The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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silver-leaf, and gold on the colored leaves of the butternut tree. Dewdrops glistened on the ferns; ripples sparkled in the brooks; spider-webs glowed with wondrous rainbow hues, and the flower of the forest, the sweet, pale-faced daisy, rose above the green like a white star.
Yellow birds flitted among the hazel bushes caroling joyously, and cat-birds sang gaily. Robins called; bluejays screeched in the tall, white oaks; wood-peckers hammered in the dead hard-woods, and crows cawed overhead. Squirrels chattered everywhere. Ruffed grouse rose with great bustle and a whirr, flitting like brown flakes through the leaves. From far above came the shrill cry of a hawk, followed by the wilder scream of an eagle.
Wilderness music such as all this fell harmoniously on the borderman’s ear. It betokened the gladsome spirit of his wild friends, happy in the warm sunshine above, or in the cool depths beneath the fluttering leaves, and everywhere in those lonely haunts unalarmed and free.
Familiar to Jonathan, almost as the footpath near his home, was this winding trail. On the height above was a safe rendezvous, much frequented by him and Wetzel. Every lichen-covered stone, mossy bank, noisy brook and giant oak on the way up this mountain-side, could have told, had they spoken their secrets, stories of the bordermen. The fragile ferns and slender-bladed grasses peeping from the gray and amber mosses, and the flowers that hung from craggy ledges, had wisdom to impart. A borderman lived under the green tree-tops, and, therefore, all the nodding branches of sassafras and laurel, the grassy slopes and rocky cliffs, the stately ash trees, kingly oaks and dark, mystic pines, together with the creatures that dwelt among them, save his deadly red-skinned foes, he loved. Other affection as close and true as this, he had not known. Hearkening thus with single heart to nature’s teachings, he learned her secrets. Certain it was, therefore, that the many hours he passed in the woods apart from savage pursuits, were happy and fruitful.
Slowly he pressed on up the ascent, at length coming into open light upon a small plateau marked by huge, rugged, weather-chipped stones. On the eastern side was a rocky promontory, and close to the edge of this cliff, an hundred feet in sheer descent, rose a gnarled, time and tempest-twisted chestnut tree. Here the borderman laid down his rifle and knapsack, and, half-reclining against the tree, settled himself to rest and wait.
This craggy point was the lonely watch-tower of eagles. Here on the highest headland for miles around where the bordermen were wont to meet, the outlook was far-reaching and grand.
Below the gray, splintered cliffs sheered down to meet the waving tree-tops, and then hill after hill, slope after slope, waved and rolled far, far down to the green river. Open grassy patches, bright little islands in that ocean of dark green, shone on the hillsides. The rounded ridges ran straight, curved, or zigzag, but shaped their graceful lines in the descent to make the valley. Long, purple-hued, shadowy depressions in the wide expanse of foliage marked deep clefts between ridges where dark, cool streams bounded on to meet the river. Lower, where the land was level, in open spaces could be seen a broad trail, yellow in the sunlight, winding along with the curves of the water-course. On a swampy meadow, blue in the distance, a herd of buffalo browsed. Beyond the river, high over the green island, Fort Henry lay peaceful and solitary, the only token of the works of man in all that vast panorama.
Jonathan Zane was as much alone as if one thousand miles, instead of five, intervened between him and the settlement. Loneliness was to him a passion. Other men loved home, the light of woman’s eyes, the rattle of dice or the lust of hoarding; but to him this wild, remote promontory, with its limitless view, stretching away to the dim hazy horizon, was more than all the aching joys of civilization.
Hours here, or in the shady valley, recompensed him for the loss of home comforts, the soft touch of woman’s hands, the kiss of baby lips, and also for all he suffered in his pitiless pursuits, the hard fare, the steel and blood of a borderman’s life.
Soon the sun shone straight overhead, dwarfing the shadow of the chestnut on the rock.
During such a time it was rare that any connected thought came into the borderman’s mind. His dark eyes, now strangely luminous, strayed lingeringly over those purple, undulating slopes. This intense watchfulness had no object, neither had his listening. He watched nothing; he hearkened to the silence. Undoubtedly in this state of rapt absorption his perceptions were acutely alert; but without thought, as were those of the savage in the valley below, or the eagle in the sky above.
Yet so perfectly trained were these perceptions that the least unnatural sound or sight brought him wary and watchful from his dreamy trance.
The slight snapping of a twig in the thicket caused him to sit erect, and reach out toward his rifle. His eyes moved among the dark openings in the thicket. In another moment a tall figure pressed the bushes apart. Jonathan let fall his rifle, and sank back against the tree once more. Wetzel stepped over the rocks toward him.
“Come from Blue Pond?” asked Jonathan as the newcomer took a seat beside him.
Wetzel nodded as he carefully laid aside his long, black rifle.
“Any Injun sign?” continued Jonathan, pushing toward his companion the knapsack of eatables he had brought from the settlement.
“Nary Shawnee track west of this divide,” answered Wetzel, helping himself to bread and cheese.
“Lew, we must go eastward, over Bing Legget’s way, to find the trail of the stolen horses.”
“Likely, an’ it’ll be a long, hard tramp.”
“Who’s in Legget’s gang now beside Old Horse, the Chippewa, an’ his Shawnee pard, Wildfire? I don’t know Bing; but I’ve seen some of his Injuns an’ they remember me.”
“Never seen Legget but onct,” replied Wetzel, “an’ that time I shot half his face off. I’ve been told by them as have seen him since, that he’s got a nasty scar on his temple an’ cheek. He’s a big man an’ knows the woods. I don’t know who all’s in his gang, nor does anybody. He works in the dark, an’ for cunnin’ he’s got some on Jim Girty, Deerin’, an’ several more renegades we know of lyin’ quiet back here in the woods. We never tackled as bad a gang as his’n; they’re all experienced woodsmen, old fighters, an’ desperate, outlawed as they be by Injuns an’ whites. It wouldn’t surprise me to find that it’s him an’ his gang who are runnin’ this hoss-thievin’; but bad or no, we’re goin’ after ’em.”
Jonathan told of his movements since he had last seen his companion.
“An’ the lass Helen is goin’ to help us,” said Wetzel, much interested. “It’s a good move. Women are keen. Betty put Miller’s schemin’ in my eye long ’afore I noticed it. But girls have chances we men’d never get.”
“Yes, an’ she’s like Betts, quicker’n lightnin’. She’ll find out this hoss-thief in Fort Henry; but Lew, when we do get him we won’t be much better off. Where do them hosses go? Who’s disposin’ of ’em for this fellar?”
“Where’s Brandt from?” asked Wetzel.
“Detroit; he’s a French-Canadian.”
Wetzel swung sharply around, his eyes glowing like wakening furnaces.
“Bing Legget’s a French-Canadian, an’ from Detroit. Metzar was once thick with him down Fort Pitt way ’afore he murdered a man an’ became an outlaw. We’re on the trail, Jack.”
“Brandt an’ Metzar, with Legget backin’ them, an’ the horses go overland to Detroit?”
“I calkilate you’ve hit the mark.”
“What’ll we do?” asked Jonathan.
“Wait; that’s best. We’ve no call to hurry. We must know the truth before makin’ a move, an’ as yet we’re only suspicious. This lass’ll find out more in a week than we could in a year. But Jack, have a care she don’t fall into any snare. Brandt ain’t any too honest a lookin’ chap, an’ them renegades is hell for women. The scars you wear prove that well enough. She’s a rare, sweet, bloomin’ lass, too. I never seen her equal. I remember how her eyes