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The Spirit of the Border-Part16_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"Don't yell, er I'll leave you layin' here fer the buzzards," said the

renegade. He stepped forward and grasped Young, at the same time speaking in



the Indian language and pointing to a nearby tree. Strange to relate, the

renegade apparently wanted no bloodshed. While one of the savages began to tie



Young to the tree, Girty turned his gaze on the girls. His little, yellow eyes

glinted; he stroked his chin with a bony hand, and his dark, repulsive face



was wreathed in a terrible, meaning smile.

"I've been layin' fer you," he croaked, eyeing Nell. "Ye're the purtiest lass,



'ceptin' mebbe Bet Zane, I ever seed on the border. I got cheated outen her,

but I've got you; arter I feed yer Injun preacher to ther buzzards mebbe ye'll



larn to love me."

Nell gazed one instant into the monster's face. Her terror-stricken eyes were



piteous to behold. She tried to speak; but her voice failed. Then, like

stricken bird, she fell on the grass.



Chapter XIV.

Not many miles from the Village of Peace rose an irregular chain of hills, the



first faint indications of the grand Appalachian Mountain system. These

ridges were thicklywooded with white oak, poplar and hickory, among which a



sentinel pine reared here and there its evergreen head. There were clefts in

the hills, passes lined by gray-stoned cliffs, below which ran clear brooks,



tumbling over rocks in a hurry to meet their majestic father, the Ohio.

One of these valleys, so narrow that the sun seldom brightened the merry



brook, made a deep cut in the rocks. The head of this valley tapered until the

walls nearly met; it seemed to lose itself in the shade of fern-faced cliffs,



shadowed as they were by fir trees leaning over the brink, as though to search

for secrets of the ravine. So deep and dark and cool was this sequestered nook



that here late summer had not dislodged early spring. Everywhere was a soft,

fresh, bright green. The old gray cliffs were festooned with ferns, lichens



and moss. Under a great, shelving rock, damp and stained by the copper-colored

water dripping down its side, was a dewy dell into which the sunshine had



never peeped. Here the swift brook tarried lovingly, making a wide turn under

the cliff, as though loth to leave this quiet nook, and then leaped once more



to enthusiasm in its murmuring flight.

Life abounded in this wild, beautiful, almost inaccessible spot. Little brown



and yellow birds flitted among the trees; thrushes ran along the leaf-strewn

ground; orioles sang their melancholy notes; robins and flickers darted



beneath the spreading branches. Squirrels scurried over the leaves like little

whirlwinds, and leaped daringly from the swinging branches or barked noisily



from woody perches. Rabbits hopped inquisitively here and there while nibbling

at the tender shoots of sassafras and laurel.



Along this flower-skirted stream a tall young man, carrying a rifle cautiously

stepped, peering into the branches overhead. A gray flash shot along a limb of



a white oak; then the bushy tail of a squirrel flitted into a well-protected

notch, from whence, no doubt, a keen little eye watched the hunter's every



movement.

The rifle was raised; then lowered. The hunter walked around the tree.



Presently up in the tree top, snug under a knotty limb, he spied a little ball

of gray fur. Grasping a branch of underbush, he shook it vigorously. The



thrashing sound worried the gray squirrel, for he slipped from his retreat and

stuck his nose Over the limb. CRACK! With a scratching and tearing of bark the



squirrel loosened his hold and then fell; alighting with a thump. As the

hunter picked up his quarry a streak of sunshine glinting through the tree top



brightened his face.

The hunter was Joe.



He was satisfied now, for after stowing the squirrel in the pocket of his

hunting coat he shouldered his rifle and went back up the ravine. Presently a



dull roar sounded above the babble of the brook. It grew louder as he threaded

his way carefully over the stones. Spots of white foam flecked the brook.



Passing under the gray, stained cliff, Joe turned around a rocky corner, and

came to an abrupt end of the ravine. A waterfall marked the spot where the



brook entered. The water was brown as it took the leap, light green when it

thinned out; and below, as it dashed on the stones, it became a beautiful,



sheeny white.

Upon a flat rock, so near the cascade that spray flew over him, sat another



hunter. The roaring falls drowned all other sounds, yet the man roused from

his dreamycontemplation of the waterfall when Joe rounded the corner.



"I heerd four shots," he said, as Joe came up.

"Yes; I got a squirrel for every shot."



Wetzel led the way along a narrow foot trail which gradually wound toward the

top of the ravine. This path emerged presently, some distance above the falls,



on the brink of a bluff. It ran along the edge of the precipice a few yards,




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