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The Spirit of the Border-Part37_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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wanderings.

For the first time in many years he had failed. He took his defeat hard,



because he had been successful for so long he thought himself almost

infallible, and because the failure lost him the opportunity to kill his great



foe. In his passion he cursed himself for being so weak as to let the prayer

of a woman turn him from his life's purpose.



With bowed head and slow, dragging steps he made his way westward. The land

was strange to him, but he knew he was going toward familiar ground. For a



time he walked quietly, all the time the fierce fever in his veins slowly

abating. Calm he always was, except when that unnatural lust for Indians'



blood overcame him.

On the summit of a high ridge he looked around to ascertain his bearings. He



was surprised to find he had traveled in a circle. A mile or so below him

arose the great oak tree which he recognized as the landmark of Beautiful



Spring. He found himself standing on the hill, under the very dead tree to

which he had directed Girty's attention a few hours previous.



With the idea that he would return to the spring to scalp the dead Indians, he

went directly toward the big oak tree. Once out of the forest a wide plain lay



between him and the wooded knoll which marked the glade of Beautiful Spring.

He crossed this stretch of verdant meadow-land, and entered the copse.



Suddenly he halted. His keen sense of the usual harmony of the forest, with

its innumerable quiet sounds, had received a severe shock. He sank into the



tall weeds and listened. Then he crawled a little farther. Doubt became

certainty. A single note of an oriole warned him, and it needed not the quick



notes of a catbird to tell him that near at hand, somewhere, was human life.

Once more Wetzel became a tiger. The hot blood leaped from his heart, firing



all his veins and nerves. But calmly noiseless, certain, cold, deadly as a

snake he began the familiar crawling method of stalking his game.



On, on under the briars and thickets, across the hollows full of yellow

leaves, up over stony patches of ground to the fern-covered cliff overhanging



the glade he glided--lithe, sinuous, a tiger in movement and in heart.

He parted the long, graceful ferns and gazed with glittering eyes down into



the beautiful glade.

He saw not the shining spring nor the purple moss, nor the ghastly white



bones--all that the buzzards had left of the dead--nor anything, save a

solitary Indian standing erect in the glade.



There, within range of his rifle, was his great Indian foe, Wingenund.

Wetzel sank back into the ferns to still the furious exultations which almost



consumed him during the moment when he marked his victim. He lay there

breathing hard, gripping tightly his rifle, slowly mastering the passion that



alone of all things might render his aim futile.

For him it was the third great moment of his life, the last of three moments



in which the Indian's life had belonged to him. Once before he had seen that

dark, powerful face over the sights of his rifle, and he could not shoot



because his one shot must be for another. Again had that lofty, haughty

figure stood before him, calm, disdainful, arrogant, and he yielded to a



woman's prayer.

The Delaware's life was his to take, and he swore he would have it! He



trembled in the ecstasy of his triumphantpassion; his great muscles rippled

and quivered, for the moment was entirely beyond his control. Then his passion



calmed. Such power for vengeance had he that he could almost still the very

beats of his heart to make sure and deadly his fatal aim. Slowly he raised



himself; his eyes of cold fire glittered; slowly he raised the black rifle.

Wingenund stood erect in his old, grand pose, with folded arms, but his eyes,



instead of being fixed on the distant hills, were lowered to the ground.

An Indian girl, cold as marble, lay at his feet. Her garments were wet, and



clung to her slender form. her sad face was frozen into an eternal rigidity.

By her side was a newly dig grave.



The bead on the front sight of the rifle had hardly covered the chief's dark

face when Wetzel's eye took in these other details. He had been so absorbed in



his purpose that he did not dream of the Delaware's reason for returning to

the Beautiful Spring.



Slowly Wetzel's forefinger stiffened; slowly he lowered the black rifle.

Wingenund had returned to bury Whispering Winds.



Wetzel's teethe clenched, an awful struggle tore his heart. Slowly the rifle

rose, wavered and fell. It rose again, wavered and fell. Something terrible



was wrong with him; something awful was awakening in his soul.

Wingenund had not made a fool of him. The Delaware had led him a long chase,






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