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

one. This chanced to be the big Indian, who evidently had a keen sense of humor. Taking hold of the boot with both hands, he dragged the luckless brave entirely around the campfire. The fun, however, was not to be all onesided. The big Indian gave a more strenuous pull, and the boot came off suddenly. Unprepared for this, he lost his balance and fell down the bank almost into the creek. He held on to the boot, nevertheless, and getting up, threw it into the fire.
    The braves quieted down after that, and soon lapsed into slumber, leaving the big fellow, to whom the chief had addressed his brief command, acting as guard. Observing Joe watching him as he puffed on his new pipe, he grinned, and spoke in broken English that was intelligible, and much of a surprise to the young man.
    â€œPaleface—tobac’—heap good.”
    Then, seeing that Joe made no effort to follow his brother’s initiative, for Jim was fast asleep, he pointed to the recumbent figures and spoke again.
    â€œUgh! Paleface sleep—Injun wigwams—near setting sun.”
    On the following morning Joe was awakened by the pain in his legs, which had been bound all night. He was glad when the bonds were cut and the party took up its westward march.
    The Indians, though somewhat quieter, displayed the same carelessness: they did not hurry, nor use particular caution, but selected the most open paths through the forest. They even halted while one of their number crept up on a herd of browsing deer. About noon the leader stopped to drink from a spring; his braves followed suit and permitted the white prisoners to quench their thirst.
    When they were about to start again the single note of a bird far away in the woods sounded clearly on the quiet air. Joe would not have given heed to it had he been less attentive. He instantly associated this peculiar bird-note with the sudden stiffening of Silvertip’s body and his attitude of intense listening. Low exclamations came from the braves as they bent to catch the lightest sound. Presently, above the murmur of the gentle fall of water over the stones, rose that musical note once more. It was made by a bird, Joe thought, and yet, judged by the actions of the Indians, how potent with meaning beyond that of the simple melody of the woodland songster! He turned, half expecting to see somewhere in the treetops the bird which had wrought so sudden a change in his captors. As he did so from close at hand came the same call, now louder, but identical with the one that had deceived him. It was an answering signal, and had been given by Silvertip.
    It flashed into Joe’s mind that other savages were in the forest; they had run across the Shawnees’ trail, and were thus communicating with them. Soon dark figures could be discerned against the patches of green thicket; they came nearer and nearer, and now entered the open glade where Silvertip stood with his warriors.
    Joe counted twelve, and noted that they differed from his captors. He had only time to see that this difference consisted in the headdress, and in the color and quantity of paint on their bodies, when his gaze was attracted and riveted to the foremost figures.
    The first was that of a very tall and stately chief, toward whom Silvertip now advanced with every show of respect. In this Indian’s commanding stature, in his reddish bronze face, stern and powerful, there were readable the characteristics of a king. In his deepset eyes, gleaming from under a ponderous brow, in his mastifflike jaw; in every feature of his haughty face were visible all the high intelligence, the consciousness of past valor, and the power and authority that denote a great chieftain.
    The second figure was equally striking for the remarkable contrast it afforded to the chief’s. Despite the gaudy ornaments, the paint, the fringed and beaded buckskin leggings—all the Indian accoutrements and garments which bedecked this person, he would have been known