Betty Zane, Zane Grey [top 10 books to read txt] 📗

find you,” said Alfred, detaining her. “Since you have been so kind I have grown bolder. May I come over to see you tomorrow?”

He looked straight down into the dark eyes which wavered and fell before he had completed his question.

“There is Isaac. He cannot see me here. I must go.”

“But not before telling me. What is the good of your forgiving me if I may not see you. Please say yes.”

“You may come,” answered Betty, half amused and half provoked at his persistence. “I should think you would know that such permission invariably goes with a young woman’s forgiveness.”

“Hello, here you are. What a time I have had in finding you,” said Isaac, coming up with flushed face and eyes bright with excitement. “Alfred, what do you mean by hiding the belle of the dance away like this? I want to dance with you, Betts. I am having a fine time. I have not danced anything but Indian dances for ages. Sorry to take her away, Alfred. I can see she doesn’t want to go. Ha! Ha!” and with a mischievous look at both of them he led Betty away.

Alfred kept his seat awhile lost in thought. Suddenly he remembered that it would look strange if he did not make himself agreeable, so he got up and found a partner. He danced with Alice, Lydia, and the other young ladies. After an hour he slipped away to his room. He wished to be alone. He wanted to think; to decide whether it would be best for him to stay at the fort, or ride away in the darkness and never return. With the friendly touch of Betty’s hand the madness with which he had been battling for weeks rushed over him stronger than ever. The thrill of that soft little palm remained with him, and he pressed the hand it had touched to his lips.

For a long hour he sat by his window. He could dimly see the broad winding river, with its curtain of pale gray mist, and beyond, the dark outline of the forest. A cool breeze from the water fanned his heated brow, and the quiet and solitude soothed him.

IV

“Good morning, Harry. Where are you going so early?” called Betty from the doorway.

A lad was passing down the path in front of Colonel Zane’s house as Betty hailed him. He carried a rifle almost as long as himself.

“Mornin’, Betty. I am goin’ ’cross the crick fer that turkey I hear gobblin’,” he answered, stopping at the gate and smiling brightly at Betty.

“Hello, Harry Bennet. Going after that turkey? I have heard him several mornings and he must be a big, healthy gobbler,” said Colonel Zane, stepping to the door. “You are going to have company. Here comes Wetzel.”

“Good morning, Lew. Are you too off on a turkey hunt?” said Betty.

“Listen,” said the hunter, as he stopped and leaned against the gate. They listened. All was quiet save for the tinkle of a cowbell in the pasture adjoining the Colonel’s barn. Presently the silence was broken by a long, shrill, peculiar cry.

“Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug-chug.”

“Well, it’s a turkey, all right, and I’ll bet a big gobbler,” remarked Colonel Zane, as the cry ceased.

“Has Jonathan heard it?” asked Wetzel.

“Not that I know of. Why do you ask?” said the Colonel, in a low tone. “Look here, Lew, is that not a genuine call?”

“Goodbye, Harry, be sure and bring me a turkey,” called Betty, as she disappeared.

“I calkilate it’s a red turkey,” answered the hunter, and motioning the lad to stay behind, he shouldered his rifle and passed swiftly down the path.

Of all the Wetzel family⁠—a family noted from one end of the frontier to the other⁠—Lewis was the most famous. The early history of West Virginia and Ohio is replete with the daring deeds of this wilderness roamer, this lone hunter and insatiable Nemesis, justly called the greatest Indian slayer known to men.

When Lewis was about twenty years old, and his brothers John and Martin little older, they left their Virginia home for a protracted hunt. On their return they found the smoking ruins of the home, the mangled remains of father and mother, the naked and violated bodies of their sisters, and the scalped and bleeding corpse of a baby brother.

Lewis Wetzel swore sleepless and eternal vengeance on the whole Indian race. Terribly did he carry out that resolution. From that time forward he lived most of the time in the woods, and an Indian who crossed his trail was a doomed man. The various Indian tribes gave him different names. The Shawnees called him “Long Knife;” the Hurons, “Destroyer;” the Delawares, “Death Wind,” and any one of these names would chill the heart of the stoutest warrior.

To most of the famed pioneer hunters of the border, Indian fighting was only a side issue⁠—generally a necessary one⁠—but with Wetzel it was the business of his life. He lived solely to kill Indians. He plunged recklessly into the strife, and was never content unless roaming the wilderness solitudes, trailing the savages to their very homes and ambushing the village bridlepath like a panther waiting for his prey. Often in the gray of the morning the Indians, sleeping around their campfire, were awakened by a horrible, screeching yell. They started up in terror only to fall victims to the tomahawk of their merciless foe, or to hear a rifle shot and get a glimpse of a form with flying black hair disappearing with wonderful quickness in the forest. Wetzel always left death behind him, and he was gone before his demoniac yell ceased to echo throughout the woods. Although often pursued, he invariably eluded the Indians, for he was the fleetest runner on the border.

For many years he was considered the right hand of the defense of the fort. The Indians held him in superstitious dread, and the fact that he was known to be in the settlement had averted more than one attack