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

Not many miles from the Village of Peace rose an irregular chain of hills, the first faint indications of the grand Appalachian Mountain system.  These ridges were thickly wooded with white oak, poplar and hickory, among which a sentinel pine reared here and there its evergreen head.  There were clefts in the hills, passes lined by gray-stoned cliffs, below which ran clear brooks, tumbling over rocks in a hurry to meet their majestic father, the Ohio.

One of these valleys, so narrow that the sun seldom brightened the merry brook, made a deep cut in the rocks.  The head of this valley tapered until the walls nearly met; it seemed to lose itself in the shade of fern-faced cliffs, shadowed as they were by fir trees leaning over the brink, as though to search for secrets of the ravine.  So deep and dark and cool was this sequestered nook that here late summer had not dislodged early spring.  Everywhere was a soft, fresh, bright green.  The old gray cliffs were festooned with ferns, lichens and moss.  Under a great, shelving rock, damp and stained by the copper-colored water dripping down its side, was a dewy dell into which the sunshine had never peeped.  Here the swift brook tarried lovingly, making a wide turn under the cliff, as though loth to leave this quiet nook, and then leaped once more to enthusiasm in its murmuring flight.

Life abounded in this wild, beautiful, almost inaccessible spot.  Little brown and yellow birds flitted among the trees; thrushes ran along the leaf-strewn ground; orioles sang their melancholy notes; robins and flickers darted beneath the spreading branches.  Squirrels scurried over the leaves like little whirlwinds, and leaped daringly from the swinging branches or barked noisily from woody perches.  Rabbits hopped inquisitively here and there while nibbling at the tender shoots of sassafras and laurel.

Along this flower-skirted stream a tall young man, carrying a rifle cautiously stepped, peering into the branches overhead.  A gray flash shot along a limb of a white oak; then the bushy tail of a squirrel flitted into a well-protected notch, from whence, no doubt, a keen little eye watched the hunter’s every movement.

The rifle was raised; then lowered.  The hunter walked around the tree.  Presently up in the tree top, snug under a knotty limb, he spied a little ball of gray fur.  Grasping a branch of underbush, he shook it vigorously.  The thrashing sound worried the gray squirrel, for he slipped from his retreat and stuck his nose over the limb.  Crack!  With a scratching and tearing of bark the squirrel loosened his hold and then fell; alighting with a thump.  As the hunter picked up his quarry a streak of sunshine glinting through the tree top brightened his face.

The hunter was Joe.

He was satisfied now, for after stowing the squirrel in the pocket of his hunting coat he shouldered his rifle and went back up the ravine.  Presently a dull roar sounded above the babble of the brook.  It grew louder as he threaded his way carefully over the stones.  Spots of white foam flecked the brook.  Passing under the gray, stained cliff, Joe turned around a rocky corner, and came to an abrupt end of the ravine.  A waterfall marked the spot where the brook entered.  The water was brown as it took the leap, light green when it thinned out; and below, as it dashed on the stones, it became a beautiful, sheeny white.

Upon a flat rock, so near the cascade that spray flew over him, sat another hunter.  The roaring falls drowned all other sounds, yet the man roused from his dreamy contemplation of the waterfall when Joe rounded the corner.

“I heerd four shots,” he said, as Joe came up.

“Yes; I got a squirrel for every shot.”

Wetzel led the way along a narrow foot trail which gradually wound toward the top of the ravine.  This path emerged presently, some distance above the falls, on the brink of a bluff.  It ran along the edge of the precipice a few yards, then took a course back into densely wooded thickets.  Just before stepping out on the open cliff Wetzel paused and peered keenly on all sides.  There was no living thing to be seen; the silence was the deep, unbroken calm of the wilderness.

Wetzel stepped to the bluff and looked over.  The stony wall opposite was only thirty feet away, and somewhat lower.  From Wetzel’s action it appeared as if he intended to leap the fissure.  In truth, many a band of Indians pursuing the hunter into this rocky fastness had come out on the bluff, and, marveling at what they thought Wetzel’s prowess, believed he had made a wonderful leap, thus eluding them.  But he had never attempted that leap, first, because he knew it was well-nigh impossible, and secondly, there had never been any necessity for such risk.

