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

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 bronzed-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.
    â€œFine weather we’re havin’,” said Dick Metzar.
    â€œFine,” agreed Joe, laconically.
    â€œLike frontier life?”
    â€œSure.”
    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.
    â€œHear 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 improbable their estimate of him would be greatly influenced by the way he answered this question.
    â€œYes; was captive for three days.”
    â€œDid ye knock any redskins over?” The question was artfully put to draw Joe out. Above all things, the bordermen detested boastfulness; tried on Joe the ruse failed signally.
    â€œI was scared speechless most of the time,” answered Joe, with his pleasant smile.
    â€œBy 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.
    â€œHow did you get on with the boys?” inquired the colonel.
    â€œAll 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.
    â€œHow do—shake,” said Tome, extending his hand.
    Joe smiled, and returned the friendly hand pressure.
    â€œShawnee—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 enmity.
    â€œShawnee—chief—one—bad—Injun,” replied Tome, seriously. “Silver—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.
    â€œHe can talk in English fairly well, much better than the Shawnee brave who talked with me the other day,” observed Joe.
    â€œSome of the Indians speak the language almost fluently,” said Colonel Zane. “You could hardly have distinguished Logan’s speech from a white man’s. Cornplanter uses good English, as also does my brother’s wife, a Wyandot girl.”
    â€œDid your brother marry an Indian?” And Joe plainly showed his surprise.
    â€œIndeed 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.”
    â€œWell, that floors me,” said Joe; “yet I don’t see why it should. I’m just surprised. Where is your brother now?”
    â€œHe lives with the tribe. He and