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The Spirit of the Border-Part19_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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Here the steam was about two feet deep, perhaps twenty wide, and had just a

noticeable current. Shortly before, it had been as clear as a bright summer



sky; it was now tinged with yellow clouds that slowly floated downstream, each

one enlarging and becoming fainter as the clear water permeated and stained.



Grains of sand glided along with the current, little pieces of bark floated on

the surface, and minnows darted to and fro nibbling at these drifting



particles.

"Deer wouldn't roil the water like that. What does it mean?" asked Joe.



"Injuns, an' not fer away."

Wetzel returned to the shelter and tore it down. Then he bent the branch of a



beech tree low over the place. He pulled down another branch over the remains

of the camp-fire. These precautions made the spot less striking. Wetzel knew



that an Indian scout never glances casually; his roving eyes survey the

forest, perhaps quickly, but thoroughly. An unnatural position of bush or log



always leads to an examination.

This done, the hunter grasped Joe's hand and led him up the knoll. Making his



way behind a well-screened tree, which had been uprooted, he selected a

position where, hidden themselves, they could see the creek.



Hardly had Wetzel, admonished Joe to lie perfectly still, when from a short

distance up the stream came the sound of splashing water; but nothing could be



seen above the open glade, as in that direction willows lined the creek in

dense thickets. The noise grew more audible.



Suddenly Joe felt a muscularcontraction pass over the powerful frame lying

close beside him. It was a convulsive thrill such as passes through a tiger



when he is about to spring upon his quarry. So subtle and strong was its

meaning, so clearly did it convey to the lad what was coming, that he felt it



himself; save that in his case it was a cold, chill shudder.

Breathless suspense followed. Then into the open space along the creek glided



a tall Indian warrior. He was knee-deep in the water, where he waded with low,

cautious steps. His garish, befrilled costume seemed familiar to Joe. He



carried a rifle at a low trail, and passed slowly ahead with evident distrust.

The lad believed he recognized that head, with its tangled black hair, and



when he saw the swarthy, villainous countenance turned full toward him, he

exclaimed:



"Girty! by---"

Wetzel's powerful arm forced him so hard against the log that he could not



complete the exclamation; but he could still see. Girty had not heard that

stifled cry, for he continued his slow wading, and presently his tall, gaudily



decorated form passed out of sight.

Another savage appeared in the open space, and then another. Close between



them walked a white man, with hands bound behind him. The prisoner and guards

disappeared down stream among the willows.



The splashing continued--grew even louder than before. A warrior came into

view, then another, and another. They walked close together. Two more



followed. They were wading by the side of a raft made of several logs, upon

which were two prostrate figures that closely resembled human beings.



Joe was so intent upon the lithe forms of the Indians that he barely got a

glimpse of their floating prize, whatever it might have been. Bringing up the



rear was an athleticwarrior, whose broad shoulders, sinewy arms, and shaved,

polished head Joe remembered well. It was the Shawnee chief, Silvertip.



When he, too, passed out of sight in the curve of willows, Joe found himself

trembling. He turned eagerly to Wetzel; but instantly recoiled.



Terrible, indeed, had been the hunter's transformation. All calmness of facial

expression was gone; he was now stern, somber. An intenseemotion was visible



in his white face; his eyes seemed reduced to two dark shining points, and

they emitted so fierce, so piercing a flash, so deadly a light, that Joe could



not bear their glittering gaze.

"Three white captives, two of 'em women," uttered the hunter, as if weighing



in his mind the importance of this fact.

"Were those women on the raft?" questioned Joe, and as Wetzel only nodded, he



continued, "A white man and two women, six warriors, Silvertip, and that

renegade, Jim Girty!"



Wetzel deigned not to answer Joe's passionate outburst, but maintained silence

and his rigid posture. Joe glanced once more at the stern face.



"Considering we'd go after Girty and his redskins if they were alone, we're

pretty likely to go quicker now that they've got white women prisoners, eh?"






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