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The Spirit of the Border-Part17_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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the seamy side of the opposite wall of the gorge. Getting up, he went to the

back of the cave, where he found Wetzel combing out his long hair. The lad



thrust his hands into the cold pool, and bathed his face. The water was icy

cold, and sent an invigorating thrill through him. Then he laughed as he took



a rude comb Wetzel handed to him.

"My scalp is nothing to make an Indian very covetous, is it?" said he, eyeing



in admiration the magnificent black hair that fell over the hunter's

shoulders.



"It'll grow," answered Wetzel.

Joe did not wonder at the care Wetzel took of his hair, nor did he



misunderstand the hunter's simple pride. Wetzel was very careful of his rifle,

he was neat and clean about his person, he brushed his buckskin costume, he



polished his knife and tomahawk; but his hair received more attention than all

else. It required much care. When combed out it reached fully to his knees.



Joe had seen him, after he returned from a long hunt, work patiently for an

hour with his wooden comb, and not stop until every little burr was gone, or



tangle smoothed out. Then he would comb it again in the morning--this, of

course, when time permitted--and twist and tie it up so as to offer small



resistance to his slipping through the underbush. Joe knew the hunter's

simplicity was such, that if he cut off his hair it would seem he feared the



Indians--for that streaming black hair the Indians had long coveted and sworn

to take. It would make any brave a famous chief, and was the theme of many a



savage war tale.

After breakfast Wetzel said to Joe:



"You stay here, an' I'll look round some; mebbe I'll come back soon, and we'll

go out an' kill a buffalo. Injuns sometimes foller up a buffalo trail, an' I



want to be sure none of the varlets are chasin' that herd we saw to-day."

Wetzel left the cave by the rear. It took him fifteen minutes to crawl to the



head of the tortuous, stony passage. Lifting the stone which closed up the

aperture, he looked out and listened. Then, rising, he replaced the stone, and



passed down the wooded hillside.

It was a beautiful morning; the dew glistened on the green leaves, the sun



shone bright and warm, the birds warbled in the trees. The hunter's moccasins

pressed so gently on the moss and leaves that they made no more sound than the



soft foot of a panther. His trained ear was alert to catch any unfamiliar

noise; his keen eyes sought first the remoter open glades and glens, then bent



their gaze on the mossy bluff beneath his feet. Fox squirrels dashed from

before him into bushy retreats; grouse whirred away into the thickets;



startled deer whistled, and loped off with their white-flags upraised. Wetzel

knew from the action of these denizens of the woods that he was the only



creature, not native to these haunts, who had disturbed them this morning.

Otherwise the deer would not have been grazing, but lying low in some close



thicket; fox squirrels seldom or never were disturbed by a hunter twice in one

day, for after being frightened these little animals, wilder and shyer than



gray squirrels, remained hidden for hours, and grouse that have been flushed a

little while before, always get up unusually quick, and fly very far before



alighting.

Wetzel circled back over the hill, took a long survey from a rocky eminence,



and then reconnoitered the lowland for several miles. He located the herd of

buffalo, and satisfying himself there were no Indians near--for the bison were



grazing quietly--he returned to the cave. A soft whistle into the back door of

the rocky home told Joe that the hunter was waiting.



"Coast clear?" whispered the lad, thrusting his head out of the entrance. His

gray eyes gleamed brightly, showing his eager spirit.



The hunter nodded, and, throwing his rifle in the hollow of his arm, proceeded

down the hill. Joe followed closely, endeavoring, as Wetzel had trained him,



to make each step precisely in the hunter's footprints. The lad had soon

learned to step nimbly and softly as a cat. When half way down the bill Wetzel



paused.

"See anythin'?" he whispered.



Joe glanced on all sides. Many mistakes had taught him to be cautious. He had

learned from experience that for every woodland creature he saw, there were



ten watching his every move. Just now he could not see even a little red

squirrel. Everywhere were sturdyhickory and oak trees, thickets and



hazelnuts, slender ash saplings, and, in the open glades, patches of sumach.

Rotting trees lay on the ground, while ferns nodded long, slender heads over



the fallen monarchs. Joe could make out nothing but the colors of the woods,

the gray of the tree trunks, and, in the openings through the forest-green,



the dead purple haze of forests farther on. He smiled, and, shaking his head

at the hunter, by his action admitted failure.



"Try again. Dead ahead," whispered Wetzel.

Joe bent a direct gaze on the clump of sassafras one hundred feet ahead. He






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