The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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belong to me,” hissed Case, and then he struck her on the head. Helen uttered a low cry of distress, and half staggered against the tree. The sailor picked up the package. This time she took it, trembling with horror.
“Thet’s right. Now, give ther cap’n a kiss,” he leered, and jostled against her.
Helen pushed him violently. With agonized eyes she appealed to the Indians. They were engaged tying up their packs. Legget looked on with a lazy grin.
“Oh! oh!” breathed Helen as Case seized her again. She tried to scream, but could not make a sound. The evil eyes, the beastly face, transfixed her with terror.
Case struck her twice, then roughly pulled her toward him.
Half-fainting, unable to move, Helen gazed at the heated, bloated face approaching hers.
When his coarse lips were within a few inches of her lips something hot hissed across her brow. Following so closely as to be an accompaniment, rang out with singular clearness the sharp crack of a rifle.
Case’s face changed. The hot, surging flush faded; the expression became shaded, dulled into vacant emptiness; his eyes rolled wildly, then remained fixed, with a look of dark surprise. He stood upright an instant, swayed with the regular poise of a falling oak, and then plunged backward to the ground. His face, ghastly and livid, took on the awful calm of death.
A very small hole, reddish-blue round the edges, dotted the center of his temple.
Legget stared aghast at the dead sailor; then he possessed himself of the bag of gold.
“Saved me ther trouble,” he muttered, giving Case a kick.
The Indians glanced at the little figure, then out into the flaming thickets. Each savage sprang behind a tree with incredible quickness. Legget saw this, and grasping Helen, he quickly led her within cover of the chestnut.
Brandt appeared with his Indian companion, and both leaped to shelter behind a clump of birches near where Legget stood. Brandt’s hawk eyes flashed upon the dead Jenks and Case. Without asking a question he seemed to take in the situation. He stepped over and grasped Helen by the arm.
“Who killed Case?” he asked in a whisper, staring at the little blue hole in the sailor’s temple.
No one answered.
The two Indians who had gone into the woods to the right of the stream, now returned. Hardly were they under the trees with their party, when the savage who had gone off alone arose out of the grass in the left of the brook, took it with a flying leap, and darted into their midst. He was the sentinel who had knocked up the weapons, thereby saving Case’s life twice. He was lithe and supple, but not young. His grave, shadowy-lined, iron visage showed the traces of time and experience. All gazed at him as at one whose wisdom was greater than theirs.
“Old Horse,” said Brandt in English. “Haven’t I seen bullet holes like this?”
The Chippewa bent over Case, and then slowly straightened his tall form.
“Deathwind!” he replied, answering in the white man’s language.
His Indian companions uttered low, plaintive murmurs, not signifying fear so much as respect.
Brandt turned as pale as the clean birch-bark on the tree near him. The gray flare of his eyes gave out a terrible light of certainty and terror.
“Legget, you needn’t try to hide your trail,” he hissed, and it seemed as if there was a bitter, reckless pleasure in these words.
Then the Chippewa glided into the low bushes bordering the creek. Legget followed him, with Brandt leading Helen, and the other Indians brought up the rear, each one sending wild, savage glances into the dark, surrounding forest.
CHAPTER XIX
A dense white fog rose from the river, obscuring all objects, when the bordermen rolled out of their snug bed of leaves. The air was cool and bracing, faintly fragrant with dying foliage and the damp, dewy luxuriance of the ripened season. Wetzel pulled from under the protecting ledge a bundle of bark and sticks he had put there to keep dry, and built a fire, while Jonathan fashioned a cup from a green fruit resembling a gourd, filling it at a spring near by.
“Lew, there’s a frosty nip in the water this mornin’,” said Jonathan.
“I reckon. It’s gettin’ along into fall now. Any clear, still night’ll fetch all the leaves, an’ strip the trees bare as burned timber,” answered Wetzel, brushing the ashes off the strip of meat he had roasted. “Get a stick, an’ help me cook the rest of this chunk of bison. The sun’ll be an hour breakin’ up thet mist, an’ we can’t clear out till then. Mebbe we won’t have no chance to light another fire soon.”
With these bordermen everything pertaining to their lonely lives, from the lighting of a fire to the trailing of a redskin, was singularly serious. No gladsome song ever came from their lips; there was no jollity around their camp-fire. Hunters had their moments of rapturous delight; bordermen knew the peace, the content of the wilderness, but their pursuits racked nerve and heart. Wetzel had his moments of frenzied joy, but they passed with the echo of his vengeful yell. Jonathan’s happiness, such as it was, had been to roam the forests. That, before a woman’s eyes had dispelled it, had been enough, and compensated him for the gloomy, bloody phantoms which haunted him.
The bordermen, having partaken of the frugal breakfast, stowed in their spacious pockets all the meat that was left, and were ready for the day’s march. They sat silent for a time waiting for the mist to lift. It broke in places, rolled in huge billows, sailed aloft like great white clouds, and again hung tenaciously to the river and the plain. Away in the west blue patches of sky shone through the rifts, and eastward banks of misty vapor reddened beneath the rising sun. Suddenly from beneath the silver edge of the rising pall the sun burst gleaming gold, disclosing the winding valley with its steaming river.
“We’ll make up stream fer Two Islands, an’ cross there if so be we’ve reason,” Wetzel had said.
Through the dewy dells, avoiding the wet grass and bushes, along the dark, damp glades with their yellow carpets, under the thinning arches of the trees, down the gentle slopes of the ridges, rich with green moss, the bordermen glided like gray shadows. The forest was yet asleep. A squirrel frisked up an oak and barked quarrelsomely at these strange, noiseless visitors. A crow cawed from somewhere overhead. These were the only sounds disturbing the quiet early hour.
As the bordermen advanced the woods lightened and awoke to life and joy. Birds sang, trilled, warbled, or whistled their plaintive songs, peculiar to the dying season, and in harmony with the glory of the earth. Birds that in earlier seasons would have screeched and fought, now sang and fluttered side by side, in fraternal parade on their slow pilgrimage to the far south.
“Bad time fer us, when the birds are so tame, an’ chipper. We can’t put faith in them these days,” said Wetzel. “Seems like they never was wild. I can tell, ’cept at this season, by the way they whistle an’ act in the woods, if there’s been any Injuns along the trails.”
The greater part of the morning passed thus with the bordermen steadily traversing the forest; here, through a spare and gloomy wood, blasted by fire, worn by age, with many a dethroned monarch of bygone times rotting to punk and duff under the ferns, with many a dark, seamed and ragged king still standing, but gray and bald of head and almost ready to take his place in the forest of the past; there, through a maze of young saplings where each ash, maple, hickory and oak added some new and beautiful hue to the riot of color.
“I just had a glimpse of the lower island, as we passed an opening in the thicket,” said Jonathan.
“We ain’t far away,” replied Wetzel.
The bordermen walked less rapidly in order to proceed with more watchfulness. Every rod or two they stopped to listen.
“You think Legget’s across the river?” asked Jonathan.
“He was two days back, an’ had his gang with him. He’s up