Betty Zane

One bright morning in June, 1769, the figure of a stalwart, broad shouldered man could have been seen standing on the wild and rugged promontory which rears its rocky bluff high above the Ohio river, at a point near the mouth of Wheeling Creek. He was alone save for the companionship of a deerhound that crouched at his feet. As he leaned on a long rifle, contemplating the glorious scene that stretched before him, a smile flashed across his bronzed cheek, and his heart bounded as he forecast the future of that spot. In the river below him lay an island so round and green that it resembled a huge lily pad floating placidly on the water. The fresh green foliage of the trees sparkled with glittering dewdrops. Back of him rose the high ridges, and, in front, as far as eye could reach, extended an unbroken forest.

Beneath him to the left and across a deep ravine he saw a wide level clearing. The few scattered and blackened tree stumps showed the ravages made by a forest fire in the years gone by. The field was now overgrown with hazel and laurel bushes, and intermingling with them were the trailing arbutus, the honeysuckle, and the wild rose. A fragrant perfume was wafted upward to him. A rushing creek bordered one edge of the clearing. After a long quiet reach of water, which could be seen winding back in the hills, the stream tumbled madly over a rocky ledge, and white with foam, it hurried onward as if impatient of long restraint, and lost its individuality in the broad Ohio.

The afternoon wore slowly away, and until late in the day nothing further happened to disturb Alfred’s meditations, which consisted chiefly of different mental views and pictures of red lips and black eyes. Just as he decided to return to the fort for his supper he heard the barking of a dog that he had seen running along the road some moments before. The sound came from some distance down the river bank and nearer the fort. Walking a few paces up the bluff Alfred caught sight of a large black dog running along the edge of the water. He would run into the water a few paces and then come out and dash along the shore. He barked furiously all the while. Alfred concluded he must have been excited by a fox or perhaps a wolf; so he climbed down the steep bank and spoke to the dog. Thereupon the dog barked louder and more fiercely than ever, ran to the water, looked out into the river and then up at the man with almost human intelligence.

Alfred understood. He glanced out over the muddy water, at first making out nothing but driftwood. Then suddenly he saw a log with an object clinging to it which he took to be a man, and an Indian at that. Alfred raised his rifle to his shoulder and was in the act of pressing the trigger when he thought he heard a faint halloo. Looking closer, he found he was not covering the smooth polished head adorned with the small tuft of hair, peculiar to a redskin on the warpath, but a head from which streamed long black hair.

“Good morning, Harry. Where are you going so early?” called Betty from the doorway.

A lad was passing down the path in front of Colonel Zane’s house as Betty hailed him. He carried a rifle almost as long as himself.

“Mornin’, Betty. I am goin’ ’cross the crick fer that turkey I hear gobblin’,” he answered, stopping at the gate and smiling brightly at Betty.

“Hello, Harry Bennet. Going after that turkey? I have heard him several mornings and he must be a big, healthy gobbler,” said Colonel Zane, stepping to the door. “You are going to have company. Here comes Wetzel.”

“Good morning, Lew. Are you too off on a turkey hunt?” said Betty.

“Listen,” said the hunter, as he stopped and leaned against the gate. They listened. All was quiet save for the tinkle of a cowbell in the pasture adjoining the Colonel’s barn. Presently the silence was broken by a long, shrill, peculiar cry.

“Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug-chug.”

“Well, it’s a turkey, all right, and I’ll bet a big gobbler,” remarked Colonel Zane, as the cry ceased.

“Has Jonathan heard it?” asked Wetzel.

“Not that I know of. Why do you ask?” said the Colonel, in a low tone. “Look here, Lew, is that not a genuine call?”

“Goodbye, Harry, be sure and bring me a turkey,” called Betty, as she disappeared.

“I calkilate it’s a red turkey,” answered the hunter, and motioning the lad to stay behind, he shouldered his rifle and passed swiftly down the path.

“You are angry now. I will tell you. Myeerah tried hard to win your love, and when you ran away from her she was proud for a long time. But there was no singing of birds, no music of the waters, no beauty in anything after you left her. Life became unbearable without you. Then Myeerah remembered that she was a daughter of kings. She summoned the bravest and greatest warriors of two tribes and said to them, ‘Go and bring to me the paleface, White Eagle. Bring him to me alive or dead. If alive, Myeerah will smile once more upon her warriors. If dead, she will look once upon his face and die.’ Ever since Myeerah was old enough to remember she has thought of you. Would you wish her to be inconstant, like the moon?”

“It is not what I wish you to be. It is that I cannot live always without seeing my people. I told you that a year ago.”

Betty awoke with a start. She was wide awake in a second. The moonbeams came through the leaves of the maple tree near her window and cast fantastic shadows on the wall of her room. Betty lay quiet, watching the fairy-like figures on the wall and listening intently. What had awakened her? The night was still; the crow of a cock in the distance proclaimed that the hour of dawn was near at hand. She waited for Tige’s bark under her window, or Sam’s voice, or the kicking and trampling of horses in the barn⁠—sounds that usually broke her slumbers in the morning. But no such noises were forthcoming. Suddenly she heard a light, quick tap, tap, and then a rattling in the corner. It was like no sound but that made by a pebble striking the floor, bounding and rolling across the room. There it was again. Someone was tossing stones in at her window. She slipped out of bed, ran, and leaned on the window sill and looked out. The moon was going down behind the hill, but there was light enough for her to distinguish objects. She saw a dark figure crouching by the fence.

“Who is it?” said Betty, a little frightened, but more curious.

“Sh-h-h, it’s Miller,” came the answer, spoken in low voice.

The bent form straightened and stood erect. It stepped forward under Betty’s window. The light was dim, but Betty recognized the dark face of Miller. He carried a rifle in his hand and a pack on his shoulder.

“Go away, or I’ll call my brother. I will not listen to you,” said Betty, making a move to leave the window.