late," "never forgive," and "a
great pity" rang through her head. What did he mean? She tore the
letter open with trembling hands and holding it up to the now
fast-waning light, she read

"Dear Betty:

"If you had waited only a moment longer I know you would not have
been so angry with me. The words I wanted so much to say choked me
and I could not speak them. I love you. I have loved you from the
very first moment, that blessed moment when I looked up over your
pony's head to see the sweetest face the sun ever shone on. I'll be
the happiest man on earth if you will say you care a little for me
and promise to be my wife.

"It was wrong to kiss you and I beg your forgiveness. Could you but
see your face as I saw it last night in the moonlight, I would not
need to plead: you would know that the impulse which swayed me was
irresistible. In that kiss I gave you my hope, my love, my life, my
all. Let it plead for me.

"I expect to return from Ft. Pitt in about six or eight weeks, but I
cannot wait until then for your answer.

"With hope I sign myself,

"Yours until death,

"Alfred."

Betty read the letter through. The page blurred before her eyes; a
sensation of oppression and giddiness made her reach out helplessly
with both hands. Then she slipped forward and fell on the floor. For
the first time in all her young life Betty had fainted. Col. Zane
found her lying pale and quiet under the window.



CHAPTER IX.

Yantwaia, or, as he was more commonly called, Cornplanter, was
originally a Seneca chief, but when the five war tribes
consolidated, forming the historical "Five Nations," he became their
leader. An old historian said of this renowned chieftain: "Tradition
says that the blood of a famous white man coursed through the veins
of Cornplanter. The tribe he led was originally ruled by an Indian
queen of singular power and beauty. She was born to govern her
people by the force of her character. Many a great chief importuned
her to become his wife, but she preferred to cling to her power and
dignity. When this white man, then a very young man, came to the
Ohio valley the queen fell in love with him, and Cornplanter was
their son."

Cornplanter lived to a great age. He was a wise counsellor, a great
leader, and he died when he was one hundred years old, having had
more conceded to him by the white men than any other chieftain.
General Washington wrote of him: "The merits of Cornplanter and his
friendship for the United States are well known and shall not be
forgotten."

But Cornplanter had not always been a friend to the palefaces.
During Dunmore's war and for years after, he was one of the most
vindictive of the savage leaders against the invading pioneers.

It was during this period of Cornplanter's activity against the
whites that Isaac Zane had the misfortune to fall into the great
chief's power.

We remember Isaac last when, lost in the woods, weak from hunger and
exposure, he had crawled into a thicket and had gone to sleep. He
was awakened by a dog licking his face. He heard Indian voices. He
got up and ran as fast as he could, but exhausted as he was he
proved no match for his pursuers. They came up with him and seeing
that he was unable to defend himself they grasped him by the arms
and led him down a well-worn bridle-path.

"D--n poor run. No good legs," said one of his captors, and at this
the other two Indians laughed. Then they whooped and yelled, at
which signal other Indians joined them. Isaac saw that they were
leading him into a large encampment. He asked the big savage who led
him what camp it was, and learned that he had fallen into the hands
of Cornplanter.

While being marched through the large Indian village Isaac saw
unmistakable indications of war. There was a busy hum on all sides;
the squaws were preparing large quantities of buffalo meat, cutting
it in long, thin strips, and were parching corn in stone vessels.
The braves were cleaning rifles, sharpening tomahawks, and mixing
war paints. All these things Isaac knew to be preparations for long
marches and for battle. That night he heard speech after speech in
the lodge next to the one in which he lay, but they were in an
unknown tongue. Later he heard the yelling of the Indians and the
dull thud of their feet as they stamped on the ground. He heard the
ring of the tomahawks as they were struck into hard wood. The
Indians were dancing the war-dance round the war-post. This
continued with some little intermission all the four days that Isaac
lay in the lodge rapidly recovering his strength. The fifth day a
man came into the lodge. He was tall and powerful, his hair fell
over his shoulders and he wore the scanty buckskin dress of the
Indian. But Isaac knew at once he was a white man, perhaps one of
the many French traders who passed through the Indian village.

"Your name is Zane," said the man in English, looking sharply at
Isaac.

"That is my name. Who are you?" asked Isaac in great surprise.

"I am Girty. I've never seen you, but I knew Col. Zane and Jonathan
well. I've seen your sister; you all favor one another."

"Are you Simon Girty?"

"Yes."

"I have heard of your influence with the Indians. Can you do
anything to get me out of this?"

"How did you happen to git over here? You are not many miles from
Wingenund's Camp," said Girty, giving Isaac another sharp look from
his small black eyes.

"Girty, I assure you I am not a spy. I escaped from the Wyandot
village on Mad River and after traveling three days I lost my way. I
went to sleep in a thicket and when I awoke an Indian dog had found
me. I heard voices and saw three Indians. I got up and ran, but they
easily caught me."

"I know about you. Old Tarhe has a daughter who kept you from bein'
ransomed."

"Yes, and I wish I were back there. I don't like the look of
things."

"You are right, Zane. You got ketched at a bad time. The Indians are
mad. I suppose you don't know that Col. Crawford massacred a lot of
Indians a few days ago. It'll go hard with any white man that gits
captured. I'm afraid I can't do nothin' for you."

A few words concerning Simon Girty, the White Savage. He had two
brothers, James and George, who had been desperadoes before they
were adopted by the Delawares, and who eventually became fierce and
relentless savages. Simon had been captured at the same time as his
brothers, but he did not at once fall under the influence of the
unsettled, free-and-easy life of the Indians. It is probable that
while in captivity he acquired the power of commanding the Indians'
interest and learned the secret of ruling them--two capabilities few
white men ever possessed. It is certain that he, like the noted
French-Canadian Joucaire, delighted to sit round the camp fires and
to go into the council-lodge and talk to the assembled Indians.

At the outbreak of the revolution Girty was a commissioned officer
of militia at Ft. Pitt. He deserted from the Fort, taking with him
the Tories McKee and Elliott, and twelve soldiers, and these
traitors spread as much terror among the Delaware Indians as they
did among the whites. The Delawares had been one of the few
peacefully disposed tribes. In order to get them to join their
forces with Governor Hamilton, the British commander, Girty declared
that Gen. Washington had been killed, that Congress had been
dispersed, and that the British were winning all the battles.

Girty spoke most of the Indian languages, and Hamilton employed him
to go among the different Indian tribes and incite them to greater
hatred of the pioneers. This proved to be just the life that suited
him. He soon rose to have a great and bad influence on all the
tribes. He became noted for his assisting the Indians in marauds,
for his midnight forays, for his scalpings, and his efforts to
capture white women, and for his devilish cunning and cruelty.

For many years Girty was the Deathshead of the frontier. The mention
of his name alone created terror in any household; in every
pioneer's cabin it made the children cry out in fear and paled the
cheeks of the stoutest-hearted wife.

It is difficult to conceive of a white man's being such a fiend in
human guise. The only explanation that can be given is that
renegades rage against the cause of their own blood with the fury of
insanity rather than with the malignity of a naturally ferocious
temper. In justice to Simon Girty it must be said that facts not
known until his death showed he was not so cruel and base as
believed; that some deeds of kindness were attributed to him; that
he risked his life to save Kenton from the stake, and that many of
the terrible crimes laid at his door were really committed by his
savage brothers.

Isaac Zane suffered no annoyance at the hands of Cornplanter's
braves until the seventh day of his imprisonment. He saw no one
except the squaw who brought him corn and meat. On that day two
savages came for him and led him into the immense council-lodge of
the Five Nations. Cornplanter sat between his right-hand chiefs, Big
Tree and Half Town, and surrounded by the other chiefs of the
tribes. An aged Indian stood in the center of the lodge and
addressed the others. The listening savages sat immovable, their
faces as cold and stern as stone masks. Apparently they did not heed
the entrance of the prisoner.

"Zane, they're havin' a council," whispered a voice in Isaac's ear.
Isaac turned and recognized Girty. "I want to prepare you for the
worst."

"Is there, then, no hope for me?" asked Isaac.

"I'm afraid not," continued the renegade, speaking in a low whisper.
"They wouldn't let me speak at the council. I told Cornplanter that
killin' you might bring the Hurons down on him, but he wouldn't
listen. Yesterday, in the camp of the Delawares, I saw Col. Crawford
burnt at the stake. He was a friend of mine at Pitt, and I didn't
dare to say one word to the frenzied Indians. I had to watch the
torture. Pipe and Wingenund, both old friends of Crawford, stood by
and watched him walk round the stake on the red-hot coals five
hours."

Isaac shuddered at the words of the renegade, but did not answer. He
had felt from the first that his case was hopeless, and that no
opportunity for escape could possibly present itself in such a large
encampment. He set his teeth hard and resolved to show the red
devils how a white man could die.

Several speeches were made by different chiefs and then an
impressive oration by Big Tree. At the conclusion of the speeches,
which were in an unknown tongue to Isaac, Cornplanter handed a
war-club to Half Town. This chief got up, walked to the end of the
circle, and there brought the club down on the ground with a
resounding thud. Then he passed the club to Big Tree. In a solemn
and dignified manner every chief duplicated Half Town's performance
with the club.

Isaac watched the ceremony as if fascinated. He had seen a war-club
used in the councils of the Hurons and knew that striking it on the
ground signified war and death.

"White man, you are a killer of Indians," said Cornplanter in good
English. "When the sun shines again you die."

A brave came forward and painted Isaac's face black. This Isaac knew
to indicate that death awaited him on the morrow. On his way back to
his prison-lodge he saw that a war-dance was in progress.

A hundred braves with tomahawks, knives, and mallets in their hands
were circling round a post and keeping time to the low music of a
muffled drum. Close together, with heads bowed, they marched. At
certain moments, which they led up to with a dancing on rigid legs
and a stamping with their feet, they wheeled, and uttering hideous
yells, started to march in the other direction. When this had been
repeated three times a brave stepped from the line, advanced, and
struck his knife or tomahawk into the post. Then with a loud voice
he proclaimed his past exploits and great deeds in war. The other
Indians greeted this with loud yells of applause and a flourishing
of weapons. Then the whole ceremony was gone through again.

That afternoon many of the Indians visited Isaac in his lodge and
shook their fists at him and pointed their knives at him. They
hissed and groaned at him. Their vindictive faces expressed the
malignant joy they felt at the expectation of putting him to the
torture.

When night came Isaac's guards laced up the lodge-door and shut him
from the sight of the maddened Indians. The darkness that gradually
enveloped him was a relief. By and by all was silent except for the
occasional yell of a drunken savage. To Isaac it sounded like a
long, rolling death-cry echoing throughout the encampment and
murdering his sleep. Its horrible meaning made him shiver and his
flesh creep. At length even that yell ceased. The watch-dogs quieted
down and the perfect stillness which ensued could almost be felt.
Through Isaac's mind ran over and over again the same words. His
last night to live! His last night to live! He forced himself to
think of other things. He lay there in the darkness of his tent, but
he was far away in thought, far away in the past with his mother and
brothers before they had come to this bloodthirsty country. His
thoughts wandered to the days of his boyhood when he used to drive
the sows to the pasture on the hillside, and in his dreamy,
disordered fancy he was once more letting down the bars of the gate.
Then he was wading in the brook and whacking the green frogs with
his stick. Old playmates' faces, forgotten for years, were there
looking at him from the dark wall of his wigwam. There was Andrew's
face; the faces of his other brothers; the laughing face of his
sister; the serene face of his mother. As he lay there with the
shadow of death over him sweet was the thought that soon he would be
reunited with that mother. The images faded slowly away, swallowed
up in the gloom. Suddenly a vision appeared to him. A radiant white
light illumined the lodge and shone full on the beautiful face of
the Indian maiden who had loved him so well. Myeerah's dark eyes
were bright with an undying love and her lips smiled hope.

A rude kick dispelled Isaac's dreams. A brawny savage pulled him to
his feet and pushed him outside of the lodge.

It was early morning. The sun had just cleared the low hills in the
east and its red beams crimsoned the edges of the clouds of fog
which hung over the river like a great white curtain. Though the air
was warm, Isaac shivered a little as the breeze blew softly against
his cheek. He took one long look toward the rising sun, toward that
east he had hoped to see, and then resolutely turned his face away
forever.

Early though it was the Indians were astir and their whooping rang
throughout the valley. Down the main street of the village the
guards led the prisoner, followed by a screaming mob of squaws and
young braves and children who threw sticks and stones at the hated
Long Knife.

Soon the inhabitants of the camp congregated on the green oval in
the midst of the lodges. When the prisoner appeared they formed in
two long lines facing each other, and several feet apart. Isaac was
to run the gauntlet--one of the severest of Indian tortures. With
the exception of Cornplanter and several of his chiefs, every Indian
in the village was in line. Little Indian boys hardly large enough
to sling a stone; maidens and squaws with switches or spears;
athletic young braves with flashing tomahawks; grim, matured
warriors swinging knotted war clubs,--all were there in line,
yelling and brandishing their weapons in a manner frightful to
behold.

The word was given, and stripped to the waist, Isaac bounded forward
fleet as a deer. He knew the Indian way of running the gauntlet. The
head of that long lane contained the warriors and older braves and
it was here that the great danger lay. Between these lines he sped
like a flash, dodging this way and that, running close in under the
raised weapons, taking what blows he could on his uplifted arms,
knocking this warrior over and doubling that one up with a lightning
blow in the stomach, never slacking his speed for one stride, so
that it was extremely difficult for the Indians to strike him
effectually. Once past that formidable array, Isaac's gauntlet was
run, for the squaws and children scattered screaming before the
sweep of his powerful arms.

The old chiefs grunted their approval. There was a bruise on Isaac's
forehead and a few drops of blood mingled with the beads of
perspiration. Several lumps and scratches showed on his bare
shoulders and arms, but he had escaped any serious injury. This was
a feat almost without a parallel in gauntlet running.

When he had been tied with wet buckskin thongs to the post in the
center of the oval, the youths, the younger braves, and the squaws
began circling round him, yelling like so many demons. The old
squaws thrust sharpened sticks, which had been soaked in salt water,
into his flesh. The maidens struck him with willows which left red
welts on his white shoulders. The braves buried the blades of their
tomahawks in the post as near as possible to his head without
actually hitting him.

Isaac knew the Indian nature well. To command the respect of the
savages was the only way to lessen his torture. He knew that a cry
for mercy would only increase his sufferings and not hasten his
death,--indeed it would prolong both. He had resolved to die without
a moan. He had determined to show absolute indifference to his
torture, which was the only way to appeal to the savage nature, and
if anything could, make the Indians show mercy. Or, if he could
taunt them into killing him at once he would be spared all the
terrible agony which they were in the habit of inflicting on their
victims.

One handsome young brave twirled a glittering tomahawk which he
threw from a distance of ten, fifteen, and twenty feet and every
time the sharp blade of the hatchet sank deep into the stake within
an inch of Isaac's head. With a proud and disdainful look Isaac
gazed straight before him and paid no heed to his tormentor.

"Does the Indian boy think he can frighten a white warrior?" said
Isaac scornfully at length. "Let him go and earn his eagle plumes.
The pale face laughs at him."

The young brave understood the Huron language, for he gave a
frightful yell and cast his tomahawk again, this time shaving a lock
of hair from Isaac's head.

This was what Isaac had prayed for. He hoped that one of these
glittering hatchets would be propelled less skillfully than its
predecessors and would kill him instantly. But the enraged brave had
no other opportunity to cast his weapon, for the Indians jeered at
him and pushed him from the line.

Other braves tried their proficiency in the art of throwing knives
and tomahawks, but their efforts called forth only words of derision
from Isaac. They left the weapons sticking in the post until round
Isaac's head and shoulders there was scarcely room for another.

"The White Eagle is tired of boys," cried Isaac to a chief dancing
near. "What has he done that he be made the plaything of children?
Let him die the death of a chief."

The maidens had long since desisted in their efforts to torment the
prisoner. Even the hardened old squaws had withdrawn. The prisoner's
proud, handsome face, his upright bearing, his scorn for his
enemies, his indifference to the cuts and bruises, and red welts
upon his clear white skin had won their hearts.

Not so with the braves. Seeing that the pale face scorned all
efforts to make him flinch, the young brave turned to Big Tree. At a
command from this chief the Indians stopped their maneuvering round
the post and formed a large circle. In another moment a tall warrior
appeared carrying an armful of fagots.

In spite of his iron nerve Isaac shuddered with horror. He had
anticipated running the gauntlet, having his nails pulled out,
powder and salt shot into his flesh, being scalped alive and a host
of other Indian tortures, but as he had killed no members of this
tribe he had not thought of being burned alive. God, it was too
horrible!

The Indians were now quiet. Their songs and dances would break out
soon enough. They piled fagot after fagot round Isaac's feet. The
Indian warrior knelt on the ground the steel clicked on the flint; a
little shower of sparks dropped on the pieces of punk and then--a
tiny flame shot up, and slender little column of blue smoke floated
on the air.

Isaac shut his teeth hard and prayed with all his soul for a speedy
death.

Simon Girty came hurriedly through the lines of waiting, watching
Indians. He had obtained permission to speak to the man of his own
color.

"Zane, you made a brave stand. Any other time but this it might have
saved you. If you want I'll get word to your people." And then
bending and placing his mouth close to Isaac's ear, he whispered, "I
did all I could for you, but it must have been too late."

"Try and tell them at Ft. Henry," Isaac said simply.

There was a little cracking of dried wood and then a narrow tongue
of red flame darted up from the pile of fagots and licked at the
buckskin fringe on the prisoner's legging. At this supreme moment
when the attention of all centered on that motionless figure lashed
to the stake, and when only the low chanting of the death-song broke
the stillness, a long, piercing yell rang out on the quiet morning
air. So strong, so sudden, so startling was the break in that almost
perfect calm that for a moment afterward there was a silence as of
death. All eyes turned to the ridge of rising ground whence that
sound had come. Now came the unmistakable thunder of horses' hoofs
pounding furiously on the rocky ground. A moment of paralyzed
inaction ensued. The Indians stood bewildered, petrified. Then on
that ridge of rising ground stood, silhouetted against the blue sky,
a great black horse with arching neck and flying mane. Astride him
sat a plumed warrior, who waved his rifle high in the air. Again
that shrill screeching yell came floating to the ears of the
astonished Indians.

The prisoner had seen that horse and rider before; he had heard that
long yell; his heart bounded with hope. The Indians knew that yell;
it was the terrible war-cry of the Hurons.

A horse followed closely after the leader, and then another appeared
on the crest of the hill. Then came two abreast, and then four
abreast, and now the hill was black with plunging horses. They
galloped swiftly down the slope and into the narrow street of the
village. When the black horse entered the oval the train of racing
horses extended to the top of the ridge. The plumes of the riders
streamed gracefully on the breeze; their feathers shone; their
weapons glittered in the bright sunlight.

Never was there more complete surprise. In the earlier morning the
Hurons had crept up to within a rifle shot of the encampment, and at
an opportune moment when all the scouts and runners were round the
torture-stake, they had reached the hillside from which they rode
into the village before the inhabitants knew what had happened. Not
an Indian raised a weapon. There were screams from the women and
children, a shouted command from Big Tree, and then all stood still
and waited.

Thundercloud, the war chief of the Wyandots, pulled his black
stallion back on his haunches not twenty feet from the prisoner at
the stake. His band of painted devils closed in behind him. Full two
hundred strong were they and all picked warriors tried and true.
They were naked to the waist. Across their brawny chests ran a broad
bar of flaming red paint; hideous designs in black and white covered
their faces. Every head had been clean-shaven except where the scalp
lock bristled like a porcupine's quills. Each warrior carried a
plumed spear, a tomahawk, and a rifle. The shining heads, with the
little tufts of hair tied tightly close to the scalp, were enough to
show that these Indians were on the war-path.

From the back of one of the foremost horses a slender figure dropped
and darted toward the prisoner at the stake. Surely that wildly
flying hair proved this was not a warrior. Swift as a flash of light
this figure reached the stake, the blazing fagots scattered right
and left; a naked blade gleamed; the thongs fell from the prisoner's
wrists; and the front ranks of the Hurons opened and closed on the
freed man. The deliverer turned to the gaping Indians, disclosing to
their gaze the pale and beautiful face of Myeerah, the Wyandot
Princes.

"Summon your chief," she commanded.

The tall form of the Seneca chief moved from among the warriors and
with slow and measured tread approached the maiden. His bearing
fitted the leader of five nations of Indians. It was of one who knew
that he was the wisest of chiefs, the hero of a hundred battles. Who
dared beard him in his den? Who dared defy the greatest power in all
Indian tribes? When he stood before the maiden he folded his arms
and waited for her to speak.

"Myeerah claims the White Eagle," she said.

Cornplanter did not answer at once. He had never seen Myeerah,
though he had heard many stories of her loveliness. Now he was face
to face with the Indian Princess whose fame had been the theme of
many an Indian romance, and whose beauty had been sung of in many an
Indian song. The beautiful girl stood erect and fearless. Her
disordered garments, torn and bedraggled and stained from the long
ride, ill-concealed the grace of her form. Her hair rippled from the
uncovered head and fell in dusky splendor over her shoulders; her
dark eyes shone with a stern and steady fire: her bosom swelled with
each deep breath. She was the daughter of great chiefs; she looked
the embodiment of savage love.

"The Huron squaw is brave," said Cornplanter. "By what right does
she come to free my captive?"

"He is an adopted Wyandot."

"Why does the paleface hide like a fox near the camp of
Cornplanter?"

"He ran away. He lost the trail to the Fort on the river."

"Cornplanter takes prisoners to kill; not to free."

"If you will not give him up Myeerah will take him," she answered,
pointing to the long line of mounted warriors. "And should harm
befall Tarhe's daughter it will be avenged."

Cornplanter looked at Thundercloud. Well he knew that chief's
prowess in the field. He ran his eyes over the silent, watching
Hurons, and then back to the sombre face of their leader.
Thundercloud sat rigid upon his stallion; his head held high; every
muscle tense and strong for instant action. He was ready and eager
for the fray. He, and every one of his warriors, would fight like a
thousand tigers for their Princess--the pride of the proud race of
Wyandots. Cornplanter saw this and he felt that on the eve of
important marches he dared not sacrifice one of his braves for any
reason, much less a worthless pale face; and yet to let the prisoner
go galled the haughty spirit of the Seneca chief.

"The Long Knife is not worth the life of one of my dogs," he said,
with scorn in his deep voice. "If Cornplanter willed he could drive
the Hurons before him like leaves before the storm. Let Myeerah take
the pale face back to her wigwam and there feed him and make a squaw
of him. When he stings like a snake in the grass remember the
chief's words. Cornplanter turns on his heel from the Huron maiden
who forgets her blood."

        * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When the sun reached its zenith it shone down upon a long line of
mounted Indians riding single file along the narrow trail and like a
huge serpent winding through the forest and over the plain.

They were Wyandot Indians, and Isaac Zane rode among them. Freed
from the terrible fate which had menaced him, and knowing that he
was once more on his way to the Huron encampment, he had accepted
his destiny and quarreled no more with fate. He was thankful beyond
all words for his rescue from the stake.

