The chilling rains of November and December's flurry of snow had
passed and mid-winter with its icy blasts had set in. The Black
Forest had changed autumn's gay crimson and yellow to the somber hue
of winter and now looked indescribably dreary. An ice gorge had
formed in the bend of the river at the head of the island and from
bank to bank logs, driftwood, broken ice and giant floes were packed
and jammed so tightly as to resist the action of the mighty current.
This natural bridge would remain solid until spring had loosened the
frozen grip of old winter. The hills surrounding Fort Henry were
white with snow. The huge drifts were on a level with Col. Zane's
fence and in some places the top rail had disappeared. The pine
trees in the yard were weighted down and drooped helplessly with
their white burden.
On this frosty January morning the only signs of life round the
settlement were a man and a dog walking up Wheeling hill. The man
carried a rifle, an axe, and several steel traps. His snow-shoes
sank into the drifts as he labored up the steep hill. All at once he
stopped. The big black dog had put his nose high in the air and had
sniffed at the cold wind.
"Well, Tige, old fellow, what is it?" said Jonathan Zane, for this
was he.
The dog answered with a low whine. Jonathan looked up and down the
creek valley and along the hillside, but he saw no living thing.
Snow, snow everywhere, its white monotony relieved here and there by
a black tree trunk. Tige sniffed again and then growled. Turning his
ear to the breeze Jonathan heard faint yelps from far over the
hilltop. He dropped his axe and the traps and ran the remaining
short distance up the hill. When he reached the summit the clear
baying of hunting wolves was borne to his ears.
The hill sloped gradually on the other side, ending in a white,
unbroken plain which extended to the edge of the laurel thicket a
quarter of a mile distant. Jonathan could not see the wolves, but he
heard distinctly their peculiar, broken howls. They were in pursuit
of something, whether quadruped or man he could not decide. Another
moment and he was no longer in doubt, for a deer dashed out of the
thicket. Jonathan saw that it was a buck and that he was well nigh
exhausted; his head swung low from side to side; he sank slowly to
his knees, and showed every indication of distress.
The next instant the baying of the wolves, which had ceased for a
moment, sounded close at hand. The buck staggered to his feet; he
turned this way and that. When he saw the man and the dog he started
toward them without a moment's hesitation.
At a warning word from Jonathan the dog sank on the snow. Jonathan
stepped behind a tree, which, however, was not large enough to
screen his body. He thought the buck would pass close by him and he
determined to shoot at the most favorable moment.
The buck, however, showed no intention of passing by; in his abject
terror he saw in the man and the dog foes less terrible than those
which were yelping on his trail. He came on in a lame uneven trot,
making straight for the tree. When he reached the tree he crouched,
or rather fell, on the ground within a yard of Jonathan and his dog.
He quivered and twitched; his nostrils flared; at every pant drops
of blood flecked the snow; his great dark eyes had a strained and
awful look, almost human in its agony.
Another yelp from the thicket and Jonathan looked up in time to see
five timber wolves, gaunt, hungry looking beasts, burst from the
bushes. With their noses close to the snow they followed the trail.
When they came to the spot where the deer had fallen a chorus of
angry, thirsty howls filled the air.
"Well, if this doesn't beat me! I thought I knew a little about
deer," said Jonathan. "Tige, we will save this buck from those gray
devils if it costs a leg. Steady now, old fellow, wait."
When the wolves were within fifty yards of the tree and coming
swiftly Jonathan threw his rifle forward and yelled with all the
power of his strong lungs:
"Hi! Hi! Hi! Take 'em, Tige!"
In trying to stop quickly on the slippery snowcrust the wolves fell
all over themselves. One dropped dead and another fell wounded at
the report of Jonathan's rifle. The others turned tail and loped
swiftly off into the thicket. Tige made short work of the wounded
one.
"Old White Tail, if you were the last buck in the valley, I would
not harm you," said Jonathan, looking at the panting deer. "You need
have no farther fear of that pack of cowards."
So saying Jonathan called to Tige and wended his way down the hill
toward the settlement.
An hour afterward he was sitting in Col. Zane's comfortable cabin,
where all was warmth and cheerfulness. Blazing hickory logs roared
and crackled in the stone fireplace.
"Hello, Jack, where did you come from?" said Col. Zane, who had just
come in. "Haven't seen you since we were snowed up. Come over to see
about the horses? If I were you I would not undertake that trip to
Fort Pitt until the weather breaks. You could go in the sled, of
course, but if you care anything for my advice you will stay home.
This weather will hold on for some time. Let Lord Dunmore wait."
"I guess we are in for some stiff weather."
"Haven't a doubt of it. I told Bessie last fall we might expect a
hard winter. Everything indicated it. Look at the thick corn-husks.
