The Zane Grey Megapack Page 10

  A long silence ensued. Alfred had spoken quietly, but with an undercurrent of bitterness that saddened Betty. For the first time she saw a shadow of pain in his eyes. She looked away down the valley, not seeing the brown and gold hills boldly defined against the blue sky, nor the beauty of the river as the setting sun cast a ruddy glow on the water. Her companion’s words had touched an unknown chord in her heart. When finally she turned to answer him a beautiful light shone in her eyes, a light that shines not on land or sea—the light of woman’s hope.

  “Mr. Clarke,” she said, and her voice was soft and low, “I am only a girl, but I can understand. You are unhappy. Try to rise above it. Who knows what will befall this little settlement? It may be swept away by the savages, and it may grow to be a mighty city. It must take that chance. So must you, so must we all take chances. You are here. Find your work and do it cheerfully, honestly, and let the future take care of itself. And let me say—do not be offended—beware of idleness and drink. They are as great a danger—nay, greater than the Indians.”

  “Miss Zane, if you were to ask me not to drink I would never touch a drop again,” said Alfred, earnestly.

  “I did not ask that,” answered Betty, flushing slightly. “But I shall remember it as a promise and some day I may ask it of you.”

  He looked wonderingly at the girl beside him. He had spent most of his life among educated and cultured people. He had passed several years in the backwoods. But with all his experience with people he had to confess that this young woman was as a revelation to him. She could ride like an Indian and shoot like a hunter. He had heard that she could run almost as swiftly as her brothers. Evidently she feared nothing, for he had just seen an example of her courage in a deed that had tried even his own nerve, and, withal, she was a bright, happy girl, earnest and true, possessing all the softer graces of his sisters, and that exquisite touch of feminine delicacy and refinement which appeals more to men than any other virtue.

  “Have you not met Mr. Miller before he came here from Fort Pitt?” asked Betty.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I think he mentioned something of the kind.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Why—Mr. Clarke, I hardly remember.”

  “I see,” said Alfred, his face darkening. “He has talked about me. I do not care what he said. I knew him at Fort Pitt, and we had trouble there. I venture to say he has told no one about it. He certainly would not shine in the story. But I am not a tattler.”

  “It is not very difficult to see that you do not like him. Jonathan does not, either. He says Mr. Miller was friendly with McKee, and the notorious Simon Girty, the soldiers who deserted from Fort Pitt and went to the Indians. The girls like him however.”

  “Usually if a man is good looking and pleasant that is enough for the girls. I noticed that he paid you a great deal of attention at the dance. He danced three times with you.”

  “Did he? How observing you are,” said Betty, giving him a little sidelong glance. “Well, he is very agreeable, and he dances better than many of the young men.”

  “I wonder if Wetzel got the turkey. I have heard no more shots,” said Alfred, showing plainly that he wished to change the subject.

  “Oh, look there! Quick!” exclaimed Betty, pointing toward the hillside.

  He looked in the direction indicated and saw a doe and a spotted fawn wading into the shallow water. The mother stood motionless a moment, with head erect and long ears extended. Then she drooped her graceful head and drank thirstily of the cool water. The fawn splashed playfully round while its mother was drinking. It would dash a few paces into the stream and then look back to see if its mother approved. Evidently she did not, for she would stop her drinking and call the fawn back to her side with a soft, crooning noise. Suddenly she raised her head, the long ears shot up, and she seemed to sniff the air. She waded through the deeper water to get round a rocky bluff which ran out into the creek. Then she turned and called the little one. The fawn waded until the water reached its knees, then stopped and uttered piteous little bleats. Encouraged by the soft crooning it plunged into the deep water and with great splashing and floundering managed to swim the short distance. Its slender legs shook as it staggered up the bank. Exhausted or frightened, it shrank close to its mother. Together they disappeared in the willows which fringed the side of the hill.

  “Was not that little fellow cute? I have had several fawns, but have never had the heart to keep them,” said Betty. Then, as Alfred made no motion to speak, she continued:

  “You do not seem very talkative.”

  “I have nothing to say. You will think me dull. The fact is when I feel deepest I am least able to express myself.”

  “I will read to you.” said Betty taking up the book. He lay back against the grassy bank and gazed dreamily at the many hued trees on the little hillside; at the bare rugged sides of McColloch’s Rock which frowned down upon them. A silver-breasted eagle sailed slowly round and round in the blue sky, far above the bluff. Alfred wondered what mysterious power sustained that solitary bird as he floated high in the air without perceptible movement of his broad wings. He envied the king of birds his reign over that illimitable space, his far-reaching vision, and his freedom. Round and round the eagle soared, higher and higher, with each perfect circle, and at last, for an instant poising as lightly as if he were about to perch on his lonely crag, he arched his wings and swooped down through the air with the swiftness of a falling arrow.

  Betty’s low voice, the water rushing so musically over the falls, the great yellow leaves falling into the pool, the gentle breeze stirring the clusters of goldenrod—all came softly to Alfred as he lay there with half closed eyes.