Coming to a clear, rapid stream, the warriors dismounted and rested
while their horses drank thirstily of the cool water. An Indian
touched Isaac on the arm and silently pointed toward the huge maple
tree under which Thundercloud and Myeerah were sitting. Isaac turned
his horse and rode the short distance intervening. When he got near
he saw that Myeerah stood with one arm over her pony's neck. She
raised eyes that were weary and sad, which yet held a lofty and
noble resolve.

"White Eagle, this stream leads straight to the Fort on the river,"
she said briefly, almost coldly. "Follow it, and when the sun
reaches the top of yonder hill you will be with your people. Go, you
are free."

She turned her face away. Isaac's head whirled in his amazement. He
could not believe his ears. He looked closely at her and saw that
though her face was calm her throat swelled, and the hand which lay
over the neck of her pony clenched the bridle in a fierce grasp.
Isaac glanced at Thundercloud and the other Indians near by. They
sat unconcerned with the invariable unreadable expression.

"Myeerah, what do you mean?" asked Isaac.

"The words of Cornplanter cut deep into the heart of Myeerah," she
answered bitterly. "They were true. The Eagle does not care for
Myeerah. She shall no longer keep him in a cage. He is free to fly
away."

"The Eagle does not want his freedom. I love you, Myeerah. You have
saved me and I am yours. If you will go home with me and marry me
there as my people are married I will go back to the Wyandot
village."

Myeerah's eyes softened with unutterable love. With a quick cry she
was in his arms. After a few moments of forgetfulness Myeerah spoke
to Thundercloud and waved her hand toward the west. The chief swung
himself over his horse, shouted a single command, and rode down the
bank into the water. His warriors followed him, wading their horses
into the shallow creek, with never backward look. When the last
rider had disappeared in the willows the lovers turned their horses
eastward.



CHAPTER X.

It was near the close of a day in early summer. A small group of
persons surrounded Col. Zane where he sat on his doorstep. From time
to time he took the long Indian pipe from his mouth and blew great
clouds of smoke over his head. Major McColloch and Capt. Boggs were
there. Silas Zane half reclined on the grass. The Colonel's wife
stood in the door-way, and Betty sat on the lower step with her head
leaning against her brother's knee. They all had grave faces.
Jonathan Zane had returned that day after an absence of three weeks,
and was now answering the many questions with which he was plied.

"Don't ask me any more and I'll tell you the whole thing," he had
just said, while wiping the perspiration from his brow. His face was
worn; his beard ragged and unkempt; his appearance suggestive of
extreme fatigue. "It was this way: Colonel Crawford had four hundred
and eighty men under him, with Slover and me acting as guides. This
was a large force of men and comprised soldiers from Pitt and the
other forts and settlers from all along the river. You see, Crawford
wanted to crush the Shawnees at one blow. When we reached the
Sandusky River, which we did after an arduous march, not one Indian
did we see. You know Crawford expected to surprise the Shawnee camp,
and when he found it deserted he didn't know what to do. Slover and
I both advised an immediate retreat. Crawford would not listen to
us. I tried to explain to him that ever since the Guadenhutten
massacre keen-eyed Indian scouts had been watching the border. The
news of the present expedition had been carried by fleet runners to
the different Indian tribes and they were working like hives of
angry bees. The deserted Shawnee village meant to me that the alarm
had been sounded in the towns of the Shawnees and the Delawares;
perhaps also in the Wyandot towns to the north. Colonel Crawford was
obdurate and insisted on resuming the march into the Indian country.
The next day we met the Indians coming directly toward us. It was
the combined force of the Delaware chiefs, Pipe and Wingenund. The
battle had hardly commenced when the redskins were reinforced by
four hundred warriors under Shanshota, the Huron chief. The enemy
skulked behind trees and rocks, hid in ravines, and crawled through
the long grass. They could be picked off only by Indian hunters, of
whom Crawford had but few--probably fifty all told. All that day we
managed to keep our position, though we lost sixty men. That night
we lay down to rest by great fires which we built, to prevent night
surprises.

"Early next morning we resumed the fight. I saw Simon Girty on his
white horse. He was urging and cheering the Indians on to desperate
fighting. Their fire became so deadly that we were forced to
retreat. In the afternoon Slover, who had been out scouting,
returned with the information that a mounted force was approaching,
and that he believed they were the reinforcements which Col.
Crawford expected. The reinforcements came up and proved to be
Butler's British rangers from Detroit. This stunned Crawford's
soldiers. The fire of the enemy became hotter and hotter. Our men
were falling like leaves around us. They threw aside their rifles
and ran, many of them right into the hands of the savages. I believe
some of the experienced bordermen escaped but most of Crawford's
force met death on the field. I hid in a hollow log. Next day when I
felt that it could be done safely I crawled out. I saw scalped and
mutilated bodies everywhere, but did not find Col. Crawford's body.
The Indians had taken all the clothing, weapons, blankets and
everything of value. The Wyandots took a northwest trail and the
Delawares and the Shawnees traveled east. I followed the latter
because their trail led toward home. Three days later I stood on the
high bluff above Wingenund's camp. From there I saw Col. Crawford
tied to a stake and a fire started at his feet. I was not five
hundred yards from the camp. I saw the war chiefs, Pipe and
Wingenund; I saw Simon Girty and a British officer in uniform. The
chiefs and Girty were once Crawford's friends. They stood calmly by
and watched the poor victim slowly burn to death. The Indians yelled
and danced round the stake; they devised every kind of hellish
torture. When at last an Indian ran in and tore off the scalp of the
still living man I could bear to see no more, and I turned and ran.
I have been in some tough places, but this last was the worst."

"My God! it is awful--and to think that man Girty was once a white
man," cried Col. Zane.

"He came very near being a dead man," said Jonathan, with grim
humor. "I got a long shot at him and killed his big white horse."

"It's a pity you missed him," said Silas Zane.

"Here comes Wetzel. What will he say about the massacre?" remarked
Major McColloch.

Wetzel joined the group at that moment and shook hands with
Jonathan. When interrogated about the failure of Col. Crawford's
expedition Wetzel said that Slover had just made his appearance at
the cabin of Hugh Bennet, and that he was without clothing and
almost dead from exposure.

"I'm glad Slover got out alive. He was against the march all along.
If Crawford had listened to us he would have averted this terrible
affair and saved his own life. Lew, did Slover know how many men got
out?" asked Jonathan.

"He said not many. The redskins killed all the prisoners exceptin'
Crawford and Knight."

"I saw Col. Crawford burned at the stake. I did not see Dr. Knight.
Maybe they murdered him before I reached the camp of the Delawares,"
said Jonathan.

"Wetzel, in your judgment, what effect will this massacre and
Crawford's death have on the border?" inquired Col. Zane.

"It means another bloody year like 1777," answered Wetzel.

"We are liable to have trouble with the Indians any day. You mean
that."

"There'll be war all along the river. Hamilton is hatchin' some new
devil's trick with Girty. Col. Zane, I calkilate that Girty has a
spy in the river settlements and knows as much about the forts and
defense as you do."

"You can't mean a white spy."

"Yes, just that."

"That is a strong assertion, Lewis, but coming from you it means
something. Step aside here and explain yourself," said Col. Zane,
getting up and walking out to the fence.

"I don't like the looks of things," said the hunter. "A month ago I
ketched this man Miller pokin' his nose round the block-house where
he hadn't ought to be. And I kep' watchin' him. If my suspicions is
correct he's playin' some deep game. I ain't got any proof, but
things looks bad."

"That's strange, Lewis," said Col. Zane soberly. "Now that you
mention it I remember Jonathan said he met Miller near the Kanawha
three weeks ago. That was when Crawford's expedition was on the way
to the Shawnee villages. The Colonel tried to enlist Miller, but
Miller said he was in a hurry to get back to the Fort. And he hasn't
come back yet."

"I ain't surprised. Now, Col. Zane, you are in command here. I'm not
a soldier and for that reason I'm all the better to watch Miller. He
won't suspect me. You give me authority and I'll round up his little
game."

"By all means, Lewis. Go about it your own way, and report anything
to me. Remember you may be mistaken and give Miller the benefit of
the doubt. I don't like the fellow. He has a way of appearing and
disappearing, and for no apparent reason, that makes me distrust
him. But for Heaven's sake, Lew, how would he profit by betraying
us?"

"I don't know. All I know is he'll bear watchin'."

"My gracious, Lew Wetzel!" exclaimed Betty as her brother and the
hunter rejoined the others. "Have you come all the way over here
without a gun? And you have on a new suit of buckskin."

Lewis stood a moment by Betty, gazing down at her with his slight
smile. He looked exceedingly well. His face was not yet bronzed by
summer suns. His long black hair, of which he was as proud as a
woman could have been, and of which he took as much care as he did
of his rifle, waved over his shoulders.

"Betty, this is my birthday, but that ain't the reason I've got my
fine feathers on. I'm goin' to try and make an impression on you,"
replied Lewis, smiling.

"I declare, this is very sudden. But you have succeeded. Who made
the suit? And where did you get all that pretty fringe and those
beautiful beads?"

"That stuff I picked up round an Injun camp. The suit I made
myself."

"I think, Lewis, I must get you to help me make my new gown," said
Betty, roguishly.

"Well, I must be getting' back," said Wetzel, rising.

"Oh, don't go yet. You have not talked to me at all," said Betty
petulantly. She walked to the gate with him.

"What can an Injun hunter say to amuse the belle of the border?"

"I don't want to be amused exactly. I mean I'm not used to being
unnoticed, especially by you." And then in a lower tone she
continued: "What did you mean about Mr. Miller? I heard his name and
Eb looked worried. What did you tell him?"

"Never mind now, Betty. Maybe I'll tell you some day. It's enough
for you to know the Colonel don't like Miller and that I think he is
a bad man. You don't care nothin' for Miller, do you Betty?"

"Not in the least."

"Don't see him any more, Betty. Good-night, now, I must be goin' to
supper."

"Lew, stop! or I shall run after you."

"And what good would your runnin' do?" said Lewis "You'd never ketch
me. Why, I could give you twenty paces start and beat you to yon
tree."

"You can't. Come, try it," retorted Betty, catching hold of her
skirt. She could never have allowed a challenge like that to pass.

"Ha! ha! We are in for a race, Betty. if you beat him, start or no
start, you will have accomplished something never done before," said
Col. Zane.

"Come, Silas, step off twenty paces and make them long ones," said
Betty, who was in earnest.

"We'll make it forty paces," said Silas, as he commenced taking
immense strides.

"What is Lewis looking at?" remarked Col. Zane's wife.

Wetzel, in taking his position for the race, had faced the river.
Mrs. Zane had seen him start suddenly, straighten up and for a
moment stand like a statue. Her exclamation drew he attention of the
others to the hunter.

"Look!" he cried, waving his hand toward the river.

"I declare, Wetzel, you are always seeing something. Where shall I
look? Ah, yes, there is a dark form moving along the bank. By jove!
I believe it's an Indian," said Col. Zane.

Jonathan darted into the house. When he reappeared second later he
had three rifles.

"I see horses, Lew. What do you make out?" said Jonathan. "It's a
bold manoeuvre for Indians unless they have a strong force."

"Hostile Injuns wouldn't show themselves like that. Maybe they ain't
redskins at all. We'll go down to the bluff."

"Oh, yes, let us go," cried Betty, walking down the path toward
Wetzel.

Col. Zane followed her, and presently the whole party were on their
way to the river. When they reached the bluff they saw two horses
come down the opposite bank and enter the water. Then they seemed to
fade from view. The tall trees cast a dark shadow over the water and
the horses had become lost in this obscurity. Col. Zane and Jonathan
walked up and down the bank seeking to find a place which afforded a
clearer view of the river.

"There they come," shouted Silas.

"Yes, I see them just swimming out of the shadow," said Col. Zane.
"Both horses have riders. Lewis, what can you make out?"

"It's Isaac and an Indian girl," answered Wetzel.

This startling announcement created a commotion in the little group.
It was followed by a chorus of exclamations.

"Heavens! Wetzel, you have wonderful eyes. I hope to God you are
right. There, I see the foremost rider waving his hand," cried Col.
Zane.

"Oh, Bessie, Bessie! I believe Lew is right. Look at Tige," said
Betty excitedly.

Everybody had forgotten the dog. He had come down the path with
Betty and had pressed close to her. First he trembled, then whined,
then with a loud bark he ran down the bank and dashed into the
water.

"Hel-lo, Betts," came the cry across the water. There was no
mistaking that clear voice. It was Isaac's.

Although the sun had long gone down behind the hills daylight
lingered. It was bright enough for the watchers to recognize Isaac
Zane. He sat high on his horse and in his hand he held the bridle of
a pony that was swimming beside him. The pony bore the slender
figure of a girl. She was bending forward and her hands were twisted
in the pony's mane.

By this time the Colonel and Jonathan were standing in the shallow
water waiting to grasp the reins and lead the horses up the steep
bank. Attracted by the unusual sight of a wildly gesticulating group
on the river bluff, the settlers from the Fort hurried down to the
scene of action. Capt. Boggs and Alfred Clarke joined the crowd. Old
Sam came running down from the barn. All were intensely excited and
Col. Zane and Jonathan reached for the bridles and led the horses up
the slippery incline.

"Eb, Jack, Silas, here I am alive and well," cried Isaac as he
leaped from his horse. "Betty, you darling, it's Isaac. Don't stand
staring as if I were a ghost."

Whereupon Betty ran to him, flung her arms around his neck and clung
to him. Isaac kissed her tenderly and disengaged himself from her
arms.

"You'll get all wet. Glad to see me? Well, I never had such a happy
moment in my life. Betty, I have brought you home one whom you must
love. This is Myeerah, your sister. She is wet and cold. Take her
home and make her warm and comfortable. You must forget all the
past, for Myeerah has saved me from the stake."

Betty had forgotten the other. At her brother's words she turned and
saw a slender form. Even the wet, mud-stained and ragged Indian
costume failed to hide the grace of that figure. She saw a beautiful
face, as white as her own, and dark eyes full of unshed tears.

"The Eagle is free," said the Indian girl in her low, musical voice.

"You have brought him home to us. Come," said Betty taking the hand
of the trembling maiden.

The settlers crowded round Isaac and greeted him warmly while they
plied him with innumerable questions. Was he free? Who was the
Indian girl? Had he run off with her? Were the Indians preparing for
war?

On the way to the Colonel's house Isaac told briefly of his escape
from the Wyandots, of his capture by Cornplanter, and of his rescue.
He also mentioned the preparations for war he had seen in
Cornplanter's camp, and Girty's story of Col. Crawford's death.

"How does it come that you have the Indian girl with you?" asked
Col. Zane as they left the curious settlers and entered the house.

"I am going to marry Myeerah and I brought her with me for that
purpose. When we are married I will go back to the Wyandots and live
with them until peace is declared."

"Humph! Will it be declared?"

"Myeerah has promised it, and I believe she can bring it about,
especially if I marry her. Peace with the Hurons may help to bring
about peace with the Shawnees. I shall never cease to work for that
end; but even if peace cannot be secured, my duty still is to
Myeerah. She saved me from a most horrible death."

"If your marriage with this Indian girl will secure the friendly
offices of that grim old warrior Tarhe, it is far more than fighting
will ever do. I do not want you to go back. Would we ever see you
again?"

"Oh, yes, often I hope. You see, if I marry Myeerah the Hurons will
allow me every liberty."

"Well, that puts a different light on the subject."

"Oh, how I wish you and Jonathan could have seen Thundercloud and
his two hundred warriors ride into Cornplanter's camp. It was
magnificent! The braves were all crowded near the stake where I was
bound. The fire had been lighted. Suddenly the silence was shattered
by an awful yell. It was Thundercloud's yell. I knew it because I
had heard it before, and anyone who had once heard that yell could
never forget it. In what seemed an incredibly short time
Thundercloud's warriors were lined up in the middle of the camp. The
surprise was so complete that, had it been necessary, they could
have ridden Cornplanter's braves down, killed many, routed the
others, and burned the village. Cornplanter will not get over that
surprise in many a moon."

Betty had always hated the very mention of the Indian girl who had
been the cause of her brother's long absence from home. But she was
so happy in the knowledge of his return that she felt that it was in
her power to forgive much; more over, the white, weary face of the
Indian maiden touched Betty's warm heart. With her quick intuition
she had divined that this was even a greater trial for Myeerah.
Undoubtedly the Indian girl feared the scorn of her lover's people.
She showed it in her trembling hands, in her fearful glances.

Finding that Myeerah could speak and understand English, Betty
became more interested in her charge every moment. She set about to
make Myeerah comfortable, and while she removed the wet and stained
garments she talked all the time. She told her how happy she was
that Isaac was alive and well. She said Myeerah's heroism in saving
him should atone for all the past, and that Isaac's family would
welcome her in his home.

Gradually Myeerah's agitation subsided under Betty's sweet
graciousness, and by the time Betty had dressed her in a white gown,
had brushed the dark hair and added a bright ribbon to the simple
toilet, Myeerah had so far forgotten her fears as to take a shy
pleasure in the picture of herself in the mirror. As for Betty, she
gave vent to a little cry of delight. "Oh, you are perfectly
lovely," cried Betty. "In that gown no one would know you as a
Wyandot princess."

"Myeerah's mother was a white woman."

"I have heard your story, Myeerah, and it is wonderful. You must
tell me all about your life with the Indians. You speak my language
almost as well as I do. Who taught you?"

"Myeerah learned to talk with the White Eagle. She can speak French
with the Coureurs-des-bois."

"That's more than I can do, Myeerah. And I had French teacher," said
Betty, laughing.

"Hello, up there," came Isaac's voice from below.

"Come up, Isaac," called Betty.

"Is this my Indian sweetheart?" exclaimed Isaac, stopping at the
door. "Betty, isn't she--"

"Yes," answered Betty, "she is simply beautiful."

"Come, Myeerah, we must go down to supper," said Isaac, taking her
in his arms and kissing her. "Now you must not be afraid, nor mind
being looked at."

"Everyone will be kind to you," said Betty, taking her hand. Myeerah
had slipped from Isaac's arm and hesitated and hung back. "Come,"
continued Betty, "I will stay with you, and you need not talk if you
do not wish."

Thus reassured Myeerah allowed Betty to lead her down stairs. Isaac
had gone ahead and was waiting at the door.

The big room was brilliantly lighted with pine knots. Mrs. Zane was
arranging the dishes on the table. Old Sam and Annie were hurrying
to and fro from the kitchen. Col. Zane had just come up the cellar
stairs carrying a mouldy looking cask. From its appearance it might
have been a powder keg, but the merry twinkle in the Colonel's eyes
showed that the cask contained something as precious, perhaps, as
powder, but not quite so dangerous. It was a cask of wine over
thirty years old. With Col. Zane's other effects it had stood the
test of the long wagon-train journey over the Virginia mountains,
and of the raft-ride down the Ohio. Col. Zane thought the feast he
had arranged for Isaac would be a fitting occasion for the breaking
of the cask.

Major McCullough, Capt. Boggs and Hugh Bennet had been invited.
Wetzel had been persuaded to come. Betty's friends Lydia and Alice
were there.

As Isaac, with an air of pride, led the two girls into the room Old
Sam saw them and he exclaimed, "For de Lawd's sakes, Marsh Zane,
dar's two pippins, sure can't tell 'em from one anudder."

Betty and Myeerah did resemble each other. They were of about the
same size, tall and slender. Betty was rosy, bright-eyed and
smiling; Myeerah was pale one moment and red the next.

"Friends, this is Myeerah, the daughter of Tarhe," said Isaac
simply. "We are to be married to-morrow."

"Oh, why did you not tell me?" asked Betty in great surprise. "She
said nothing about it."

"You see Myeerah has that most excellent trait in a woman--knowing
when to keep silent," answered Isaac with a smile.

The door opened at this moment, admitting Will Martin and Alfred
Clarke.

"Everybody is here now, Bessie, and I guess we may as well sit down
to supper," said Col. Zane. "And, good friends, let me say that this
is an occasion for rejoicing. It is not so much a marriage that I
mean. That we might have any day if Lydia or Betty would show some
of the alacrity which got a good husband for Alice. Isaac is a free
man and we expect his marriage will bring about peace with a
powerful tribe of Indians. To us, and particularly to you, young
people, that is a matter of great importance. The friendship of the
Hurons cannot but exert an influence on other tribes. I, myself, may
live to see the day that my dream shall be realized--peaceful and
friendly relations with the Indians, the freedom of the soil,
well-tilled farms and growing settlements, and at last, the opening
of this glorious country to the world. Therefore, let us rejoice;
let every one be happy; let your gayest laugh ring out, and tell
your best story."

Betty had blushed painfully at the entrance of Alfred and again at
the Colonel's remark. To add to her embarrassment she found herself
seated opposite Alfred at the table. This was the first time he had
been near her since the Sunday at the meeting-house, and the
incident had a singular effect on Betty. She found herself
possessed, all at once, of an unaccountable shyness, and she could
not lift her eyes from her plate. But at length she managed to steal
a glance at Alfred. She failed to see any signs in his beaming face
of the broken spirit of which her brother had hinted. He looked very
well indeed. He was eating his dinner like any other healthy man,
and talking and laughing with Lydia. This developed another
unaccountable feeling in Betty, but this time it was resentment. Who
ever heard of a man, who was as much in love as his letter said,
looking well and enjoying himself with any other than the object of
his affections? He had got over it, that was all. Just then Alfred
turned and gazed full into Betty's eyes. She lowered them instantly,
but not so quickly that she failed to see in his a reproach.

"You are going to stay with us a while, are you not?" asked Betty of
Isaac.

"No, Betts, not more than a day or so. Now, do not look so
distressed. I do not go back as a prisoner. Myeerah and I can often
come and visit you. But just now I want to get back and try to
prevent the Delawares from urging Tarhe to war."

"Isaac, I believe you are doing the wisest thing possible," said
Capt. Boggs. "And when I look at your bride-to-be I confess I do not
see how you remained single so long."

"That's so, Captain," answered Isaac. "But you see, I have never
been satisfied or contented in captivity, I wanted nothing but to be
free."

"In other words, you were blind," remarked Alfred, smiling at Isaac.

"Yes, Alfred, was. And I imagine had you been in my place you would
have discovered the beauty and virtue of my Princess long before I
did. Nevertheless, please do not favor Myeerah with so many admiring
glances. She is not used to it. And that reminds me that I must
expect trouble tomorrow. All you fellows will want to kiss her."

"And Betty is going to be maid of honor. She, too, will have her
troubles," remarked Col. Zane.

"Think of that, Alfred," said Isaac "A chance to kiss the two
prettiest girls on the border--a chance of a lifetime."

"It is customary, is it not?" said Alfred coolly.

"Yes, it's a custom, if you can catch the girl," answered Col. Zane.

Betty's face flushed at Alfred's cool assumption. How dared he? In
spite of her will she could not resist the power that compelled her
to look at him. As plainly as if it were written there, she saw in
his steady blue eyes the light of a memory--the memory of a kiss.
And Betty dropped her head, her face burning, her heart on fire with
shame, and love, and regret.

"It'll be a good chance for me, too," said Wetzel. His remark
instantly turned attention to himself.

"The idea is absurd," said Isaac. "Why, Lew Wetzel, you could not be
made to kiss any girl."

"I would not be backward about it," said Col. Zane.