The hulls of the nuts from the shell-bark here in the yard were
larger and tougher than I ever saw them. Last October Tige killed a
raccoon that had the wooliest kind of a fur. I could have given you
a dozen signs of a hard winter. We shall still have a month or six
weeks of it. In a week will be ground-hog day and you had better
wait and decide after that."
"I tell you, Eb, I get tired chopping wood and hanging round the
house."
"Aha! another moody spell," said Col. Zane, glancing kindly at his
brother. "Jack, if you were married you would outgrow those
'blue-devils.' I used to have them. It runs in the family to be
moody. I have known our father to take his gun and go into the woods
and stay there until he had fought out the spell. I have done that
myself, but once I married Bessie I have had no return of the old
feeling. Get married, Jack, and then you will settle down and work.
You will not have time to roam around alone in the woods."
"I prefer the spells, as you call them, any day," answered Jonathan,
with a short laugh. "A man with my disposition has no right to get
married. This weather is trying, for it keeps me indoors. I cannot
hunt because we do not need the meat. And even if I did want to hunt
I should not have to go out of sight of the fort. There were three
deer in front of the barn this morning. They were nearly starved.
They ran off a little at sight of me, but in a few moments came back
for the hay I pitched out of the loft. This afternoon Tige and I
saved a big buck from a pack of wolves. The buck came right up to
me. I could have touched him. This storm is sending the deer down
from the hills."
"You are right. It is too bad. Severe weather like this will kill
more deer than an army could. Have you been doing anything with your
traps?"
"Yes, I have thirty traps out."
"If you are going, tell Sam to fetch down another load of fodder
before he unhitches."
"Eb, I have no patience with your brothers," said Col. Zane's wife
to him after he had closed the door. "They are all alike; forever
wanting to be on the go. If it isn't Indians it is something else.
The very idea of going up the river in this weather. If Jonathan
doesn't care for himself he should think of the horses."
"My dear, I was just as wild and discontented as Jack before I met
you," remarked Col. Zane. "You may not think so, but a home and
pretty little woman will do wonders for any man. My brothers have
nothing to keep them steady."
"Perhaps. I do not believe that Jonathan ever will get married.
Silas may; he certainly has been keeping company long enough with
Mary Bennet. You are the only Zane who has conquered that
adventurous spirit and the desire to be always roaming the woods in
search of something to kill. Your old boy, Noah, is growing up like
all the Zanes. He fights with all the children in the settlement. I
cannot break him of it. He is not a bully, for I have never known
him to do anything mean or cruel. It is just sheer love of
fighting."
"Ha! Ha! I fear you will not break him of that," answered Col. Zane.
"It is a good joke to say he gets it all from the Zanes. How about
the McCollochs? What have you to say of your father and the Major
and John McColloch? They are not anything if not the fighting kind.
It's the best trait the youngster could have, out here on the
border. He'll need it all. Don't worry about him. Where is Betty?"
"I told her to take the children out for a sled ride. Betty needs
exercise. She stays indoors too much, and of late she looks pale."
"What! Betty not looking well! She was never ill in her life. I have
noticed no change in her."
"No, I daresay you have not. You men can't see anything. But I can,
and I tell you, Betty is very different from the girl she used to
be. Most of the time she sits and gazes out of her window. She used
to be so bright, and when she was not romping with the children she
busied herself with her needle. Yesterday as I entered her room she
hurriedly picked up a book, and, I think, intentionally hid her face
behind it. I saw she had been crying."
"Come to think of it, I believe I have missed Betty," said Col.
Zane, gravely. "She seems more quiet. Is she unhappy? When did you
first see this change?"
"I think it a little while after Mr. Clarke left here last fall."
"Clarke! What has he to do with Betty? What are you driving at?"
exclaimed the Colonel, stopping in front of his wife. His faced had
paled slightly. "I had forgotten Clarke. Bess, you can't mean--"
"Now, Eb, do not get that look on your face. You always frighten
me," answered his wife, as she quietly placed her hand on his arm.
"I do not mean anything much, certainly nothing against Mr. Clarke.
He was a true gentleman. I really liked him."
"So did I," interrupted the Colonel.
"I believe Betty cared for Mr. Clarke. She was always different with
him. He has gone away and has forgotten her. That is strange to us,
because we cannot imagine any one indifferent to our beautiful
Betty. Nevertheless, no matter how attractive a woman may be men
sometimes love and ride away. I hear the children coming now. Do not
let Betty see that we have been talking about her. She is as quick
as a steel trap."
A peal of childish laughter came from without. The door opened and
Betty ran in, followed by the sturdy, rosy-checked youngsters. All
three were white with snow.
