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The Spirit of the Border-Part24_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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once to Wingenund, the renegade openly accused Whispering Winds of aiding her

paleface lover to escape. Wingenund called his daughter before him, and



questioned her. She confessed all to her father.

"Why is the daughter of Wingenund a traitor to her race?" demanded the chief.



"Whispering Winds is a Christian."

Wingenund received this intelligence as a blow. He dismissed Girty and sent



his braves from his lodge, facing his daughter alone. Gloomy and stern, he

paced before her.



"Wingenund's blood might change, but would never betray. Wingenund is the

Delaware chief," he said. "Go. Darken no more the door of Wingenund's wigwam.



Let the flower of the Delawares fade in alien pastures. Go. Whispering Winds

is free!"



Tears shone brightly in the Indian girl's eyes while she told Joe her story.

She loved her father, and she would see him no more.



"Winds is free," she whispered. "When strength returns to her master she can

follow him to the white villages. Winds will live her life for him."



"Then we have no one to fear?" asked Joe.

"No redman, now that the Shawnee chief is dead."



"Will Girty follow us? He is a coward; he will fear to come alone."

"The white savage is a snake in the grass."



Two long days followed, during which the lovers lay quietly in hiding. On the

morning of the third day Joe felt that he might risk the start for the Village



of Peace. Whispering Winds led the horse below a stone upon which the invalid

stood, thus enabling him to mount. Then she got on behind him.



The sun was just gilding the horizon when they rode out of the woods into a

wide plain. No living thing could be seen. Along the edge of the forest the



ground was level, and the horse traveled easily. Several times during the

morning Joe dismounted beside a pile of stones or a fallen tree. The miles



were traversed without serious inconvenience to the invalid, except that he

grew tired. Toward the middle of the afternoon, when they had ridden perhaps



twenty-five miles, they crossed a swift, narrow brook. The water was a

beautiful clear brown. Joe made note of this, as it was an unusual



circumstance. Nearly all the streams, when not flooded, were green in color.

He remembered that during his wanderings with Wetzel they had found one stream



of this brown, copper-colored water. The lad knew he must take a roundabout

way to the village so that he might avoid Indian runners or scouts, and he



hoped this stream would prove to be the one he had once camped upon.

As they were riding toward a gentle swell or knoll covered with trees and



shrubbery, Whispering Winds felt something warm on her hand, and, looking, was

horrified to find it covered with blood. Joe's wound had opened. She told him



they must dismount here, and remain until he was stronger. The invalid himself

thought this conclusion was wise. They would be practically safe now, since



they must be out of the Indian path, and many miles from the encampment.

Accordingly he got off the horse, and sat down on a log, while Whispering



Winds searched for a suitable place in which to erect a temporary shelter.

Joe's wandering gaze was arrested by a tree with a huge knotty formation near



the ground. It was like many trees, but this peculiarity was not what struck

Joe. He had seen it before. He never forgot anything in the woods that once



attracted his attention. He looked around on all sides. Just behind him was

an opening in the clump of trees. Within this was a perpendicular stone



covered with moss and lichens; above it a beech tree spread long, graceful

branches. He thrilled with the remembrance these familiar marks brought. This



was Beautiful Spring, the place where Wetzel rescued Nell, where he had killed

the Indians in that night attack he would never forget.



Chapter XIX.

One evening a week or more after the disappearance of Jim and the girls,



George Young and David Edwards, the missionaries, sat on the cabin steps,

gazing disconsolately upon the forest scenery. Hard as had been the ten years



of their labor among the Indians, nothing had shaken them as the loss of their

young friends.



"Dave, I tell you your theory about seeing them again is absurd," asserted

George. "I'll never forget that wretch, Girty, as he spoke to Nell. Why, she



just wilted like a flower blasted by fire. I can't understand why he let me

go, and kept Jim, unless the Shawnee had something to do with it. I never



wished until now that I was a hunter. I'd go after Girty. You've heard as

well as I of his many atrocities. I'd rather have seen Kate and Nell dead than



have them fall into his power. I'd rather have killed them myself!"




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