Betty Zane

Z >> Zane Grey >> Betty Zane


Betty looked down with tear-blurred eyes on the haggard face.
Unconsciously she had been running her fingers through the fair hair
that lay so damp over his brow. Her pity and tenderness had carried
her far beyond herself, and at the last words she bent her head and
kissed him on the lips.

"Who are you? You are not my mother. She is dead," he cried,
starting up wildly, and looking at her with brilliant eyes.

Betty dropped the fan and rose quickly to her feet. What had she
done? A terrible thought had flashed into her mind. Suppose he were
not delirious, and had been deceiving her. Oh! for a hiding-place,
or that the floor would swallow her. Oh! if some one would only
come.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Betty ran to the door. To her
great relief Mrs. Martin was coming up.

"You can run home now, there's a dear," said the old lady. "We have
several watchers for to-night. It will not be long now when he will
commence to mend, or else he will die. Poor boy, please God that he
gets well. Has he been good? Did he call for any particular young
lady? Never fear, Betty, I'll keep the secret. He'll never know you
were here unless you tell him yourself."

Meanwhile the days had been busy ones for Col. Zane. In anticipation
of an attack from the Indians, the settlers had been fortifying
their refuge and making the block-house as nearly impregnable as
possible. Everything that was movable and was of value they put
inside the stockade fence, out of reach of the destructive redskins.
All the horses and cattle were driven into the inclosure.
Wagon-loads of hay, grain and food were stored away in the
block-house.

Never before had there been such excitement on the frontier. Runners
from Ft. Pitt, Short Creek, and other settlements confirmed the
rumor that all the towns along the Ohio were preparing for war. Not
since the outbreak of the Revolution had there been so much
confusion and alarm among the pioneers. To be sure, those on the
very verge of the frontier, as at Ft. Henry, had heretofore little
to fear from the British. During most of this time there had been
comparative peace on the western border, excepting those occasional
murders, raids, and massacres perpetrated by the different Indian
tribes, and instigated no doubt by Girty and the British at Detroit.
Now all kinds of rumors were afloat: Washington was defeated; a
close alliance between England and the confederated western tribes
had been formed; Girty had British power and wealth back of him.
These and many more alarming reports travelled from settlement to
settlement.

The death of Col. Crawford had been a terrible shock to the whole
country. On the border spread an universal gloom, and the low,
sullen mutterings of revengeful wrath. Crawford had been so
prominent a man, so popular, and, except in his last and fatal
expedition, such an efficient leader that his sudden taking off was
almost a national calamity. In fact no one felt it more keenly than
did Washington himself, for Crawford was his esteemed friend.

Col. Zane believed Ft. Henry had been marked by the British and the
Indians. The last runner from Ft. Pitt had informed him that the
description of Miller tallied with that of one of the ten men who
had deserted from Ft. Pitt in 1778 with the tories Girth, McKee, and
Elliott. Col. Zane was now satisfied that Miller was an agent of
Girty and therefore of the British. So since all the weaknesses of
the Fort, the number of the garrison, and the favorable conditions
for a siege were known to Girty, there was nothing left for Col.
Zane and his men but to make a brave stand.

Jonathan Zane and Major McColloch watched the river. Wetzel had
disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him. Some pioneers said he
would never return. But Col. Zane believed Wetzel would walk into
the Fort, as he had done many times in the last ten years, with full
information concerning the doings of the Indians. However, the days
passed and nothing happened. Their work completed, the settlers
waited for the first sign of an enemy. But as none came, gradually
their fears were dispelled and they began to think the alarm had
been a false one.

All this time Alfred Clarke was recovering his health and strength.
The day came when he was able to leave his bed and sit by the
window. How glad it made him feel to look out on the green woods and
the broad, winding river; how sweet to his ears were the songs of
the birds; how soothing was the drowsy hum of the bees in the
fragrant honeysuckle by his window. His hold on life had been slight
and life was good. He smiled in pitying derision as he remembered
his recklessness. He had not been in love with life. In his gloomy
moods he had often thought life was hardly worth the living. What
sickly sentiment! He had been on the brink of the grave, but he had
been snatched back from the dark river of Death. It needed but this
to show him the joy of breathing, the glory of loving, the sweetness
of living. He resolved that for him there would be no more drifting,
no more purposelessness. If what Wetzel had told him was true, if he
really had not loved in vain, then his cup of happiness was
overflowing. Like a far-off and almost forgotten strain of music
some memory struggled to take definite shape in his mind; but it was
so hazy, so vague, so impalpable, that he could remember nothing
clearly.