"We have had great fun," said Betty. "We went over the bank once and
tumbled off the sled into the snow. Then we had a snow-balling
contest, and the boys compelled me to strike my colors and fly for
the house."
Col. Zane looked closely at his sister. Her cheeks were flowing with
health; her eyes were sparkling with pleasure. Failing to observe
any indication of the change in Betty which his wife had spoken, he
concluded that women were better qualified to judge their own sex
than were men. He had to confess to himself that the only change he
could see in his sister was that she grew prettier every day of her
life.
"Oh, papa. I hit Sam right in the head with a big snow-ball, and I
made Betty run into the house, and I slid down to all by myself. Sam
was afraid," said Noah to his father.
"Noah, if Sammy saw the danger in sliding down the hill he was
braver than you. Now both of you run to Annie and have these wet
things taken off."
"I must go get on dry clothes myself," said Betty. "I am nearly
frozen. It is growing colder. I saw Jack come in. Is he going to
Fort Pitt?"
"No. He has decided to wait until good weather. I met Mr. Miller
over at the garrison this afternoon and he wants you to go on the
sled-ride to-night. There is to be a dance down at Watkins' place.
All the young people are going. It is a long ride, but I guess it
will be perfectly safe. Silas and Wetzel are going. Dress yourself
warmly and go with them. You have never seen old Grandma Watkins."
"I shall be pleased to go," said Betty.
Betty's room was very cozy, considering that it was in a pioneer's
cabin. It had two windows, the larger of which opened on the side
toward the river. The walls had been smoothly plastered and covered
with white birch-bark. They were adorned with a few pictures and
Indian ornaments. A bright homespun carpet covered the floor. A
small bookcase stood in the corner. The other furniture consisted of
two chairs, a small table, a bureau with a mirror, and a large
wardrobe. It was in this last that Betty kept the gowns which she
had brought from Philadelphia, and which were the wonder of all the
girls in the village.
"I wonder why Eb looked so closely at me," mused Betty, as she
slipped on her little moccasins. "Usually he is not anxious to have
me go so far from the fort; and now he seemed to think I would enjoy
this dance to-night. I wonder what Bessie has been telling him."
Betty threw some wood on the smouldering fire in the little stone
grate and sat down to think. Like every one who has a humiliating
secret, Betty was eternally suspicious and feared the very walls
would guess it. Swift as light came the thought that her brother and
his wife had suspected her secret and had been talking about her,
perhaps pitying her. With this thought came the fear that if she had
betrayed herself to the Colonel's wife she might have done so to
others. The consciousness that this might well be true and that even
now the girls might be talking and laughing at her caused her
exceeding shame and bitterness.
Many weeks had passed since that last night that Betty and Alfred
Clarke had been together.
In due time Col. Zane's men returned and Betty learned from Jonathan
that Alfred had left them at Ft. Pitt, saying he was going south to
his old home. At first she had expected some word from Alfred, a
letter, or if not that, surely an apology for his conduct on that
last evening they had been together. But Jonathan brought her no
word, and after hoping against hope and wearing away the long days
looking for a letter that never came, she ceased to hope and plunged
into despair.
The last few months had changed her life; changed it as only
constant thinking, and suffering that must be hidden from the world,
can change the life of a young girl. She had been so intent on her
own thoughts, so deep in her dreams that she had taken no heed of
other people. She did not know that those who loved her were always
thinking of her welfare and would naturally see even a slight change
in her. With a sudden shock of surprise and pain she realized that
to-day for the first time in a month she had played with the boys.
Sammy had asked her why she did not laugh any more. Now she
understood the mad antics of Tige that morning; Madcap's whinney of
delight; the chattering of the squirrels, and Caesar's pranks in the
snow. She had neglected her pets. She had neglected her work, her
friends, the boys' lessons; and her brother. For what? What would
her girl friends say? That she was pining for a lover who had
forgotten her. They would say that and it would be true. She did
think of him constantly.
With bitter pain she recalled the first days of the acquaintance
which now seemed so long past; how much she had disliked Alfred; how
angry she had been with him and how contemptuously she had spurned
his first proffer of friendship; how, little by little, her pride
had been subdued; then the struggle with her heart. And, at last,
after he had gone, came the realization that the moments spent with
him had been the sweetest of her life. She thought of him as she
used to see him stand before her; so good to look at; so strong and
masterful, and yet so gentle.
"Oh, I cannot bear it," whispered Betty with a half sob, giving up
to a rush of tender feeling. "I love him. I love him, and I cannot
forget him. Oh, I am so ashamed."