"You have forgotten the fuss you made when the boys were kissing
me," said Mrs. Zane with a fine scorn.

"My dear," said Col. Zane, in an aggrieved tone, "I did not make so
much of a fuss, as you call it, until they had kissed you a great
many times more than was reasonable."

"Isaac, tell us one thing more," said Capt. Boggs. "How did Myeerah
learn of your capture by Cornplanter? Surely she could not have
trailed you?"

"Will you tell us?" said Isaac to Myeerah.

"A bird sang it to me," answered Myeerah.

"She will never tell, that is certain," said Isaac. "And for that
reason I believe Simon Girty got word to her that I was in the hands
of Cornplanter. At the last moment when the Indians were lashing me
to the stake Girty came to me and said he must have been too late."

"Yes, Girty might have done that," said Col. Zane. "I suppose,
though he dared not interfere in behalf of poor Crawford."

"Isaac, Can you get Myeerah to talk? I love to hear her speak," said
Betty, in an aside.

"Myeerah, will you sing a Huron love-song?" said Isaac "Or, if you
do not wish to sing, tell a story. I want them to know how well you
can speak our language."

"What shall Myeerah say?" she said, shyly.

"Tell them the legend of the Standing Stone."

"A beautiful Indian girl once dwelt in the pine forests," began
Myeerah, with her eyes cast down and her hand seeking Isaac's. "Her
voice was like rippling waters, her beauty like the rising sun. From
near and from far came warriors to see the fair face of this maiden.
She smiled on them all and they called her Smiling Moon. Now there
lived on the Great Lake a Wyandot chief. He was young and bold. No
warrior was as great as Tarhe. Smiling Moon cast a spell on his
heart. He came many times to woo her and make her his wife. But
Smiling Moon said: 'Go, do great deeds, an come again.'

"Tarhe searched the east and the west. He brought her strange gifts
from strange lands. She said: 'Go and slay my enemies.' Tarhe went
forth in his war paint and killed the braves who named her Smiling
Moon. He came again to her and she said: 'Run swifter than the deer,
be more cunning than the beaver, dive deeper than the loon.'

"Tarhe passed once more to the island where dwelt Smiling Moon. The
ice was thick, the snow was deep. Smiling Moon turned not from her
warm fire as she said: 'The chief is a great warrior, but Smiling
Moon is not easily won. It is cold. Change winter into summer and
then Smiling Moon will love him.'

"Tarhe cried in a loud voice to the Great Spirit: 'Make me a
master.'

"A voice out of the forest answered: 'Tarhe, great warrior, wise
chief, waste not thy time, go back to thy wigwam.'

"Tarhe unheeding cried 'Tarhe wins or dies. Make him a master so
that he may drive the ice northward.'

"Stormed the wild tempest; thundered the rivers of ice; chill blew
the north wind, the cold northwest wind, against the mild south
wind; snow-spirits and hail-spirits fled before the warm raindrops;
the white mountains melted, and lo! it was summer.

"On the mountain top Tarhe waited for his bride. Never wearying,
ever faithful he watched many years. There he turned to stone. There
he stands to-day, the Standing Stone of ages. And Smiling Moon,
changed by the Great Spirit into the Night Wind, forever wails her
lament at dusk through the forest trees, and moans over the mountain
tops."

Myeerah's story elicited cheers and praises from all. She was
entreated to tell another, but smilingly shook her head. Now that
her shyness had worn off to some extent she took great interest in
the jest and the general conversation.

Col. Zane's fine old wine flowed like water. The custom was to fill
a guest's cup as soon as it was empty. Drinking much was rather
encouraged than otherwise. But Col. Zane never allowed this custom
to go too far in his house.

"Friends, the hour grows late," he said. "To-morrow, after the great
event, we shall have games, shooting matches, running races, and
contests of all kinds. Capt. Boggs and I have arranged to give
prizes, and I expect the girls can give something to lend a zest to
the competition."

"Will the girls have a chance in these races?" asked Isaac. "If so,
I should like to see Betty and Myeerah run."

"Betty can outrun any woman, red or white, on the border," said
Wetzel. "And she could make some of the men run their level best."

"Well, perhaps we shall give her one opportunity to-morrow,"
observed the Colonel. "She used to be good at running but it seems
to me that of late she has taken to books and--"

"Oh, Eb! that is untrue," interrupted Betty.

Col. Zane laughed and patted his sister's cheek. "Never mind,
Betty," and then, rising, he continued, "Now let us drink to the
bride and groom-to-be. Capt. Boggs, I call on you."

"We drink to the bride's fair beauty; we drink to the groom's good
luck," said Capt. Boggs, raising his cup.

"Do not forget the maid-of-honor," said Isaac.

"Yes, and the maid-of-honor. Mr. Clarke, will you say something
appropriate?" asked Col. Zane.

Rising, Clarke said: "I would be glad to speak fittingly on this
occasion, but I do not think I can do it justice. I believe as Col.
Zane does, that this Indian Princess is the first link in that chain
of peace which will some day unite the red men and the white men.
Instead of the White Crane she should be called the White Dove.
Gentlemen, rise and drink to her long life and happiness."

The toast was drunk. Then Clarke refilled his cup and holding it
high over his head he looked at Betty.

"Gentlemen, to the maid-of-honor. Miss Zane, your health, your
happiness, in this good old wine."

"I thank you," murmured Betty with downcast eyes. "I bid you all
good-night. Come, Myeerah."

Once more alone with Betty, the Indian girl turned to her with eyes
like twin stars.

"My sister has made me very happy," whispered Myeerah in her soft,
low voice. "Myeerah's heart is full."

"I believe you are happy, for I know you love Isaac dearly."

"Myeerah has always loved him. She will love his sister."

"And I will love you," said Betty. "I will love you because you have
saved him. Ah! Myeerah, yours has been wonderful, wonderful love."

"My sister is loved," whispered Myeerah. "Myeerah saw the look in
the eyes of the great hunter. It was the sad light of the moon on
the water. He loves you. And the other looked at my sister with eyes
like the blue of northern skies. He, too, loves you."

"Hush!" whispered Betty, trembling and hiding her face. "Hush!
Myeerah, do not speak of him."



CHAPTER XI.

He following afternoon the sun shone fair and warm; the sweet smell
of the tan-bark pervaded the air and the birds sang their gladsome
songs. The scene before the grim battle-scarred old fort was not
without its picturesqueness. The low vine-covered cabins on the hill
side looked more like picture houses than like real habitations of
men; the mill with its burned-out roof--a reminder of the
Indians--and its great wheel, now silent and still, might have been
from its lonely and dilapidated appearance a hundred years old.

On a little knoll carpeted with velvety grass sat Isaac and his
Indian bride. He had selected this vantage point because it afforded
a fine view of the green square where the races and the matches were
to take place. Admiring women stood around him and gazed at his
wife. They gossiped in whispers about her white skin, her little
hands, her beauty. The girls stared with wide open and wondering
eyes. The youngsters ran round and round the little group; they
pushed each other over, and rolled in the long grass, and screamed
with delight.

It was to be a gala occasion and every man, woman and child in the
settlement had assembled on the green. Col. Zane and Sam were
planting a post in the center of the square. It was to be used in
the shooting matches. Capt. Boggs and Major McColloch were arranging
the contestants in order. Jonathan Zane, Will Martin, Alfred
Clarke--all the young men were carefully charging and priming their
rifles. Betty was sitting on the black stallion which Col. Zane had
generously offered as first prize. She was in the gayest of moods
and had just coaxed Isaac to lift her on the tall horse, from which
height she purposed watching the sports. Wetzel alone did not seem
infected by the spirit of gladsomeness which pervaded. He stood
apart leaning on his long rifle and taking no interest in the
proceedings behind him. He was absorbed in contemplating the forest
on the opposite shore of the river.

"Well, boys, I guess we are ready for the fun," called Col. Zane,
cheerily. "Only one shot apiece, mind you, except in case of a tie.
Now, everybody shoot his best."

The first contest was a shooting match known as "driving the nail."
It was as the name indicated, nothing less than shooting at the head
of a nail. In the absence of a nail--for nails were scarce--one was
usually fashioned from a knife blade, or an old file, or even a
piece of silver. The nail was driven lightly into the stake, the
contestants shot at it from a distance as great as the eyesight
permitted. To drive the nail hard and fast into the wood at one
hundred yards was a feat seldom accomplished. By many hunters it was
deemed more difficult than "snuffing the candle," another border
pastime, which consisted of placing in the dark at any distance a
lighted candle, and then putting out the flame with a single rifle
ball. Many settlers, particularly those who handled the plow more
than the rifle, sighted from a rest, and placed a piece of moss
under the rife-barrel to prevent its spring at the discharge.

The match began. Of the first six shooters Jonathan Zane and Alfred
Clarke scored the best shots. Each placed a bullet in the half-inch
circle round the nail.

"Alfred, very good, indeed," said Col. Zane. "You have made a
decided improvement since the last shooting-match."

Six other settlers took their turns. All were unsuccessful in
getting a shot inside the little circle. Thus a tie between Alfred
and Jonathan had to be decided.

"Shoot close, Alfred," yelled Isaac. "I hope you beat him. He always
won from me and then crowed over it."

Alfred's second shot went wide of the mark, and as Jonathan placed
another bullet in the circle, this time nearer the center, Alfred
had to acknowledge defeat.

"Here comes Miller," said Silas Zane. "Perhaps he will want a try."

Col. Zane looked round. Miller had joined the party. He carried his
rifle and accoutrements, and evidently had just returned to the
settlement. He nodded pleasantly to all.

"Miller, will you take a shot for the first prize, which I was about
to award to Jonathan?" said Col. Zane.

"No. I am a little late, and not entitled to a shot. I will take a
try for the others," answered Miller.

At the arrival of Miller on the scene Wetzel had changed his
position to one nearer the crowd. The dog, Tige, trotted closely at
his heels. No one heard Tige's low growl or Wetzel's stern word to
silence him. Throwing his arm over Betty's pony, Wetzel apparently
watched the shooters. In reality he studied intently Miller's every
movement.

"I expect some good shooting for this prize," said Col. Zane, waving
a beautifully embroidered buckskin bullet pouch, which was one of
Betty's donations.

Jonathan having won his prize was out of the lists and could compete
no more. This entitled Alfred to the first shot for second prize. He
felt he would give anything he possessed to win the dainty trifle
which the Colonel had waved aloft. Twice he raised his rifle in his
exceeding earnestness to score a good shot and each time lowered the
barrel. When finally he did shoot the bullet embedded itself in the
second circle. It was a good shot, but he knew it would never win
that prize.

"A little nervous, eh?" remarked Miller, with a half sneer on his
swarthy face.

Several young settlers followed in succession, but their aims were
poor. Then little Harry Bennet took his stand. Harry had won many
prizes in former matches, and many of the pioneers considered him
one of the best shots in the country.

"Only a few more after you, Harry," said Col. Zane. "You have a good
chance."

"All right, Colonel. That's Betty's prize and somebody'll have to do
some mighty tall shootin' to beat me," said the lad, his blue eyes
flashing as he toed the mark.

Shouts and cheers of approval greeted his attempt. The bullet had
passed into the wood so close to the nail that a knife blade could
not have been inserted between.

Miller's turn came next. He was a fine marksman and he knew it. With
the confidence born of long experience and knowledge of his weapon,
he took a careful though quick aim and fired. He turned away
satisfied that he would carry off the coveted prize. He had nicked
the nail.

But Miller reckoned without his host. Betty had seen the result of
his shot and the self-satisfied smile on his face. She watched
several of the settlers make poor attempts at the nail, and then,
convinced that not one of the other contestants could do so well as
Miller, she slipped off the horse and ran around to where Wetzel was
standing by her pony.

"Lew, I believe Miller will win my prize," she whispered, placing
her hand on the hunter's arm. "He has scratched the nail, and I am
sure no one except you can do better. I do not want Miller to have
anything of mine."

"And, little girl, you want me to shoot fer you," said Lewis.

"Yes, Lew, please come and shoot for me."

It was said of Wetzel that he never wasted powder. He never entered
into the races and shooting-matches of the settlers, yet it was well
known that he was the fleetest runner and the most unerring shot on
the frontier. Therefore, it was with surprise and pleasure that Col.
Zane heard the hunter say he guessed he would like one shot anyway.

Miller looked on with a grim smile. He knew that, Wetzel or no
Wetzel, it would take a remarkably clever shot to beat his.

"This shot's for Betty," said Wetzel as he stepped to the mark. He
fastened his keen eyes on the stake. At that distance the head of
the nail looked like a tiny black speck. Wetzel took one of the
locks of hair that waved over his broad shoulders and held it up in
front of his eyes a moment. He thus ascertained that there was not
any perceptible breeze. The long black barrel started slowly to
rise--it seemed to the interested onlookers that it would never
reach a level and when, at last, it became rigid, there was a single
second in which man and rifle appeared as if carved out of stone.
Then followed a burst of red flame, a puff of white smoke, a clear
ringing report.

Many thought the hunter had missed altogether. It seemed that the
nail had not changed its position; there was no bullet hole in the
white lime wash that had been smeared round the nail. But on close
inspection the nail was found to have been driven to its head in the
wood.

"A wonderful shot!" exclaimed Col. Zane. "Lewis, I don't remember
having seen the like more than once or twice in my life."

Wetzel made no answer. He moved away to his former position and
commenced to reload his rifle. Betty came running up to him, holding
in her hand the prize bullet pouch.

"Oh, Lew, if I dared I would kiss you. It pleases me more for you to
have won my prize than if any one else had won it. And it was the
finest, straightest shot ever made."

"Betty, it's a little fancy for redskins, but it'll be a keepsake,"
answered Lewis, his eyes reflecting the bright smile on her face.

Friendly rivalry in feats that called for strength, speed and daring
was the diversion of the youth of that period, and the pioneers
conducted this good-natured but spirited sport strictly on its
merits. Each contestant strove his utmost to outdo his opponent. It
was hardly to be expected that Alfred would carry off any of the
laurels. Used as he had been to comparative idleness he was no match
for the hardy lads who had been brought up and trained to a life of
action, wherein a ten mile walk behind a plow, or a cord of wood
chopped in a day, were trifles. Alfred lost in the foot-race and the
sackrace, but by dint of exerting himself to the limit of his
strength, he did manage to take one fall out of the best wrestler.
He was content to stop here, and, throwing himself on the grass,
endeavored to recover his breath. He felt happier today than for
some time past. Twice during the afternoon he had met Betty's eyes
and the look he encountered there made his heart stir with a strange
feeling of fear and hope. While he was ruminating on what had
happened between Betty and himself he allowed his eyes to wander
from one person to another. When his gaze alighted on Wetzel it
became riveted there. The hunter's attitude struck him as singular.
Wetzel had his face half turned toward the boys romping near him and
he leaned carelessly against a white oak tree. But a close observer
would have seen, as Alfred did, that there was a certain alertness
in that rigid and motionless figure. Wetzel's eyes were fixed on the
western end of the island. Almost involuntarily Alfred's eyes sought
the same direction. The western end of the island ran out into a
long low point covered with briars, rushes and saw-grass. As Alfred
directed his gaze along the water line of this point he distinctly
saw a dark form flit from one bush to another. He was positive he
had not been mistaken. He got up slowly and unconcernedly, and
strolled over to Wetzel.

"Wetzel, I saw an object just now," he said in a low tone. "It was
moving behind those bushes at the head of the island. I am not sure
whether it was an animal or an Indian."

"Injuns. Go back and be natur'l like. Don't say nothin' and watch
Miller," whispered Wetzel.

Much perturbed by the developments of the last few moments, and
wondering what was going to happen, Alfred turned away. He had
scarcely reached the others when he heard Betty's voice raised in
indignant protest.

"I tell you I did swim my pony across the river," cried Betty. "It
was just even with that point and the river was higher than it is
now."

"You probably overestimated your feat," said Miller, with his
disagreeable, doubtful smile. "I have seen the river so low that it
could be waded, and then it would be a very easy matter to cross.
But now your pony could not swim half the distance."

"I'll show you," answered Betty, her black eyes flashing. She put
her foot in the stirrup and leaped on Madcap.

"Now, Betty, don't try that foolish ride again," implored Mrs. Zane.
"What do you care whether strangers believe or not? Eb, make her
come back."

Col. Bane only laughed and made no attempt to detain Betty. He
rather indulged her caprices.

"Stop her!" cried Clarke.

"Betty, where are you goin'?" said Wetzel, grabbing at Madcap's
bridle. But Betty was too quick for him. She avoided the hunter, and
with a saucy laugh she wheeled the fiery little pony and urged her
over the bank. Almost before any one could divine her purpose she
had Madcap in the water up to her knees.

"Betty, stop!" cried Wetzel.

She paid no attention to his call. In another moment the pony would
be off the shoal and swimming.

"Stop! Turn back, Betty, or I'll shoot the pony," shouted Wetzel,
and this time there was a ring of deadly earnestness in his voice.
With the words he had cocked and thrown forward the long rifle.

Betty heard, and in alarm she turned her pony. She looked up with
great surprise and concern, for she knew Wetzel was not one to
trifle.

"For God's sake!" exclaimed Colonel Zane, looking in amazement at
the hunter's face, which was now white and stern.

"Why, Lew, you do not mean you would shoot Madcap?" said Betty,
reproachfully, as she reached the shore.

All present in that watching crowd were silent, awaiting the
hunter's answer. They felt that mysterious power which portends the
revelation of strange events. Col. Zane and Jonathan knew the
instant they saw Wetzel that something extraordinary was coming. His
face had grown cold and gray; his lips were tightly compressed; his
eyes dilated and shone with a peculiar lustre.

"Where were you headin' your pony?" asked Wetzel.

"I wanted to reach that point where the water is shallow," answered
Betty.

"That's what I thought. Well, Betty, hostile Injuns are hidin' and
waitin' fer you in them high rushes right where you were makin'
fer," said Wetzel. Then he shouldered his rifle and walked rapidly
away.

"Oh, he cannot be serious!" cried Betty. "Oh, how foolish am I."

"Get back up from the river, everybody," commanded Col. Zane.

"Col. Zane," said Clarke, walking beside the Colonel up the bank, "I
saw Wetzel watching the island in a manner that I thought odd, under
the circumstances, and I watched too. Presently I saw a dark form
dart behind a bush. I went over and told Wetzel, and he said there
were Indians on the island."

"This is most d--n strange," said Col. Zane, frowning heavily.
"Wetzel's suspicions, Miller turns up, teases Betty attempting that
foolhardy trick, and then--Indians! It may be a coincidence, but it
looks bad."

"Col. Zane, don't you think Wetzel may be mistaken?" said Miller,
coming up. "I came over from the other side this morning and I did
not see any Indian sign. Probably Wetzel has caused needless
excitement."

"It does not follow that because you came from over the river there
are no Indians there," answered Col. Zane, sharply. "Do you presume
to criticise Wetzel's judgment?"

"I saw an Indian!" cried Clarke, facing Miller with blazing eyes.
"And if you say I did not, you lie! What is more, I believe you know
more than any one else about it. I watched you. I saw you were
uneasy and that you looked across the river from time to time.
Perhaps you had better explain to Col. Zane the reason you taunted
his sister into attempting that ride."

With a snarl more like that of a tiger than of a human being, Miller
sprang at Clarke. His face was dark with malignant hatred, as he
reached for and drew an ugly knife. There were cries of fright from
the children and screams from the women. Alfred stepped aside with
the wonderful quickness of the trained boxer and shot out his right
arm. His fist caught Miller a hard blow on the head, knocking him
down and sending the knife flying in the air.

It had all happened so quickly that everyone was as if paralyzed.
The settlers stood still and watched Miller rise slowly to his feet.

"Give me my knife!" he cried hoarsely. The knife had fallen at the
feet of Major McColloch, who had concealed it with his foot.

"Let this end right here," ordered Col. Zane. "Clarke, you have made
a very strong statement. Have you anything to substantiate your
words?"

"I think I have," said Clarke. He was standing erect, his face white
and his eyes like blue steel. "I knew him at Ft. Pitt. He was a liar
and a drunkard there. He was a friend of the Indians and of the
British. What he was there he must be here. It was Wetzel who told
me to watch him. Wetzel and I both think he knew the Indians were on
the island."

"Col. Zane, it is false," said Miller, huskily. "He is trying to put
you against me. He hates me because your sister--"

"You cur!" cried Clarke, striking at Miller. Col. Zane struck up the
infuriated young man's arm.

"Give us knives, or anything," panted Clarke.

"Yes, let us fight it out now," said Miller.

"Capt. Boggs, take Clarke to the block-house. Make him stay there if
you have to lock him up," commanded Col. Zane. "Miller, as for you,
I cannot condemn you without proof. If I knew positively that there
were Indians on the island and that you were aware of it, you would
be a dead man in less time than it takes to say it. I will give you
the benefit of the doubt and twenty-four hours to leave the Fort."

The villagers dispersed and went to their homes. They were inclined
to take Clarke's side. Miller had become disliked. His drinking
habits and his arrogant and bold manner had slowly undermined the
friendships he had made during the early part of his stay at Ft.
Henry; while Clarke's good humor and willingness to help any one,
his gentleness with the children, and his several acts of heroism
had strengthened their regard.

"Jonathan, this looks like some of Girty's work. I wish I knew the
truth," said Col. Zane, as he, his brothers and Betty and Myeerah
entered the house. "Confound it! We can't have even one afternoon of
enjoyment. I must see Lewis. I cannot be sure of Clarke. He is
evidently bitter against Miller. That would have been a terrible
fight. Those fellows have had trouble before, and I am afraid we
have not seen the last of their quarrel."

"If they meet again--but how can you keep them apart?" said Silas.
"If Miller leaves the Fort without killing Clarke he'll hide around
in the woods and wait for a chance to shoot him."

"Not with Wetzel here," answered Col. Zane. "Betty, do you see what
your--" he began, turning to his sister, but when he saw her white
and miserable face he said no more.

"Don't mind, Betts. It wasn't any fault of yours," said Isaac,
putting his arm tenderly round the trembling girl. "I for another
believe Clarke was right when he said Miller knew there were Indians
over the river. It looks like a plot to abduct you. Have no fear for
Alfred. He can take care of himself. He showed that pretty well."

An hour later Clarke had finished his supper and was sitting by his
window smoking his pipe. His anger had cooled somewhat and his
reflections were not of the pleasantest kind. He regretted that he
lowered himself so far as to fight with a man little better than an
outlaw. Still there was a grim satisfaction in the thought of the
blow he had given Miller. He remembered he had asked for a knife and
that his enemy and he be permitted to fight to the death. After all
to have ended, then and there, the feud between them would have been
the better course; for he well knew Miller's desperate character,
that he had killed more than one white man, and that now a fair
fight might not be possible. Well, he thought, what did it matter?
He was not going to worry himself. He did not care much, one way or
another. He had no home; he could not make one without the woman he
loved. He was a Soldier of Fortune; he was at the mercy of Fate, and
he would drift along and let what came be welcome. A soft footfall
on the stairs and a knock on the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Come in," he said.

The door opened and Wetzel strode into the room.

"I come over to say somethin' to you," said the hunter taking the
chair by the window and placing his rifle over his knee.