Any one leaning over this cliff would have observed, perhaps ten feet below, a narrow ledge projecting from the face of the rock.  He would have imagined if he were to drop on that ledge there would be no way to get off and he would be in a worse predicament.

Without a moment’s hesitation Wetzel swung himself over the ledge.  Joe followed suit.  At one end of this lower ledge grew a hardy shrub of the ironwood species, and above it a scrub pine leaned horizontally out over the ravine.  Laying his rifle down, Wetzel grasped a strong root and cautiously slid over the side.  When all of his body had disappeared, with the exception of his sinewy fingers, they loosened their hold on the root, grasped the rifle, and dragged it down out of sight.  Quietly, with similar caution, Joe took hold of the same root, let himself down, and when at full length swung himself in under the ledge.  His feet found a pocket in the cliff.  Letting go of the root, he took his rifle, and in another second was safe.

Of all Wetzel’s retreats ­for he had many ­he considered this one the safest.  The cavern under the ledge he had discovered by accident.  One day, being hotly pursued by Shawnees, he had been headed off on this cliff, and had let himself down on the ledge, intending to drop from it to the tops of the trees below.  Taking advantage of every little aid, he hung over by means of the shrub, and was in the act of leaping when he saw that the cliff shelved under the ledge, while within reach of his feet was the entrance to a cavern.  He found the cave to be small with an opening at the back into a split in the rock.  Evidently the place had been entered from the rear by bears, who used the hole for winter sleeping quarters.  By crawling on his hands and knees, Wetzel found the rear opening.  Thus he had established a hiding place where it was almost impossible to locate him.  He provisioned his retreat, which he always entered by the cliff and left by the rear.

An evidence of Wetzel’s strange nature, and of his love for this wild home, manifested itself when he bound Joe to secrecy.  It was unlikely, even if the young man ever did get safely out of the wilderness, that any stories he might relate would reveal the hunter’s favorite rendezvous.  But Wetzel seriously demanded this secrecy, as earnestly as if the forest were full of Indians and white men, all prowling in search of his burrow.

Joe was in the seventh heaven of delight, and took to the free life as a wild gosling takes to the water.  No place had ever appealed to him as did this dark, silent hole far up on the side of a steep cliff.  His interest in Wetzel soon passed into a great admiration, and from that deepened to love.

This afternoon, when they were satisfied that all was well within their refuge, Joe laid aside his rifle, and, whistling softly, began to prepare supper.  The back part of the cave permitted him to stand erect, and was large enough for comparative comfort.  There was a neat, little stone fireplace, and several cooking utensils and gourds.  From time to time Wetzel had brought these things.  A pile of wood and a bundle of pine cones lay in one corner.  Haunches of dried beef, bear and buffalo meat hung from pegs; a bag of parched corn, another of dried apples lay on a rocky shelf.  Nearby hung a powder-horn filled with salt and pepper.  In the cleft back of the cave was a spring of clear, cold water.

The wants of woodsmen are few and simple.  Joe and Wetzel, with appetites whetted by their stirring outdoor life, relished the frugal fare as they could never have enjoyed a feast.  As the shadows of evening entered the cave, they lighted their pipes to partake of the hunter’s sweetest solace, a quiet smoke.

Strange as it may appear, this lonely, stern Indian-hunter and the reckless, impulsive boy were admirably suited for companionship.  Wetzel had taken a liking to the young man when he led the brothers to Fort Henry.  Subsequent events strengthened his liking, and now, many days after, Joe having followed him into the forest, a strong attachment had been insensibly forged between them.

Wetzel understood Joe’s burning desire to roam the forests; but he half expected the lad would soon grow tired of this roving life, but exactly the opposite symptoms were displayed.  The hunter had intended to take his comrade on a hunting trip, and to return with him, after that was over, to Fort Henry.  They had now been in the woods for weeks and every day in some way had Joe showed his mettle.  Wetzel finally admitted him into the secrets of his most cherished hiding place.  He did not want to hurt the lad’s feelings by taking him back to the settlement; he could not send him back.  So the days wore on swiftly; full of heart-satisfying incident and life, with man and boy growing closer in an intimacy that was as warm as it was unusual.

