The Spirit of the Border and the Last Trail by Zane Grey Read Free Book Online Page A

failed to see a long length of grapevine floating like a brown snake on the water below. In the excitement they heeded not the barking of Mose. Nor did they see the grapevine straighten and become taut just as they drifted upon it; but they felt the raft strike and hold on some submerged object. It creaked and groaned and the foamy water surged, gurgling, between the logs.
    Jim’s mare snorted with terror, and rearing high, pulled her halter loose and plunged into the river. But Jim still held her, at risk of being drawn overboard.
    â€œLet go! She’ll drag you in!” yelled Joe, grasping him with his free hand. Lance trembled violently and strained at the rope, which his master held with a strong grip.
    â€œCrack!”
    The stinging report of a rifle rang out above the splashing of the water.
    Without a cry, Bill’s grasp on the oar loosened; he fell over it limply, his head striking the almost submerged log. A dark-red fluid colored the water; then his body slipped over the oar and into the river, where it sank.
    â€œMy God! Shot!” cried Jim, in horrified tones.
    He saw a puff of white smoke rising above the willows. Then the branches parted, revealing the dark forms of several Indian warriors. From the rifle in the foremost savage’s hand a slight veil of smoke rose. With the leap of a panther the redskin sprang from the strip of sand to the raft.
    â€œHold, Jim! Drop that ax! We’re caught!” cried Joe.
    â€œIt’s that Indian from the fort!” gasped Jim.
    The stalwart warrior was indeed Silvertip. But how changed! Stripped of the blanket he had worn at the settlement, now standing naked but for his buckskin breech-cloth, with his perfectly proportioned form disclosed in all its sinewy beauty, and on his swarthy, evil face an expression of savage scorn, he surely looked a warrior and a chief.
    He drew his tomahawk and flashed a dark glance at Joe. For a moment he steadily regarded the young man; but if he expected to see fear in the latter’s face he was mistaken, for the look was returned coolly.
    â€œPaleface steal shirt,” he said in his deep voice. “Fool paleface play—Silvertip no forget.”

 
    CHAPTER V
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    Silvertip turned to his braves, and giving a brief command, sprang from the raft. The warriors closed in around the brothers; two grasping each by the arms, and the remaining Indian taking care of the horse. The captives were then led ashore, where Silvertip awaited them.
    When the horse was clear of the raft, which task necessitated considerable labor on the part of the Indians, the chief seized the grapevine, that was now plainly in sight, and severed it with one blow of his tomahawk. The raft dashed forward with a lurch and drifted downstream.
    In the clear water Joe could see the cunning trap which had caused the death of Bill, and insured the captivity of himself and his brother. The crafty savages had trimmed a six-inch sapling and anchored it under the water. They weighted the heavy end, leaving the other pointing upstream. To this last had been tied the grapevine. When the drifting raft reached the sapling, the Indians concealed in the willows pulled hard on the improvised rope; the end of the sapling stuck up like a hook, and the raft was caught and held. The killing of the helmsman showed the Indians’ foresight; even had the raft drifted on downstream the brothers would have been helpless on a craft they could not manage. After all, Joe thought, he had not been so far wrong when he half fancied that an Indian lay behind Shawnee Rock, and he marveled at this clever trick which had so easily effected their capture.
    But he had little time to look around at the scene of action. There was a moment only in which to survey the river to learn if the unfortunate raftsman’s body had appeared. It was not to be seen. The river ran swiftly and hid all evidence of the tragedy under its smooth surface. When the brave who had gone