"I will be pleased to listen or talk, as you desire," said Alfred.

"I don't mind tellin' you that the punch you give Miller was what he
deserved. If he and Girty didn't hatch up that trick to ketch Betty,
I don't know nothin'. But we can't prove nothin' on him yet. Mebbe
he knew about the redskins; mebbe he didn't. Personally, I think he
did. But I can't kill a white man because I think somethin'. I'd
have to know fer sure. What I want to say is to put you on your
guard against the baddest man on the river."

"I am aware of that," answered Alfred. "I knew his record at Ft.
Pitt. What would you have me do?"

"Keep close till he's gone."

"That would be cowardly."

"No, it wouldn't. He'd shoot you from behind some tree or cabin."

"Well, I'm much obliged to you for your kind advice, but for all
that I won't stay in the house," said Alfred, beginning to wonder at
the hunter's earnest manner.

"You're in love with Betty, ain't you?"

The question came with Wetzel's usual bluntness and it staggered
Alfred. He could not be angry, and he did not know what to say. The
hunter went on:

"You needn't say so, because I know it. And I know she loves you and
that's why I want you to look out fer Miller."

"My God! man, you're crazy," said Alfred, laughing scornfully. "She
cares nothing for me."

"That's your great failin', young feller. You fly off'en the handle
too easy. And so does Betty. You both care fer each other and are
unhappy about it. Now, you don't know Betty, and she keeps
misunderstandin' you."

"For Heaven's sake! Wetzel, if you know anything tell me. Love her?
Why, the words are weak! I love her so well that an hour ago I would
have welcomed death at Miller's hands only to fall and die at her
feet defending her. Your words set me on fire. What right have you
to say that? How do you know?"

The hunter leaned forward and put his hand on Alfred's shoulder. On
his pale face was that sublime light which comes to great souls when
they give up a life long secret, or when they sacrifice what is best
beloved. His broad chest heaved: his deep voice trembled.

"Listen. I'm not a man fer words, and it's hard to tell. Betty loves
you. I've carried her in my arms when she was a baby. I've made her
toys and played with her when she was a little girl. I know all her
moods. I can read her like I do the moss, and the leaves, and the
bark of the forest. I've loved her all my life. That's why I know
she loves you. I can feel it. Her happiness is the only dear thing
left on earth fer me. And that's why I'm your friend."

In the silence that followed his words the door opened and closed
and he was gone.

        * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Betty awoke with a start. She was wide awake in a second. The
moonbeams came through the leaves of the maple tree near her window
and cast fantastic shadows on the wall of her room. Betty lay quiet,
watching the fairy-like figures on the wall and listening intently.
What had awakened her? The night was still; the crow of a cock in
the distance proclaimed that the hour of dawn was near at hand. She
waited for Tige's bark under her window, or Sam's voice, or the
kicking and trampling of horses in the barn--sounds that usually
broke her slumbers in the morning. But no such noises were
forthcoming. Suddenly she heard a light, quick tap, tap, and then a
rattling in the corner. It was like no sound but that made by a
pebble striking the floor, bounding and rolling across the room.
There it was again. Some one was tossing stones in at her window.
She slipped out of bed, ran, and leaned on the window-sill and
looked out. The moon was going down behind the hill, but there was
light enough for her to distinguish objects. She saw a dark figure
crouching by the fence.

"Who is it?" said Betty, a little frightened, but more curious.

"Sh-h-h, it's Miller," came the answer, spoken in low voice.

The bent form straightened and stood erect. It stepped forward under
Betty's window. The light was dim, but Betty recognized the dark
face of Miller. He carried a rifle in his hand and a pack on his
shoulder.

"Go away, or I'll call my brother. I will not listen to you," said
Betty, making a move to leave the window.

"Sh-h-h, not so loud," said Miller, in a quick, hoarse whisper.
"You'd better listen. I am going across the border to join Girty. He
is going to bring the Indians and the British here to burn the
settlement. If you will go away with me I'll save the lives of your
brothers and their families. I have aided Girty and I have influence
with him. If you won't go you'll be taken captive and you'll see all
your friends and relatives scalped and burned. Quick, your answer."

"Never, traitor! Monster! I'd be burned at the stake before I'd go a
step with you!" cried Betty.

"Then remember that you've crossed a desperate man. If you escape
the massacre you will beg on your knees to me. This settlement is
doomed. Now, go to your white-faced lover. You'll find him cold. Ha!
Ha! Ha!" and with a taunting laugh he leaped the fence and
disappeared in the gloom.

Betty sank to the floor stunned, horrified. She shuddered at the
malignity expressed in Miller's words. How had she ever been
deceived in him? He was in league with Girty. At heart he was a
savage, a renegade. Betty went over his words, one by one.

"Your white-faced lover. You will find him cold," whispered Betty.
"What did he mean?"

Then came the thought. Miller had murdered Clarke. Betty gave one
agonized quiver, as if a knife had been thrust into her side, and
then her paralyzed limbs recovered the power of action. She flew out
into the passage-way and pounded on her brother's door.

"Eb! Eb! Get up! Quickly, for God's sake!" she cried. A smothered
exclamation, a woman's quick voice, the heavy thud of feet striking
the floor followed Betty's alarm. Then the door opened.

"Hello, Betts, what's up?" said Col. Zane, in his rapid voice.

At the same moment the door at the end of the hall opened and Isaac
came out.

"Eb, Betty, I heard voices out doors and in the house. What's the
row?"

"Oh, Isaac! Oh, Eb! Something terrible has happened!" cried Betty,
breathlessly.

"Then it is no time to get excited," said the Colonel, calmly. He
placed his arm round Betty and drew her into the room. "Isaac, get
down the rifles. Now, Betty, time is precious. Tell me quickly,
briefly."

"I was awakened by a stone rolling on the floor. I ran to the window
and saw a man by the fence. He came under my window and I saw it was
Miller. He said he was going to join Girty. He said if I would go
with him he would save the lives of all my relatives. If I would not
they would all be killed, massacred, burned alive, and I would be
taken away as his captive. I told him I'd rather die before I'd go
with him. Then he said we were all doomed, and that my white-faced
lover was already cold. With that he gave a laugh which made my
flesh creep and ran on toward the river. Oh! he has murdered Mr.
Clarke."

"Hell! What a fiend!" cried Col. Zane, hurriedly getting into his
clothes. "Betts, you had a gun in there. Why didn't you shoot him?
Why didn't I pay more attention to Wetzel's advice?"

"You should have allowed Clarke to kill him yesterday," said Isaac.
"Like as not he'll have Girty here with a lot of howling devils.
What's to be done?"

"I'll send Wetzel after him and that'll soon wind up his ball of
yarn," answered Col. Zane.

"Please--go--and find--if Mr. Clarke--"

"Yes, Betty, I'll go at once. You must not lose courage, Betty. It's
quite probable that Miller has killed Alfred and that there's worse
to follow."

"I'll come, Eb, as soon as I have told Myeerah. She is scared half
to death," said Isaac, starting for the door.

"All right, only hurry," said Col. Zane, grabbing his rifle. Without
wasting more words, and lacing up his hunting shirt as he went he
ran out of the room.

The first rays of dawn came streaking in at the window. The chill
gray light brought no cheer with its herald of the birth of another
day. For what might the morning sun disclose? It might shine on a
long line of painted Indians. The fresh breeze from over the river
might bring the long war whoop of the savage.

No wonder Noah and his brother, awakened by the voice of their
father, sat up in their little bed and looked about with frightened
eyes. No wonder Mrs. Zane's face blanched. How many times she had
seen her husband grasp his rifle and run out to meet danger!

"Bessie," said Betty. "If it's true I will not be able to bear it.
It's all my fault."

"Nonsense! You heard Eb say Miller and Clarke had quarreled before.
They hated each other before they ever saw you."

A door banged, quick footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Isaac came
rushing into the room. Betty, deathly pale, stood with her hands
pressed to her bosom, and looked at Isaac with a question in her
eyes that her tongue could not speak.

"Betty, Alfred's badly hurt, but he's alive. I can tell you no more
now," said Isaac. "Bessie, bring your needle, silk linen,
liniment--everything you need for a bad knife wound, and come
quickly."

Betty's haggard face changed as if some warm light had been
reflected on it; her lips moved, and with a sob of thankfulness she
fled to her room.

Two hours later, while Annie was serving breakfast to Betty and
Myeerah, Col. Zane strode into the room.

"Well, one has to eat whatever happens," he said, his clouded face
brightening somewhat. "Betty, there's been bad work, bad work. When
I got to Clarke's room I found him lying on the bed with a knife
sticking in him. As it is we are doubtful about pulling him
through."

"May I see him?" whispered Betty, with pale lips.

"If the worst comes to the worst I'll take you over. But it would do
no good now and would surely unnerve you. He still has a fighting
chance."

"Did they fight, or was Mr. Clarke stabbed in his sleep?"

"Miller climbed into Clarke's window and knifed him in the dark. As
I came over I met Wetzel and told him I wanted him to trail Miller
and find if there is any truth in his threat about Girty and the
Indians. Sam just now found Tige tied fast in the fence corner back
of the barn. That explains the mystery of Miller's getting so near
the house. You know he always took pains to make friends with Tige.
The poor dog was helpless; his legs were tied and his jaws bound
fast. Oh, Miller is as cunning as an Indian! He has had this all
planned out, and he has had more than one arrow to his bow. But, if
I mistake not he has shot his last one."

"Miller must be safe from pursuit by this time," said Betty.

"Safe for the present, yes," answered Col. Zane, "but while Jonathan
and Wetzel live I would not give a snap of my fingers for Miller's
chances. Hello, I hear some one talking. I sent for Jack and the
Major."

The Colonel threw open the door. Wetzel, Major McColloch, Jonathan
and Silas Zane were approaching. They were all heavily armed. Wetzel
was equipped for a long chase. Double leggins were laced round his
legs. A buckskin knapsack was strapped to his shoulders.

"Major, I want you and Jonathan to watch the river," said Col. Zane.
"Silas, you are to go to the mouth of Yellow Creek and reconnoiter.
We are in for a siege. It may be twenty-four hours and it may be ten
days. In the meantime I will get the Fort in shape to meet the
attack. Lewis, you have your orders. Have you anything to suggest?"

"I'll take the dog," answered Wetzel. "He'll save time for me. I'll
stick to Miller's trail and find Girty's forces. I've believed all
along that Miller was helpin' Girty, and I'm thinkin' that where
Miller goes there I'll find Girty and his redskins. If it's night
when I get back I'll give the call of the hoot-owl three times,
quick, so Jack and the Major will know I want to get back across the
river."

"All right, Lewis, we'll be expecting you any time," said Col. Zane.

"Betty, I'm goin' now and I want to tell you somethin'," said
Wetzel, as Betty appeared. "Come as far as the end of the path with
me."

"I'm sorry you must go. But Tige seems delighted," said Betty,
walking beside Wetzel, while the dog ran on before.

"Betty, I wanted to tell you to stay close like to the house, fer
this feller Miller has been layin' traps fer you, and the Injuns is
on the war-path. Don't ride your pony, and stay home now."

"Indeed, I shall never again do anything as foolish as I did
yesterday. I have learned my lesson. And Oh! Lew, I am so grateful
to you for saving me. When will you return to the Fort?"

"Mebbe never, Betty."

"Oh, no. Don't say that. I know all this Indian talk will blow over,
as it always does, and you will come back and everything will be all
right again."

"I hope it'll be as you say, Betty, but there's no tellin', there's
no tellin'."

"You are going to see if the Indians are making preparations to
besiege the Fort?"

"Yes, I am goin' fer that. And if I happen to find Miller on my way
I'll give him Betty's regards."

Betty shivered at his covert meaning. Long ago in a moment of
playfulness, Betty had scratched her name on the hunter's rifle.
Ever after that Wetzel called his fatal weapon by her name.

"If you were going simply to avenge I would not let you go. That
wretch will get his just due some day, never fear for that."

"Betty, 'taint likely he'll get away from me, and if he does there's
Jonathan. This mornin' when we trailed Miller down to the river bank
Jonathan points across the river and says: 'You or me,' and I says:
'Me,' so it's all settled."

"Will Mr. Clarke live?" said Betty, in an altered tone, asking the
question which was uppermost in her mind.

"I think so, I hope so. He's a husky young chap and the cut wasn't
bad. He lost so much blood. That's why he's so weak. If he gets well
he'll have somethin' to tell you."

"Lew, what do you mean?" demanded Betty, quickly.

"Me and him had a long talk last night and--"

"You did not go to him and talk of me, did you?" said Betty,
reproachfully.

They had now reached the end of the path. Wetzel stopped and dropped
the butt of his rifle on the ground. Tige looked on and wagged his
tail. Presently the hunter spoke.

"Yes, we talked about you."

"Oh! Lewis. What did--could you have said?" faltered Betty.

"You think I hadn't ought to speak to him of you?"

"I do not see why you should. Of course you are my good friend, but
he--it is not like you to speak of me."

"Fer once I don't agree with you. I knew how it was with him so I
told him. I knew how it was with you so I told him, and I know how
it is with me, so I told him that too."

"With you?" whispered Betty.

"Yes, with me. That kind of gives me a right, don't it, considerin'
it's all fer your happiness?"

"With you?" echoed Betty in a low tone. She was beginning to realize
that she had not known this man. She looked up at him. His eyes were
misty with an unutterable sadness.

"Oh, no! No! Lew. Say it is not true," she cried, piteously. All in
a moment Betty's burdens became too heavy for her. She wrung her
little hands. Her brother's kindly advice, Bessie's warnings, and
old Grandmother Watkins' words came back to her. For the first time
she believed what they said--that Wetzel loved her. All at once the
scales fell from her eyes and she saw this man as he really was. All
the thousand and one things he had done for her, his simple
teaching, his thoughtfulness, his faithfulness, and his watchful
protection--all came crowding on her as debts that she could never
pay. For now what could she give this man to whom she owed more than
her life? Nothing. It was too late. Her love could have reclaimed
him, could have put an end to that solitary wandering, and have made
him a good, happy man.

"Yes, Betty, it's time to tell it. I've loved you always," he said
softly.

She covered her face and sobbed. Wetzel put his arm round her and
drew her to him until the dark head rested on his shoulder. Thus
they stood a moment.

"Don't cry, little one," he said, tenderly. "Don't grieve fer me. My
love fer you has been the only good in my life. It's been happiness
to love you. Don't think of me. I can see you and Alfred in a happy
home, surrounded by bright-eyed children. There'll be a brave lad
named fer me, and when I come, if I ever do, I'll tell him stories,
and learn him the secrets of the woods, and how to shoot, and things
I know so well."

"I am so wretched--so miserable. To think I have been so--so blind,
and I have teased you--and--it might have been--only now it's too
late," said Betty, between her sobs.

"Yes, I know, and it's better so. This man you love rings true. He
has learnin' and edication. I have nothin' but muscle and a quick
eye. And that'll serve you and Alfred when you are in danger. I'm
goin' now. Stand here till I'm out of sight."

"Kiss me goodbye," whispered Betty.

The hunter bent his head and kissed her on the brow. Then he turned
and with a rapid step went along the bluff toward the west. When he
reached the laurel bushes which fringed the edge of the forest he
looked back. He saw the slender gray clad figure standing motionless
in the narrow path. He waved his hand and then turned and plunged
into the forest. The dog looked back, raised his head and gave a
long, mournful howl. Then, he too disappeared.

A mile west of the settlement Wetzel abandoned the forest and picked
his way down the steep bluff to the river. Here he prepared to swim
to the western shore. He took off his buckskin garments, spread them
out on the ground, placed his knapsack in the middle, and rolling
all into a small bundle tied it round his rifle. Grasping the rifle
just above the hammer he waded into the water up to his waist and
then, turning easily on his back he held the rifle straight up,
allowing the butt to rest on his breast. This left his right arm
unhampered. With a powerful back-arm stroke he rapidly swam the
river, which was deep and narrow at this point. In a quarter of an
hour he was once more in his dry suit.

He was now two miles below the island, where yesterday the Indians
had been concealed, and where this morning Miller had crossed.
Wetzel knew Miller expected to be trailed, and that he would use
every art and cunning of woodcraft to elude his pursuers, or to lead
them into a death-trap. Wetzel believed Miller had joined the
Indians, who had undoubtedly been waiting for him, or for a signal
from him, and that he would use them to ambush the trail.

Therefore Wetzel decided he would try to strike Miller's tracks far
west of the river. He risked a great deal in attempting this because
it was possible he might fail to find any trace of the spy. But
Wetzel wasted not one second. His course was chosen. With all
possible speed, which meant with him walking only when he could not
run, he traveled northwest. If Miller had taken the direction Wetzel
suspected, the trails of the two men would cross about ten miles
from the Ohio. But the hunter had not traversed more than a mile of
the forest when the dog put his nose high in the air and growled.
Wetzel slowed down into a walk and moved cautiously onward, peering
through the green aisles of the woods. A few rods farther on Tige
uttered another growl and put his nose to the ground. He found a
trail. On examination Wetzel discovered in the moss two moccasin
tracks. Two Indians had passed that point that morning. They were
going northwest directly toward the camp of Wingenund. Wetzel stuck
close to the trail all that day and an hour before dusk he heard the
sharp crack of a rifle. A moment afterward a doe came crashing
through the thicket to Wetzel's right and bounding across a little
brook she disappeared.

A tree with a bushy, leafy top had been uprooted by a storm and had
fallen across the stream at this point. Wetzel crawled among the
branches. The dog followed and lay down beside him. Before darkness
set in Wetzel saw that the clear water of the brook had been roiled;
therefore, he concluded that somewhere upstream Indians had waded
into the brook. Probably they had killed a deer and were getting
their evening meal.

Hours passed. Twilight deepened into darkness. One by one the stars
appeared; then the crescent moon rose over the wooded hill in the
west, and the hunter never moved. With his head leaning against the
log he sat quiet and patient. At midnight he whispered to the dog,
and crawling from his hiding place glided stealthily up the stream.
Far ahead from the dark depths of the forest peeped the flickering
light of a camp-fire. Wetzel consumed a half hour in approaching
within one hundred feet of this light. Then he got down on his hands
and knees and crawled behind a tree on top of the little ridge which
had obstructed a view of the camp scene.

From this vantage point Wetzel saw a clear space surrounded by pines
and hemlocks. In the center of this glade a fire burned briskly. Two
Indians lay wrapped in their blankets, sound asleep. Wetzel pressed
the dog close to the ground, laid aside his rifle, drew his
tomahawk, and lying flat on his breast commenced to work his way,
inch by inch, toward the sleeping savages. The tall ferns trembled
as the hunter wormed his way among them, but there was no sound, not
a snapping of a twig nor a rustling of a leaf. The nightwind sighed
softly through the pines; it blew the bright sparks from the burning
logs, and fanned the embers into a red glow; it swept caressingly
over the sleeping savages, but it could not warn them that another
wind, the Wind-of-Death, was near at hand.

A quarter of an hour elapsed. Nearer and nearer; slowly but surely
drew the hunter. With what wonderful patience and self-control did
this cold-blooded Nemesis approach his victims! Probably any other
Indian slayer would have fired his rifle and then rushed to combat
with a knife or a tomahawk. Not so Wetzel. He scorned to use powder.
He crept forward like a snake gliding upon its prey. He slid one
hand in front of him and pressed it down on the moss, at first
gently, then firmly, and when he had secured a good hold he slowly
dragged his body forward the length of his arm. At last his dark
form rose and stood over the unconscious Indians, like a minister of
Doom. The tomahawk flashed once, twice in the firelight, and the
Indians, without a moan, and with a convulsive quivering and
straightening of their bodies, passed from the tired sleep of nature
to the eternal sleep of death.

Foregoing his usual custom of taking the scalps, Wetzel hurriedly
left the glade. He had found that the Indians were Shawnees and he
had expected they were Delawares. He knew Miller's red comrades
belonged to the latter tribe. The presence of Shawnees so near the
settlement confirmed his belief that a concerted movement was to be
made on the whites in the near future. He would not have been
surprised to find the woods full of redskins. He spent the remainder
of that night close under the side of a log with the dog curled up
beside him.

Next morning Wetzel ran across the trail of a white man and six
Indians. He tracked them all that day and half of the night before
he again rested. By noon of the following day he came in sight of
the cliff from which Jonathan Zane had watched the sufferings of
Col. Crawford. Wetzel now made his favorite move, a wide detour, and
came up on the other side of the encampment.

From the top of the bluff he saw down into the village of the
Delawares. The valley was alive with Indians; they were working like
beavers; some with weapons, some painting themselves, and others
dancing war-dances. Packs were being strapped on the backs of
ponies. Everywhere was the hurry and bustle of the preparation for
war. The dancing and the singing were kept up half the night.

At daybreak Wetzel was at his post. A little after sunrise he heard
a long yell which he believed announced the arrival of an important
party. And so it turned out. Amid thrill yelling and whooping, the
like of which Wetzel had never before heard, Simon Girty rode into
Wingenund's camp at the head of one hundred Shawnee warriors and two
hundred British Rangers from Detroit. Wetzel recoiled when he saw
the red uniforms of the Britishers and their bayonets. Including
Pipe's and Wingenund's braves the total force which was going to
march against the Fort exceeded six hundred. An impotent frenzy
possessed Wetzel as he watched the orderly marching of the Rangers
and the proud bearing of the Indian warriors. Miller had spoken the
truth. Ft. Henry vas doomed.

"Tige, there's one of them struttin' turkey cocks as won't see the
Ohio," said Wetzel to the dog.

Hurriedly slipping from round his neck the bullet-pouch that Betty
had given him, he shook out a bullet and with the point of his knife
he scratched deep in the soft lead the letter W. Then he cut the
bullet half through. This done he detached the pouch from the cord
and running the cord through the cut in the bullet he bit the lead.
He tied the string round the neck of the dog and pointing eastward
he said: "Home."

The intelligent animal understood perfectly. His duty was to get
that warning home. His clear brown eyes as much as said: "I will not
fail." He wagged his tail, licked the hunter's hand, bounded away
and disappeared in the forest.

Wetzel rested easier in mind. He knew the dog would stop for
nothing, and that he stood a far better chance of reaching the Fort
in safety than did he himself.

With a lurid light in his eyes Wetzel now turned to the Indians. He
would never leave that spot without sending a leaden messenger into
the heart of someone in that camp. Glancing on all sides he at
length selected a place where it was possible he might approach near
enough to the camp to get a shot. He carefully studied the lay of
the ground, the trees, rocks, bushes, grass,--everything that could
help screen him from the keen eye of savage scouts. When he had
marked his course he commenced his perilous descent. In an hour he
had reached the bottom of the cliff. Dropping flat on the ground, he
once more started his snail-like crawl. A stretch of swampy ground,
luxuriant with rushes and saw-grass, made a part of the way easy for
him, though it led through mud, and slime, and stagnant water. Frogs
and turtles warming their backs in the sunshine scampered in alarm
from their logs. Lizards blinked at him. Moccasin snakes darted
wicked forked tongues at him and then glided out of reach of his
tomahawk. The frogs had stopped their deep bass notes. A
swamp-blackbird rose in fright from her nest in the saw-grass, and
twittering plaintively fluttered round and round over the pond. The
flight of the bird worried Wetzel. Such little things as these might
attract the attention of some Indian scout. But he hoped that in the
excitement of the war preparations these unusual disturbances would
escape notice. At last he gained the other side of the swamp. At the
end of the cornfield before him was the clump of laurel which he had
marked from the cliff as his objective point. The Indian corn was
now about five feet high. Wetzel passed through this field unseen.
He reached the laurel bushes, where he dropped to the ground and lay
quiet a few minutes. In the dash which he would soon make to the
forest he needed all his breath and all his fleetness. He looked to
the right to see how far the woods was from where he lay. Not more
than one hundred feet. He was safe. Once in the dark shade of those
trees, and with his foes behind him, he could defy the whole race of
Delawares. He looked to his rifle, freshened the powder in the pan,
carefully adjusted the flint, and then rose quietly to his feet.