  The time slipped swiftly by as only such time can.

  “I fear the melancholy spirit of the day has prevailed upon you,” said Betty, half wistfully. “You did not know I had stopped reading, and I do not believe you heard my favorite poem. I have tried to give you a pleasant afternoon and have failed.”

  “No, no,” said Alfred, looking at her with a blue flame in his eyes. “The afternoon has been perfect. I have forgotten my role, and have allowed you to see my real self, something I have tried to hide from all.”

  “And are you always sad when you are sincere?”

  “Not always. But I am often sad. Is it any wonder? Is not all nature sad? Listen! There is the song of the oriole. Breaking in on the stillness it is mournful. The breeze is sad, the brook is sad, this dying Indian summer day is sad. Life itself is sad.”

  “Oh, no. Life is beautiful.”

  “You are a child,” said he, with a thrill in his deep voice “I hope you may always be as you are today, in heart, at least.”

  “It grows late. See, the shadows are falling. We must go.”

  “You know I am going away tomorrow. I don’t want to go. Perhaps that is why I have been such poor company today. I have a presentiment of evil I am afraid I may never come back.”

  “I am sorry you must go.”

  “Do you really mean that?” asked Alfred, earnestly, bending toward her “You know it is a very dangerous undertaking. Would you care if I never returned?”

  She looked up and their eyes met. She had raised her head haughtily, as if questioning his right to speak to her in that manner, but as she saw the unspoken appeal in his eyes her own wavered and fell while a warm color crept into her cheek.

  “Yes, I would be sorry,” she said, gravely. Then, after a moment: “You must portage the canoe round the falls, and from there we can paddle back to the path.”

  The return trip made, they approached the house. As they turned the corner they saw Colonel Zane standing at the door talking to Wetzel.

  They saw that the Colonel looked pale and distressed, and the face of the hunter was dark and gloomy.

  “Lew, did you get my turkey?” said Betty, after a moment of hesitation. A nameless fear filled her breast.

  For answer Wetzel threw back the flaps
of his coat and there at his belt hung a small tuft of black hair. Betty knew at once it was the scalp-lock of an Indian. Her face turned white and she placed a hand on the hunter’s arm.

  “What do you mean? That is an Indian’s scalp. Lew, you look so strange. Tell me, is it because we went off in the canoe and have been in danger?”

  “Betty, Isaac has been captured again,” said the Colonel.

  “Oh, no, no, no,” cried Betty in agonized tones, and wringing her hands. Then, excitedly, “Something can be done; you must pursue them. Oh, Lew, Mr. Clarke, cannot you rescue him? They have not had time to go far.”

  “Isaac went to the chestnut grove this morning. If he had stayed there he would not have been captured. But he went far into the Black Forest. The turkey call we heard across the creek was made by a Wyandot concealed in the cave. Lewis tells me that a number of Indians have camped there for days. He shot the one who was calling and followed the others until he found where they had taken Isaac’s trail.”

  Betty turned to the younger man with tearful eyes, and with beseeching voice implored them to save her brother.

  “I am ready to follow you,” said Clarke to Wetzel.

  The hunter shook his head, but did not answer.

  “It is that hateful White Crane,” passionately burst out Betty, as the Colonel’s wife led her weeping into the house.

  “Did you get more than one shot at them?” asked Clarke.

  The hunter nodded, and the slight, inscrutable smile flitted across his stern features. He never spoke of his deeds. For this reason many of the thrilling adventures which he must have had will forever remain unrevealed. That evening there was sadness at Colonel Zane’s supper table. They felt the absence of the Colonel’s usual spirits, his teasing of Betty, and his cheerful conversation. He had nothing to say. Betty sat at the table a little while, and then got up and left the room saying she could not eat. Jonathan, on hearing of his brother’s recapture, did not speak, but retired in gloomy silence. Silas was the only one of the family who was not utterly depressed. He said it could have been a great deal worse; that they must make the best of it, and that the sooner Isaac married his Indian Princess the better for his scalp and for the happiness of all concerned.

  “I remember Myeerah very well,” he said. “It was eight years ago, and she was only a child. Even then she was very proud and willful, and the loveliest girl I ever laid eyes on.”

  Alfred Clarke staid late at Colonel Zane’s that night. Before going away for so many weeks he wished to have a few more moments alone with Betty. But a favorable opportunity did not present itself during the evening, so when he had bade them all goodbye and goodnight, except Betty, who opened the door for him, he said softly to her:

  “It is bright moonlight outside. Come, please, and walk to the gate with me.”

  A full moon shone serenely down on hill and dale, flooding the valley with its pure white light and bathing the pastures in its glory; at the foot of the bluff the waves of the river gleamed like myriads of stars all twinkling and dancing on a bed of snowy clouds. Thus illumined the river wound down the valley, its brilliance growing fainter and fainter until at last, resembling the shimmering of a silver thread which joined the earth to heaven, it disappeared in the horizon.

  “I must say goodbye,” said Alfred, as they reached the gate.