Betty bowed her head on her knees. Her slight form quivered a while
and then grew still. When a half hour later she raised her head her
face was pale and cold. It bore the look of a girl who had suddenly
become a woman; a woman who saw the battle of life before her and
who was ready to fight. Stern resolve gleamed from her flashing
eyes; there was no faltering in those set lips.
Betty was a Zane and the Zanes came of a fighting race. Their blood
had ever been hot and passionate; the blood of men quick to love and
quick to hate. It had flowed in the veins of daring, reckless men
who had fought and died for their country; men who had won their
sweethearts with the sword; men who had had unconquerable spirits.
It was this fighting instinct that now rose in Betty; it gave her
strength and pride to defend her secret; the resolve to fight
against the longing in her heart.
"I will forget him! I will tear him out of my heart!" she exclaimed
passionately. "He never deserved my love. He did not care. I was a
little fool to let him amuse himself with me. He went away and
forgot. I hate him."
At length Betty subdued her excitement, and when she went down to
supper a few minutes later she tried to maintain a cheerful
composure of manner and to chat with her old-time vivacity.
"Bessie, I am sure you have exaggerated things," remarked Col. Zane
after Betty had gone upstairs to dress for the dance. "Perhaps it is
only that Betty grows a little tired of this howling wilderness.
Small wonder if she does. You know she has always been used to
comfort and many young people, places to go and all that. This is
her first winter on the frontier. She'll come round all right."
"Have it your way, Ebenezer," answered his wife with a look of
amused contempt on her face. "I am sure I hope you are right. By the
way, what do you think of this Ralfe Miller? He has been much with
Betty of late."
"I do not know the fellow, Bessie. He seems agreeable. He is a
good-looking young man. Why do you ask?"
"The Major told me that Miller had a bad name at Pitt, and that he
had been a friend of Simon Girty before Girty became a renegade."
"Humph! I'll have to speak to Sam. As for knowing Girty, there is
nothing terrible in that. All the women seem to think that Simon is
the very prince of devils. I have known all the Girtys for years.
Simon was not a bad fellow before he went over to the Indians. It is
his brother James who has committed most of those deeds which have
made the name of Girty so infamous."
"I don't like Miller," continued Mrs. Zane in a hesitating way. "I
must admit that I have no sensible reason for my dislike. He is
pleasant and agreeable, yes, but behind it there is a certain
intensity. That man has something on his mind."
"If he is in love with Betty, as you seem to think, he has enough on
his mind. I'll vouch for that," said Col. Zane. "Betty is inclined
to be a coquette. If she liked Clarke pretty well, it may be a
lesson to her."
"I wish she were married and settled down. It may have been no great
harm for Betty to have had many admirers while in Philadelphia, but
out here on the border it will never do. These men will not have it.
There will be trouble come of Betty's coquettishness."
"Why, Bessie, she is only a child. What would you have her do? Marry
the first man who asked her?"
"The clod-hoppers are coming," said Mrs. Zane as the jingling of
sleigh bells broke the stillness.
Col. Zane sprang up and opened the door. A broad stream of light
flashed from the room and lighted up the road. Three powerful teams
stood before the door. They were hitched to sleds, or clod-hoppers,
which were nothing more than wagon-beds fastened on wooden runners.
A chorus of merry shouts greeted Col. Zane as he appeared in the
doorway.
"All right! all right! Here she is," he cried, as Betty ran down the
steps.
The Colonel bundled her in a buffalo robe in a corner of the
foremost sled. At her feet he placed a buckskin bag containing a hot
stone Mrs. Zane thoughtfully had provided.
"All ready here. Let them go," called the Colonel. "You will have
clear weather. Coming back look well to the traces and keep a watch
for the wolves."
The long whips cracked, the bells jingled, the impatient horses
plunged forward and away they went over the glistening snow. The
night was clear and cold; countless stars blinked in the black vault
overhead; the pale moon cast its wintry light down on a white and
frozen world. As the runners glided swiftly and smoothly onward
showers of dry snow like fine powder flew from under the horses'
hoofs and soon whitened the black-robed figures in the sleds. The
way led down the hill past the Fort, over the creek bridge and along
the road that skirted the Black Forest. The ride was long; it led up
and down hills, and through a lengthy stretch of gloomy forest.
Sometimes the drivers walked the horses up a steep climb and again
raced them along a level bottom. Making a turn in the road they saw
a bright light in the distance which marked their destination. In
five minutes the horses dashed into a wide clearing. An immense log
fire burned in front of a two-story structure. Streams of light
poured from the small windows; the squeaking of fiddles, the
shuffling of many feet, and gay laughter came through the open door.
The steaming horses were unhitched, covered carefully with robes and
led into sheltered places, while the merry party disappeared into
the house.
