The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail Read Online Free PDF

he? Lew Wetzel is the heftiest of ’em all, an’ we hev some as kin fight out here. I was down the river a few years ago and joined a party to go out an’ hunt up some redskins as had been reported. Wetzel was with us. We soon struck Injun sign, and then come on to a lot of the pesky varmints. We was all fer goin’ home, because we had a small force. When we started to go we finds Wetzel sittin’ calmlike on a log. We said: ‘Ain’t ye goin’ home?’ and he replied, ‘I cum out to find redskins, an’ now as we’ve found ’em, I’m not goin’ to run away.’ An’ we left him settin’ thar. Oh, Wetzel is a fighter!”
    â€œI hope I shall see him,” said Joe once more, the warm light, which made him look so boyish, still glowing in his face.
    â€œMebbe ye’ll git to; and sure ye’ll see redskins, an’ not tame ones, nuther.”
    At this moment the sound of excited voices near the cabins broke in upon the conversation. Joe saw several persons run toward the large cabin and disappear behind it. He smiled as he thought perhaps the commotion had been caused by the awakening of the Indian brave.
    Rising to his feet, Joe went toward the cabin, and soon saw the cause of the excitement. A small crowd of men and women, all laughing and talking, surrounded the Indian brave and the little stout fellow. Joe heard someone groan, and then a deep, guttural voice:
    â€œPaleface—big steal—ugh! Injun mad—heap mad—kill paleface.”
    After elbowing his way into the group, Joe saw the Indian holding Loorey with one hand, while he poked him in the ribs with the other. The captive’s face was the picture of dismay: even the streaks of paint did not hide his look of fear and bewilderment. The poor, half-witted fellow was so badly frightened that he could only groan.
    â€œSilvertip scalp paleface. Ugh!” growled the savage, giving Loorey another blow. This time he bent over in pain. The bystanders were divided in feeling; the men laughed, while the women murmured sympathetically.
    â€œThis’s not a bit funny,” muttered Joe, as he pushed his way nearly to the middle of the crowd. Then he stretched out a long arm that, bare and brawny, looked as though it might have been blacksmith’s, and grasped the Indian’s sinewy wrist with a force that made him loosen his hold on Loorey instantly.
    â€œI stole the shirt—fun—joke,” said Joe. “Scalp me if you want to scalp anyone.”
    The Indian looked quickly at the powerful form before him. With a twist he slipped his arm from Joe’s grasp.
    â€œBig paleface heap fun—all squaw play,” he said, scornfully. There was a menace in his somber eyes as he turned abruptly and left the group.
    â€œI’m afraid you’ve made an enemy,” said Jake Wentz to Joe. “An Indian never forgets an insult, and that’s how he regarded your joke. Silvertip has been friendly here because he sells us his pelts. He’s a Shawnee chief. There he goes through the willows!”
    By this time Jim and Mr. Wells, Mrs. Wentz and the girls had joined in the group. They all watched Silvertip get into his canoe and paddle away.
    â€œA bad sign,” said Wentz, and then, turning to Jeff Lynn, who joined the party at that moment, he briefly explained the circumstances.
    â€œNever did like Silver. He’s a crafty redskin, an’ not to be trusted,” replied Jeff.
    â€œHe has turned round and is looking back,” Nell said quickly.
    â€œSo he has,” observed the fur trader.
    The Indian was now several hundred yards down the swift river, and for an instant had ceased paddling. The sun shone brightly on his eagle plumes. He remained motionless for a moment, and even at such a distance the dark, changeless face could be discerned. He lifted his hand and shook it menacingly.
    â€œIf ye don’t hear from that redskin