The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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he wrenched away the weapon. The flint-head lacerating his flesh and scraping his shoulder bones caused sharpest agony. The pain gave away to a sudden sense of giddiness; he tried to run; a dark mist veiled his sight; he stumbled and fell. Then he seemed to sink into a great darkness, and knew no more.
When consciousness returned to Jonathan it was night. He lay on his back, and knew because of his cramped limbs that he had been securely bound. He saw the glimmer of a fire, but could not raise his head. A rustling of leaves in the wind told that he was yet in the woods, and the distant rumble of a waterfall sounded familiar. He felt drowsy; his wound smarted slightly, still he did not suffer any pain. Presently he fell asleep.
Broad daylight had come when again he opened his eyes. The blue sky was directly above, and before him he saw a ledge covered with dwarfed pine trees. He turned his head, and saw that he was in a sort of amphitheater of about two acres in extent enclosed by low cliffs. A cleft in the stony wall let out a brawling brook, and served, no doubt, as entrance to the place. Several rude log cabins stood on that side of the enclosure. Jonathan knew he had been brought to Bing Legget’s retreat.
Voices attracted his attention, and, turning his head to the other side, he saw a big Indian pacing near him, and beyond, seven savages and three white men reclining in the shade.
The powerful, dark-visaged savage near him he at once recognized as Ashbow, the Shawnee chief, and noted emissary of Bing Legget. Of the other Indians, three were Delawares, and four Shawnees, all veterans, with swarthy, somber faces and glistening heads on which the scalp-locks were trimmed and tufted. Their naked, muscular bodies were painted for the war-path with their strange emblems of death. A trio of white men, nearly as bronzed as their savage comrades, completed the group. One, a desperate-looking outlaw, Jonathan did not know. The blond-bearded giant in the center was Legget. Steel-blue, inhuman eyes, with the expression of a free but hunted animal; a set, mastiff-like jaw, brutal and coarse, individualized him. The last man was the haggard-faced Brandt.
“I tell ye, Brandt, I ain’t agoin’ against this Injun,” Legget was saying positively. “He’s the best reddy on the border, an’ has saved me scores of times. This fellar Zane belongs to him, an’ while I’d much rather see the scout knifed right here an’ now, I won’t do nothin’ to interfere with the Shawnee’s plans.”
“Why does the redskin want to take him away to his village?” Brandt growled. “All Injun vanity and pride.”
“It’s Injun ways, an’ we can’t do nothin’ to change ’em.”
“But you’re boss here. You could make him put this borderman out of the way.”
“Wal, I ain’t agoin’ ter interfere. Anyways, Brandt, the Shawnee’ll make short work of the scout when he gits him among the tribe. Injuns is Injuns. It’s a great honor fer him to git Zane, an’ he wants his own people to figger in the finish. Quite nat’r’l, I reckon.”
“I understand all that; but it’s not safe for us, and it’s courting death for Ashbow. Why don’t he keep Zane here until you can spare more than three Indians to go with him? These bordermen can’t be stopped. You don’t know them, because you’re new in this part of the country.”
“I’ve been here as long as you, an’ agoin’ some, too, I reckon,” replied Legget complacently.
“But you’ve not been hunted until lately by these bordermen, and you’ve had little opportunity to hear of them except from Indians. What can you learn from these silent redskins? I tell you, letting this fellow get out of here alive, even for an hour is a fatal mistake. It’s two full days’ tramp to the Shawnee village. You don’t suppose Wetzel will be afraid of four savages? Why, he sneaked right into eight of us, when we were ambushed, waiting for him. He killed one and then was gone like a streak. It was only a piece of pure luck we got Zane.”
“I’ve reason to know this Wetzel, this Deathwind, as the Delawares call him. I never seen him though, an’ anyways, I reckon I can handle him if ever I get the chance.”
“Man, you’re crazy!” cried Brandt. “He’d cut you to pieces before you’d have time to draw. He could give you a tomahawk, then take it away and split your head. I tell you I know! You remember Jake Deering? He came from up your way. Wetzel fought Deering and Jim Girty together, and killed them. You know how he left Girty.”
“I’ll allow he must be a fighter; but I ain’t afraid of him.”
“That’s not the question. I am talking sense. You’ve got a chance now to put one of these bordermen out of the way. Do it quick! That’s my advice.”
Brandt spoke so vehemently that Legget seemed impressed. He stroked his yellow beard, and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. Presently he addressed the Shawnee chief in the native tongue.
“Will Ashbow take five horses for his prisoner?”
The Indian shook his head.
“How many will he take?”
The chief strode with dignity to and fro before his captive. His dark, impassive face gave no clew to his thoughts; but his lofty bearing, his measured, stately walk were indicative of great pride. Then he spoke in his deep bass:
“The Shawnee knows the woods from the Great Lakes where the sun sets, to the Blue Hills where it rises. He has met the great paleface hunters. Only for Deathwind will Ashbow trade his captive.”
“See? It ain’t no use,” said Legget, spreading out his hands, “Let him go. He’ll outwit the bordermen if any redskin’s able to. The sooner he goes the quicker he’ll git back, an’ we can go to work. You ought’er be satisfied to git the girl—”
“Shut up!” interrupted Brandt sharply.
“’Pears to me, Brandt, bein’ in love hes kinder worked on your nerves. You used to be game. Now you’re afeerd of a bound an’ tied man who ain’t got long to live.”
“I fear no man,” answered Brandt, scowling darkly. “But I know what you don’t seem to have sense enough to see. If this Zane gets away, which is probable, he and Wetzel will clean up your gang.”
“Haw! haw! haw!” roared Legget, slapping his knees. “Then you’d hev little chanst of gittin’ the lass, eh?”
“All right. I’ve no more to say,” snapped Brandt, rising and turning on his heel. As he passed Jonathan he paused. “Zane, if I could, I’d get even with you for that punch you once gave me. As it is, I’ll stop at the Shawnee village on my way west—”
“With the pretty lass,” interposed Legget.
“Where I hope to see your scalp drying in the chief’s lodge.”
The borderman eyed him steadily; but in silence. Words could not so well have conveyed his thought as did the cold glance of dark scorn and merciless meaning.
Brandt shuffled on with a curse. No coward was he. No man ever saw him flinch. But his intelligence was against him as a desperado. While such as these bordermen lived, an outlaw should never sleep, for he was a marked and doomed man. The deadly, cold-pointed flame which scintillated in the prisoner’s eyes was only a gleam of what the border felt towards outlaws.
While Jonathan was considering all he had heard, three more Shawnees entered the retreat, and were at once called aside in consultation by Ashbow. At the conclusion of this brief conference the chief advanced to Jonathan, cut the bonds round his feet, and motioned for him to rise. The prisoner complied to find himself weak and sore, but able to walk. He concluded that his wound, while very painful, was not of a serious nature, and that he would be taken at once on the march toward the Shawnee village.
He was correct, for the chief led him, with the three Shawnees following, toward the outlet of the enclosure. Jonathan’s sharp eye took in every detail of Legget’s rendezvous. In a corral near the entrance, he saw a number of fine horses, and among them his sister’s pony. A more inaccessible, natural refuge than Legget’s, could hardly have been found in that country. The entrance was