Isaac Zane and his Indian bride called on Alfred that afternoon.

"Alfred, I can't tell you how glad I am to see you up again," said
Isaac, earnestly, as he wrung Alfred's hand. "Say, but it was a
tight squeeze! It has been a bad time for you."

Nothing could have been more pleasing than Myeerah's shy yet
eloquent greeting. She gave Alfred her little hand and said in her
figurative style of speaking, "Myeerah is happy for you and for
others. You are strong like the West Wind that never dies."

"Myeerah and I are going this afternoon, and we came over to say
good-bye to you. We intend riding down the river fifteen miles and
then crossing, to avoid running into any band of Indians."

"And how does Myeerah like the settlement by this time?"

"Oh, she is getting on famously. Betty and she have fallen in love
with each other. It is amusing to hear Betty try to talk in the
Wyandot tongue, and to see Myeerah's consternation when Betty gives
her a lesson in deportment."

"I rather fancy it would be interesting, too. Are you not going back
to the Wyandots at a dangerous time?"

"As to that I can't say. I believe, though, it is better that I get
back to Tarhe's camp before we have any trouble with the Indians. I
am anxious to get there before Girty or some of his agents."

"Well, if you must go, good luck to you, and may we meet again."

"It will not be long, I am sure. And, old man," he continued, with a
bright smile, "when Myeerah and I come again to Ft. Henry we expect
to find all well with you. Cheer up, and good-bye."

All the preparations had been made for the departure of Isaac and
Myeerah to their far-off Indian home. They were to ride the Indian
ponies on which they had arrived at the Fort. Col. Zane had given
Isaac one of his pack horses. This animal carried blankets,
clothing, and food which insured comparative comfort in the long
ride through the wilderness.

"We will follow the old trail until we reach the hickory swale,"
Isaac was saying to the Colonel, "and then we will turn off and make
for the river. Once across the Ohio we can make the trip in two
days."

"I think you'll make it all right," said Col. Zane.

"Even if I do meet Indians I shall have no fear, for I have a
protector here," answered Isaac as he led Myeerah's pony to the
step.

"Good-bye, Myeerah; he is yours, but do not forget he is dear to
us," said Betty, embracing and kissing the Indian girl.

"My sister does not know Myeerah. The White Eagle will return."

"Good-bye, Betts, don't cry. I shall come home again. And when I do
I hope I shall be in time to celebrate another event, this time with
you as the heroine. Good-bye. Goodbye."

The ponies cantered down the road. At the bend Isaac and Myeerah
turned and waved their hands until the foliage of the trees hid them
from view.

"Well, these things happen naturally enough. I suppose they must be.
But I should much have preferred Isaac staying here. Hello! What the
deuce is that? By Lord! It's Tige!"

The exclamation following Col. Zane's remarks had been called forth
by Betty's dog. He came limping painfully up the road from the
direction of the river. When he saw Col. Zane he whined and crawled
to the Colonel's feet. The dog was wet and covered with burrs, and
his beautiful glossy coat, which had been Betty's pride, was
dripping with blood.

"Silas, Jonathan, come here," cried Col. Zane. "Here's Tige, back
without Wetzel, and the poor dog has been shot almost to pieces.
What does it mean?"

"Indians," said Jonathan, coming out of the house with Silas, and
Mrs. Zane and Betty, who had heard the Colonel's call.

"He has come a long way. Look at his feet. They are torn and
bruised," continued Jonathan. "And he has been near Wingenund's
camp. You see that red clay on his paws. There is no red clay that I
know of round here, and there are miles of it this side of the
Delaware camp."

"What is the matter with Tige?" asked Betty.

"He is done for. Shot through, poor fellow. How did he ever reach
home?" said Silas.

"Oh, I hope not! Dear old Tige," said Betty as she knelt and
tenderly placed the head of the dog in her lap. "Why, what is this?
I never put that there. Eb, Jack, look here. There is a string
around his neck," and Betty pointed excitedly to a thin cord which
was almost concealed in the thick curly hair.

"Good gracious! Eb, look! It is the string off the prize bullet
pouch I made, and that Wetzel won on Isaac's wedding day. It is a
message from Lew," said Betty.

"Well, by Heavens! This is strange. So it is. I remember that
string. Cut it off, Jack," said Col. Zane.

When Jonathan had cut the string and held it up they all saw the
lead bullet. Col. Zane examined it and showed them what had been
rudely scratched on it.

