Read Chapter VIII. of The Spirit of the Border, free online book, by Zane Grey, on

“So you want to know all about Wetzel?” inquired Colonel Zane of Joe, when, having left Jim and Mr. Wells, they returned to the cabin.

“I am immensely interested in him,” replied Joe.

“Well, I don’t think there’s anything singular in that.  I know Wetzel better, perhaps, than any man living; but have seldom talked about him.  He doesn’t like it.  He is by birth a Virginian; I should say, forty years old.  We were boys together, and and I am a little beyond that age.  He was like any of the lads, except that he excelled us all in strength and agility.  When he was nearly eighteen years old a band if Indians ­Delawares, I think ­crossed the border on a marauding expedition far into Virginia.  They burned the old Wetzel homestead and murdered the father, mother, two sisters, and a baby brother.  The terrible shock nearly killed Lewis, who for a time was very ill.  When he recovered he went in search of his brothers, Martin and John Wetzel, who were hunting, and brought them back to their desolated home.  Over the ashes of the home and the graves of the loved ones the brothers swore sleepless and eternal vengeance.  The elder brothers have been devoted all these twenty years and more to the killing of Indians; but Lewis has been the great foe of the redman.  You have already seen an example of his deeds, and will hear of more.  His name is a household word on the border.  Scores of times he has saved, actually saved, this fort and settlement.  His knowledge of savage ways surpasses by far Boone’s, Major McColloch’s, Jonathan’s, or any of the hunters’.”

“Then hunting Indians is his sole occupation?”

“He lives for that purpose alone.  He is very seldom in the settlement.  Sometimes he stays here a few days, especially if he is needed; but usually he roams the forests.”

“What did Jeff Lynn mean when he said that some people think Wetzel is crazy?”

“There are many who think the man mad; but I do not.  When the passion for Indian hunting comes upon him he is fierce, almost frenzied, yet perfectly sane.  While here he is quiet, seldom speaks except when spoken to, and is taciturn with strangers.  He often comes to my cabin and sits beside the fire for hours.  I think he finds pleasure in the conversation and laughter of friends.  He is fond of the children, and would do anything for my sister Betty.”

“His life must be lonely and sad,” remarked Joe.

“The life of any borderman is that; but Wetzel’s is particularly so.”

“What is he called by the Indians?”

“They call him Atelang, or, in English, Deathwind.”

“By George!  That’s what Silvertip said in French ­’Le Vent de la Mort.’”

“Yes; you have it right.  A French fur trader gave Wetzel that name years ago, and it has clung to him.  The Indians say the Deathwind blows through the forest whenever Wetzel stalks on their trail.”

“Colonel Zane, don’t you think me superstitious,” whispered Joe, leaning toward the colonel, “but I heard that wind blow through the forest.”

“What!” ejaculated Colonel Zane.  He saw that Joe was in earnest, for the remembrance of the moan had more than once paled his cheek and caused beads of perspiration to collect on his brow.

Joe related the circumstances of that night, and at the end of his narrative Colonel Zane sat silent and thoughtful.

“You don’t really think it was Wetzel who moaned?” he asked, at length.

“No, I don’t,” replied Joe quickly; “but, Colonel Zane, I heard that moan as plainly as I can hear your voice.  I heard it twice.  Now, what was it?”

“Jonathan said the same thing to me once.  He had been out hunting with Wetzel; they separated, and during the night Jonathan heard the wind.  The next day he ran across a dead Indian.  He believes Wetzel makes the noise, and so do the hunters; but I think it is simply the moan of the night wind through the trees.  I have heard it at times, when my very blood seemingly ran cold.”

“I tried to think it was the wind soughing through the pines, but am afraid I didn’t succeed very well.  Anyhow, I knew Wetzel instantly, just as Jeff Lynn said I would.  He killed those Indians in an instant, and he must have an iron arm.”

“Wetzel excels in strength and speed any man, red or white, on the frontier.  He can run away from Jonathan, who is as swift as an Indian.  He’s stronger than any of the other men.  I remember one day old Hugh Bennet’s wagon wheels stuck in a bog down by the creek.  Hugh tried, as several others did, to move the wheels; but they couldn’t be made to budge.  Along came Wetzel, pushed away the men, and lifted the wagon unaided.  It would take hours to tell you about him.  In brief, among all the border scouts and hunters Wetzel stands alone.  No wonder the Indians fear him.  He is as swift as an eagle, strong as mountain-ash, keen as a fox, and absolutely tireless and implacable.”

“How long have you been here, Colonel Zane?”

“More than twelve years, and it has been one long fight.”

“I’m afraid I’m too late for the fun,” said Joe, with his quiet laugh.

“Not by about twelve more years,” answered Colonel Zane, studying the expression on Joe’s face.  “When I came out here years ago I had the same adventurous spirit which I see in you.  It has been considerably quelled, however.  I have seen many a daring young fellow get the border fever, and with it his death.  Let me advise you to learn the ways of the hunters; to watch some one skilled in woodcraft.  Perhaps Wetzel himself will take you in hand.  I don’t mind saying that he spoke of you to me in a tone I never heard Lew use before.”

“He did?” questioned Joe, eagerly, flushing with pleasure.  “Do you think he’d take me out?  Dare I ask him?”