The occasion was the celebration of the birthday of old Dan Watkins'
daughter. Dan was one of the oldest settlers along the river; in
fact, he had located his farm several years after Col. Zane had
founded the settlement. He was noted for his open-handed dealing and
kindness of heart. He had loaned many a head of cattle which had
never been returned, and many a sack of flour had left his mill
unpaid for in grain. He was a good shot, he would lay a tree on the
ground as quickly as any man who ever swung an axe, and he could
drink more whiskey than any man in the valley.
Dan stood at the door with a smile of welcome upon his rugged
features and a handshake and a pleasant word for everyone. His
daughter Susan greeted the men with a little curtsy and kissed the
girls upon the cheek. Susan was not pretty, though she was strong
and healthy; her laughing blue eyes assured a sunny disposition, and
she numbered her suitors by the score.
The young people lost no time. Soon the floor was covered with their
whirling forms.
In one corner of the room sat a little dried-up old woman with white
hair and bright dark eyes. This was Grandma Watkins. She was very
old, so old that no one knew her age, but she was still vigorous
enough to do her day's work with more pleasure than many a younger
woman. Just now she was talking to Wetzel, who leaned upon his
inseparable rifle and listened to her chatter. The hunter liked the
old lady and would often stop at her cabin while on his way to the
settlement and leave at her door a fat turkey or a haunch of
venison.
"Lew Wetzel, I am ashamed of you." Grandmother Watkins was saying.
"Put that gun in the corner and get out there and dance. Enjoy
yourself. You are only a boy yet."
"I'd better look on, mother," answered the hunter.
"Pshaw! You can hop and skip around like any of then and laugh too
if you want. I hope that pretty sister of Eb Zane has caught your
fancy."
"She is not for the like of me," he said gently "I haven't the
gifts."
"Don't talk about gifts. Not to an old woman who has lived three
times and more your age," she said impatiently. "It is not gifts a
woman wants out here in the West. If she does 'twill do her no good.
She needs a strong arm to build cabins, a quick eye with a rifle,
and a fearless heart. What border-women want are houses and
children. They must bring up men, men to drive the redskins back,
men to till the soil, or else what is the good of our suffering
here."
"You are right," said Wetzel thoughtfully. "But I'd hate to see a
flower like Betty Zane in a rude hunter's cabin."
"I have known the Zanes for forty year' and I never saw one yet that
was afraid of work. And you might win her if you would give up
running mad after Indians. I'll allow no woman would put up with
that. You have killed many Indians. You ought to be satisfied."
"Fightin' redskins is somethin' I can't help," said the hunter,
slowly shaking his head. "If I got married the fever would come on
and I'd leave home. No, I'm no good for a woman. Fightin' is all I'm
good for."
"Why not fight for her, then? Don't let one of these boys walk off
with her. Look at her. She likes fun and admiration. I believe you
do care for her. Why not try to win her?"
"Who is that tall man with her?" continued the old lady as Wetzel
did not answer. "There, they have gone into the other room. Who is
he?"
"His name is Miller."
"Lewis, I don't like him. I have been watching him all evening. I'm
a contrary old woman, I know, but I have seen a good many men in my
time, and his face is not honest. He is in love with her. Does she
care for him?"
"No, Betty doesn't care for Miller. She's just full of life and
fun."
"You may be mistaken. All the Zanes are fire and brimstone and this
girl is a Zane clear through. Go and fetch her to me, Lewis. I'll
tell you if there's a chance for you."
"Dear mother, perhaps there's a wife in Heaven for me. There's none
on earth," said the hunter, a sad smile flitting over his calm face.
Ralfe Miller, whose actions had occasioned the remarks of the old
lady, would have been conspicuous in any assembly of men. There was
something in his dark face that compelled interest and yet left the
observer in doubt. His square chin, deep-set eyes and firm mouth
denoted a strong and indomitable will. He looked a man whom it would
be dangerous to cross.
Little was known of Miller's history. He hailed from Ft. Pitt, where
he had a reputation as a good soldier, but a man of morose and
quarrelsome disposition. It was whispered that he drank, and that he
had been friendly with the renegades McKee, Elliott, and Girty. He
had passed the fall and winter at Ft. Henry, serving on garrison
duty. Since he had made the acquaintance of Betty he had shown her
all the attention possible.
On this night a close observer would have seen that Miller was
laboring under some strong feeling. A half-subdued fire gleamed from
his dark eyes. A peculiar nervous twitching of his nostrils betrayed
a poorly suppressed excitement.
All evening he followed Betty like a shadow. Her kindness may have
encouraged him. She danced often with him and showed a certain
preference for his society. Alice and Lydia were puzzled by Betty's
manner. As they were intimate friends they believed they knew
something of her likes and dislikes. Had not Betty told them she did
not care for Mr. Miller? What was the meaning of the arch glances
she bestowed upon him, if she did not care for him? To be sure, it
was nothing wonderful for Betty to smile,--she was always prodigal
of her smiles--but she had never been known to encourage any man.
