The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
Читать онлайн книгу.
powerful emotion. His face was gray.
“I could not find any powder!” he exclaimed. “I searched every nook and corner in Capt. Boggs’ house. There is no powder there.”
A brief silence ensued. Everyone in the block-house heard the young man’s voice. No one moved. They all seemed waiting for someone to speak. Finally Silas Zane burst out:
“Not find it? You surely could not have looked well. Capt. Boggs himself told me there were three kegs of powder in the storeroom. I will go and find it myself.”
Alfred did not answer, but sat down on a bench with an odd numb feeling round his heart. He knew what was coming. He had been in the Captain’s house and had seen those kegs of powder. He knew exactly where they had been. Now they were not on the accustomed shelf, nor at any other place in the storeroom. While he sat there waiting for the awful truth to dawn on the garrison, his eyes roved from one end of the room to the other. At last they found what they were seeking. A young woman knelt before a charcoal fire which she was blowing with a bellows. It was Betty. Her face was pale and weary, her hair dishevelled, her shapely arms blackened with charcoal, but notwithstanding she looked calm, resolute, self-contained. Lydia was kneeling by her side holding a bullet-mould on a block of wood. Betty lifted the ladle from the red coals and poured the hot metal with a steady hand and an admirable precision. Too much or too little lead would make an imperfect ball. The little missile had to be just so for those soft-metal, smooth-bore rifles. Then Lydia dipped the mould in a bucket of water, removed it and knocked it on the floor. A small, shiny lead bullet rolled out. She rubbed it with a greasy rag and then dropped it in a jar. For nearly forty hours, without sleep or rest, almost without food, those brave girls had been at their post.
Silas Zane came running into the room. His face was ghastly, even his lips were white and drawn.
“Sullivan, in God’s name, what can we do? The powder is gone!” he cried in a strident voice.
“Gone?” repeated several voices.
“Gone?” echoed Sullivan. “Where?”
“God knows. I found where the kegs stood a few days ago. There were marks in the dust. They have been moved.”
“Perhaps Boggs put them here somewhere,” said Sullivan. “We will look.”
“No use. No use. We were always careful to keep the powder out of here on account of fire. The kegs are gone, gone.”
“Miller stole them,” said Wetzel in his calm voice.
“What difference does that make now?” burst out Silas, turning passionately on the hunter, whose quiet voice in that moment seemed so unfeeling. “They’re gone!”
In the silence which ensued after these words the men looked at each other with slowly whitening faces. There was no need of words. Their eyes told one another what was coming. The fate which had overtaken so many border forts was to be theirs. They were lost! And every man thought not of himself, cared not for himself, but for those innocent children, those brave young girls and heroic women.
A man can die. He is glorious when he calmly accepts death; but when he fights like a tiger, when he stands at bay his back to the wall, a broken weapon in his hand, bloody, defiant, game to the end, then he is sublime. Then he wrings respect from the souls of even his bitterest foes. Then he is avenged even in his death.
But what can women do in times of war? They help, they cheer, they inspire, and if their cause is lost they must accept death or worse. Few women have the courage for self-destruction. “To the victor belong the spoils,” and women have ever been the spoils of war.
No wonder Silas Zane and his men weakened in that moment. With only a few charges for their rifles and none for the cannon how could they hope to hold out against the savages? Alone they could have drawn their tomahawks and have made a dash through the lines of Indians, but with the women and the children that was impossible.
“Wetzel, what can we do? For God’s sake, advise us!” said Silas hoarsely. “We cannot hold the Fort without powder. We cannot leave the women here. We had better tomahawk every woman in the block-house than let her fall into the hands of Girty.”
“Send someone fer powder,” answered Wetzel.
“Do you think it possible,” said Silas quickly, a ray of hope lighting up his haggard features. “There’s plenty of powder in Eb’s cabin. Whom shall we send? Who will volunteer?”
Three men stepped forward, and others made a movement.
“They’d plug a man full of lead afore he’d get ten foot from the gate,” said Wetzel. “I’d go myself, but it wouldn’t do no good. Send a boy, and one as can run like a streak.”
“There are no lads big enough to carry a keg of powder. Harry Bennett might go,” said Silas. “How is he, Bessie?”
“He is dead,” answered Mrs. Zane.
Wetzel made a motion with his hands and turned away. A short, intense silence followed this indication of hopelessness from him. The women understood, for some of them covered their faces, while others sobbed.
“I will go.”
It was Betty’s voice, and it rang clear and vibrant throughout the room. The miserable women raised their drooping heads, thrilled by that fresh young voice. The men looked stupefied. Clarke seemed turned to stone. Wetzel came quickly toward her.
“Impossible!” said Sullivan.
Silas Zane shook his head as if the idea were absurd.
“Let me go, brother, let me go?” pleaded Betty as she placed her little hands softly, caressingly on her brother’s bare arm. “I know it is only a forlorn chance, but still it is a chance. Let me take it. I would rather die that way than remain here and wait for death.”
“Silas, it ain’t a bad plan,” broke in Wetzel. “Betty can run like a deer. And bein’ a woman they may let her get to the cabin without shootin’.”
Silas stood with arms folded across his broad chest. As he gazed at his sister great tears coursed down his dark cheeks and splashed on the hands which so tenderly clasped his own. Betty stood before him transformed; all signs of weariness had vanished; her eyes shone with a fateful resolve; her white and eager face was surpassingly beautiful with its light of hope, of prayer, of heroism.
“Let me go, brother. You know I can run, and oh! I will fly today. Every moment is precious. Who knows? Perhaps Capt. Boggs is already near at hand with help. You cannot spare a man. Let me go.”
“Betty, Heaven bless and save you, you shall go,” said Silas.
“No! No! Do not let her go!” cried Clarke, throwing himself before them. He was trembling, his eyes were wild, and he had the appearance of a man suddenly gone mad.
“She shall not go,” he cried.
“What authority have you here?” demanded Silas Zane, sternly. “What right have you to speak?”
“None, unless it is that I love her and I will go for her,” answered Alfred desperately.
“Stand back!” cried Wetzel, placing his powerful hard on Clarke’s breast and pushing him backward. “If you love her you don’t want to have her wait here for them red devils,” and he waved his hand toward the river. “If she gets back she’ll save the Fort. If she fails she’ll at least escape Girty.”
Betty gazed into the hunter’s eyes and then into Alfred’s. She understood both men. One was sending her out to her death because he knew it would be a thousand times more merciful than the fate which awaited her at the hands of the Indians. The other had not the strength to watch her go to her death. He had offered himself rather than see her take such fearful chances.
“I know. If it were possible you would both save me,” said Betty, simply. “Now you can do nothing but pray that God may spare my life long enough to reach the gate. Silas, I am ready.”