"So you want to know all about Wetzel?" inquired Colonel Zane of
Joe, when, having left Jim and Mr. Wells, they returned to the
cabin.
"I am immensely interested in him," replied Joe.
"Well, I don't think there's anything singular in that. I know Wetzel
better, perhaps, than any man living; but have seldom talked about
him. He doesn't like it. He is by birth a Virginian; I should say,
forty years old. We were boys together, and I am a little beyond that
age. He was like any of the lads, except that he excelled us all in
strength and agility. When he was nearly eighteen years old a band
if Indians--Delawares, I think--crossed the border on a marauding
expedition far into Virginia. They burned the old Wetzel homestead
and murdered the father, mother, two sisters, and a baby brother. The
terrible shock nearly killed Lewis, who for a time was very ill. When
he recovered he went in search of his brothers, Martin and John Wetzel,
who were hunting, and brought them back to their desolated home. Over
the ashes of the home and the graves of the loved ones the brothers
swore sleepless and eternal vengeance. The elder brothers have been
devoted all these twenty years and more to the killing of Indians; but
Lewis has been the great foe of the redman. You have already seen an
example of his deeds, and will hear of more. His name is a household
word on the border. Scores of times he has saved, actually saved, this
fort and settlement. His knowledge of savage ways surpasses by far
Boone's, Major McColloch's, Jonathan's, or any of the hunters'."
"Then hunting Indians is his sole occupation?"
"He lives for that purpose alone. He is very seldom in the
settlement. Sometimes he stays here a few days, especially if he is
needed; but usually he roams the forests."
"What did Jeff Lynn mean when he said that some people think Wetzel
is crazy?"
"There are many who think the man mad; but I do not. When the
passion for Indian hunting comes upon him he is fierce, almost
frenzied, yet perfectly sane. While here he is quiet, seldom speaks
except when spoken to, and is taciturn with strangers. He often
comes to my cabin and sits beside the fire for hours. I think he
finds pleasure in the conversation and laughter of friends. He is
fond of the children, and would do anything for my sister Betty."
"His life must be lonely and sad," remarked Joe.
"The life of any borderman is that; but Wetzel's is particularly
so."
"What is he called by the Indians?"
"They call him Atelang, or, in English, Deathwind."
"By George! That's what Silvertip said in French--'Le Vent de la
Mort.'"
"Yes; you have it right. A French fur trader gave Wetzel that name
years ago, and it has clung to him. The Indians say the Deathwind
blows through the forest whenever Wetzel stalks on their trail."
"Colonel Zane, don't you think me superstitious," whispered Joe,
leaning toward the colonel, "but I heard that wind blow through the
forest."
"What!" ejaculated Colonel Zane. He saw that Joe was in earnest, for
the remembrance of the moan had more than once paled his cheek and
caused beads of perspiration to collect on his brow.
Joe related the circumstances of that night, and at the end of his
narrative Colonel Zane sat silent and thoughtful.
"You don't really think it was Wetzel who moaned?" he asked, at
length.
"No, I don't," replied Joe quickly; "but, Colonel Zane, I heard that
moan as plainly as I can hear your voice. I heard it twice. Now,
what was it?"
"Jonathan said the same thing to me once. He had been out hunting
with Wetzel; they separated, and during the night Jonathan heard the
wind. The next day he ran across a dead Indian. He believes Wetzel
makes the noise, and so do the hunters; but I think it is simply the
moan of the night wind through the trees. I have heard it at times,
when my very blood seemingly ran cold."
"I tried to think it was the wind soughing through the pines, but am
afraid I didn't succeed very well. Anyhow, I knew Wetzel instantly,
just as Jeff Lynn said I would. He killed those Indians in an
instant, and he must have an iron arm."
"Wetzel excels in strength and speed any man, red or white, on the
frontier. He can run away from Jonathan, who is as swift as an
Indian. He's stronger than any of the other men. I remember one day
old Hugh Bennet's wagon wheels stuck in a bog down by the creek.
Hugh tried, as several others did, to move the wheels; but they
couldn't be made to budge. Along came Wetzel, pushed away the men,
and lifted the wagon unaided. It would take hours to tell you about
him. In brief, among all the border scouts and hunters Wetzel stands
alone. No wonder the Indians fear him. He is as swift as an eagle,
strong as mountain-ash, keen as a fox, and absolutely tireless and
implacable."
"How long have you been here, Colonel Zane?"
"More than twelve years, and it has been one long fight."
"I'm afraid I'm too late for the fun," said Joe, with his quiet
laugh.
"Not by about twelve more years," answered Colonel Zane, studying
the expression on Joe's face. "When I came out here years ago I had
the same adventurous spirit which I see in you. It has been
considerably quelled, however. I have seen many a daring young
fellow get the border fever, and with it his death. Let me advise
you to learn the ways of the hunters; to watch some one skilled in
woodcraft. Perhaps Wetzel himself will take you in hand. I don't
mind saying that he spoke of you to me in a tone I never heard Lew
use before."
"He did?" questioned Joe, eagerly, flushing with pleasure. "Do you
think he'd take me out? Dare I ask him?"
"Don't be impatient. Perhaps I can arrange it. Come over here now to
Metzar's place. I want to make you acquainted with him. These boys
have all been cutting timber; they've just come in for dinner. Be
easy and quiet with them; then you'll get on."
Colonel Zane introduced Joe to five sturdy boys and left him in
their company. Joe sat down on a log outside a cabin and leisurely
surveyed the young men. They all looked about the same: strong
without being heavy, light-haired and bronze-faced. In their turn
they carefully judged Joe. A newcomer from the East was always
regarded with some doubt. If they expected to hear Joe talk much
they were mistaken. He appeared good-natured, but not too friendly.
"Fine weather we're havin'," said Dick Metzar.
"Fine," 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 enmity.
"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 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.