Читать книгу Spirit of the Border - Zane Grey - Страница 9

As the rafts drifted with the current the voyagers saw the settlers on the landing place diminish until they had faded from indistinct figures to mere black specks against the green background. Then came the last wave of a white scarf, faintly in the distance, and at length the dark outline of the fort was all that remained to their regretful gaze. Quickly that, too, disappeared behind the green hill, which, with its bold front, forces the river to take a wide turn.

The Ohio, winding in its course between high, wooded bluffs, rolled on and on into the wilderness.

Beautiful as was the ever-changing scenery, rugged, gray-faced cliffs on one side contrasting with green-clad hills on the other, there hovered over land and water something more striking than beauty. Above all hung a still atmosphere of calmness—of loneliness.

And this penetrating solitude marred somewhat the pleasure which might have been found in the picturesque scenery, and caused the voyagers, to whom this country was new, to take less interest in the gaily feathered birds and stealthy animals that were to be seen on the way. By the forms of wild-life along the banks of the river, this strange intruder on their peace was regarded with attention. The birds and beasts evinced little fear of the floating rafts. The sandhill crane, stalking along the shore, lifted his long neck as the unfamiliar thing came floating by, and then stood still and silent as a statue until the rafts disappeared from view. Blue herons feeding along the bars saw the unusual spectacle, and, uttering surprised “booms,” they spread wide wings and lumbered away along the shore. The crows circled above the voyagers, cawing in not unfriendly excitement. Smaller birds alighted on the raised poles, and several—a robin, a catbird and a little brown wren—ventured with hesitating boldness to peck at the crumbs the girls threw to them. Deer waded knee deep in the shallow water, and, lifting their heads, instantly became motionless and absorbed. Occasionally a buffalo appeared on a level stretch of bank, and, tossing his huge head, seemed inclined to resent the coming of this stranger into his domain.

All day the rafts drifted steadily and swiftly down the river, presenting to the little party ever-varying pictures of densely wooded hills, of jutting, broken cliffs with scant evergreen growth; of long reaches of sandy bar that glistened golden in the sunlight, and over all the flight and call of wildfowl, the flitting of woodland songsters, and now and then the whistle and bellow of the horned watchers in the forest.

The intense blue of the vault above began to pale, and low down in the west a few fleecy clouds, gorgeously golden for a fleeting instant, then crimson-crowned for another, shaded and darkened as the setting sun sank behind the hills. Presently the red rays disappeared, a pink glow suffused the heavens, and at last, as gray twilight stole down over the hilltops, the crescent moon peeped above the wooded fringe of the western bluffs.

“Hard an’ fast she is,” sang out Jeff Lynn, as he fastened the rope to a tree at the head of a small island. “All off now, an’ we’ll hev supper. Thar’s a fine spring under yon curly birch, an’ I fetched along a leg of deer meat. Hungry, little ’un?”

He had worked hard all day steering the rafts, yet Nell had seen him smiling at her many times during the journey, and he had found time before the early start to arrange for her a comfortable seat. There was now a solicitude in the frontiersman’s voice that touched her.

“I am famished,” she replied, with her bright smile. “I am afraid I could eat a whole deer.”

They all climbed the sandy slope and found themselves on the summit of an oval island, with a pretty glade in the middle surrounded by birches. Bill, the second raftsman, a stolid, silent man, at once swung his axe upon a log of drift-wood. Mr. Wells and Jim walked to and fro under the birches, and Kate and Nell sat on the grass watching with great interest the old helmsman as he came up from the river, his brown hands and face shining from the scrubbing he had given them. Soon he had a fire cheerfully blazing, and after laying out the few utensils, he addressed himself to Joe:

“I’ll tell ye right here, lad, good venison kin be spoiled by bad cuttin’ and cookin’. You’re slicin’ it too thick. See—thar! Now salt good, an’ keep outen the flame; on the red coals is best.”

With a sharpened stick Jeff held the thin slices over the fire for a few moments. Then he laid them aside on some clean white-oak chips Bill’s axe had provided. The simple meal of meat, bread, and afterward a drink of the cold spring water was keenly relished by the hungry voyagers. When it had been eaten, Jeff threw a log on his fire and remarked:

“Seein’ as how we won’t be in redskin territory fer awhile yit, we kin hev a fire. I’ll allow ye’ll all be chilly and damp from river-mist afore long, so toast yerselves good.”

“How far have we come today?” inquired Mr. Wells, his mind always intent on reaching the scene of his cherished undertaking.

“’Bout thirty-odd miles, I reckon. Not much on a trip, thet’s sartin, but we’ll pick up termorrer. We’ve some quicker water, an’ the rafts hev to go separate.”

