The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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In the days that ensued, as Mabel grew stronger, the girls became very fond of each other. Helen would have been happy at any time with such a sweet companion, but just then, when the poor girl’s mind was so sorely disturbed she was doubly glad. For several days, after Mabel was out of danger, Helen’s thoughts had dwelt on a subject which caused extreme vexation. She had begun to suspect that she encouraged too many admirers for whom she did not care, and thought too much of a man who did not reciprocate. She was gay and moody in turn. During the moody hours she suspected herself, and in her gay ones, scorned the idea that she might ever care for a man who was indifferent. But that thought once admitted, had a trick of returning at odd moments, clouding her cheerful moods.
One sunshiny morning while the May flowers smiled under the hedge, when dew sparkled on the leaves, and the locust-blossoms shone creamy-white amid the soft green of the trees, the girls set about their much-planned flower gardening. Helen was passionately fond of plants, and had brought a jar of seeds of her favorites all the way from her eastern home.
“We’ll plant the morning-glories so they’ll run up the porch, and the dahlias in this long row and the nasturtiums in this round bed,” Helen said.
“You have some trailing arbutus,” added Mabel, “and must have clematis, wild honeysuckle and golden-glow, for they are all sweet flowers.”
“This arbutus is so fresh, so dewy, so fragrant,” said Helen, bending aside a lilac bush to see the pale, creeping flowers. “I never saw anything so beautiful. I grow more and more in love with my new home and friends. I have such a pretty garden to look into, and I never tire of the view beyond.”
Helen gazed with pleasure and pride at the garden with its fresh green and lavender-crested lilacs, at the white-blossomed trees, and the vine-covered log cabins with blue smoke curling from their stone chimneys. Beyond, the great bulk of the fort stood guard above the willow-skirted river, and far away over the winding stream the dark hills, defiant, kept their secrets.
“If it weren’t for that threatening fort one could imagine this little hamlet, nestling under the great bluff, as quiet and secure as it is beautiful,” said Helen. “But that charred stockade fence with its scarred bastions and these lowering port-holes, always keep me alive to the reality.”
“It wasn’t very quiet when Girty was here,” Mabel replied thoughtfully.
“Were you in the fort then?” asked Helen breathlessly.
“Oh, yes, I cooled the rifles for the men,” replied Mabel calmly.
“Tell me all about it.”
Helen listened again to a story she had heard many times; but told by new lips it always gained in vivid interest. She never tired of hearing how the notorious renegade, Girty, rode around the fort on his white horse, giving the defenders an hour in which to surrender; she learned again of the attack, when the British soldiers remained silent on an adjoining hillside, while the Indians yelled exultantly and ran about in fiendish glee, when Wetzel began the battle by shooting an Indian chieftain who had ventured within range of his ever fatal rifle. And when it came to the heroic deeds of that memorable siege Helen could not contain her enthusiasm. She shed tears over little Harry Bennet’s death at the south bastion where, though riddled with bullets, he stuck to his post until relieved. Clark’s race, across the roof of the fort to extinguish a burning arrow, she applauded with clapping hands. Her great eyes glowed and burned, but she was silent, when hearing how Wetzel ran alone to a break in the stockade, and there, with an ax, the terrible borderman held at bay the whole infuriated Indian mob until the breach was closed. Lastly Betty Zane’s never-to-be-forgotten run with the powder to the relief of the garrison and the saving of the fort was something not to cry over or applaud; but to dream of and to glorify.
“Down that slope from Colonel Zane’s cabin is where Betty ran with the powder,” said Mabel, pointing.
“Did you see her?” asked Helen.
“Yes, I looked out of a port-hole. The Indians stopped firing at the fort in their eagerness to shoot Betty. Oh, the banging of guns and yelling of savages was one fearful, dreadful roar! Through all that hail of bullets Betty ran swift as the wind.”
“I almost wish Girty would come again,” said Helen.
“Don’t; he might.”
“How long has Betty’s husband, Mr. Clarke, been dead?” inquired Helen.
“I don’t remember exactly. He didn’t live long after the siege. Some say he inhaled the flames while fighting fire inside the stockade.”
“How sad!”
“Yes, it was. It nearly killed Betty. But we border girls do not give up easily; we must not,” replied Mabel, an unquenchable spirit showing through the sadness of her eyes.
Merry voices interrupted them, and they turned to see Betty and Nell entering the gate. With Nell’s bright chatter and Betty’s wit, the conversation became indeed vivacious, running from gossip to gowns, and then to that old and ever new theme, love. Shortly afterward the colonel entered the gate, with swinging step and genial smile.
“Well, now, if here aren’t four handsome lasses,” he said with an admiring glance.
“Eb, I believe if you were single any girl might well suspect you of being a flirt,” said Betty.
“No girl ever did. I tell you I was a lady-killer in my day,” replied Colonel Zane, straightening his fine form. He was indeed handsome, with his stalwart frame, dark, bronzed face and rugged, manly bearing.
“Bess said you were; but that it didn’t last long after you saw her,” cried Betty, mischief gleaming in her dark eye.
“Well, that’s so,” replied the colonel, looking a trifle crest-fallen; “but you know every dog has his day.” Then advancing to the porch, he looked at Mabel with a more serious gaze as he asked, “How are you today?”
“Thank you, Colonel Zane, I am getting quite strong.”
“Look up the valley. There’s a raft coming down the river,” said he softly.
Far up the broad Ohio a square patch showed dark against the green water.
Colonel Zane saw Mabel start, and a dark red flush came over her pale face. For an instant she gazed with an expression of appeal, almost fear. He knew the reason. Alex Bennet was on that raft.
“I came over to ask if I can be of any service?”
“Tell him,” she answered simply.
“I say, Betts,” Colonel Zane cried, “has Helen’s cousin cast any more such sheep eyes at you?”
“Oh, Eb, what nonsense!” exclaimed Betty, blushing furiously.
“Well, if he didn’t look sweet at you I’m an old fool.”
“You’re one anyway, and you’re horrid,” said Betty, tears of anger glistening in her eyes.
Colonel Zane whistled softly as he walked down the lane. He went into the wheelwright’s shop to see about some repairs he was having made on a wagon, and then strolled on down to the river. Two Indians were sitting on the rude log wharf, together with several frontiersmen and rivermen, all waiting for the raft. He conversed with the Indians, who were friendly Chippewas, until the raft was tied up. The first person to leap on shore was a sturdy young fellow with a shock of yellow hair, and a warm, ruddy skin.
“Hello, Alex, did you have a good trip?” asked Colonel Zane of the youth.
“H’are ye, Colonel Zane. Yes, first-rate trip,” replied young Bennet. “Say, I’ve a word for you. Come aside,” and drawing Colonel Zane out of earshot of the others, he continued, “I heard this by accident, not that I didn’t spy a bit when I got interested, for I did; but the way it came about was all chance. Briefly, there’s a man, evidently an Englishman, at Fort Pitt whom I overheard say he was out on the border after a Sheppard girl. I happened to hear