The Spirit of the Border eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 334 pages of information about The Spirit of the Border.

“What has Joe been saying about me?” demanded Nell, her eyes burning like opals.

“Why, hardly anything,” answered Jim, haltingly.  “I took him to task about—­about what I considered might be wrong to you.  Joe has never been very careful of young ladies’ feelings, and I thought—­well, it was none of my business.  He said he honestly cared for you, that you had taught him how unworthy he was of a good woman.  But he’s wrong there.  Joe is wild and reckless, yet his heart is a well of gold.  He is a diamond in the rough.  Just now he is possessed by wild notions of hunting Indians and roaming through the forests; but he’ll come round all right.  I wish I could tell you how much he has done for me, how much I love him, how I know him!  He can be made worthy of any woman.  He will outgrow this fiery, daring spirit, and then—­won’t you help him?”

“I will, if he will let me,” softly whispered Nell, irresistibly drawn by the strong, earnest love thrilling in his voice.

Chapter X.

Once more out under the blue-black vault of heaven, with its myriads of twinkling stars, the voyagers resumed their westward journey.  Whispered farewells of new but sincere friends lingered in their ears.  Now the great looming bulk of the fort above them faded into the obscure darkness, leaving a feeling as if a protector had gone—­perhaps forever.  Admonished to absolute silence by the stern guides, who seemed indeed to have embarked upon a dark and deadly mission, the voyagers lay back in the canoes and thought and listened.  The water eddied with soft gurgles in the wake of the racing canoes; but that musical sound was all they heard.  The paddles might have been shadows, for all the splash they made; they cut the water swiftly and noiselessly.  Onward the frail barks glided into black space, side by side, close under the overhanging willows.  Long moments passed into long hours, as the guides paddled tirelessly as if their sinews were cords of steel.

With gray dawn came the careful landing of the canoes, a cold breakfast eaten under cover of a willow thicket, and the beginning of a long day while they were lying hidden from the keen eyes of Indian scouts, waiting for the friendly mantle of night.

The hours dragged until once more the canoes were launched, this time not on the broad Ohio, but on a stream that mirrored no shining stars as it flowed still and somber under the dense foliage.

The voyagers spoke not, nor whispered, nor scarcely moved, so menacing had become the slow, listening caution of Wetzel and Zane.  Snapping of twigs somewhere in the inscrutable darkness delayed them for long moments.  Any movement the air might resound with the horrible Indian war-whoop.  Every second was heavy with fear.  How marvelous that these scouts, penetrating the wilderness of gloom, glided on surely, silently, safely!  Instinct, or the eyes of the lynx, guide their course.  But another dark night wore on to the tardy dawn, and each of its fearful hours numbered miles past and gone.

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The Spirit of the Border from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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