"A letter W. Does that mean Wetzel?" asked the Colonel.

"It means war. It's a warning from Wetzel--not the slightest doubt
of that," said Jonathan. "Wetzel sends this because he knows we are
to be attacked, and because there must have been great doubt of his
getting back to tell us. And Tige has been shot on his way home."

This called the attention to the dog, which had been momentarily
forgotten. His head rolled from Betty's knee; a quiver shook his
frame; he struggled to rise to his feet, but his strength was too
far spent; he crawled close to Betty's feet; his eyes looked up at
her with almost human affection; then they closed, and he lay still.
Tige was dead.

"It is all over, Betty. Tige will romp no more. He will never be
forgotten, for he was faithful to the end. Jonathan, tell the Major
of Wetzel's warning, and both of you go back to your posts on the
river. Silas, send Capt. Boggs to me."

An hour after the death of Tige the settlers were waiting for the
ring of the meeting-house bell to summon them to the Fort.

Supper at Col. Zane's that night was not the occasion of
good-humored jest and pleasant conversation. Mrs. Zane's face wore a
distressed and troubled look; Betty was pale and quiet; even the
Colonel was gloomy; and the children, missing the usual cheerfulness
of the evening meal, shrank close to their mother.

Darkness slowly settled down; and with it came a feeling of relief,
at least for the night, for the Indians rarely attacked the
settlements after dark. Capt. Boggs came over and he and Col. Zane
conversed in low tones.

"The first thing in the morning I want you to ride over to Short
Creek for reinforcements. I'll send the Major also and by a
different route. I expect to hear tonight from Wetzel. Twelve times
has he crossed that threshold with the information which made an
Indian surprise impossible. And I feel sure he will come again."

"What was that?" said Betty, who was sitting on the doorstep.

"Sh-h!" whispered Col. Zane, holding up his finger.

The night was warm and still. In the perfect quiet which followed
the Colonel's whispered exclamation the listeners heard the beating
of their hearts. Then from the river bank came the cry of an owl;
low but clear it came floating to their ears, its single melancholy
note thrilling them. Faint and far off in the direction of the
island sounded the answer.

"I knew it. I told you. We shall know all presently," said Col.
Zane. "The first call was Jonathan's, and it was answered."

The moments dragged away. The children had fallen asleep on the
bearskin rug. Mrs. Zane and Betty had heard the Colonel's voice, and
sat with white faces, waiting, waiting for they knew not what.

A familiar, light-moccasined tread sounded on the path, a tall
figure loomed up from the darkness; it came up the path, passed up
the steps, and crossed the threshold.

"Wetzel!" exclaimed Col. Zane and Capt. Boggs. It was indeed the
hunter. How startling was his appearance! The buckskin hunting coat
and leggins were wet, torn and bespattered with mud; the water ran
and dripped from him to form little muddy pools on the floor; only
his rifle and powder horn were dry. His face was ghastly white
except where a bullet wound appeared on his temple, from which the
blood had oozed down over his cheek. An unearthly light gleamed from
his eyes. In that moment Wetzel was an appalling sight.

"Col. Zane, I'd been here days before, but I run into some Shawnees,
and they gave me a hard chase. I have to report that Girty, with
four hundred Injuns and two hundred Britishers, are on the way to
Ft. Henry."

"My God!" exclaimed Col. Zane. Strong man as he was the hunter's
words had unnerved him.

The loud and clear tone of the church-bell rang out on the still
night air. Only once it sounded, but it reverberated among the
hills, and its single deep-toned ring was like a knell. The
listeners almost expected to hear it followed by the fearful
war-cry, that cry which betokened for many desolation and death.



CHAPTER XIII.

Morning found the settlers, with the exception of Col. Zane, his
brother Jonathan, the negro Sam, and Martin Wetzel, all within the
Fort. Col. Zane had determined, long before, that in the event of
another siege, he would use his house as an outpost. Twice it had
been destroyed by fire at the hands of the Indians. Therefore,
surrounding himself by these men, who were all expert marksmen, Col.
Zane resolved to protect his property and at the same time render
valuable aid to the Fort.

Early that morning a pirogue loaded with cannon balls, from Ft. Pitt
and bound for Louisville, had arrived and Captain Sullivan, with his
crew of three men, had demanded admittance. In the absence of Capt.
Boggs and Major McColloch, both of whom had been dispatched for
reinforcements, Col. Zane had placed his brother Silas in command of
the Fort. Sullivan informed Silas that he and his men had been fired
on by Indians and that they sought the protection of the Fort. The
services of himself and men, which he volunteered, were gratefully
accepted.