Wetzel's keen gaze, as he swept it from left to right, took in every
detail of the camp. He was almost in the village. A tepee stood not
twenty feet from his hiding-place. He could have tossed a stone in
the midst of squaws, and braves, and chiefs. The main body of
Indians was in the center of the camp. The British were lined up
further on. Both Indians and soldiers were resting on their arms and
waiting. Suddenly Wetzel started and his heart leaped. Under a maple
tree not one hundred and fifty yards distant stood four men in
earnest consultation. One was an Indian. Wetzel recognized the
fierce, stern face, the haughty, erect figure. He knew that long,
trailing war-bonnet. It could have adorned the head of but one
chief--Wingenund, the sachem of the Delawares. A British officer,
girdled and epauletted, stood next to Wingenund. Simon Girty, the
renegade, and Miller, the traitor, completed the group.

Wetzel sank to his knees. The perspiration poured from his face. The
mighty hunter trembled, but it was from eagerness. Was not Girty,
the white savage, the bane of the poor settlers, within range of a
weapon that never failed? Was not the murderous chieftain, who had
once whipped and tortured him, who had burned Crawford alive, there
in plain sight? Wetzel revelled a moment in fiendish glee. He passed
his hands tenderly over the long barrel of his rifle. In that moment
as never before he gloried in his power--a power which enabled him
to put a bullet in the eye of a squirrel at the distance these men
were from him. But only for an instant did the hunter yield to this
feeling. He knew too well the value of time and opportunity.

He rose again to his feet and peered out from under the shading
laurel branches. As he did so the dark face of Miller turned full
toward him. A tremor, like the intense thrill of a tiger when he is
about to spring, ran over Wetzel's frame. In his mad gladness at
being within rifle-shot of his great Indian foe, Wetzel had
forgotten the man he had trailed for two days. He had forgotten
Miller. He had only one shot--and Betty was to be avenged. He
gritted his teeth. The Delaware chief was as safe as though he were
a thousand miles away. This opportunity for which Wetzel had waited
so many years, and the successful issue of which would have gone so
far toward the fulfillment of a life's purpose, was worse than
useless. A great temptation assailed the hunter.

Wetzel's face was white when he raised the rifle; his dark eye,
gleaming vengefully, ran along the barrel. The little bead on the
front sight first covered the British officer, and then the broad
breast of Girty. It moved reluctantly and searched out the heart of
Wingenund, where it lingered for a fleeting instant. At last it
rested upon the swarthy face of Miller.

"Fer Betty," muttered the hunter, between his clenched teeth as he
pressed the trigger.

The spiteful report awoke a thousand echoes. When the shot broke the
stillness Miller was talking and gesticulating. His hand dropped
inertly; he stood upright for a second, his head slowly bowing and
his body swaying perceptibly. Then he plunged forward like a log,
his face striking the sand. He never moved again. He was dead even
before he struck the ground.

Blank silence followed this tragic denouement. Wingenund, a cruel
and relentless Indian, but never a traitor, pointed to the small
bloody hole in the middle of Miller's forehead, and then nodded his
head solemnly. The wondering Indians stood aghast. Then with loud
yells the braves ran to the cornfield; they searched the laurel
bushes. But they only discovered several moccasin prints in the
sand, and a puff of white smoke wafting away upon the summer breeze.



CHAPTER XII.

Alfred Clarke lay between life and death. Miller's knife-thrust,
although it had made a deep and dangerous wound, had not pierced any
vital part; the amount of blood lost made Alfred's condition
precarious. Indeed, he would not have lived through that first day
but for a wonderful vitality. Col. Zane's wife, to whom had been
consigned the delicate task of dressing the wound, shook her head
when she first saw the direction of the cut. She found on a closer
examination that the knife-blade had been deflected by a rib, and
had just missed the lungs. The wound was bathed, sewed up, and
bandaged, and the greatest precaution taken to prevent the sufferer
from loosening the linen. Every day when Mrs. Zane returned from the
bedside of the young man she would be met at the door by Betty, who,
in that time of suspense, had lost her bloom, and whose pale face
showed the effects of sleepless nights.

"Betty, would you mind going over to the Fort and relieving Mrs.
Martin an hour or two?" said Mrs. Zane one day as she came home,
looking worn and weary. "We are both tired to death, and Nell Metzar
was unable to come. Clarke is unconscious, and will not know you,
besides he is sleeping now."

Betty hurried over to Capt. Boggs' cabin, next the blockhouse, where
Alfred lay, and with a palpitating heart and a trepidation wholly
out of keeping with the brave front she managed to assume, she
knocked gently on the door.

"Ah, Betty, 'tis you, bless your heart," said a matronly little
woman who opened the door. "Come right in. He is sleeping now, poor
fellow, and it's the first real sleep he has had. He has been raving
crazy forty-eight hours."

"Mrs. Martin, what shall I do?" whispered Betty.

"Oh, just watch him, my dear," answered the elder woman.

"If you need me send one of the lads up to the house for me. I shall
return as soon as I can. Keep the flies away--they are
bothersome--and bathe his head every little while. If he wakes and
tries to sit up, as he does sometimes, hold him back. He is as weak
as a cat. If he raves, soothe him by talking to him. I must go now,
dearie."

Betty was left alone in the little room. Though she had taken a seat
near the bed where Alfred lay, she had not dared to look at him.
Presently conquering her emotion, Betty turned her gaze on the bed.
Alfred was lying easily on his back, and notwithstanding the warmth
of the day he was covered with a quilt. The light from the window
shone on his face. How deathly white it was! There was not a vestige
of color in it; the brow looked like chiseled marble; dark shadows
underlined the eyes, and the whole face was expressive of weariness
and pain.

There are times when a woman's love is all motherliness. All at once
this man seemed to Betty like a helpless child. She felt her heart
go out to the poor sufferer with a feeling before unknown. She
forgot her pride and her fears and her disappointments. She
remembered only that this strong man lay there at death's door
because he had resented an insult to her. The past with all its
bitterness rolled away and was lost, and in its place welled up a
tide of forgiveness strong and sweet and hopeful. Her love, like a
fire that had been choked and smothered, smouldering but never
extinct, and which blazes up with the first breeze, warmed and
quickened to life with the touch of her hand on his forehead.

An hour passed. Betty was now at her ease and happier than she had
been for months. Her patient continued to sleep peacefully and
dreamlessly. With a feeling of womanly curiosity Betty looked around
the room. Over the rude mantelpiece were hung a sword, a brace of
pistols, and two pictures. These last interested Betty very much.
They were portraits; one of them was a likeness of a sweet-faced
woman who Betty instinctively knew was his mother. Her eyes lingered
tenderly on that face, so like the one lying on the pillow. The
other portrait was of a beautiful girl whose dark, magnetic eyes
challenged Betty. Was this his sister or--someone else? She could
not restrain a jealous twinge, and she felt annoyed to find herself
comparing that face with her own. She looked no longer at that
portrait, but recommenced her survey of the room. Upon the door hung
a broad-brimmed hat with eagle plumes stuck in the band. A pair of
hightopped riding-boots, a saddle, and a bridle lay on the floor in
the corner. The table was covered with Indian pipes, tobacco
pouches, spurs, silk stocks, and other articles.

Suddenly Betty felt that some one was watching her. She turned
timidly toward the bed and became much frightened when she
encountered the intense gaze from a pair of steel-blue eyes. She
almost fell from the chair; but presently she recollected that
Alfred had been unconscious for days, and that he would not know who
was watching by his bedside.

"Mother, is that you?" asked Alfred, in a weak, low voice.

"Yes, I am here," answered Betty, remembering the old woman's words
about soothing the sufferer.

"But I thought you were ill."

"I was, but I am better now, and it is you who are ill."

"My head hurts so."

"Let me bathe it for you."

"How long have I been home?"

Betty bathed and cooled his heated brow. He caught and held her
hands, looking wonderingly at her the while.

"Mother, somehow I thought you had died. I must have dreamed it. I
am very happy; but tell me, did a message come for me to-day?"

Betty shook her head, for she could not speak. She saw he was living
in the past, and he was praying for the letter which she would
gladly have written had she but known.

"No message, and it is now so long."

"It will come to-morrow," whispered Betty.

"Now, mother, that is what you always say," said the invalid, as he
began to toss his head wearily to and fro. "Will she never tell me?
It is not like her to keep me in suspense. She was the sweetest,
truest, loveliest girl in all the world. When I get well, mother, I
ant going to find out if she loves me."

"I am sure she does. I know she loves you," answered Betty.

"It is very good of you to say that," he went on in his rambling
talk. "Some day I'll bring her to you and we'll make her a queen
here in the old home. I'll be a better son now and not run away from
home again. I've given the dear old mother many a heartache, but
that's all past now. The wanderer has come home. Kiss me good-night,
mother."

Betty looked down with tear-blurred eyes on the haggard face.
Unconsciously she had been running her fingers through the fair hair
that lay so damp over his brow. Her pity and tenderness had carried
her far beyond herself, and at the last words she bent her head and
kissed him on the lips.

"Who are you? You are not my mother. She is dead," he cried,
starting up wildly, and looking at her with brilliant eyes.

Betty dropped the fan and rose quickly to her feet. What had she
done? A terrible thought had flashed into her mind. Suppose he were
not delirious, and had been deceiving her. Oh! for a hiding-place,
or that the floor would swallow her. Oh! if some one would only
come.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Betty ran to the door. To her
great relief Mrs. Martin was coming up.

"You can run home now, there's a dear," said the old lady. "We have
several watchers for to-night. It will not be long now when he will
commence to mend, or else he will die. Poor boy, please God that he
gets well. Has he been good? Did he call for any particular young
lady? Never fear, Betty, I'll keep the secret. He'll never know you
were here unless you tell him yourself."

Meanwhile the days had been busy ones for Col. Zane. In anticipation
of an attack from the Indians, the settlers had been fortifying
their refuge and making the block-house as nearly impregnable as
possible. Everything that was movable and was of value they put
inside the stockade fence, out of reach of the destructive redskins.
All the horses and cattle were driven into the inclosure.
Wagon-loads of hay, grain and food were stored away in the
block-house.

Never before had there been such excitement on the frontier. Runners
from Ft. Pitt, Short Creek, and other settlements confirmed the
rumor that all the towns along the Ohio were preparing for war. Not
since the outbreak of the Revolution had there been so much
confusion and alarm among the pioneers. To be sure, those on the
very verge of the frontier, as at Ft. Henry, had heretofore little
to fear from the British. During most of this time there had been
comparative peace on the western border, excepting those occasional
murders, raids, and massacres perpetrated by the different Indian
tribes, and instigated no doubt by Girty and the British at Detroit.
Now all kinds of rumors were afloat: Washington was defeated; a
close alliance between England and the confederated western tribes
had been formed; Girty had British power and wealth back of him.
These and many more alarming reports travelled from settlement to
settlement.

The death of Col. Crawford had been a terrible shock to the whole
country. On the border spread an universal gloom, and the low,
sullen mutterings of revengeful wrath. Crawford had been so
prominent a man, so popular, and, except in his last and fatal
expedition, such an efficient leader that his sudden taking off was
almost a national calamity. In fact no one felt it more keenly than
did Washington himself, for Crawford was his esteemed friend.

Col. Zane believed Ft. Henry had been marked by the British and the
Indians. The last runner from Ft. Pitt had informed him that the
description of Miller tallied with that of one of the ten men who
had deserted from Ft. Pitt in 1778 with the tories Girth, McKee, and
Elliott. Col. Zane was now satisfied that Miller was an agent of
Girty and therefore of the British. So since all the weaknesses of
the Fort, the number of the garrison, and the favorable conditions
for a siege were known to Girty, there was nothing left for Col.
Zane and his men but to make a brave stand.

Jonathan Zane and Major McColloch watched the river. Wetzel had
disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him. Some pioneers said he
would never return. But Col. Zane believed Wetzel would walk into
the Fort, as he had done many times in the last ten years, with full
information concerning the doings of the Indians. However, the days
passed and nothing happened. Their work completed, the settlers
waited for the first sign of an enemy. But as none came, gradually
their fears were dispelled and they began to think the alarm had
been a false one.

All this time Alfred Clarke was recovering his health and strength.
The day came when he was able to leave his bed and sit by the
window. How glad it made him feel to look out on the green woods and
the broad, winding river; how sweet to his ears were the songs of
the birds; how soothing was the drowsy hum of the bees in the
fragrant honeysuckle by his window. His hold on life had been slight
and life was good. He smiled in pitying derision as he remembered
his recklessness. He had not been in love with life. In his gloomy
moods he had often thought life was hardly worth the living. What
sickly sentiment! He had been on the brink of the grave, but he had
been snatched back from the dark river of Death. It needed but this
to show him the joy of breathing, the glory of loving, the sweetness
of living. He resolved that for him there would be no more drifting,
no more purposelessness. If what Wetzel had told him was true, if he
really had not loved in vain, then his cup of happiness was
overflowing. Like a far-off and almost forgotten strain of music
some memory struggled to take definite shape in his mind; but it was
so hazy, so vague, so impalpable, that he could remember nothing
clearly.

Isaac Zane and his Indian bride called on Alfred that afternoon.

"Alfred, I can't tell you how glad I am to see you up again," said
Isaac, earnestly, as he wrung Alfred's hand. "Say, but it was a
tight squeeze! It has been a bad time for you."

Nothing could have been more pleasing than Myeerah's shy yet
eloquent greeting. She gave Alfred her little hand and said in her
figurative style of speaking, "Myeerah is happy for you and for
others. You are strong like the West Wind that never dies."

"Myeerah and I are going this afternoon, and we came over to say
good-bye to you. We intend riding down the river fifteen miles and
then crossing, to avoid running into any band of Indians."

"And how does Myeerah like the settlement by this time?"

"Oh, she is getting on famously. Betty and she have fallen in love
with each other. It is amusing to hear Betty try to talk in the
Wyandot tongue, and to see Myeerah's consternation when Betty gives
her a lesson in deportment."

"I rather fancy it would be interesting, too. Are you not going back
to the Wyandots at a dangerous time?"

"As to that I can't say. I believe, though, it is better that I get
back to Tarhe's camp before we have any trouble with the Indians. I
am anxious to get there before Girty or some of his agents."

"Well, if you must go, good luck to you, and may we meet again."

"It will not be long, I am sure. And, old man," he continued, with a
bright smile, "when Myeerah and I come again to Ft. Henry we expect
to find all well with you. Cheer up, and good-bye."

All the preparations had been made for the departure of Isaac and
Myeerah to their far-off Indian home. They were to ride the Indian
ponies on which they had arrived at the Fort. Col. Zane had given
Isaac one of his pack horses. This animal carried blankets,
clothing, and food which insured comparative comfort in the long
ride through the wilderness.

"We will follow the old trail until we reach the hickory swale,"
Isaac was saying to the Colonel, "and then we will turn off and make
for the river. Once across the Ohio we can make the trip in two
days."

"I think you'll make it all right," said Col. Zane.

"Even if I do meet Indians I shall have no fear, for I have a
protector here," answered Isaac as he led Myeerah's pony to the
step.

"Good-bye, Myeerah; he is yours, but do not forget he is dear to
us," said Betty, embracing and kissing the Indian girl.

"My sister does not know Myeerah. The White Eagle will return."

"Good-bye, Betts, don't cry. I shall come home again. And when I do
I hope I shall be in time to celebrate another event, this time with
you as the heroine. Good-bye. Goodbye."

The ponies cantered down the road. At the bend Isaac and Myeerah
turned and waved their hands until the foliage of the trees hid them
from view.

"Well, these things happen naturally enough. I suppose they must be.
But I should much have preferred Isaac staying here. Hello! What the
deuce is that? By Lord! It's Tige!"

The exclamation following Col. Zane's remarks had been called forth
by Betty's dog. He came limping painfully up the road from the
direction of the river. When he saw Col. Zane he whined and crawled
to the Colonel's feet. The dog was wet and covered with burrs, and
his beautiful glossy coat, which had been Betty's pride, was
dripping with blood.

"Silas, Jonathan, come here," cried Col. Zane. "Here's Tige, back
without Wetzel, and the poor dog has been shot almost to pieces.
What does it mean?"

"Indians," said Jonathan, coming out of the house with Silas, and
Mrs. Zane and Betty, who had heard the Colonel's call.

"He has come a long way. Look at his feet. They are torn and
bruised," continued Jonathan. "And he has been near Wingenund's
camp. You see that red clay on his paws. There is no red clay that I
know of round here, and there are miles of it this side of the
Delaware camp."

"What is the matter with Tige?" asked Betty.

"He is done for. Shot through, poor fellow. How did he ever reach
home?" said Silas.

"Oh, I hope not! Dear old Tige," said Betty as she knelt and
tenderly placed the head of the dog in her lap. "Why, what is this?
I never put that there. Eb, Jack, look here. There is a string
around his neck," and Betty pointed excitedly to a thin cord which
was almost concealed in the thick curly hair.

"Good gracious! Eb, look! It is the string off the prize bullet
pouch I made, and that Wetzel won on Isaac's wedding day. It is a
message from Lew," said Betty.

"Well, by Heavens! This is strange. So it is. I remember that
string. Cut it off, Jack," said Col. Zane.

When Jonathan had cut the string and held it up they all saw the
lead bullet. Col. Zane examined it and showed them what had been
rudely scratched on it.

"A letter W. Does that mean Wetzel?" asked the Colonel.

"It means war. It's a warning from Wetzel--not the slightest doubt
of that," said Jonathan. "Wetzel sends this because he knows we are
to be attacked, and because there must have been great doubt of his
getting back to tell us. And Tige has been shot on his way home."

This called the attention to the dog, which had been momentarily
forgotten. His head rolled from Betty's knee; a quiver shook his
frame; he struggled to rise to his feet, but his strength was too
far spent; he crawled close to Betty's feet; his eyes looked up at
her with almost human affection; then they closed, and he lay still.
Tige was dead.

"It is all over, Betty. Tige will romp no more. He will never be
forgotten, for he was faithful to the end. Jonathan, tell the Major
of Wetzel's warning, and both of you go back to your posts on the
river. Silas, send Capt. Boggs to me."

An hour after the death of Tige the settlers were waiting for the
ring of the meeting-house bell to summon them to the Fort.

Supper at Col. Zane's that night was not the occasion of
good-humored jest and pleasant conversation. Mrs. Zane's face wore a
distressed and troubled look; Betty was pale and quiet; even the
Colonel was gloomy; and the children, missing the usual cheerfulness
of the evening meal, shrank close to their mother.

Darkness slowly settled down; and with it came a feeling of relief,
at least for the night, for the Indians rarely attacked the
settlements after dark. Capt. Boggs came over and he and Col. Zane
conversed in low tones.

"The first thing in the morning I want you to ride over to Short
Creek for reinforcements. I'll send the Major also and by a
different route. I expect to hear tonight from Wetzel. Twelve times
has he crossed that threshold with the information which made an
Indian surprise impossible. And I feel sure he will come again."

"What was that?" said Betty, who was sitting on the doorstep.

"Sh-h!" whispered Col. Zane, holding up his finger.

The night was warm and still. In the perfect quiet which followed
the Colonel's whispered exclamation the listeners heard the beating
of their hearts. Then from the river bank came the cry of an owl;
low but clear it came floating to their ears, its single melancholy
note thrilling them. Faint and far off in the direction of the
island sounded the answer.

"I knew it. I told you. We shall know all presently," said Col.
Zane. "The first call was Jonathan's, and it was answered."

The moments dragged away. The children had fallen asleep on the
bearskin rug. Mrs. Zane and Betty had heard the Colonel's voice, and
sat with white faces, waiting, waiting for they knew not what.

A familiar, light-moccasined tread sounded on the path, a tall
figure loomed up from the darkness; it came up the path, passed up
the steps, and crossed the threshold.

"Wetzel!" exclaimed Col. Zane and Capt. Boggs. It was indeed the
hunter. How startling was his appearance! The buckskin hunting coat
and leggins were wet, torn and bespattered with mud; the water ran
and dripped from him to form little muddy pools on the floor; only
his rifle and powder horn were dry. His face was ghastly white
except where a bullet wound appeared on his temple, from which the
blood had oozed down over his cheek. An unearthly light gleamed from
his eyes. In that moment Wetzel was an appalling sight.

"Col. Zane, I'd been here days before, but I run into some Shawnees,
and they gave me a hard chase. I have to report that Girty, with
four hundred Injuns and two hundred Britishers, are on the way to
Ft. Henry."

"My God!" exclaimed Col. Zane. Strong man as he was the hunter's
words had unnerved him.

The loud and clear tone of the church-bell rang out on the still
night air. Only once it sounded, but it reverberated among the
hills, and its single deep-toned ring was like a knell. The
listeners almost expected to hear it followed by the fearful
war-cry, that cry which betokened for many desolation and death.



CHAPTER XIII.

Morning found the settlers, with the exception of Col. Zane, his
brother Jonathan, the negro Sam, and Martin Wetzel, all within the
Fort. Col. Zane had determined, long before, that in the event of
another siege, he would use his house as an outpost. Twice it had
been destroyed by fire at the hands of the Indians. Therefore,
surrounding himself by these men, who were all expert marksmen, Col.
Zane resolved to protect his property and at the same time render
valuable aid to the Fort.

Early that morning a pirogue loaded with cannon balls, from Ft. Pitt
and bound for Louisville, had arrived and Captain Sullivan, with his
crew of three men, had demanded admittance. In the absence of Capt.
Boggs and Major McColloch, both of whom had been dispatched for
reinforcements, Col. Zane had placed his brother Silas in command of
the Fort. Sullivan informed Silas that he and his men had been fired
on by Indians and that they sought the protection of the Fort. The
services of himself and men, which he volunteered, were gratefully
accepted.

All told, the little force in the block-house did not exceed
forty-two, and that counting the boys and the women who could handle
rifles. The few preparations had been completed and now the settlers
were awaiting the appearance of the enemy. Few words were spoken.
The children were secured where they would be out of the way of
flying bullets. They were huddled together silent and frightened;
pale-faced but resolute women passed up and down the length of the
block-house; some carried buckets of water and baskets of food;
others were tearing bandages; grim-faced men peered from the
portholes; all were listening for the war-cry.

