The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail by Zane Grey Page A

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.”
    â€œHis life must be lonely and sad,” remarked Joe.
    â€œThe life of any borderman is that; but Wetzel’s is particularly so.”
    â€œWhat is he called by the Indians?”
    â€œThey call him Atelang , or, in English, Deathwind.”
    â€œBy George! That’s what Silvertip said in French— ‘Le Vent de la Mort. ’”
    â€œYes; 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.”
    â€œColonel Zane, don’t you think me superstitious,” whispered Joe, leaning toward the colonel, “but I heard the wind blow through the forest.”
    â€œWhat!” exclaimed 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.
    â€œYou don’t really think it was Wetzel who moaned?” he asked, at length.
    â€œNo, I don’t,” replied Joe quickly; “but, Colonel Zane, I heard the moan as plainly as I can hear your voice. I heard it twice. Now, what was it?”
    â€œJonathan 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 ran cold.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œWetzel 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 bulge. 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.”
    â€œHow long have you been here, Colonel Zane?”
    â€œMore than twelve years, and it has been one long fight.”
    â€œI’m afraid I’m too late for the fun,” said Joe, with his quiet laugh.
    â€œNot 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 someone 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.”
    â€œHe did?” questioned Joe, eagerly, flushing with pleasure. “Do you think he’d take me out? Dare I ask him?”
    â€œDon’t be impatient. Perhaps I can arrange it. Come over here now to Metzar’s place. I want