All told, the little force in the block-house did not exceed
forty-two, and that counting the boys and the women who could handle
rifles. The few preparations had been completed and now the settlers
were awaiting the appearance of the enemy. Few words were spoken.
The children were secured where they would be out of the way of
flying bullets. They were huddled together silent and frightened;
pale-faced but resolute women passed up and down the length of the
block-house; some carried buckets of water and baskets of food;
others were tearing bandages; grim-faced men peered from the
portholes; all were listening for the war-cry.

They had not long to wait. Before noon the well-known whoop came
from the wooded shore of the river, and it was soon followed by the
appearance of hundreds of Indians. The river, which was low, at once
became a scene of great animation. From a placid, smoothly flowing
stream it was turned into a muddy, splashing, turbulent torrent. The
mounted warriors urged their steeds down the bank and into the
water; the unmounted improvised rafts and placed their weapons and
ammunition upon them; then they swam and pushed, kicked and yelled
their way across; other Indians swam, holding the bridles of the
pack-horses. A detachment of British soldiers followed the Indians.
In an hour the entire army appeared on the river bluff not three
hundred yards from the Fort. They were in no hurry to begin the
attack. Especially did the Indians seem to enjoy the lull before the
storm, and as they stalked to and fro in plain sight of the
garrison, or stood in groups watching the Fort, they were seen in
all their hideous war-paint and formidable battle-array. They were
exultant. Their plumes and eagle feathers waved proudly in the
morning breeze. Now and then the long, peculiarly broken yell of the
Shawnees rang out clear and strong. The soldiers were drawn off to
one side and well out of range of the settlers' guns. Their red
coats and flashing bayonets were new to most of the little band of
men in the block-house.

"Ho, the Fort!"

It was a strong, authoritative voice and came from a man mounted on
a black horse.

"Well, Girty, what is it?" shouted Silas Zane.

"We demand unconditional surrender," was the answer.

"You will never get it," replied Silas.

"Take more time to think it over. You see we have a force here large
enough to take the Fort in an hour."

"That remains to be seen," shouted some one through porthole.

An hour passed. The soldiers and the Indians lounged around on the
grass and walked to and fro on the bluff. At intervals a taunting
Indian yell, horrible in its suggestiveness came floating on the
air. When the hour was up three mounted men rode out in advance of
the waiting Indians. One was clad in buckskin, another in the
uniform of a British officer, and the third was an Indian chief
whose powerful form was naked except for his buckskin belt and
legging.

"Will you surrender?" came in the harsh and arrogant voice of the
renegade.

"Never! Go back to your squaws!" yelled Sullivan.

"I am Capt. Pratt of the Queen's Rangers. If you surrender I will
give you the best protection King George affords," shouted the
officer.

"To hell with lying George! Go back to your hair-buying Hamilton and
tell him the whole British army could not make us surrender," roared
Hugh Bennet.

"If you do not give up, the Fort will be attacked and burned. Your
men will be massacred and your women given to the Indians," said
Girty.

"You will never take a man, woman or child alive," yelled Silas. "We
remember Crawford, you white traitor, and we are not going to give
up to be butchered. Come on with your red-jackets and your
red-devils. We are ready."

"We have captured and killed the messenger you sent out, and now all
hope of succor must be abandoned. Your doom is sealed."

"What kind of a man was he?" shouted Sullivan.

"A fine, active young fellow," answered the outlaw.

"That's a lie," snapped Sullivan, "he was an old, gray haired man."

As the officer and the outlaw chief turned, apparently to consult
their companion, a small puff of white smoke shot forth from one of
the portholes of the block-house. It was followed by the ringing
report of a rifle. The Indian chief clutched wildly at his breast,
fell forward on his horse, and after vainly trying to keep his seat,
slipped to the ground. He raised himself once, then fell backward
and lay still. Full two hundred yards was not proof against Wetzel's
deadly smallbore, and Red Fox, the foremost war chieftain of the
Shawnees, lay dead, a victim to the hunter's vengeance. It was
characteristic of Wetzel that he picked the chief, for he could have
shot either the British officer or the renegade. They retreated out
of range, leaving the body of the chief where it had fallen, while
the horse, giving a frightened snort, galloped toward the woods.
Wetzel's yell coming quickly after his shot, excited the Indians to
a very frenzy, and they started on a run for the Fort, discharging
their rifles and screeching like so many demons.