The truth was that Betty had put her new resolution into effect; to
be as merry and charming as any fancy-free maiden could possibly be,
and the farthest removed from a young lady pining for an absent and
indifferent sweetheart. To her sorrow Betty played her part too
well.
Except to Wetzel, whose keen eyes little escaped, there was no
significance in Miller's hilarity one moment and sudden
thoughtfulness the next. And if there had been, it would have
excited no comment. Most of the young men had sampled some of old
Dan's best rye and their flushed faces and unusual spirits did not
result altogether from the exercise of the dance.
After one of the reels Miller led Betty, with whom he had been
dancing, into one of the side rooms. Round the dimly lighted room
were benches upon which were seated some of the dancers. Betty was
uneasy in mind and now wished that she had remained at home. They
had exchanged several commonplace remarks when the music struck up
and Betty rose quickly to her feet.
"See, the others have gone. Let us return," she said.
"Wait," said Miller hurriedly. "Do not go just yet. I wish to speak
to you. I have asked you many times if you will marry me. Now I ask
you again."
"Mr. Miller, I thanked you and begged you not to cause us both pain
by again referring to that subject," answered Betty with dignity.
"If you will persist in bringing it up we cannot be friends any
longer."
"Wait, please wait. I have told you that I will not take 'No' for an
answer. I love you with all my heart and soul and I cannot give you
up."
His voice was low and hoarse and thrilled with a strong man's
passion. Betty looked up into his face and tears of compassion
filled her eyes. Her heart softened to this man, and her conscience
gave her a little twinge of remorse. Could she not have averted all
this? No doubt she had been much to blame, and this thought made her
voice very low and sweet as she answered him.
"I like you as a friend, Mr. Miller, but we can never be more than
friends. I am very sorry for you, and angry with myself that I did
not try to help you instead of making it worse. Please do not speak
of this again. Come, let us join the others."
They were quite alone in the room. As Betty finished speaking and
started for the door Miller intercepted her. She recoiled in alarm
from his white face.
"No, you don't go yet. I won't give you up so easily. No woman can
play fast and loose with me! Do you understand? What have you meant
all this winter? You encouraged me. You know you did," he cried
passionately.
"I thought you were a gentleman. I have really taken the trouble to
defend you against persons who evidently were not misled as to your
real nature. I will not listen to you," said Betty coldly. She
turned away from him, all her softened feeling changed to scorn.
"You shall listen to me," he whispered as he grasped her wrist and
pulled her backward. All the man's brutal passion had been aroused.
The fierce border blood boiled within his heart. Unmasked he showed
himself in his true colors a frontier desperado. His eyes gleamed
dark and lurid beneath his bent brows and a short, desperate laugh
passed his lips.
"I will make you love me, my proud beauty. I shall have you yet, one
way or another."
"Let me go. How dare you touch me!" cried Betty, the hot blood
coloring her face. She struck him a stinging blow with her free hand
and struggled with all her might to free herself; but she was
powerless in his iron grasp. Closer he drew her.
"If it costs me my life I will kiss you for that blow," he muttered
hoarsely.
"Oh, you coward! you ruffian! Release me or I will scream."
She had opened her lips to call for help when she saw a dark figure
cross the threshold. She recognized the tall form of Wetzel. The
hunter stood still in the doorway for a second and then with the
swiftness of light he sprang forward. The single straightening of
his arm sent Miller backward over a bench to the floor with a
crashing sound. Miller rose with some difficulty and stood with one
hand to his head.
"Lew, don't draw your knife," cried Betty as she saw Wetzel's hand
go inside his hunting shirt. She had thrown herself in front of him
as Miller got to his feet. With both little hands she clung to the
brawny arm of the hunter, but she could not stay it. Wetzel's hand
slipped to his belt.
"For God's sake, Lew, do not kill him," implored Betty, gazing
horror-stricken at the glittering eyes of the hunter. "You have
punished him enough. He only tried to kiss me. I was partly to
blame. Put your knife away. Do not shed blood. For my sake, Lew, for
my sake!"
When Betty found that she could not hold Wetzel's arm she threw her
arms round his neck and clung to him with all her young strength. No
doubt her action averted a tragedy. If Miller had been inclined to
draw a weapon then he might have had a good opportunity to use it.
He had the reputation of being quick with his knife, and many of his
past fights testified that he was not a coward. But he made no
effort to attack Wetzel. It was certain that he measured with his
eye the distance to the door. Wetzel was not like other men.
