The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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was so tired and her wrist pained so severely that she lay back against the tree-trunk, closed her eyes and rested. A weariness, the apathy of utter exhaustion, came over her. She wished the bordermen would hurry and come before she went to sleep.
Drowsily she was sinking into slumber when a long, low rumble aroused her. How dark it had suddenly become! A sheet of pale light flared across the overcast heavens.
“A storm!” exclaimed Helen. “Alone on this mountain-top with a storm coming. Am I frightened? I don’t believe it. At least I’m safe from that ruffian Brandt. Oh! if my borderman would only come!”
Helen changed her position from beside the tree, to the hollow under the stone. It was high enough to permit of her sitting upright, and offered a safe retreat from the storm. The bed of leaves was soft and comfortable. She sat there peering out at the darkening heavens.
All beneath her, southward and westward was gray twilight. The settlement faded from sight; the river grew wan and shadowy. The ruddy light in the west was fast succumbing to the rolling clouds. Darker and darker it became, until only one break in the overspreading vapors admitted the last crimson gleam of sunshine over hills and valley, brightening the river until it resembled a stream of fire. Then the light failed, the glow faded. The intense blackness of night prevailed.
Out of the ebon west came presently another flare of light, a quick, spreading flush, like a flicker from a monster candle; it was followed by a long, low, rumbling roll.
Helen felt in those intervals of unutterably vast silence, that she must shriek aloud. The thunder was a friend. She prayed for the storm to break. She had withstood danger and toilsome effort with fortitude; but could not brave this awful, boding, wilderness stillness.
Flashes of lightning now revealed the rolling, pushing, turbulent clouds, and peals of thunder sounded nearer and louder.
A long swelling moan, sad, low, like the uneasy sigh of the sea, breathed far in the west. It was the wind, the ominous warning of the storm. Sheets of light were now mingled with long, straggling ropes of fire, and the rumblings were often broken by louder, quicker detonations.
Then a period, longer than usual, of inky blackness succeeded the sharp flaring of light. A faint breeze ruffled the leaves of the thicket, and fanned Helen’s hot cheek. The moan of the wind became more distinct, then louder, and in another instant like the far-off roar of a rushing river. The storm was upon her. Helen shrank closer against the stone, and pulled her jacket tighter around her trembling form.
A sudden, intense, dazzling, blinding, white light enveloped her. The rocky promontory, the weird, giant chestnut tree, the open plateau, and beyond, the stormy heavens, were all luridly clear in the flash of lightning. She fancied it was possible to see a tall, dark figure emerging from the thicket. As the thunderclap rolled and pealed overhead, she strained her eyes into the blackness waiting for the next lightning flash.
It came with brilliant, dazing splendor. The whole plateau and thicket were as light as in the day. Close by the stone where she lay crept the tall, dark figure of an Indian. With starting eyes she saw the fringed clothing, the long, flying hair, and supple body peculiar to the savage. He was creeping upon her.
Helen’s blood ran cold; terror held her voiceless. She felt herself sinking slowly down upon the leaves.
THE LAST TRAIL [Part 2]
CHAPTER XII
The sun had begun to cast long shadows the afternoon of Helen’s hunt for Jonathan, when the borderman, accompanied by Wetzel, led a string of horses along the base of the very mountain she had ascended.
“Last night’s job was a good one, I ain’t gainsayin’; but the redskin I wanted got away,” Wetzel said gloomily.
“He’s safe now as a squirrel in a hole. I saw him dartin’ among the trees with his white eagle feathers stickin’ up like a buck’s flag,” replied Jonathan. “He can run. If I’d only had my rifle loaded! But I’m not sure he was that arrow-shootin’ Shawnee.”
“It was him. I saw his bow. We ought’er taken more time an’ picked him out,” Wetzel replied, shaking his head gravely. “Though mebbe that’d been useless. I think he was hidin’. He’s precious shy of his red skin. I’ve been after him these ten year, an’ never ketched him nappin’ yet. We’d have done much toward snuffin’ out Legget an’ his gang if we’d winged the Shawnee.”
“He left a plain trail.”
“One of his tricks. He’s slicker on a trail than any other Injun on the border, unless mebbe it’s old Wingenund, the Huron. This Shawnee’d lead us many a mile for nuthin’, if we’d stick to his trail. I’m long ago used to him. He’s doubled like an old fox, run harder’n a skeered fawn, an’, if needs be, he’ll lay low as cunnin’ buck. I calkilate once over the mountain, he’s made a bee-line east. We’ll go on with the hosses, an’ then strike across country to find his trail.”
“It ’pears to me, Lew, that we’ve taken a long time in makin’ a show against these hoss-thieves,” said Jonathan.
“I ain’t sayin’ much; but I’ve felt it,” replied Wetzel.
“All summer, an’ nothin’ done. It was more luck than sense that we run into those Injuns with the hosses. We only got three out of four, an’ let the best redskin give us the slip. Here fall is nigh on us, with winter comin’ soon, an’ still we don’t know who’s the white traitor in the settlement.”
“I said it’s be a long, an’ mebbe, our last trail.”
“Why?”
“Because these fellars red or white, are in with a picked gang of the best woodsmen as ever outlawed the border. We’ll get the Fort Henry hoss-thief. I’ll back the bright-eyed lass for that.”
“I haven’t seen her lately, an’ allow she’d left me word if she learned anythin’.”
“Wal, mebbe it’s as well you hain’t seen so much of her.” In silence they traveled and, arriving at the edge of the meadow, were about to mount two of the horses, when Wetzel said in a sharp tone:
“Look!”
He pointed to a small, well-defined moccasin track in the black earth on the margin of a rill.
“Lew, it’s a woman’s, sure’s you’re born,” declared Jonathan.
Wetzel knelt and closely examined the footprint; “Yes, a woman’s, an’ no Injun.”
“What?” Jonathan exclaimed, as he knelt to scrutinize the imprint.
“This ain’t half a day old,” added Wetzel. “An’ not a redskin’s moccasin near. What d’you reckon?”
“A white girl, alone,” replied Jonathan as he followed the trail a short distance along the brook. “See, she’s makin’ upland. Wetzel, these tracks could hardly be my sister’s, an’ there’s only one other girl on the border whose feet will match ’em! Helen Sheppard has passed here, on her way up the mountain to find you or me.”
“I like your reckonin’.”
“She’s suddenly discovered somethin’, Injuns, hoss-thieves, the Fort Henry traitor, or mebbe, an’ most likely, some plottin’. Bein’ bound to secrecy by me, she’s not told my brother. An’ it must be call for hurry. She knows we frequent this mountain-top; said Eb told her about the way we get here.”
“I’d calkilate about the same.”
“What’ll you do? Go with me after her?” asked Jonathan.
“I’ll take the hosses, an’ be at the fort inside of an hour. If Helen’s gone, I’ll tell her father you’re close on her trail. Now listen! It’ll be dark soon, an’ a storm’s comin’. Don’t waste time on her trail. Hurry up to the rock. She’ll be there, if any lass could climb there. If not, come back in the mornin’, hunt her trail out, an’ find her. I’m thinkin’,