“How quiet!” exclaimed Kate, suddenly breaking the silence that followed the frontiersman’s answer.

“Beautiful!” impetuously said Nell, looking up at Joe. A quick flash from his gray eyes answered her; he did not speak; indeed he had said little to her since the start, but his glance showed her how glad he was that she felt the sweetness and content of this wild land.

“I was never in a wilderness before,” broke in the earnest voice of the young minister. “I feel an almost overpowering sense of loneliness. I want to get near you all, I feel lost. Yet it is grand, sublime!”

“Here is the promised land—the fruitful life—Nature as it was created by God,” replied the old minister, impressively.

“Tell us a story,” said Nell to the old frontiersman, as he once more joined the circle round the fire.

“So, little ’un, ye want a story?” queried Jeff, taking up a live coal and placing it in the bowl of his pipe. He took off his coonskin cap and carefully laid it aside. His weatherbeaten face beamed in answer to the girl’s request. He drew a long and audible pull at his black pipe, and sent forth slowly a cloud of white smoke. Deliberately poking the fire with a stick, as if stirring into life dead embers of the past, he sucked again at his pipe and emitted a great puff of smoke that completely enveloped the grizzled head. From out that white cloud came his drawling voice.

“Ye’ve seen thet big curly birch over thar—thet ’un as bends kind of sorrowful like. Wal, it used to stand straight an’ proud. I’ve knowed thet tree all the years I’ve navigated this river, an’ it seems natural like to me thet it now droops dyin’, fer it shades the grave of as young, an’ sweet, an’ purty a lass as yerself, Miss Nell. Rivermen called this island George’s Island, ’cause Washington onct camped here; but of late years the name’s got changed, an’ the men say suthin’ like this: ‘We’ll try an’ make Milly’s birch afore sundown,’ jest as Bill and me hev done today. Some years agone I was comin’ up from Fort Henry an’ had on board my slow old scow a lass named Milly—we never learned her other name. She come to me at the fort, an’ tells as how her folks had been killed by Injuns, an’ she wanted to git back to Pitt to meet her sweetheart. I was ag’in her comin’ all along, an’ fust off I said ‘No.’ But when I seen tears in her blue eyes, an’ she puts her little hand on mine, I jest wilted, an’ says to Jim Blair, ‘She goes.’ Wal, jest as might hev been expected—an’ fact is I looked fer it—we wus tackled by redskins. Somehow, Jim Girty got wind of us hevin’ a lass aboard, an’ he ketched up with us jest below here. It’s a bad place, called Shawnee Rock, an’ I’ll show it to ye termorrer. The renegade, with his red devils, attacked us thar, an’ we had a fierce fight. Jim Blair, he was killed, an’ we had a time gittin’ away. Milly wus shot. She lived fer awhile, a couple of days, an’ all the time was so patient, an’ sweet, an’ brave with thet renegade’s bullet in her—fer he shot her, when he seen he couldn’t capture her—thet thar wusn’t a blame man of us who wouldn’t hev died to grant her prayer, which wus that she could live to onct more see her lover.”

There was a long silence, during which the old frontiersman sat gazing into the fire with sad eyes.

“We couldn’t do nuthin’, an’ we buried her thar under thet birch, where she smiled her last sad, sweet smile an’ died. Ever since then the river has been eatin’ away at this island. It’s only half as big as it was onct, an’ another flood will take away this sandbar, these few birches—an’ Milly’s grave.”

The old frontiersman’s story affected all his listeners. The elder minister bowed his head and prayed that no such fate might overtake his nieces. The young minister looked again, as he had many times that day, at Nell’s winsome face. The girls cast grave glances at the drooping birch, and their bright tears glistened in the fire glow. Once more Joe’s eyes glinted with that steely flash, and as he gazed out over the wide, darkening expanse of water his face grew cold and rigid.

“I’ll allow I might hev told a more cheerful story, an’ I’ll do so next time; but I wanted ye all, particular the lasses, to know somethin’ of the kind of country ye’re goin’ into. The frontier needs women; but jist yit it deals hard with them. An’ Jim Girty, with more of his kind, ain’t dead yit.”

“Why don’t someone kill him?” was Joe’s sharp question.

“Easier said than done, lad. Jim Girty is a white traitor, but he’s a cunnin’ an’ fierce redskin in his ways an’ life. He knows the woods as a crow does, an’ keeps outer sight ’cept when he’s least expected. Then ag’in, he’s got Simon Girty, his brother, an’ almost the whole redskin tribe behind him. Injuns stick close to a white man that has turned ag’inst his own people, an’ Jim Girty hadn’t ever been ketched. Howsumever, I heard last trip thet he’d been tryin’ some of his tricks round Fort Henry, an’ thet Wetzel is on his trail. Wal, if it’s so thet Lew Wetzel is arter him, I wouldn’t give a pinch o’ powder fer the white-redskin’s chances of a long life.”

