The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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The fern stalks were four feet long and half a foot wide; these she deftly laced together, making broad screens which would serve to ward off the night dews. This done, she next built a fireplace with flat stones. She found wild apples, plums and turnips on the knoll above the glade. Then she cooked strips of meat which had been brought with them. Lance grazed on the long grass just without the glade, and Mose caught two rabbits. When darkness settled down Whispering Winds called the dog within the cavern, and hung the screens before the opening.
Several days passed. Joe rested quietly, and began to recover strength. Besides the work of preparing their meals, Whispering Winds had nothing to do save sit near the invalid and amuse or interest him so that he would not fret or grow impatient, while his wound was healing.
They talked about their future prospects. After visiting the Village of Peace, they would go to Fort Henry, where Joe could find employment. They dwelt upon the cabin they would build, and passed many happy moments planning a new home. Joe’s love of the wilderness had in no wise diminished; but a blow on his head from a heavy tomahawk, and a vicious stab in the back, had lessened his zeal so far that he understood it was not wise to sacrifice life for the pleasures of the pathless woods. He could have the last without the danger of being shot at from behind every tree. He reasoned that it would be best for him to take his wife to Fort Henry, there find employment, and devote his leisure time to roaming in the forest.
“Will the palefaces be kind to an Indian who has learned to love them?” Whispering Winds asked wistfully of Joe.
“Indeed they will,” answered Joe, and he told her the story of Isaac Zane; how he took his Indian bride home; how her beauty and sweetness soon won all the white people’s love. “It will be so with you, my wife.”
“Whispering Winds knows so little,” she murmured.
“Why, you are learning every day, and even if such was not the case, you know enough for me.”
“Whispering Winds will be afraid; she fears a little to go.”
“I’ll be glad when we can be on the move,” said Joe, with his old impatient desire for action. “How soon, Winds, can we set off?”
“As many days,” answered the Indian girl, holding up five fingers.
“So long? I want to leave this place.”
“Leave Beautiful Spring?”
“Yes, even this sweet place. It has a horror for me. I’ll never forget the night I first saw that spring shining in the moonlight. It was right above the rock that I looked into the glade. The moon was reflected in the dark pool, and as I gazed into the shadowy depths of the dark water I suddenly felt an unaccountable terror; but I oughtn’t to have the same feeling now. We are safe, are we not?”
“We are safe,” murmured Whispering Winds.
“Yet I have the same chill of fear whenever I look at the beautiful spring, and at night as I awake to hear the soft babble of running water, I freeze until my heart feels like cold lead. Winds, I’m not a coward; but I can’t help this feeling. Perhaps, it’s only the memory of that awful night with Wetzel.”
“An Indian feels so when he passes to his unmarked grave,” answered Winds, gazing solemnly at him. “Whispering Winds does not like this fancy of yours. Let us leave Beautiful Spring. You are almost well. Ah! if Whispering Winds should lose you! I love you!”
“And I love you, my beautiful wild flower,” answered Joe, stroking the dark head so near his own.
A tender smile shone on his face. He heard a slight noise without the cave, and, looking up, saw that which caused the smile to fade quickly.
“Mose!” he called, sharply. The dog was away chasing rabbits.
Whispering Winds glanced over her shoulder with a startled cry, which ended in a scream.
Not two yards behind her stood Jim Girty.
Hideous was his face in its triumphant ferocity. He held a long knife in his hand, and, snarling like a mad wolf, he made a forward lunge.
Joe raised himself quickly; but almost before he could lift his hand in defense, the long blade was sheathed in his breast.
Slowly he sank back, his gray eyes contracting with the old steely flash. The will to do was there, but the power was gone forever.
“Remember, Girty, murderer! I am Wetzel’s friend,” he cried, gazing at his slayer with unutterable scorn.
Then the gray eyes softened, and sought the blanched face of the stricken maiden.
“Winds,” he whispered faintly.
She was as one frozen with horror.
The gray eyes gazed into hers with lingering tenderness; then the film of death came upon them.
The renegade raised his bloody knife, and bent over the prostrate form.
Whispering Winds threw herself upon Girty with the blind fury of a maddened lioness. Cursing fiercely, he stabbed her once, twice, three times. She fell across the body of her lover, and clasped it convulsively.
Girty gave one glance at his victims; deliberately wiped the gory knife on Wind’s leggins, and, with another glance, hurried and fearful, around the glade, he plunged into the thicket.
An hour passed. A dark stream crept from the quiet figures toward the spring. It dyed the moss and the green violet leaves. Slowly it wound its way to the clear water, dripping between the pale blue flowers. The little fall below the spring was no longer snowy white; blood had tinged it red.
A dog came bounding into the glade. He leaped the brook, hesitated on the bank, and lowered his nose to sniff at the water. He bounded up the bank to the cavern.
A long, mournful howl broke the wilderness’s quiet.
Another hour passed. The birds were silent; the insects still. The sun sank behind the trees, and the shades of evening gathered.
The ferns on the other side of the glade trembled. A slight rustle of dead leaves disturbed the stillness. The dog whined, then barked. The tall form of a hunter rose out of the thicket, and stepped into the glade with his eyes bent upon moccasin tracks in the soft moss.
The trail he had been following led him to this bloody spring.
“I might hev knowed it,” he muttered.
Wetzel, for it was he, leaned upon his long rifle while his keen eyes took in the details of the tragedy. The whining dog, the bloody water, the motionless figures lying in a last embrace, told the sad story.
“Joe an’ Winds,” he muttered.
Only a moment did he remain lost in sad reflection. A familiar moccasin-print in the sand on the bank pointed westward. He examined it carefully.
“Two hours gone,” he muttered. “I might overtake him.”
Then his motions became swift. With two blows of his tomahawk he secured a long piece of grapevine. He took a heavy stone from the bed of the brook. He carried Joe to the spring, and, returning for Winds, placed her beside her lover. This done, he tied one end of the grapevine around the stone, and wound the other about the dead bodies.
He pushed them off the bank into the spring. As the lovers sank into the deep pool they turned, exposing first Winds’ sad face, and then Joe’s. Then they sank out of sight. Little waves splashed on the shore of the pool; the ripple disappeared, and the surface of the spring became tranquil.
Wetzel stood one moment over the watery grave of the maiden who had saved him, and the boy who had loved him. In the gathering gloom his stalwart form assumed gigantic proportions, and when he raised his long arm and shook his clenched fist toward the west, he resembled a magnificent statue of dark menace.
With a single bound he cleared the pool, and then sped out of the glade. He urged the dog on Girty’s trail, and followed the eager beast toward the west. As he disappeared, a long, low sound like