The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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fateful resolve, as if his decree of vengeance, once given, was as immutable as destiny. The big, horny hands gripped in a viselike clasp born of fierce passion, but no word was spoken.
Far to the west somewhere, a befrilled and bedizened renegade pursued the wild tenor of his ways; perhaps, even now steeping his soul in more crime, or staining his hands a deeper red, but sleeping or waking, he dreamed not of this deadly compact that meant his doom.
The two hunters turned their stern faces toward the west, and passed silently down the ridge into the depths of the forest. Darkness found them within rifle-shot of the Village of Peace. With the dog creeping between them, they crawled to a position which would, in daylight, command a view of the clearing. Then, while one stood guard, the other slept.
When morning dawned they shifted their position to the top of a low, fern-covered cliff, from which they could see every movement in the village. All the morning they watched with that wonderful patience of men who knew how to wait. The visiting savages were quiet, the missionaries moved about in and out of the shops and cabins; the Christian indians worked industriously in the fields, while the renegades lolled before a prominent teepee.
“This quiet looks bad,” whispered Jonathan to Wetzel. No shouts were heard; not a hostile Indian was seen to move.
“They’ve come to a decision,” whispered Jonathan, and Wetzel answered him:
“If they hev, the Christians don’t know it.”
An hour later the deep pealing of the church bell broke the silence. The entire band of Christian Indians gathered near the large log structure, and then marched in orderly form toward the maple grove where the service was always held in pleasant weather. This movement brought the Indians within several hundred yards of the cliff where Zane and Wetzel lay concealed.
“There’s Heckewelder walking with old man Wells,” whispered Jonathan. “There’s Young and Edwards, and, yes, there’s the young missionary, brother of Joe. ’Pears to me they’re foolish to hold service in the face of all those riled Injuns.”
“Wuss’n foolish,” answered Wetzel.
“Look! By gum! As I’m a livin’ sinner there comes the whole crowd of hostile redskins. They’ve got their guns, and—by Gum! they’re painted. Looks bad, bad! Not much friendliness about that bunch!”
“They ain’t intendin’ to be peaceable.”
“By gum! You’re right. There ain’t one of them settin’ down. ’Pears to me I know some of them redskins. There’s Pipe, sure enough, and Kotoxen. By gum! If there ain’t Shingiss; he was friendly once.”
“None of them’s friendly.”
“Look! Lew, look! Right behind Pipe. See that long war-bonnet. As I’m a born sinner, that’s your old friend, Wingenund. ’Pears to me we’ve rounded up all our acquaintances.”
The two bordermen lay close under the tall ferns and watched the proceedings with sharp eyes. They saw the converted Indians seat themselves before the platform. The crowd of hostile Indians surrounded the glade on all sides, except on, which, singularly enough, was next to the woods.
“Look thar!” exclaimed Wetzel, under his breath. He pointed off to the right of the maple glade. Jonathan gazed in the direction indicated, and saw two savages stealthily slipping through the bushes, and behind trees. Presently these suspicious acting spies, or scouts, stopped on a little knoll perhaps an hundred yards from the glade.
Wetzel groaned.
“This ain’t comfortable,” growled Zane, in a low whisper. “Them red devils are up to somethin’ bad. They’d better not move round over here.”
The hunters, satisfied that the two isolated savages meant mischief, turned their gaze once more toward the maple grove.
“Ah! Simon you white traitor! See him, Lew, comin’ with his precious gang,” said Jonathan. “He’s got the whole thing fixed, you can plainly see that. Bill Elliott, McKee; and who’s that renegade with Jim Girty? I’ll allow he must be the fellar we heard was with the Chippewas. Tough lookin’ customer; a good mate fer Jim Girty! A fine lot of border-hawks!”
“Somethin’ comin’ off,” whispered Wetzel, as Zane’s low growl grew unintelligible.
Jonathan felt, rather than saw, Wetzel tremble.
“The missionaries are consultin’. Ah! there comes one! Which? I guess it’s Edwards. By gum! who’s that Injun stalkin’ over from the hostile bunch. Big chief, whoever he is. Blest if it ain’t Half King!”
The watchers saw the chief wave his arm and speak with evident arrogance to Edwards, who, however, advanced to the platform and raised his hand to address the Christians.
“Crack!”
A shot rang out from the thicket. Clutching wildly at his breast, the missionary reeled back, staggered, and fell.
“One of those skulkin’ redskins has killed Edwards,” said Zane. “But, no; he’s not dead! He’s gettin’ up. Mebbe he ain’t hurt bad. By gum! there’s Young comin’ forward. Of all the fools!”
It was indeed true that Young had faced the Indians. Half King addressed him as he had the other; but Young raised his hand and began speaking.
“Crack!”
Another shot rang out. Young threw up his hands and fell heavily. The missionaries rushed toward him. Mr. Wells ran round the group, wringing his hands as if distracted.
“He’s hard hit,” hissed Zane, between his teeth. “You can tell that by the way he fell.”
Wetzel did not answer. He lay silent and motionless, his long body rigid, and his face like marble.
“There comes the other young fellar—Joe’s brother. He’ll get plugged, too,” continued Zane, whispering rather to himself than to his companion. “Oh, I hoped they’d show some sense! It’s noble for them to die for Christianity, but it won’t do no good. By gum! Heckewelder has pulled him back. Now, that’s good judgment!”
Half King stepped before the Christians and addressed them. He held in his hand a black war-club, which he wielded as he spoke.
Jonathan’s attention was now directed from the maple grove to the hunter beside him. He had heard a slight metallic click, as Wetzel cocked his rifle. Then he saw the black barrel slowly rise.
“Listen, Lew. Mebbe it ain’t good sense. We’re after Girty, you remember; and it’s a long shot from here—full three hundred yards.”
“You’re right, Jack, you’re right,” answered Wetzel, breathing hard.
“Let’s wait, and see what comes off.”
“Jack, I can’t do it. It’ll make our job harder; but I can’t help it. I can put a bullet just over the Huron’s left eye, an’ I’m goin’ to do it.”
“You can’t do it, Lew; you can’t! It’s too far for any gun. Wait! Wait!” whispered Jonathan, laying his hand on Wetzel’s shoulder.
“Wait? Man, can’t you see what the unnamable villain is doin’?”
“What?” asked Zane, turning his eyes again to the glade.
The converted Indians sat with bowed heads. Half King raised his war-club, and threw it on the ground in front of them.
“He’s announcin’ the death decree!” hissed Wetzel.
“Well! if he ain’t!”
Jonathan looked at Wetzel’s face. Then he rose to his knees, as had Wetzel, and tightened his belt. He knew that in another instant they would be speeding away through the forest.
“Lew, my rifle’s no good fer that distance. But mebbe yours is. You ought to know. It’s not sense, because there’s Simon Girty, and there’s Jim, the