No one spoke, and Jeff, after knocking the ashes from his pipe, went down to the raft, returning shortly afterward with his blanket. This he laid down and rolled himself in. Presently from under his coonskin cap came the words:

“Wal, I’ve turned in, an’ I advise ye all to do the same.”

All save Joe and Nell acted on Jeff’s suggestion. For a long time the young couple sat close together on the bank, gazing at the moonlight on the river.

The night was perfect. A cool wind fanned the dying embers of the fire and softly stirred the leaves. Earlier in the evening a single frog had voiced his protest against the loneliness; but now his dismal croak was no longer heard. A snipe, belated in his feeding, ran along the sandy shore uttering his tweet-tweet, and his little cry, breaking in so softly on the silence, seemed only to make more deeply felt the great, vast stillness of the night.

Joe’s arm was around Nell. She had demurred at first, but he gave no heed to her slight resistance, and finally her head rested against his shoulder. There was no need of words.

Joe had a pleasurable sense of her nearness, and there was a delignt in the fragrance of her hair as it waved against his cheek; but just then love was not uppermost in his mind. All day he had been silent under the force of an emotion which he could not analyze. Some power, some feeling in which the thought of Nell had no share, was drawing him with irresistible strength. Nell had just begun to surrender to him in the sweetness of her passion; and yet even with that knowledge knocking reproachfully at his heart, he could not help being absorbed in the shimmering water, in the dark reflection of the trees, the gloom and shadow of the forest.

Presently he felt her form relax in his arms; then her soft, regular breathing told him she had fallen asleep, and he laughed low to himself. How she would pout on the morrow when he teased her about it! Then, realizing that she was tired with her long day’s journey, he reproached himself for keeping her from the needed rest, and instantly decided to carry her to the raft. Yet such was the novelty of the situation that he yielded to its charm and did not go at once. The moonlight found bright threads in her wavy hair; it shone caressingly on her quiet face, and tried to steal under the downcast lashes.

Joe made a movement to rise with her, when she muttered indistinctly as if speaking to someone. He remembered then she had once told him that she talked in her sleep, and how greatly it annoyed her. He might hear something more with which to tease her; so he listened.

“Yes—Uncle—I will go—Kate, we must—go…”

Another interval of silence, then more murmurings. He distinguished his own name, and presently she called clearly, as if answering some inward questioner.

“I—love him—yes—I love Joe—he has mastered me. Yet I wish he were—like Jim—Jim who looked at me—so—with his deep eyes—and I…”

Joe lifted her as if she were a baby, and carrying her down to the raft, gently laid her by her sleeping sister.

The innocent words which he should not have heard were like a blow. What she would never have acknowledged in her waking hours had been revealed in her dreams. He recalled the glance of Jim’s eyes as it had rested on Nell many times that day, and now these things were most significant.

He found at the end of the island a great, mossy stone. On this he climbed, and sat where the moonlight streamed, upon him. Gradually that cold bitterness died out from his face, as it passed from his heart, and once more he became engrossed in the silver sheen on the water, the lapping of the waves on the pebbly beach, and in that speaking, mysterious silence of the woods.

When the first faint rays of red streaked over the eastern hilltops, and the river mist arose from the water in a vapory cloud, Jeff Lynn rolled out his blanket, stretched his long limbs, and gave a hearty call to the morning. His cheerful welcome awakened all the voyagers except Joe, who had spent the night in watching and the early morning in fishing.

“Wal, I’ll be darned,” ejaculated Jeff as he saw Joe. “Up afore me, an’ ketched a string of fish.”

“What are they?” asked Joe, holding up several bronze-backed fish.

“Bass—black bass, an’ thet big feller is a lammin’ hefty ’un. How’d ye ketch ’em?”

“I fished for them.”

“Wal, so it ’pears,” growled Jeff, once more reluctantly yielding to his admiration for the lad. “How’d ye wake up so early?”

“l stayed up all night. I saw three deer swim from the mainland, but nothing else came around.”

“Try yer hand at cleanin’ ’em fer breakfast,” continued Jeff, beginning to busy himself with preparations for that meal. “Wal, wal, if he ain’t surprisin’! He’ll do somethin’ out here on the frontier, sure as I’m a born sinner,” he muttered to himself, wagging his head in his quaint manner.

Breakfast over, Jeff transferred the horses to the smaller raft, which he had cut loose from his own, and giving a few directions to Bill, started downstream with Mr. Wells and the girls.

