At daylight Jonathan Zane rolled from his snug bed of leaves under the
side of a log, and with the flint, steel and punk he always carried,
began building a fire. His actions were far from being hurried. They
were deliberate, and seemed strange on the part of a man whose stern
face suggested some dark business to be done. When his little fire had
been made, he warmed some slices of venison which had already been
cooked, and thus satisfied his hunger. Carefully extinguishing the
fire and looking to the priming of his rifle, he was ready for
the trail.
He stood near the edge of the cliff from which he could command a view
of the glen. The black, smoldering ruins of the burned cabins defaced
a picturesque scene.
"Brandt must have lit out last night, for I could have seen even a
rabbit hidin' in that laurel patch. He's gone, an' it's what I
wanted," thought the borderman.
He made his way slowly around the edge of the inclosure and clambered
down on the splintered cliff at the end of the gorge. A wide,
well-trodden trail extended into the forest below. Jonathan gave
scarcely a glance to the beaten path before him; but bent keen eyes to
the north, and carefully scrutinized the mossy stones along the brook.
Upon a little sand bar running out from the bank he found the light
imprint of a hand.
"It was a black night. He'd have to travel by the stars, an' north's
the only safe direction for him," muttered the borderman.
On the bank above he found oblong indentations in the grass, barely
perceptible, but owing to the peculiar position of the blades of
grass, easy for him to follow.
"He'd better have learned to walk light as an Injun before he took to
outlawin'," said the borderman in disdain. Then he returned to the
gorge and entered the inclosure. At the foot of the little rise of
ground where Wetzel had leaped upon his quarry, was one of the dead
Indians. Another lay partly submerged in the brown water.
Jonathan carried the weapons of the savages to a dry place under a
projecting ledge in the cliff. Passing on down the glen, he stopped a
moment where the cabins had stood. Not a log remained. The horses,
with the exception of two, were tethered in the copse of laurel. He
recognized Colonel Zane's thoroughbred, and Betty's pony. He cut them
loose, positive they would not stray from the glen, and might easily
be secured at another time.
He set out upon the trail of Brandt with a long, swinging stride. To
him the outcome of that pursuit was but a question of time. The
consciousness of superior endurance, speed, and craft, spoke in his
every movement. The consciousness of being in right, a factor so
powerfully potent for victory, spoke in the intrepid front with which
he faced the north.
It was a gloomy November day. Gray, steely clouds drifted overhead.
The wind wailed through the bare trees, sending dead leaves scurrying
and rustling over the brown earth.
The borderman advanced with a step that covered glade and glen, forest
and field, with astonishing swiftness. Long since he had seen that
Brandt was holding to the lowland. This did not strike him as singular
until for the third time he found the trail lead a short distance up
the side of a ridge, then descend, seeking a level. With this
discovery came the certainty that Brandt's pace was lessening. He had
set out with a hunter's stride, but it had begun to shorten. The
outlaw had shirked the hills, and shifted from his northern course.
Why? The man was weakening; he could not climb; he was favoring
a wound.
What seemed more serious for the outlaw, was the fact that he had left
a good trail, and entered the low, wild land north of the Ohio. Even
the Indians seldom penetrated this tangled belt of laurel and thorn.
Owing to the dry season the swamps were shallow, which was another
factor against Brandt. No doubt he had hoped to hide his trail by
wading, and here it showed up like the track of a bison.
Jonathan kept steadily on, knowing the farther Brandt penetrated into
this wilderness the worse off he would be. The outlaw dared not take
to the river until below Fort Henry, which was distant many a weary
mile. The trail grew more ragged as the afternoon wore away. When
twilight rendered further tracking impossible, the borderman built a
fire in a sheltered place, ate his supper, and went to sleep.
In the dim, gray morning light he awoke, fancying he had been startled
by a distant rifle shot. He roasted his strips of venison carefully,
and ate with a hungry hunter's appreciation, yet sparingly, as
befitted a borderman who knew how to keep up his strength upon a
long trail.
Hardly had he traveled a mile when Brandt's footprints covered
another's. Nothing surprised the borderman; but he had expected this
least of all. A hasty examination convinced him that Legget and his
Indian ally had fled this way with Wetzel in pursuit.
