The Zane Grey Megapack. Zane Grey
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agreed Joe, laconically.
“Like frontier life?”
“Sure.”
A silence ensued after this breaking of the ice. The boys were awaiting their turn at a little wooden bench upon which stood a bucket of water and a basin.
“Hear ye got ketched by some Shawnees?” remarked another youth, as he rolled up his shirt-sleeves. They all looked at Joe now. It was not improbably their estimate of him would be greatly influenced by the way he answered this question.
“Yes; was captive for three days.”
“Did ye knock any redskins over?” This question was artfully put to draw Joe out. Above all things, the bordermen detested boastfulness; tried on Joe the ruse failed signally.
“I was scared speechless most of the time,” answered Joe, with his pleasant smile.
“By gosh, I don’t blame ye!” burst out Will Metzar. “I hed that experience onct, an’ onct’s enough.”
The boys laughed and looked in a more friendly manner at Joe. Though he said he had been frightened, his cool and careless manner belied his words. In Joe’s low voice and clear, gray eye there was something potent and magnetic, which subtly influenced those with whom he came in contact.
While his new friends were at dinner Joe strolled over to where Colonel Zane sat on the doorstep of his home.
“How did you get on with the boys?” inquired the colonel.
“All right, I hope. Say, Colonel Zane, I’d like to talk to your Indian guide.”
Colonel Zane spoke a few words in the Indian language to the guide, who left his post and came over to them. The colonel then had a short conversation with him, at the conclusion of which he pointed toward Joe.
“How do—shake,” said Tome, extending his hand.
Joe smiled, and returned the friendly hand-pressure.
“Shawnee—ketch’um?” asked the Indian, in his fairly intelligible English.
Joe nodded his head, while Colonel Zane spoke once more in Shawnee, explaining the cause of Silvertip’s emnity.
“Shawnee—chief—one—bad—Injun,” replied Tome, seriously. “Silvertip—mad—thunder-mad. Ketch’um paleface—scalp’um sure.”
After giving this warning the chief returned to his former position near the corner of the cabin.
“He can talk in English fairly well, much better than the Shawnee brave who talked with me the other day,” observed Joe.
“Some of the Indians speak the language almost fluently,” said Colonel Zane. “You could hardly have distinguished Logan’s speech from a white man’s. Corn-planter uses good English, as also does my brother’s wife, a Wyandot girl.”
“Did your brother marry an Indian?” and Joe plainly showed his surprise.
“Indeed he did, and a most beautiful girl she is. I’ll tell you Isaac’s story some time. He was a captive among the Wyandots for ten years. The chief’s daughter, Myeerah, loved him, kept him from being tortured, and finally saved him from the stake.”
“Well, that floors me,” said Joe; “yet I don’t see why it should. I’m just surprised. Where is your brother now?”
“He lives with the tribe. He and Myeerah are working hard for peace. We are now on more friendly terms with the great Wyandots, or Hurons, as we call them, than ever before.”
“Who is this big man coming from the the fort?” asked Joe, suddenly observing a stalwart frontiersman approaching.
“Major Sam McColloch. You have met him. He’s the man who jumped his horse from yonder bluff.”
“Jonathan and he have the same look, the same swing,” observed Joe, as he ran his eye over the major. His faded buckskin costume, beaded, fringed, and laced, was similar to that of the colonel’s brother. Powder-flask and bullet-pouch were made from cow-horns and slung around his neck on deerhide strings. The hunting coat was unlaced, exposing, under the long, fringed borders, a tunic of the same well-tanned, but finer and softer, material. As he walked, the flaps of his coat fell back, showing a belt containing two knives, sheathed in heavy buckskin, and a bright tomahawk. He carried a long rifle in the hollow of his arm.
“These hunters have the same kind of buckskin suits,” continued Joe; “still, it doesn’t seem to me the clothes make the resemblance to each other. The way these men stand, walk and act is what strikes me particularly, as in the case of Wetzel.”
“I know what you mean. The flashing eye, the erect poise of expectation, and the springy step—those, my lad, come from a life spent in the woods. Well, it’s a grand way to live.”
“Colonel, my horse is laid up,” said Major McColloch, coming to the steps. He bowed pleasantly to Joe.
“So you are going to Short Creek? You can have one of my horses; but first come inside and we’ll talk over you expedition.”
The afternoon passed uneventfully for Joe. His brother and Mr. Wells were absorbed in plans for their future work, and Nell and Kate were resting; therefore he was forced to find such amusement or occupation as was possible in or near the stockade.
CHAPTER IX.
Joe went to bed that night with a promise to himself to rise early next morning, for he had been invited to take part in a “raising,” which term meant that a new cabin was to be erected, and such task was ever an event in the lives of the settlers.
The following morning Joe rose early, dressing himself in a complete buckskin suit, for which he had exchanged his good garments of cloth. Never before had he felt so comfortable. He wanted to hop, skip and jump. The soft, undressed buckskin was as warm and smooth as silk-plush; the weight so light, the moccasins so well-fitting and springy, that he had to put himself under considerable restraint to keep from capering about like a frolicsome colt.
The possession of this buckskin outfit, and the rifle and accouterments which went with the bargain, marked the last stage in Joe’s surrender to the border fever. The silent, shaded glens, the mystery of the woods, the breath of this wild, free life claimed him from this moment entirely and forever.
He met the others, however, with a serene face, showing no trace of the emotion which welled up strongly from his heart. Nell glanced shyly at him; Kate playfully voiced her admiration; Jim met him with a brotherly ridicule which bespoke his affection as well as his amusement; but Colonel Zane, having once yielded to the same burning, riotous craving for freedom which now stirred in the boy’s heart, understood, and felt warmly drawn toward the lad. He said nothing, though as he watched Joe his eyes were grave and kind. In his long frontier life, where many a day measured the life and fire of ordinary years, he had seen lad after lad go down before this forest fever. It was well, he thought, because the freedom of the soil depended on these wild, light-footed boys; yet it always made him sad. How many youths, his brother among them, lay under the fragrant pine-needle carpet of the forest, in their last earthly sleep!
The “raising” brought out all the settlement—the women to look on and gossip, while the children played; the men to bend their backs in the moving of the heavy timbers. They celebrated the erection of a new cabin as a noteworthy event. As a social function it had a prominent place in the settlers’ short list of pleasures.
Joe watched the proceeding with the same pleasure and surprise he had felt in everything pertaining to border life.
To him this log-raising appeared the hardest kind of labor. Yet it was plain these hardy men, these low-voiced women, and merry children regarded the work as something far more significant than the mere building of a cabin. After a while he understood the meaning of the scene. A kindred spirit, the spirit of the pioneer, drew them all into one large family. This was another cabin; another home; another advance toward the conquering of the wilderness, for which these