The rafts remained close enough together for a while, but as the current quickened and was more skilfully taken advantage of by Jeff, the larger raft gained considerable headway, gradually widening the gap between the two.

All day they drifted. From time to time Joe and Jim waved their hands to the girls; but the greater portion of their attention was given to quieting the horses. Mose, Joe’s big white dog, retired in disgust to the hut, where he watched and dozed by turns. He did not fancy this kind of voyaging. Bill strained his sturdy arms all day on the steering oar.

About the middle of the afternoon Joe observed that the hills grew more rugged and precipitous, and the river ran faster. He kept a constant lookout for the wall of rock which marked the point of danger. When the sun had disappeared behind the hills, he saw ahead a gray rock protruding from the green foliage. It was ponderous, overhanging, and seemed to frown down on the river. This was Shawnee Rock. Joe looked long at the cliff, and wondered if there was now an Indian scout hidden behind the pines that skirted the edge. Prominent on the top of the bluff a large, dead tree projected its hoary twisted branches.

Bill evidently saw the landmark, for he stopped in his monotonous walk to and fro across the raft, and pushing his oar amidships he looked ahead for the other raft. The figure of the tall frontiersman could be plainly seen as he labored at the helm.

The raft disappeared round a bend, and as it did so Joe saw a white scarf waved by Nell.

Bill worked the clumsy craft over toward the right shore where the current was more rapid. He pushed with all his strength, and when the oar reached its widest sweep, he lifted it and ran back across the raft for another push. Joe scanned the river ahead. He saw no rapids; only rougher water whirling over some rocks. They were where the channel narrowed and ran close to the right-hand bank. Under a willow-flanked lodge was a sandbar. To Joe there seemed nothing hazardous in drifting through this pass.

“Bad place ahead,” said Bill, observing Joe’s survey of the river.

“It doesn’t look so,” replied Joe.

“A raft ain’t a boat. We could pole a boat. You has to hev water to float logs, an’ the river’s run out considerable. I’m only afeerd fer the hosses. If we hit or drag, they might plunge around a bit.”

When the raft passed into the head of the bend it struck the rocks several times, but finally gained the channel safely, and everything seemed propitious for an easy passage.

But, greatly to Bill’s surprise, the wide craft was caught directly in the channel, and swung round so that the steering oar pointed toward the opposite shore. The water roared a foot deep over the logs.

“Hold hard on the hosses!” yelled Bill. “Somethin’s wrong. I never seen a snag here.”

The straining mass of logs, insecurely fastened together, rolled and then pitched loose again, but the short delay had been fatal to the steering apparatus.

Joe would have found keen enjoyment in the situation, had it not been for his horse, Lance. The thoroughbred was difficult to hold. As Bill was making strenuous efforts to get in a lucky stroke of the oar, he failed to see a long length of grapevine floating like a brown snake on the water below. In the excitement they heeded not the barking of Mose. Nor did they see the grapevine straighten and become taut just as they drifted upon it; but they felt the raft strike and hold on some submerged object. It creaked and groaned and the foamy water surged, gurgling, between the logs.

Jim’s mare snorted with terror, and rearing high, pulled her halter loose and plunged into the river. But Jim still held her, at risk of being drawn overboard.

“Let go! She’ll drag you in!” yelled Joe, grasping him with his free hand. Lance trembled violently and strained at the rope, which his master held with a strong grip.

“Crack!”

The stinging report of a rifle rang out above the splashing of the water.

Without a cry, Bill’s grasp on the oar loosened; he fell over it limply, his head striking the almost submerged log. A dark-red fluid colored the water; then his body slipped over the oar and into the river, where it sank.

“My God! Shot!” cried Jim, in horrified tones.

He saw a puff of white smoke rising above the willows. Then the branches parted, revealing the dark forms of several Indian warriors. From the rifle in the foremost savage’s hand a slight veil of smoke rose. With the leap of a panther the redskin sprang from the strip of sand to the raft.

“Hold, Jim! Drop that axe! We’re caught!” cried Joe.

“It’s that Indian from the fort!” gasped Jim.

The stalwart warrior was indeed Silvertip. But how changed! Stripped of the blanket he had worn at the settlement, now standing naked but for his buckskin breechcloth, with his perfectly proportioned form disclosed in all its sinewy beauty, and on his swarthy, evil face an expression of savage scorn, he surely looked a warrior and a chief.

He drew his tomahawk and flashed a dark glance at Joe. For a moment he steadily regarded the young man; but if he expected to see fear in the latter’s face he was mistaken, for the look was returned coolly.

“Paleface steal shirt,” he said in his deep voice. “Fool paleface play—Silvertip no forget.”