A year rolled round; once again Indian summer veiled the golden fields
and forests in a soft, smoky haze. Once more from the opal-blue sky of
autumn nights, shone the great white stars, and nature seemed wrapped
in a melancholy hush.
November the third was the anniversary of a memorable event on the
frontier--the marriage of the younger borderman.
Colonel Zane gave it the name of "Independence Day," and arranged a
holiday, a feast and dance where all the settlement might meet in
joyful thankfulness for the first year of freedom on the border.
With the wiping out of Legget's fierce band, the yoke of the renegades
and outlaws was thrown off forever. Simon Girty migrated to Canada and
lived with a few Indians who remained true to him. His confederates
slowly sank into oblivion. The Shawnee tribe sullenly retreated
westward, far into the interior of Ohio; the Delawares buried the war
hatchet, and smoked the pipe of peace they had ever before refused.
For them the dark, mysterious, fatal wind had ceased to moan along the
trails, or sigh through tree-tops over lonely Indian camp-fires.
The beautiful Ohio valley had been wrested from the savages and from
those parasites who for years had hung around the necks of the
red men.
This day was the happiest of Colonel Zane's life. The task he had set
himself, and which he had hardly ever hoped to see completed, was
ended. The West had been won. What Boone achieved in Kentucky he had
accomplished in Ohio and West Virginia.
The feast was spread on the colonel's lawn. Every man, woman and child
in the settlement was there. Isaac Zane, with his Indian wife and
child, had come from the far-off Huron town. Pioneers from Yellow
Creek and eastward to Fort Pitt attended. The spirit of the occasion
manifested itself in such joyousness as had never before been
experienced in Fort Henry. The great feast was equal to the event.
Choice cuts of beef and venison, savory viands, wonderful loaves of
bread and great plump pies, sweet cider and old wine, delighted the
merry party.
"Friends, neighbors, dear ones," said Colonel Zane, "my heart is
almost too full for speech. This occasion, commemorating the day of
our freedom on the border, is the beginning of the reward for stern
labor, hardship, silenced hearths of long, relentless years. I did not
think I'd live to see it. The seed we have sown has taken root; in
years to come, perhaps, a great people will grow up on these farms we
call our homes. And as we hope those coming afterward will remember
us, we should stop a moment to think of the heroes who have gone
before. Many there are whose names will never be written on the roll
of fame, whose graves will be unmarked in history. But we who worked,
fought, bled beside them, who saw them die for those they left behind,
will render them all justice, honor and love. To them we give the
victory. They were true; then let us, who begin to enjoy the freedom,
happiness and prosperity they won with their lives, likewise be true
in memory of them, in deed to ourselves, and in grace to God."
By no means the least of the pleasant features of this pleasant day
was the fact that three couples blushingly presented themselves before
the colonel, and confided to him their sudden conclusions in regard
to the felicitousness of the moment. The happy colonel raced around
until he discovered Jim Douns, the minister, and there amid the merry
throng he gave the brides away, being the first to kiss them.
It was late in the afternoon when the villagers dispersed to their
homes and left the colonel to his own circle. With his strong, dark
face beaming, he mounted the old porch step.
"Where are my Zane babies?" he asked. "Ah! here you are! Did anybody
ever see anything to beat that? Four wonderful babies! Mother, here's
your Daniel--if you'd only named him Eb! Silas, come for Silas junior,
bad boy that he is. Isaac, take your Indian princess; ah! little
Myeerah with the dusky face. Woe be to him who looks into those eyes
when you come to age. Jack, here's little Jonathan, the last of the
bordermen; he, too, has beautiful eyes, big like his mother's. Ah!
well, I don't believe I have left a wish, unless----"
"Unless?" suggested Betty with her sweet smile.
"It might be----" he said and looked at her.
Betty's warm cheek was close to his as she whispered: "Dear Eb!" The
rest only the colonel heard.
"Well! By all that's glorious!" he exclaimed, and attempted to seize
her; but with burning face Betty fled.
* * * * *
"Jack, dear, how the leaves are falling!" exclaimed Helen. "See them
floating and whirling. It reminds me of the day I lay a prisoner in
the forest glade praying, waiting for you."
The borderman was silent.
They passed down the sandy lane under the colored maple trees, to a
new cottage on the hillside.
"I am perfectly happy to-day," continued Helen. "Everybody seems to be
content, except you. For the first time in weeks I see that shade on
your face, that look in your eyes. Jack, you do not regret the
new life?"
"My love, no, a thousand times no," he answered, smiling down into her
eyes. They were changing, shadowing with thought; bright as in other
days, and with an added beauty. The wilful spirit had been softened
by love.
"Ah, I know, you miss the old friend."
The yellow thicket on the slope opened to let out a tall, dark man who
came down with lithe and springy stride.
"Jack, it's Wetzel!" said Helen softly.
No words were spoken as the comrades gripped hands.
"Let me see the boy?" asked Wetzel, turning to Helen.
Little Jonathan blinked up at the grave borderman with great round
eyes, and pulled with friendly, chubby fingers at the fringed
buckskin coat.
"When you're a man the forest trails will be corn fields," muttered
Wetzel.
The bordermen strolled together up the brown hillside, and wandered
along the river bluff. The air was cool; in the west the ruddy light
darkened behind bold hills; a blue mist streaming in the valley shaded
into gray as twilight fell.