“Don’t be impatient.  Perhaps I can arrange it.  Come over here now to Metzar’s place.  I want to make you acquainted with him.  These boys have all been cutting timber; they’ve just come in for dinner.  Be easy and quiet with them; then you’ll get on.”

Colonel Zane introduced Joe to five sturdy boys and left him in their company.  Joe sat down on a log outside a cabin and leisurely surveyed the young men.  They all looked about the same:  strong without being heavy, light-haired and bronze-faced.  In their turn they carefully judged Joe.  A newcomer from the East was always regarded with some doubt.  If they expected to hear Joe talk much they were mistaken.  He appeared good-natured, but not too friendly.

“Fine weather we’re havin’,” said Dick Metzar.

“Fine,” agreed Joe, laconically.

“Like frontier life?”


A silence ensued after this breaking of the ice.  The boys were awaiting their turn at a little wooden bench upon which stood a bucket of water and a basin.

“Hear ye got ketched by some Shawnees?” remarked another youth, as he rolled up his shirt-sleeves.  They all looked at Joe now.  It was not improbably their estimate of him would be greatly influenced by the way he answered this question.

“Yes; was captive for three days.”

“Did ye knock any redskins over?” This question was artfully put to draw Joe out.  Above all things, the bordermen detested boastfulness; tried on Joe the ruse failed signally.

“I was scared speechless most of the time,” answered Joe, with his pleasant smile.

“By gosh, I don’t blame ye!” burst out Will Metzar.  “I hed that experience onct, an’ onct’s enough.”

The boys laughed and looked in a more friendly manner at Joe.  Though he said he had been frightened, his cool and careless manner belied his words.  In Joe’s low voice and clear, gray eye there was something potent and magnetic, which subtly influenced those with whom he came in contact.

While his new friends were at dinner Joe strolled over to where Colonel Zane sat on the doorstep of his home.

“How did you get on with the boys?” inquired the colonel.

“All right, I hope.  Say, Colonel Zane, I’d like to talk to your Indian guide.”

Colonel Zane spoke a few words in the Indian language to the guide, who left his post and came over to them.  The colonel then had a short conversation with him, at the conclusion of which he pointed toward Joe.

“How do ­shake,” said Tome, extending his hand.

Joe smiled, and returned the friendly hand-pressure.

“Shawnee ­ketch’um?” asked the Indian, in his fairly intelligible English.

Joe nodded his head, while Colonel Zane spoke once more in Shawnee, explaining the cause of Silvertip’s emnity.

“Shawnee ­chief ­one ­bad ­Injun,” replied Tome, seriously.  “Silvertip ­mad ­thunder-mad.  Ketch’um paleface ­scalp’um sure.”

After giving this warning the chief returned to his former position near the corner of the cabin.

“He can talk in English fairly well, much better than the Shawnee brave who talked with me the other day,” observed Joe.

“Some of the Indians speak the language almost fluently,” said Colonel Zane.  “You could hardly have distinguished Logan’s speech from a white man’s.  Corn-planter uses good English, as also does my brother’s wife, a Wyandot girl.”

“Did your brother marry an Indian?” and Joe plainly showed his surprise.

“Indeed he did, and a most beautiful girl she is.  I’ll tell you Isaac’s story some time.  He was a captive among the Wyandots for ten years.  The chief’s daughter, Myeerah, loved him, kept him from being tortured, and finally saved him from the stake.”

“Well, that floors me,” said Joe; “yet I don’t see why it should.  I’m just surprised.  Where is your brother now?”

“He lives with the tribe.  He and Myeerah are working hard for peace.  We are now on more friendly terms with the great Wyandots, or Hurons, as we call them, than ever before.”

“Who is this big man coming from the the fort?” asked Joe, suddenly observing a stalwart frontiersman approaching.

“Major Sam McColloch.  You have met him.  He’s the man who jumped his horse from yonder bluff.”

“Jonathan and he have the same look, the same swing,” observed Joe, as he ran his eye over the major.  His faded buckskin costume, beaded, fringed, and laced, was similar to that of the colonel’s brother.  Powder-flask and bullet-pouch were made from cow-horns and slung around his neck on deerhide strings.  The hunting coat was unlaced, exposing, under the long, fringed borders, a tunic of the same well-tanned, but finer and softer, material.  As he walked, the flaps of his coat fell back, showing a belt containing two knives, sheathed in heavy buckskin, and a bright tomahawk.  He carried a long rifle in the hollow of his arm.

“These hunters have the same kind of buckskin suits,” continued Joe; “still, it doesn’t seem to me the clothes make the resemblance to each other.  The way these men stand, walk and act is what strikes me particularly, as in the case of Wetzel.”

“I know what you mean.  The flashing eye, the erect poise of expectation, and the springy step ­those, my lad, come from a life spent in the woods.  Well, it’s a grand way to live.”

“Colonel, my horse is laid up,” said Major McColloch, coming to the steps.  He bowed pleasantly to Joe.

“So you are going to Short Creek?  You can have one of my horses; but first come inside and we’ll talk over you expedition.”

The afternoon passed uneventfully for Joe.  His brother and Mr. Wells were absorbed in plans for their future work, and Nell and Kate were resting; therefore he was forced to find such amusement or occupation as was possible in or near the stockade.