Read Online Zane Grey by The Spirit of the Border - Free Book Online
Authors: The Spirit of the Border
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wail like that of a lost soul.
The break it made in that dead silence was awful. Joe's blood seemed
to have curdled and frozen; a cold sweat oozed from his skin, and it
was as if a clammy hand clutched at his heart. He tried to persuade
himself that the fear displayed by the savage was only superstition,
and that that moan was but the sigh of the night wind.
The Indian sentinel stood as if paralyzed an instant after that
weird cry, and then, swift as a flash, and as noiseless, he was gone
into the gloomy forest. He had fled without awakening his
companions.
Once more the moaning cry arose and swelled mournfully on the still
night air. It was close at hand!
"The Wind of Death," whispered Joe.
He was shaken and unnerved by the events of the past two days, and
dazed from his wound. His strength deserted him, and he lost
consciousness.
Chapter VI
*
One evening, several day previous to the capture of the brothers, a
solitary hunter stopped before a deserted log cabin which stood on
the bank of a stream fifty miles or more inland from the Ohio River.
It was rapidly growing dark; a fine, drizzling rain had set in, and
a rising wind gave promise of a stormy night.
Although the hunter seemed familiar with his surroundings, he moved
cautiously, and hesitated as if debating whether he should seek the
protection of this lonely hut, or remain all night under dripping
trees. Feeling of his hunting frock, he found that it was damp and
slippery. This fact evidently decided him in favor of the cabin, for
he stooped his tall figure and went in. It was pitch dark inside;
but having been there before, the absence of a light did not trouble
him. He readily found the ladder leading to the loft, ascended it,
and lay down to sleep.
During the night a noise awakened him. For a moment he heard nothing
except the fall of the rain. Then came the hum of voices, followed
by the soft tread of moccasined feet. He knew there was an Indian
town ten miles across the country, and believed some warriors,
belated on a hunting trip, had sought the cabin for shelter.
The hunter lay perfectly quiet, awaiting developments. If the
Indians had flint and steel, and struck a light, he was almost
certain to be discovered. He listened to their low conversation, and
understood from the language that they were Delawares.
A moment later he heard the rustling of leaves and twigs,
accompanied by the metallic click of steel against some hard
substance. The noise was repeated, and then followed by a hissing
sound, which he knew to be the burning of a powder on a piece of dry
wood, after which rays of light filtered through cracks of the
unstable floor of the loft.
The man placed his eye to one of these crevices, and counted eleven
Indians, all young braves, with the exception of the chief. The
Indians had been hunting; they had haunches of deer and buffalo
tongues, together with several packs of hides. Some of them busied
themselves drying their weapons; others sat down listlessly, plainly
showing their weariness, and two worked over the smouldering fire.
The damp leaves and twigs burned faintly, yet there was enough to
cause the hunter fear that he might be discovered. He believed he
had not much to worry about from the young braves, but the hawk-eyed
chief was dangerous.
And he was right. Presently the stalwart chief heard, or saw, a drop
of water fall from the loft. It came from the hunter's wet coat.
Almost any one save an Indian scout would have fancied this came
from the roof. As the chief's gaze roamed everywhere over the
interior of the cabin his expression was plainly distrustful. His
eye searched the wet clay floor, but hardly could have discovered
anything there, because the hunter's moccasined tracks had been
obliterated by the footprints of the Indians. The chief's suspicions
seemed to be allayed.
But in truth this chief, with the wonderful sagacity natural to
Indians, had observed matters which totally escaped the young
braves, and, like a wily old fox,
The break it made in that dead silence was awful. Joe's blood seemed
to have curdled and frozen; a cold sweat oozed from his skin, and it
was as if a clammy hand clutched at his heart. He tried to persuade
himself that the fear displayed by the savage was only superstition,
and that that moan was but the sigh of the night wind.
The Indian sentinel stood as if paralyzed an instant after that
weird cry, and then, swift as a flash, and as noiseless, he was gone
into the gloomy forest. He had fled without awakening his
companions.
Once more the moaning cry arose and swelled mournfully on the still
night air. It was close at hand!
"The Wind of Death," whispered Joe.
He was shaken and unnerved by the events of the past two days, and
dazed from his wound. His strength deserted him, and he lost
consciousness.
Chapter VI
*
One evening, several day previous to the capture of the brothers, a
solitary hunter stopped before a deserted log cabin which stood on
the bank of a stream fifty miles or more inland from the Ohio River.
It was rapidly growing dark; a fine, drizzling rain had set in, and
a rising wind gave promise of a stormy night.
Although the hunter seemed familiar with his surroundings, he moved
cautiously, and hesitated as if debating whether he should seek the
protection of this lonely hut, or remain all night under dripping
trees. Feeling of his hunting frock, he found that it was damp and
slippery. This fact evidently decided him in favor of the cabin, for
he stooped his tall figure and went in. It was pitch dark inside;
but having been there before, the absence of a light did not trouble
him. He readily found the ladder leading to the loft, ascended it,
and lay down to sleep.
During the night a noise awakened him. For a moment he heard nothing
except the fall of the rain. Then came the hum of voices, followed
by the soft tread of moccasined feet. He knew there was an Indian
town ten miles across the country, and believed some warriors,
belated on a hunting trip, had sought the cabin for shelter.
The hunter lay perfectly quiet, awaiting developments. If the
Indians had flint and steel, and struck a light, he was almost
certain to be discovered. He listened to their low conversation, and
understood from the language that they were Delawares.
A moment later he heard the rustling of leaves and twigs,
accompanied by the metallic click of steel against some hard
substance. The noise was repeated, and then followed by a hissing
sound, which he knew to be the burning of a powder on a piece of dry
wood, after which rays of light filtered through cracks of the
unstable floor of the loft.
The man placed his eye to one of these crevices, and counted eleven
Indians, all young braves, with the exception of the chief. The
Indians had been hunting; they had haunches of deer and buffalo
tongues, together with several packs of hides. Some of them busied
themselves drying their weapons; others sat down listlessly, plainly
showing their weariness, and two worked over the smouldering fire.
The damp leaves and twigs burned faintly, yet there was enough to
cause the hunter fear that he might be discovered. He believed he
had not much to worry about from the young braves, but the hawk-eyed
chief was dangerous.
And he was right. Presently the stalwart chief heard, or saw, a drop
of water fall from the loft. It came from the hunter's wet coat.
Almost any one save an Indian scout would have fancied this came
from the roof. As the chief's gaze roamed everywhere over the
interior of the cabin his expression was plainly distrustful. His
eye searched the wet clay floor, but hardly could have discovered
anything there, because the hunter's moccasined tracks had been
obliterated by the footprints of the Indians. The chief's suspicions
seemed to be allayed.
But in truth this chief, with the wonderful sagacity natural to
Indians, had observed matters which totally escaped the young
braves, and, like a wily old fox,
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