They had not long to wait. Before noon the well-known whoop came
from the wooded shore of the river, and it was soon followed by the
appearance of hundreds of Indians. The river, which was low, at once
became a scene of great animation. From a placid, smoothly flowing
stream it was turned into a muddy, splashing, turbulent torrent. The
mounted warriors urged their steeds down the bank and into the
water; the unmounted improvised rafts and placed their weapons and
ammunition upon them; then they swam and pushed, kicked and yelled
their way across; other Indians swam, holding the bridles of the
pack-horses. A detachment of British soldiers followed the Indians.
In an hour the entire army appeared on the river bluff not three
hundred yards from the Fort. They were in no hurry to begin the
attack. Especially did the Indians seem to enjoy the lull before the
storm, and as they stalked to and fro in plain sight of the
garrison, or stood in groups watching the Fort, they were seen in
all their hideous war-paint and formidable battle-array. They were
exultant. Their plumes and eagle feathers waved proudly in the
morning breeze. Now and then the long, peculiarly broken yell of the
Shawnees rang out clear and strong. The soldiers were drawn off to
one side and well out of range of the settlers' guns. Their red
coats and flashing bayonets were new to most of the little band of
men in the block-house.

"Ho, the Fort!"

It was a strong, authoritative voice and came from a man mounted on
a black horse.

"Well, Girty, what is it?" shouted Silas Zane.

"We demand unconditional surrender," was the answer.

"You will never get it," replied Silas.

"Take more time to think it over. You see we have a force here large
enough to take the Fort in an hour."

"That remains to be seen," shouted some one through porthole.

An hour passed. The soldiers and the Indians lounged around on the
grass and walked to and fro on the bluff. At intervals a taunting
Indian yell, horrible in its suggestiveness came floating on the
air. When the hour was up three mounted men rode out in advance of
the waiting Indians. One was clad in buckskin, another in the
uniform of a British officer, and the third was an Indian chief
whose powerful form was naked except for his buckskin belt and
legging.

"Will you surrender?" came in the harsh and arrogant voice of the
renegade.

"Never! Go back to your squaws!" yelled Sullivan.

"I am Capt. Pratt of the Queen's Rangers. If you surrender I will
give you the best protection King George affords," shouted the
officer.

"To hell with lying George! Go back to your hair-buying Hamilton and
tell him the whole British army could not make us surrender," roared
Hugh Bennet.

"If you do not give up, the Fort will be attacked and burned. Your
men will be massacred and your women given to the Indians," said
Girty.

"You will never take a man, woman or child alive," yelled Silas. "We
remember Crawford, you white traitor, and we are not going to give
up to be butchered. Come on with your red-jackets and your
red-devils. We are ready."

"We have captured and killed the messenger you sent out, and now all
hope of succor must be abandoned. Your doom is sealed."

"What kind of a man was he?" shouted Sullivan.

"A fine, active young fellow," answered the outlaw.

"That's a lie," snapped Sullivan, "he was an old, gray haired man."

As the officer and the outlaw chief turned, apparently to consult
their companion, a small puff of white smoke shot forth from one of
the portholes of the block-house. It was followed by the ringing
report of a rifle. The Indian chief clutched wildly at his breast,
fell forward on his horse, and after vainly trying to keep his seat,
slipped to the ground. He raised himself once, then fell backward
and lay still. Full two hundred yards was not proof against Wetzel's
deadly smallbore, and Red Fox, the foremost war chieftain of the
Shawnees, lay dead, a victim to the hunter's vengeance. It was
characteristic of Wetzel that he picked the chief, for he could have
shot either the British officer or the renegade. They retreated out
of range, leaving the body of the chief where it had fallen, while
the horse, giving a frightened snort, galloped toward the woods.
Wetzel's yell coming quickly after his shot, excited the Indians to
a very frenzy, and they started on a run for the Fort, discharging
their rifles and screeching like so many demons.

In the cloud of smoke which at once enveloped the scene the Indians
spread out and surrounded the Fort. A tremendous rush by a large
party of Indians was made for the gate of the Fort. They attacked it
fiercely with their tomahawks, and a log which they used as a
battering-ram. But the stout gate withstood their united efforts,
and the galling fire from the portholes soon forced them to fall
back and seek cover behind the trees and the rocks. From these
points of vantage they kept up an uninterrupted fire.

The soldiers had made a dash at the stockade-fence, yelling derision
at the small French cannon which was mounted on top of the
block-house. They thought it a "dummy" because they had learned that
in the 1777 siege the garrison had no real cannon, but had tried to
utilize a wooden one. They yelled and hooted and mocked at this
piece and dared the garrison to fire it. Sullivan, who was in charge
of the cannon, bided his time. When the soldiers were massed closely
together and making another rush for the stockade-fence Sullivan
turned loose the little "bulldog," spreading consternation and
destruction in the British ranks.

"Stand back! Stand back!" Capt. Pratt was heard to yell. "By God!
there's no wood about that gun."

After this the besiegers withdrew for a breathing spell. At this
early stage of the siege the Indians were seen to board Sullivan's
pirogue, and it was soon discovered they were carrying the cannon
balls from the boat to the top of the bluff. In their simple minds
they had conceived a happy thought. They procured a white-oak log
probably a foot in diameter, split it through the middle and
hollowed out the inside with their tomahawks. Then with iron chains
and bars, which they took from Reihart's blacksmith shop, they bound
and securely fastened the sides together. They dragged the
improvised cannon nearer to the Fort, placed it on two logs and
weighted it down with stones. A heavy charge of powder and ball was
then rammed into the wooden gun. The soldiers, though much
interested in the manoeuvre, moved back to a safe distance, while
many of the Indians crowded round the new weapon. The torch was
applied; there was a red flash--boom! The hillside was shaken by the
tremendous explosion, and when the smoke lifted from the scene the
naked forms of the Indians could be seen writhing in agony on the
ground. Not a vestige of the wooden gun remained. The iron chains
had proved terrible death-dealing missiles to the Indians near the
gun. The Indians now took to their natural methods of warfare. They
hid in the long grass, in the deserted cabins, behind the trees and
up in the branches. Not an Indian was visible, but the rain of
bullets pattered steadily against the block-house. Every bush and
every tree spouted little puffs of white smoke, and the leaden
messengers of Death whistled through the air.

After another unsuccessful effort to destroy a section of the
stockade-fence the soldiers had retired. Their red jackets made them
a conspicuous mark for the sharp-eyed settlers. Capt. Pratt had been
shot through the thigh. He suffered great pain, and was deeply
chagrined by the surprising and formidable defense of the garrison
which he had been led to believe would fall an easy prey to the
King's soldiers. He had lost one-third of his men. Those who were
left refused to run straight in the face of certain death. They had
not been drilled to fight an unseen enemy. Capt. Pratt was compelled
to order a retreat to the river bluff, where he conferred with
Girty.

Inside the block-house was great activity, but no confusion. That
little band of fighters might have been drilled for a king's
bodyguard. Kneeling before each porthole on the river side of the
Fort was a man who would fight while there was breath left in him.
He did not discharge his weapon aimlessly as the Indians did, but
waited until he saw the outline of an Indian form, or a red coat, or
a puff of white smoke; then he would thrust the rifle-barrel
forward, take a quick aim and fire. By the side of every man stood a
heroic woman whose face was blanched, but who spoke never a word as
she put the muzzle of the hot rifle into a bucket of water, cooled
the barrel, wiped it dry and passed it back to the man beside her.

Silas Zane had been wounded at the first fire. A glancing ball had
struck him on the head, inflicting a painful scalp wound. It was now
being dressed by Col. Zane's wife, whose skilled fingers were
already tired with the washing and the bandaging of the injuries
received by the defenders. In all that horrible din of battle, the
shrill yells of the savages, the hoarse shouts of the settlers, the
boom of the cannon overhead, the cracking of rifles and the
whistling of bullets; in all that din of appalling noise, and amid
the stifling smoke, the smell of burned powder, the sickening sight
of the desperately wounded and the already dead, the Colonel's brave
wife had never faltered. She was here and there; binding the wounds,
helping Lydia and Betty mould bullets, encouraging the men, and by
her example, enabling those women to whom border war was new to bear
up under the awful strain.

Sullivan, who had been on top of the block-house, came down the
ladder almost without touching it. Blood was running down his bare
arm and dripping from the ends of his fingers.

"Zane, Martin has been shot," he said hoarsely. "The same Indian who
shot away these fingers did it. The bullets seem to come from some
elevation. Send some scout up there and find out where that damned
Indian is hiding."

"Martin shot? God, his poor wife! Is he dead?" said Silas.

"Not yet. Bennet is bringing him down. Here, I want this hand tied
up, so that my gun won't be so slippery."

Wetzel was seen stalking from one porthole to another. His fearful
yell sounded above all the others. He seemed to bear a charmed life,
for not a bullet had so much as scratched him. Silas communicated to
him what Sullivan had said. The hunter mounted the ladder and went
up on the roof. Soon he reappeared, descended into the room and ran
into the west end of the block-house. He kneeled before a porthole
through which he pushed the long black barrel of his rifle. Silas
and Sullivan followed him and looked in the direction indicated by
his weapon. It pointed toward the bushy top of a tall poplar tree
which stood on the hill west of the Fort. Presently a little cloud
of white smoke issued from the leafy branches, and it was no sooner
seen than Wetzel's rifle was discharged. There was a great commotion
among the leaves, the branches swayed and thrashed, and then a dark
body plunged downward to strike on the rocky slope of the bluff and
roll swiftly out of sight. The hunter's unnatural yell pealed out.

"Great God! The man's crazy," cried Sullivan, staring at Wetzel's
demon-like face.

"No, no. It's his way," answered Silas.

At that moment the huge frame of Bennet filled up the opening in the
roof and started down the ladder. In one arm he carried the limp
body of a young man. When he reached the floor he laid the body down
and beckoned to Mrs. Zane. Those watching saw that the young man was
Will Martin, and that he was still alive. But it was evident that he
had not long to live. His face had a leaden hue and his eyes were
bright and glassy. Alice, his wife, flung herself on her knees
beside him and tenderly raised the drooping head. No words could
express the agony in her face as she raised it to Mrs. Zane. In it
was a mute appeal, an unutterable prayer for hope. Mrs. Zane turned
sorrowfully to her task. There was no need of her skill here. Alfred
Clarke, who had been ordered to take Martin's place on top of the
block-house, paused a moment in silent sympathy. When he saw that
little hole in the bared chest, from which the blood welled up in an
awful stream, he shuddered and passed on. Betty looked up from her
work and then turned away sick and faint. Her mute lips moved as if
in prayer.

Alice was left alone with her dying husband. She tenderly supported
his head on her bosom, leaned her face against his and kissed the
cold, numb lips. She murmured into his already deaf ear the old
tender names. He knew her, for he made a feeble effort to pass his
arm round her neck. A smile illumined his face. Then death claimed
him. With wild, distended eyes and with hands pressed tightly to her
temples Alice rose slowly to her feet.

"Oh, God! Oh, God!" she cried.

Her prayer was answered. In a momentary lull in the battle was heard
the deadly hiss of a bullet as it sped through one of the portholes.
It ended with a slight sickening spat as the lead struck the flesh.
Then Alice, without a cry, fell on the husband's breast. Silas Zane
found her lying dead with the body of her husband clasped closely in
her arms. He threw a blanket over them and went on his wearying
round of the bastions.

      * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The besiegers had been greatly harassed and hampered by the
continual fire from Col. Zane's house. It was exceedingly difficult
for the Indians, and impossible for the British, to approach near
enough to the Colonel's house to get an effective shot. Col. Zane
and his men had the advantage of being on higher ground. Also they
had four rifles to a man, and they used every spare moment for
reloading. Thus they were enabled to pour a deadly fire into the
ranks of the enemy, and to give the impression of being much
stronger in force than they really were.

About dusk the firing ceased and the Indians repaired to the river
bluff. Shortly afterward their camp-fires were extinguished and all
became dark and quiet. Two hours passed. Fortunately the clouds,
which had at first obscured the moon, cleared away somewhat and
enough light was shed on the scene to enable the watchers to discern
objects near by.

Col. Zane had just called together his men for a conference. He
suspected some cunning deviltry on part of the Indians.

"Sam, take what stuff to eat you can lay your hands on and go up to
the loft. Keep a sharp lookout and report anything to Jonathan or
me," said the Colonel.

All afternoon Jonathan Zane had loaded and fired his rifles in
sullen and dogged determination. He had burst one rifle and disabled
another. The other men were fine marksmen, but it was undoubtedly
Jonathan's unerring aim that made the house so unapproachable. He
used an extremely heavy, large bore rifle. In the hands of a man
strong enough to stand its fierce recoil it was a veritable cannon.
The Indians had soon learned to respect the range of that rifle, and
they gave the cabin a wide berth.

But now that darkness had enveloped the valley the advantage lay
with the savages. Col. Zane glanced apprehensively at the blackened
face of his brother.

"Do you think the Fort can hold out?" he asked in a husky voice. He
was a bold man, but he thought now of his wife and children.

"I don't know," answered Jonathan. "I saw that big Shawnee chief
today. His name is Fire. He is well named. He is a fiend. Girty has
a picked band."

"The Fort has held out surprisingly well against such combined and
fierce attacks. The Indians are desperate. You can easily see that
in the way in which they almost threw their lives away. The green
square is covered with dead Indians."

"If help does not come in twenty-four hours not one man will escape
alive. Even Wetzel could not break through that line of Indians. But
if we can hold the Indians off a day longer they will get tired and
discouraged. Girty will not be able to hold them much longer. The
British don't count. It's not their kind of war. They can't shoot,
and so far as I can see they haven't done much damage."

"To your posts, men, and every man think of the women and children
in the block-house."

For a long time, which seemed hours to the waiting and watching
settlers, not a sound could be heard, nor any sign of the enemy
seen. Thin clouds had again drifted over the moon, allowing only a
pale, wan light to shine down on the valley. Time dragged on and the
clouds grew thicker and denser until the moon and the stars were
totally obscured. Still no sign or sound of the savages.

"What was that?" suddenly whispered Col. Zane.

"It was a low whistle from Sam. We'd better go up," said Jonathan.

They went up the stairs to the second floor from which they ascended
to the loft by means of a ladder. The loft was as black as pitch. In
that Egyptian darkness it was no use to look for anything, so they
crawled on their hands and knees over the piles of hides and leather
which lay on the floor. When they reached the small window they made
out the form of the negro.

"What is it, Sam?" whispered Jonathan.

"Look, see thar, Massa Zane," came the answer in a hoarse whisper
from the negro and at the same time he pointed down toward the
ground.

Col. Zane put his head alongside Jonathan's and all three men peered
out into the darkness.

"Jack, can you see anything?" said Col. Zane.

"No, but wait a minute until the moon throws a light."

A breeze had sprung up. The clouds were passing rapidly over the
moon, and at long intervals a rift between the clouds let enough
light through to brighten the square for an instant.

"Now, Massa Zane, thar!" exclaimed the slave.

"I can't see a thing. Can you, Jack?"

"I am not sure yet. I can see something, but whether it is a log or
not I don't know."

Just then there was a faint light like the brightening of a firefly,
or like the blowing of a tiny spark from a stick of burning wood.
Jonathan uttered a low curse.

"D--n 'em! At their old tricks with fire. I thought all this quiet
meant something. The grass out there is full of Indians, and they
are carrying lighted arrows under them so as to cover the light. But
we'll fool the red devils this time"

"I can see 'em, Massa Zane."

"Sh-h-h! no more talk," whispered Col. Zane.

The men waited with cocked rifles. Another spark rose seemingly out
of the earth. This time it was nearer the house. No sooner had its
feeble light disappeared than the report of the negro's rifle awoke
the sleeping echoes. It was succeeded by a yell which seemed to come
from under the window. Several dark forms rose so suddenly that they
appeared to spring out of the ground. Then came the peculiar twang
of Indian bows. There were showers of sparks and little streaks of
fire with long tails like comets winged their parabolic flight
toward the cabin. Falling short they hissed and sputtered in the
grass. Jonathan's rifle spoke and one of the fleeing forms tumbled
to the earth. A series of long yells from all around the Fort
greeted this last shot, but not an Indian fired a rifle.

Fire-tipped arrows were now shot at the block-house, but not one
took effect, although a few struck the stockade-fence. Col. Zane had
taken the precaution to have the high grass and the clusters of
goldenrod cut down all round the Fort. The wisdom of this course now
became evident, for the wily savages could not crawl near enough to
send their fiery arrows on the roof of the block-house. This attempt
failing, the Indians drew back to hatch up some other plot to burn
the Fort.

"Look!" suddenly exclaimed Jonathan.

Far down the road, perhaps five hundred yards from the Fort, a point
of light had appeared. At first it was still, and then it took an
odd jerky motion, to this side and to that, up and down like a
jack-o-lantern.

"What the hell?" muttered Col. Zane, sorely puzzled. "Jack, by all
that's strange it's getting bigger."

Sure enough the spark of fire, or whatever it was, grew larger and
larger. Col. Zane thought it might be a light carried by a man on
horseback. But if this were true where was the clatter of the
horse's hoofs? On that rocky blur no horse could run noiselessly. It
could not be a horse. Fascinated and troubled by this new mystery
which seemed to presage evil to them the watchers waited with that
patience known only to those accustomed to danger. They knew that
whatever it was, it was some satanic stratagem of the savages, and
that it would come all too soon.

The light was now zigzagging back and forth across the road, and
approaching the Fort with marvelous rapidity. Now its motion was
like the wide swinging of a lighted lantern on a dark night. A
moment more of breathless suspense and the lithe form of an Indian
brave could be seen behind the light. He was running with almost
incredible swiftness down the road in the direction of the Fort.
Passing at full speed within seventy-five yards of the
stockade-fence the Indian shot his arrow. Like a fiery serpent
flying through the air the missile sped onward in its graceful
flight, going clear over the block-house, and striking with a
spiteful thud the roof of one of the cabins beyond. Unhurt by the
volley that was fired at him, the daring brave passed swiftly out of
sight.

Deeds like this were dear to the hearts of the savages. They were
deeds which made a warrior of a brave, and for which honor any
Indian would risk his life over and over again. The exultant yells
which greeted this performance proclaimed its success.

The breeze had already fanned the smouldering arrow into a blaze and
the dry roof of the cabin had caught fire and was burning fiercely.

"That infernal redskin is going to do that again," ejaculated
Jonathan.

It was indeed true. That same small bright light could be seen
coming down the road gathering headway with every second. No doubt
the same Indian, emboldened by his success, and maddened with that
thirst for glory so often fatal to his kind, was again making the
effort to fire the block-house.

The eyes of Col. Zane and his companions were fastened on the light
as it came nearer and nearer with its changing motion. The burning
cabin brightened the square before the Fort. The slender, shadowy
figure of the Indian could be plainly seen emerging from the gloom.
So swiftly did he run that he seemed to have wings. Now he was in
the full glare of the light. What a magnificent nerve, what a
terrible assurance there was in his action! It seemed to paralyze
all. The red arrow emitted a shower of sparks as it was discharged.
This time it winged its way straight and true and imbedded itself in
the roof of the block-house.

Almost at the same instant a solitary rifle shot rang out and the
daring warrior plunged headlong, sliding face downward in the dust
of the road, while from the Fort came that demoniac yell now grown
so familiar.

"Wetzel's compliments," muttered Jonathan. "But the mischief is
done. Look at that damned burning arrow. If it doesn't blow out the
Fort will go."

The arrow was visible, but it seemed a mere spark. It alternately
paled and glowed. One moment it almost went out, and the next it
gleamed brightly. To the men, compelled to look on and powerless to
prevent the burning of the now apparently doomed block-house, that
spark was like the eye of Hell.

"Ho, the Fort," yelled Col. Zane with all the power of his strong
lungs. "Ho, Silas, the roof is on fire!"

Pandemonium had now broken out among the Indians. They could be
plainly seen in the red glare thrown by the burning cabin. It had
been a very dry season, the rough shingles were like tinder, and the
inflammable material burst quickly into great flames, lighting up
the valley as far as the edge of the forest. It was an awe-inspiring
and a horrible spectacle. Columns of yellow and black smoke rolled
heavenward; every object seemed dyed a deep crimson; the trees
assumed fantastic shapes; the river veiled itself under a red glow.
Above the roaring and crackling of the flames rose the inhuman
yelling of the savages. Like demons of the inferno they ran to and
fro, their naked painted bodies shining in the glare. One group of
savages formed a circle and danced hands-around a stump as gayly as
a band of school-girls at a May party. They wrestled with and hugged
one another; they hopped, skipped and jumped, and in every possible
way manifested their fiendish joy.

The British took no part in this revelry. To their credit it must be
said they kept in the background as though ashamed of this horrible
fire-war on people of their own blood.

"Why don't they fire the cannon?" impatiently said Col. Zane. "Why
don't they do something?"

"Perhaps it is disabled, or maybe they are short of ammunition,"
suggested Jonathan.

"The block-house will burn down before our eyes. Look! The
hell-hounds have set fire to the fence. I see men running and
throwing water."

"I see something on the roof of the block-house," cried Jonathan.
"There, down towards the east end of the roof and in the shadow of
the chimney. And as I'm a living sinner it's a man crawling towards
that blazing arrow. The Indians have not discovered him yet. He is
still in the shadow. But they'll see him. God! What a nervy thing to
do in the face of all those redskins. It is almost certain death!"

"Yes, and they see him," said the Colonel.

With shrill yells the Indians bounded forward and aimed and fired
their rifles at the crouching figure of the man. Some hid behind the
logs they had rolled toward the Fort; others boldly faced the steady
fire now pouring from the portholes. The savages saw in the movement
of that man an attempt to defeat their long-cherished hope of
burning the Fort. Seeing he was discovered, the man did not
hesitate, nor did he lose a second. Swiftly he jumped and ran toward
the end of the roof where the burning arrow, now surrounded by
blazing shingles, was sticking in the roof. How he ever ran along
that slanting roof and with a pail in his hand was incomprehensible.
In moments like that men become superhuman. It all happened in an
instant. He reached the arrow, kicked it over the wall, and then
dashed the bucket of water on the blazing shingles. In that single
instant, wherein his tall form was outlined against the bright light
behind him, he presented the fairest kind of a mark for the Indians.
Scores of rifles were levelled and discharged at him. The bullets
pattered like hail on the roof of the block-house, but apparently
none found their mark, for the man ran back and disappeared.

"It was Clarke!" exclaimed Col. Zane. "No one but Clarke has such
light hair. Wasn't that a plucky thing?"

"It has saved the block-house for to-night," answered Jonathan.
"See, the Indians are falling back. They can't stand in the face of
that shooting. Hurrah! Look at them fall! It could not have happened
better. The light from the cabin will prevent any more close attacks
for an hour and daylight is near."



CHAPTER XIV.

The sun rose red. Its ruddy rays peeped over the eastern hills,
kissed the tree-tops, glinted along the stony bluffs, and chased
away the gloom of night from the valley. Its warm gleams penetrated
the portholes of the Fort and cast long bright shadows on the walls;
but it brought little cheer to the sleepless and almost exhausted
defenders. It brought to many of the settlers the familiar old
sailor's maxim: "Redness 'a the morning, sailor's warning." Rising
in its crimson glory the sun flooded the valley, dyeing the river,
the leaves, the grass, the stones, tingeing everything with that
awful color which stained the stairs, the benches, the floor, even
the portholes of the block-house.

