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The Spirit of the Border-Part36_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"Are you a Christian?"



"Wingenund is true to his race."

"Delaware, begone! Take these weapons an' go. When your shadow falls shortest



on the ground, Deathwind starts on your trail."

"Deathwind is the great white chief; he is the great Indian foe; he is as sure



as the panther in his leap; as swift as the wild goose in his northern flight.

Wingenund never felt fear." The chieftain's sonorous reply rolled through the



quiet glade. "If Deathwind thirsts for Wingenund's blood, let him spill it

now, for when the Delaware goes into the forest his trail will fade."



"Begone!" roared Wetzel. The fever for blood was once more rising within him.

The chief picked up some weapons of the dead Indians, and with haughty stride



stalked from the glade.

"Oh, Wetzel, thank you, I knew---" Nell's voice broke as she faced the hunter.



She recoiled from this changed man.

"Come, we'll go," said Jonathan Zane. "I'll guide you to Fort Henry." He



lifted the pack, and led Nell and Jim out of the glade.

They looked back once to picture forever in their minds the lovely spot with



its ghastly quiet bodies, the dark, haunting spring, the renegade nailed to

the tree, and the tall figure of Wetzel as he watched his shadow on the



ground.

When Wetzel also had gone, only two living creatures remained in the



glade--the doomed renegade, and the white dog. The gaunt beast watched the man

with hungry, mad eyes.



A long moan wailed through the forest. It swelled mournfully on the air, and

died away. The doomed man heard it. He raised his ghastly face; his dulled



senses seemed to revive. He gazed at the stiffening bodies of the Indians, at

the gory corpse of Deering, at the savage eyes of the dog.



Suddenly life seemed to surge strong within him.

"Hell's fire! I'm not done fer yet," he gasped. "This damned knife can't kill



me; I'll pull it out."

He worked at the heavy knife hilt. Awful curses passed his lips, but the blade



did not move. Retribution had spoken his doom.

Suddenly he saw a dark shadow moving along the sunlit ground. It swept past



him. He looked up to see a great bird with wide wings sailing far above. He

saw another still higher, and then a third. He looked at the hilltop. The



quiet, black birds had taken wing. They were floating slowly, majestically

upward. He watched their gracefulflight. How easily they swooped in wide



circles. he remembered that they had fascinated him when a boy, long, long

ago, when he had a home. Where was that home? He had one once. Ah! the long,



cruel years have rolled back. A youth blotted out by evil returned. He saw a

little cottage, he saw the old Virginia homestead, he saw his brothers and his



mother.

"Ah-h!" A cruel agony tore his heart. He leaned hard against the knife. With



the pain the present returned, but the past remained. All his youth, all his

manhood flashed before him. The long, bloody, merciless years faced him, and



his crimes crushed upon him with awful might.

Suddenly a rushing sound startled him. He saw a great bird swoop down and



graze the tree tops. Another followed, and another, and then a flock of them.

He saw their gray, spotted breasts and hooked beaks.



"Buzzards," he muttered, darkly eyeing the dead savages. The carrion birds

were swooping to their feast.



"By God! He's nailed me fast for buzzards!" he screamed in sudden, awful

frenzy. "Nailed fast! Ah-h! Ah-h! Ah-h! Eaten alive by buzzards! Ah-h! Ah-h!



Ah-h!"

He shrieked until his voice failed, and then he gasped.



Again the buzzards swooped overhead, this time brushing the leaves. One, a

great grizzled bird, settled upon a limb of the giant oak, and stretched its



long neck. Another alighted beside him. Others sailed round and round the dead

tree top.



The leader arched his wings, and with a dive swooped into the glade. He

alighted near Deering's dead body. He was a dark, uncanny bird, with long,



scraggy, bare neck, a wreath of white, grizzled feathers, a cruel, hooked

beak, and cold eyes.



The carrion bird looked around the glade, and put a great claw on the dead

man's breast.



"Ah-h! Ah-h!" shrieked Girty. His agonized yell of terror and horror echoed

mockingly from the wooded bluff.



The huge buzzard flapped his wings and flew away, but soon returned to his

gruesome feast. His followers, made bold by their leader, floated down into



the glade. Their black feathers shone in the sun. They hopped over the moss;

they stretched their grizzled necks, and turned their heads sideways.



Girty was sweating blood. It trickled from his ghastly face. All the suffering

and horror he had caused in all his long career was as nothing to that which



then rended him. He, the renegade, the white Indian, the Deathshead of the

frontier, panted and prayed for a mercifulbreath. He was exquisitely alive.



He was human.




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