"Zane Grey - Betty Zane" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grey Zane)

In this busy progressive age there are no heroes of the kind so dear to all
lovers of chivalry and romance. There are heroes, perhaps, but they are the
patient sad-faced kind, of whom few take cognizance as they hurry onward. But
cannot we all remember some one who suffered greatly, who accomplished great
deeds, who died on the battlefield--some one around whose name lingers a halo
of glory? Few of us are so unfortunate that we cannot look backward on kith or
kin and thrill with love and reverence as we dream of an act of heroism or
martyrdom which rings down the annals of time like the melody of the
huntsman's horn, as it peals out on a frosty October morn purer and sweeter
with each succeeding note.

If to any of those who have such remembrances, as well as those who have not,
my story gives an hour of pleasure I shall be rewarded.



PROLOGUE


On June 16, 1716, Alexander Spotswood, Governor of the Colony of Virginia, and
a gallant soldier who had served under Marlborough in the English wars, rode,
at the head of a dauntless band of cavaliers, down the quiet street of quaint
old Williamsburg.

The adventurous spirits of this party of men urged them toward the land of the
setting sun, that unknown west far beyond the blue crested mountains rising so
grandly before them.

Months afterward they stood on the western range of the Great North mountains
towering above the picturesque Shenendoah Valley, and from the summit of one
of the loftiest peaks, where, until then, the foot of a white man had never
trod, they viewed the vast expanse of plain and forest with glistening eyes.
Returning to Williamsburg they told of the wonderful richness of the newly
discovered country and thus opened the way for the venturesome pioneer who was
destined to overcome all difficulties and make a home in the western world.

But fifty years and more passed before a white man penetrated far beyond the
purple spires of those majestic mountains.

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 km, 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.