Two reasons might account for this:  First, there is no sane human being who is not better off for companionship.  An exile would find something of happiness in one who shared his misery.  And, secondly, Joe was a most acceptable comrade, even for a slayer of Indians.  Wedded as Wetzel was to the forest trails, to his lonely life, to the Nemesis-pursuit he had followed for eighteen long years, he was still a white man, kind and gentle in his quiet hours, and because of this, though he knew it not, still capable of affection.  He had never known youth; his manhood had been one pitiless warfare against his sworn foes; but once in all those years had his sore, cold heart warmed; and that was toward a woman who was not for him.  His life had held only one purpose ­a bloody one.  Yet the man had a heart, and he could not prevent it from responding to another.  In his simple ignorance he rebelled against this affection for anything other than his forest homes.  Man is weak against hate; what can he avail against love?  The dark caverns of Wetzel’s great heart opened, admitting to their gloomy depths this stranger.  So now a new love was born in that cheerless heart, where for so long a lonely inmate, the ghost of old love, had dwelt in chill seclusion.

The feeling of comradeship which Wetzel had for Joe was something altogether new in the hunter’s life.  True he had hunted with Jonathan Zane, and accompanied expeditions where he was forced to sleep with another scout; but a companion, not to say friend, he had never known.  Joe was a boy, wilder than an eagle, yet he was a man.  He was happy and enthusiastic, still his good spirits never jarred on the hunter; they were restrained.  He never asked questions, as would seem the case in any eager lad; he waited until he was spoken to.  He was apt; he never forgot anything; he had the eye of a born woodsman, and lastly, perhaps what went far with Wetzel, he was as strong and supple as a young lynx, and absolutely fearless.

On this evening Wetzel and Joe followed their usual custom; they smoked a while before lying down to sleep.  Tonight the hunter was even more silent than usual, and the lad, tired out with his day’s tramp, lay down on a bed of fragrant boughs.

Wetzel sat there in the gathering gloom while he pulled slowly on his pipe.  The evening was very quiet; the birds had ceased their twittering; the wind had died away; it was too early for the bay of a wolf, the wail of a panther, or hoot of an owl; there was simply perfect silence.

The lad’s deep, even breathing caught Wetzel’s ear, and he found himself meditating, as he had often of late, on this new something that had crept into his life.  For Joe loved him; he could not fail to see that.  The lad had preferred to roam with the lonely Indian-hunter through the forests, to encounter the perils and hardships of a wild life, rather than accept the smile of fortune and of love.  Wetzel knew that Colonel Zane had taken a liking to the boy, and had offered him work and a home; and, also, the hunter remembered the warm light he had seen in Nell’s hazel eyes.  Musing thus, the man felt stir in his heart an emotion so long absent that it was unfamiliar.  The Avenger forgot, for a moment his brooding plans.  He felt strangely softened.  When he laid his head on the rude pillow it was with some sense of gladness that, although he had always desired a lonely life, and wanted to pass it in the fulfillment of his vow, his loneliness was now shared by a lad who loved him.

Joe was awakened by the merry chirp of a chipmunk that every morning ran along the seamy side of the opposite wall of the gorge.  Getting up, he went to the back of the cave, where he found Wetzel combing out his long hair.  The lad thrust his hands into the cold pool, and bathed his face.  The water was icy cold, and sent an invigorating thrill through him.  Then he laughed as he took a rude comb Wetzel handed to him.

“My scalp is nothing to make an Indian very covetous, is it?” said he, eyeing in admiration the magnificent black hair that fell over the hunter’s shoulders.

“It’ll grow,” answered Wetzel.

Joe did not wonder at the care Wetzel took of his hair, nor did he misunderstand the hunter’s simple pride.  Wetzel was very careful of his rifle, he was neat and clean about his person, he brushed his buckskin costume, he polished his knife and tomahawk; but his hair received more attention than all else.  It required much care.  When combed out it reached fully to his knees.  Joe had seen him, after he returned from a long hunt, work patiently for an hour with his wooden comb, and not stop until every little burr was gone, or tangle smoothed out.  Then he would comb it again in the morning ­this, of course, when time permitted ­and twist and tie it up so as to offer small resistance to his slipping through the underbush.  Joe knew the hunter’s simplicity was such, that if he cut off his hair it would seem he feared the Indians ­for that streaming black hair the Indians had long coveted and sworn to take.  It would make any brave a famous chief, and was the theme of many a savage war tale.

