Spirit of the Border. Zane Grey
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Joe thought such a fact a sufficient reason for any act on his part. His tender tone conquered Nell, and she turned to him with flushed cheeks and glad eyes.
“I wasn’t angry at all,” she whispered, and then, eluding the arm he extended, she ran into the other room.
Chapter III
Joe lounged in the doorway of the cabin, thoughtfully contemplating two quiet figures that were lying in the shade of a maple tree. One he recognized as the Indian with whom Jim had spent an earnest hour that morning; the red son of the woods was wrapped in slumber. He had placed under his head a many-hued homespun shirt which the young preacher had given him; but while asleep his head had rolled off this improvised pillow, and the bright garment lay free, attracting the eye. Certainly it had led to the train of thought which had found lodgment in Joe’s fertile brain.
The other sleeper was a short, stout man whom Joe had seen several times before. This last fellow did not appear to be well-balanced in his mind, and was the butt of the settlers’ jokes, while the children called him “Loorey.” He, like the Indian, was sleeping off the effects of the previous night’s dissipation.
During a few moments Joe regarded the recumbent figures with an expression on his face which told that he thought in them were great possibilities for sport. With one quick glance around he disappeared within the cabin, and when he showed himself at the door, surveying the village square with mirthful eyes, he held in his hand a small basket of Indian design. It was made of twisted grass, and simply contained several bits of soft, chalky stone such as the Indians used for painting, which collection Joe had discovered among the fur trader’s wares.
He glanced around once more, and saw that all those in sight were busy with their work. He gave the short man a push, and chuckled when there was no response other than a lazy grunt. Joe took the Indian’s gaudy shirt, and, lifting Loorey, slipped it around him, shoved the latter’s arm through the sleeves, and buttoned it in front. He streaked the round face with red and white paint, and then, dexterously extracting the eagle plume from the Indian’s headdress, stuck it in Loorey’s thick shock of hair. It was all done in a moment, after which Joe replaced the basket and went down to the river.
Several times that morning he had visited the rude wharf where Jeff Lynn, the grizzled old frontiersman, busied himself with preparations for the raft journey down the Ohio.
Lynn had been employed to guide the missionary’s party to Fort Henry, and as the brothers had acquainted him with their intention of accompanying the travelers, he had constructed a raft for them and their horses.
Joe laughed when he saw the dozen two-foot logs fastened together, upon which a rude shack had been erected for shelter. This slight protection from the sun and storm was all the brothers would have on their long journey.
Joe noted, however, that the larger raft had been prepared with some thought for the comfort of the girls. The floor of the little hut was raised so that the waves which broke over the logs could not reach it. Taking a peep into the structure, Joe was pleased to see that Nell and Kate would be comfortable, even during a storm. A buffalo robe and two red blankets gave to the interior a cosy, warm look. He observed that some of the girls’ luggage was already onboard.
“When’ll we be off?” he inquired.
“Sunup,” answered Lynn, briefly.
“I’m glad of that. I like to be on the go in the early morning,” said Joe, cheerfully.
“Most folks from over Eastways ain’t in a hurry to tackle the river,” replied Lynn, eyeing Joe sharply.
“It’s a beautiful river, and I’d like to sail on it from here to where it ends, and then come back to go again,” Joe replied, warmly.
“In a hurry to be a-goin’? I’ll allow you’ll see some slim red devils, with feathers in their hair, slippin’ among the trees along the bank, and mebbe you’ll hear the ping which’s made when whistlin’ lead hits. Perhaps you’ll want to be back here by termorrer sundown.”
“Not I,” said Joe, with his short, cool laugh.
The old frontiersman slowly finished his task of coiling up a rope of wet cowhide, and then, producing a dirty pipe, he took a live ember from the fire and placed it on the bowl. He sucked slowly at the pipe stem, and soon puffed out a great cloud of smoke. Sitting on a log, he deliberately surveyed the robust shoulders and long, heavy limbs of the young man, with a keen appreciation of their symmetry and strength. Agility, endurance, and courage were more to a borderman than all else; a newcomer on the frontier was always “sized up” with reference to these “points” and respected in proportion to the measure in which he possessed them.
Old Jeff Lynn, riverman, hunter, frontiersman, puffed slowly at his pipe while he mused thus to himself: “Mebbe I’m wrong in takin’ a likin’ to this youngster so sudden. Mebbe it’s because I’m fond of his sunny-haired lass, an’ ag’in mebbe it’s because I’m gettin’ old an’ likes young folks better’n I onct did. Anyway, I’m kinder thinkin’, if this young feller gits worked out, say fer about twenty pounds less, he’ll lick a whole raft-load of wildcats.”
Joe walked to and fro on the logs, ascertained how the raft was put together, and took a pull on the long, clumsy steering oar. At length he seated himself beside Lynn. He was eager to ask questions; to know about the rafts, the river, the forest, the Indians—everything in connection with this wild life; but already he had learned that questioning these frontiersmen is a sure means of closing their lips.
“Ever handle the long rifle?” asked Lynn, after a silence.
“Yes,” answered Joe, simply.
“Ever shoot anythin’?” the frontiersman questioned, when he had taken four or five puffs at his pipe.
“Squirrels.”
“Good practice, shootin’ squirrels,” observed Jeff, after another silence, long enough to allow Joe to talk if he was so inclined. “Kin ye hit one—say, a hundred yards?”
“Yes, but not every time in the head,” returned Joe. There was an apologetic tone in his answer.
Another interval followed in which neither spoke. Jeff was slowly pursuing his line of thought. After Joe’s last remark he returned his pipe to his pocket and brought out a tobacco pouch. He tore off a large portion of the weed and thrust it into his mouth. Then he held out the little buckskin sack to Joe.
“Hev a chew,” he said.
To offer tobacco to anyone was absolutely a borderman’s guarantee of friendliness toward that person.
Jeff expectorated half a dozen times, each time coming a little nearer the stone he was aiming at, some five yards distant. Possibly this was the borderman’s way of oiling up his conversational machinery. At all events, he commenced to talk.
“Yer brother’s goin’ to preach out here, ain’t he? Preachin’ is all right, I’ll allow; but I’m kinder doubtful about preachin’ to redskins. Howsumever, I’ve knowed Injuns who are good fellows, and there’s no tellin’. What are ye goin’ in fer—farmin’?”
“No, I wouldn’t make a good farmer.”
“Jest cum out kinder wild like, eh?” rejoined Jeff, knowingly.
“I wanted to come West because I was tired of tame life. I love the forest; I want to fish and hunt; and I think I’d like to—to see Indians.”
“I kinder thought so,” said the old frontiersman, nodding his head as though he perfectly understood Joe’s case. “Well, lad, where you’re goin’ seein’ Injuns ain’t a matter of choice. You has to see ’em, and fight ’em, too. We’ve had bad times for years out here on the border, and I’m thinkin’ wuss is comin’. Did ye ever hear the name Girty?”
“Yes; he’s a renegade.”
“He’s a traitor, and Jim and George Girty, his brother, are