Irrespective of his wonderful strength and agility there was
something about the Indian hunter that terrified all men. Miller
shrank before those eyes. He knew that never in all his life of
adventure had he been as near death as at that moment. There was
nothing between him and eternity but the delicate arms of this frail
girl. At a slight wave of the hunter's hand towards the door he
turned and passed out.
"Oh, how dreadful!" cried Betty, dropping upon a bench with a sob of
relief. "I am glad you came when you did even though you frightened
me more than he did. Promise me that you will not do Miller any
further harm. If you had fought it would all have been on my
account; one or both of you might have been killed. Don't look at me
so. I do not care for him. I never did. Now that I know him I
despise him. He lost his senses and tried to kiss me. I could have
killed him myself."
Wetzel did not answer. Betty had been holding his hand in both her
own while she spoke impulsively.
"I understand how difficult it is for you to overlook an insult to
me," she continued earnestly. "But I ask it of you. You are my best
friend, almost my brother, and I promise you that if he ever speaks
a word to me again that is not what it should be I will tell you."
"I reckon I'll let him go, considerin' how set on it you are."
"But remember, Lew, that he is revengeful and you must be on the
lookout," said Betty gravely as she recalled the malignant gleam in
Miller's eyes.
"He's dangerous only like a moccasin snake that hides in the grass."
"Am I all right? Do I look mussed or--or excited--or anything?"
asked Betty.
Lewis smiled as she turned round for his benefit. Her hair was a
little awry and the lace at her neck disarranged. The natural bloom
had not quite returned to her cheeks. With a look in his eyes that
would have mystified Betty for many a day had she but seen it he ran
his gaze over the dainty figure. Then reassuring her that she looked
as well as ever, he led her into the dance-room.
"So this is Betty Zane. Dear child, kiss me," said Grandmother
Watkins when Wetzel had brought Betty up to her. "Now, let me get a
good look at you. Well, well, you are a true Zane. Black hair and
eyes; all fire and pride. Child, I knew your father and mother long
before you were born. Your father was a fine man but a proud one.
And how do you like the frontier? Are you enjoying yourself?"
"Oh, yes, indeed," said Betty, smiling brightly at the old lady.
"Well, dearie, have a good time while you can. Life is hard in a
pioneer's cabin. You will not always have the Colonel to look after
you. They tell me you have been to some grand school in
Philadelphia. Learning is very well, but it will not help you in the
cabin of one of these rough men."
"There is a great need of education in all the pioneers' homes. I
have persuaded brother Eb to have a schoolteacher at the Fort next
spring."
"First teach the boys to plow and the girls to make Johnny cake. How
much you favor your brother Isaac. He used to come and see me often.
So must you in summertime. Poor lad, I suppose he is dead by this
time. I have seen so many brave and good lads go. There now, I did
not mean to make you sad," and the old lady patted Betty's hand and
sighed.
"He often spoke of you and said that I must come with him to see
you. Now he is gone," said Betty.
"Yes, he is gone, Betty, but you must not be sad while you are so
young. Wait until you are old like I am. How long have you known Lew
Wetzel?"
"All my life. He used to carry me in his arm, when I was a baby. Of
course I do not remember that, but as far back as I can go in memory
I can see Lew. Oh, the many times he has saved me from disaster! But
why do you ask?"
"I think Lew Wetzel cares more for you than for all the world. He is
as silent as an Indian, but I am an old woman and I can read men's
hearts. If he could be made to give up his wandering life he would
be the best man on the border."
"Oh, indeed I think you are wrong. Lew does not care for me in that
way," said Betty, surprised and troubled by the old lady's
vehemence.
A loud blast from a hunting-horn directed the attention of all to
the platform at the upper end of the hall, where Dan Watkins stood.
The fiddlers ceased playing, the dancers stopped, and all looked
expectantly. The scene was simple strong, and earnest. The light in
the eyes of these maidens shone like the light from the pine cones
on the walls. It beamed soft and warm. These fearless sons of the
wilderness, these sturdy sons of progress, standing there clasping
the hands of their partners and with faces glowing with happiness,
forgetful of all save the enjoyment of the moment, were ready to go
out on the morrow and battle unto the death for the homes and the
lives of their loved ones.
"Friends," said Dan when the hum of voices had ceased "I never
thought as how I'd have to get up here and make a speech to-night or
I might have taken to the woods. Howsomever, mother and Susan says
as it's gettin' late it's about time we had some supper. Somewhere
in the big cake is hid a gold ring. If one of the girls gets it she
can keep it as a gift from Susan, and should one of the boys find it
he may make a present to his best girl. And in the bargain he gets
to kiss Susan. She made some objection about this and said that part
of the game didn't go, but I reckon the lucky young man will decide
that for hisself. And now to the festal board."