Historians call this the time that tried men's souls. If it tried
the men think what it must have been to those grand, heroic women.
Though they had helped the men load and fire nearly forty-eight
hours; though they had worked without a moment's rest and were now
ready to succumb to exhaustion; though the long room was full of
stifling smoke and the sickening odor of burned wood and powder, and
though the row of silent, covered bodies had steadily lengthened,
the thought of giving up never occurred to the women. Death there
would be sweet compared to what it would be at the hands of the
redmen.

At sunrise Silas Zane, bare-chested, his face dark and fierce,
strode into the bastion which was connected with the blockhouse. It
was a small shedlike room, and with portholes opening to the river
and the forest. This bastion had seen the severest fighting. Five
men had been killed here. As Silas entered four haggard and
powder-begrimed men, who were kneeling before the portholes, looked
up at him. A dead man lay in one corner.

"Smith's dead. That makes fifteen," said Silas. "Fifteen out of
forty-two, that leaves twenty-seven. We must hold out. Len, don't
expose yourselves recklessly. How goes it at the south bastion?"

"All right. There's been firin' over there all night," answered one
of the men. "I guess it's been kinder warm over that way. But I
ain't heard any shootin' for some time."

"Young Bennet is over there, and if the men needed anything they
would send him for it," answered Silas. "I'll send some food and
water. Anything else?"

"Powder. We're nigh out of powder," replied the man addressed. "And
we might jes as well make ready fer a high old time. The red devils
hadn't been quiet all this last hour fer nothin'."

Silas passed along the narrow hallway which led from the bastion
into the main room of the block-house. As he turned the corner at
the head of the stairway he encountered a boy who was dragging
himself up the steps.

"Hello! Who's this? Why, Harry!" exclaimed Silas, grasping the boy
and drawing him into the room. Once in the light Silas saw that the
lad was so weak he could hardly stand. He was covered with blood. It
dripped from a bandage wound tightly about his arm; it oozed through
a hole in his hunting shirt, and it flowed from a wound over his
temple. The shadow of death was already stealing over the pallid
face, but from the grey eyes shone an indomitable spirit, a spirit
which nothing but death could quench.

"Quick!" the lad panted. "Send men to the south wall. The redskins
are breakin' in where the water from the spring runs under the
fence."

"Where are Metzar and the other men?"

"Dead! Killed last night. I've been there alone all night. I kept on
shootin'. Then I gets plugged here under the chin. Knowin' it's all
up with me I deserted my post when I heard the Injuns choppin' on the
fence where it was on fire last night. But I only--run--because--they're
gettin' in."

"Wetzel, Bennet, Clarke!" yelled Silas, as he laid the boy on the
bench.

Almost as Silas spoke the tall form of the hunter confronted him.
Clarke and the other men were almost as prompt.

"Wetzel, run to the south wall. The Indians are cutting a hole
through the fence."

Wetzel turned, grabbed his rifle and an axe and was gone like a
flash.

"Sullivan, you handle the men here. Bessie, do what you can for this
brave lad. Come, Bennet, Clarke, we must follow Wetzel," commanded
Silas.

Mrs. Zane hastened to the side of the fainting lad. She washed away
the blood from the wound over his temple. She saw that a bullet had
glanced on the bone and that the wound was not deep or dangerous.
She unlaced the hunting shirt at the neck and pulled the flaps
apart. There on the right breast, on a line with the apex of the
lung, was a horrible gaping wound. A murderous British slug had
passed through the lad. From the hole at every heart-beat poured the
dark, crimson life-tide. Mrs. Zane turned her white face away for a
second; then she folded a small piece of linen, pressed it tightly
over the wound, and wrapped a towel round the lad's breast.

"Don't waste time on me. It's all over," he whispered. "Will you
call Betty here a minute?"

Betty came, white-faced and horror-stricken. For forty hours she had
been living in a maze of terror. Her movements had almost become
mechanical. She had almost ceased to hear and feel. But the light in
the eyes of this dying boy brought her back to the horrible reality
of the present.

"Oh, Harry! Harry! Harry!" was all Betty could whisper.

"I'm goin', Betty. And I wanted--you to say a little prayer for
me--and say good-bye to me," he panted.

Betty knelt by the bench and tried to pray.

"I hated to run, Betty, but I waited and waited and nobody came, and
the Injuns was getting' in. They'll find dead Injuns in piles out
there. I was shootin' fer you, Betty, and every time I aimed I
thought of you."

The lad rambled on, his voice growing weaker and weaker and finally
ceasing. The hand which had clasped Betty's so closely loosened its
hold. His eyes closed. Betty thought he was dead, but no! he still
breathed. Suddenly his eyes opened. The shadow of pain was gone. In
its place shone a beautiful radiance.

"Betty, I've cared a lot for you--and I'm dyin'--happy because I've
fought fer you--and somethin' tells me--you'll--be saved. Good-bye."
A smile transformed his face and his gray eyes gazed steadily into
hers. Then his head fell back. With a sigh his brave spirit fled.

Hugh Bennet looked once at the pale face of his son, then he ran
down the stairs after Silas and Clarke. When the three men emerged
from behind Capt. Boggs' cabin, which was adjacent to the
block-house, and which hid the south wall from their view, they were
two hundred feet from Wetzel. They heard the heavy thump of a log
being rammed against the fence; then a splitting and splintering of
one of the six-inch oak planks. Another and another smashing blow
and the lower half of one of the planks fell inwards, leaving an
aperture large enough to admit an Indian. The men dashed forward to
the assistance of Wetzel, who stood by the hole with upraised axe.
At the same moment a shot rang out. Bennet stumbled and fell
headlong. An Indian had shot through the hole in the fence. Silas
and Alfred sheered off toward the fence, out of line. When within
twenty yards of Wetzel they saw a swarthy-faced and athletic savage
squeeze through the narrow crevice. He had not straightened up
before the axe, wielded by the giant hunter, descended on his head,
cracking his skull as if it were an eggshell. The savage sank to the
earth without even a moan. Another savage naked and powerful,
slipped in. He had to stoop to get through. He raised himself, and
seeing Wetzel, he tried to dodge the lightning sweep of the axe. It
missed his head, at which it had been aimed, but struck just over
the shoulders, and buried itself in flesh and bone. The Indian
uttered an agonizing yell which ended in a choking, gurgling sound
as the blood spurted from his throat. Wetzel pulled the weapon from
the body of his victim, and with the same motion he swung it around.
This time the blunt end met the next Indian's head with a thud like
that made by the butcher when he strikes the bullock to the ground.
The Indian's rifle dropped, his tomahawk flew into the air, while
his body rolled down the little embankment into the spring. Another
and another Indian met the same fate. Then two Indians endeavored to
get through the aperture. The awful axe swung by those steel arms,
dispatched both of than in the twinkling of an eye. Their bodies
stuck in the hole.

Silas and Alfred stood riveted to the spot. Just then Wetzel in all
his horrible glory was a sight to freeze the marrow of any man. He
had cast aside his hunting shirt in that run to the fence and was
now stripped to the waist. He was covered with blood. The muscles of
his broad back and his brawny arms swelled and rippled under the
brown skin. At every swing of the gory axe he let out a yell the
like of which had never before been heard by the white men. It was
the hunter's mad yell of revenge. In his thirst for vengeance he had
forgotten that he was defending the Fort with its women and its
children; he was fighting because he loved to kill.

Silas Zane heard the increasing clamor outside and knew that
hundreds of Indians were being drawn to the spot. Something must be
done at once. He looked around and his eyes fell on a pile of
white-oak logs that had been hauled inside the Fort. They had been
placed there by Col. Zane, with wise forethought. Silas grabbed
Clarke and pulled him toward the pile of logs, at the same time
communicating his plan. Together they carried a log to the fence and
dropped it in front of the hole. Wetzel immediately stepped on it
and took a vicious swing at an Indian who was trying to poke his
rifle sideways through the hole. This Indian had discharged his
weapon twice. While Wetzel held the Indians at bay, Silas and Clarke
piled the logs one upon another, until the hole was closed. This
effectually fortified and barricaded the weak place in the stockade
fence. The settlers in the bastions were now pouring such a hot fire
into the ranks of the savage that they were compelled to retreat out
of range.

While Wetzel washed the blood from his arms and his shoulders Silas
and Alfred hurried back to where Bennet had fallen. They expected to
find him dead, and were overjoyed to see the big settler calmly
sitting by the brook binding up a wound in his shoulder.

"It's nothin' much. Jest a scratch, but it tumbled me over," he
said. "I was comin' to help you. That was the wust Injun scrap I
ever saw. Why didn't you keep on lettin' 'em come in? The red
varmints would'a kept on comin' and Wetzel was good fer the whole
tribe. All you'd had to do was to drag the dead Injuns aside and
give him elbow room."

Wetzel joined them at this moment, and they hurried back to the
block-house. The firing had ceased on the bluff. They met Sullivan
at the steps of the Fort. He was evidently coming in search of them.

"Zane, the Indians and the Britishers are getting ready for more
determined and persistent effort than any that has yet been made,"
said Sullivan.

"How so?" asked Silas.

"They have got hammers from the blacksmith's shop, and they boarded
my boat and found a keg of nails. Now they are making a number of
ladders. If they make a rush all at once and place ladders against
the fence we'll have the Fort full of Indians in ten minutes. They
can't stand in the face of a cannon charge. We _must_ use the
cannon."

"Clarke, go into Capt. Boggs' cabin and fetch out two kegs of
powder," said Silas.

The young man turned in the direction of the cabin, while Silas and
the others ascended the stairs.

"The firing seems to be all on the south side," said Silas, "and is
not so heavy as it was."

"Yes, as I said, the Indians on the river front are busy with their
new plans," answered Sullivan.

"Why does not Clarke return?" said Silas, after waiting a few
moments at the door of the long room. "We have no time to lose. I
want to divide one keg of that powder among the men."

Clarke appeared at the moment. He was breathing heavily as though he
had run up the stairs, or was laboring under a powerful emotion. His
face was gray.

"I could not find any powder!" he exclaimed. "I searched every nook
and corner in Capt. Boggs' house. There is no powder there."

A brief silence ensued. Everyone in the block-house heard the young
man's voice. No one moved. They all seemed waiting for someone to
speak. Finally Silas Zane burst out:

"Not find it? You surely could not have looked well. Capt. Boggs
himself told me there were three kegs of powder in the storeroom. I
will go and find it myself."

Alfred did not answer, but sat down on a bench with an odd numb
feeling round his heart. He knew what was coming. He had been in the
Captain's house and had seen those kegs of powder. He knew exactly
where they had been. Now they were not on the accustomed shelf, nor
at any other place in the storeroom. While he sat there waiting for
the awful truth to dawn on the garrison, his eyes roved from one end
of the room to the other. At last they found what they were seeking.
A young woman knelt before a charcoal fire which she was blowing
with a bellows. It was Betty. Her face was pale and weary, her hair
dishevelled, her shapely arms blackened with charcoal, but
notwithstanding she looked calm, resolute, self-contained. Lydia was
kneeling by her side holding a bullet-mould on a block of wood.
Betty lifted the ladle from the red coals and poured the hot metal
with a steady hand and an admirable precision. Too much or too
little lead would make an imperfect ball. The little missile had to
be just so for those soft-metal, smooth-bore rifles. Then Lydia
dipped the mould in a bucket of water, removed it and knocked it on
the floor. A small, shiny lead bullet rolled out. She rubbed it with
a greasy rag and then dropped it in a jar. For nearly forty hours,
without sleep or rest, almost without food, those brave girls had
been at their post.

Silas Zane came running into the room. His face was ghastly, even
his lips were white and drawn.

"Sullivan, in God's name, what can we do? The powder is gone!" he
cried in a strident voice.

"Gone?" repeated several voices.

"Gone?" echoed Sullivan. "Where?"

"God knows. I found where the kegs stood a few days ago. There were
marks in the dust. They have been moved."

"Perhaps Boggs put them here somewhere," said Sullivan. "We will
look."

"No use. No use. We were always careful to keep the powder out of
here on account of fire. The kegs are gone, gone."

"Miller stole them," said Wetzel in his calm voice.

"What difference does that make now?" burst out Silas, turning
passionately on the hunter, whose quiet voice in that moment seemed
so unfeeling. "They're gone!"

In the silence which ensued after these words the men looked at each
other with slowly whitening faces. There was no need of words. Their
eyes told one another what was coming. The fate which had overtaken
so many border forts was to be theirs. They were lost! And every man
thought not of himself, cared not for himself, but for those
innocent children, those brave young girls and heroic women.

A man can die. He is glorious when he calmly accepts death; but when
he fights like a tiger, when he stands at bay his back to the wall,
a broken weapon in his hand, bloody, defiant, game to the end, then
he is sublime. Then he wrings respect from the souls of even his
bitterest foes. Then he is avenged even in his death.

But what can women do in times of war? They help, they cheer, they
inspire, and if their cause is lost they must accept death or worse.
Few women have the courage for self-destruction. "To the victor
belong the spoils," and women have ever been the spoils of war.

No wonder Silas Zane and his men weakened in that moment. With only
a few charges for their rifles and none for the cannon how could
they hope to hold out against the savages? Alone they could have
drawn their tomahawks and have made a dash through the lines of
Indians, but with the women and the children that was impossible.

"Wetzel, what can we do? For God's sake, advise us!" said Silas
hoarsely. "We cannot hold the Fort without powder. We cannot leave
the women here. We had better tomahawk every woman in the
block-house than let her fall into the hands of Girty."

"Send someone fer powder," answered Wetzel.

"Do you think it possible," said Silas quickly, a ray of hope
lighting up his haggard features. "There's plenty of powder in Eb's
cabin. Whom shall we send? Who will volunteer?"

Three men stepped forward, and others made a movement.

"They'd plug a man full of lead afore he'd get ten foot from the
gate," said Wetzel. "I'd go myself, but it wouldn't do no good. Send
a boy, and one as can run like a streak."

"There are no lads big enough to carry a keg of powder. Harry
Bennett might go," said Silas. "How is he, Bessie?"

"He is dead," answered Mrs. Zane.

Wetzel made a motion with his hands and turned away. A short,
intense silence followed this indication of hopelessness from him.
The women understood, for some of them covered their faces, while
others sobbed.

"I will go."

It was Betty's voice, and it rang clear and vibrant throughout the
room. The miserable women raised their drooping heads, thrilled by
that fresh young voice. The men looked stupefied. Clarke seemed
turned to stone. Wetzel came quickly toward her.

"Impossible!" said Sullivan.

Silas Zane shook his head as if the idea were absurd.

"Let me go, brother, let me go?" pleaded Betty as she placed her
little hands softly, caressingly on her brother's bare arm. "I know
it is only a forlorn chance, but still it is a chance. Let me take
it. I would rather die that way than remain here and wait for
death."

"Silas, it ain't a bad plan," broke in Wetzel. "Betty can run like a
deer. And bein' a woman they may let her get to the cabin without
shootin'."

Silas stood with arms folded across his broad chest. As he gazed at
his sister great tears coursed down his dark cheeks and splashed on
the hands which so tenderly clasped his own. Betty stood before him
transformed; all signs of weariness had vanished; her eyes shone
with a fateful resolve; her white and eager face was surpassingly
beautiful with its light of hope, of prayer, of heroism.

"Let me go, brother. You know I can run, and oh! I will fly today.
Every moment is precious. Who knows? Perhaps Capt. Boggs is already
near at hand with help. You cannot spare a man. Let me go."

"Betty, Heaven bless and save you, you shall go," said Silas.

"No! No! Do not let her go!" cried Clarke, throwing himself before
them. He was trembling, his eyes were wild, and he had the
appearance of a man suddenly gone mad.

"She shall not go," he cried.

"What authority have you here?" demanded Silas Zane, sternly. "What
right have you to speak?"

"None, unless it is that I love her and I will go for her," answered
Alfred desperately.

"Stand back!" cried Wetzel, placing his powerful hard on Clarke's
breast and pushing him backward. "If you love her you don't want to
have her wait here for them red devils," and he waved his hand
toward the river. "If she gets back she'll save the Fort. If she
fails she'll at least escape Girty."

Betty gazed into the hunter's eyes and then into Alfred's. She
understood both men. One was sending her out to her death because he
knew it would be a thousand times more merciful than the fate which
awaited her at the hands of the Indians. The other had not the
strength to watch her go to her death. He had offered himself rather
than see her take such fearful chances.

"I know. If it were possible you would both save me," said Betty,
simply. "Now you can do nothing but pray that God may spare my life
long enough to reach the gate. Silas, I am ready."

Downstairs a little group of white-faced men were standing before
the gateway. Silas Zane had withdrawn the iron bar. Sullivan stood
ready to swing in the ponderous gate. Wetzel was speaking with a
clearness and a rapidity which were wonderful under the
circumstances.

"When we let you out you'll have a clear path. Run, but not very
fast. Save your speed. Tell the Colonel to empty a keg of powder in
a table cloth. Throw it over your shoulder and start back. Run like
you was racin' with me, and keep on comin' if you do get hit. Now
go!"

The huge gate creaked and swung in. Betty ran out, looking straight
before her. She had covered half the distance between the Fort and
the Colonel's house when long taunting yells filled the air.

"Squaw! Waugh! Squaw! Waugh!" yelled the Indians in contempt.

Not a shot did they fire. The yells ran all along the river front,
showing that hundreds of Indians had seen the slight figure running
up the gentle slope toward the cabin.

Betty obeyed Wetzel's instructions to the letter. She ran easily and
not at all hurriedly, and was as cool as if there had not been an
Indian within miles.

Col. Zane had seen the gate open and Betty come forth. When she
bounded up the steps he flung open that door and she ran into his
arms.

"Betts, for God's sake! What's this?" he cried.

"We are out of powder. Empty a keg of powder into a table cloth.
Quick! I've not a second to lose," she answered, at the same time
slipping off her outer skirt. She wanted nothing to hinder that run
for the block-house.

Jonathan Zane heard Betty's first words and disappeared into the
magazine-room. He came out with a keg in his arms. With one blow of
an axe he smashed in the top of the keg. In a twinkling a long black
stream of the precious stuff was piling up in a little hill in the
center of the table. Then the corners of the table cloth were caught
up, turned and twisted, and the bag of powder was thrown over
Betty's shoulder.

"Brave girl, so help me God, you are going to do it!" cried Col.
Zane, throwing open the door. "I know you can. Run as you never ran
in all your life."

Like an arrow sprung from a bow Betty flashed past the Colonel and
out on the green. Scarcely ten of the long hundred yards had been
covered by her flying feet when a roar of angry shouts and yells
warned Betty that the keen-eyed savages saw the bag of powder and
now knew they had been deceived by a girl. The cracking of rifles
began at a point on the bluff nearest Col. Zane's house, and
extended in a half circle to the eastern end of the clearing. The
leaden messengers of Death whistled past Betty. They sped before her
and behind her, scattering pebbles in her path, striking up the
dust, and ploughing little furrows in the ground. A quarter of the
distance covered! Betty had passed the top of the knoll now and she
was going down the gentle slope like the wind. None but a fine
marksman could have hit that small, flitting figure. The yelling and
screeching had become deafening. The reports of the rifles blended
in a roar. Yet above it all Betty heard Wetzel's stentorian yell. It
lent wings to her feet. Half the distance covered! A hot, stinging
pain shot through Betty's arm, but she heeded it not. The bullets
were raining about her. They sang over her head; hissed close to her
ears, and cut the grass in front of her; they pattered like hail on
the stockade-fence, but still untouched, unharmed, the slender brown
figure sped toward the gate. Three-fourths of the distance covered!
A tug at the flying hair, and a long, black tress cut off by a
bullet, floated away on the breeze. Betty saw the big gate swing;
she saw the tall figure of the hunter; she saw her brother. Only a
few more yards! On! On! On! A blinding red mist obscured her sight.
She lost the opening in the fence, but unheeding she rushed on.
Another second and she stumbled; she felt herself grasped by eager
arms; she heard the gate slam and the iron bar shoot into place;
then she felt and heard no more.

Silas Zane bounded up the stairs with a doubly precious burden in
his arms. A mighty cheer greeted his entrance. It aroused Alfred
Clarke, who had bowed his head on the bench and had lost all sense
of time and place. What were the women sobbing and crying over? To
whom belonged that white face? Of course, it was the face of the
girl he loved. The face of the girl who had gone to her death. And
he writhed in his agony.

Then something wonderful happened. A warm, living flush swept over
that pale face. The eyelids fluttered; they opened, and the dark
eyes, radiant, beautiful, gazed straight into Alfred's.

Still Alfred could not believe his eyes. That pale face and the
wonderful eyes belonged to the ghost of his sweetheart. They had
come back to haunt him. Then he heard a voice.

"O-h! but that brown place burns!"

Alfred saw a bare and shapely arm. Its beauty was marred by a cruel
red welt. He heard that same sweet voice laugh and cry together.
Then he came back to life and hope. With one bound he sprang to a
porthole.

"God, what a woman!" he said between his teeth, as he thrust the
rifle forward.

It was indeed not a time for inaction. The Indians, realizing they
had been tricked and had lost a golden opportunity, rushed at the
Fort with renewed energy. They attacked from all sides and with the
persistent fury of savages long disappointed in their hopes. They
were received with a scathing, deadly fire. Bang! roared the cannon,
and the detachment of savages dropped their ladders and fled. The
little "bull dog" was turned on its swivel and directed at another
rush of Indians. Bang! and the bullets, chainlinks, and bits of iron
ploughed through the ranks of the enemy. The Indians never lived who
could stand in the face of well-aimed cannon-shot. They fell back.
The settlers, inspired, carried beyond themselves by the heroism of
a girl, fought as they had never fought before. Every shot went to a
redskin's heart, impelled by the powder for which a brave girl had
offered her life, guided by hands and arms of iron, and aimed by
eyes as fixed and stern as Fate, every bullet shed the life-blood of
a warrior.

Slowly and sullenly the red men gave way before that fire. Foot by
foot they retired. Girty was seen no more. Fire, the Shawnee chief,
lay dead in the road almost in the same spot where two days before
his brother chief, Red Fox, had bit the dust. The British had long
since retreated.

When night came the exhausted and almost famished besiegers sought
rest and food.

The moon came out clear and beautiful, as if ashamed at her
traitor's part of the night before, and brightened up the valley,
bathing the Fort, the river, and the forest in her silver light.

Shortly after daybreak the next morning the Indians, despairing of
success, held a pow-wow. While they were grouped in plain view of
the garrison, and probably conferring over the question of raising
the siege, the long, peculiar whoop of an Indian spy, who had been
sent out to watch for the approach of a relief party, rang out. This
seemed a signal for retreat. Scarcely had the shrill cry ceased to
echo in the hills when the Indians and the British, abandoning their
dead, moved rapidly across the river.

After a short interval a mounted force was seen galloping up the
creek road. It proved to be Capt. Boggs, Swearengen, and Williamson
with seventy men. Great was the rejoicing. Capt. Boggs had expected
to find only the ashes of the Fort. And the gallant little garrison,
although saddened by the loss of half its original number, rejoiced
that it had repulsed the united forces of braves and British.



CHAPTER XV.

