The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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you—any man, I say—would step out before those howling fiends and boldly demand that there be no bloodshed. A courageous leader with a band of determined followers could avert this tragedy. You might readily intimidate yonder horde of drunken demons. Captain Williamson, I am only a minister, far removed from a man of war and leader, as you claim to be, but, sir, I curse you as a miserable coward. If I ever get back to civilization I’ll brand this inhuman coldness of yours, as the most infamous and dastardly cowardice that ever disgraced a white man. You are worse than Girty!”
Williamson turned a sickly yellow; he fumbled a second with the handle of his tomahawk, but made no answer. The other bordermen maintained the same careless composure. What to them was the raving of a mad preacher?
Jim saw it and turned baffled, fiercely angry, and hopeless. As he walked away Jeff Lynn took his arm, and after they were clear of the crowd of frontiersmen he said:
“Young feller, you give him pepper, an’ no mistake. An’ mebbe you’re right from your side the fence. But you can’t see the Injuns from our side. We hunters hevn’t much humanity—I reckon that’s what you called it—but we’ve lost so many friends an’ relatives, an’ hearn of so many murders by the reddys that we look on all of ’em as wild varmints that should be killed on sight. Now, mebbe it’ll interest you to know I was the feller who took the vote Williamson told you about, an’ I did it ’cause I had an interest in you. I wus watchin’ you when Edwards and the other missionary got shot. I like grit in a man, an’ I seen you had it clear through. So when Heckewelder comes over I talked to the fellers, an’ all I could git interested was eighteen, but they wanted to fight simply fer fightin’ sake. Now, ole Jeff Lynn is your friend. You just lay low until this is over.”
Jim thanked the old riverman and left him. He hardly knew which way to turn. He would make one more effort. He crossed the clearing to where the renegades’ teepee stood. McKee and Elliott were sitting on a log. Simon Girty stood beside them, his hard, keen, roving eyes on the scene. The missionary was impressed by the white leader. There was a difference in his aspect, a wilder look than the others wore, as if the man had suddenly awakened to the fury of his Indians. Nevertheless the young man went straight toward him.
“Girty, I come—”
“Git out! You meddlin’ preacher!” yelled the renegade, shaking his fist at Jim.
Simon Girty was drunk.
Jim turned from the white fiends. He knew his life to them was not worth a pinch of powder.
“Lost! Lost! All lost!” he exclaimed in despair.
As he went toward the church he saw hundreds of savages bounding over the grass, brandishing weapons and whooping fiendishly. They were concentrating around Girty’s teepee, where already a great throng had congregated. Of all the Indians to be seen not one walked. They leaped by Jim, and ran over the grass nimble as deer.
He saw the eager, fire in their dusky eyes, and the cruelly clenched teeth like those of wolves when they snarl. He felt the hissing breath of many savages as they raced by him. More than one whirled a tomahawk close to Jim’s head, and uttered horrible yells in his ear. They were like tigers lusting for blood.
Jim hurried to the church. Not an Indian was visible near the log structure. Even the savage guards had gone. He entered the open door to be instantly struck with reverence and awe.
The Christians were singing.
Miserable and full of sickening dread though Jim was, he could not but realize that the scene before him was one of extraordinary beauty and pathos. The doomed Indians lifted up their voices in song. Never had they sung so feelingly, so harmoniously.
When the song ended Zeisberger, who stood upon a platform, opened his Bible and read:
“In a little wrath I hid my face from thee for a moment, but with everlasting kindness will I have mercy on thee, saith the Lord, thy Redeemer.”
In a voice low and tremulous the venerable missionary began his sermon.
The shadow of death hovered over these Christian martyrs; it was reflected in their somber eyes, yet not one was sullen or sad. The children who were too young to understand, but instinctively feeling the tragedy soon to be enacted there, cowered close to their mothers.
Zeisberger preached a touching and impressive, though short, sermon. At its conclusion the whole congregation rose and surrounded the missionary. The men shook his hands, the women kissed them, the children clung to his legs. It was a wonderful manifestation of affection.
Suddenly Glickhican, the old Delaware chief, stepped on the platform, raised his hand and shouted one Indian word.
A long, low wail went up from the children and youths; the women slowly, meekly bowed their heads. The men, due to the stoicism of their nature and the Christianity they had learned, stood proudly erect awaiting the death that had been decreed.
Glickhican pulled the bell rope.
A deep, mellow tone pealed out.
The sound transfixed all the Christians. No one moved.
Glickhican had given the signal which told the murderers the Christians were ready.
“Come, man, my God! We can’t stay here!” cried Jim to Zeisberger.
As they went out both men turned to look their last on the martyrs. The death knell which had rung in the ears of the Christians, was to them the voice of God. Stern, dark visages of men and the sweet, submissive faces of women were uplifted with rapt attention. A light seemed to shine from these faces as if the contemplation of God had illumined them.
As Zeisberger and Jim left the church and hurried toward the cabins, they saw the crowd of savages in a black mass round Girty’s teepee. The yelling and leaping had ceased.
Heckewelder opened the door. Evidently he had watched for them.
“Jim! Jim!” cried Nell, when he entered the cabin. “Oh-h! I was afraid. Oh! I am glad you’re back safe. See, this noble Indian has come to help us.”
Wingenund stood calm and erect by the door.
“Chief, what will you do?”
“Wingenund will show you the way to the big river,” answered the chieftain, in his deep bass.
“Run away? No, never! That would be cowardly. Heckewelder, you would not go? Nor you, Zeisberger? We may yet be of use, we may yet save some of the Christians.”
“Save the yellow-hair,” sternly said Wingenund.
“Oh, Jim, you don’t understand. The chief has come to warn me of Girty. He intends to take me as he has others, as he did poor Kate. Did you not see the meaning in his eyes today? How they scorched me! Ho! Jim, take me away! Save me! Do not leave me here to that horrible fate? Oh! Jim, take me away!”
“Nell, I will take you,” cried Jim, grasping her hands.
“Hurry! There’s a blanket full of things I packed for you,” said Heckewelder. “Lose no time. Ah! hear that! My Heavens! what a yell!” Heckewelder rushed to the door and looked out. “There they go, a black mob of imps; a pack of hungry wolves! Jim Girty is in the lead. How he leaps! How he waves his sledge! He leads the savages toward the church. Oh! it’s the end!”
“Benny? Where’s Benny?” cried Jim, hurriedly lacing the hunting coat he had flung about him.
“Benny’s safe. I’ve hidden him. I’ll get him away from here,” answered young Christy. “Go! Now’s your time. Godspeed you!”
“I’m ready,” declared Mr. Wells. “I—have—finished!”
“There goes Wingenund! He’s running. Follow him, quick! Good-by! Good-by! God be with you!” cried Heckewelder.
“Good-by! Good-by!”
Jim hurried Nell toward the bushes where Wingenund’s tall form could dimly be seen. Mr. Wells followed them. On the edge