In the cloud of smoke which at once enveloped the scene the Indians
spread out and surrounded the Fort. A tremendous rush by a large
party of Indians was made for the gate of the Fort. They attacked it
fiercely with their tomahawks, and a log which they used as a
battering-ram. But the stout gate withstood their united efforts,
and the galling fire from the portholes soon forced them to fall
back and seek cover behind the trees and the rocks. From these
points of vantage they kept up an uninterrupted fire.

The soldiers had made a dash at the stockade-fence, yelling derision
at the small French cannon which was mounted on top of the
block-house. They thought it a "dummy" because they had learned that
in the 1777 siege the garrison had no real cannon, but had tried to
utilize a wooden one. They yelled and hooted and mocked at this
piece and dared the garrison to fire it. Sullivan, who was in charge
of the cannon, bided his time. When the soldiers were massed closely
together and making another rush for the stockade-fence Sullivan
turned loose the little "bulldog," spreading consternation and
destruction in the British ranks.

"Stand back! Stand back!" Capt. Pratt was heard to yell. "By God!
there's no wood about that gun."

After this the besiegers withdrew for a breathing spell. At this
early stage of the siege the Indians were seen to board Sullivan's
pirogue, and it was soon discovered they were carrying the cannon
balls from the boat to the top of the bluff. In their simple minds
they had conceived a happy thought. They procured a white-oak log
probably a foot in diameter, split it through the middle and
hollowed out the inside with their tomahawks. Then with iron chains
and bars, which they took from Reihart's blacksmith shop, they bound
and securely fastened the sides together. They dragged the
improvised cannon nearer to the Fort, placed it on two logs and
weighted it down with stones. A heavy charge of powder and ball was
then rammed into the wooden gun. The soldiers, though much
interested in the manoeuvre, moved back to a safe distance, while
many of the Indians crowded round the new weapon. The torch was
applied; there was a red flash--boom! The hillside was shaken by the
tremendous explosion, and when the smoke lifted from the scene the
naked forms of the Indians could be seen writhing in agony on the
ground. Not a vestige of the wooden gun remained. The iron chains
had proved terrible death-dealing missiles to the Indians near the
gun. The Indians now took to their natural methods of warfare. They
hid in the long grass, in the deserted cabins, behind the trees and
up in the branches. Not an Indian was visible, but the rain of
bullets pattered steadily against the block-house. Every bush and
every tree spouted little puffs of white smoke, and the leaden
messengers of Death whistled through the air.

After another unsuccessful effort to destroy a section of the
stockade-fence the soldiers had retired. Their red jackets made them
a conspicuous mark for the sharp-eyed settlers. Capt. Pratt had been
shot through the thigh. He suffered great pain, and was deeply
chagrined by the surprising and formidable defense of the garrison
which he had been led to believe would fall an easy prey to the
King's soldiers. He had lost one-third of his men. Those who were
left refused to run straight in the face of certain death. They had
not been drilled to fight an unseen enemy. Capt. Pratt was compelled
to order a retreat to the river bluff, where he conferred with
Girty.

Inside the block-house was great activity, but no confusion. That
little band of fighters might have been drilled for a king's
bodyguard. Kneeling before each porthole on the river side of the
Fort was a man who would fight while there was breath left in him.
He did not discharge his weapon aimlessly as the Indians did, but
waited until he saw the outline of an Indian form, or a red coat, or
a puff of white smoke; then he would thrust the rifle-barrel
forward, take a quick aim and fire. By the side of every man stood a
heroic woman whose face was blanched, but who spoke never a word as
she put the muzzle of the hot rifle into a bucket of water, cooled
the barrel, wiped it dry and passed it back to the man beside her.

Silas Zane had been wounded at the first fire. A glancing ball had
struck him on the head, inflicting a painful scalp wound. It was now
being dressed by Col. Zane's wife, whose skilled fingers were
already tired with the washing and the bandaging of the injuries
received by the defenders. In all that horrible din of battle, the
shrill yells of the savages, the hoarse shouts of the settlers, the
boom of the cannon overhead, the cracking of rifles and the
whistling of bullets; in all that din of appalling noise, and amid
the stifling smoke, the smell of burned powder, the sickening sight
of the desperately wounded and the already dead, the Colonel's brave
wife had never faltered. She was here and there; binding the wounds,
helping Lydia and Betty mould bullets, encouraging the men, and by
her example, enabling those women to whom border war was new to bear
up under the awful strain.