Peace and quiet reigned ones more at Ft. Henry. Before the glorious
autumn days had waned, the settlers had repaired the damage done to
their cabins, and many of them were now occupied with the fall
plowing. Never had the Fort experienced such busy days. Many new
faces were seen in the little meeting-house. Pioneers from Virginia,
from Ft. Pitt, and eastward had learned that Fort Henry had repulsed
the biggest force of Indians and soldiers that Governor Hamilton and
his minions could muster. Settlers from all points along the river
were flocking to Col. Zane's settlement. New cabins dotted the
hillside; cabins and barns in all stages of construction could be
seen. The sounds of hammers, the ringing stroke of the axe, and the
crashing down of mighty pines or poplars were heard all day long.

Col. Zane sat oftener and longer than ever before in his favorite
seat on his doorstep. On this evening he had just returned from a
hard day in the fields, and sat down to rest a moment before going
to supper. A few days previous Isaac Zane and Myeerah had come to
the settlement. Myeerah brought a treaty of peace signed by Tarhe
and the other Wyandot chieftains. The once implacable Huron was now
ready to be friendly with the white people. Col. Zane and his
brothers signed the treaty, and Betty, by dint of much persuasion,
prevailed on Wetzel to bury the hatchet with the Hurons. So
Myeerah's love, like the love of many other women, accomplished more
than years of war and bloodshed.

The genial and happy smile never left Col. Zane's face, and as he
saw the well-laden rafts coming down the river, and the air of
liveliness and animation about the growing settlement, his smile
broadened into one of pride and satisfaction. The prophecy that he
had made twelve years before was fulfilled. His dream was realized.
The wild, beautiful spot where he had once built a bark shack and
camped half a year without seeing a white man was now the scene of a
bustling settlement; and he believed he would live to see that
settlement grow into a prosperous city. He did not think of the
thousands of acres which would one day make him a wealthy man. He
was a pioneer at heart; he had opened up that rich new country; he
had conquered all obstacles, and that was enough to make him
content.

"Papa, when shall I be big enough to fight bars and bufflers and
Injuns?" asked Noah, stopping in his play and straddling his
father's knee.

"My boy, did you not have Indians enough a short time ago?"

"But, papa, I did not get to see any. I heard the shooting and
yelling. Sammy was afraid, but I wasn't. I wanted to look out of the
little holes, but they locked us up in the dark room."

"If that boy ever grows up to be like Jonathan or Wetzel it will be
the death of me," said the Colonel's wife, who had heard the lad's
chatter.

"Don't worry, Bessie. When Noah grows to be a man the Indians will
be gone."

Col. Zane heard the galloping of a horse and looking up saw Clarke
coming down the road on his black thoroughbred. The Colonel rose and
walked out to the hitching-block, where Clarke had reined in his
fiery steed.

"Ah, Alfred. Been out for a ride?"

"Yes, I have been giving Roger a little exercise."

"That's a magnificent animal. I never get tired watching him move.
He's the best bit of horseflesh on the river. By the way, we have
not seen much of you since the siege. Of course you have been busy.
Getting ready to put on the harness, eh? Well, that's what we want
the young men to do. Come over and see us."

"I have been trying to come. You know how it is with me--about
Betty, I mean. Col. Zane, I--I love her. That's all."

"Yes, I know, Alfred, and I don't wonder at your fears. But I have
always liked you, and now I guess it's about time for me to put a
spoke in your wheel of fortune. If Betty cares for you--and I have a
sneaking idea she does--I will give her to you."

"I have nothing. I gave up everything when I left home."

"My lad, never mind about that," said the Colonel, laying his hand
on Clarke's knee. "We don't need riches. I have so often said that
we need nothing out here on the border but honest hearts and strong,
willing hands. These you have. That is enough for me and for my
people, and as for land, why, I have enough for an army of young
men. I got my land cheap. That whole island there I bought from
Cornplanter. You can have that island or any tract of land along the
river. Some day I shall put you at the head of my men. It will take
you years to cut that road through to Maysville. Oh, I have plenty
of work for you."

"Col. Zane, I cannot thank you," answered Alfred, with emotion. "I
shall try to merit your friendship and esteem. Will you please tell
your sister I shall come over in the morning and beg to see her
alone."

"That I will, Alfred. Goodnight."

Col. Zane strode across his threshold with a happy smile on his
face. He loved to joke and tease, and never lost an opportunity.

"Things seem to be working out all right. Now for some fun with Her
Highness," he said to himself.

As the Colonel surveyed the pleasant home scene he felt he had
nothing more to wish for. The youngsters were playing with a shaggy
little pup which had already taken Tige's place in their fickle
affections. His wife was crooning a lullaby as she gently rocked the
cradle to and fro. A wonderful mite of humanity peacefully slumbered
in that old cradle. Annie was beginning to set the table for the
evening meal. Isaac lay with a contented smile on his face, fast
asleep on the couch, where, only a short time before, he had been
laid bleeding and almost dead. Betty was reading to Myeerah, whose
eyes were rapturously bright as she leaned her head against her
sister and listened to the low voice.

"Well, Betty, what do you think?" said Col. Zane, stopping before
the girls.

"What do I think?" retorted Betty. "Why, I think you are very rude
to interrupt me. I am reading to Myeerah her first novel."

"I have a very important message for you."

"For me? What! From whom?"

"Guess."

Betty ran through a list of most of her acquaintances, but after
each name her brother shook his head.

"Oh, well, I don't care," she finally said. The color in her cheeks
had heightened noticeably.

"Very well. If you do not care, I will say nothing more," said Col.
Zane.

At this juncture Annie called them to supper. Later, when Col. Zane
sat on the doorstep smoking, Betty came and sat beside him with her
head resting against his shoulder. The Colonel smoked on in silence.
Presently the dusky head moved restlessly.

"Eb, tell me the message," whispered Betty.

"Message? What message?" asked Col. Zone. "What are you talking
about?"

"Do not tease--not now. Tell me." There was an undercurrent of
wistfulness in Betty's voice which touched the kindhearted brother.

"Well, to-day a certain young man asked me if he could relieve me of
the responsibility of looking after a certain young lady."

"Oh----"

"Wait a moment. I told him I would be delighted."

"Eb, that was unkind."

"Then he asked me to tell her he was coming over to-morrow morning
to fix it up with her."

"Oh, horrible!" cried Betty. "Were those the words he used?"

"Betts, to tell the honest truth, he did not say much of anything.
He just said: 'I love her,' and his eyes blazed."

Betty uttered a half articulate cry and ran to her room. Her heart
was throbbing. What could she do? She felt that if she looked once
into her lover's eyes she would have no strength. How dared she
allow herself to be so weak! Yet she knew this was the end. She
could deceive him no longer. For she felt a stir in her heart,
stronger than all, beyond all resistance, an exquisite agony, the
sweet, blind, tumultuous exultation of the woman who loves and is
loved.

      * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Bess, what do you think?" said Col. Zane, going into the kitchen
next morning, after he had returned from the pasture. "Clarke just
came over and asked for Betty. I called her. She came down looking
as sweet and cool as one of the lilies out by the spring. She said:
'Why, Mr. Clarke, you are almost a stranger. I am pleased to see
you. Indeed, we are all very glad to know you have recovered from
your severe burns.' She went on talking like that for all the world
like a girl who didn't care a snap for him. And she knows as well as
I do. Not only that, she has been actually breaking her heart over
him all these months. How did she do it? Oh, you women beat me all
hollow!"

"Would you expect Betty to fall into his arms?" asked the Colonel's
worthy spouse, indignantly.

"Not exactly. But she was too cool, too friendly. Poor Alfred looked
as if he hadn't slept. He was nervous and scared to death. When
Betty ran up stairs I put a bug in Alfred's ear. He'll be all right
now, if he follows my advice."

"Humph! What did Colonel Ebenezer Zane tell him?" asked Bessie, in
disgust.

"Oh, not much. I simply told him not to lose his nerve; that a woman
never meant 'no'; that she often says it only to be made say 'yes.'
And I ended up with telling him if she got a little skittish, as
thoroughbreds do sometimes, to try a strong arm. That was my way."

"Col. Zane, if my memory does not fail me, you were as humble and
beseeching as the proudest girl could desire."

"I beseeching? Never!"

"I hope Alfred's wooing may go well. I like him very much. But I'm
afraid. Betty has such a spirit that it is quite likely she will
refuse him for no other reason than that he built his cabin before
he asked her."

"Nonsense. He asked her long ago. Never fear, Bess, my sister will
come back as meek as a lamb."

Meanwhile Betty and Alfred were strolling down the familiar path
toward the river. The October air was fresh with a suspicion of
frost. The clear notes of a hunter's horn came floating down from
the hills. A flock of wild geese had alighted on the marshy ground
at the end of the island where they kept up a continual honk! honk!
The brown hills, the red forest, and the yellow fields were now at
the height of their autumnal beauty. Soon the November north wind
would thrash the trees bare, and bow the proud heads of the daisies
and the goldenrod; but just now they flashed in the sun, and swayed
back and forth in all their glory.

"I see you limp. Are you not entirely well?" Betty was saying.

"Oh, I am getting along famously, thank you," said Alfred. "This one
foot was quite severely burned and is still tender."

"You have had your share of injuries. I heard my brother say you had
been wounded three times within a year."

"Four times."

"Jonathan told of the axe wound; then the wound Miller gave you, and
finally the burns. These make three, do they not?"

"Yes, but you see, all three could not be compared to the one you
forgot to mention."

"Let us hurry past here," said Betty, hastening to change the
subject. "This is where you had the dreadful fight with Miller."

"As Miller did go to meet Girty, and as he did not return to the
Fort with the renegade, we must believe he is dead. Of course, we do
not know this to be actually a fact. But something makes me think
so. Jonathan and Wetzel have not said anything; I can't get any
satisfaction on that score from either; but I am sure neither of
them would rest until Miller was dead."

"I think you are right. But we may never know. All I can tell you is
that Wetzel and Jack trailed Miller to the river, and then they both
came back. I was the last to see Lewis that night before he left on
Miller's trail. It isn't likely I shall forget what Lewis said and
how he looked. Miller was a wicked man; yes, a traitor."

"He was a bad man, and he nearly succeeded in every one of his
plans. I have not the slightest doubt that had he refrained from
taking part in the shooting match he would have succeeded in
abducting you, in killing me, and in leading Girty here long before
he was expected."

"There are many things that may never be explained, but one thing
Miller did always mystify us. How did he succeed in binding Tige?"

"To my way of thinking that was not so difficult as climbing into my
room and almost killing me, or stealing the powder from Capt. Boggs'
room."

"The last, at least, gave me a chance to help," said Betty, with a
touch of her odd roguishness.

"That was the grandest thing a woman ever did," said Alfred, in a
low tone.

"Oh, no, I only ran fast."

"I would have given the world to have seen you, but I was lying on
the bench wishing I were dead. I did not have strength to look out
of a porthole. Oh! that horrible time! I can never forget it. I lie
awake at night and hear the yelling and shooting. Then I dream of
running over the burning roofs and it all comes back so vividly I
can almost feel the flames and smell the burnt wood. Then I wake up
and think of that awful moment when you were carried into the
blockhouse white, and, as I thought, dead."

"But I wasn't. And I think it best for us to forget that horrible
siege. It is past. It is a miracle that any one was spared. Ebenezer
says we should not grieve for those who are gone; they were heroic;
they saved the Fort. He says too, that we shall never again be
troubled by Indians. Therefore let us forget and be happy. I have
forgotten Miller. You can afford to do the same."

"Yes, I forgive him." Then, after a long silence, Alfred continued,
"Will you go down to the old sycamore?"

Down the winding path they went. Coming to a steep place in the
rocky bank Alfred jumped down and then turned to help Betty. But she
avoided his gaze, pretended to not see his outstretched hands, and
leaped lightly down beside him. He looked at her with perplexity and
anxiety in his eyes. Before he could speak she ran on ahead of him
and climbed down the bank to the pool. He followed slowly,
thoughtfully. The supreme moment had come. He knew it, and somehow
he did not feel the confidence the Colonel had inspired in him. It
had been easy for him to think of subduing this imperious young
lady; but when the time came to assert his will he found he could
not remember what he had intended to say, and his feelings were
divided between his love for her and the horrible fear that he
should lose her.

When he reached the sycamore tree he found her sitting behind it
with a cluster of yellow daisies in her lap. Alfred gazed at her,
conscious that all his hopes of happiness were dependent on the next
few words that would issue from her smiling lips. The little brown
hands, which were now rather nervously arranging the flowers, held
more than his life.

"Are they not sweet?" asked Betty, giving him a fleeting glance. "We
call them 'black-eyed Susans.' Could anything be lovelier than that
soft, dark brown?"

"Yes," answered Alfred, looking into her eyes.

"But--but you are not looking at my daisies at all," said Betty,
lowering her eyes.

"No, I am not," said Alfred. Then suddenly: "A year ago this very
day we were here."

"Here? Oh, yes, I believe I do remember. It was the day we came in
my canoe and had such fine fishing."

"Is that all you remember?"

"I can recollect nothing in particular. It was so long ago."

"I suppose you will say you had no idea why I wanted you to come to
this spot in particular."

"I supposed you simply wanted to take a walk, and it is very
pleasant here."

"Then Col. Zane did not tell you?" demanded Alfred. Receiving no
reply he went on.

"Did you read my letter?"

"What letter?"

"The letter old Sam should have given you last fall. Did you read
it?"

"Yes," answered Betty, faintly.

"Did your brother tell you I wanted to see you this morning?"

"Yes, he told me, and it made me very angry," said Betty, raising
her head. There was a bright red spot in each cheek. "You--you
seemed to think you--that I--well--I did not like it."

"I think I understand; but you are entirely wrong. I have never
thought you cared for me. My wildest dreams never left me any
confidence. Col. Zane and Wetzel both had some deluded notion that
you cared--"

"But they had no right to say that or to think it," said Betty,
passionately. She sprang to her feet, scattering the daisies over
the grass. "For them to presume that I cared for you is absurd. I
never gave them any reason to think so, for--for I--I don't."

"Very well, then, there is nothing more to be said," answered
Alfred, in a voice that was calm and slightly cold. "I'm sorry if
you have been annoyed. I have been mad, of course, but I promise you
that you need fear no further annoyance from me. Come, I think we
should return to the house."

And he turned and walked slowly up the path. He had taken perhaps a
dozen steps when she called him.

"Mr. Clarke, come back."

Alfred retraced his steps and stood before her again. Then he saw a
different Betty. The haughty poise had disappeared. Her head was
bowed. Her little hands were tightly pressed over a throbbing bosom.

"Well," said Alfred, after a moment.

"Why--why are you in such a hurry to go?"

"I have learned what I wanted to know. And after that I do not
imagine I would be very agreeable. I am going back. Are you coming?"

"I did not mean quite what I said," whispered Betty.

"Then what did you mean?" asked Alfred, in a stern voice.

"I don't know. Please don't speak so."

"Betty, forgive my harshness. Can you expect a man to feel as I do
and remain calm? You know I love you. You must not trifle any
longer. You must not fight any longer."

"But I can't help fighting."

"Look at me," said Alfred, taking her hands. "Let me see your eyes.
I believe you care a little for me, or else you wouldn't have called
me back. I love you. Can you understand that?"

"Yes, I can; and I think you should love me a great deal to make up
for what you made me suffer."

"Betty, look at me."

Slowly she raised her head and lifted the downcast eyes. Those
telltale traitors no longer hid her secret. With a glad cry Alfred
caught her in his arms. She tried to hide her face, but he got his
hand under her chin and held it firmly so that the sweet crimson
lips were very near his own. Then he slowly bent his head.

Betty saw his intention, closed her eyes and whispered.

"Alfred, please don't--it's not fair--I beg of you--Oh!"

That kiss was Betty's undoing. She uttered a strange little cry.
Then her dark head found a hiding place over his heart, and her
slender form, which a moment before had resisted so fiercely, sank
yielding into his embrace.

"Betty, do you dare tell me now that you do not care for me?" Alfred
whispered into the dusky hair which rippled over his breast.

Betty was brave even in her surrender. Her hands moved slowly upward
along his arms, slipped over his shoulders, and clasped round his
neck. Then she lifted a flushed and tearstained face with tremulous
lips and wonderful shining eyes.

"Alfred, I do love you--with my whole heart I love you. I never knew
until now."

The hours flew apace. The prolonged ringing of the dinner bell
brought the lovers back to earth, and to the realization that the
world held others than themselves. Slowly they climbed the familiar
path, but this time as never before. They walked hand in hand. From
the blur they looked back. They wanted to make sure they were not
dreaming. The water rushed over the fall more musically than ever
before; the white patches of foam floated round and round the shady
pool; the leaves of the sycamore rustled cheerily in the breeze. On
a dead branch a wood-pecker hammered industriously.

"Before we get out of sight of that dear old tree I want to make a
confession," said Betty, as she stood before Alfred. She was pulling
at the fringe on his hunting-coat.

"You need not make confessions to me."

"But this was dreadful; it preys on my conscience."

"Very well, I will be your judge. Your punishment shall be slight."

"One day when you were lying unconscious from your wound, Bessie
sent me to watch you. I nursed you for hours; and--and--do not think
badly of me--I--I kissed you."

"My darling," cried the enraptured young man.

When they at last reached the house they found Col. Zane on the
doorstep.

"Where on earth have you been?" he said. "Wetzel was here. He said
he would not wait to see you. There he goes up the hill. He is
behind that laurel."

They looked and presently saw the tall figure of the hunter emerge
from the bushes. He stopped and leaned on his rifle. For a minute he
remained motionless. Then he waved his hand and plunged into the
thicket. Betty sighed and Alfred said:

"Poor Wetzel! ever restless, ever roaming."

"Hello, there!" exclaimed a gay voice. The lovers turned to see the
smiling face of Isaac, and over his shoulder Myeerah's happy face
beaming on them. "Alfred, you are a lucky dog. You can thank Myeerah
and me for this; because if I had not taken to the river and nearly
drowned myself to give you that opportunity you would not wear that
happy face to-day. Blush away, Betts, it becomes you mightily."

"Bessie, here they are!" cried Col. Zane, in his hearty voice. "She
is tamed at last. No excuses, Alfred, in to dinner you go."

Col. Zane pushed the young people up the steps before him, and
stopping on the threshold while he knocked the ashes from his pipe,
he smiled contentedly.



AFTERWORD.

Betty lived all her after life on the scene of her famous exploit.
She became a happy wife and mother. When she grew to be an old lady,
with her grandchildren about her knee, she delighted to tell them
that when a girl she had run the gauntlet of the Indians.

Col. Zane became the friend of all redmen. He maintained a
trading-post for many years, and his dealings were ever kind and
honorable. After the country got settled he received from time to
time various marks of distinction from the State, Colonial, and
National governments. His most noted achievement was completed about
1796. President Washington, desiring to open a National road from
Fort Henry to Maysville, Kentucky, paid a great tribute to Col.
Zane's ability by employing him to undertake the arduous task. His
brother Jonathan and the Indian guide, Tomepomehala, rendered
valuable aid in blazing out the path through the wilderness. This
road, famous for many years as Zane's Trace, opened the beautiful
Ohio valley to the ambitious pioneer. For this service Congress
granted Col. Zane the privilege of locating military warrants upon
three sections of land, each a square mile in extent, which property
the government eventually presented to him. Col. Zane was the
founder of Wheeling, Zanesville, Martin's Ferry, and Bridgeport. He
died in 1811.

Isaac Zane received from the government a patent of ten thousand
acres of land on Mad river. He established his home in the center of
this tract, where he lived with the Wyandot until his death. A white
settlement sprang up, prospered, and grew, and today it is the
thriving city of Zanesfield.

Jonathan Zane settled down after peace was declared with the
Indians, found himself a wife, and eventually became an influential
citizen. However, he never lost his love for the wild woods. At
times he would take down the old rifle and disappear for two or
three days. He always returned cheerful and happy from these lonely
hunts.

Wetzel alone did not take kindly to the march of civilization; but
then he was a hunter, not a pioneer. He kept his word of peace with
his old enemies, the Hurons, though he never abandoned his wandering
and vengeful quests after the Delawares.

As the years passed Wetzel grew more silent and taciturn. From time
to time he visited Ft. Henry, and on these visits he spent hours
playing with Betty's children. But he was restless in the
settlement, and his sojourns grew briefer and more infrequent as
time rolled on. True to his conviction that no wife existed on earth
for him, he never married. His home was the trackless wilds, where
he was true to his calling--a foe to the redman.

Wonderful to relate his long, black hair never adorned the walls of
an Indian's lodge, where a warrior might point with grim pride and
say: "No more does the Deathwind blow over the hills and vales." We
could tell of how his keen eye once again saw Wingenund over the
sights of his fatal rifle, and how he was once again a prisoner in
the camp of that lifelong foe, but that's another story, which,
perhaps, we may tell some day.

To-day the beautiful city of Wheeling rises on the banks of the
Ohio, where the yells of the Indians once blanched the cheeks of the
pioneers. The broad, winding river rolls on as of yore; it alone
remains unchanged. What were Indians and pioneers, forts and cities
to it? Eons of time before human beings lived it flowed slowly
toward the sea, and ages after men and their works are dust, it will
roll on placidly with its eternal scheme of nature.

Upon the island still stand noble beeches, oaks, and
chestnuts--trees that long ago have covered up their bullet-scars,
but they could tell, had they the power to speak, many a wild
thrilling tale. Beautiful parks and stately mansions grace the
island; and polished equipages roll over the ground that once knew
naught save the soft tread of the deer and the moccasin.

McColloch's Rock still juts boldly out over the river as deep and
rugged as when the brave Major leaped to everlasting fame. Wetzel's
Cave, so named to this day, remains on the side of the bluff
overlooking the creek. The grapevines and wild rose-bushes still
cluster round the cavern-entrance, where, long ago, the wily savage
was wont to lie in wait for the settler, lured there by the false
turkey-call. The boys visit the cave on Saturday afternoons and play
"Injuns."

Not long since the writer spent a quiet afternoon there, listening
to the musical flow of the brook, and dreaming of those who had
lived and loved, fought and died by that stream one hundred and
twenty years ago. The city with its long blocks of buildings, its
spires and bridges, faded away, leaving the scene as it was in the
days of Fort Henry--unobscured by smoke, the river undotted by
pulling boats, and everywhere the green and verdant forest.

Nothing was wanting in that dream picture: Betty tearing along on
her pony; the pioneer plowing in the field; the stealthy approach of
the savage; Wetzel and Jonathan watching the river; the deer
browsing with the cows in the pasture, and the old fort, grim and
menacing on the bluff--all were there as natural as in those times
which tried men's souls.

And as the writer awoke to the realities of life, that his dreams
were of long ago, he was saddened by the thought that the labor of
the pioneer is ended; his faithful, heroic wife's work is done. That
beautiful country, which their sacrifices made ours, will ever be a
monument to them.

Sad, too, is the thought that the poor Indian is unmourned. He is
almost forgotten; he is in the shadow; his songs are sung; no more
will he sing to his dusky bride: his deeds are done; no more will he
boast of his all-conquering arm or of his speed like the Northwind;
no more will his heart bound at the whistle of the stag, for he
sleeps in the shade of the oaks, under the moss and the ferns.