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The Spirit of the Border-Part20_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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against a log. Bidding the lad crawl in before he took one last look around

and then made his way under the shelter.



It was yet daylight, which seemed a strange time to creep into this little

nook; but, Joe thought, it was not to sleep, only to wait, wait, wait for the



long hours to pass. He was amazed once more, because, by the time twilight had

given place to darkness, Wetzel was asleep. The lad said then to himself that



he would never again be surprised at the hunter. He assumed once and for all

that Wetzel was capable of anything. Yet how could he lose himself in slumber?



Feeling, as he must, over the capture of the girls; eager to draw a bead on

the black-hearted renegade; hating Indians with all his soul and strength, and



lying there but a few hours before what he knew would be a bloody battle,

Wetzel calmly went to sleep. Knowing the hunter to be as bloodthirsty as a



tiger, Joe had expected he would rush to a combat with his foes; but, no, this

man, with his keen sagacity, knew when to creep upon his enemy; he bided that



time, and, while he waited, slept.

Joe could not close his eyes in slumber. Through the interstices in the



branches he saw the stars come out one by one, the darkness deepened, and the

dim outline of tall trees over the dark hill came out sharply. The moments



dragged, each one an hour. He heard a whippoorwill call, lonely and dismal;

then an owl hoot monotonously. A stealthy footed animal ran along the log,



sniffed at the boughs, and then scurried away over the dry leaves. By and by

the dead silence of night fell over all. Still Joe lay there wide awake,



listening--his heart on fire. He was about to rescue Nell; to kill that

hawk-nosed renegade; to fight Silvertip to the death.



The hours passed, but not Joe's passionateeagerness. When at least he saw the

crescent moon gleam silver-white over the black hilltop he knew the time was



nigh, and over him ran thrill on thrill.

Chapter XVI.



When the waning moon rose high enough to shed a pale light over forest and

field, two dark figures, moving silently from the shade of the trees, crossed



the moonlit patches of ground, out to the open plain where low on the grass

hung silver mists.



A timber wolf, gray and gaunt, came loping along with lowered nose. A new

scent brought the animal to a standstill. His nose went up, his fiery eyes



scanned the plain. Two men had invaded his domain, and, with a short, dismal

bark, he dashed away.



Like spectres, gliding swiftly with noiseless tread, the two vanished. The

long grass had swallowed them.



Deserted once again seemed the plain. It became unutterably lonely. No stir,

no sound, no life; nothing but a wide expanse bathed in sad, gray light.



The moon shone steadily; the silver radiance mellowed; the stars paled before

this brighter glory.



Slowly the night hours wore away.

On the other side of the plain, near where the adjoining forest loomed



darkling, the tall grass parted to disclose a black form. Was it only a

deceiving shade cast by a leafy branch--only a shadow? Slowly it sank, and was



lost. Once more the gray, unwavering line of silver-crested grass tufts was

unbroken.



Only the night breeze, wandering caressingly over the grass, might have told

of two dark forms gliding, gliding, gliding so softly, so surely, so surely



toward the forest. Only the moon and the pale stars had eyes to see these

creeping figures.



Like avengers they moved, on a mission to slay and to save!

On over the dark line where plain merged into forest they crawled. No



whispering, no hesitating; but a silent, slow, certain progress showed their

purpose. In single file they slipped over the moss, the leader clearing the



path. Inch by inch they advanced. Tedious was this slow movement, difficult

and painful this journey which must end in lightninglike speed. They rustled



no leaf, nor snapped a twig, nor shook a fern, but passed onward slowly, like

the approach of Death. The seconds passed as minutes; minutes as hours; an



entire hour was spent in advancing twenty feet!

At last the top of the knoll was reached. The Avenger placed his hand on his



follower's shoulder. The strong pressure was meant to remind, to warn, to

reassure. Then, like a huge snake, the first glided away.



He who was left behind raised his head to look into the open place called the

glade of the Beautiful Spring. An oval space lay before him, exceedingly



lovely in the moonlight; a spring, as if a pearl, gemmed the center. An Indian

guard stood statuelike against a stone. Other savages lay in a row, their



polished heads shining. One slumbering form was bedecked with feathers and

frills. Near him lay an Indian blanket, from the border of which peered two



faces, gleaming white and sad in the pitying moonlight.

The watcher quivered at the sight of those pale faces; but he must wait while



long moments passed. He must wait for the Avenger to creep up, silently kill




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