  “Friends must part. I am sorry you must go, Mr. Clarke, and I trust you may return safe. It seems only yesterday that you saved my brother’s life, and I was so grateful and happy. Now he is gone.”

  “You should not think about it so much nor brood over it,” answered the young man. “Grieving will not bring him back nor do you any good. It is not nearly so bad as if he had been captured by some other tribe. Wetzel assures us that Isaac was taken alive. Please do not grieve.”

  “I have cried until I cannot cry any more. I am so unhappy. We were children together, and I have always loved him better than any one since my mother died. To have him back again and then to lose him! Oh! I cannot bear it.”

  She covered her face with her hands and a low sob escaped her.

  “Don’t, don’t grieve,” he said in an unsteady voice, as he took the little hands in his and pulled them away from her face.

  Betty trembled. Something in his voice, a tone she had never heard before startled her. She looked up at him half unconscious that he still held her hands in his. Never had she appeared so lovely.

  “You cannot understand my feelings.”

  “I loved my mother.”

  “But you have not lost her. That makes all the difference.”

  “I want to comfort you and I am powerless. I am unable to say what—I—”

  He stopped short. As he stood gazing down into her sweet face, burning, passionate words came to his lips; but he was dumb; he could not speak. All day long he had been living in a dream. Now he realized that but a moment remained for him to be near the girl he loved so well. He was leaving her, perhaps never to see her again, or to return to find her another’s. A fierce pain tore his heart.

  “You—you are holding my hands,” faltered Betty, in a doubtful, troubled voice. She looked up into his face and saw that it was pale with suppressed emotion.

  Alfred was mad indeed. He forgot everything. In that moment the world held nothing for him save that fair face. Her eyes, uplifted to his in the moonlight, beamed with a soft radiance. They were honest eyes, just now filled with innocent sadness and regret, but they drew him with irresistible power. Without realizing in the least what he was doing he yielded to the impulse. Bending his head he kissed the tremulous lips.

  “Oh,” whispered Betty, standing still as a statue and looking at him with wonderful eyes. Then, as reason returned, a hot flush dyed her face, and wrenching her hands free she struck him across the cheek.

  “For God’s sake, Betty, I did not mean to do that! Wait. I have something to tell you. For pity’s sake, let me explain,” he cried, as the full enormity of his offence dawned upon him.

  Betty was deaf to the imploring voice, for she ran into the house and slammed the door.

  He called to her, but received no answer. He knocked on the door, but it remained closed. He stood still awhile, trying to collect his thoughts, and to find a way to undo the mischief he had wrought. When the real significance of his act came to him he groaned in spirit. What a fool he had been! Only a few short hours and he must start on a perilous journey, leaving the girl he loved in ignorance of his real intentions. Who was to tell her that he loved her? Who was to tell her that it was because his whole heart and soul had gone to her that he had kissed her?

  With bowed head he slowly walked away toward the fort, totally oblivious of the fact that a young girl, with hands pressed tightly over her breast to try to still a madly beating heart, watched him from her window until he disappeared into the shadow of the block-house.

  Alfred paced up and down his room the four remaining hours of that eventful day. When the light was breaking in at the east and dawn near at hand he heard the rough voices of men and the tramping of iron-shod hoofs. The hour of his departure was at hand.

  He sat down at his table and by the aid of the dim light from a pine knot he wrote a hurried letter to Betty. A little hope revived in his heart as he thought that perhaps all might yet be well. Surely someone would be up to whom he could intrust the letter, and if no one he would run over and slip it under the door of Colonel Zane’s house.

  In the gray of the early morning Alfred rode out with the daring band of heavily armed men, all grim and stern, each silent with the thought of the man who knows he may never return. Soon the settlement was left far behind.

  CHAPTER V.

  During the last few days, in which the frost had cracked open the hickory nuts, and in which the squirrels had been busily collecting and storing away their supply of nuts for winter use, it had been Isaac’s wont to shoulder his rifle, walk up the hill, and spend the morning in the grove.

  On this crisp autumn morning
he had started off as usual, and had been called back by Col. Zane, who advised him not to wander far from the settlement. This admonition, kind and brotherly though it was, annoyed Isaac. Like all the Zanes he had born in him an intense love for the solitude of the wilderness. There were times when nothing could satisfy him but the calm of the deep woods.

  One of these moods possessed him now. Courageous to a fault and daring where daring was not always the wiser part, Isaac lacked the practical sense of the Colonel and the cool judgment of Jonathan. Impatient of restraint, independent in spirit, and it must be admitted, in his persistence in doing as he liked instead of what he ought to do, he resembled Betty more than he did his brothers.

  Feeling secure in his ability to take care of himself, for he knew he was an experienced hunter and woodsman, he resolved to take a long tramp in the forest. This resolution was strengthened by the fact that he did not believe what the Colonel and Jonathan had told him—that it was not improbable some of the Wyandot braves were lurking in the vicinity, bent on killing or recapturing him. At any rate he did not fear it.