The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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for a mark at which to shoot.
Joe observed that the hunters and Colonel Zane were as serious regarding the work as if at that moment some important issue depended upon the accuracy of the rifle.
“There, Lew; there’s a good shot. It’s pretty far, even for you, when you don’t know the gun,” said Colonel Zane, pointing toward the river.
Joe saw the end of a log, about the size of a man’s head, sticking out of the water, perhaps an hundred and fifty yards distant. He thought to hit it would be a fine shot; but was amazed when he heard Colonel Zane say to several men who had joined the group that Wetzel intended to shoot at a turtle on the log. By straining his eyes Joe succeeded in distinguishing a small lump, which he concluded was the turtle.
Wetzel took a step forward; the long, black rifle was raised with a stately sweep. The instant it reached a level a thread of flame burst forth, followed by a peculiarly clear, ringing report.
“Did he hit?” asked Colonel Zane, eagerly as a boy.
“I allow he did,” answered Jonathan.
“I’ll go and see,” said Joe. He ran down the bank, along the beach, and stepped on the log. He saw a turtle about the size of an ordinary saucer. Picking it up, he saw a bullet-hole in the shell near the middle. The bullet had gone through the turtle, and it was quite dead. Joe carried it to the waiting group.
“I allowed so,” declared Jonathan.
Wetzel examined the turtle, and turning to the old missionary, said:
“Your brother spoke the truth, an’ I thank you fer the rifle.”
CHAPTER VIII.
“So you want to know all about Wetzel?” inquired Colonel Zane of Joe, when, having left Jim and Mr. Wells, they returned to the cabin.
“I am immensely interested in him,” replied Joe.
“Well, I don’t think there’s anything singular in that. I know Wetzel better, perhaps, than any man living; but have seldom talked about him. He doesn’t like it. He is by birth a Virginian; I should say, forty years old. We were boys together, and and I am a little beyond that age. He was like any of the lads, except that he excelled us all in strength and agility. When he was nearly eighteen years old a band if Indians—Delawares, I think—crossed the border on a marauding expedition far into Virginia. They burned the old Wetzel homestead and murdered the father, mother, two sisters, and a baby brother. The terrible shock nearly killed Lewis, who for a time was very ill. When he recovered he went in search of his brothers, Martin and John Wetzel, who were hunting, and brought them back to their desolated home. Over the ashes of the home and the graves of the loved ones the brothers swore sleepless and eternal vengeance. The elder brothers have been devoted all these twenty years and more to the killing of Indians; but Lewis has been the great foe of the redman. You have already seen an example of his deeds, and will hear of more. His name is a household word on the border. Scores of times he has saved, actually saved, this fort and settlement. His knowledge of savage ways surpasses by far Boone’s, Major McColloch’s, Jonathan’s, or any of the hunters’.”
“Then hunting Indians is his sole occupation?”
“He lives for that purpose alone. He is very seldom in the settlement. Sometimes he stays here a few days, especially if he is needed; but usually he roams the forests.”
“What did Jeff Lynn mean when he said that some people think Wetzel is crazy?”
“There are many who think the man mad; but I do not. When the passion for Indian hunting comes upon him he is fierce, almost frenzied, yet perfectly sane. While here he is quiet, seldom speaks except when spoken to, and is taciturn with strangers. He often comes to my cabin and sits beside the fire for hours. I think he finds pleasure in the conversation and laughter of friends. He is fond of the children, and would do anything for my sister Betty.”
“His life must be lonely and sad,” remarked Joe.
“The life of any borderman is that; but Wetzel’s is particularly so.”
“What is he called by the Indians?”
“They call him Atelang, or, in English, Deathwind.”
“By George! That’s what Silvertip said in French—‘Le Vent de la Mort.’”
“Yes; you have it right. A French fur trader gave Wetzel that name years ago, and it has clung to him. The Indians say the Deathwind blows through the forest whenever Wetzel stalks on their trail.”
“Colonel Zane, don’t you think me superstitious,” whispered Joe, leaning toward the colonel, “but I heard that wind blow through the forest.”
“What!” ejaculated Colonel Zane. He saw that Joe was in earnest, for the remembrance of the moan had more than once paled his cheek and caused beads of perspiration to collect on his brow.
Joe related the circumstances of that night, and at the end of his narrative Colonel Zane sat silent and thoughtful.
“You don’t really think it was Wetzel who moaned?” he asked, at length.
“No, I don’t,” replied Joe quickly; “but, Colonel Zane, I heard that moan as plainly as I can hear your voice. I heard it twice. Now, what was it?”
“Jonathan said the same thing to me once. He had been out hunting with Wetzel; they separated, and during the night Jonathan heard the wind. The next day he ran across a dead Indian. He believes Wetzel makes the noise, and so do the hunters; but I think it is simply the moan of the night wind through the trees. I have heard it at times, when my very blood seemingly ran cold.”
“I tried to think it was the wind soughing through the pines, but am afraid I didn’t succeed very well. Anyhow, I knew Wetzel instantly, just as Jeff Lynn said I would. He killed those Indians in an instant, and he must have an iron arm.”
“Wetzel excels in strength and speed any man, red or white, on the frontier. He can run away from Jonathan, who is as swift as an Indian. He’s stronger than any of the other men. I remember one day old Hugh Bennet’s wagon wheels stuck in a bog down by the creek. Hugh tried, as several others did, to move the wheels; but they couldn’t be made to budge. Along came Wetzel, pushed away the men, and lifted the wagon unaided. It would take hours to tell you about him. In brief, among all the border scouts and hunters Wetzel stands alone. No wonder the Indians fear him. He is as swift as an eagle, strong as mountain-ash, keen as a fox, and absolutely tireless and implacable.”
“How long have you been here, Colonel Zane?”
“More than twelve years, and it has been one long fight.”
“I’m afraid I’m too late for the fun,” said Joe, with his quiet laugh.
“Not by about twelve more years,” answered Colonel Zane, studying the expression on Joe’s face. “When I came out here years ago I had the same adventurous spirit which I see in you. It has been considerably quelled, however. I have seen many a daring young fellow get the border fever, and with it his death. Let me advise you to learn the ways of the hunters; to watch someone skilled in woodcraft. Perhaps Wetzel himself will take you in hand. I don’t mind saying that he spoke of you to me in a tone I never heard Lew use before.”
“He did?” questioned Joe, eagerly, flushing with pleasure. “Do you think he’d take me out? Dare I ask him?”
“Don’t be impatient. Perhaps I can arrange it. Come over here now to Metzar’s place. I want to make you acquainted with him. These boys have all been cutting timber; they’ve just come in for dinner. Be easy and quiet with them; then you’ll get on.”
Colonel Zane introduced Joe to five sturdy boys and left him in their company. Joe sat down on a log outside a cabin and leisurely surveyed the young men. They all looked about the same: strong without being heavy, light-haired and bronze-faced. In their turn they carefully judged Joe. A newcomer from the East was always regarded with some doubt. If they expected to hear Joe talk much they