Ample justice was done to the turkey, the venison, and the bear
meat. Grandmother Watkins' delicious apple and pumpkin pies for
which she was renowned, disappeared as by magic. Likewise the cakes
and the sweet cider and the apple butter vanished.
When the big cake had been cut and divided among the guests, Wetzel
discovered the gold ring within his share. He presented the ring to
Betty, and gave his privilege of kissing Susan to George Reynolds,
with the remark: "George, I calkilate Susan would like it better if
you do the kissin' part." Now it was known to all that George had
long been an ardent admirer of Susan's, and it was suspected that
she was not indifferent to him. Nevertheless, she protested that it
was not fair. George acted like a man who had the opportunity of his
life. Amid uproarious laughter he ran Susan all over the room, and
when he caught her he pulled her hands away from her blushing face
and bestowed a right hearty kiss on her cheek. To everyone's
surprise and to Wetzel's discomfiture, Susan walked up to him and
saying that as he had taken such an easy way out of it she intended
to punish him by kissing him. And so she did. Poor Lewis' face
looked the picture of dismay. Probably he had never been kissed
before in his life.
Happy hours speed away on the wings of the wind. The feasting over,
the good-byes were spoken, the girls were wrapped in the warm robes,
for it was now intensely cold, and soon the horses, eager to start
on the long homeward journey, were pulling hard on their bits. On
the party's return trip there was an absence of the hilarity which
had prevailed on their coming. The bells were taken off before the
sleds left the blockhouse, and the traces and the harness examined
and tightened with the caution of men who were apprehensive of
danger and who would take no chances.
In winter time the foes most feared by the settlers were the timber
wolves. Thousands of these savage beasts infested the wild forest
regions which bounded the lonely roads, and their wonderful power of
scent and swift and tireless pursuit made a long night ride a thing
to be dreaded. While the horses moved swiftly danger from wolves was
not imminent; but carelessness or some mishap to a trace or a wheel
had been the cause of more than one tragedy.
Therefore it was not remarkable that the drivers of our party
breathed a sigh of relief when the top of the last steep hill had
been reached. The girls were quiet, and tired out and cold they
pressed close to one another; the men were silent and watchful.
When they were half way home and had just reached the outskirts of
the Black Forest the keen ear of Wetzel caught the cry of a wolf. It
came from the south and sounded so faint that Wetzel believed at
first that he had been mistaken. A few moments passed in which the
hunter turned his ear to the south. He had about made up his mind
that he had only imagined he had heard something when the
unmistakable yelp of a wolf came down on the wind. Then another,
this time clear and distinct, caused the driver to turn and whisper
to Wetzel. The hunter spoke in a low tone and the driver whipped up
his horses. From out the depths of the dark woods along which they
were riding came a long and mournful howl. It was a wolf answering
the call of his mate. This time the horses heard it, for they threw
back their ears and increased their speed. The girls heard it, for
they shrank closer to the men.
There is that which is frightful in the cry of a wolf. When one is
safe in camp before a roaring fire the short, sharp bark of a wolf
is startling, and the long howl will make one shudder. It is so
lonely and dismal. It makes no difference whether it be given while
the wolf is sitting on his haunches near some cabin waiting for the
remains of the settler's dinner, or while he is in full chase after
his prey--the cry is equally wild, savage and bloodcurdling.
Betty had never heard it and though she was brave, when the howl
from the forest had its answer in another howl from the creek
thicket, she slipped her little mittened hand under Wetzel's arm and
looked up at him with frightened eyes.
In half an hour the full chorus of yelps, barks and howls swelled
hideously on the air, and the ever increasing pack of wolves could
be seen scarcely a hundred yards behind the sleds. The patter of
their swiftly flying feet on the snow could be distinctly heard. The
slender, dark forms came nearer and nearer every moment. Presently
the wolves had approached close enough for the occupants of the
sleds to see their shining eyes looking like little balls of green
fire. A gaunt beast bolder than the others, and evidently the leader
of the pack, bounded forward until he was only a few yards from the
last sled. At every jump he opened his great jaws and uttered a
quick bark as if to embolden his followers.
Almost simultaneously with the red flame that burst from Wetzel's
rifle came a sharp yelp of agony from the leader. He rolled over and
over. Instantly followed a horrible mingling of snarls and barks,
and snapping of jaws as the band fought over the body of their
luckless comrade.
This short delay gave the advantage to the horses. When the wolves
again appeared they were a long way behind. The distance to the fort
was now short and the horses were urged to their utmost. The wolves
kept up the chase until they reached the creek bridge and the mill.
Then they slowed up: the howling became desultory, and finally the
dark forms disappeared in the thickets.