After breakfast Wetzel said to Joe: 

“You stay here, an’ I’ll look round some; mebbe I’ll come back soon, and we’ll go out an’ kill a buffalo.  Injuns sometimes foller up a buffalo trail, an’ I want to be sure none of the varlets are chasin’ that herd we saw to-day.”

Wetzel left the cave by the rear.  It took him fifteen minutes to crawl to the head of the tortuous, stony passage.  Lifting the stone which closed up the aperture, he looked out and listened.  Then, rising, he replaced the stone, and passed down the wooded hillside.

It was a beautiful morning; the dew glistened on the green leaves, the sun shone bright and warm, the birds warbled in the trees.  The hunter’s moccasins pressed so gently on the moss and leaves that they made no more sound than the soft foot of a panther.  His trained ear was alert to catch any unfamiliar noise; his keen eyes sought first the remoter open glades and glens, then bent their gaze on the mossy bluff beneath his feet.  Fox squirrels dashed from before him into bushy retreats; grouse whirred away into the thickets; startled deer whistled, and loped off with their white-flags upraised.  Wetzel knew from the action of these denizens of the woods that he was the only creature, not native to these haunts, who had disturbed them this morning.  Otherwise the deer would not have been grazing, but lying low in some close thicket; fox squirrels seldom or never were disturbed by a hunter twice in one day, for after being frightened these little animals, wilder and shyer than gray squirrels, remained hidden for hours, and grouse that have been flushed a little while before, always get up unusually quick, and fly very far before alighting.

Wetzel circled back over the hill, took a long survey from a rocky eminence, and then reconnoitered the lowland for several miles.  He located the herd of buffalo, and satisfying himself there were no Indians near ­for the bison were grazing quietly ­he returned to the cave.  A soft whistle into the back door of the rocky home told Joe that the hunter was waiting.

“Coast clear?” whispered the lad, thrusting his head out of the entrance.  His gray eyes gleamed brightly, showing his eager spirit.

The hunter nodded, and, throwing his rifle in the hollow of his arm, proceeded down the hill.  Joe followed closely, endeavoring, as Wetzel had trained him, to make each step precisely in the hunter’s footprints.  The lad had soon learned to step nimbly and softly as a cat.  When half way down the bill Wetzel paused.

“See anythin’?” he whispered.

Joe glanced on all sides.  Many mistakes had taught him to be cautious.  He had learned from experience that for every woodland creature he saw, there were ten watching his every move.  Just now he could not see even a little red squirrel.  Everywhere were sturdy hickory and oak trees, thickets and hazelnuts, slender ash saplings, and, in the open glades, patches of sumach.  Rotting trees lay on the ground, while ferns nodded long, slender heads over the fallen monarchs.  Joe could make out nothing but the colors of the woods, the gray of the tree trunks, and, in the openings through the forest-green, the dead purple haze of forests farther on.  He smiled, and, shaking his head at the hunter, by his action admitted failure.

“Try again.  Dead ahead,” whispered Wetzel.

Joe bent a direct gaze on the clump of sassafras one hundred feet ahead.  He searched the open places, the shadows ­even the branches.  Then he turned his eyes slowly to the right.  Whatever was discernible to human vision he studied intently.  Suddenly his eye became fixed on a small object protruding from behind a beech tree.  It was pointed, and in color darker than the gray bark of the beech.  It had been a very easy matter to pass over this little thing; but now that the lad saw it, he knew to what it belonged.

“That’s a buck’s ear,” he replied.

Hardly had he finished speaking when Wetzel intentionally snapped a twig.  There was a crash and commotion in the thicket; branches moved and small saplings waved; then out into the open glade bounded a large buck with a whistle of alarm.  Throwing his rifle to a level, Joe was trying to cover the bounding deer, when the hunter struck up his piece.

“Lad, don’t kill fer the sake of killin,” he said, quietly.  “We have plenty of venison.  We’ll go arter a buffalo.  I hev a hankerin’ fer a good rump steak.”