The morning passed slowly. The borderman kept to the trail like a
hound. The afternoon wore on. Over sandy reaches thick with willows,
and through long, matted, dried-out cranberry marshes and copses of
prickly thorn, the borderman hung to his purpose. His legs seemed
never to lose their spring, but his chest began to heave, his head
bent, and his face shone with sweat.
At dusk he tired. Crawling into a dry thicket, he ate his scanty meal
and fell asleep. When he awoke it was gray daylight. He was wet and
chilled. Again he kindled a fire, and sat over it while cooking
breakfast.
Suddenly he was brought to his feet by the sound of a rifle shot; then
two others followed in rapid succession. Though they were faint, and
far away to the west, Jonathan recognized the first, which could have
come only from Wetzel's weapon, and he felt reasonably certain of the
third, which was Brandt's. There might have been, he reflected grimly,
a good reason for Legget's not shooting. However, he knew that Wetzel
had rounded up the fugitives, and again he set out.
It was another dismal day, such a one as would be fitting for a dark
deed of border justice. A cold, drizzly rain blew from the northwest.
Jonathan wrapped a piece of oil-skin around his rifle-breech, and
faced the downfall. Soon he was wet to the skin. He kept on, but his
free stride had shortened. Even upon his iron muscles this soggy,
sticky ground had begun to tell.
The morning passed but the storm did not; the air grew colder and
darker. The short afternoon would afford him little time, especially
as the rain and running rills of water were obliterating the trail.
In the midst of a dense forest of great cottonwoods and sycamores he
came upon a little pond, hidden among the bushes, and shrouded in a
windy, wet gloom. Jonathan recognized the place. He had been there in
winter hunting bears when all the swampland was locked by ice.
The borderman searched along the banks for a time, then went back to
the trail, patiently following it. Around the pond it led to the side
of a great, shelving rock. He saw an Indian leaning against this, and
was about to throw forward his rifle when the strange, fixed, position
of the savage told of the tragedy. A wound extended from his shoulder
to his waist. Near by on the ground lay Legget. He, too, was dead. His
gigantic frame weltered in blood. His big feet were wide apart; his
arms spread, and from the middle of his chest protruded the haft of
a knife.
The level space surrounding the bodies showed evidence of a desperate
struggle. A bush had been rolled upon and crushed by heavy bodies. On
the ground was blood as on the stones and leaves. The blade Legget
still clutched was red, and the wrist of the hand which held it showed
a dark, discolored band, where it had felt the relentless grasp of
Wetzel's steel grip. The dead man's buckskin coat was cut into
ribbons. On his broad face a demoniacal expression had set in eternal
rigidity; the animal terror of death was frozen in his wide staring
eyes. The outlaw chief had died as he had lived, desperately.
Jonathan found Wetzel's trail leading directly toward the river, and
soon understood that the borderman was on the track of Brandt. The
borderman had surprised the worn, starved, sleepy fugitives in the
gray, misty dawn. The Indian, doubtless, was the sentinel, and had
fallen asleep at his post never to awaken. Legget and Brandt must have
discharged their weapons ineffectually. Zane could not understand why
his comrade had missed Brandt at a few rods' distance. Perhaps he had
wounded the younger outlaw; but certainly he had escaped while Wetzel
had closed in on Legget to meet the hardest battle of his career.
While going over his version of the attack, Jonathan followed Brandt's
trail, as had Wetzel, to where it ended in the river. The old
borderman had continued on down stream along the sandy shore. The
outlaw remained in the water to hide his trail.
At one point Wetzel turned north. This move puzzled Jonathan, as did
also the peculiar tracks. It was more perplexing because not far below
Zane discovered where the fugitive had left the water to get around a
ledge of rock.
The trail was approaching Fort Henry. Jonathan kept on down the river
until arriving at the head of the island which lay opposite the
settlement. Still no traces of Wetzel! Here Zane lost Brandt's trail
completely. He waded the first channel, which was shallow and narrow,
and hurried across the island. Walking out upon a sand-bar he signaled
with his well-known Indian cry. Almost immediately came an
answering shout.
While waiting he glanced at the sand, and there, pointing straight
toward the fort, he found Brandt's straggling trail!