Half an hour later, the hunters emerged from the forest into a wide plain of waving grass.  It was a kind of oval valley, encircled by hills, and had been at one time, perhaps, covered with water.  Joe saw a herd of large animals browsing, like cattle, in a meadow.  His heart beat high, for until that moment the only buffalo he had seen were the few which stood on the river banks as the raft passed down the Ohio.  He would surely get a shot at one of these huge fellows.

Wetzel bade Joe do exactly as he did, whereupon he dropped on his hands and knees and began to crawl through the long grass.  This was easy for the hunter, but very bard for the lad to accomplish.  Still, he managed to keep his comrade in sight, which was a matter for congratulation, because the man crawled as fast as he walked.  At length, after what to Joe seemed a very long time, the hunter paused.

“Are we near enough?” whispered Joe, breathlessly.

“Nope.  We’re just circlin’ on ’em.  The wind’s not right, an’ I’m afeered they’ll get our scent.”

Wetzel rose carefully and peeped over the top of the grass; then, dropping on all fours, he resumed the advance.

He paused again, presently and waited for Joe to come up.

“See here, young fellar, remember, never hurry unless the bizness calls fer speed, an’ then act like lightnin’.”

Thus admonishing the eager lad, Wetzel continued to crawl.  It was easy for him.  Joe wondered how those wide shoulders got between the weeds and grasses without breaking, or, at least, shaking them.  But so it was.

“Flat now,” whispered Wetzel, putting his broad hand on Joe’s back and pressing him down.  “Now’s yer time fer good practice.  Trail yer rifle over yer back ­if yer careful it won’t slide off ­an’ reach out far with one arm an’ dig yer fingers in deep.  Then pull yerself forrard.”

Wetzel slipped through the grass like a huge buckskin snake.  His long, lithe body wormed its way among the reeds.  But for Joe, even with the advantage of having the hunter’s trail to follow, it was difficult work.  The dry reeds broke under him, and the stalks of saw-grass shook.  He worked persistently at it, learning all the while, and improving with every rod.  He was surprised to hear a swish, followed by a dull blow on the ground.  Raising his head, he looked forward.  He saw the hunter wipe his tomahawk on the grass.

“Snake,” whispered Wetzel.

Joe saw a huge blacksnake squirming in the grass.  Its head had been severed.  He caught glimpses of other snakes gliding away, and glossy round moles darting into their holes.  A gray rabbit started off with a leap.

“We’re near enough,” whispered Wetzel, stopping behind a bush.  He rose and surveyed the plain; then motioned Joe to look.

Joe raised himself on his knees.  As his gaze reached the level of the grassy plain his heart leaped.  Not fifty yards away was a great, shaggy, black buffalo.  He was the king of the herd; but ill at ease, for he pawed the grass and shook his huge head.  Near him were several cows and a half-grown calf.  Beyond was the main herd, extending as far as Joe could see ­a great sea of black humps!  The lad breathed hard as he took in the grand sight.

“Pick out the little fellar ­the reddish-brown one ­an’ plug him behind the shoulder.  Shoot close now, fer if we miss, mebbe I can’t hit one, because I’m not used to shootin’ at sich small marks.”

Wetzel’s rare smile lighted up his dark face.  Probably he could have shot a fly off the horn of the bull, if one of the big flies or bees, plainly visible as they swirled around the huge head, had alighted there.

Joe slowly raised his rifle.  He had covered the calf, and was about to pull the trigger, when, with a sagacity far beyond his experience as hunter, he whispered to Wetzel: 

“If I fire they may run toward us.”

“Nope; they’ll run away,” answered Wetzel, thinking the lad was as keen as an Indian.

Joe quickly covered the calf again, and pulled the trigger.  Bellowing loud the big bull dashed off.  The herd swung around toward the west, and soon were galloping off with a lumbering roar.  The shaggy humps bobbed up and down like hot, angry waves on a storm-blackened sea.

Upon going forward, Wetzel and Joe found the calf lying dead in the grass.

“You might hev did better’n that,” remarked the hunter, as he saw where the bullet had struck.  “You went a little too fer back, but mebbe thet was ’cause the calf stepped as you shot.”